The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Stephen Hardwell thought of himself as a kind man. In his little world of the Holderness, the world in which he was still the most important man for many miles, he was used to being agreed with, used to being flattered. The ghost of family money — mostly long gone — and traditional position guaranteed him automatic deference, though he’d forgotten the truth of that long ago.

  But recently Stephen Hardwell was more and more troubled by the knowledge that in his long life he’d sinned against God’s holy ordinances many, many times, and especially with women. Thus, heavy with increasing guilt for the past, he’d thought to smooth his soul’s eventual entry to heaven by good works. He began to set his own house in order by meddling with those of other people, for their own good, and his. If he was fearful of purgatory, others were too, for it was what he visited on them.

  Our Lady of the Sands, for example; it had become a special project for Sir Stephen to save the sisters from themselves, from their own financial ineptitude. With the permission and support of George Neville, the Archbishop of York, the illustrious brother of the Earl of Warwick, Stephen Hardwell had recently become patron of the nunnery. And for that, he gave himself the right, no, the duty, of interfering in everything that was done under that holy roof: from what the good sisters ate, to the quality of the sheets they slept within, to the number of prayers that were said for his continuing good health and that of his family.

  Creating order where there’d been none before had became a passion he could offer up to God as evidence of his good works here on Earth. Therefore he’d felt certain, when news was brought of the girl cast up on the shores of the Humber now lodging at the convent, that he must counsel Lady Elinor in what was best to be done. He would meet this girl and assess her personally, sending his report post haste to his friend the Archbishop in York, who would, no doubt, pass it directly to Duke Richard, their young duke, the king’s brother.

  Strangers should be received as Christ, the unknown guest at the table. However, happenings such as this should also be investigated thoroughly. God had chosen to send the girl to the sisters, therefore work must be done to divine His purpose, for the good of them all, for the shriving of their souls.

  On the day he chose to visit Our Lady of the Sands, however, the weather turned bleak with the first big slashing autumn gale; weather which drove small pebbles, hail and veils of sleet against him and his annoyed party of attendants as they rode into the teeth of the unforgiving easterly wind. And after a tiresome journey, it felt like the drear edge of the world when they arrived at the comfortless huddle of convent buildings near Spurn Point, where the land hooked back into the river as if to defend itself from the battering sea.

  But Stephen Hardwell looked around the nunnery with real satisfaction. His son, Henry Hardwell, mocked him for what he’d accomplished in this place and had even dared to question his father’s motives for visiting the convent today; yet Stephen had ridden out nonetheless. He knew his duty as an honourable knight, a humble servant of Christ in His work on earth; Baron Hardwell was proud of the service he rendered to the Lord — a pride his reeve, Simon of Wallingdon, did not share.

  The sour expression on Simon’s face said it was good money chasing bad that his employer chose to throw away here on this poxy little convent: money that he, the reeve, must nonetheless squeeze from the villagers of Bishop Hardwell. Their tears, for instance, had paid for the new roof on the convent’s chapel — a slate roof, ruinously expensive — when thatch of river reeds would’ve done just as well.

  Simon knew, too, that the baron’s only son was deeply impatient with the good coin his father was wasting on the convent: the Sisters of the Sands had better watch out when the old man died. There’d not be a penny more from Henry; the old man had run the manor into the ground for years with his extravagant and foolish schemes, and it would take a strong man to wrench it out of debt and the moneylenders’ hands, but Henry Hardwell was likely to be such a one. Simon was cheered at that thought as he plodded along in the wake of the impetuous Baron, as did the conviction that this dangerous, lung-baiting cold would quite likely knock the old man off, if nothing else did; he’d always had a weak chest in winter.

  But Stephen Hardwell had other thoughts beside mortality when the castaway was brought into the parlour to speak to him in the presence of Mother Elinor and Sister Aelwin. The latter, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on their patron, saw an unusual expression pass over the old man’s face as Anne was presented — lust. An unusual emotion in a convent, but one the prioress recognised — this particular sin had haunted her youth.

  Aelwin hid a smirk. Men, especially old men, were so usefully weak sometimes; perhaps the baron’s obvious susceptibility could be used to advantage in the neverending battle for authority inside these ramshackle walls?

  Elinor, oblivious to the sudden change in emotional temperature, nervously cleared her throat, signalling that Anne should get up from her knees.

  ‘Baron, this girl has no memory of the time before we found her cast up on the strand. She could not say where she comes from, nor how she came to be at sea.’

  ‘Hmmm. A mystery then. Most interesting. I shall speak to the archbishop about this. Between us, he and I shall decide what is best for this poor child.’

  Elinor bit back an unusually hot response — this was her convent! ‘Alas, Baron, I fear no decisions can be made until we know more of her history, her family.’

  The baron huffed a little — he was unused to opposition from the milk-and-water Mother Superior.

  ‘You can see for yourself, Mother. Plainly, this girl is gently bred and in her survival I detect the hand of God.’ Hastily the little group crossed itself. The baron had never been known as a religious man until recently, but perhaps he was right? God moved in strange ways to fulfil his purposes, after all.

  ‘Yes, this girl has been saved for some purpose.’ In concert, they all crossed themselves again. ‘Her presence here in this convent is a remarkable occurrence, almost miraculous, in fact. Perhaps, before I speak to the Archbishop in York, we should pray, each of us, to see if Our Lord will speak to us of your guest?’

  Anne was careful not to raise her eyes from the floor, but the mention of York sent a shiver down her spine. Richard of Gloucester, Edward’s brother, held that city for the king. She’d seen him often at Westminster before everything in her life had changed, before the birth of her son. Vividly, suddenly, she saw little Edward, saw him reach out his arms, heard him call her — and her eyes filled with instant tears.

  ‘What? What did you say?’ They were all looking at Anne now, the baron suddenly tender when he saw her tears drip onto the slate flags. ‘She’s crying, Abbess? Why would that be?’ He was generally impatient with crying women, but this one touched his heart.

  And, once started, Anne could not stop. She collapsed to the floor, sobbing as though her ribs would break open and expose her heart. Uproar resulted and the baron, completely heedless, knelt down with some trouble and clasped Anne’s frail hands in his rough palms. ‘There, child, there. Can you tell me why you cry?’

  Elinor turned on Aelwin and sharply gave her a direct order, ‘Fetch Sister Joan. Now!’ She too knelt hurriedly beside the girl, snatching Anne’s fingers away from the baron: it was entirely unseemly that a man should lay hands on their guest, even if she was not professed — and in the convent’s parlour! ‘Baron, let me ... please. There, child, there, there.’

  Sister Joan hurried into the parlour and joined Elinor in patting and soothing, but none of the women could stop Anne crying. Finally, Elinor decided that the girl should be taken to the infirmary and given valerian tea, as strong as possible, to prevent her falling into fits.

  Watching the girl as she left, held up between Sister Aelwin and Sister Joan, two things came to Stephen Hardwell: one, he was being ridiculous and, two, he had to have this girl, crazed though she might be; the feelings she evoked in him made him feel young and potent ag
ain.

  With new resolve, he strode out of the parlour, the twittering Mother Superior hurrying obsequiously at his side, full of obscure apologies for the girl’s odd behaviour, and also full of anxiety that their only patron had lost his wits just as fully as the girl had. None of this boded well for the little foundation of Our Lady of the Sands.

  Simon, of course, had seen it all, and as the little party rode away from the convent, he rather thought that Henry Hardwell, the baron’s son, would be interested in what he had to report of this morning’s fiasco.

  The baron was a widower. It would grieve Henry mightily, not to say make him very annoyed indeed, if his father were to take an interest in women again, as opposed to settling his account with God and making a pious death, preferably soon while there was still something of the manor left to save.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘What are you doing, father?’ The baron jumped and slewed around to see his son watching him from the doorway of the muniment room in that alert, impatient way he had.

  ‘Nothing, Henry. Just mulling plans, this and that ...’

  Henry reminded his father, uncomfortably, of his second wife, the boy’s mother, dead now these ten years past. She’d been a formidable woman, an adequate manager of his household, but she’d never been fragile. Or delicate. Not like the girl from the sea.

  Henry strolled into the room. ‘I hear the girl at the convent is crazed?’ The baron did not dignify the question with a response; instead he scratched figures busily into the margin of a tenant roll, ignoring his son.

  ‘Is that all?’ Henry persisted into his father’s silence.

  ‘What do you mean, all?’ The baron was angry; he disliked the insolence of his son’s tone, it was presumption! He would not be treated as if he, Stephen Hardwell, Knight, were the child, not the father. ‘You chose not to accompany me this morning, therefore I do not see how the girl’s state can be of interest to you.’ That was well said: stern, lofty, just as a dignified father should speak to an errant child.

  ‘But, surely there is more to tell about her?’ Henry was smiling slightly now, though it did not reach his eyes. Stephen chose to interpret his son’s tone as contrite, therefore shook his head, a little mollified. ‘Nothing. They know nothing. She will be questioned later, when she has recovered. Meanwhile, we should pray for guidance.’

  ‘You’re taking a personal interest then, Father?’

  Stephen Hardwell was suddenly furious — Simon! He would not be undermined in his own house by gossip!

  ‘No more than you should, Henry. We are Christian knights and have sworn to protect all women. I am merely assisting the nuns in their duty to this girl. Now, there is much work to be done here.’ And huffily he turned away, frowning heavily at the tenant rolls.

  Henry left the muniment room, but he was uneasy. What Simon had told him seemed true — his father’s dotage was coming on rapidly, it seemed. Old men were vulnerable to the wiles of young women, especially this old man, and that could cause havoc in an orderly household. He would not allow such a pass to occur here. The sooner he had the running of the manor, the sooner they’d be out of the hands of the foul money-lending Jews. Age had not made his father less prodigal — women had frequently been the shameful cause of needless extravagance in his youth and middle age — but this latest budding foolishness could be stopped, would be stopped. He would see to it.

  Anne, meanwhile, the subject of such ire and suspicion, was in the infirmary at Our Lady of the Sands with an aching head, a constricted chest and eyes near swollen shut from crying.

  Sister Joan was perched beside her holding one of the girl’s hands and praying quietly. From time to time she made the sign of the cross, sweeping from the crown of Anne’s head right down to her feet and then from one side of her body to the other at the level of her heart.

  ‘Thank you, Sister, I am better now.’ Anne spoke in a reedy whisper, but was careful to affect an aristocratic intonation: the nasal timbre that distinguished women from the English court. If the nuns in this convent thought she was well-born they might not turn her out into the world immediately. Could she offer Mother Elinor a reward for her safekeeping? How best to reach her?

  Slowly, Anne allowed her eyes to flutter open. ‘I remember something,’ she murmured. ‘Pirates.’

  Joan’s eyes bulged. Pirates? It was long indeed since the Viking had raged up and down this coast, even into the very river on whose banks the convent squatted, but the mention of sea-wolves was a frightening thing to a nun, even in these quieter days.

  ‘What happened, dear sister?’ Sister Joan was agog with a pleasurable sense of horror.

  ‘I was kidnapped and found myself a captive on a vessel captained by a German devil. Flesh peddlers. I was destined for the slave markets of the Barbary Coast. Blue or green eyes command a fine price, I was told.’ It made a good story and therefore would reach the Mother Superior that much quicker.

  ‘But how did you escape?’ Anne breathed deeply as she began her story, but the telling exhausted her and as she described swimming up into consciousness only so few days ago, the nearly physical pain of loss hit her once more.

  Joan was sensitive to Anne’s tears; she helped the girl sit up and pressed a cup of sweet-smelling, warm liquid against her lips. ‘I’ve made you a strong tissane: valerian with chamomile and honey. It will help you sleep dreamlessly, I promise you.’

  Perhaps sleep would heal, would bring strength in time — along with the good food of the convent, the eggs, the new bread, the goats cheese and the fresh butter. But Anne’s heart was still a stone in her breast, a burning stone.

  It was blustery and cold again the next dawn, and the infirmary was the warmest place in the convent.

  Once awake, Anne had thought through her situation most carefully, and when Mother Elinor, accompanied by Aelwin and Sister Joan, visited her shortly after Sext had been sung, she was ready for them.

  The Mother Superior settled herself on a joint stool and fixed her gaze upon the girl in the bed.

  ‘Are you better today, my child?’

  Anne nodded. ‘Yes, Mother, I am well. Much stronger, thanks be to God.’

  ‘Therefore, recite your history for us, so that we may help you.’

  Anne could not have had a more attentive audience. Nothing much had happened at Our Lady of the Sands for many years, certainly nothing dramatic. The quiet changing of seasons, the breeding of animals, the crops being set and cut and stored, these the sisters understood and were at ease with. The story that Anne began was wilder and stranger even than events in the Bible, told to them by their visiting priest in his sermons.

  ‘Someone certainly wants me dead, Mother, and that is how I came to be kidnapped. Now I am friendless and alone where before I have been a wealthy woman; and I have nowhere to hide, no protection, except here at Our Lady of the Sands.’

  The nuns’ eyes became wider and wider with all that she told them, though Anne was careful not to say which city she had been kidnapped from, her past as a merchant or any of her history in England.

  ‘Though I need your help, I can prove to you that I am not a pauper.’ Anne unlaced Gaspar’s bag and emptied its contents onto her bed, searching for the green dress she’d found in his coffer. Quickly she felt along its hem looking for the knot she’d tied. Her jewels, the ruby, the sapphire and the remaining diamond were still there in a lump. Each of them was worth more than all the plate, the livestock and possibly even all the buildings of the convent put together.

  If the nuns had been entranced by Anne’s story before, they were astonished beyond words now. Such beautiful jewels — how strange it was to see them in this poor, comfortless little place.

  ‘Reverend Mother, if you help me on my way to Whitby, this is for your convent. I can take sea passage from there and go home.’ Anne held the sapphire high so that the long morning light was caught in its depths and something like a star glimmered at its blue heart.

  For the firs
t time in many years, some long-buried worldly instinct stirred in Elinor’s heart. She saw herself in pure white robes and, around her neck, a gold chain from which hung a cross adorned with pearls, misshapen pearls — pearls which formed the precious body of the Saviour.

  And her chapel, the convent’s chapel, was warm and beautiful. New glass windows shone glorious colours down on snowy altar linen. And, as she looked out from her richly carved choir stall towards her sisters, fully one hundred of them, she sank to her knees singing as the Archbishop of York himself processed up her aisle, proceeded, as was proper, by a brother censing him from a golden censer ...

  Elinor shook her head vigorously. The vision, sweet as it was, could be a satanic temptation to worldly pride. How could she be sure that this improbably mysterious young woman was not, in fact, a tool of the bestial one?

  ‘I must pray on this. Put your gems away, child. No, wait. Would you like them stored in the plate chest in the chapel, with our other treasures?’

  Anne understood the delicacy of the moment instantly. It would insult the Reverend Mother if she seemed not to trust her, but these stones were her only means of going home to her son. To her life.

  Anne knelt beside her bed and kissed the hem of Elinor’s robe. Speaking humbly from her place on the floor, she looked up imploringly. ‘I am so grateful for your kindness and understanding: truly God is good to those who are lost, as I am. I believe that He wishes me to give the convent this sapphire and I am sure the Reverend Mother’s prayers will tell her so also. I, too, will pray and wait on her summons.’

  It was an unsatisfactory answer to the question, but the geese suddenly honked an alarm. They all heard the uncompromising jangle of the outside bell as the door ward pulled the slide open behind the grating in the outer door. Henry Hardwell was outside — they heard him bellow for admittance.

  Mother Elinor tried to compose herself with a quick Ave. Confronting their patron’s son was always an ordeal; his glowering physicality and arrogant manner frightened her and he took every opportunity to frustrate the baron’s plans for Our Lady of the Sands.