“Oh, Anna. We have been so worried! I shall wake the abbess. She has not been well. But she will want to know.”
“No, Sister. Wait until the morrow. Soon enough. Oh, it is good to be home.” Ready tears sprang to her eyes.
She turned to bid Gabriel good night, to thank him more sincerely for his part in her homecoming, but he was already gone.
“Brother Gabriel must have been tired from his journey,” Sister Matilde said. “He is usually not so unfriendly.”
“He has a lot on his mind,” Anna said. “Being a lackey for the archbishop is hard work.”
The next morning, Anna was awakened by the sound of bells. What a joyful sound—albeit a little startling at prime—and the cacophony seemed to go on forever. It took her a moment to realize she was back in her room at the abbey, where last night Bek had greeted her with a great flailing of arms, his face wreathed in affectionate smiles. An na An na. But now he was gone.
By the time she was dressed and had braided her hair into one long rope, the nuns had already shuffled off to prime. She was wondering where Bek had got to so early when he poked his head through the door. “Bek’s bells!” he announced proudly. “An na like?”
It took her a minute to realize what he was talking about. “You rang the bells?” He rewarded her with his big sloppy grin. She reached out and gathered him to her. “Anna likes.”
“Anna fat,” he said, touching her stomach.
“Yes, Anna fat.” She laughed. She held him out at arm’s length. “You saved Anna, Bek. With your music. You are my angel.”
“Angel?” The word came out slowly and a bit: slurred.
She looked at his large head and cloudy eyes that always seemed to wiggle a bit in their sockets, at his twitching limbs, and thought what an unlikely angel he was. “Someday I will explain it to you,” she said. “When I have reasoned it out for myself.”
After they had broken their fast together in the refectory, Anna feeding him to keep both herself and him from being splattered with porridge, she went in search of Mother, surprised to see the strong, vital woman still in her bed. The squeeze she gave Anna’s hand was not hearty.
“Brother Gabriel promised he would bring you back to us, and I see he has.”
“Mother, are you ill?”
“Just the illness of the old, Anna. Some of my parts are wearing out. My heart flutters like a caged bird, and I grow faint.”
But her smile was still warm and filled with light. And the soft skin of her cheeks retained their roses. One cheek at least. She did not wear the veil, but the white linen wimple that wrapped her face partially obscured the injured side.
“The learned doctor that the bishop sent says that I should rest. But I would prefer to do it in the garden, where my spirit can be cheered by the snowdrops and the Lenten rose.”
“Maybe we can take a turn there later in the afternoon,” Anna said. “When it is warmer.”
“Sit beside me, Anna.” She patted the edge of the cot. “I want to hear about your adventure. Were you badly frightened? Do you think any harm has come to the child?”
“Both the child and I are well, Mother. Though I was frightened nearly to death. But I took great comfort in the clothes you sent me because I knew that I was not forgotten. And I took much comfort from my knowledge of the Scriptures. I am more sure than ever that every man should read—”
“And Brother Gabriel? Did he come to see you? He appeared to be in great turmoil when he heard of your arrest. Vowed to do whatever he could to see that you were freed.” She still held to Anna’s hand, gave it another light squeeze. “I told him, Anna, about the child. He owns that it is his. He says he will renounce his calling and marry you.”
Embarrassed, Anna did not let her gaze meet Mother’s. It settled on the cross above Mother’s bed. She’d never noticed before, but it looked as though it had suffered damage and been restored. The figure of the Christ was misshapen, and one corner of the wood was badly charred. Odd that she should put it in such a place of honor when everything else about the abbey, all its furnishings, were of the best quality.
“He told me the same,” Anna said. “But I do not know if I can trust him.”
“He seemed sincere. But that is for you to know. You must pray for discernment. Let your heart guide you. Your heart and your child’s need.”
She sighed and lay back on the pillow.
“You need to rest, Mother, as the doctor says. I will come back in the afternoon and we will sit together in the garden. What would you have me do in the meantime?”
“Do not go to the scriptorium. Someone may be watching. The sisters are only copying Latin Scriptures and English poetry. But your very presence might bring more suspicion.”
“The king has signed a warrant for Sir John’s arrest,” Anna said.
“I am not surprised. All the more reason we must not copy the Lollard texts for a season.”
Anna released Mother’s hand and smoothed her brow, then bent to kiss it.
“One more thing, before you go, Anna. What was your grandfather’s name? What did he do for a living?”
That seemed a strange question for a sick woman with so little breath to spare.
“He was an illuminator of great reputation and talent, Mother. His name was Finn.”
The abbess closed her eyes and took a ragged breath, but she said nothing. Anna wasn’t even sure she heard. She moved toward the door as quietly as she could.
“Come back this afternoon, Jasmine. We’ll sit in the colonnade in the sunlight, and we’ll talk about Finn the Illuminator.”
Jasmine! Had the abbess called her “Jasmine”? “My little Jasmine flower,” her grandfather used to call her. No. She had probably misunderstood. The abbess’s voice was breathy and low.
Anna started to ask her, but she appeared to be sleeping. Anna walked softly to the door, lest she disturb her, and headed for the kitchens. She had a sudden craving for milk curds mixed with honey.
Good Friday. The cotters at Cobham Hall brought their token gifts of eggs to the great kitchen. Lady Joan accepted them graciously, giving them hot cross buns in return. After pronouncing an Easter blessing upon the household of each giver, she invited them to an Easter mass “in celebration of our risen Lord” to be held in the chapel on Sunday. The mass would be followed with a feast in the great hall: a lamb stew cooked with spring onions for the yeomen and lamb shank bone stewed with the dried remains of last year’s root vegetables for the villeins. And there would be another Easter miracle—the very eggs they’d offered to their lord as gifts returned to them in the form of custards, puddings, and caudle, and, best of all, simnel cake, decorated with marzipan balls, twelve, one for each apostle.
Lady Joan had found a Lollard priest, one she knew could be trusted, to say the mass. The Easter service was not noised abroad as it might have been before Sir John became a fugitive. And even though Lord Cobham might return for Eastertide, he would be served Holy Communion in secret. The lord of Cobham Castle would not be present at the Easter sunrise mass to be celebrated facing the sea—facing east.
But he would certainly be present at the secret ceremony following and at its attendant celebration. So this Saturday morning, Lady Joan hummed as she, like any other good wife with her skirts hiked to her girdle and her chestnut hair bound in a scrap of cloth, wielded her straw broom against the spiderwebs in the corners of the chapel rafters. She’d already had the floor swept in the hall and ordered fresh rushes to be put down. And she’d hired a piper and a lutist. There would be dancing after. These were grim times. They deserved a bit of celebration, she thought, as she laid the altar with candles and a purple cloth. John was coming home! There was going to be a wedding!
She’d laughed out loud when Brother Gabriel had come to her with the request. “The Lollards will get your soul yet, Brother—the Lollards or the devil.” And then she’d sobered and told him in the most honest way she could, “You know this goes beyond the loss of your vocation. A
rundel will take your renouncing of your vows as a personal affront. He will be your enemy. Unless, of course, you mean to keep your marriage secret, as many do. A clandestine marriage he could probably give a nod and a wink.”
“I cannot keep it secret, your ladyship. At least not for long. I mean to give her child my name.”
She did not question him, did not say what she’d long suspected, that Anna was not a widow. “Take care. Lest this child inherit your enemies along with your name.” She did not say “your child,” though she had her suspicions there as well.
“I know. I’ve already thought of that. I’ll have to wear this habit a few more weeks. But I want to put Anna’s mind at rest.”
“The priest can be relied upon to be discreet.”
At least the girl’s wedding would be merry. Joan was going to see to it. She’d decorated the chapel with apple blossoms banked below the altar and behind, spilling their lace and fragrance from every windowsill. Anna deserved this at least, after all she’d suffered. Mayhap this Easter morn would mark the beginning of better times, Lady Joan thought, as she thrust her straw broom above the altar where a spider dangled from a silken thread. She swatted it to the floor and crushed it with her heel.
The cloister garden carried the scent of lily of the valley growing wild across the quadrangle. Holy Virgin’s tears, the sisters called them. Anna sat with the abbess in a sunny corner of the colonnade enjoying the sunshine and the fresh sweet scent of them. They listened in companionable silence to the splashing of the water in the fountain.
“Mother, are you warm enough?”
Maybe this was not such a good idea, Anna thought, and said as much, but the abbess had insisted. She looked very frail and no longer wore the veil. Since her weakness, as she called it, the scars didn’t seem to matter to her. One silver-gray hair had escaped her wimple and a light wind blew it into the corner of her eye. Anna reached up to brush it away. Her fingers gently touched the scar. It felt smooth and soft, but firmer than the velvet, looser skin of her cheek.
An inchworm fell from the apostle’s beard carved in the column capital and landed in Mother’s lap. Anna picked it up and quickly flung it away. “Go measure somewhere else,” she said.
The abbess smiled. “We are all measured for our shrouds sooner or later, Anna. Besides, that’s just a silly superstition.”
“I know, Mother. But in your case, I wish it to be later.”
The inchworm resumed its arched posture and measured the apostle’s stone cape instead.
“Tell me about Finn the Illuminator, Anna. Tell me about your grandfather.”
“He was a wonderful man. A man of talent and wisdom and compassion. A man not given to easy laughter, but when he did laugh, it seemed the whole world was happier.” Then she realized how childish that might sound. “Well, at least my world. I always wanted to please him.”
“Was he easily pleased?”
“Not always. He had very high standards. He liked things to be … perfect.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
“Sometimes. But it was useful too.” She could hear the defensiveness in her tone.
“You loved him very much.”
“He was everything to me. I never knew my mother or my father.”
The inchworm had disappeared inside a wrinkle in the apostle’s stone cape.
“Why did he never marry? I mean, such a paragon must have been much in demand.” Only gentle sarcasm in her tone. Anna loved her wit.
“When I was much younger I remember they were always after him. Friends from the university were forever pressing him to meet some widowed sister, or maiden aunt, or cousin, telling him I needed the influence of another female. Once I asked him why he always put them off. He said he’d loved two women, and they’d both left him with a broken heart. And then he laughed and said one woman per household was enough. Of course, I was hardly more than a child, but he always made me want to be older, wiser, the woman of the house.”
The abbess nodded, smiling, seeming oddly pleased at those words.
“Did he have an easy life?”
“By most standards. We were comfortable in our little town house. He had friends and he had his work. He was also very committed to spreading Wycliffe’s teachings, more so year by year. That seemed enough for him. Most of the time. Sometimes a brooding sadness would come over him, but it never lasted long. I guess he worked himself out of it.”
The abbess nodded as though she understood fully. It’s a sign of her great compassion that she can take such an interest in someone else’s life, Anna thought. It’s probably because they shared the same cause.
The abbess looked down and picked at the edge of her wimple with her long fingers. They look so frail, the bones no stronger than dried winter twigs.
“And his death? Was that easy too?”
Surprised, Anna found that talking about him thus gave her some comfort. Her grief was no longer raw. She no longer felt as though she had lost him, because he was still with her, his image leaping into her mind whenever she called it.
“He suffered only a little pain. He died in his sleep.”
“Only a little pain and then to die in your sleep. Life’s final blessing for a life well lived.” The abbess sighed and closed her eyes.
She’s thinking of her own death, Anna thought.
“He must have felt great hurt at leaving you behind,” the abbess said, still not opening her eyes.
“He did. He made me promise that I would come here. He trusted Sir John. He’d been working with him in the Lollard cause for the last few years. When the persecution started in Prague, he thought I would be safe here with Sir John. He had no way of knowing.”
“No, I don’t suppose he did.” Her voice sounded weary beyond all revival.
“Mother, are you ready to go in? Is the breeze too much?”
“No. Anna. I’m just gathering my strength to tell you what I have to tell you.
Anna felt a clutch of fear, like something slipping inside her. She’s going to send me away, Anna thought. Like Mistress Kremensky, she’s going to say it is not safe for the other sisters for me to be here. Her compassion makes it hard. I should not make her say it. I should tell her I will leave. But where? Oh, Holy Jesu, where?
“Mother, I think—”
The abbess shook her head. “Shh, Anna, let me tell you what I have to say.”
The inchworm had gained an expanse of the apostle’s robe. He lost his hold and dropped to the ground and began again. The abbess fumbled in the little pouch that hung at her waist and withdrew something, held it out to Anna.
“I had your necklace fixed,” she said, pressing it into Anna’s hand, “and now I want to tell you its history. Have you ever noticed how the little pearls at the center of the cross make a six-pointed star?” She traced them with her fingernail.
Anna squinted at the necklace. She could see it! As clear as day, now that it was pointed out to her. She’d only ever seen the cross. Not noticed the star at all. But she recognized it for what it was.
“It looks like … it’s the star of Judah,” she said.
“You know it, then. Your grandfather told you.”
“I know it because he worked for the Jews in Judenstadt. He illuminated beautiful manuscripts for them. I delivered them to the rabbi there.”
“Your grandfather never told you, then? About the necklace?”
“Only that it belonged to my mother and her mother before her. It was my grandfather’s wedding gift to my grandmother Rebekka. I never noticed the star before. I’m sure he would have told me if I’d asked.”
The abbess frowned. “I’m surprised Finn never told you. It was cowardly of him. But it was his love for you that made him craven.”
“Told me what? He was the bravest man I—”
“You had two grandmothers, Anna. Your grandmother Rebekka was a Jewess.”
Rebekka. Not a Christian name. Why had she never wondered at that? Her grandmot
her a Jewess! But how could such a thing be? Her grandfather would have told her. Wouldn’t he?
She saw again the cramped quarters of Judenstadt, the humiliation heaped upon the Jewish people even in Prague, one of the last refuges left to them in all of Christendom, remembered how she’d pitied them and how glad she was that she had not been born one of them. How God must have laughed at her!
Now she understood the odd affinity her grandfather had for the Jews when others in Prague shunned them. She was too stunned to wonder how the abbess could have this private knowledge of her, too stunned to think of aught but what it might mean.
“Then I am a Jewess too? And my babe—”
“No, Anna. You are a Christian. If you choose to be. You were baptized a Christian. You were raised a Christian. But you should know. It is your choice. Two grandmothers, Anna. I am Kathryn. I am your other grandmother.”
She reached out as if to take Anna’s hand but only let it hover and then withdrew it.
“You? You are Kathryn?” No, Anna thought, she must have misunderstood what the abbess said. “You can’t be Kathryn. At least not that Kathryn. She died in a fire in the great revolt. My grandfather would not have lied …”
The abbess did not look at Anna; her eyes looked down at her hands folded in her lap, her only sign of distress the twisting of her habit between her fingers.
“His was not the lie,” she said. “He thought I died. I deceived him and it was not the first time I deceived him, I fear. But I have paid for that deception many times over.” She paused, looked up at Anna, her gaze direct. “It was the only way, Anna. He would not have left if he knew I lived, and if he’d stayed, his life would have been over. The bishop who held him prisoner would never have let him go, and I was too ill to go with him. I knew his only chance, your only chance, was to escape to the Continent.”
“But how did you know?”
“I knew there was a connection between you and me from the beginning. I thought it was the cause we shared. Until I recognized the necklace.”
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