“The nuns are lilies, or at least some of them are,” Agnes answered promptly, with a giggle. “That’s why they need us!” Good humor restored, she switched the sickle to her right hand and bent to cut the wheat once more.
The long, hot morning dragged on. Janna felt hampered by the scapular she wore over her habit, which was making her sweat profusely. She had a raging thirst, so she was glad to stop working when the hayward blew on his horn for dinner. There was a goodly spread of bread and cheese, meat pies and fruit, with jugs of ale and mead to wash it all down. She was hungry after her efforts, as well as thirsty. As soon as the prayer was over, she wasted no time in tucking into the feast. After a while, she became aware that Agnes had eaten hardly anything. She held a meat pasty out to her friend. “Here. You must eat, keep up your strength.”
Agnes groaned. “In truth, I am in too much pain to have an appetite,” she said, and touched her shoulder.
Looking at the strain on the lay sister’s face, Janna understood what an effort of will it must have cost Agnes to continue working in the field for so long. Yet she understood, too, her friend’s reluctance to speak out about her injury. “Rest, and try to eat something,” she urged. “Tonight, if you’ll show me where it hurts, I’ll see if I know of anything that may help to bring ease, something that Sister Anne may not already have tried.”
“That’s kind of you. Thank you, Janna.” Agnes frowned, puzzled. “But how do you know of such things?”
“My mother was a wortwyf—a herb wife and healer. She taught me all she knew before she died.” That wasn’t quite true; her mother had let her prepare potions, but hadn’t trusted her to actually treat the sick, or take care of their various complaints. It had been a bone of contention between them, an argument that had lasted until Eadgyth died. Janna sighed. Her mother hadn’t trusted her with the truth either. “I still have much to learn,” she confessed, and took a bite from the pasty.
Belly full, she was just licking her fingers clean when she noticed that one of the laborers was staring at her. As soon as his glance met hers he looked away and, with an air of unconcern, began to scan the other workers of the abbey, although his gaze didn’t linger long on any one of them. Curious now, for she thought he might have been staring at her for some time before she became aware of it, Janna continued to watch him.
He sat slightly apart from the others. She noticed that he spoke to no-one, and that no-one spoke to him. Was he perhaps newly come to the abbey, like her? She frowned. She had come to a house full of women, begging sanctuary. What was his excuse? He was dressed in a villein’s garments, tunic and breeches, but they were cleaner and of better quality than those worn by the abbey’s lay servants. A man not used, perhaps, to manual labor? She narrowed her eyes, the better to study him. Was his face familiar? Had she seen him before? She couldn’t be sure, but his interest in her caused a twinge of unease.
She nudged Agnes, and pointed at the villein. “Who’s that?” He stood up abruptly, and turned his back on them to survey the burgeoning golden fields ahead.
“I don’t know. I saw him staring at you before.” Agnes gave a sudden giggle. “I think he likes the look of you. If you value your virtue, perhaps you’d better make sure he doesn’t get you alone somewhere to have his way with you!”
“Agnes!” Janna was a little shocked by the young woman’s prurient imagination. Nevertheless, she felt somewhat reassured by her friend’s words.
“He might be a bit old for you, do you think?” Agnes was still looking him over. “But his clothes are quite fine. He could be a good catch as a husband.”
“You go catch him then,” Janna answered without thinking, and then wished with all her heart that she could take back her words.
“He wouldn’t want me, and besides, I’ve already taken a vow.” Agnes sounded light-hearted enough. “You should think hard before you commit yourself to life here, Janna. You’re not used to being confined, like I am, and you don’t seem to have a vocation, if I may say so. Besides, you’re so comely, you could wed anyone you want.”
“I assure you, I have no interest in men, at least not at present.” As she spoke, Godric’s face came into her mind. How forlorn he’d looked when he’d said goodbye; almost as sad as she’d felt when the gate had clanged shut behind her and closed her off from the world. Godric was lost to her—and so was Hugh, she thought, as the Norman nobleman’s handsome face superimposed itself over Godric’s.
Janna sighed. The lord Hugh was not for her. Although he managed a manor farm for his aunt, Dame Alice, he would lose everything once his nephew, Hamo, came of age. Hugh would have to marry, and marry well, if he wanted to maintain his status. And although he’d been kind to her, and had even kissed her once, he was so far above her in station it was foolish to entertain any notion of love, no matter how tender his kiss and how admiring his gaze. Besides, Janna reminded herself, she was not the only one enamored with the lord Hugh; there was also the beautiful Gytha, daughter of the cook. If Hugh decided on a dalliance with anyone, Gytha would be there right under his nose. Unlike Janna, who was now trapped behind the gates of an abbey. Janna shook her head, trying to dislodge all thoughts of love and marriage. She was here for two reasons: the first, to learn to read and write; the second, to keep out of the way of the man who saw her as a threat and who wanted her dead.
Inadvertently, her glance shifted to the stranger in their midst. He had turned around and, once again, was staring at her.
Chapter 4
Sleepy after their dinner and a hard morning’s work, the lay servants left to toil in their own fields.
“It’s time for us to go, Janna,” Agnes said, judging the time from the position of the sun. She cast a regretful glance at the stubbled fields, and at the long strips of wheat still waiting to be cut. “Come on,” she said, and reluctantly heaved herself to her feet. She set off for the abbey, pausing only to leave her sickle and gloves in the shed.
Janna followed her, anxious to reach the safety of the abbey once more. She looked about for the stranger, but he had left with the other lay servants, perhaps to cut his own wheat and bring it safe to the barn.
“Is it customary for strangers to join in with the lay servants at harvest time?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Agnes answered . Our abbey will give alms and shelter to any who need it, be they beggar, pilgrim or even the richest merchant in the land—although the wealthy have their own guest quarters, of course,” she added. “And they’re expected to work for their keep?” Janna slowed down to keep pace with Agnes, who walked with careful steps, her right elbow cradled in her left hand as if to keep her shoulder safe from any further movement.
“We don’t ask guests to work for us, but some seem happy enough to help. The bailiff also hires extra hands if he thinks there are not enough workers to bring in the harvest.” Agnes shot a shrewd glance at Janna. “Why? Are you worried about the staring stranger?”
“Yes. No.” Janna gave an uneasy laugh. “I don’t know.”
“I saw him looking at you, and I also heard him ask the bailiff who you were.”
“Why?” Janna’s unease deepened. “Did the bailiff tell him?”
“How could he? He’s never seen you before today, and you didn’t give him your name, did you?”
“No.” The bailiff might not know her, but others did. It was only a matter of time before the stranger found out who she was. And then?
“Don’t let him upset you, he’ll be moving on soon enough.” Agnes looked wistful. “Isn’t it nice to have an admirer?”
“If that’s what he is.” They forded the river and came back within the abbey precinct once more. “What now?” Janna asked.
“Now we do our work about the abbey.” Agnes was back to talking out of the side of her mouth again. Janna remembered why and, nodding in understanding, followed her to the kitchen. “This is a good place to work, especially if you’re hungry,” Agnes muttered. She marched over to one of the sisters, who was
busy stirring something savory in a huge iron pot. Its aromatic steam flavored the air. “This is Sister Johanna. She’s new,” she told the cook.
“Welcome, Johanna. I am Sister Euphemia.” The nun’s face was flushed from the heat of the fire, but her smile was friendly as she said, “I need some extra onions, some carrots and a cabbage, if you’d like to take our new sister out to the kitchen garden to gather them?”
A garden! Janna’s face brightened. She looked forward to seeing which herbs were grown by the infirmarian, and how she tended her plants. She looked about her with interest as Agnes led her out of the kitchen, along the side of the abbey and into a well-tended garden. It was ringed with fruit trees, ripening apples burnishing bright in the sunshine. This was the largest garden Janna had ever seen. She gasped with pleasure at the array of plants and flowers spread before her. Forgetting their task, she walked along the rows of vegetables, marveling at their variety and abundance. The beds of herbs in a separate garden enticed her, and she moved to them. Fragrant agrimony, spicy sweet marjoram and creeping bugle, pungent pennyroyal and brilliant yellow toadflax, so-named because of the shape of its flowers. She recognized some but not all of them, and greeted those she knew like an old friend as she passed each bedding.
“Sweet woodruff, wormwood and woundwort, valerian and—”
“You know your herbs, I see.”
Janna jumped in fright. She turned to the voice, and found herself staring into the bright eyes of the elderly infirmarian.
“Sister Anne,” said Agnes. “This is our new lay sister, Johanna.”
“And where is your home? Where do you come from, Johanna, that you are so familiar with the herbs in my physic garden?” the nun asked.
“I…uh…” Janna was at a loss how to answer. The nun’s face creased in bewilderment.
“You have no home?” she asked gently.
Janna felt her throat suddenly constrict at this unexpected reminder of the past. Hot tears welled behind her eyes. She swallowed hard, unable to speak. The nun continued to watch her with a sympathetic gaze. Hating her weakness, Janna struggled to find her voice.
“My—my mother was a wortwyf, Sister. She taught me all she knew.”
“A herb wife?” The nun’s gaze sharpened. “Do you have her knowledge of healing?”
“Yes.” Janna kept her fingers crossed behind her back to excuse the partial lie, telling herself it was worth it if it would gain her entry into the abbey itself.
“She offered to make me a salve for my scars,” Agnes broke in. “I told her that you have looked after me and physicked me since I was a child.”
“Yet I am always willing to learn new recipes. Tell me, Johanna, what would you or your mother have used to heal such serious burns as our poor Sister Agnes has suffered?”
Janna thought back to what Eadgyth had told her, and the salves she had made up to soothe the burns of a little boy who had spilled a pot of boiling water over himself, and who still bore the scars of it.
“If the burn is from liquid, you should boil elm bark and lily roots in milk and smear it on three times a day, but if the burn is from fire, you should boil dog rose, lily and speedwell in butter and smear it on the burn.”
“The roots of the white lily?”
Janna nodded. “A dressing made from whole boiled linseeds will relieve pain and heat, prevent infection and help the wound to heal. The mucilage of marshmallow roots, with linseed and fenugreek also makes up an effective ointment.”
“And afterwards, for scars?”
“Linseeds too. And burdock leaves for shrinking of sinews, or an ointment of boiled hog’s lard and the roots of white lilies or hound’s tongue. My mother told me that the juice of violets mixed with olive oil and goat fat is also very soothing.”
“We sometimes use the flowers of the Madonna to adorn the shrine of St Edith and decorate the Lady Chapel on feast days,” Sister Anne said slowly. “I haven’t used lilies in medicaments before.”
“The roots may be used for any number of skin ailments as well as to soften the scars of burns. Mixed with honey or hog’s grease, they may also join cut sinews.” Janna wondered if she was talking her way into further trouble, or even unknowingly committing some sort of sin. To her relief, Sister Anne smiled at her.
“I am grateful for your information, and I will certainly try out your recommendation,” she said. “In fact, I’ll make up a new salve straightaway. Pray visit me in the infirmary after supper tonight, Sister Agnes, and I’ll give you the preparation to try.” She nodded and moved briskly away. Janna noted that she was heading in the direction of a large clump of lilies, and hoped that both the infirmarian and Agnes would find the new recipe effective.
“I think you’ve impressed Sister Anne with your knowledge,” Agnes said. “Will you teach me something about the medicinal use of plants? It’s such a good excuse to visit the garden, and I do so love to work out here.” She extended a hand to encompass the plants in all their showy summer brilliance, and the brightly colored butterflies that flitted among them.
“Gladly,” Janna said, eager to repay Agnes in some measure for her kindness. She indicated the physic garden. “Let’s start here and work our way through, just a few at a time, so that you’ll remember what I’ve told you. You know flax?”
“Of course. We soak the stems and strip the fibers to weave into the cloth we wear.” Agnes touched her habit, which, unlike the abbess’s costly woolen robe, was made of rough homespun.
“It is also called linseed,” Janna continued. “Oil from the seeds may be used to ease coughs, as well as taking the heat from burns. Perhaps Sister Anne made up a linseed poultice when you were first brought to her?”
“I don’t remember.”
“No matter. Remember it now, for flax is one of our most useful plants, and so is hemp.” Janna pointed to a row of plants growing close to the flax. “This, too, can be woven into homespun, but it can also be used to alleviate pain and promote sleep. Boiled in milk, the seeds will soothe a cough. The juice mixed with butter is also good for burns.” She moved on to indicate some long spikes of greyish leaves with small white flowers. “White horehound,” she said. “In a syrup with fennel and dill, it will suppress coughing, soothe the throat and help expel phlegm from the chest.” She encouraged Agnes to bruise the downy leaves and smell their fragrance.
“Flax, hemp, white horehound,” Agnes murmured.
“This one I don’t know.” Janna paused beside a bed of white flowers. “They look a bit like poppies, but…”
“They are poppies.” Sister Anne paused beside them, bearing a lily root and several other plants. “They come from the east, and I use them in preparations for calming the nerves, for pain, and to induce sleep.”
“Oh?” Janna looked at the flowers with new interest.
“Their juice must be used with discretion, for it is a powerful sedative and painkiller. It is much stronger than preparations made from the common red poppies that grow in the fields.” She walked around them and up the path between the beds of herbs.
“Thank you, Sister,” Janna called after her. She turned to Agnes. “My mother told me about the opium poppy, but I’ve never seen one before. So we’ve both learned something new. But that’s enough for now, I don’t want to confuse you.”
“And Sister Euphemia is probably getting very impatient,” Agnes reminded Janna with a grin. They hurriedly picked the cabbage, carrots and onions, and returned indoors with their bounty. Thereafter, they were kept too busy to talk, being occupied with scrubbing, peeling and chopping the vegetables to be served in a pottage with beans in the refectory that night.
Their task completed, Sister Euphemia told them to scour the cooking pots and generally make themselves useful in the kitchen. But Janna overheard Agnes murmuring the names of the herbs and reciting their properties when she had occasion to pass by. She smiled to herself, so well pleased with the day’s work that even the memory of the inquisitive stranger couldn’t distur
b her composure. Let him admire her from a distance, if that was his will. Soon enough he would move on, but in the meantime she would not allow him to deflect her from her purpose here in the abbey. She had made a good start, she thought, remembering her conversation with the infirmarian. If Sister Grace or the chantress weren’t prepared to teach her, perhaps she could prevail on Sister Anne instead?
*
Once again, Janna woke with a start at the sound of the bell. She remembered where she was and arose from her pallet with alacrity, ready for Prime, the first service of the morning. After a break for bread and ale, and a brief hearing in the chapter house, they filed into the church for Mass. Janna knew what to expect now, and she listened carefully to the music of the nuns’ voices. Their chants and prayers intertwined with her thoughts as, once again, she tried to fathom the secrets of her mother’s early life. Finally, she gave up and let the nuns’ quiet reverence soothe her troubled spirit and bring peace and a new strength of purpose to her cause.
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.” The priest’s voice rang out, commanding their response.
“Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum,” sang the nuns, their words followed by a hearty “Amen” from everyone standing in the nave. The chant went on, the lay sisters sometimes joining in. The visitors were mostly silent, although occasionally they said “Amen.” Janna knew that signified the ending of a prayer, but she wished she could understand what else the priest and nuns were saying. Surveying those gathered in the nave around her, Janna surmised that they might not understand him either. Some of the abbey’s more wealthy guests looked bored, and fidgeted or scratched themselves. Their ladies glanced about, perhaps comparing the stuff of their gowns and veils, and the precious stones on their rings, belts and head bands, with those of their rivals. Janna suppressed a grin as she judged their expressions: one looked smug; another slightly anxious; while a third wasn’t paying any attention at all to the envious glances coming her way. With closed eyes and upturned countenance, she seemed to be listening to the voice of God Himself.
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