Unholy Murder: The Janna Chronicles 3

by Felicity Pulman

  “And that is?” Sister Anne’s voice was harsh with disappointment.

  “To go to Ambresberie.” Janna hesitated. “It seems my mother, Eadgyth, was once the infirmarian at the abbey there.”

  “The infirmarian at Ambresberie?” Sister Anne’s eyes widened. “Emanuelle!” she breathed. The hard lines of her face softened into reminiscence. “You spoke of ‘Eadgyth,’ but your mother would have left her own name behind when she entered the abbey and took her vows. If you go there, you must ask for information about Sister Emanuelle. She was your mother, Johanna. She was also legendary as a healer, and as something of a free thinker.” The infirmarian’s lips twitched upward with amusement as she looked at Janna. “It certainly explains a lot!”

  Sister Emanuelle! Giving her mother a new name made her past seem even more mysterious, although it was hard for Janna to think of her in any other way than as her mother. “What else do you know about her?” she asked eagerly.

  “I remember hearing that the infirmarian at Ambresberie had died quite suddenly, and that the convent was without anyone to physick them for quite some time, until a wortwyf arrived saying that she had a gift for healing which she wished to dedicate to God. It was a long time ago, of course, but that’s how I remember it.”

  “My mother?” breathed Janna. Sister Anne nodded briskly. “She was said to have no formal training, but she obviously taught you all she knew. Certes, you have inherited her gift, and now you have the knowledge to go with it.”

  “Thank you, Sister Anne,” said Janna. “I’m truly grateful to you for everything you’ve taught me, and also for telling me about my mother. I’m sorry, so sorry, to disappoint you.”

  “Searching for your mother isn’t going to change anything, prove anything,” Sister Anne said, determined not to be thwarted in her plans. “You know now who she is. Was. And you said before that you know nothing of your father. How do you plan to find him?”

  “I don’t know. I can only take one step at a time,” Janna answered honestly.

  Sister Anne sighed in frustration. “Why not leave the past in the past, and think about your own future, Johanna? A young woman traveling the road on her own…” She clicked her tongue, tutting her disapproval. “If you take your vows, you can live here as one of us. You’ll be doing something no-one else here can do. You’ll have a roof over your head, a bed to lie on, and regular meals to fill your belly. You will have a home and a family. More, you will be serving God. Are you really prepared to throw all this away, your life here with us, to chase after someone who has never known or acknowledged you, and who may even be dead by now?”

  It was a fair question. And Sister Anne’s arguments regarding Janna’s comfort were compelling, but they also pricked her conscience. She recognized her debt to the infirmarian and hated to disappoint her. She hesitated, torn between wanting to honor her debt while also staying in the safety of the abbey, or honoring her promise to her mother that her death would be avenged. She remembered, then, her words to Agnes: “Isn’t it better to take action, to risk everything, rather than live your life knowing that you had not the courage to follow your heart when you had the chance to find happiness?”

  She would do well to follow her own advice. “I would stay if I could, you know that, but I have to go,” she said, adding, “And I am sorry for it, Sister Anne, for I wish I could stay to help you. I shall miss you. I shall miss everyone here at the abbey.” It was not quite true. The whining gnat, and Sister Catherine and her awful dog—she certainly wouldn’t miss them! But Sister Anne, and Agnes and Ursel…

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, wishing she was able to explain the reasons behind her decision, for she was sure the infirmarian would understand if she knew the facts.

  “I’m sorry too.” The infirmarian nodded, accepting that Janna’s mind was made up. “One good thing about your coming here,” she said, determined to look on the bright side. “I’ve realized how much I need a knowledgeable assistant, and I shall waste no time in finding a replacement for you, Johanna.”

  It was somewhat humbling to think she could be replaced so quickly and so easily! But, meeting the infirmarian’s rueful glance, Janna understood the truth behind her brisk words. She wondered who her replacement would be, and hoped she would prove worthy, for Janna had come to have great respect for Sister Anne’s knowledge, as well as her kind ways with her patients and her skill in dealing with their many aches and ills.

  “When do you plan to leave?” The infirmarian’s question broke into Janna’s thoughts.

  “Soon.” As soon as Agnes’s future was assured, Janna thought. “Quite soon,” she amended.

  Sister Anne gestured toward the plants Janna had gathered. “Then I must make good use of you while you’re still here,” she said, and set her to work.

  *

  Restless, unable to sleep, Janna rose early the following morning. Her heart felt leaden at the prospect of leaving the abbey, leaving behind the friends she had made there—and elsewhere, she thought, recognizing that part of her reluctance to leave was the thought of never seeing Godric or Hugh again. She would never know if Hugh had found someone worthy to marry, someone with a large dowry and land of her own. Nor would she know if Godric and Cecily had found happiness together. There was grief in her heart, but also a faint stir of excitement at the thought of the challenge ahead, and the rewards that might await her.

  How would she travel on the road to Ambresberie? Janna looked down at her habit. Emma’s gift had been generous; it would pay for food and lodging on the journey. But she could not travel alone, not dressed as she was. Could she reclaim her smock and breeches from Sister Grace? By now they’d probably been donated to a good cause but it was worth asking the sister for help. She would also have to take leave of the abbess. Janna’s spirits sank at the prospect.

  Remembering her vow, she first visited the garden to pick sunturners. Clutching a posy of bright flowers, she went through to the cloister to pick the lily, the first to unfold its petals and show off its pristine beauty. It was fitting, she thought, that Agnes should carry the first of the blooms to Will. If the lay sister hadn’t lost her courage overnight. If Will came. If they hadn’t entirely misread the situation and what it meant.

  So afraid was Janna of missing the bailiff, she decided to forego the morning bread and ale with which the nuns broke their fast, and go straight to the shrine. Early as she was, Agnes was there before her, and she greeted Janna with a gasp of relief.

  “Thank you.” She took the single lily from Janna. She was about to lay it on the shrine beside the other two but changed her mind and kept on holding it instead. She waited while Janna placed the marigolds on the casket and closed her eyes to murmur a brief prayer of thanks to the saint.

  “I have news for you,” she whispered, once Janna had returned to her side. Although reluctant to disturb the sanctity of the saint’s shrine, Agnes was eager to pass on what she’d learned. “Some pilgrims are staying here, visiting the hand as well as the shrine of our own saint on their journey home. They’ve come from Santiago de Compostela. I heard them speak of their pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James, and their desire to see the missing part of the saint that is now kept here.”

  “So?” Janna wondered why Agnes sounded so excited. Pilgrims often lodged at the abbey. Even if these had traveled from as far away as Spain, pilgrims often made long journeys to important shrines.

  “They come from Oxeneford, and that is where they are going now,” Agnes said breathlessly.

  “So?” Janna was still at a loss to understand.

  “So, I heard them say they plan to break their journey at Ambresberie Abbey on their way home.”

  “Ah.” Janna began to smile.

  “You could travel with them,” Agnes pressed on. “It would keep you safe if you had company, especially the company of pilgrims. There are women as well as men among them, so you won’t need to defend your honor.”

  “Defend my honor against pil
grims? Surely not!”

  “Never forget that they are men first, pilgrims second.” Janna was amused by Agnes’s cynicism, until she remembered that the lay sister had grown up in the abbey and must have observed the antics of countless pilgrims in her time. She should remember Agnes’s remark, for it might well stand her in good stead in the future.

  “When do they leave?” she asked.

  “Today, after they’ve attended Mass and visited the saint’s relic one last time. You must speak to them before they go.” Agnes clutched Janna’s hand, suddenly aware of her impending loss. “I shall miss you so much,” she said. “The abbey won’t be the same without you.”

  “You might not be here for much longer yourself.” Janna hoped, with all her heart, that her words were true.

  “I’m afraid. I’m so afraid.”

  “Have courage. If he doesn’t come, you are no worse off than if you’d never taken action at all. But at least now you have the chance to find out what might be, or you’ll know what might have been.” Janna wasn’t sure if she was being much comfort to Agnes. Beside her, Agnes tensed, and held a finger to her mouth in warning.

  They could hear the click of boots on stone. Someone was walking down the nave. They glanced at each other. Agnes’s grip on the lily tightened. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, a faint creak, then the low murmur of voices.

  “I’ll make sure I lock the gate behind me when I leave, Sister.” A man’s figure came into view, silhouetted dark against the bright sunlight slanting through the window to the east. Janna squinted at the figure, almost sure it was Will. Beside her, Agnes took a frightened breath.

  The man stepped into the small chapel. His face was lit now in the soft light from the candles around the saint’s shrine, and they could see his features clearly. It was Will. In his hand, he carried a single lily. His eyes widened when he noticed he was not alone. He stopped abruptly. His gaze settled on Agnes’s face. He smiled, and held out the lily.

  Frozen with terror, Agnes stayed where she was. Will’s smile slipped a little. Janna stuck out her elbow and gave Agnes a hard shove, propelling her forward. With a small cry, she catapulted toward Will, who opened his arms to her and enfolded her tight.

  Janna held her breath as she watched them, watched Agnes cling to the bailiff, shaking with fear; watched him patting her shoulder, gentling her as he would a nervous palfrey.

  “I came to ask our blessed saint to intercede on my behalf, to speak to you when I could not,” he murmured.

  Agnes was still for a moment. Then she raised her face to gaze at him. “I heard you,” she said, and held out the lily. Keeping one arm around her, Will took the lily and placed the two flowers on the reliquary, muttering a brief prayer of thanks as he did so. He turned back to Agnes. With gentle fingers, he stroked the rough scars that criss-crossed her cheek. Agnes closed her eyes and stood quiet under his touch before raising her face to his as his lips sought hers.

  Knowing it was safe to go, knowing Agnes no longer needed her, Janna silently crept away, walking on tiptoes so as not to disturb the pair or remind them of her presence.

  She carried on her person all that she meant to take away with her from the abbey, but she still had no answer for what to wear on her journey. A moment’s reflection sent her scurrying to the refectory, where the sisters were still assembled to break their fast. She waited until they had finished before approaching Sister Grace.

  “I’m leaving the abbey today, and I must return my wimple and habit before I go, but I have naught else to wear. Can you help me, please, Sister?”

  Sister Grace’s mouth twitched. “Do you wish to go forth as a youth once more, or are you planning another disguise?” she asked gravely.

  “No!” Janna thought about it. “Yes.” Even in the company of pilgrims she would be safer traveling as a youth than a girl, she decided.

  The nun looked at her thoughtfully. “Your smock and breeches are gone. The wardrober gave them to the cowherd’s eldest son. But there’s a nice new gown that would fit you. It belonged to one of our young postulants who has decided she wishes to take the veil.”

  A nice new gown? Janna liked the sound of that. “If you can spare it, I would be grateful, Sister Grace,” she said humbly.

  “Then come along with me now.” Sister Grace turned and, without ado, led the way from the refectory to the storeroom where Janna had first met her. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Reluctant to waste a costly kirtle on a lowly lay sister, the wardrober argued with Sister Grace, trying instead to persuade her to take a ragged robe that had been left behind by the family of a dying woman. Neither knew that Janna could understand Norman French and, once she realized what was happening, she was too embarrassed to enlighten them. She was grateful to Sister Grace, who would not take the shabby garment from the wardrober but, instead, snatched up a beautiful blue kirtle and refused to give it back.

  “She deserves it,” Sister Grace insisted. “I heard she came here with a full purse, and our abbess took every last coin from her. At the very least, we can give her this.” She held it out to Janna.

  “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

  Sister Grace gave a pleased nod, satisfied with her successful transaction.

  “May I change in the dorter?” Not for anything would Janna let them see the full purse secreted under her habit, lest the wardrober prove every bit as greedy as the abbess had been.

  The wardrober gave a grudging nod. “You may as well have the slippers that go with the gown,” she said, adding in French, “’Tis true she has worked hard while here. Sister Anne says she has her mother’s skill with healing, and has given our convent the best of care.” Janna ducked her head to hide her pleasure, and took her treasures off to the dorter.

  Her transformation was completed in only a few moments. She smoothed her hand down the silky blue fabric of her gown and smiled, well content. She had never worn anything so fine in her life. Her smile grew broader as she reached up to secure the fine gauzy veil that completed the ensemble. Her hair, grown long again, fell loose around her neck. She longed for a mirror to see what she looked like, elated to think she was no longer bound by the Sin of Pride.

  “You look quite the young lady now,” Sister Grace laughed, as she returned with the garments she’d been wearing in the abbey. “For certes, more attractive than the ragged ruffian I first encountered!”

  Janna laughed with her. “Thank you, Sister. Thank you for your kindness.”

  “And thank you for your kindness to us, Johanna,” the nun replied. Seeing Janna’s surprise, she continued, “I have watched your progress here with great interest. I have seen how lovingly you have cared for our sisters. I share Sister Anne’s regret that you are leaving us. We shall all miss you, you know.”

  “As I shall miss you.” Janna reached out and gave her an impulsive hug, remembering too late that close physical contact with another sister was a sin. She tried to pull back. “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  But Grace was smiling as she returned Janna’s hug. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “The Rule no longer applies to you, not if you’re leaving us.”

  The Rule. Janna felt the burden of sins, both real and imaginary, slip from her shoulders. She felt light and free—and also vulnerable. The abbey had been her home for almost a year. There was so much she would miss.

  Her interview with the abbess was brief. Remembering her previous lost opportunities and determined not to waste this last one, Janna asked Abbess Hawise for information about her mother.

  “She was a disgrace to her convent; that is all I know.”

  Janna was sure the abbess hadn’t forgotten the scene with Dame Alice. Probably the abbess’s condemnation of her mother now extended to Janna herself. She knew she would get nothing further from the abbess, nor would she miss her in the least.

  It was a lot harder to say farewell to Sister Ursel and to Sister Anne. “Promise you’ll come and visit us, if ever you pass thi
s way again?” Ursel demanded, and Janna promised that she would. There were tears in her eyes and fear in her heart as she crossed the cloister for the last time, and walked through the outer parlor to the courtyard beyond. She would stay for Mass and speak afterwards to the pilgrims, she decided. There was no time to do it now, for the Mass was about to start.

  She walked into the nave, mingling once more with the abbey’s guests, the lay servants, the beggars and pilgrims, just as she had done when first she came. Ahead of her, she spied Agnes and hurried toward her friend. The lay sister was standing beside Will, their hands touching but not clasped, as befitted the solemnity of this sacred place. Neither of them held lilies now; St Edith’s task was done and her deed had been honored and commemorated.

  Janna smiled as she sidled into place on her friend’s other side. Agnes glanced quickly at her, and then away. “Agnes!” Janna was wounded by her friend’s indifference.

  Agnes’s head swiveled around. Her eyes widened in shocked recognition. “Jesu, it’s you!” She looked Janna up and down. “Why are you wearing those clothes?”

  “Because I’m leaving today, with the pilgrims. Because I’m not a lay sister any longer.”

  Agnes’s face fell. Janna reached for her hand.

  “I can’t stay, you know that. But neither can you?” It was a question, rather than a statement. Janna hoped she knew the answer, and felt a great relief when Agnes nodded shyly.

  “Will’s asked me to be his wife, and I have agreed to it,” she whispered. “We will go to see the abbess after Mass, to see if my childhood vows may be broken and to ask what needs to be done.”

  “Sister Anne will help you, if necessary.” Janna looked from Agnes to Will. “I wish you great happiness in your life together,” she said softly, and sank to her knees as the procession passed up the nave. She breathed in the spicy incense that scented the air as the young acolyte swung the censer, taking comfort from the sturdy stone walls of the great church and a ritual that dated back almost to the time of Christ. So had it always been; so would it be long after she was gone. It made her realize that, while her quest was important to her, it was the smallest stitch in the fabric of God’s great plan.