In spite of Agnes's passionate avowal, Janna remained sceptical. 'Are you sure your vow is all that stops you from considering Master Will's offer of marriage?' she ventured.
Agnes averted her head. She stood up, and tried to brush her hands free of dirt.
'You said you cannot leave the abbey. Is that cannot – or will not?' Janna persisted.
'Cannot! Will not! All right, I'm afraid to leave the abbey again. There, I've said it!' Agnes's voice rose. 'I hate people staring at me, staring at my scars,' she cried. 'I hate it!'
'Shh.' Janna was about to put her hand on Agnes's arm to comfort her, but saw just in time that her fingers were filthy and stained with mud. So she tried to comfort her with words instead. 'People might stare at first, but only until they're used to you. But they would stare at you no matter what you looked like, for they would be curious to see Master Will's new wife, particularly one newly come from life in a convent. But think on this. Once their curiosity is satisfied, they will accept you as one of their own and take you for granted.'
'With this to remind them always that I am grotesque?' Agnes's fingers traced down the scar on her face, leaving a muddy trail down her cheek.
'Master Will called the lilies "pure, chaste and beautiful". He said they remind him of you. He doesn't think you are grotesque, and neither does anyone else. For certes, no-one here does. They're so used to you, they no longer even notice you!'
'Are you accusing me of the Sin of Pride?' Agnes's lips twitched upwards into a half-smile.
Janna felt a profound relief that her friend could find some humour in the situation. It meant there was still hope for her cause. 'Perhaps, rather, you should ask yourself what harm it does if they do stare at you?'
Agnes was silent as she contemplated Janna's question. Then she shrugged. 'I have made my vows. I cannot unmake them.'
'Master Will seemed to think there might be a way around the problem – if problem it is.'
'And what would a bailiff know of abbey life, and he a man at that?'
Janna had no answer, but still she wondered if Agnes was using her vows as a convenient excuse not to face her fear. She resolved to question Sister Anne about the matter.
'And what about you?' Agnes's voice broke into her thoughts.
'Me?'
'Yes, you. When you came into the courtyard with Sister Anne you looked as if you'd seen the devil! Did something happen in the marketplace – apart from meeting Will there?'
Agnes's face and tone reflected her concern, and Janna was touched. She wasn't used to having a close friend, someone who cared what happened to her. Although she hadn't hesitated to interfere in Agnes's life when she thought the cause was just, it was odd to have the tables turned on her in this way. Hard, too, to break a lifetime's habit of keeping her own counsel in order to confide in someone.
Yet the image of Godric and Cecily together was burned on her brain, etched there with acid. She knew they both lived now at Hugh's manor and that their care of Hamo must keep them in each other's company. She'd known that in her head, but now she knew it in her heart. The knowledge brought stinging tears to her eyes. She began to describe what she'd seen to Agnes, wanting to share her burden, wanting relief.
'But why are you so upset? I thought the lord Hugh was the one you cared for?' Agnes looked confused.
'He . . . No! I . . . yes, I suppose I do. Care for him, that is. I admire him. But Godric is my friend.'
'Your friend? Why, then, should you mind if your friend woos Mistress Cecily?'
Why indeed? Janna had no answer for Agnes, or even for herself.
Darkness had fallen, and the bell was summoning the convent to Vespers by the time Janna left the physic garden, where she'd taken refuge after she and Agnes had finished planting out the lilies. She decided not to attend the office, for her hands were thoroughly muddy and needed a good scrub. On her way past the scriptorium, Janna noticed Sister Ursel. The nun sat hunched over her manuscript in the faint light cast by the candle on her desk. There was a pen in her hand, and a pot of ink at the ready, but she didn't seem to be writing anything. In view of what had happened, Janna couldn't blame her for losing heart. She walked past, stamping her boots noisily in the hope that the nun might turn around so that she could whisper something sympathetic. But Sister Ursel stayed bowed over her manuscript. Janna thought she might be crying.
Sister Ursel and her distress haunted Janna's thoughts as she walked to the lavatorium where the sisters washed their hands before and after every meal. She wished there was some way of finding out who was taking the pages and hiding them. Where could they be? As she plunged her hands into the basin of water, an idea came to her. She stopped to ponder it. After giving her hands a hasty scrub, she snatched up a tallow candle set in a holder, and hastened to the dorter where the nuns slept. If asked, she would say she needed to visit the reredorter before going in to supper.
She hadn't been in the nuns' dorter before, for she was not entitled to go there, but she was sure this was the best place to start her search. It seemed the only possible hiding place. She was greatly relieved to find the dorter deserted. Sleeping pallets were stacked in a neat pile in the long communal room, which was shared by novices, oblates and some of the nuns. Beyond the communal room was a short corridor, with doors leading off it. The faint sound of chanting reassured Janna that the nuns were now busy at Vespers. Wasting no more time, she began to rifle through the wooden chests lined up on one side of the room. But they contained nothing more interesting than the spare clothing and shoes of the occupants of the dorter. The nuns themselves had no private property to store, for it was against the Rule to own anything at all, and Janna hadn't really expected to find anything secreted there.
Carrying the candle, she hurried on to search the small cells on either side of a corridor leading off from the dorter. The cells were closed off by curtains, and Janna pulled aside the first one she came to. A small room was revealed, containing only a truckle bed and a squat chest, with a wooden crucifix on top. There was a hook for the nun's cloak, empty now for the nun would need its warmth in church. These cells must be occupied by the obedientiaries, and perhaps those nuns who had lived in the abbey for many years or who, for one reason or another, had earned the privilege of solitude. Janna resolved to search them all, for this was the most likely place for the missing pages to be hidden.
With her ears strained to catch the smallest sound, she began a quick search of each cell, feeling under straw mattresses and examining the small chests beside each bed. Which cell belonged to Sister Philippa? Had she been here long enough, was she important enough to have her own cell?
She searched carefully, but to no avail. The favoured hiding place appeared to be under the hard straw mattresses, and she'd uncovered several secrets: a blue ribbon, a folded letter, a child's embroidered cap, an enamelled brooch, but nothing that resembled the missing sheet of parchment. Janna was on her knees, with her hand under yet another mattress, when the sound of voices jerked her upright. The voices seemed still some distance away. She was tempted to make a run for it, but there was only one cell left at the end of the corridor to search.
With her heart hammering, she ran into the cell, placed the candle on the chest beside the bed, and swiftly searched through its contents. Nothing. She felt under the mattress. Her fingers touched something flat and hard. She pulled out a wooden box and studied it. It bore an inscription chased onto a silver band. She shook it, and heard the faint rustle of something inside. Her conscience stirred, but she reassured herself it was all in a good cause as she snicked open the catch.
Tucked safely inside the box was a folded sheet of parchment. She hurriedly opened it, identifying it instantly as coming from the hand of Sister Ursel. Whose cell was this? Conscious of the voices coming closer, she cast about for any signs that might identify the occupant. There were none. A pair of sandals stood beneath the empty peg, discarded now for the stouter boots of winter wear. Did they belong to Sister Phili
ppa? It was impossible to tell. Janna peered into the box in the hope of finding some means of identifying its owner.
As well as the parchment, there was a crucifix inside and, strangely, a couple of teeth. Not human, surely? Janna peered more closely at them, feeling almost sure they came from some animal. She closed the box and tried to decipher the writing on it. It meant nothing to her, even when she turned the box and studied the writing upside down. Exasperated, she slammed the box down onto the mattress. A thought came to her. She couldn't read the writing, but she knew who could! She opened the box, took out the contents, all except for the parchment, and left them lying on the chest. She tucked the box into the folds of her sleeve and, feeling like a thief, hastily skipped out of the cell just as several sisters entered the dorter with cloaks folded over their arms.
'Pardon me. I needed to visit the reredorter,' she said, moving quickly away before any of them could comment or question her further. She ran downstairs and went straight to the scriptorium, hoping that Sister Ursel was still there.
The manuscript was there, but the nun wasn't. Janna paused a moment to admire the beautiful lettering, and the delicate lines of a drawing depicting a robin perched on the hand of St Edith. Janna knew it was a robin for its breast was shaded red. She wasn't quite so sure it was St Edith she was looking at, for she could not read the writing beside the illustration. She sighed with frustration and wondered again why, when her mother was teaching her how to write her own name, she had not at the same time taught her how to read and write anything else.
Holding the candle close to the page to see more clearly, she noticed that some of the colour had smudged beyond the line of the robin's breast. In fact, the work gave all the appearance of being abandoned in a hurry, for only part of the breast was coloured. Janna studied the smudge. It looked as if it might have been caused by a splash of water. A fallen tear, perhaps? She had never seen a smudge on Sister Ursel's work before, and knew that something extraordinary must have happened to cause it.
She wondered whether she should make some effort to protect the work, but a moment's reflection reassured her that it was probably safe enough for the present. Whoever was behind the damage to the manuscript thought she already had a sheet to destroy; she would not risk taking another quite so soon, particularly after Abbess Hawise's stern warning.
Conscious of time passing, Janna hurried off in search of Sister Ursel. Had she gone to Vespers after all? Was she now awaiting supper in the refectory? Janna was all too aware of the box concealed within her sleeve. She was horribly afraid that someone would stop her, and that she would be searched. Anyone finding the stolen articles could easily misconstrue the reason for finding them in her possession. Even the thief could point her finger at Janna, for was not Janna carrying a box stolen from her own cell?
There was no sign of Ursel in the refectory or anywhere around the cloister. Janna made a conscious effort to slow her footsteps as she went outside to search in the garden. She didn't want to attract any attention, nor did she want to add the Sin of Running to her crimes. But Ursel was not there, or in the physic garden, or the orchard beyond. There was only one place Janna hadn't looked. She had never been into the church on her own, and was reluctant to go there now. Vespers was over and the nuns would be having their supper. She was already late for the meal; she didn't want to be held to account also for the Sin of Trespass.
The church door was open, inviting her in. Janna's hesitant steps took her over the threshold. The air smelled dusty and old, and perfumed with stale incense. Flickering candles cast a ghostly glow, while her shadow leaped high and dark against their light. She set down the candle and walked into the choir stalls, but there was no Ursel sitting in her usual seat, nor anyone else there either. A stifled sob came to her ears, and she kept very still, turning her head to locate the direction of the sound. She thought it came from the Lady Chapel or perhaps the small chapel that housed the shrine of St Edith, and so she tiptoed quietly into the east arm of the crucifix-shaped church.
A figure lay spreadeagled on the floor in front of St Edith's shrine, racked with sobs but trying her best to stifle them. Janna could make out a few choked gasps: 'N-n-not worthy, oh God, not worthy . . .' followed by a cry of agony: 'Oh God, I do . . . do believe in you. Pl-please, please g-give me the gift of faith. Help me, S-St Edith, help me!' The nun's eyes were blind with tears; her voice desolate with grief.
Janna's first impulse was to run to her, to take her in her arms and comfort her, but she knew that this was not the comfort Ursel sought. Aghast at witnessing such despair, wanting to help yet feeling powerless in the face of such anguish, she hesitated. Should she run for the abbess? The thought was dismissed almost instantly. Ursel needed more comfort than that cold and calculating heart could provide. Who, then, could she find to talk to Ursel, to give her the ease she sought? Sister Anne? Sister Grace?
Janna touched the box inside her sleeve. Perhaps, after all, she had the means to alleviate some of Ursel's despair. Even so, she hesitated to interrupt the nun's desperate communion with the saint. She tiptoed quietly away, just a few paces, so that when Ursel felt strong enough to rise and face her life once more, she would be able to intercept and talk to her without letting the nun know that her misery had been witnessed.
It seemed that hours passed. Judging from the sounds of distress that Janna could hear even from a distance, Ursel was neither aware of the time, or of how very cold it was in the church. Janna shivered, and huddled into her habit, wishing she had thought to fetch her cloak before going in search of the scribe. Ursel's sobbing, interspersed with prayers and entreaties to St Edith, indicated a crisis of faith that Janna could not understand. She knew she would be unable to provide counsel, and wondered again if she should fetch someone to intervene. She cast about for anyone close to Ursel, someone who cared enough to help her through this catastrophe, but could think of no-one. In fact, she couldn't remember ever seeing Ursel talk or laugh with anyone, not even in those few periods during the day when conversation was permitted. Perhaps the nuns were too in awe of her great gift? Or, Janna thought, more likely Ursel's stutter turned any conversation with her into a trial. Even she had not sought out Ursel when questioning the other nuns about her mother; the realisation made her flinch with shame.
And she was slowly freezing to death. Janna jumped up, hugged herself, then squatted up and down on the spot to get the blood flowing freely once more. She began to pace about in a vain effort to warm herself. In spite of her care to walk quietly, her boots clattered on the stone flagging. She became aware that the sobbing had stopped, along with the murmurs of distress. Suddenly afraid that Ursel had crept out without her noticing, she hastened to the small shrine.
Ursel was there, standing at the entrance. Her face and eyes were red and swollen with grief. 'You g-gave me a fright. I . . . I thought I was alone here.' Her voice was muffled, thick with tears.
'Forgive me, Sister. I didn't mean to startle you, but I'm glad to find you here.' Janna was quite happy to pretend she'd only just arrived. 'I've been looking for you, for I have something to show you.' From her sleeve, she drew out the wooden box and held it out to Sister Ursel.
Ursel frowned, her face hardening with suspicion. 'Where . . . where did you get that?' she asked sternly.
'Look inside.' Janna opened the box, wanting Ursel to see the contents before she answered the question. 'Please,' she added.
Sister Ursel did as she was told. She saw the sheet of parchment. 'Oh!' she breathed. 'Oh!' She snatched up the sheet and carefully unfolded it. With reverence, she smoothed the creases, then held it under the light from the cresset candles to examine it more carefully. She exhaled in relief when she saw that her work was undamaged. She rounded on Janna.
'Did you take this page? And d-did you steal this box?' she demanded angrily. Even through her dismay, Janna noted that the nun hardly stammered at all.
'No, Sister, I did not!' In spite of knowing that she'd had no choice in
the matter, Janna still felt a sense of shame. 'I found the missing page inside the box – and yes, I stole the box but I didn't take your piece of parchment. Not this page, nor any others that have gone missing in the past.'
Sister Ursel's eyes went round with horror. 'You st-stole the box?' she said slowly. 'Why are you telling me this? You should c-confess your misdeeds to our M-Mother.'
'I wanted to speak to you first. Yes, I know I was wrong to go poking about in everyone's possessions, but I was sure that whoever was responsible for stealing pages of your manuscript must have hidden them somewhere until she was ready for them to be "found" later on. I couldn't bear it if another page was defaced and spoiled as the last one was, and so I took a chance and made a search.'
Ursel shot Janna a glance of pure amazement. 'You c-cared enough about my work to dis . . . dishonour your soul?'
'No dishonour to my soul. The dishonour belongs to the one who has been acting against you in this way. I don't know who it is – although I have my suspicions! But I took the box because the writing will tell us who the owner is.' Janna tapped the inscription on the silver band. 'See? I cannot read the name inscribed here, but I know you can.'
'Laudate Dominum.' Sister Ursel said the words aloud. 'That means "Praise the L-Lord", Sister Johanna.'
'Oh.' Janna felt thoroughly deflated as she faced the scribe. 'I'm sorry. I took it thinking it would tell us who has been acting against you in this way.'
'But it does,' Sister Ursel said slowly. 'This b-box belongs to Sister Catherine.'
'Not Sister Philippa?'
'No.' Ursel looked surprised. 'Why . . . why would you think that?'
'Because . . .' But Janna was too ashamed of her suspicions to go on. 'How do you know it belongs to Sister Catherine?' she asked.
'Because I . . . I once saw her showing it to s-several of our sisters. She is very p-proud of it, but . . . but of course she is not meant to have any p-personal p-property so she k-keeps it hidden under her mattress – or s-so she said.'
Lilies for Love Page 22