'I can't scythe the hay. My arm gets too sore.' Janna thought she could detect an expression of regret as Agnes drew her wimple closer around her cheeks and turned her face away.
'You could mind the children.'
'No. It's too late for that now.' Agnes hurried off without another word, not even of farewell.
With the spring sneezes over, and warmer weather to soothe old bones, the infirmary had become less crowded. Janna was quick to take advantage of a quiet hour after dinner to visit Sister Ursel in her carrel. The nun greeted her, and handed Janna the wax slate that lay always in readiness. As she chose a passage for Janna to read and copy, Janna gazed about the cloister. The lilies had grown tall and were swelling into bud. One was already in full flower. Janna remembered Will's comment: that lilies reminded him of Agnes. She wondered if Agnes also remembered, but she knew that Agnes still lacked the courage to take action. Janna, herself, was beginning to understand how Agnes felt about leaving the abbey. She longed to be free, and yet she dreaded to venture outside in case she met up with Godric and Hugh. The very thought of seeing them made her heart pump faster, but she lacked the courage to confront them for fear of what she might find out.
'I'm not ready to leave,' she consoled herself, knowing that her decision was justified for she would not depart the abbey until she'd managed to read her father's letter. But that day was not too far away, for more and more tantalising glimpses into the past were being revealed to her impatient gaze. Nor could she use the winter cold and rain as an excuse for delay, for it was promising to be a warm, dry summer and conditions for travelling were perfect. All too soon, she would have to leave behind her childhood, everything and everyone she knew. She would have to leave Agnes, and the safety of the abbey – leave Hugh and Godric. Feeling miserable and afraid, she cast about for something to take her mind off the future. Her glance fell on Sister Ursel's manuscript, and the delicate border of white lilies that framed the text.
'See, Janna,' she said, when she noticed Janna's glance. 'I'm likening the lilies of the field to our saint, being as pure and holy almost as the Virgin Mother herself.'
Janna thought of Agnes. 'They toil not, neither do they spin,' she quoted softly.
Ursel smiled. 'Of all the flowers, I think lilies are the most beautiful.'
'And so is your work, Sister Ursel.' Janna never let a chance go by to praise the nun, and indeed the praise was justified. 'The lilies look as if they are alive on the page.'
To Janna's intense satisfaction, there had been no more trouble with missing pages. Ursel had reported, under Janna's questioning, that very little had needed to be said when she returned the box to Sister Catherine. The nun had realised that her acts of vindictive spite had been discovered, and was most anxious that they remain a secret. Not only did she stay away from Ursel's manuscript thereafter; she also made sure to keep her dog away from Harry.
Janna glanced about the cloister to find him. The hare was full grown now, and was contentedly munching grass where it grew long among the lilies that Janna had planted with Agnes. She looked from the bloom to Ursel's illustration, marvelling how well the nun had managed to capture its grace as well as the fine detail in the glossy petals and long green throat, the furry yellow stamens at the heart of the flower.
Sister Ursel handed the passage she had chosen to Janna. 'Why don't you read this aloud to me while I work?' she suggested.
Janna hated reading aloud. She got ever more flustered as she floundered among the words she didn't recognise and couldn't read. But Ursel was always patient and kind, and Janna understood that it was better to get her help with the difficult words rather than keep on misreading them.
'Your reading is improving, Janna,' the nun complimented her, after a better than usual performance. Janna smiled, pleased. Soon now, she promised herself; soon the secrets of her father's letter would be revealed, and the past with it.
Shadows were beginning to creep across the cloister. It was time for her to go back to the infirmary to relieve Sister Anne. But, once she'd thanked Ursel and said goodbye, a strange restlessness stayed her passage and turned her steps instead towards the church and the shrine of St Edith. It had become far more crowded now, with the hand of St James the Apostle to attract extra pilgrims. Nevertheless, it was St Edith's presence that Janna sought, for it had not escaped her attention that the saint's name was almost the same as Eadgyth, the name of her own mother. It seemed right, therefore, to attempt yet another reading of her father's letter to her mother in the saint's presence.
To Janna's relief, the chapel was empty, for the outer gate had been closed and not even the sacristan was present to disturb her privacy. With a feeling almost of dread, she reached under her habit for her purse. She untied it, and pulled out the sheet of parchment, then sank to her knees before the reliquary.
She hadn't looked at the letter for some time and now she peered at it, trying to decipher the unfamiliar words in the glow of candles placed around the saint's golden casket. How she wished she'd asked Ursel to teach her to read Saxon English! It would have made her task so much quicker and easier, yet she had been sure her father's letter would be written in Norman French, all of it, instead of just the opening salutation and the close. Perhaps he had written it thus on purpose, knowing English was Eadgyth's native tongue? Perhaps he thought that, although she was able to speak Norman French, she might not be able to write or read it? But the phrases he used at the beginning and end must have been familiar to her mother. Janna had managed to read them and blushed at the memory. She closed her eyes and tried to relax for already she could feel the strain of not knowing, knew it would scrunch up her insides and shrivel her brain, and make her so anxious that reading became impossible. She breathed in a deep breath, and then released it.
When she opened her eyes again, her gaze fell on a wall painting of the saint. Edith's hand was raised; it was clear she had just performed a miracle, for a child and his parents were gambolling around her, while a discarded crutch lay on the grass nearby.
A miracle. Janna looked down at the letter. This time, instead of straining to read the message word by word, she let her glance flick over it, picking up the words she'd already understood before, so that she had a framework to guess the rest of them. And, as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes, the words began to hold together, to make sense, and to speak of love, and loneliness, and longing.
'Mon amour, ma cherie.' My love, my darling. That was easy enough to decipher. Heart thumping hard with fear and excitement, Janna read through the rest of her father's letter.
I had hoped to return to you long before this time, but I find that my father has gone to Normandy and so I must follow him there. I cannot send a message to him for he will not understand why I need to break my betrothal to Blanche, nor will he forgive me unless I meet him face to face to explain why I am utterly unable to wed anyone but you.
He will be wrath, but I feel sure I will be able to persuade him that, in this, I know best. While he has made a worthy match for me, I know that once he meets you and witnesses our happiness together, he will fall under your spell just as I have done, and will welcome you into our family and bless you as a daughter. For certes, no-one could be more worthy than you to be my wife, or bring such grace to our family.
You have my ring, and now I send also this ring brooch to you to pledge my love. 'Amor vincit omnia.' It means 'love conquers all' – and so it shall.
I will return as soon as possible, for I miss you more than life itself.
Je t'embrasse de tout mon coeur, de tout mon corps, ma cherie. John.
Shock kept Janna kneeling on the floor, utterly still. She looked at the words again and again, knowing that she had read enough of them to fully understand the sense of the letter, yet unable to comprehend what was in it that had forced her mother to run, to beg the abbess for charity rather than stay to face her lover. Even if he hadn't known Eadgyth was pregnant, he'd obviously loved her so much he was prepared to bre
ak his betrothal and face his father's wrath rather than give her up. 'I kiss you with all my heart and all my body, my darling.' That was what he'd said at the end of the letter, and presumably he meant it. Surely such a love would also have welcomed a child of their union? It just didn't make sense.
Janna opened her purse and drew out the silver brooch with its multi-coloured gemstones. With shaking fingers, she traced the words on the back of it. Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. But it hadn't. Why?
Perhaps John's father had refused to let him break the betrothal? Perhaps, after all, he'd had second thoughts about setting Blanche free once he'd got to Normandy?
No! Janna frowned, trying to order her thoughts, for they flew around like a swarm of bees, buzzing in her head so that she could not think straight.
No. John had written to Eadgyth to explain his delay in returning to her. If he had changed his mind, once he saw his father or Blanche, surely he would have written again to explain why he would not return?
Had her mother destroyed the second letter but kept the first, to remind her of their love? Was it the second letter that had forced her to flee?
Janna shook her head, trying to make sense of the muddle. There was something at the back of her mind, something someone had said. She was sure it was important, if only she could recall what it was. One by one, she recalled everyone she'd spoken to about Eadgyth, thinking through what each one of them had said. The abbess had told her nothing. The sisters had tried to be helpful, but it was obvious that they were passing on gossip, not facts. Only Sister Ursel had spoken to her mother. Janna began to replay their conversation in her mind. As the scribe's words came back to her, she realised then what had troubled her.
'As to why your mother confided in me, she c-came to ask if I could show her how to write a name. Your name, Johanna. "In c-case I have a little girl," she said.'
Johanna? If Eadgyth had read this letter, and perhaps even replied to it, she would surely have known how to write 'Johanna'. Why, then, did she ask Ursel to show her how to write the name? Why?
The answer came like a blast of thunder. It cracked Janna's heart wide open.
She'd often wondered why her mother had never taught her how to read or write when she'd taken such pains to school her in everything else, including how to speak Norman French. Now, at last, Janna understood. Eadgyth couldn't teach her what she herself didn't know! She felt numb with the shock of her discovery. Her mother had never read this letter because she didn't know how to read.
She didn't know how to read!
John had taught her mother the language of the Normans, but must have believed that she could read and write in her own language and that she would understand his message. She must have been too proud to admit her ignorance. He had written and asked her to wait for him – but she, finding herself pregnant, had fled. She must have thought he was writing to tell her that his betrothal could not be broken, that his father would not agree to it, and that he could not return to her.
Suddenly Eadgyth's bitterness, her pride and her solitude, her determination not to speak of Janna's father, all began to make sense.
Janna bowed her head and crouched low, shaken to her very soul by her discovery. She began to cry, a storm of weeping that spoke of her sorrow for a great love gone so badly wrong. How different their lives might have been, hers and her mother's, if Eadgyth had only swallowed her pride and asked someone to read the letter to her! How could she have had so little faith in John's good intentions, why could she not have trusted him? Thinking of her mother, and the hard life they'd led, and how Eadgyth had died with John's name on her lips, loving him to the end in spite of everything, Janna felt desolate with grief. She sobbed for her mother's mistaken belief in her betrayal; she sobbed for the father she'd never known, who had loved Eadgyth so much he'd been prepared to defy his father and break an arranged betrothal to marry her.
At last, when her tears had dried, and she was able to think more clearly about the letter and what she had discovered from it, her spirits lifted slightly. John was not a priest after all, for he was expected by his own father to marry someone called Blanche. If he'd had to follow his father to Normandy, it might mean that the family had land there, or perhaps his father had been summoned there by the king? Many barons had land both in Normandy and in England and needed to keep an eye on their interests, as did the king himself.
It was clear, from the insignia on the ring, that her father's family were loyal supporters of King Henry. Janna reached into the purse and pulled out the heavy ring, looking at the inscription in the wavering light of the candles. There was a crown on one side and, on the other, two strange beasts with tails. In the centre was a swan, forming the letter 'J'. J for John. J for Johanna. Holding the ring gave Janna a feeling of warmth, as if it could somehow bring her closer to her father.
England? Or should she rather seek him in Normandy? If he was there, he might well be there with Blanche, his betrothed, who would not take kindly to her husband's bastard coming to their doorstep. She would probably send her away. Janna wept anew at the thought of losing her father all over again. It seemed that whenever a door opened for her, it was only to disclose ever more obstacles beyond. 'Please,' she whispered to the saint, 'please, show me where to go, what I should do next, for I am utterly, utterly lost.'
She had no idea what time it was when she finally mopped her tears on her sleeve. Feeling cold and stiff after kneeling on the rough stone for so long, she clambered to her feet. She looked at the wall painting, and at the portrait of the saint standing close to the reliquary that contained her mortal remains. Grief sat like a cold stone in the pit of her stomach. She still felt shaken by her discovery. The letter had told her as much about her mother as about her father, but it had failed to give her the clues she needed to proceed. It hadn't told her where to find him; it hadn't given any hints as to his identity. Nevertheless, Janna became conscious that she'd taken a significant step forward in her quest. 'Thank you,' she whispered to the saint, making up her mind to pick some flowers when next she was in the garden, to show her gratitude.
But someone had already got there before her, she realised, as she looked down at the golden casket. A single lily lay on it, fresh and newly picked. Someone had come in this very day to make obeisance to the saint. Janna thought of the swelling buds and the one single bloom in the cloister. The lily hadn't come from there, but might well have come from some other garden. The saint's shrine was open to the public. Anyone could visit it, and someone had. Inevitably, Janna's thoughts went straight to Will – and Agnes.
NINETEEN
THROUGH THE LONG night that followed her discovery, Janna's thoughts moved between the letter and what she had learned from it, and the significance of the lily on the saint's shrine. Should she tell Agnes about it? Did it mean anything – or didn't it? One moment Janna was sure it did, but almost immediately she would change her mind and think it merely happenstance. Her thoughts went round and round: tell Agnes, or not? By morning, she was still undecided. She decided to visit the shrine after Mass, just to see if there was any sign she might have missed, anything that might give her some direction.
There was a crowd clustered around the shrine in the small chapel by the time she finally got there. The sacristan kept a careful watch over the visitors, as she did whenever the chapel was open to the public. Remembering her vow, Janna had stopped to pick a rose to place on the reliquary. She had to nudge her way past pilgrims and townsfolk, several of whom were on their knees, reverently praying for favours of some sort or another. At last she reached the reliquary. The lily was there, drooping after a night without water. Beside it was another, freshly picked. Startled, Janna swung around, paying closer attention to all who stood within. There was no sign of Will. Had he come in before Mass, or was someone else responsible for this floral tribute?
Recollecting herself, she kneeled before the saint, and reverently laid the rose beside the lilies. They made a pretty picture; Jan
na hoped they pleased St Edith too, hoped the saint's blessing would follow her cause even after she'd left the abbey.
Agnes's cry sounded in Janna's ears: 'If I could only be sure of the right thing to do. If only there was a sign!' Had her prayer been answered? Janna looked at the lilies and made up her mind. She hurried off to chapter, determined to speak to Agnes without delay.
The chance to talk to her came afterwards, while Agnes was labouring in the garden and Janna was plucking sunturners for a salve to soothe a nasty rash that seemed to be doing the rounds of the convent. Thanks to Janna's tuition, Agnes now recognised all of the plants and herbs growing both in the garden and in the physic garden, and was coming to an understanding of their uses. Janna secretly nurtured the hope that, if Agnes didn't leave the abbey, Sister Anne might be willing to take her on as her assistant, once Janna left. She glanced sideways at her friend, thinking it possible that if she married Will, she might put her knowledge to good use among the abbey's servants at the grange instead. She was conscious that Agnes's fate rested in her hands. She'd miscalculated more than once; she must not do so again.
Agnes had hardly spoken of Will since the fateful day when she'd turned her back on him and scurried back into the safety of the abbey. Did she still mourn over chances lost; did she regret her cowardice that day? Janna studied her friend. Agnes seemed contented enough as she moved from plant to plant, silently rehearsing their names and their properties. This she did whenever they were in the gardens, occasionally coming over to Janna to check when she wasn't sure if she'd remembered something correctly. Was Agnes happy? Or was she resigned to her future, and making the best of it in her own resilient way?
A sign? Janna wished for one of her own – and found it in a graceful trumpet of white, the first among the lilies in the garden to open. She called Agnes's attention to it, adding, 'The lilies we planted in the cloister are also starting to open. The lilies from Master Will. I saw one yesterday. Sister Ursel is using it to illustrate her manuscript.'
Lilies for Love Page 26