by Ann Swinfen
By the sun it was not yet midday when I reached Banbury. I found an inn where I could stable Rufus, paying an ostler to feed and water him, then I went in search of Mistress Preston. Since she was newly moved to the town, I feared it might take me some time to find her, but I started by enquiring from a baker in the main street of shops. Everyone must have bread and I thought it unlikely that, in a rented cottage, the widow would have the means to bake her own bread. Like most townsfolk she would buy this daily necessity from a baker.
I had chosen well. The baker knew the widow, not only since she had come to live in Banbury but from earlier years, when she had brought produce from the family farm to market.
‘A good woman,’ he said, arranging a fresh batch of loaves on the counter. ‘Always worked hard and tried to keep the farm going. That husband of hers, they say he was a clever man, but he was a poor farmer. She is better off without him, her and the girl. They’ve taken a cottage just a step from here.’
I doubted that the widow would agree with him about the loss of her husband, but I held my peace.
He came out into the street and pointed ahead. ‘You see that tavern there, sign of the Black Bull? There’s a turn down to the left, just beyond. Three houses down, that’s where she’s living.’
He was clearly curious about why I wanted her, so I enlightened him.
‘I am a bookseller from Oxford. She has sold me some books of her husband’s, and I have brought the money for them.’
He blew out a great breath and smiled. ‘So the man was good for something after all! She’ll be that glad of the coin. That is good news to hear. That daughter of hers has little to hope for in the future, poor wench. As a child she could chatter away with the best. Now she lives in a world of silence.’
With the smell of his fresh bread enticing me, I could not walk away but bought a loaf, too big for my scrip, so I stowed it in my satchel, which was empty now that the bestiary had been delivered.
The lane past the Black Bull Inn was barely wide enough for a horse to pass, and the cottages here were tiny, though they seemed clean and well kept. My tap on the door was answered at once by Mistress Preston herself.
‘Master Elyot!’ she exclaimed. ‘I did not look to see you here in Banbury. I thought to come with the carter next Oxford market, to see whether…’ Her voice trailed away. I thought she would probably have said, ‘to see whether you had any money for me’, but was too well mannered to do so.
‘Come away in,’ she said, motioning me into a room which seemed to form the only accommodation on the ground floor of the cottage, though a door at the back led to what must be a scrap of a garden, perhaps room enough to keep a few hens.
The daughter was sitting by the hearth, working at lace laid over a cushion. She smiled and bobbed her head, but her fingers never ceased throwing the lace bobbins in some complicated pattern. I had noticed a rough chimney projecting from the roof, as though it had been added after the cottage had been built, for the building looked old, the timbers sagging a little and the daub walls bulging like a fat alderman’s paunch. There was a hook on a hinged arm for a pot and a three-legged vessel standing close to the fire, so this was where they both cooked and lived. A ladder led up to the roof space above, a garret where they must sleep. From the height of the cottage I doubted whether they would be able to stand up there. It was a far cry from the farm house where they must have lived before, but it was spotless, their few possessions arranged on shelves. A coffer, which had probably come with them, must hold their clothes, while a small table and a few stools provided a place to prepare food and eat.
‘Please sit, Master Elyot. I am afraid we have only stools.’
She blushed and I realised that it shamed her to receive me in the circumstances to which they had been reduced.
‘I have here the payment for the books you brought me, mistress,’ I said, taking out the purse for her. ‘And I have already sold the bestiary for a better price than I expected, so I have added a little extra.’
‘The bestiary? Oh, was that the book with all the animal pictures? Sissy always loved to look at those.’ She cast a fond glance at her daughter.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it has gone to Merton College, and they are very pleased to have it.’
Privately, I thought it a pity that it could not have remained here, to give pleasure to the deaf girl, rather than lie on a shelf in a book room, occasionally fingered by dour-faced scholars. However, I supposed the money would bring them comfort and some security.
‘You are so kind to come all this way to bring the money,’ she said, and there were tears in her eyes, which I pretended not to see. ‘Will you have something to eat, Master Elyot?’
She had taken a seat opposite me, but now sprang to her feet. I could see her calculating how she might offer me whatever she had put aside for their supper. Her gaze had lingered on the fat purse, but she had too much sensitive pride to tip out the contents.
‘Nay, that is very kind of you, mistress,’ I said, ‘but I have the long road to ride back to Oxford before nightfall and I must be on my way. I left my horse at an inn by the town gate. I’ll collect him and be off.’
I got to my feet, but paused a moment to admire the girl’s work, fine as a cobweb, but much more intricate.
‘Beautiful,’ I said, smiling at her. I think she could understand some words, remembered from the past, when she could hear like anyone else. Or at any rate she understood my meaning. I laid my hand for a moment on her shoulder, then turned to her mother.
‘She is very skilled,’ I said. ‘I have never seen it made before. Where did she learn the art?’
‘When I was a girl, we had a Flemish woman as a neighbour, and she taught me, then I taught Sissy. It is a craft hardly known in England, but is becoming familiar in the Low Countries. We also make decorative braids, but they are best done with some thread of gold in them. Now I have the money from the books, I shall be able to buy some.’
‘I hope you will bring your lace and braids sometime to Oxford market. I think you would get a better price for them there than here in Banbury.’
‘Perhaps.’ She bobbed a small curtsey by way of thanks. ‘At least we may come to St Frideswide’s Fair this autumn. They say merchants from London buy there.’
‘Aye, they do. And folk come from miles away, keen to buy what they cannot make themselves or buy in their own neighbourhoods. If you are in Oxford, come to visit us, my sister will always be glad to make you welcome.’
She was still thanking me as I left, but I hoped she would not take too long before examining the contents of the purse. It would provide for them comfortably until they could make their living from lace and braid, and would still leave some over to help the girl. Unlike that other girl of a like age, Emma Thorgold, Sissy Preston might choose to enter a nunnery, where she could be safer and happier than in the world outside. A postulant must bring a dower with her when she entered, and the money from her father’s books would do that.
Rufus looked well fed and cared for when I collected him, and quite willing to set off again. On this return journey I reckoned we could canter rather more and walk rather less, for when we reached Oxford he could rest in his stall, without a further journey ahead of him. It was barely past midday as we set off on the Oxford road, so I would have time to call at Godstow. The sun was setting later these days, now that we were near the end of May. If all went well, I could see Sister Benedicta and still reach home before dark.
Rufus went well and seemed tireless, but nevertheless I decided to stop halfway again, and while he grazed I ate the rest of the food Margaret had given me, together with nearly half the loaf I had bought from the baker in Banbury. Despite Margaret’s dire warnings, the bread was excellent.
Once we were on our way, I found myself growing impatient to reach Godstow, and kept Rufus moving briskly along, dodging the occasional farmer’s cart, and having to draw into the verge once to allow a fine and heedless gentleman with half a dozen ar
med attendants the full width of the road. I had become very curious about this cousin of William’s. His young sister had declared passionately that Emma Thorgold had been forced into the convent against her will by an uncaring stepfather. It sounded like the opening of one of Walter’s tales – a forlorn orphaned maiden, a cruel step-parent, a forced imprisonment. All it needed was for a prince to ride up, break down the convent walls, and set her free.
But this was no fairy tale. The girl was probably much happier amongst the nuns than she could ever have been had she remained in her stepfather’s house after the death of her mother. By now she had probably realised just how lucky she was. The peace and serenity of Godstow, the rhythm of the monastic hours, the tranquil life – all these would almost certainly have reconciled her to her future within the convent. Her aunt and cousin did not believe she had yet taken her final vows, but they might be mistaken. I was not sure, but I thought the novitiate, for a girl who would now be about eighteen, was unlikely to last more than a year. I did not know whether it would be more difficult for me to obtain permission to visit her if she was already a full nun and not merely a novice. Well, I should soon see.
When we were but a few miles from Oxford I found a side road heading west, which would enable me to cut across to the Woodstock road, and so approach the town from the direction in which the village of Wolvercote lay. Godstow Abbey was nearby, built on an island in the Thames north of Oxford and reached by a bridge from Wolvercote or Godstow village, I was not quite certain which, but I was sure it would be clear once I came near, for I knew that Godstow Abbey was large and well endowed.
I found the turn easily enough, for it had been pointed out to me before, although I had never visited the abbey. The country lane, winding through a wood newly in leaf, passed through a string of tiny villages, none of them more than hamlets. Godstow itself was but a cluster of cottages which probably served to house the lay servants of the abbey. At Wolvercote the first glimpse of the Thames had become visible through the trees, and at Godstow a stout wooden bridge led across to the large island on which the abbey was built. As I reached the bridge, I reckoned that there would still be about two hours of daylight left. Time enough to carry out my final errand of the day and be home in time for supper.
At the far end of the bridge stood a substantial gatehouse, two storeys high. With most of the day’s work finished, the large gate for carts was closed, but the wicket stood open. From the outside, the abbey resembled an Oxford college and I thought my analogy to Margaret was not far off the mark. Surely many women must find fulfilment in such a place, where they could assume the sort of responsibilities never allowed them in the secular world. And for those who might face unwanted forced marriages and the endless danger of child-bearing, it must offer a welcome refuge. I was inclined to be sceptical about Emma Thorgold’s perceived misfortune in finding herself lodged here.
Dismounted, I gave a tug at the iron bell-pull, and heard it clang sweetly within the gatehouse, bringing a lay porter trotting smartly out of his room. Beyond him I could see a large court, very like a college quadrangle. All very neat and well maintained. They kept the Benedictine order here, which values useful labour as much as prayer.
‘I am here to call on the novice, Sister Benedicta,’ I explained, hoping that she was indeed still a novice. ‘I come with messages from her family, in especial her aunt, Mistress Farringdon.’ I had decided that this approach was most likely to gain me admittance. ‘I am Nicholas Elyot, Master of Arts, from Oxford.’
I rarely claimed my title, but I was prepared to use anything which might sway the abbess to give me permission to see the girl.
‘Certainly, master,’ the porter said respectfully. ‘Will you step inside the gatehouse while I speak to Abbess de Streteley? You may tether your horse there.’
He pointed to a ring secured in the wall of the gatehouse. Once I had Rufus hitched, I followed him through the wicket and into the gatehouse. He paused only for the courtesy of pouring me a cup of ale, before setting off briskly for the abbess’s house. I was glad of the ale, for my throat was dry from the dust of the road, but I did not remain inside the gatehouse. The porter had lit a small fire against the cooler air of the evening and I found the small room stuffy. I did not venture far until I had permission, but I stepped just beyond the threshold and studied the place while I sipped the ale. It was cool and good, flavoured with rosemary and bay, and something else that I could not identify.
Godstow Abbey was a prosperous place. Founded originally with ample lands, then further endowed nearly two hundred years ago by the second King Henry, when his much loved mistress, Rosamund, daughter of Lord Walter de Clifford, was buried here. That was an old scandal, with many lurid tales attached to the affair and the jealousy of Queen Eleanor, but who knew the truth, so long afterwards?
What was undeniable was the prosperity to be seen here. All the buildings were of stone, even the stables and outbuildings, the local limestone, glowing like honey as the sun sank toward the west. There was a fine abbey church and the usual convent buildings – refectory, dortoir, chapter house, infirmary – all connected by elegant arched cloisters. Set a little apart was a large guest house, for Godstow accommodated not only travellers but also those more permanent guests of whom Margaret had spoken. The other large, separate building must be the abbess’s private dwelling, for I saw the porter knock before being admitted there. I could not determine at first what the small building beside the gatehouse might be, until I noticed a middle-aged man in clerical garb vigorously wielding a spade in the adjoining garden. This must be the nuns’ priest. Nuns may conduct simple services and manage all the secular requirements of their community, but they cannot take confession or administer the sacraments. Where a nunnery is close to another religious establishment, the nuns have the pastoral care of a neighbouring priest. In this remote place they were provided with their own spiritual guide.
The porter soon made his way back across the courtyard, and I could tell from his smile that my request had been successful.
‘The Lady Abbess is willing for you to speak to Sister Benedicta. She is sending her clerk, Sister Clemence, to conduct you to the visitors’ room. She will be here shortly.’
‘I thank you,’ I said, handing him my empty cup, ‘and for the ale also. I have ridden to Banbury and back today, and my throat was as parched as week-old bread! Tell me, I can see the abbey church there beside the main monastic buildings, but is that not also a church?’
I pointed to what looked like a tiny chapel, just beyond the priest’s house, not a quarter the size of the abbey church.
‘Oh, that is St Thomas’s chapel,’ he said. ‘We lay servants worship there, not with the sisters. And anyone else from Godstow or Wolvercote may come, though there is little room.’
Little enough, I thought, for the many servants, compared with the ample space provided for the nuns, but perhaps the seculars preferred to worship apart. They must spend all their working lives under the strictly devout eyes of the nuns.
‘Here is Sister Clemence,’ he said. ‘She will show you where to go.’
Sister Clemence proved to be a brisk, competent woman of middle years, with an ugly, intelligent face, and a gait which suggested that under the ample folds of her habit she was all bony elbows and knees.
‘This way, if you please, Master Elyot,’ she said, setting off smartly across the courtyard without looking to see whether I was following.
We passed the cloisters, where I noticed several nuns working in the carrels. In the space between the monastic buildings and the guesthouse there was a postern gate standing ajar in the abbey wall, and beyond it a large walled kitchen garden where both nuns and lay servants were working.
‘Our room for visits is here in the guesthouse,’ Sister Clemence said, opening the door and ushering me through. ‘We do not permit outsiders to set foot in the monastic buildings. I have sent for Sister Benedicta and she should be with you shortly. You may have half an
hour.’
She gave me a sharp, assessing look.
‘You must leave this door ajar at all times.’
She opened the door to a small parlour, nodded me through, then strode away.
It was a pleasant room, no doubt normally used by the abbey’s guests, for it provided some chairs made comfortable with cushions, a luxury I doubted the nuns enjoyed. Someone had left a piece of half-finished embroidery on the deep window seat. The building must be let into the rear abbey wall, for this window looked out beyond the wall, over another part of the extensive grounds. Between rows of carefully tended apple trees I caught the sparkle and flash of the river. Blossom was still abundant, but it had also begun to fall, so that each tree stood with its feet in a skirt of white and pink petals.
‘You wished to see me, sir?
She had moved so softly I had not heard her come in. I turned swiftly to see nothing but a silhouette outlined in the open doorway, my eyes stilled dazed from the reflection of the moving waters.
‘Sister Benedicta?’ I said.
‘That is what they call me.’ Her tone was colourless and reserved.
‘Please,’ I said, unaccountably disconcerted, ‘will you not sit?’
She moved forward and took her place on one of the chairs, sitting rigidly upright, her hands tightly clasped on her lap. I thought, Does she know already of her cousin’s death?
As I moved away from the window to take a chair near her, the sun flooded in and I could see her fully for the first time. I caught my breath, and felt myself unaccountably colouring. I had expected an awkward, possibly sullen girl. What I saw before me was a young woman of remarkable beauty. Every hair was concealed by the tightly bound wimple of her order, but her skin was pale as cream and her eyes a deep violet blue, which suggested that her hair would be fair. But of course, did they not shave the heads of novices? I felt a rush of disgust at such mutilation of so lovely a creature. Her figure was carefully hidden by the bulky habit, but those clasped hands were delicately boned. To my surprised, I noticed that several fingers of her right hand bore ink stains. There were also spots of coloured inks or paint on both hands – rich scarlet and the precious lapis, used for the Virgin’s robe.