Widow

by Natasha Brown

  Through the murk, she could see that the scribe was an elderly man. The gray hair that encircled the shaved portion of his head almost appeared black in the shadows. He gave a single nod before returning his attention to his parchment.

  Brother Gilbert addressed her before taking his leave. “I will see to it that you will have food and drink at your bedside. The men you travel with are being taken care of. They will be in the nearby hospital for men. If you will excuse me, I must go take care of my duties.”

  “Gramercy,” Rayne said with a smile as she watched him go.

  Alone with the elderly scribe, she turned to look around the confined space. A small window glowed dully, something that might help to see during daylight hours but was of little use at night. A few shelves held rows of leather-bound books, and it took all of her strength not to pluck them up and open their pages. Small bits of parchment lined the floor along with strips of feathers pulled from their quills. Just above the slanted surface where Arnaud worked, an iron stand held a single rushlight at an angle. It illuminated the parchment that the monk was so absorbed in.

  Rayne stepped closer to observe the man work. He held his plummet, a narrow metal stylus, in his hand and pressed it at a measured interval along the outer edge of the parchment. Then he proceeded to do the same along the opposite vertical edge. The wooden measuring tool was then laid to meet both holes as he pressed his plummet across, scoring an indented line in the parchment. She breathed as quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb the monk.

  Despite her efforts not to agitate the monk, he paused to look over his shoulder. “This is a tiresome enough job without you watching my every move. A young lady like yourself should not be shut in a box like this, hunched over every waking moment. The pains in my back have pains you have never felt before.”

  She was slightly taken aback by his comment. It was something she’d heard before from her own father, but she did not know this man. “I thank you for your concern, but I have a deep curiosity and desire to learn more about the craft. This is why I travel to Grimsford Abbey to take my vows.”

  Brother Arnaud lifted his ink-covered finger to scratch his cheek before he answered her with his brittle voice. “I daresay Eve was curious when she ate the forbidden fruit, and I pray you know where that left us. His Holiness has said no matter how blessed a woman might be, she was not trusted to be an apostle.”

  Rayne took a step back and stared at the floor. She might have expected to be confronted by this attitude. It didn’t sting any less, however, to hear it from the elderly monk. She gathered her wits and responded, “I thank you for allowing me to see your scriptorium. Farewell.”

  She let herself from the darkened room back into the abbey hallway. She passed through the nave and exited through the grand entryway. The sun had begun to melt below the horizon. Rayne didn’t notice the chill air on her skin—she was too incensed to care. She made her way back to the small women’s hospital and entered quietly.

  On one of the empty beds, she found a wooden bowl of vegetable stew with a lump of bread. In the stone hearth a low fire burned, casting out an amber glow. She set down her precious writing box and sat on the mattress stuffed with bedstraw to eat her meal in silence, hoping that she would find more support from the sisters at Grimsford Abbey.

  When she was no longer hungry, she lay upon her bed, wondering what kind of reception she’d have upon arriving at her aunt’s nunnery. She must not have worried long, for she woke from her first sleep feeling more rested than when she’d put her head down. From the wooden shutters, she peered out into the darkest point of night. Very little moonlight touched the earth, and an eerie owl’s cry wound its way to her ears.

  Embers in the hearth provided enough illumination for her to find unlit rushlights beside a metal holder. She reached one into the hot cinders to light its tip before placing it between the pinchers of the holder. Rayne lifted her box from the dirt floor and opened the lid. Rolled-up parchment, goose quills and iron gall ink waited for her.

  Hearing the voices of all the men who had ever told her she was morally weaker because she was a woman, she unfurled her parchment, and using her penknife, she cut off a section to illuminate. She prepared the nib of her quill and opened her inkpot. Despite what she’d been told her whole life, she knew otherwise. She knew in her heart that women could not be the root of all immorality, or that they were weaker than men, for she’d seen mothers nursing their young and showing such kindness and strength it could bring tears to one’s eyes.

  Rayne touched the nib to her parchment, sketching out a pastoral scene like those she’d witnessed on her day’s journey from Norwich. She didn’t want to forget a thing. Once she arrived at the abbey, it was unlikely she would ever leave its confines again. This trip would be her last.

  She was so lost in her work that she didn’t notice the howls at first. They were so soft she mistook them for the owl’s hoots, but they broke off in such a way she paused to listen closer. She recalled overhearing Fulbert’s comments about a black beast on the post road. Goose pimples rose on her arms.

  “What a dreadful cry,” a soft voice said from across the room.

  Rayne looked up, startled. She’d forgotten that she wasn’t alone.

  The young woman seemed below Rayne’s status, based on her simply dyed gown. She appeared to remember herself and gave a deep curtsy, bowing her head. “I’m sorry to interrupt ye, Lady.”

  “I welcome the company,” Rayne answered. “I have been surrounded by men, so it is good to see a friendly face. You may call me Rayne.”

  The young woman straightened and took a step closer to peer at the illustration forming on the parchment. She looked very impressed when she said, “I am Tillie, and ye have more talent in your little finger than I have in all of mine together. Ye must have had many fine teachers.”

  “I had a few. But I learned more through being observant than anything.” Rayne set her quill down, preferring to have a conversation with the innocent girl instead of continuing to illuminate the parchment. She would have ample time to herself and her thoughts once she arrived at the abbey. While she began to close up her inkpot and put away her things, she asked, “How do you come by this place?”

  Tillie ventured even closer, her hands clasped together. She must have been trying very hard to make a good impression. “My father takes me to my betrothed. He’s a tanner—my betrothed, not my father.”

  “I see.”

  Rayne could see all the signs of innocence on the girl’s face. She had not yet been with a man. Maybe she would know love in her lifetime. Rayne had often noted that although the peasants tended to work harder than the wealthier classes, they seemed to be happier in their relationships, marrying for love or mutual attraction instead of furthering familial wealth and social standing.

  “Where are ye off to, Lady Rayne? If it’s not too forward of me to ask.” Tillie frowned.

  “I am being escorted to the nunnery to take my vows. I wish to illuminate manuscripts there.”

  “Well, they will be lucky to have you.” Tillie seemed to want to ask another question, but appeared uncertain whether she should.

  Rayne snickered to herself and helped the girl out. “I once had a husband. We were not married more than a year before he died at sea.”

  Tillie’s hands went to her throat and her eyes widened. Rayne set her writing box on the floor and reassured the young woman. “I know my servants better than I knew him.” Even though she had only just met the young freewoman, she never shied away from telling a good story. Rayne leaned in to add, “He was the sort of gent who preferred to look upon his wife and not speak to her directly. I did not bring him any children, and he died so soon that I was returned to my father, who wanted me to marry an earl whose reputation made me certain I would prefer the convent. So here I am, traveling to my solitary fate.”

  A howl interrupted her, and she stopped to look at the shuttered windows in apprehension. The hairs on the back of h
er neck stood on end while Tillie met her frightened gaze. She came to sit beside Rayne on the low uneven bed, reaching for her hands. “It’s the black shuck come to kill us in our sleep.”

  Rayne put her arm around the girl to calm her down. “What is this you speak of?”

  “My father calls it the black devil. Ye could ask anyone who travels the lanes and roads, and they would have a story to tell. It’s a ghostly beast with red eyes as big as my fists. It wanders the countryside with footfalls as silent as Death himself. He’s an omen of man’s a demise—within a year ye shall not remain amongst the living.”

  “There now. I am sure it is just a farmer’s hound out chasing a fox. We are safe here.” Rayne patted her shoulder, appreciating a good fable, hoping it was just that. She looked at the rushlight, which was reaching its end. “I have more travels ahead and must get some rest. If you would sleep better, you may share my bed.”

  Tillie turned to her with a smile. “There’s no truer sign of friendship than to share a bed. I would be honored, Lady. Thank ye.”

  Darkness consumed the hospital’s lodging, and the women lay upon the lumpy bed. While Rayne tried to put her mind at ease, she couldn’t help picturing the sort of beast that so many spoke of. She imagined it lurking just outside the wooden walls, sniffing at their scents, readying its jaws to clench around their throats.

  Chapter 2

  She woke with the sounds of the day. Birds sang their praises to the sun. Rayne sat up, rousing her bedmate.

  “Good morrow, Lady Rayne.” Tillie yawned and stretched. “Ye were right. Black shuck left us be.”

  Rayne removed her wimple from her head to check her braids. They were still in good condition. A knock sounded at the door, and Tillie hurried to answer it. Rayne recognized Brother Gilbert’s voice say, “I have come with some pottage and water.”

  “Thank ye,” Tillie answered.

  She carried a bowl of hot soup to Rayne, who accepted it eagerly. Its warmth heated her cold fingers, and she ate quickly, expecting her escorts to ready themselves for their departure any time. The women helped each other to put themselves right, straightening their gowns, hair and belts.

  When they left their building of hospitality, she breathed in the wet morning air. She looked over to find Simun walking in their direction. He tipped his head toward Tillie before addressing Rayne. “Good morning, Lady. Are you ready for our journey?”

  “I am just.” Rayne turned to her companion and offered her hand. “I wish you a safe crossing to your betrothed and many happy years to come.”

  “Thank ye, Lady! I will pray for your safe passage.” The girl took her hand and curtsied before going off to find her father.

  She was sad to see the girl depart. For the short time they’d been together, she had found her company diverting, but it was now time to climb back into the wagon and perch atop her trunk for another long day of bumpy travels.

  Brother Gilbert was with her other escorts near the church. The horses appeared to have been tended to and everything was as it had been when she’d stepped off the wagon the prior evening. As she stepped closer, she craned her neck to see if her trunk with all of her clothes and personal effects was back on board along with the chests filled with her dowry for the church. She was put at ease until she noticed she wasn’t the only one stealing a glance at the valuables. Roger’s silent stares nearly went unnoticed because his companion, Fulbert, addressed her with such volume she cringed.

  “Good morning, Lady! I hope your straw was softer than mine. Thought I saw some critters scurrying overtop me bed in the night. Could have been the veg stew that gave me night terrors.”

  The monk stood politely by as if he hadn’t just heard a stream of insults from the wagoneer. Rayne feigned a smile at Roger before offering her hand and a curtsy to Brother Gilbert. “Thank you for your hospitality, Brother. I find myself quite rested for my journey.”

  His cheeks lifted in a smile. “I pray for your safe travels to Grimsford Abbey and that you find service to the church as fulfilling as I.”

  Walter and Simun assisted Rayne onto the wagon, and she sat on her trunk. The linen canopy draped over the top of the wagon diffused the morning light. Shadows cast from the abbey’s tower and the trees beside it made a lacy pattern above her. While she prepared herself for another unpleasant ride in the back of the wagon, Simun settled beside her with Roger and Walter an arm’s reach away. Gerald and Fulbert sat upon the front bench just as they had yesterday.

  The hired hand made a clicking noise in his cheek and snapped the reins, encouraging the horses forward. Although a pillow had been set on the trunk to soften her seat, her body was all too familiar with the same attitude and position as the day before. She felt bruised but kept her discomfort to herself. If it weren’t such an unpleasantly bumpy ride, she would have imagined taking her quill in hand to her parchment. For now, she would have to commit all that she saw to memory so that she could notate her imagined adventures when she had the opportunity to write next. However, the chance to write her own fables was slowly diminishing the closer she drew to her destination.

  The avenue was not as easy as before; pits and uneven patches sent them around the roads into the fields so they wouldn’t be delayed by damage to the wagon. A dense fog clung to the base of the forest in the distance. Bright spots of autumnal color in varied degrees of red, orange and yellow were just beginning to decorate the lush green foliage. They were just the pigments she wished she could put a stopper on to illuminate her prose. The beginnings of a story formed in her mind about a lady at the dawning of a grand adventure.

  As a child she was often scolded for her imaginative flights of fancy and learned to keep her thoughts to herself. Life was far more exciting for a lady caged in her home when she had characters clamoring around her mind, living out far more exciting lives than she ever could have. Especially now that she was off to the convent to live out her days copying other writers’ prose.

  Entirely lost in thought, she was surprised by Fulbert announcing, “The horses are needing to quench their thirst. I spy a large puddle up thither.”

  The sun had long since been swallowed by the gray clouds stretched across the sky. She hadn’t paid attention to the fact they’d entered the wooded area, leaving the fields behind. Rayne craned her neck to make out the puddle the wagoneer was pointing to. She could see no farther than a stride ahead of the horses, for the fog had condensed in the oak grove. Twisting branch arms lifted into the tree’s canopy, presumably to keep their woody fingers protected from the chill.

  The wagon clamored over the leaf-strewn earth as the horses diverted from the avenue. They traveled between two grand oaks, appearing like sentries on guard. From what, she knew not. Through the mist she saw the shine from a puddle. It was not large enough to call a pond and was murkier than she would trust her own stomach to. The horses were led to the edge, and their heads bowed to drink.

  After a bit Simun called forward, “I do not like this place. Might we find a burg where the horses may wet their gullets?”

  “They be done now,” Fulbert said over his shoulder and backed up the horses. He set down the reins, climbed from his seat and said to Gerald, who sat beside him, “I think it wise to check the wheels. They been creaking a bit. If you’d give me a hand—”

  Gerald cast a quick look at the others in the back and followed Fulbert off the wagon and out of sight. Rayne couldn’t see them through the linen that covered the top and sides. Only the sound of their footsteps on the leaf-covered earth scratched nearby. A strange gurgling gasp came next.

  Simun must have heard the same thing, because he frowned and called out, “Oy—Gerald?”

  There was no response, which only sent deeper worry lines across Simun’s brow. He shared a glance with Walter, who turned to the front of the wagon. Roger, the mute hired escort, blocked his way and placed a hand on Walter’s shoulder. Walter groaned, and Rayne couldn’t understand why until her servant’s body was pushed backwa
rd at her feet. Blood poured from his neck, staining her shoes. A spot on his undyed linen tunic bloomed red, the stain growing in size every moment. Walter’s eyes were wide with surprise while he gasped for air.

  Rayne couldn’t quite force out the scream trapped in her throat. Her mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

  Simun leapt to his feet, pulling free the dagger strapped to his belt, and yelled, “Run, mistress!”

  She nodded to no one but herself, spinning around to face the rear of the wagon. She lifted her legs over the wooden rail and dropped over the side, crumpling into a pile on the ground. Her wooden writing box lay amongst the folds of her dress. A thundering noise echoed in her ears as she gulped for a fresh breath of air. She looked over her shoulder and found Fulbert leaning over Gerald’s limp body. He stopped what he was doing to mutter, “There now, Lady. Nothing for you to do. I just want all you’ve got. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  Shouts came from the inside of the wagon, spurring her to action. She lifted herself up and bolted into the mist. The fabric of her gown quickly got in her way, and she lifted both layers to her knees so she wouldn’t stumble. She fell out of breath, for the most exercise she got was helping with household chores, not running the fields to chase down sheep with the serfs. Soft involuntary moans broke from her lips. She cursed her imagination as she pictured herself getting defiled by the likes of Fulbert before losing all of her blood over a slit throat.

  No matter how hard she wished it, a knight in shining armor would not come to her in that moment. Only a greedy, murderous robber would chase her down. She could hear his heavy footfalls behind her and knew her time was near. Prayers flew from her lips, though the only salvation she would find was the freedom from her body that was assuredly soon to come.