by Mary Bale
©Copyright 2006 Mary Bale
Threads of Treason
Prologue
England 1081
The Impostor was not used to convent ways or a nun’s habit. The clothes were harsh and the duties and prayers numerous here at the Priory of St Thomas the Apostle. But feigning deafness to avoid speaking had not been difficult – it was almost like a childhood game – and already the others seemed to hardly notice her. However, she’d only been allowed to clean the sewing room with Sister Gertrude and her patience was wearing thin. Waiting had made her nearly lose her mind and now she had her chance, she would take it, whatever the outcome.
The nuns were singing as they sewed; she could hear them from here. The corridor outside the chapter house, where she stood, was empty. Looking down at her white knuckles she examined the inkpot – how long it had taken her to gather this dark liquid little by little.
This would be easy, she thought, speed was the answer. She mounted the winding wood steps that led to the rooms above the south side of the cloister. Her walk had the light step of an aristocrat as she made her way along the floorboards of the corridor. Even though the nuns needed every drop of light for their work, the door to the sewing room was shut for security. She went past it and slid into the stairway that led between a viewing area across the valley above her and, below her, the back yard access to the kitchens. This would be her escape route to her waiting lover, using the wood-pile to climb over the yard wall. But she would not put him at risk in any way.
Waiting for the nuns to take a break made every nerve in her body twitch. Any moment they were due to leave the sewing room and take a short exercise in the completed part of the cloisters. It was only moments before she was rewarded, but it had seemed so much longer to her. She heard the door being unlocked and the nuns walking along the corridor and down the steps she’d just climbed. The click and clank of the door being shut and locked reached her, as did the shuffle of more nuns taking their leave. She heard Sisters Leofgyth, Winifred and Ethelburga among them. She slipped out of the tower entrance and felt along to the nearest of the row of sills belonging to the windows that overlooked the cloister. There it was. Just as her lover had said it would be. One of the nuns had left it for her, but it didn’t matter to her who it was. Her fingers scrabbled up the key.
The door, her last obstacle. The heavy wood structure faced her. Her lover had asked her to do this. This was for him, for her love of him. Just one last check round – the sound of nuns walking and talking in the cloisters whispered up to her in the air. Snow was on its way, surely? And she smiled. The key turned. She was in.
The Impostor found herself already quite close to the panel the nuns were working on. She wanted to look at the work, but stopped herself: if it was too beautiful or so intricately worked she might falter against her task. The stopper on the ink eased loose with a twist of her fingers. The sour smell caught her nostrils.
‘Don’t do it, Sister.’
She swung round. Prioress Ursula was standing behind the door.
‘So you are not deaf,’ said Ursula.
The Impostor went to throw the pot, but Ursula was there, gripping her wrist, forcing her hand up above them both, pouring the ink over them. Ursula’s strength was considerable. Some of the ink caught the Impostor’s mouth. She spat and spluttered to rid herself of the nasty fluid. She snatched her arm down, twisted it, and was free. The inkpot rolled away and she took to the corridor. Already the nuns were returning from their break, so she turned towards the tower steps, the kitchen and escape.
But below her on the tower steps Sister Agnes was talking to a kitchen servant in her steady tone. The Impostor’s only escape was upwards. She started to climb already fearing that there was no way out. Prioress Ursula was behind her. Her extra years might slow her down, but not enough. Ursula had not had the pampered life style of the Impostor to make her breath short and her legs weak. She gasped in the air and light above her. Cold, dry flakes of snow were falling steadily and chilling her face. Ursula was only steps behind her. At the top a parapet wall was but an arm’s length from her. Her body rocked against it as it stopped her forward movement. There had to be a means of escape from here. Snatching glances across the rooftops she hoped to see where the masons had been working on the Priory. Perhaps they had left a ladder she could reach? But there were no steps or roofs near enough to climb to, let alone ladders.
Beyond the wood she knew her lover would be waiting for her. He would not show himself, and she would not call him. After his allotted time he would leave. That was what had been arranged and that is what would happen. She would not betray him.
Ursula came up, out into the daylight. The Impostor leapt on her, but Ursula seemed to expand underneath her and push her off. The Impostor found herself bending back over the parapet and looking down, straight down, through the swirling snow, at the ground. To contemplate jumping to her death was to contemplate suicide – a sin. To be forever damned. If she did not do so, then her lover may be compromised, and had she not already sinned for his love? Her condemnation would be his salvation.
‘Don’t be a fool, little one,’ said Ursula.
The Impostor looked at her.
‘Who is behind this? This was not your idea, was it?’ wheedled Ursula.
The Impostor frowned.
‘Was it an Anglo-Saxon?’ asked Ursula.
Even a small movement of her head could put her lover at risk. The Impostor stepped onto the parapet.
‘No,’ said Ursula moving towards her.
There was also the nun who’d left her the key to the sewing room on the windowsill to protect. By protecting her, she would hide the path to her lover. Only Ursula had seen her in there. She too would have to die. She would take her with her. The Impostor grabbed at Ursula and jumped. The calm of knowing she was going to die was replaced by the fear that wracked her body from the rush of air and the endless fall. She screamed until the scream was killed by the hard earth.
Chapter 1
The masons had been asked to stop work as the morning shadows from the bare oak trees touched the darker shadow of the grave. Mourners from the unfinished Priory of St Thomas walked from the chapel to the hole in the ground along the path prepared for them through the February snow. Behind Bishop Odon de Bayeux, Sister Agnes was openly weeping. No one comforted her.
Bishop Odon stopped by the grave and looked down at the wrapped body. How small people looked in death. And he started praying. The words were so important to him. But how could such a thing have happened when he was only a few miles away in Rochester, he wondered? Prioress Ursula was a good woman, had been a good woman, he corrected himself, a pillar of this small community of nuns. Surely she had been innocent? He tried to ignore the rumours as he looked round at them. They were all Anglo-Saxons – or English as his half-brother, King William of England and Duke of Normandy, called them – but their religious conviction was without fault. He had to accept, though, that at least one had already proved to be a traitor and her burial was to be without ceremony or attendance or sanctified ground.
The words of parting to the next life spoken, he raised his large pale hands to bless the congregation, just a dozen nuns and Prioress Ursula’s brother, Alfred. He wanted to speak to him after the service, but he was already leaving. There was a certain measured lack of expression on Alfred’s face.
Who was behind this outrage, Odon wondered. The last panel of the embroidery was almost destroyed, but the nuns involved were dead. He could trust no one in England anymore. There was so much more at stake than a piece of cloth.
‘Bishop Odo,’ said Sister Ethelburga, suddenly beside him. H
e noted her expectant voice using the English version of his name. He would have to choose a successor for Prioress Ursula’s job in the absence of Abbess Eleanor. ‘Yes, Sister,’ he replied.
‘I want to talk to you before you leave for Normandy.’
‘I will meet you in the chapter house in a few moments,’ said Odon. He wanted to collect his thoughts. Having removed his vestments he took himself up to the first floor rooms on the south side of the cloister and used the Prioress’s keys to gain entry. Lifting the protective sheet, he gazed upon the last panel of embroidery being worked: all the threads were neatly finished, all the stitches were small and full coloured. These women were truly skilled. The panel was, at least, undamaged. He gazed at the wooden screen at the end with the threads arranged in order of their colours. Everything looked in general good order and he was short of time so he left the sewing room and locked the door. Outside, instead of turning right to go down the steps towards the chapter house he went left and up the stone tower steps.
Looking across to the coppiced woods, he wondered whether he ought to move the embroidery – but that may be more dangerous than leaving it here if the Anglo-Saxons were keen to attack it. And if he spoke of this to King William there would be yet more deaths. Odon himself had been a man in his prime when he’d fought alongside his half-brother to take this land, but he knew God did not want him to waste life. He sighed and ran his fingers through his greying red hair. Secrecy was best, always. He needed to talk to Abbess Eleanor back home. This priory was, after all, under her jurisdiction. He would arrange for her to investigate this matter herself.
Odon’s gaze was attracted by activity below. People were setting out from the infirmary with a handcart. The other body was being taken out to its resting-place. He turned away. Now it was time to see Ethelburga and give her due authority. Under the circumstances she seemed the right person for the job. He could no longer delay his trip across the small sea to Normandy.
* * *
Normandy, France
‘Sister Therese, wake now,’ said Sister Miriam. ‘The Abbess is asking for you.’
‘It is not time. Go away.” She’d lived in this abbey all her life, but still the place felt foreign to her. ‘There are hours before our next prayers, Sister Miriam.’ Therese lowered her blanket and gazed at her fellow novice. There were rules for every part of their day, mostly of silence. She’d never heard Miriam so excited. Her friend was almost bouncing.
‘Bishop Odon has been here all night talking to our Abbess.’
Therese threw her blanket on the floor and Miriam helped her on with her habit.
‘Why is she asking for you, Sister Therese?’
‘I don’t know, Sister Miriam.’ Therese straightened her novice’s veil. It was so dull and insignificant compared with the full veil she would get when she finished her noviciate.
‘You look fine, Sister Therese. All big soft blue eyes and rosy cheeks, you could look innocent of the most heinous crime without any effort.’
‘Do you think I’m in trouble?’
‘Who can say!’
Therese fiddled with her rope girdle.
‘Quick, they are in the visitor’s hall.’ Miriam set off through the door and along the passage so quickly Therese had to run, despite her naturally long strides. Running along corridors, she knew, was forbidden. She tried to walk a few paces, but could not. Sister Miriam stopped by a wall hanging.
‘What have you stopped for?’ asked Therese.
Miriam pulled back the wall hanging and revealed a door. ‘It leads into the visitor’s hall.’ She opened it so a crack of fading firelight fell on them.
‘I never knew that was there,’ said Therese.
‘Hush, I can hear voices. I can hear Bishop Odon and Abbess Eleanor talking,’ whispered Miriam.
The Sisters leaned their heads towards the stonework. They heard a man’s voice saying, ‘Abbess Eleanor, I need you to leave here and go to England. A guard of my knights will escort you.’
‘Sister Miriam, we should not be listening,’ scolded Therese quietly.
‘Wait, Sister Therese.’ Miriam caught her arm. ‘Listen.’
Abbess Eleanor could be heard saying, ‘I can’t believe Prioress Ursula is dead.’
Miriam nodded at Therese. ‘You are right. We should not be listening,’ she said. She closed the door and set off up a stone stairway.
Therese pointed to the door. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked. ‘Why can’t we go through this door to the visitor’s hall?’
‘Because the Abbess will know we heard them from here. This door is not meant to be in use. There is nothing that woman cannot work out. I cannot afford the penance for such a sin.’
‘A sin is still a sin, whether you’re caught or not. The truth is always the truth,’ said Therese following her. At the main entrance door to the visitor’s hall Therese looked around to tell Miriam how nervous she was and found herself alone. After a moment she pulled herself straight and opened the door.
Bishop Odon and Abbess Eleanor were sitting opposite each other by the fire. The glowing embers cast shadows across their faces and picked out the reds and golden colours of the brightly painted walls.
‘Come in, Sister Therese,’ said the Bishop.
Therese rushed towards him and nearly fell at his feet in an effort to show her obedience and respect. He stretched out his hand and she kissed his ring of office.
‘You may sit,’ he said. Abbess Eleanor beckoned her to a stool close to the dying fire. ‘Abbess,’ he continued, ‘Sister Therese is already a young woman. Does she speak the language of the Anglo-Saxons?’
Therese looked up at Abbess Eleanor and examined the hint of hazel in her brown eyes, reflecting the gold of the embers. The Abbess’s serene face was slightly etched by the responsibilities of her office, but she also looked well cared for considering her half-century could only be a few years away.
‘Indeed, Your Grace. We have taught her as best we can: she knows Latin; she reads and writes.’
‘I have arranged a grand token of the Church’s esteem for my half-brother, William Duke of Normandy. It is an embroidery showing him claiming his rightful lands of England. It will be exhibited at Christmas in Bayeux Cathedral.’ The Bishop’s greying red hair formed an evenly trimmed frame to his rounded face.
‘Your Grace,’ said the Abbess. ‘She does not need to know all. The less she knows the safer she will be, surely?’
‘You are probably right,’ said the Bishop. ‘But this is already common knowledge. It is also common knowledge that some would like it destroyed.’ Therese noted the Abbess give the Bishop a warning look. The Bishop gave in to her pressure. ‘You, Sister Therese,’ he continued, ‘are to accompany your Abbess to Canterbury in England. You will be useful to her with your skills. Now go and ready yourself. You leave before dawn for the coast. At last the weather has improved, you must cross the channel before it deteriorates again.’
‘But…’ said Therese.
‘We have taught you better than to question our decisions, Sister Therese,’ said Abbess Eleanor. ‘England is our destination.’
‘It is a foreign land,’ said Therese.
The Abbess smiled and patted her hand. ‘A difficult time awaits us there, without doubt, Sister Therese. We will trust in God. The Bishop has instructed us and we have his protection. Two of his own knights will guard us.’ The Abbess frowned at her. ‘But you have never shown fear before, Sister?’
‘I am not scared. I would just like to know if Sister Miriam will be coming with us.’
‘Just you and I, Sister Therese, will be travelling to England. Sister Miriam will remain at Bayeux and pray for our success.’
* * *
Therese sat on a bench next to Abbess Eleanor as the breeze pulled them away from the Normandy coast. Suddenly the world seemed so large. She licked her lips; they were salty. Surely God had truly worked to make this wondrous place with the movement of the water and the vastness of the
sky above it. Among the complement of guards were the two knights promised by Bishop Odon. They took up their positions: one at the bow, the other at the rudder. Both wore chain mail tunics and helmets with nose-guards; they carried heavy swords and shields shaped like birds’ wings. Norman knights, Sir Gilbert and Sir Brian. Their very presence made Therese feel safe, but her Abbess seemed uneasy. Therese had never seen her so preoccupied.
The boat turned in to the open sea, towards England’s coast. Cold spray found their faces. As the hours turned the sun from east to west so the movement of the water beneath them became rougher.
‘I’ll fetch us something to eat,’ said Abbess Eleanor.
‘I’ll go,’ said Therese. If the Abbess required food, it was surely her job to fetch it for her.
But Abbess Eleanor shook her head and laid a hand on her shoulder as she rose. Therese had noticed the care she’d taken in stowing the casket she’d brought on board containing their food. It had been placed with that of the boatmen, alongside the supplies for the guards and knights. But when Abbess Eleanor came back she brought nothing with her.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked Therese.
‘My stomach could not take anything, Abbess, with the boat rising and falling like this.’
‘That is just as well,’ said Abbess Eleanor, taking back her seat on the bench.
The boatman cast a cover over them. ‘That will keep the spray off you,’ he said, so they sat under it like a makeshift tent.
‘You may never see your home again, Sister Therese,’ said the Abbess.
‘No, Abbess?’
‘No, Sister. Nor may we see Normandy or France again.’
‘The sea will not take us, Abbess.’
‘It may not be the sea that takes us, child.’
Therese searched the eyes of her Abbess. She’d never called her, ‘child’, before, even though she’d lived all her life in the convent with her.