The Joys of My Life

Twenty

Ten Years Later, June 1210

The abbess sat in her little room staring down at the thick cream parchment unrolled on the table before her. She held it down and read through every word that was written on it, absently running her fingers over the outline of the heavy wax seal at the bottom of the page. She had no need to study it in such detail, for she knew what the wording said and she had long been expecting it. Nevertheless, to see this vital document before her eyes was still a shock, for its import was momentous; for her, for Hawkenlye Abbey and, most important, for the person to whom the document referred. Despite all the reassurances, she knew very well that from now on, nothing was going to be the same.

She sat back in the great throne-like chair, thinking back to when it had begun. Well, to be honest, she did not really know, for who can read another’s deepest thoughts? She could calculate readily enough when the first external signs had become apparent, but that was not to say that the process that led ultimately to this moment had not been set in motion months — years — before that. Indeed, this had in fact been intimated to her.

The first signs became apparent ten years ago, when Queen Eleanor commanded that St Edmund’s Chapel be built at Hawkenlye to commemorate her son King Richard. The abbess smiled, as she always did when she thought about the chapel, for in every respect it had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. From the start it had attracted numerous visitors; increasingly, the ordinary people were overawed by what the Church was becoming and many preferred the simple building on the forest fringes to the magnificent abbey church. From the time that there had been someone living in the little dwelling place beside the chapel, a steady stream of the hungry, the distressed, the grieving and the troubled turned up every day, to kneel in prayer within the plain white walls of the chapel, stare in wonder at the beautiful window and, hopefully, spare a thought and a prayer for the late king, before going outside to be greeted with a smiling face, a kind word, a bite to eat and a sympathetic ear for whatever ailed them. Often they would gently be redirected to the infirmary, or the monks in the vale; sometimes, comforted, they would simply melt away.

The abbess sighed. Life had always been hard for the poor of England; now, for many, it had turned into a battle for survival.

King John’s reign had become increasingly oppressive. Even the nobility suffered, for the king’s constant need for more funds had led to a sharp increase in the frequency with which he demanded money from them. His favourite means was to impose the tax known as scutage, which vassals paid in lieu of military service. He had overseen a ferocious tightening of the forest laws — the imposition of severe fines was another way to increase the flow of money into his coffers — and yet there seemed little to show for everything he demanded. The king had proved an ineffectual military leader; far from following in his warrior brother’s aggressive footsteps, John had done little but lose Continental territory to his enemies. The last strongholds in Anjou and Normandy had gone; Poitou was teetering on the brink. Now, with cruel accuracy, they called the king ‘Soft-Sword’.

King John had taken a new bride soon after coming to the throne. Typical of he who knew no half-measures, he had seen and fallen for the fourteen-year-old daughter of the Count of Angouleme when her father was paying homage to him, ruthlessly breaking off her betrothal to another man, who, incensed, appealed to Philip of France for justice and witnessed with satisfaction the French king forfeit John’s Continental fiefs. The young Queen Isabella had fulfilled her prime duty: already there were two little princes in the royal nursery and the queen was said to be pregnant again.

Although she tried not to listen, the abbess had heard what the soothsayers predicted. The king’s heir, Henry, they whispered, would be a fat, witless weakling and England would not be great again until his own mighty son came to reign. She sighed. I doubt I shall live to see those times, she thought. I must do the best I can with the days I do have.

Oh, but it was hard. Five years ago, the king had quarrelled with Rome over who should become Archbishop of Canterbury. John had selected the wrong adversary, for Pope Innocent III was even more determined than the king and, when John refused to back down, he laid an interdict on England suspending all church services. John still did not come to heel and last year the Pope had excommunicated him. Church and State were at loggerheads and all England suffered.

I barely recognize the Church I once loved, the abbess thought sadly. It is no longer a supporting and loving helpmeet; it is a moneymaking giant whose chief aim appears to be the acquisition of land, money and power. As if this devastating quarrel between the Pope and the king was not bad enough — surely, surely two men who had been put on earth to serve their God and their people ought to have been able to do better! — there was now the terrible Crusade against the Cathars. In the south, they said, the towns were burning with the people inside them. The Pope had joined forces with the king of France and, although the excuse was the stamping-out of heresy, everyone knew full well that both Church and State would emerge from the fight immensely the richer.

It was not right.

And here I am, the abbess reflected sadly, trying to fulfil a role set out for me in a world where the old rules no longer apply and everyone seems to have gone mad. Old Queen Eleanor, that great levelling influence and supporter of Hawkenlye, had died peacefully in her sleep at Fontevrault. Sometimes it seemed to the abbess that more than an eighty-two-year life had gone out of the world that April day.

Abruptly she let go of the ends of the parchment and it flew back into its roll. She retied its ribbon and carefully stowed it away in the cupboard let into the wall. Then, squaring her shoulders, she went out to break the news.

In the house in the woods, Josse bent over his spade and, ignoring the vague pain in the small of his back, made up his mind that he would finish the row before Meggie came back. He had promised to dig over the empty area in her herb bed, for she wanted to plant more of her little seedlings this evening. The moon, apparently, was in a condition that favoured vigorous growth.

He smiled as he thought about his beloved daughter. She was seventeen now and in his eyes she was quite beautiful, with abundant, shiny dark hair that had kept its youthful curl and brown eyes that shone with golden lights. She worked too hard, he kept telling her; she was up early hunting for flowers, leaves and roots for her herbal remedies, and she never turned away anyone who came to her for help. In October two years ago, on her sixteenth birthday, she had inherited the powerful heirloom that Josse’s father, Geoffroi, had brought back from Outremer. It was a huge sapphire set in gold and it was known as the Eye of Jerusalem. It held a strange power within its deep blue depths for, in the hand of its rightful owner, it warned of the presence of enemies and, dipped in water, made a febrifuge that possessed the power to stop bleeding. It also detected poison in an apparently innocent drink.

It had come into the family with the sombre prediction that one of Geoffroi’s descendants would one day wield it. A great sorcerer had told Josse that the jewel would in time pass to one possessing the innate psychic power to make it come fully alive and, when that came to pass, for the first time in two thousand years the Eye of Jerusalem would come into its full potential. At the time Josse had not even known of his daughter’s existence, but it was she to whom the sorcerer had referred and now the Eye was hers.

She used it rarely and only at grave need, for its power was extraordinary and she admitted that she had barely begun to comprehend it. In her struggle for understanding she was not alone: the Domina, immeasurably wise, very old now and deeply revered by all her people, was there to help her. Slowly, painfully, Meggie was coming to terms with her extraordinary inheritance. It had already started to change her life, for with the gift came responsibility, and Meggie, true child of both her parents, was not one to turn aside.

Josse dug on and his thoughts moved to his son. Geoffroi, named according to his mother’s wishes after Josse’s father, was ten years old and Josse’s boy through and through. It was likely he had inherited his mother’s strange powers — inevitable, really, since both her other children had done so — but so far he was nothing more than a solid, cheerful, funny little boy who adored his elder sister and half-brother, especially when Meggie let him help her prepare the sweet-smelling herbs and Ninian showed him how to mend a wild animal’s hurt.

Ninian was twenty-four and in love with Little Helewise, daughter of Leofgar Warin and his wife, Rohaise. The girl was not yet sixteen, but she was mature for her years and it was plain to anyone with eyes in their head that she adored Ninian. Time would tell; if they married, Josse would go on his knees all the way to St Edmund’s Chapel to cry out a prayer of thanks.

He and Ninian had never once referred again to the young man’s parentage. His half-brother was busy ruining England, so perhaps it was just as well.

Josse’s former manor, the estate of New Winnowlands, was flourishing, thanks to Dominic’s talents as a landowner. Dominic now concentrated on sheep and he was growing rich. In truth, everything he earned was the result of his own hard work, ably supported and assisted by the many-talented Paradisa, but Dominic had not forgotten that fourteen years ago Josse had given him and his new wife a home at New Winnowlands, and he insisted that a fair share of his profits went to Josse and those who lived with him in the house in the woods. Josse, who lived frugally with his largely self-supporting family and still had most of the gold given to him by the late queen, was quite embarrassed by his own wealth.

He was almost at the end of the row. Hearing voices, he straightened up, a hand to his back, to see who it was. Gussie was striding out towards him, two of his three children running beside him and laughing at something he had just said. He was already holding out a hand for the spade. Josse watched him, smiling. He had filled out from the skinny boy he used to be and now, a man in his prime, he was broad-shouldered and starting to look a little stout. Tilly, his wife, had become an excellent cook.

‘Tilly says you’ve been out here far too long already and you’ll pay for it with a sore back tonight,’ Gussie said, taking the spade from Josse’s hand. ‘Give me that — I’ll finish for you.’

Meekly Josse handed it to him.

‘Horsy, horsy, Josse!’ said the younger child, a little girl.

Josse sat down on the low bank that enclosed Meggie’s herb garden and, drawing up his legs to make a pretend horse’s back, picked up the child and set her on his knees. ‘I had a little pony,’ he sang, and instantly she and her brother joined in: ‘His name was Dapple Grey. I lent him to a lady, to ride a mile away.’

The children yelled the words, their light voices blending with Josse’s deep baritone, and as the song wound up to its inevitable climax, with the pretend horse rearing and shooting its small rider into the soft grass, all three shouted with laughter.

The happy sounds, soaring into the summer sky, echoed beneath the protective circle of trees so that the forest itself seemed to be laughing.

The woman striding along the narrow forest track heard the merriment and smiled in response. Not far now, she thought.

She had been sitting quietly in the chapel when the abbess had come to find her. As the familiar black-clad figure had stood in the open door and beckoned, she had got up and gone outside with her. They stood side by side in the sunshine and the abbess said, ‘It has come.’

A moment of stillness; this moment, so long anticipated, was nevertheless surprisingly disturbing in its power, for this was the final step of a journey begun a very long time ago and her life would never be the same again.

Others had preceded her. She was by no means the first. It helped, a little. This was her choice; she had no more doubts now. As the portent of the abbess’s words sank in and were absorbed, she began to smile.

‘I have no need to ask if you are ready,’ the abbess said softly.

She smiled. ‘No, my lady. I have left everything neat and tidy. Whoever follows me will find the little house welcoming.’

‘I know,’ the abbess said with a smile.

‘Have you a candidate in mind?’

‘Yes. She is eager but she is young, and I am not entirely convinced that she understands the demands of the role.’

‘A term of trial, perhaps?’

‘Just what I had in mind. Can I help you carry your belongings? I will walk with you, if you wish it.’

‘Thank you, my lady, it is a kind offer, but I prefer to go alone.’

The abbess studied her. ‘I thought you might say that,’ she murmured. Then, stepping forward, she took the older woman in her arms and they exchanged a long, close embrace. Then the abbess let her go. ‘Goodbye. May God watch over you.’

‘I will be back, my lady,’ the woman murmured. ‘I shall be under an hour’s walk away, after all.’

‘You always go by the forest paths now,’ the abbess remarked. ‘You are fully at home there, I think.’

‘Yes. I often meet the Domina, and Tiphaine, although I sense that they will retreat from their ancestral lands here soon.’

‘Soon?’ The abbess looked dismayed.

‘Oh, it will not happen yet. But the world changes, my lady, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.’ She sighed. ‘Already men encroach on the forest fringes, for despite our king’s best efforts, still families manage to prosper and grow, and they need room to spread. It is the way of things.’

‘Yes,’ the abbess said slowly. Then, sadly, ‘Nothing lasts for ever.’

Her companion put an arm round her waist. ‘Some things do,’ she said softly. ‘Love. Memory.’

‘Memory,’ whispered the abbess. ‘Ah, yes.’ Then, brushing at her eyes, she said, ‘Go on, be on your way before I start weeping! This is a joyful day and I would not spoil it.’

The woman smiled, a deep, serene smile born of utter contentment. ‘Nothing could do that,’ she murmured. Then, making the deep reverence that was her abbess’s due, she had shouldered her small pack and strode off into the forest.

She was close now to the house in the woods. She could hear his voice and silently she called out to him. He must have heard; she saw his head and his broad shoulders appear over the tip of the low bank that surrounded the little settlement. Not so little now, she thought, for over the years as children had been born he had built on and the house extended outwards on both sides. It was still a lovely house, she thought. A happy house and, thanks to him, full of love.

He had caught sight of her and, his face lighting up, he hurried to meet her. She broke into a run.

Josse had sensed her approach. He had been waiting for this moment for so long and he could scarcely believe it was here at last. He had always known what he wanted; the difficult choice had been hers. They had talked long and he knew why she had finally made up her mind. He accepted what she said, although he was not sure he entirely understood. Not that it mattered, as long as she was happy.

He stared at her as she ran towards him. He saw a tall woman, leaner now than she used to be — the years had been hard — dressed in a simple black robe. She was bareheaded, the short, springy reddish hair now turning grey. She was smiling, and he caught the glint of tears in her eyes.

He stood quite still and opened his arms. She walked into his embrace. They stood without speaking for a while.

Then she said, ‘You’ve been digging again. I can tell from the way you’re standing that your back’s aching.’

‘Meggie will be home soon,’ he replied serenely. ‘She’ll rub on some of her magic oil and the pain will melt.’

‘That’s as maybe, but you still do too much. I thought I’d come and help you, if you can do with another pair of hands.’

He rested his hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. She spoke lightly but he knew the profound meaning behind the levity.

‘You’ll stay?’ His voice broke on the words.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Abbess Caliste received the document this morning.’

Josse lifted his head and, eyes closed, said a swift silent prayer of thanks. It was over; she had done it.

He took her hand in his and led the way up towards the house. Helewise, who had stepped down as abbess when Queen Eleanor died and had for the last six years lived alone in the little house beside the chapel, walked beside him.

She loved him; she had loved him for twenty years. She had told herself that ordinary human love was not hers to enjoy, for she had heard and answered a different calling, but the voice that had called and went on calling had subtly altered and it no longer emanated from the Church, for the Church itself was no longer the same.

She had seen him love and lose another woman; she had seen him master his grief and pick himself up, making a refuge in this house in the woods not only for his own two children but for his adopted son and for all the others who came to him because they loved him and wished to be with him.

And now, she thought, now I am doing the same. She leaned against him as they walked, squeezing his hand…

And he squeezed back. Helewise, he thought, his heart overflowing. Here with me, at last.

They reached the low bank and together they climbed over it. As they approached the house, its old stones glowing golden in the summer sunshine, a burst of laughter from the children rang in the warm air.

It was like a blessing.