The Nun's Tale

Twelve

Joanna stared with such ferocity that Lucie could not help but look away from the penetrating eyes. ‘For pity’s sake, what have I done to warrant this?’ Lucie asked.

Joanna just stared. This morning she made no other response.

Lucie tried to take Joanna’s hands. Joanna pulled them away.

‘I come here as your friend,’ Lucie protested. ‘I want to help.’

Now the eyes flickered. ‘You talk to me for them, not for me.’

Lucie’s heart pounded. Two spots of colour high on Joanna’s pale cheeks bespoke her agitation. Best not to lie to her. ‘His Grace and the Reverend Mother are worried about you.’

Joanna shook her head slowly, tauntingly. ‘They are jealous of me. Not just those two, all of them. The abbot, Sir Richard, Sir Nicholas.’

Lucie pressed her knuckle to her brow, searching for a reply that would not anger Joanna, but encourage her to talk. ‘Of what are they jealous?’

Tears welled up in Joanna’s eyes. ‘I am alone but for Our Lady’s love.’

‘We all mean to help you,’ Lucie said gently.

Joanna blotted her eyes with the sleeve of her chemise. Today the mantle was folded neatly beside her. ‘Do you remember what Christ said to Mary Magdalene when she saw Him walking near His tomb?’

Lucie nodded. ‘You told me once. “Noli me tangere.” ’ But last time talk of Hugh had brought it up.

‘After Mary Magdalene had loved Him so, mourned Him so, she was not to touch Him. He is cruel.’

Good Lord. How had they come to this? ‘I do not think that was the point,’ Lucie said. ‘He was risen. He — ’

Joanna shook her head. ‘No! It is the point. It is always the point.’

Lucie threw up her hands. ‘What are you telling me?’

‘I am telling you nothing.’ Joanna folded her arms over her chest and turned away.

Lucie rose stiffly, walked to the window, massaging her left shoulder. When she spoke with Joanna it was as if she held her breath and tensed for a blow. She worried over each word, each gesture, hoping that what she said or did would not upset the awkward, fragile balance they had achieved.

Speaking with Joanna, picking her way with such care, drained Lucie of energy. And today Joanna seemed worse than ever. Dame Isobel had warned Lucie that Joanna’s agitation had increased with frightening results. The past evening Joanna had thrown a heavy cup at the maid, Mary, cutting her above the eye.

Lucie felt lost. How was it that Joanna saw herself as both Mary Magdalene and a virgin? It was as unlikely a combination as Lucie could imagine. What was the point? He is cruel. Joanna’s lover?

Lucie returned to her seat by Joanna. ‘Has someone told you not to touch him?’

Joanna cocked her head to one side. ‘You are with child.’

Lucie realised she had been pressing her stomach with one hand, her lower back with the other. She clasped her hands behind her back. Letting Joanna know something so intimate bothered Lucie, a feeling she recognised as hypocritical when she was trying to discover such intimacies about Joanna. ‘Does what Christ said to Mary Magdalene remind you of something that happened to you?’

‘Do you know about St Sebastian?’

Lucie closed her eyes, took a deep breath. She wanted nothing so much as to shake Joanna, make her stop playing this game. But they needed answers. ‘He is the patron saint of archers.’

‘What do you know of archers?’

‘What do you know?’

‘My brother Hugh had a seal that showed St Sebastian with the arrows piercing his body.’

‘His seal was that of an archer?’

‘Not his.’ Joanna frowned. ‘So? What can you tell me of archers?’

‘The Welsh longbowmen have won many a battle for the King.’

‘How would you know that?’

‘My husband is one. Was one. He was captain of archers for Henry, Duke of Lancaster. Who used the seal of St Sebastian, Joanna?’

Joanna closed her eyes. ‘I thought I might go to France.’

Lucie clutched her hands behind her, afraid she would strike Joanna in frustration. ‘Go to France with whom?’

A long pause. ‘Will Longford seemed a kind man. He gave me wine when I was so cold. I’d been caught in a storm.’

‘When you took the relic to him?’

Joanna sat up suddenly, her eyes wide open. ‘The wine was a sleep potion. So that I would sleep while he thought what to do with me. And then the potion he gave me for my burial. To keep me still. It was too strong. For days they could not wake me.’

‘Who, Joanna?’

Joanna shook her head and suddenly lay down, pulled the covers up to her chin. ‘Must sleep now. It poisons me yet.’

Lucie leaned against the door of the abbey guest house, letting the sun and the summer breeze caress her face. She was glad that she had followed her inclination this morning and rejected the wimple. She wore instead a short, light veil that let the breeze cool her neck. She felt the heat so much more this summer. The babe in her womb warmed her. She noticed Daimon up on the abbey’s river wall. Without Sir Robert. Daimon must have tired of kneeling with his master in the abbey church. Lucie looked up at the sun. Quite early. Sir Robert would not be expecting her yet. If Daimon would agree to keep a secret from Sir Robert, he could escort Lucie to Magda Digby’s house. Lucie could talk with Magda and return with enough time to get back to the shop. She needed Magda’s advice about Joanna.

Lucie asked the hospitaller how she might get up to Daimon on the wall.

Brother Oswald looked at her with horror. ‘I shall send someone up to him.’

Lucie smiled reassuringly. ‘There is no need. I would rather go myself.’

The monk shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Wilton, but I cannot permit you to go up there.’

In the end, Brother Oswald sent a boy up to Daimon, who came down chattering enthusiastically about the river traffic.

Lucie used his interest to coax him into going to Magda Digby’s hut. ‘It sits on a rock at the edge of the river.’

Daimon grinned. ‘I should like to see it.’

‘You agree that we need not disturb Sir Robert?’

Daimon readily consented.

They were soon making their way down to the riverbank through the paupers’ camps that clustered outside the abbey’s beggars’ gate. ‘I see why Sir Robert would not like us coming here. Why do folk live like this?’ Having grown up on the manor, Daimon had never seen such poverty.

‘The reasons are as countless as the stars, Daimon. Some come to the city to disappear, some have been given false hopes of riches, some have lost their land through no fault of their own. Others have lived like this through so many generations they know no other way. In a city it can be difficult to feed yourself. You must pay for food or trade for it. Jasper de Melton, the boy who is to be my apprentice, could tell you how hard it is to find food on the streets of the city.’

Daimon looked round at the makeshift huts, the rats that scurried underfoot, fat and aggressive, the ragged people, skinny and despondent, then back at the walls of the abbey and those of the city beyond. ‘But these people are not even in the city.’

Lucie nodded. ‘And once they have lived here, it is difficult to find their way through the gates.’

Daimon’s shoulders slumped; his steps lost their spring.

Lucie was glad to see Magda’s house up ahead. ‘Look, Daimon. There, just at the water’s edge.’

The queer home of Magda Digby crouched on a rock. The hut was built with the beams and planks of old boats, with an overturned Viking ship for a roof. The Riverwoman sat outside the door, in the shade of the dragon at the Viking ship’s prow. The dragon leered upside down at the approaching visitors. Magda wore her usual patchwork gown. Her grizzled hair was tucked up into a cap, leaving her neck bare. As they drew closer, Lucie saw that Magda was mending a fishing net.

‘Are you about to cast it out, Magda?’

‘Nay. ’Tis late in the tide to catch a worthy fish this morning. Magda will fish by moonlight.’ The old woman’s intense blue eyes studied Daimon. ‘Thou hast brought a soldier, eh? Dost thou carry such evil news thou’rt fearful Magda will attack thee?’

Lucie laughed and sat down on the bench beside the Riverwoman. Daimon stood and looked round, uncertain where to place himself.

Magda squinted up at the lad. ‘Thou’rt Daimon, son of Adam, steward at Freythorpe Hadden.’

Daimon looked frightened. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Magda brought thee into the world of men.’

‘But babies all look the same.’

Magda shrugged. ‘Not to Magda. Thou also lookst the image of thy father.’

Daimon relaxed. ‘You know my father?’

‘Aye. A good, brave man. Magda made a salve for thy father’s shoulder when first he came here from the wars. And she taught Dame Phillippa how to press and pull and loosen thy father’s shoulder joint.’

‘Why have I never met you?’

Magda shrugged. ‘When Midwife Paddy lived upriver, Magda did not have as much work as now, got around more. Now Magda goes away for a day and a night, folk are camped out on the rock when she returns.’ She shook her head.

‘Why do you use a ship for your roof?’

‘Ever ready for a flood, eh?’ Magda gave a barking laugh. ‘Thou needst a stool. Hie thee within, bring out what suits thee.’

When Daimon had gone into the hut, Magda put down her mending and touched Lucie’s check. ‘Thou’rt hot-blooded with this child. A good sign.’

‘I was worried.’

‘Then cease thy worry.’ The sharp eyes studied Lucie. ‘How does Sir Robert?’

Lucie wondered what Magda read on her face. ‘He is well enough.’

‘And Joanna Calverley?’

Lucie glanced round for Daimon. She was uncertain how much to say in front of him.

Magda noted her hesitation. ‘The lad will tarry a while. He has the wide-eyed look of a child. He will explore Magda’s treasures. Thou canst talk freely.’

Magda had arranged a private talk just by sending Daimon in for a stool. Lucie smiled. ‘You are the one who should talk with Joanna. You would plot a course to coax more out of her than I shall ever hear.’

Magda wagged her head from side to side. ‘Oh, thou’rt such a bungler, indeed. ’Tis of course why the crow and the squirrel wish thee to speak with Joanna.’

Lucie paused. The crow, she knew, was the archbishop. The squirrel — ah! — Dame Isobel, with her chubby cheeks and fussy little hands. Lucie laughed until tears blurred her vision and her stomach began to cramp. Magda watched her with a secret smile. ‘What is it?’ Lucie asked.

‘Thou dost so little of that. Laughter from deep within.’ Magda touched the thin veil. ‘This suits thee. Leave the wimple and gorget till thou’rt a crone, child. Thou hast lost one husband, but won another. Thou’rt neither a widow now nor yet a crone. Dance in thy beauty while thee may. But Magda wanders. What is the trouble with Joanna Calverley?’

What was the trouble? If Lucie could describe it, she would perhaps be on her way to helping Joanna. ‘I had a dream last night about how I feel. Joanna was a spider, and I followed her as she wove a web. She worked at it intently, ignoring me, though she knew I was there. I would begin to see a pattern, try to guess where she would move next, and I was wrong most of the time. I predicted few of the strands.’

Magda frowned and scratched beneath her cap with a bony finger. ‘Did she finish the web in thy dream?’

Lucie shook her head.

Magda looked out at the river, thinking. ‘Was the web well-ordered?’

Lucie closed her eyes and tried to see the web again. ‘There were strands that broke the harmony, but much of the web was well-ordered.’

The Riverwoman nodded. ‘What dost thou think it means?’

Lucie groaned, exasperated. ‘I hoped that you would tell me!’

‘Surely thou hast a thought or two, Master Apothecary?’

Lucie admitted it. But she expected laughter. What did she know of dreams? ‘I guess that Joanna knows what she is saying, that she deliberately confuses me.’

Magda looked doubtful. ‘A spider does not set out to weave an imperfect web.’

‘So I am wrong?’

Magda leaned back against the house, looking up at the dragon’s head. ‘Is Joanna a spider or a woman?’ She shrugged. ‘’Tis the trouble with dreams. They seduce the dreamer with their seeming wisdom. Or is it trickery?’ She smiled.

Disappointed, Lucie rubbed her temples, looked up at the sun. ‘I must return to the abbey for Sir Robert.’

Magda squinted at Lucie and wagged a finger. ‘Be not petulant. Thou art not speaking plain. Thou didst not come to Magda to talk of dreams.’

‘No.’

‘What is so difficult about the woman?’

‘She speaks a mixture of reason and confusion. I am exhausted when I leave her.’

‘Dost thou think she is bedevilled?’

‘Perhaps.’ Lucie shrugged. ‘In truth, I do not know. She told Dame Isobel that the Devil had tempted her with dreams of her beloved.’

‘Why should such dreams be the work of the Devil?’

‘Because they proved false.’

‘Do you believe the Devil possesses her?’

Lucie shook her head. ‘I do not understand what she means by her dreams proving false, either.’

‘She was disappointed, perhaps.’

‘The beloved proved an ordinary man?’

Magda grinned. ‘Thou hast no such complaints.’

‘My problem is that my beloved is unhappy sitting still.’

‘Surely thou hast an idea what ails Joanna?’

‘Today she said Will Longford served her wine seasoned with something that made her sleep, then gave her something more potent for her false funeral. Could all this work as a poison, not killing her, but tearing at her memory and her reason?’

‘Was she well when she ran away?’

‘She had fasted often. Harsh fasts. Once she had starved herself to the point that her fingernails peeled away and her teeth were loose.’

‘Foolish child.’ Magda frowned, her many wrinkles deepening, her grizzled brows pressing in and down over her hawk nose. Wise and fierce she looked. Magda sighed, nodded. ‘Weakening her body, then piling poison on poison. Aye. Trust Apothecary Wilton to find such an explanation. Tidy. Reasonable.’ Magda patted Lucie’s arm.

Lucie was not certain whether Magda agreed. She felt a reluctance to ask. ‘If I am right, I thought it might help if we sweat her, bleed her, and purge her.’

Magda tapped her knee. ‘Unless like a slow-acting poison it has worked on her too long — then a purge could well hasten the end.’

Lucie had not considered that. ‘So I have not found a solution.’

‘Magda did not say that. Try it. But after thou hast cleansed her, she should have a long sleep. Magda will give thee mandrake wine for a long, healing sleep. After that, return to the herbs that calm her. Thou know’st the sort — catmint, bedstraw, and balms — nothing more. If that does not work, thou hast not found the proper solution.’

Lucie saw a flaw in the plan. ‘How long is a long sleep?’

‘Aye, thou art thinking ’twill be days without speaking with her. Nay. From sunset to sunset to sunrise — thou canst spare one day, eh?’ Magda patted Lucie’s hand. ‘Thou must not be overly hopeful. ’Tis but a theory. And though she may be calm and rested at the end of it, she may say little more than she has.’

Lucie forced herself to ask the question that plagued her. ‘What would you do with her?’

Magda grinned. ‘Thou art alert. Thou hearest Magda’s silences.’ She shook her head. ‘Thou wouldst not take Magda’s advice.’

‘Please, Magda, tell me.’

The old woman scratched her chin, frowned fiercely down at the sun-dappled river. After a long silence, she said, ‘Magda would leave the child in peace.’

Lucie was certain she must have misunderstood. ‘Ask her nothing?’

Magda nodded. ‘And tell her nothing.’

It was not like Magda to suggest inaction. ‘Why?’

Magda held out her wrinkled, sun-browned hands. ‘When storms blow down the Dales to Magda’s house, these old hands ache as a warning that the river shall soon rise.’

Lucie frowned, then realised what Magda meant. ‘You have a feeling it would be best not to know what happened to her.’

Magda stared at something beyond Lucie, a vision of trouble. ‘Aye. Keep thy distance, Magda would advise thee. But thou wouldst not abide by Magda’s feeling. Nor shouldst thou. Thy task is to learn her secret. The Churchmen insist.’ Magda nodded towards the door. ‘Thou must retrieve the boy and make haste to St Mary’s.’

Lucie looked up at the sun. ‘Sweet Heaven!’ She stood up so abruptly she felt dizzy.

Magda jumped to her feet and held Lucie steady. ‘Stay. Magda will fetch Daimon.’

*

Sir Robert met Lucie and Daimon at St Mary’s gate, sputtering with indignation that Lucie had sneaked away and taken Daimon with her.

‘Would you rather I had gone alone?’ she asked.

‘Of course not. You need protection outside the city.’

‘Then it was clever of me to take Daimon?’

‘You should have told me that both of you were leaving. Where did you go?’

‘You are only angry because you feel you have been fooled.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘To seek advice about Dame Joanna. Now I must speak with Brother Wulfstan. I would like you to go back to the shop and tell Tildy I will be there soon. Any customers can wait.’

Sir Robert ordered Daimon to wait for Lucie and to escort her home.

Brother Wulfstan frowned more and more as he listened to Lucie’s prescription. ‘Bleeding, yes. Purging, perhaps. But this long sleep. Mandragora wine.’ He shook his head. ‘The Riverwoman is not a Christian. How can you trust her as you do?’

‘Magda is a good woman, Brother Wulfstan.’

‘But she does not pray over her physicks.’

‘Then we shall pray over them. Please. I would like to try this. If it does not work, I promise to defer to you. Anything that you wish.’

Wulfstan took Lucie’s hands, looked into her eyes. ‘I think you have fulfilled your duty with Joanna. You have proven that she does not wish to be understood. What more do you hope to learn from her? What is it you seek?’

Lucie looked into Wulfstan’s age-clouded eyes. He relied more and more on Brother Henry’s assistance. His round face was wrinkled, his voice crackled. She did not like to distress him. But she must. ‘I think something terrible happened in Scarborough.’ She did not like the sorrow she had brought to the cloudy eyes. ‘Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Joanna merely fell ill. If that is so, if we can bring her back to her senses, she might simply tell us that. Then we will know to leave her in peace to do penance at St Clement’s.’

Wulfstan shook his head, his kindly face sad. ‘I do not think she merely fell ill, Lucie, and neither do you. But whether it benefits anyone to know what happened — ’ he shrugged. ‘Still, Jaro and Maddy were murdered. It is best to make known the murderer.’ Wulfstan let go her hands. ‘I will do as you wish.’

‘You are a good friend. I am sorry I burden you with this.’

‘Friends are blessed burdens.’

Lucie hugged him. ‘I must get to the shop. I will return tomorrow morning.’

Wulfstan put his hands gently on Lucie’s shoulders and frowned sternly. ‘You are doing too much, Lucie. The infirmaress from St Clement’s — Prudentia, a promising name — she can help me bleed Joanna, and surely she can purge her. Leave the mandragora wine with me.’ Wulfstan smiled at her uncertain look. ‘I promise to administer it, Lucie. No matter what I think of Magda Digby, I have agreed to try your idea.’

Lucie was exhausted by the time she opened the shop. A stranger had delivered a letter from Owen. From time to time, Lucie stole glimpses at it, learning gradually the odd story of Matthew Calverley and his missing wife.