Roses in the Tempest (12 page)

“Yes, your grace. We would be honored to have your majesty guest at Caverswall.”

“It might be so, Thomas. I do not often venture to my estates in Stafford.”

My mind whirled with incomprehensible thoughts. I had the king’s ear. Now what, by the Rood, was I to do with it?

“Ever been to tournament, Thomas?” he asked me. His eyes scanned my lanky frame. My figure was deceptive, for though tall and lean, I was strong and a worthy fighter.

“I have, your grace.”

“Your father. He’s a good rider. A good man. But you look as fit as he. I should not think it will be long before you win many competitions yourself.”

“As a knight, your grace?”

An expression of varying hues tinted his face. It began as surprise, turning to amusement, and finally to warning. He smiled. “There is no hurry,” he said, before barreling into a throng of other courtiers, leaving me depleted in his wake. The earlier familiarity was gone. Damn, my own impudence, I rebuked in my head. Others followed after him like puppies, but I remained as I was, dismissed. Until I felt a shadow at my elbow.

“A bold lunge,” said the voice I did not recognize.

I turned, running my gaze perfunctorily over the plump person beside me. He wore velvets in a style somewhat excess for English tastes, almost to bad taste. “Do I know you, sir?”

“No, Lord Giffard. There is no reason you should. I am Thomas Legh. Only a secretary.”

“Truly.” I lost interest while looking for Draycot and Throckmorton. “It is a wonder you are here.” It was meant to dismiss the man, but clearly his intentions were otherwise. He meant to fraternize where he did not belong, and I wondered briefly whose secretary he was, though did not deign to ask. I moved away, but the creature followed.

“The king’s interests are many. He populates his court with many rising morning stars. But beware, Lord Giffard. A morning star still sets.”

I stopped and glared at him. “And what are you, sirrah? A shooting star? They streak quickly across the sky in a flash of light, and are soon extinguished, seen no more. Any morning star may set, but it rises again.”

“‘Tis true, my lord, but—”

“You are too familiar with me, and I know you not. Stand aside.” I swept past him, noting how he glowered at me as if memorizing my features. In his insolence, he must have believed he was of some importance at court, yet like so many others, his ill-chosen words to the wrong man would depose him. I glanced back again, and saw Cromwell approach him and rest his hand upon his shoulder. So. It made more sense to me, then, these two in Wolsey’s employ. Like jackals. I did not know whose bones they waited for, but I was determined they would not be mine.

MARCH, 1521

Blackladies

XIII

Lord, my heart is not proud; nor are my eyes haughty.

I do not busy myself with great matters; with things too sublime for me.

Rather, I have stilled my soul, hushed it like a weaned child…

–Psalm 131:1-2

It was two months since, but still I wept for Margaret Cawardyn, late and faithful prioress of Blackladies nunnery. Mother, aunt, sister, friend, she was my mentor in all, and still more than I realized, for it was only last month that Bishop Blythe, after reviewing the carefully penned letters and reports by Prioress Margaret, appointed the new prioress among us: myself.

Entirely unexpected, I received the news along with the others. Father William read the letter to us in our workroom. The bishop wrote in Latin and none of us were proficient enough to engage such a letter with any understanding. Dame Elizabeth looked particularly pleased, and my niece Dame Alice Beche—who came to join us as a holy sister two years ago—nodded her solemn approval (she did not seem to share my sister Agnes’ mistrust of my abilities).

But Cristabell received these tidings with an unwholesome measure of disbelief, even to the point of accusing Father William of fabricating the letter. I tried to assure her as well as the others that there must, indeed, be some mistake, but Father William pointed out—with some amount of satisfaction—the many references to me, of Beech, and the Launder estate. It was all decided without my knowledge or my encouragement. Dame Elizabeth was excluded from such a promotion, being very old and not in good health, and of course Dame Alice was too young, not even twenty. Certainly Cristabell felt she was slighted, assured because of her longer tenure at the priory that the position would naturally fall to her. The years did not gentle her mood toward me, and now that I was her superior, I worried over her faithfulness. Prudently, I let it lie, preferring to allow circumstance to tutor me.

In the meantime, I spent long hours over the records kept in the prioress’ office, deciphering her small, careful script with difficulty, for I was not a good reader. The accounts were muddled and uncertain, and I grieved over how I should accomplish these new requirements.

The small letters wearied my eyes, so I rose and walked to the window. There was so much to do, and I did not know where to begin.

From that view looking north, I could see the cloister yard as well as the muddy lane and plains beyond. Ladies Brook, once it passed the mill stream, was little more than a vague glitter meandering toward The Hawkshutts in the distant green mist. Spring was late, and the iciness of morning still frosted the edges of the diamond window panes in feathery lace. Dew darkened the spindled trees as they heaved their bare limbs into a raw gray sky.

The men tempered the brown fields with their hoes, putting me in a mind to think about the garden below. Many days had passed since I worked among the returning herbs and roses.
Perhaps a little time there
, I told myself. I could clear my mind far better by scraping about in the garden than nosing in dusty books.

My steps hurried as I neared it. I retrieved a napron and exchanged my slippers for clogs. I first went to the roses which marched across the southern side of the cloister and up where the gravel walkway led to the dwelling. They were still little more than dead twigs, like clawed hands curled upward, branches pruned to stumps. Thorns guarded them, still formidable even in slumber. No mole dared eat its tender roots. There appeared the tiniest bit of greening and an occasional black, tightly wound leaf bud. I was pleased to see this, for often we ornamented our table and our chapel with these small blooms, and seasoned our salads with the flavorful buds. Even when the bloom was spent the rose hips made a soothing broth. It was a most useful flower.

The rosemary was as strongly scented as always, but the chervil had yet to rise and the sage looked poorly. Perhaps rabbits. The pennywort thrived as did the mullein and borrage. I snipped sprigs of each and tucked them into the pocket of my napron to later purge the staleness of our bedchamber.

The gate bell chimed. Glancing to my girdle I noticed that I did not yet give the gate key to Dame Elizabeth. “Where is my mind?” I set the snips aside, and grooming myself as best I could, I went to the gate.

Robert, our bailiff, stood beside two young girls, the older no more than nine or ten years, while the younger appeared to be five. They were shivering in their very thin shawls.

“Here, Lady Prioress,” he said, though hearing that particular title was still strange to my ears. “You must take these two girls. Their mother left them at the gate and would not come back.”

“What is it you say, Robert? Not abandoned?”

“Yes. That’s it. She told me when I come out ‘take me babes to the nuns, for I cannot feed them anymore.’ I called out to her to return, but as soon as I could get the key, she was gone into the woods.”

As Robert spoke, the children began to weep, and my heart nearly burst with it. Their clothes were gray from age and filth, and their faces were streaked with dirt and tears. Their hair was in terrible disarray, and they were mortally thin. “Did you know the mother?” I asked him, touching the closed gate. Robert shook his head and glanced helplessly toward the weeping girls. Without further consideration I unlocked the gate and stepped forward. They did not look up at me even as I rested my hands on their quivering shoulders. “Come now. You must tell me your names.”

The older of the two finally raised her head, opening wide eyes of startling blue. “My name is Jane, my lady. And this is Mary.”

I knelt so to be at eye level with them. Such sorrowful faces, and little could I blame them. “Well, Jane, you are the eldest. And it is you who must take care of your little sister, eh?” She nodded. “We must pray that your mother will be back soon. But until then, would the two of you like some bread with honey? And maybe a little milk?” As afraid as she was, Jane’s eyes lit with the promise of food, and she needed little prodding from me to enter into the cloister. “Robert,” I said over my shoulder, “please tell Father William to come as soon as he might.” I took them through the shadowed garden and along the stone walk to the undercrofts where the kitchen lay. I seated them by the fire on a bench, surprising the servants Meg and Kat Alate.

“Lady Prioress!” cried Meg. “Beggars only come to the almsdoor. Not inside.”

“This is a special case, Meg. Do we have any extra clothes for them?”

Kat curtseyed, staring with curiosity at the girls. “I’ll go look, Madam.”

As she went in search, I retreated to the buttery to get a loaf and a pot of honey. I set the bread upon the table and took up a knife. “Meg, have we any more milk?”

“It’s on the sill.”

“Could you be so good as to get a cup for them to share?”

I cut two fat slices of bread and drizzled them with honey. They all but snatched them from my hands and dug in like ravenous wolves. Meg returned with the jug and poured the milk into a clay cup and set it before them. Jane picked it up and drank the whole lot, and so Meg stooped to fill it again for Mary.

They appeared happier after they ate, but still they worried about their mother. I, too, worried over this. We were not a house for foundlings. We were barely capable of seeing to the needs of the many mouths we had to feed as it was. Which put me in a mind of those records again and how I should go about the task of running such a place. Thankfully, Father William’s entrance foiled those anxious thoughts.

He looked over the two as Meg fed them another slice of bread. He pulled me aside. “What have we here, Lady Prioress?”

“Just what you see, Father. Foundlings.”

“What do you intend to do with them?”

“Well, I should think I would take the advice of St. Benet and house them…unless you think otherwise.”

“Where, Madam, would you put them?”

“Oh, dear. There is very little room…” I glanced toward Meg, who bristled at my suggestive gaze.

“I share a very small bed with Kat, Madam,” said Meg sternly. “There is no room for two more.”

“Indeed.” Tracing the bow of my lips with my finger, I pondered. “Then I suppose I shall make room in mine.” Dame Elizabeth shared her bed with Prioress Margaret, but upon the Prioress’ death relinquished it to me. She and Cristabell now shared the other bed in the little chamber and I shared with Alice. One girl to each bed should provide enough room. That settled, I needed only to inform the sisters of our new charges.

It was later at Chapter when I did just that.

“They cannot sleep in our room!” cried Cristabell. Her eyes rounded and her dusky skin blushed a deep color. “It is not allowed, Lady Prioress.”

“I consulted first with Father William, Cristabell. If it were not allowed I should think he would have told me.”

Elizabeth sighed. As was her habit, she sucked on her protruding teeth. “We have much to do already. Are we to raise children as well as crops?”

“I understand your reluctance, but Meg and Kat can see to them for most of the day. They will be put to tasks. But they are in great need. Their own mother abandoned them and we have no way of knowing if she can be found. It could be they are already orphans.”

Cristabell intended no surrender. “We are not equipped! There is barely enough food as there is.”

“But we are one less here, sisters,” I said, glumly reminding us all of our loss. “Surely the late prioress’ food can feed two small girls.”

“—who will grow to young women,” said Cristabell with grim finality. “It does not seem the sensible thing to do.”

“Then what is the sensible thing to do, sisters? Send them on their way? To where? Are we not God’s servants? Are we not to practice charity? ‘Suffer the little children unto me,’ our Lord said. ‘Whomsoever wishes to enter the kingdom of Heaven must be like one of these.’ Perhaps they were sent here to be examples to us in our failings.”

“Are we to raise them, then? All their lives?”

“Cristabell, I think that has yet to be determined.” I reached for the comfort of my rosary, but found the ring of keys instead. “We only speak of sheltering them now in their hour of need. The mother might yet return.”

But even after many days, she did not. And the children were often vexing in their disobedience and thievery. I cautioned patience to my sisters, for what else could these innocents have been taught in their subsistence but to steal? Yet it was a trial. I wondered if I would have had the courage to leave them to a better life as their mother had done. Or was it sin that led her to this decision? We could not garner their circumstances from the children. They only confessed that the mother’s name was Maud Sharp. The vicar of Brewood could find no such name in his registry.

More than once the children’s presence made me consider how different my life might have been had I allowed Sir John to force me into marriage. I would have children of my own by now, possibly the same age as little Mary. Looking to my niece Alice, I noted how she bore a slight resemblance to me, and in her I saw what might have been. In these two foundlings, too, I saw a glimpse of another history. Two little girls.

I had heard that Thomas had a little girl. He never told me this when he made his visits. I heard it instead from those in the village.

Thomas continued to call upon us even as I tried to discourage it. His father was ever generous to this house—or so he said it was from his father. I could make little complaint, though Cristabell’s green eyes were spikes in my back.

Thomas’ daughter. The miserable thought intruded with regularity that this child might have been mine had everything been different. She was called Elizabeth after his wife’s mother. Oft I wondered what

Thomas’ offspring looked like. Was she dark like Thomas, or fair like her mother?

One little girl. Why were there no more?

My hands, unbidden, smoothed out my gown over a womb that would now never swell with a babe. I was two and thirty, a professed nun, and now prioress of a community of holy sisters. It was long past the time when I would be a mother.
‘Yes, blessed is she who, childless and undefiled, knew not transgression of the marriage bed; she shall bear fruit at the visitation of souls.’
Thus through such solemn words of scripture I was made to understand that I was a mother of many, just as our Lady was mother to all. I was mother to poor Cristabell who sorely needed one; to my own kinswoman Alice, whose mother nearly disowned her when she spoke of following her Aunt Isabella to a nunnery; to even Dame Elizabeth who was my senior by many years, and who imparted her wisdom to me. And now to two more little ones. Such a family! Even our extended family of servants looked toward me, as a brood of quail looked to their mother, for I was a mother also to Meg and Kat, to Thomas Bolde, William Morre, Tom Smith—who had not yet succumbed to Meg’s charms, to Phillipe Duffelde and our bailiff Robert Baker, and even to Father William who asked my advice on matters from time to time, deferring to me in most affairs. Blackladies was a humble place, a place of purpose, sheltering and feeding, offering work, wages, and prayer, all precariously balanced on the head of a pin made of passions and anxieties.

In short, it was like any other family in any village anywhere in the world.

Little girls had difficulty being quiet mice in a place that thrived on its silence. The old walls of Blackladies at last rang with children’s laughter, but its timbers shook uneasily. I found an unexpected joy in Jane and Mary. They loved hiding and running in the garden. It was a fairy playland to them, with its hiding hedges and aromatic blooms.