Roses in the Tempest (14 page)

“Not as I would hope.”

She caught the petulance in my voice and manner before I could hide them, and sternly fastened her eyes upon me. “You must not hope in that vein, Thomas. Hope instead in the grace of your future life in Heaven. I will pray for that.”

Leaning against the stone arch, I kicked at the walk with my spur, fanning bits of gravel with each stroke. She chastened right good, yet behind her solemn expression was one of fondness, and my body responded, crying out to embrace her. “Your prayers, Isabella,” I said softly, pushing away from the wall, “are far more worthy than mine. Do pray for me.” I stood beside her, close enough to touch, though I dared not. “I am assured Heaven from such lips.”

Wisely she did not raise her eyes to mine. “Thomas, if you cannot control your words to me, then you best not come again. I value our friendship, but you take too many liberties.”

“Madam, you expect a great deal from me. My feelings for you have never altered.”

She whirled on me, her black habit giving more the appearance of a raven than a virgin. “And when did you realize this great love for me? When, Thomas? When you discovered I was a novice here? Untouchable? Safe?”

I frowned. “I know what you are implying. That is insulting and quite beneath you. Who understands the workings of the heart, or the moment of those workings?” I paced, feeling the solid stone of the cloister arcade beneath my boots, the intensity of those steps echoing back to me. “And you, Lady Prioress,” I accused, turning on her. “When did you acknowledge this passion for me? Hmm? This passion you say you deny? Once you were just as safe? A happy spinsterhood, this. You, too, can enjoy your romantic longing, as is the fashion. Guinevere to my Lancelot.”

She looked as if she would strike me. I would have welcomed the relief. Instead, she stepped slightly away and bit her lip, causing a crimson line to momentarily brighten her mouth to pink. Still as tall as I, she could not hide her face, and I saw how I won my vengeance in the hurt of her eyes. She breathed a sigh, and with it her plain words: “I was sixteen when I loved you first. A hopeless love.”

All my thunder was suddenly spent, and all the blame with it. My mouth fell open in an unexpected moan of repentance. “That long?” I had no idea, never a clue. Was I so very ignorant and blind? Did she love me through all the times I spoke of women, lamenting with a young man’s heart my love for one noble creature after another, my conquests with wenches? Was I that heartless a knave to have never noticed the sad shadows in her eyes because I did not deem her face beautiful? Oh, but how beautiful she was to me now! And how I would make amends if only I could.

I turned from her to hide my horror.

“We have been friends, Thomas,” she went on. “Why should it change so? We can pretend that these moments never occurred. We can be Thomas and Isabella as we always were when we were young.”

Yes. When we were young. Harboring your love of me and my never knowing it. Fie on my own faithless heart!
“That is not enough,” I heard myself say aloud.

“It is all there is.”

“All or nothing? I am not given to submitting to ultimatums, Madam.”

“A self-imposed ultimatum, then. Truly,” she said, puffing an exaggerated sigh. “I have not the time nor stamina to argue with you. I have a priory to run.” Strong as an oak, I believed Isabella capable of anything, yet all at once her will seemed to crumble, and she suddenly burst into tears.

I knelt to her. “Do not weep, Isabella! I will do anything you say!”

“No, no. It is not for that.” She cast the backs of her hands over her face, wiping the tears away with blunt artlessness. “I am not worthy to run this house! Why did the bishop select me?”

It was natural to enfold her in my arms. I allowed her to weep into my shoulder, filling my nose with the sweet, warm scent of her. The woolen veil and the precious head beneath pressed against my cheek. I closed my eyes and remained the courtier.

“The books,” she muttered, pulling herself slowly away. “I know nothing of books, Thomas. I cannot make heads or tails of them, but I must, for I am bound to send an accounting regularly to the bishop.”

“The books? Is that all that disturbs you?” I took her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. I wiped a tear from her face with my finger. “Why, I can decipher a set of books standing on my head.”

At length, that image must have clarified in her mind, for she suddenly smiled and even laughed. “Your head need not be so inconvenienced, Lord Thomas, if you would but put your mind to the reading of them. I should be very grateful, Thomas, if you would.”

“I am your servant, Madam,” and I bowed.

There followed many a pleasant afternoon in her parlor correcting her accountings, while she occupied herself with some bit of mending by the window.

It was as close to domesticity as we could come.

AUGUST, 1521

Blackladies

XV

I, then, a prisoner for the Lord, urge you to live in a manner worthy of the call you have received, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another through love, striving to preserve the unity of the spirit through the bond of peace…

–Ephesians 4:1-3

On my knees before the crucifix and sheltered within the cloister of my veil, I found peace such as I have never known. In my younger years, I imagined I sowed such peace in my garden, or in those few heart-thumping moments when Thomas Giffard deigned to visit my father’s farm. I thought that religion came through common work, the sacrifice of the day to labor. But I was wrong. True, in these things we prove our love of God and man, but I found—quite late in my career as nun and prioress—that prayer is the food that feeds the inner self. It would seem obvious to an outsider, but I myself felt like such an outsider for so long that I never took a moment to understand the true good of prayer. It cracks the hard shell of pride, and picks through to the meat of our souls, our true selves.

My solitary time in the chapel in the late afternoon was my favorite moment of the day. We strove for that sense of community when we are in prayer during the Divine Office, yet our Lord often went alone to His prayers to teach us the wisdom of this most private vocation.

And so I knelt.

In the chapel, the day washed the crucifix with clean country light, as amber as honey, as golden as the throne of God. There was no sound but for the finches in the trees outside, their song muffled by the roof, and the terribly still air of August.

When I noticed myself again, it was to look down upon my hands. My flesh was impressed with the wooden beads of the rosary. Had I finished the last decade of prayers? Had I slumbered? Somewhere between prayers and peace is something akin to sleep, but not sleep. A meditation so deep it might be construed as sleep.

I have, indeed, grown into my habit.

Even though the occasional girlish thought of Thomas flit through my mind, it was stamped down through the grace of God, and I reformed my mind to more constructive contemplation. It was not to say I was free of worries. For the letter from the bishop stating his intention to visit bored a hole in the scrip I wore on my belt. (He took to writing in English—bless him—for we informed him there was not a nun among us who could read Latin.)

I gazed up at the humble statue of the Virgin, nestled in the shadow of the crucifix. “Ask your Son to watch over us. There is still so much discord, and I would not grieve the bishop with our contentiousness.”

As if on cue, Cristabell entered, bowing to the crucifix.

“Deo Gratias.”
I acknowledged her with a gentle nod.

“The bishop arrives tomorrow,” she said, omitting the formal greeting to me.

“Yes. I hope all is ready.”

“Indeed. There is great anticipation. There will be much to report to his Excellency.”

Stiffly, I turned my head to look upon her expression of triumph. It brought me to my feet. “What mischief do you speak, Cristabell? Out with it! I have endured your taunting for too many years. You respect me not, even as I stand before you as your prioress.”

“Respect you? In all your sin? I do not think you will be prioress much longer.”

“Oh? Do you think I will step down? Is it that you desire so much to be this convent’s prioress? If that were the case I should step aside now.”

“I do not desire to be prioress.”

“Just as long as I am not? I will not step down, Cristabell. Not from pride, nor from vengeance, but because I was chosen. I will serve this community as I have professed so to do.”

“We will see. After I speak to the bishop, the choice will be out of your hands.”

“And what of thievery?”

“Thievery?” Her head in its veil cocked to one side, rather like a magpie deciding what part of the worm to devour first.

“Thievery, Dame,” I answered, quieting. “I keep myself busy in this convent, performing my duties in the garden and its environs. Including the beehives. As you must know, Meg and I extract the honey and attend the honey pots in the larder. I am often in and around them. I see much, but am observed little.” Her face, so animated in its regard of me and my disgrace, flattened to paleness. “There is little that escapes my scrutiny in the larder, Dame. I see those who toil and those who despoil.”

“And?”

“And you, Cristabell.”

She bristled. “Me? What lies are these?”

“Not lies. I did see you. On more than one occasion. You were eating the honey right from the pots. Oh not such a noticeable amount…yet there you were.”

“So! Biding your time you would denounce me in revenge! Honey pots! Such a crime!”

“More than honey pots. The alms box as well. I found the coins in your bed.” She glared at me wild-eyed. “Why, Cristabell? Why secret these meager coins? To what end?”

She did not change her posture. Chin still raised, her eyes glittered their challenge, until an eyelash flickered. Of a sudden she cried out so loudly that I pitched back in surprise. “To what end?” she proclaimed. “To leave this place!”

“Leave?”

“Do you think I can remain here and watch you and your lover?”

“Cristabell!”

“Do you think I can serve you in all your wantonness? I was saving that money to leave here—this place, this village—and find a new life.”

“Leave the cloister? But Cristabell…” I clutched the statue’s foot for support, never taking my eyes from her scowling, tear-streaked face. Pain twisted her lips, gnarling them to hateful contortions. “How can you leave your home? Your vows?”

“When the bishop can appoint the likes of you as prioress, then there is no choice but to leave or be a hypocrite.”

“Hear me, Cristabell.” I grasped her hands before she could quit the chapel. She wrestled with me but I, the stronger, held her firm. “Thomas is only an old friend. A dear friend. And yes. There was a time when his advances would have cheered my heart. But that day is long gone. I am a devoted sister of this house. I love this life and this Church. I would never leave it for any man. Never!”

A horrible silence followed. Cristabell’s eyes glossed. Their green irises fluctuated from sage to loden until they drew wide with great, shimmering orbs of tears. “I would!” she cried, a wrenching, soulful wail. Her hands yanked free of mine, and she fell to her knees, weeping into her hands with terrible rasping breaths. “Had my Edward come for me, I would have gone. If he came tomorrow I would still go!”

For a long moment I stood looking down at her as she bobbed over her hands, keening inconsolably. Slowly, I crouched before her and drew her against my chest. “Tell me how you came here.”

Remarkably, she leaned into me, her veiled head just under my chin. Her voice was even again, though her tears still flowed upon my gown. “I was sixteen. He was seventeen. My mother found us together. We were to wed. We promised ourselves to each other. What did it matter if I were a maid no longer?”

She sat up and dragged her arm over the tears of her face. “My mother brought me here, told me it was for to save my soul because it was in danger from my sins. Edward vowed to rescue me. But…he never came. I thought, someday I could find him—”

“But that was sixteen years ago. Surely he himself is wed and committed. It was long enough ago for him to have—”

“No! He would not have forgotten me! He would not have forsaken me! Something must have prevented him.”

“But your vows…”

“And what of yours?” She pushed away from me. “You forsook your vows with that man. Why should you be the only one to indulge in her lusts? Why should I wither away like Prioress Margaret, when I can have what you have?”

“Cristabell! What I have? What I have is you, and Dame Elizabeth, and Dame Alice, and Jane and Mary. Thomas wants me, yes. But I am not his to have. I am the Lord’s. I am promised to Him alone. Can you not see that? Why will you not believe me?”

“I can believe my own eyes!”

“You see wrong, Cristabell.”

“I see you have harbored this information about me only to bide your time, waiting for the best opportunity to denounce me. Well, now you have more against me. I suppose the bishop will instruct you to chain me in the dormitory.”

I rose, my bones aching from the stone floor and from Cristabell’s dreadful expression of vindictiveness. “I will not tell him. In fact, I have told no one of your thievery. Not even my confessor.”

“What? You lie! Another brazen deceit!”

“Are you so blinded by jealousy that you cannot see the truth when held up to your eyes? Cristabell, know me! And know that I have no intention of allowing you to leave. But not with chains. By your own will.”

“Why would I stay? So you can lord these secrets over me, using them at your will?”

Exasperated, I turned away. “You can tell the bishop what you like. If it suits you to renounce me falsely, then do it. And when the bishop himself asks me what has gone between Thomas Giffard and myself I will tell him the truth: That I am a faithful servant to this house. That I am a maid. That I know Thomas loves me…”

Thomas’ face flashed before my eyes, his insolent smile, his glittering dark eyes, his graceful body. How composed I thought I was! But unexpectedly, desperate emotions welled within me, grasping my heart, squeezing with the pain of longing. I gasped aloud all my desires, all my soul, “—and…and I love him, too! Oh God!” Never before did I speak those words aloud. Even after all my years under the guidance of God and His house, after all my prayers and devotions, even then, only under a thin crust, my heart burned for Thomas, for his forbidden touch.

I had only fooled myself, thinking prayer could keep me safe. Was I to become like Cristabell, in mourning and waiting forever?

I wiped the tears from my cheeks, and slowly turned toward her. Her cheek shined with a triumphant glow. “We can help each other,” I said quietly. “We can be true sisters, if only you would let me. We are more alike than you might wish to admit.”

“No. I am not like you.”

“We can help each other.”

“We will let the bishop decide. You with your tale, and me with mine.”

“I will tell him nothing about you.”

“Only as long as I say nothing.”

“No! Whether you speak or not, I will say nothing.”

Stiff as a pillar, she stood and eyed me, marshaling all the forces of her mistrustful aspect.

Just then, Alice thrust her head into the chapel and, breathless, hissed at me. “Lady Prioress! The bishop is here!”

“A full day early,” I muttered, catching my breath. I wiped my tears with the back of a hand. Turning to Cristabell, I sighed. “A day less for you to decide what to do.”

“I need no time to decide.”

“Very well.” I hitched up my hem. “You must do what your conscience tells you. May God have mercy.” Hem high, I ran after Alice as she hurried to the gate. Cristabell scurried to help Dame Elizabeth, and they both turned the corner when the Bishop appeared with his retainers and Father William. I unlocked the gate, whereupon we took our turns kneeling and kissing his ring. He celebrated the Divine Office with us, and through his presence I was able to capture some peace of mind where Cristabell was concerned. I tried not to worry over it, but my heart was heavy at what she would tell him. I was innocent of her lies, but it would destroy me nonetheless. How certain were Elizabeth and Alice that Thomas and I did not indulge in improprieties? How could they support me in so insupportable a claim? Why did I allow him access where he surely should not be? I should be censured. There was no doubt, but still I wanted it kept as it was, like a flower pressed into a book of memories. I should be ashamed. I should have confessed it all. A thousand times, I knew I should have.

I took Bishop Blythe on a tour of the grounds, taking care to show him our many improvements. Though I could tell he was askance at our poverty, he was clearly surprised and pleased at the meal we offered him of squab and pottage as well as our cheese, damsons, and white bread. We had no wine to give, but beer and mead were plentiful.

“You set a fine table, Lady Prioress,” he said to me. We ate with Elizabeth and Cristabell in the hall, but we were unaccustomed to speaking during mealtimes. There were so few visitors and Thomas never stayed long enough to dine.

Often, I glanced at Cristabell. Very soon, I knew, this might be the last time anyone addressed me as “Lady Prioress.” Perhaps it was for the best.

“We do our best with what we can devise, Your Excellency.”

“Yes. But the rest of the priory is—how shall I say—in wont of care, Lady Prioress.”

“If you mean by such words that the buildings are in decline, then I can only agree with you. We have only so many workers and so little in funds to be able to repair, it is hardly a wonder.”

“Your reports to me are ever optimistic, Lady Prioress. I do not understand this turn.”

“Bishop Blythe,” I began kindly, “I wrote in honesty of our progress here. But never did I consider buildings a main source of what we were to accomplish. You see us as we are: humble servants.” I glanced at my fellow nuns for concurrence, but they all had the look of deer caught by poachers.