Roses in the Tempest (5 page)

Foljambe clenched my shoulder. “For God’s sake, Giffard!”

I took a breath and bowed low. “Forgive me, Lord George. I bespoke myself. Never would I willingly offend so bosom a companion as you are, and have ever been, to me.”

For a moment, I did not think he would capitulate, and I dreaded that I would have to draw my own blade. But after a long, dreadful pause, he rolled back his shoulders, and sheathed the weapon.

“Well, then,” said Throckmorton. “Be more cautious in your speech.”

“I shall be.” I suddenly looked at all of us, snarling and posturing like dogs. “Is this to be a wedding celebration, or a funeral?”

Foljambe relaxed first, clapping both Throckmorton and me on the shoulder. “What would you have it be, Giffard? For it is you who lamented this match since you got wind of it. Come now. The lady is agreeable and fair. What ails you? Is it your father?”

“Speak not of my father, I beg of you.”

“A wedding is a beginning, Giffard. Soon, you, too, will have sons to add to the Giffard line.”

“Already I miss my bachelorhood. Where have the days of our youth gone, Foljambe? Could it be I miss the wars in France?”

Throckmorton eased back into his chair and toyed with the hilt of his bodkin. “You think that is past?” he said slowly, coming back to himself. “The king has not yet won back his ancestral claims in France. He would best old Henry V in this and win back that which was lost. We will see the shores of France again, mark me.”

I sighed. “So many treaties. They are like spider’s webs; they have the look of strength, but it only takes the wave of a hand to tear the threads.”

Throckmorton nodded. “Treaties are forgotten before the ink is dry.”

Foljambe stretched out his long legs toward the hearth, crossing one ankle over the other. “Do you think once bridled with a wife you may not go to war, Thomas? Why do you think some wars are waged? To escape shrewish wives!”

I gnawed on a knuckle. “Will Dorothy be a shrew in time, I wonder?”

Foljambe nodded sagely. “There is no escaping it.”

“I beg the exception!” piped Throckmorton. “My wife—”

“Oh, your wife!” Foljambe waved his hand in the stifling air. “By the Mass, George! Your wife must be somewhere between that of the Holy Mother and Saint Catherine.”

“What did you say?”

“Godfrey,” I hissed. “He is full of wine. We are all full of wine. Forgive our slippery tongues, George. No harm is meant.”

“Well…” Throckmorton glanced sourly at his goblet lying across the room where he had tossed it. “The wine jug is empty.”

“And what a poor host am I!” Leaping to my feet, I swiveled, looking for a servant. “I shall call to refill them—”

Throckmorton slowly rose and stood unsteadily. “No. Let it rest. Too much we have said already. I will to bed now.”

Foljambe and I waved him away, and watched as he departed gingerly from the room. I looked at my older friend as he ticked his head at me. “You should not taunt him. He has no belly for it.”

“I cannot help my feelings for Wolsey and all his kind.”

“‘His kind.’ Does not your own father support many religious houses, Thomas? The Giffard name is stamped on half the monasteries in the region.”

“He must find profit in it, else why would he? Perhaps their prayers for him are what he buys.”

“Careful, Thomas.” He eyed the doorway but saw no servant’s shadow. “Such talk can become troublesome to you.”

“It is no secret to buy yourself out of purgatory. But it will take far more than a few shillings into a handful of convents to shorten his stay, I’ll warrant.”

“And what of your own? Such loose talk will raise the ire of the Almighty. It has certainly bedeviled Throckmorton tonight.”

“I do not over-worry about my soul. God will do with me what He sees fit. I will not purchase my way to Heaven.”

“Only through the shire.”

I laughed at that, for my agreeing to marry Dorothy despite my principled speeches showed I was more than willing to use a wife to gain a fortune. I lifted my goblet. “Here is to the Montgomery lands.”

“To your imminent nuptials. May its issue be as profitable as its grants!”

Midsummer, 1515

Blackladies

Brewood, Staffordshire

V

Gather my faithful ones before me,

those who made a covenant with me by sacrifice.

–Psalm 50:5

The look on my brother Robert’s face when he led me to the priory’s august stone arch gave me pause. “Robert! Why is your look so pale?”

“I cannot believe you are doing this willingly, Isabella. It is that damned Sir John. He has coerced you.”

“Is that your fear? Robert, you give me too much credit for obedience. Do you truly think Sir John could force me to this?”

“Well and why not? His son is beguiling enough.”

I reddened. “There will be no talk against Thomas Giffard, Robert. I have told you before…”

“But you would not be here now except for him. Oh Isabella! Reconsider. Is this truly the life for you?”

“It is very much for me. And you are wrong about Lord Thomas. If it were not for him, I should have been here sooner.”

He examined me sternly from head to foot. With fingers curled into fists, my brother—who paid me so little heed while we were children—seethed with injustice. “Just tell me true. Are you a virgin?”

I closed my eyes. Of course he should think it. Even Father accused me when I told him of my decision. I should be appalled at the question, but it was not without reason. “Yes,” I exhaled, opening my eyes in time to witness his slackening shoulders. “You have it wrong about Lord Thomas and me. I told you.”

“Then how in the name of God did you meet, Isabella? I mean…what did he see in you?”

I tried not to frown. I knew he did not mean the words to hurt, yet he always used me ill. Didn’t I already know how plain I was? “I was fifteen. When I was on my way to market, he ran me into a muddy ditch with his horse. I scolded him for recklessness.”

“You did what?”

“I scolded him. Told him he was a lucky fool he did not kill me. We were fast friends ever since. It seems no one dared speak to him that way before, and he desperately needed it.”

He shook his head. “Only you, Isabella. Anyone else would be carted off to gaol!”

“It is honesty which makes a better world, Robert. We could all stand to be more honest with one another.”

Robert grew silent until the reality of where we stood intruded. We both turned as the door opened. Light from a hearth spilt into the portico, revealing the bailiff in the doorway. “God be with you,” he said, raising his eyes under a bush of brows. He wore workman’s clothes and was youthful, possibly Robert’s age.

“I have come to submit myself to your prioress,” I said, until Robert clutched my arm.

“She will not!” He pulled me back, but the bailiff lurched forward to my rescue.

“Here!” said the bailiff. “She looks to be of age. How old are you, Mistress?”

“I am five and twenty, and have made my own mind on the matter.”

The bailiff glared at Robert. “Is this your…your…”

“I am his sister.” My answer smoothed the bailiff’s expression and he turned again to me.

“If you come willingly, Mistress, I shall take you to the prioress. If your brother will take his leave…”

Robert turned to me, and I stared into his puzzled expression. “Isabella, at any time, I shall come to fetch you.” A mix of new emotion rolled within his eyes. Was it love that propelled him, or was it the loss of the steadiness of our proper places? He dropped his face down close to mine and whispered, “Are you certain?”

“Robert,” I sighed. “What other choice is there for me?”

“You can marry. Have children. A hearth of your own. Why must you be so stubborn?”

His tone was kind at first, but the last was uttered with his familiar exasperation at the older sister he never understood and could not control. I searched his brown eyes for compassion, eyes very like an ox’s with its moist vacancy. His rounded nose and thin mouth gave him a similar appearance to Father, which wrung from me my usual impatience with him. “It is only walking out of one door and into another. It is a natural course for me. You view it as shutting away, but I see it as the place in which I have always been. I find my comfort in solitude and chores. What better place than to be with women who share this view?”

“But a husband—”

“—would get in the way of it.” I laughed, only a quick, nervous burst of mirth before quieting. “Perhaps I hunger for more religion, Robert. We sowed precious little of it in our house, you must admit.”

“That is why I ask you, Isabella. Such a sudden turn at piety makes me suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what? My intentions? Perhaps piety is what I need. Perhaps the rest of my life was the selfish part. Perhaps I need to devote my time and thought to God. It is a worthy pursuit, Robert. As worthy as being a wife, surely.”

He mulled my words, but plainly he saw I was immovable. “Very well, Isabella. If it is your will. But…let us know how you fare. Is that well with you?” he asked of the bailiff.

The bailiff shrugged and gestured to me to come in. I glanced back at Robert, forced a smile, and then moved forward. The bailiff led me to a small courtyard and an iron gate. A bell hung at the top and he pulled on the rope several times, creating a jangling carillon. We waited, and it was only then that I noticed my heart pounding.

It seemed that many minutes passed, but I knew my own nervousness slowed the crawl of the sundial’s shadow. At last, careful footsteps approached, and then the dark shade of a woman opened the heavy door. She wore the black St. Benet habit, hence the unflattering but adhering designation of this house: Blackladies.

I did not choose this particular house. There were many to choose from, including another nearby in Brewood, the “Whiteladies” of the Augustinian order. But Sir John—who was a generous benefactor to this poor house in Brewood—wrote a letter of my character to give to Prioress Margaret. It was useless to refuse. Apparently, he chose carefully; it took me far from Caverswall where Thomas lived. I said no farewells to Thomas. God knows how he reacted to the news of my decision.

But of course, he should be married soon and forget me.

The sister approached the gate and peered at the bailiff and then me. A white wimple framed her face. She wore a heavy black veil draped overall. Her gown was also black, as was the scapular before and aft of her, tied loosely with a dark cord on which hung a rosary and a ring of keys. Her green eyes were small and rimmed with red, with pale and stubby lashes fanning outward.

“What is it?” she asked without preamble.

“I…I wish to present myself to the prioress.” The nun’s stare cut through me, and I lowered my eyes. Though my resolve was certain, it seemed to have scurried a few paces away.

“Why?”

I raised my head at that, clutching my mantle as a gust of wind swayed it. Why so much opposition? First my family, and now this. I tried to keep exasperation out of my voice. “To become a holy sister, of course.”

Momentarily animated, the nun’s thin brows arched and just as quickly lowered. “Indeed,” she muttered, unlocking the gate. She swung it aside and the metal rasped. “Come,” she said, waiting for me to step within before locking it again.

I looked back at the bailiff with thanks, but he had already departed. My eyes drew instead to the dark skirts before me snuffling against the ground.
It is only another door
, I told myself. Only another door.

The nun led me down a drafty hall whose floorboards creaked with each of our steps. All the windows were solidly shuttered, for I sensed from a cursory glance that none of them had glass. We climbed a staircase where scant light bloomed from one lonely candle ensconced on a wall in the middle of the gallery. It was raised higher than it used to sit, its former place on the plaster easily discerned by the holes and its soot-stenciled pattern. Squinting, my eyes darted, absorbing the strangely dim surroundings. With a cold pang in my chest, I regretted allowing my brother Robert to depart so soon.

The strong scent of beeswax and oil filled the gallery, and its shining wainscoting at least told of great care. But my fears were reawakened when we passed the nimbus of that one fat candle and entered into a secluded corner and its veil of shadows. Here the sister stopped and knocked confidently on a door I did not at first notice. Without waiting for a reply, the nun pulled the latch and pushed opened the door, slicing the gallery’s gloom with a flat rectangle of light.

Prioress Margaret glanced up from the folding table, still squinting from her close work on a paper. The quill poised in her hand, and her fingertips were black with ink. “
Deo Gratias
,” she said.

“
Benedictio
,” replied the nun.

“Dame Cristabell,” said the prioress, though she eyed me instead of the nun. “What is it?”

“Madam,” Cristabell said, inclining her head. “This young lady seeks to become a holy sister.”

“Indeed.” With the prioress’ full attention now focused on me, I shrank. She waved the quill at Dame Cristabell, dismissing her. “It is customary that your mother or mistress accompany you for such presentation.”

“My mother is dead, Madam. And I have no mistress. Indeed, I have been mistress of my father’s farm for many years.”

“Yet you come alone. Your name, my dear?”

“Isabella Launder.”

“Launder. Launder. I know no Launders in Brewood, do I?”

“No, Madam. We hail from Beech.”

“How came you here, then?”

Nervous fingers searched in my scrip and pulled forth the letter from Sir John. I then lifted the pouch of coins also from the scrip, and placed it on the folding table that served as her desk.

The prioress read the note laboriously, her lips forming the silent words until she reached the end, and with brows lifted she lowered the page. “However did you acquire the wrath of Sir John Giffard?”

“I have not angered Sir John,” I said tightly. “The letter says nothing of that. It was my choice to come, and mine alone.”

“Which is why you come unaccompanied? This generous stipend. Is this only Sir John’s displaying his esteem for you?”

“Your lack of charity appalls, Madam.” It came out a husky whisper, but audible enough for the prioress to frown and set down the letter and quill before rising.

Had I not suffered enough? I wanted desperately to turn away and march out of that room, but realized there was nowhere to go.

Prioress Margaret—shorter, composed, and small beneath her loose gown that seemed too large for her diminutive frame—approached and stopped before me. At first, her imperious manner hid the small unsightly details of her appearance; how her skirts were mended with patches slightly greyer than the deep black of the gown; how the hem was frayed, threads following her like shadows. Even the bleached wimple showed signs of age and repair.

The prioress’ hands were lined and bony with a sprinkling of dark, age spots. Her face did not seem so old, though when she stood closer, I noted how that face was drawn with lines down either side of the nose, and creases crossing the line of her thin dry lips.

I was still young, even at five and twenty. How long would it be before my features took on this craggy landscape? And what would it matter? It might even add distinction to an average appearance.

“You think I lack charity?” asked Prioress Margaret. “I think you lack honesty, Mistress Launder. You are obviously willful, and so have been sent on this course to put you in a better mind and temperament. But we are neither school nor gaol. What we are is a home for women who wish to be here. I cannot stomach a woman who would be mistress of this manor. We are too small and too poor a house for that arrogance. And of course,” she said, eyes shining, “that position is already filled.” She eyed the round-bellied pouch as it nestled on the table like a hen over her eggs. “Though Sir John has been most generous to us in the past, I can easily turn aside his…his…donation…in order to allow you to return to your home.”

Studying her severe yet sincere eyes, I considered. It was an honorable retreat she offered. There was little shame in changing one’s mind from such a step, though left with no better choices than before, I could see no alternative.

I stiffened my narrow shoulders. “The truth of it, Lady Prioress, is that my being here is a convenience to Sir John. But I am here as neither a convenience nor an obedient servant to his will or any other man’s. It is simply that I cannot see myself wed. It is unnatural to me. I am pleased to make this place my home in any capacity you deem proper. But my ultimate aim is to enter here, and never leave it.”

A ghost of a smile flickered at the edges of the prioress’ tight lips. “Your desire seems strong. It will take a strong desire to live this life. That will of yours must be surrendered for the good of the community, and your obedience to me and your fellow sisters here is expected and necessary. I trust obedience to women will not inconvenience you.”

She smiled, but I was mortified.
Oh Isabella! When will you ever learn to govern that razor tongue!
Though small, Prioress Margaret looked to be a formidable woman. Was she cruel? Kind? There was no way to read it in her shadowed eyes.