Baldon priory was a recent foundation, which had blended so quickly and so easily into its surroundings that it seemed always to have been there. The regular tolling of its little bell was almost as familiar a sound in the town as the incessant cries of its gulls and it was taken for granted in the same way. Some nunneries were simply a part of double-houses and Mass was celebrated by a resident staff of chaplains under the supervision of a chapter priest, but the priory was essentially a female enclave. There were those who maintained that women should be spared the full rigours of the Benedictine Order with its regime of self-denial and its emphasis on the importance of manual labour. Prioress Mindred did not share this view and made few concessions to soften the lives of her nuns. Eight times a day, they entered the miniscule chapel to sing the sequence of offices and each one of them accepted Chapter Forty-eight of the Rule with its unequivocal stipulation-“Idleness is the enemy of the soul. Therefore, the brothers should work with their hands at fixed times of day, and at other fixed times should read sacred works.” What was prescribed for the brothers, the prioress believed, should also apply to holy sisters. They, too, had souls.
“Has all been well in my absence, Sister Gunnhild?”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.”
“Have you met with any problems?”
“None.”
“No misbehaviour to report?”
“Not while I have been in charge here.”
Prioress Mindred was alone in her quarters with the stout Sister Gunnhild, who was far and away the most senior and experienced nun at the convent. Gunnhild was a Dane and old enough to remember when a Danish King, Cnut, sat on the throne of England and ruled the country with a mixture of harsh statute and Christian precept. She had been a bride of Christ infinitely longer than Mindred herself and was far more qualified for the office of prioress, but she did not dwell on that thought and instead bent herself readily to the latter’s command. Lady Mindred was the widow of a Saxon nobleman, who had left her with substantial wealth and a deep emptiness at the centre of her existence. Since it was her money that founded the priory, she was the natural choice as its first mother and she was delighted when the Abbess of Barking assigned Sister Gunnhild to Maldon to assist her. Mindred’s high ideals and Gunnhild’s practical experience were a potent combination.
“We are pleased to have you back, Reverend Mother.” “Thank you, Sister Gunnhild.”
“How did you find them all at Barking?”
“In good spirits. The abbess sends you her love.”
“I hope you conveyed mine to her,” said Gunnhild.
“To her and to the holy sisters. You are greatly missed there.” The prioress smiled. “But what they have lost, we have certainly gained. You are a foundation stone, Gunnhild.”
“I serve God in the way that He chooses for me.” “You are an example to us all.”
“So are you, Reverend Mother.”
Gunnhild’s face was still so hidden by her wimple that only her nose and eyes could be properly seen. Some of those who had come to the priory were still too bound up in the vanities of the world and they had to be taught to neglect their beauty, conceal their hair, and subdue any bodily charms behind the black anonymity of their habits. The severity of a Gunnhild was the desired target to which all the sisters-with greater or lesser degrees of success-endeavoured to aim, but not all of them were fired with the same devotion as the Danish nun. Some had resorted to the cloister because they could find no earthly bridegroom or because they needed a refuge from the continuing turmoil of Norman occupation. Prioress Mindred-herself a late convert to the notion of living in a religious house-was determined to allow no laxity in her tiny community and to turn her nuns into truly spiritual beings, whatever their original motives for taking the veil. In this work, as in every other aspect of the daily round at the priory, Sister Gunnhild’s help was absolutely crucial.
A scrunching noise took their attention to the window, which looked out on the garden. They caught a glimpse of bodies bent in toil with rake and hoe. Noblewomen who had never before done manual work of any kind were going about their allotted tasks in the warm sunshine. There was the faintest whisper of complacence in Mindred’s voice.
“We are moving forward,” she said. “We had to employ carpenters to build this priory and some masons to erect the chapel but our holy sisters have created the garden out of a wilderness. Our kitchens already cook vegetables that we have grown ourselves and our own fruit trees will yield their harvest in a year or two.” She glanced across at the embroidered portrait, which hung on the wall. “St. Benedict was right. Idleness is truly the enemy of the soul.”
“Work has its own dignity,” said Gunnhild humbly, “and women may learn its value in the same way as men.”
“Work and study. It is the perfect life for all.” She indicated the books that lay on the table beside her. “We brought these gifts back from Abbess Aelfgiva. They will enrich our minds and provide spiritual nourishment.”
“May I see them, Reverend Mother?”
“Please do.”
“Our library is expanding,” said Gunnhild, picking up the books one by one in her pudgy fingers to examine them. “These are exceptional gifts. I look forward to being able to peruse these works in detail. They are suitable additions to our stock and will guide the minds of our holy sisters in the right direction. Especially Sister Lewinna.”
“Sister Lewinna?”
“I caught her reading Aesop’s Fables again.” “That is no disgrace. I donated the copy myself.” “Sister Lewinna was laughing.”
“Aesop has a strong sense of humour.”
“There is no place for laughter here,” said Gunnhild earnestly. “I had to impress that upon Lewinna. She still has much to learn. Aesop was no Christian and his tales of animals may lead a lighter mind astray.”
Prioress Mindred did not entirely agree but she had no wish to take issue with Sister Gunnhild. The library helped to shape the character of the nuns. Lady Mindred was an educated widow who had presented an English translation of Aesop because she felt its harmless stories embodied eternal truths about the human condition. Gunnhild was a cultured nun who had read the author in the original Greek and found it streaked with a levity she thought unbecoming. It was one small instance of the differences that existed, at a deep and largely unacknowledged level, between the two women.
There was work to do. During her absence, the prioress had left all the administrative chores to Gunnhild but she now had to take up the reins herself. It was time to go through the priory account book, a volume of such functional solemnity that it was in no danger of provoking Aesopian amusement. As Gunnhild took her place at the table beside her prioress, she touched on a subject that had caused her deep anxiety.
“Sister Tecla has told me of your ordeal,” she said. “It was most unfortunate.”
“The world is not safe when holy nuns can be set upon by a band of
robbers. I beg of you not to stir from here again unless it be with a larger escort.”
“The journey was imperative, Sister Gunnhild.” “I appreciate that.”
“And we did have the strong arm of St. Oswald to guard us on our way home. He saved our lives.” “God bless the noble saint!” “Honest men came to our rescue.” “So I heard from Sister Tecla.”
“They were kind and considerate to us,” said Mindred as she recalled me commissioners. “I am a true Saxon with a natural fear of Norman soldiers but nobody could have offered us finer protection or more congenial company.”
“Perhaps too congenial.” “Why do you say that?”
“Out of concern for Sister Tecla.” Gunnhild voiced her criticism in tones of complete humility. “It is not for me to question your decisions, Reverend Mother, because my duty is to obey at all times and I do so willingly. When these men came to your aid, it was natural for you to express your thanks and accept their protection. But Sister Tecla should not have been exposed to conversation with them. She took the veil to avoid the world of men and she was distressed by the closeness of their questioning.”