Sister Gunnhild felt that her qualities had never truly been appreci-ated and that this had militated against her on a number of occasions. She studied hard to make herself devout and cultured but others still persisted in the belief that her education was somehow suspect, and that the very fact of her Danish ancestry disabled her from becoming a true Saxon nun. Abbess Aelfgiva had valued her as a reliable workhorse rather than as the worthy successor that Gunnhild had hoped to be. She was coming around to the dispiriting view that the abbess had released her to join the priory as much to get rid of her as to provide Mindred with a wholly dependable helpmeet. It was a sobering reflection.
Sister Gunnhild was a martyr to her own unpopularity and it gave her a sometimes abrasive streak. There were compensations and she thanked God daily for them. If she could not rule her own house, she would exert a degree of control through Prioress Mindred. It was a slow process, which could not be hurried, but her position was increasingly influential and it enabled her to correct the recurring mistakes that the prioress made out of sheer inexperience. In a small community, too, relationships were more intense and she derived much pleasure from some of these. Sister Lewinna might exasperate her but the others were friendly and respectful. Then there was Sister Tecla. Thoughts of Tecla lifted Sister Gunnhild out of her bed that morning.
It was her self-appointed duty to ring the bell for Matins and start each day of the spiritual life. Other nuns found it difficult to wake at such an early hour but she could do so without apparent effort or discomfort. St. Benedict was no remote and insensitive dictator who imposed his Rule without making provision for human frailty. The order might be strict but it was shot through with an understanding of the limitations common to all. Instead of decreeing that the brothers should be torn rudely from their sleep by the clanging of the Matins bell, Benedict advised that they should first be brought from their slumbers with a gentle shake so that they were properly awake when they were summoned to the first service of the day.
Holy sisters were no less deserving than holy brothers of this act of consideration, and Sister Gunnhild shuffled out to perform it. Each of the nuns had a small, bare room off a narrow passageway and it was along this that Gunnhild now crept in the darkness. There was a set order to her morning ritual. Sister Lewinna had to be roused first because she took longest to wake and a vigorous pummelling of the shoulder had to be substituted for the soft touch of an arm, which could rouse the others. Last to be awakened was Sister Tecla. This gave her an extra minute of precious sleep and enabled Gunnhild to show her favouritism in yet another way.
Padding down the passageway, she slipped first into one room and then into another until all five nuns had been brought back to the realities of the world. Prioress Mindred slept behind a locked door and a sharp knock was used to intrude into her dreams. With duty over, Gunnhild could now turn to pleasure and she found her way to the last room.
“Wake up, Sister Tecla,” she whispered. “It is time.”
There was no groan of acknowledgement and no shifting of the blanket under which she slept. Tecla often woke as soon as Gunnhild entered the room and the excuse to touch her was taken away. Gunnhild approached the bed.
“Wake up, Tecla,” cooed Gunnhild. “It’s me.”
But her hand met no warm body and no smooth skin. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that Sister Tecla was not in her cell. Wherever could she be at that time? It was unimaginable that she was sharing a bed with one of her holy sisters, but Gunnhild nevertheless went quickly back into the passageway and checked each room more carefully. She then went to the front door of the priory but it was still bolted from the inside and locked by the key that was kept in Mindred’s quarters. Gunnhild flitted around in mild alarm until she remembered the one place where Sister Tecla might be and headed straight for it.
The garden reposed in deep shadow. A crescent moon was shedding only the most grudging tight. A distant owl joined a choir of nightingales to sing an occasional solo. Sister Gunnhild hurried out onto the grass and peered around intently, trying to make sense of the dark shapes all around her. At first she could find nothing, but a closer inspection yielded success. Sister Tecla was lying on the grass, tucked away in the far corner of the garden. Evidently, she had been there for some time and was fast asleep. Relief at having found her jostled with concern for her health and Gunnhild knelt down to bend right over her and take her by the shoulders. She rocked the supine figure with a tender hand.
“Wake up, Sister Tecla. You cannot sleep here.” She began to stir. “What …?” she mumbled. “You are in the garden. Open your eyes.”
“Who is it?” said Tecla, struggling to awake. “It’s me, Sister Gunnhild.”
“Tired …”
“You can’t lie on the grass like that.” “Fell asleep …”
“Let me help you up.” “So tired …”
Sister Tecla allowed herself to be lifted up into a sitting position and became aware of where she actually was. She rubbed her eyes and gave an involuntary shudder. It was enough to make Gunnhild throw protective arms around her.
“Oh, my poor child!” she said. “What ails you?”
Before Sister Tecla could answer, another figure stepped across the grass in the darkness and stood beside them. There was a slight note of reprimand in Prioress Mindred’s voice.
“Thank you, Sister Gunnhild,” she said. “You may ring the bell now. I will take over here.”
It was a moving service. Guy FitzCorbucion was universally disliked outside Blackwater Hall yet everyone who passed the Church of All Souls’ that morning had paid him the tribute of a passing sigh. Few wished him to be alive but the manner of his death aroused a spark of sympathy in most of the people of Maldon and they accepted his right to be buried with all due respect. In front of a full congregation, Mass was sung for the soul of the departed, then Oslac the Priest gave a short address, which struck exactly the right note. He praised Guy’s few good qualities while carefully sliding over his many bad ones, and he tried to draw positive lessons out of the searing tragedy. When the mourners followed the cortege out into the churchyard, most were weeping and some had to be steadied or even carried along.
Matilda found it totally harrowing and she clung to Jocelyn’s arm throughout, near to collapse at times and bursting into tears at the point where Guy’s body was lowered into the grave. Guy had been a destructive presence in her life but he was still her brother and the blood tie could not be denied. Part of Matilda herself was being sent into that gaping hole in the ground. Jocelyn bore up well. He was visibly shaken during the service but sensed that others would need to rely on him and that it was vital to show strength and control. Beneath the expressionless face was also a stirring of the ambition that had been ground down for so long. Guy was finally out of his way.
Hamo FitzCorbucion behaved with a restraint which few expected. He shed no tears and required no supportive hands. He subdued his anger beneath his grief and watched in mute torment as his elder son took his leave of the world. Fears that he might explode during the service were not realised and Oslac was especially relieved that the grave of Algar was neither attacked nor even reviled. The ravens looked like family members around this corpse and they were not cawing nor pecking.
When the service was over, the priest spoke first to the distraught Matilda and then to the dignified Hamo. His offer of help was well intentioned and sincere but neither would be able to take it. The daughter was too enmeshed in her own ambivalence and the father was too keen to take the edge off his sorrow by capturing his son’s killer. Most of the congregation would be returning to Blackwater Hall for the funeral bake-meats but the master of the house would not be with them. No sooner did he step off consecrated ground than he became a coarse apostate.