playful sorties among the trees and sporadic bursts of song. The mighty oaks and beeches, the cool glades, and the sudden patches of open land reminded Gervase very much of Savernake, but Ralph was thinking only of their destination.
“I hate the sea,” he confided.
“Why?” said Gervase.
“Because you can never control those damnable waves. In the last resort, you’re always at their mercy. That was the only part of the invasion that frightened me-crossing the channel. I’ll fight any man on dry land without a qualm but do not ask me to sail into battle again.”
“Is that why you stayed in England?” “It is part of the reason.”
“You inherited estates back in Normandy.”
“Yes, Gervase, beautiful pastureland near Lisieux but there were richer pickings over here. And no voyage to endure across choppy waters.”
“You will never make a sailor, Ralph.”
“The very sight of the sea makes my stomach heave.” “Then you’ll have a queasy time of it in Maldon.”
“That is why I am so keen to get there, discharge our business as
swiftly as possible, and leave.”
“It may not be as simple as that.” “We must make it simple.”
“There may be problems and delays.”
Ralph slapped a thigh. “Sweep them aside.”
They were riding slowly in pairs past a copse of silver birch. Ralph and Gervase led the column. Behind them were four soldiers followed by Canon Hubert and Brother Simon. Four more soldiers brought up the rear with baggage-horses trailing from lead reins. Ralph and his knights were all mounted on destriers, sturdy war-horses that had been trained for battle and had already proven themselves in combat. The animals could run straight at a mark without guidance from their riders and they could be trusted not to bolt during a charge. Like his men, Ralph sat in a padded war-saddle with high guard-boards at the front and the back to protect his waist and loins. When business had drawn them to Savernake, they had only ventured into the neighboring county and four knights had been deemed a sufficient escort. This time they were striking out much further from their base in Winchester and Ralph had selected eight of his best men to accompany them into a county known for its hostility towards the Normans.
Gervase Bret rode a hackney, a brown beast that was sound in
wind and limb but lacking any of the breeding so evident in the destriers. Canon Hubert’s donkey was picking its way beside Brother
Simon’s pony, a gaunt, flea-bitten creature from Devonshire that matched its rider perfectly in its shuffling angularity. Simon was trying to minimise the discomfort of travel by meditating on the psalms but Hubert had more earthly concerns.
“We should reach Barking Abbey soon,” he said. “I hope they will
have suitable refreshment for us.”
“I am not hungry, Canon Hubert.” “Food keeps body and soul together.”
“Will we stay there long?” asked Simon anxiously.
“As long as I deem necessary. Why?”
“I do not like the company of women.” “They are holy nuns.”
“Females unsettle me.”
“Fight hard, Brother Simon,” urged Hubert with a stern counte-nance. “Subdue your fleshly desires. Be true to your vow of chastity and control your lewd inclinations.”
The monk was thrown into disarray. “But I have no lewd inclinations!” he exclaimed. “I have never known what lust is nor ever wished to learn. All I am saying is that I seek and prefer the company of men. I feel safe among them. I have an appointed place. With women, I have no idea what to say and how to say it. They unnerve me.”
“Even when they are brides of Christ?” “Especially then.”
Brother Simon took refuge once more in the psalms and buried himself so deep in contemplation that he did not even notice the buildings that began to conjure themselves out of the trees in the middle distance. Painful experience had brought him around to the view that the best way to deal with members of the opposite sex was to pretend that they were not actually there. His own mother-now long dead-had herself been consigned to the realms of nonexist-ence. Simon preferred to believe that he had been brought into the world by a more spiritual agency than the female womb.
The thriving village was one of the earliest Saxon settlements in Essex. Situated at the head of Barking Creek, it was largely a fishing community but religion had invested its name with a greater significance. Barking Abbey was the most famous nunnery in England and its distinguished history went back over four centuries. Erkenwald, Bishop of London, had built abbeys at Chertsey and Barking. While he himself ruled at the former, his sister, Ethelburga, became abbess of the later, partly to serve God more dutifully and partly to avoid marriage to the pagan King of Northumbria. Both brother and sister were later canon-ized and their relics produced a steady crop of miracles over succeeding years. Ethelburga was not the only nun whose path to sainthood at Barking Abbey involved a detour around an unwanted husband.
Ralph Delchard was the first to spot the place.
“Here we are at last!” he said. “A house of virgins! I wonder if there will be enough to go around.”
Gervase suppressed a smile. “Show them some respect.”
“I will so. I’ll thank them afterwards most respectfully.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “It is one experience I have never tried, Gervase. To lie with a nun for the good of my soul.”
“Do not jest about it.”
“Celibacy is a denial of nature.” “That is its appeal.”
Ralph gave a ripe chuckle then made his horse quicken its pace and drag the column along more speedily. They were soon entering the main gate of the abbey and looking up at the great, stone-built, cruciform church, which towered over the whole house. When they had dismounted, the soldiers were taken off by the hospitaller to be fed in the guest quarters. Ralph Delchard, Gervase Bret, Canon Hubert, and the now terrified Brother Simon were conducted to the parlour of Abbess Aelfgiva. She was a stately figure of uncertain age but her virtue was so self-evident that even Ralph’s jocular lasciviousness was quelled. Abbess Aelfgiva accorded them a warm welcome and a light meal of wine, chicken, and bread was served. Simon was too busy reciting the twenty-third psalm in Latin to put anything else into his mouth but the other travellers were grateful for the repast.
“Where is your destination?” asked the Abbess.
“Maldon,” said Hubert, assuming immediate authority now that they were on consecrated ground. “We are dispatched on the King’s business.”
“It is a pity you did not arrive an hour earlier.” “Why, my lady abbess?”
“Because you could have accompanied my other visitors,” she said
with mild concern. “They had but four men by way of an escort. A detachment of Norman knights would have made their journey a lot safer, I think.”
“Where are they headed?” said Ralph. “Maldon Priory.”
Hubert was surprised. “The town has a priory?”
“A recent foundation. This abbey is the motherhouse.” “How many nuns does it hold?”
“Only a token number at the moment,” she explained, “but it will grow in size. Mindred will ensure that.”
“Mindred?”
“The prioress. She spent the night here with one of her nuns. They set out within the hour.”
“Then we may overtake them,” said Ralph. “Ladies travel slower. If