Candace Robb
The Nun's Tale
Prologue
June 1365
Joanna hoisted her pack and trudged through North Bar, entering Beverley as the bells of the great Church of St John rang out. She had been walking since sunrise; the sun was now overhead and the coarse weave of her habit chafed at her clammy skin. The city’s streets curved snakelike along the Beck and Walkerbeck, and as she walked Joanna glimpsed the fast-flowing streams through the houses. She imagined shedding her clothes and sinking into the cool, rushing water as she and her brother Hugh had done as children in the river near their house.
It was a damp, cloying heat. Though this day was sunny and hot, it had been a summer of torrential rains and the dirt streets were waterlogged. Where the sun shone down between the houses, steam rose up, creating a fog that blurred Joanna’s vision. She found the dreamlike effect disorienting. The houses shimmered; lines dipped and spun. She clutched her Mary Magdalene medal and whispered prayers as she walked.
Laughter and the merry sound of singing tempted her as she passed a tavern. She yearned to enter and wash down the road’s dust with strong ale, but she must not call attention to herself in such a way, a nun travelling alone.
Not far past the tavern she spied a churchyard with a shaded well. Surely this was a safe refuge. Joanna slipped through the open gate and set her pack down under a shading oak that thrust a root up through the mud. Glancing round to check that she was unwatched, she shed her veil, her wimple, her gorget, folding them neatly on her pack, then unclasped the Mary Magdalene medal and set it on top. She drew a bucket of cool water, cupped her hands to drink, then splashed her face, head and neck.
A sound made her turn. A boy in tattered clothes held the medal and chain in the air above Joanna’s pack. Joanna shouted. The little thief went running.
Damnable cur! Grabbing up her skirts, Joanna took off after the thief. ‘Give me the medal, you Devil’s spawn. A curse on your mother and all your kin!’ She threw herself at the boy, tackling him to the ground. He kicked her in the face and wriggled out of her grasp, throwing the chain at her as he took off.
Pushing herself up onto her knees, her habit now heavy with mud, Joanna crawled awkwardly over to the silvery treasure. Sweet Heaven, no! She found an empty chain, no medal. Her heart pounding, she crawled round in the mud and weeds, searching for her precious Magdalene medal. Her brother Hugh had given it to her on another journey to Beverley six years before, and Joanna treasured the medal. It was all she had from her beloved brother. And the cur had taken it. Tears of anger and frustration blinded her. She gave herself up to weeping.
‘My child, what troubles you?’ A priest stood over Joanna, his expression one of curious concern.
Her hand went to her bare head. ‘Benedicte, Father.’
‘What has happened here, my child?’
‘I have been travelling since dawn and your well tempted me. I thought you would not begrudge me water.’ She smiled into his kind eyes.
‘Of course you are welcome to drink. I see that you wear the habit of a Benedictine. Where are your companions? Surely you do not travel alone.’
Joanna scrambled to her feet. ‘I strayed from my companions. I must hurry to catch them.’ She could not allow him to accompany her or she would be discovered.
He gestured toward her wet, soiled skirt. ‘Why were you sitting in the mud?’
She glanced down at her habit, dismayed. She tried to brush off the mud, but succeeded only in smearing it. ‘’Twas nothing, Father. God bless you.’ She fumbled for her head coverings.
‘Perhaps you should come within to dry off. If you tell me where your companions are headed, I could send someone after them with news of you.’
Joanna picked up her pack. ‘No need, Father. Thank you for the water. God go with you.’ She fled through the gate and on down the street, taking no notice of her surroundings, reprimanding herself for such stupidity. A wall suddenly stopped her, and she stared round, confused. Sweet Jesu, she had lost her way. She fought back tears, weary, frustrated, frightened. The medal was lost, there was nothing to protect her. She breathed deeply, trying to still her panic. She must find her way. She must reach Will Longford’s house before dark.
Slowly she groped her way back to North Bar and began again. It was now mid-afternoon and clouds gathered overhead, deepening the gloom of the narrow streets. The air had grown heavy, pressing on Joanna’s chest. Her head pounded. It felt as if she had been walking for an eternity. At last the heavens opened, but instead of a refreshing shower the rain thundered down, turning the streets to rivers of mud. Joanna would not allow herself to stop and take shelter. She must not leave a trail. Her habit clung to her. Her veil slapped against her face. She fought for each step, pulling her feet out of the sucking mud. She wept for her lost medal, but trudged on. She had not come so far to be drowned by a summer storm.
At last, as the rain turned to a gentle shower, Joanna recognised the way. Round a corner, and there. The house with the whitewashed door. Will Longford’s house.
A skinny serving girl answered, stared at Joanna’s bedraggled clothes. ‘Surely you’ve taken the wrong turning, Sister. This be no place for nuns.’
Joanna tried to adjust her sagging wimple and veil. ‘I would speak with Master Longford. I’ve business with him.’
The girl scratched her cheek with a chapped hand. ‘Business? I warn you, there’s but one sort of business the master has with women, and afternoon’s not the time for it. Nor does he endanger his immortal soul with brides of Christ.’ She glanced behind her nervously.
Joanna reached out and grabbed the girl’s apron, pulling her forward. The look of shock on the girl’s face was rewarding. ‘Tell your master that I’ve a treasure to trade.’
The girl nodded. ‘I meant only to warn you.’
Joanna let her go.
‘What name shall I give the master?’
‘Dame Joanna Calverley of Leeds.’
The girl scuttled away.
Shortly, the doorway darkened. Will Longford was a huge, hirsute man, his coarse black hair now streaked with white, his scarred jaw covered by a white beard — he had aged in six years. He wore a chemise that brushed the ground, but Joanna knew what it hid: a wooden peg that had replaced his left leg. Arms folded across his chest, Longford leaned against the doorjamb, formidable even when one knew he was crippled.
‘You are a Calverley? From Leeds?’ He did not so much speak as growl. His dark eyes glittered with hostility.
‘I accompanied my brother Hugh when he sold you the arm of St Sebastian six years back.’
The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Ah. The little sister.’ Longford scratched his beard and studied her face. ‘St Sebastian. His arm, you say?’ He grinned. ‘Have you come to offer me more of Sebastian? His other arm, perhaps?’
Joanna stood up straighter. She did not like the emphasis on little sister, or the nasty grin. ‘I offer you something more sacred still. The milk of the Virgin. From St Clement’s in York.’
‘The milk of — God’s blood, what’s the bastard up to?’ Longford looked her up and down. ‘You are a nun of St Clement’s?’
‘I am. This has naught to do with Hugh.’
Longford stepped forward, peered up and down the street. ‘Your kind are wont to travel in groups. How do you come to be alone?’
Joanna’s knees knocked together from cold and weariness. ‘Might I come within and get dry by your fire?’
Longford grunted and stood aside. ‘Come within before the Lord God drowns you.’
He closed the door behind her. ‘How fares your brother Hugh?’
‘I have had no news of him in six years. But I hope to find him.’
‘Ah.’ Longford scratched his beard again. ‘I remember something about you. What was it? You were off to learn housewifery from your aunt. You were betrothed then.’ He touched her veil. ‘I thought your betrothed was a mortal husband, not our Lord God.’