Dame Isobel liked least the part about the Virgin’s mantle. ‘Does she speak freely about the mantle? Will anyone tending her be likely to hear this claim?’
Ravenser sipped his cider. ‘I do not think you can keep her silent on the matter. She does not like anyone touching the mantle. But as it covers her, it is difficult to avoid. At Nunburton she reportedly became quite upset when the infirmaress touched it. With loud voice she did protest. I think it impossible to keep it secret for long.’
Dame Isobel debated whether to excuse herself and go and warn Dame Prudentia, the infirmaress. But her rushing down the hall might call too much attention to the infirmary. She tucked her hands beneath her scapular and paced. ‘Joanna has ever been a difficult charge. I pray God I am able to cope with this. St Clement’s is so small. Word of her delusion will spread quickly.’ She paused, searched their faces as she asked, ‘It is a delusion?’
Ravenser smiled reassuringly. ‘We are as certain as we can be, Reverend Mother. The abbess of Nunburton noted that the wool appeared to be Yorkshire wool, and certainly not of an age for it to have been owned by Our Lady. In truth, is it likely that such a thing would be bestowed on this troubled child?’
Although Isobel recognised Ravenser’s attempt to reassure in his smile, she heard uncertainty in his words. ‘The Lord’s purpose is not always clear to us, Sir Richard.’ Still, the Yorkshire wool relieved Isobel. It was a good sign.
And yet — such a relic would bring pilgrims from far and wide, with generous donations to the priory’s empty coffers. Might this be a blessing? Should she consider that? Might the archbishop wish St Clement’s to become a popular pilgrimage site?
But the peace of the priory would be gone for ever. Isobel sighed. ‘I am to speak with His Grace the Archbishop tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I shall ask for his guidance in handling Dame Joanna. It would seem wise to coax her into accepting that she is in error, that the mantle is merely a piece of clothing.’
In the infirmary, Dame Prudentia sat on a stool beside Joanna’s cot wondering what devils made the child so contrary. She studied the young woman’s quiet face, the skin so pale that her freckles stood out starkly, even on her closed eyelids. Prudentia knew Joanna from before, remembered the startling eyes, the brilliant green they could be when the child was at peace — which was not often. She had never seen eyes so changeable as Joanna’s. But then she had such narrow experience, knowing only the thirteen or so sisters typically housed at St Clement’s, their servants and boarders. Perhaps some wise man had already discovered the meaning of such changeable eyes. Would Prudentia understand Joanna better if she knew more about the body and its workings?
Prudentia lifted one of Joanna’s hands, pressed her fingernails. Strong, and with a healthy blush. Joanna appeared to be in better health than when she had first come to St Clement’s. At that time she had been starving herself and her fingernails, pale and bloodless, had peeled away with alarming ease. Prudentia cautiously pushed back Joanna’s upper lip, pressed her teeth. None loose, though one was chipped. Prudentia sighed. Well enough in body.
She called to her serving girl, Katie, to bring a bowl of scented water and a cloth.
‘All the cloths are in the laundry, Dame Prudentia,’ Katie said.
‘They must be dry by now. Go and fetch some.’ The infirmaress lifted a corner of the blue shawl, hoping to peel it back from Joanna’s neck without disturbing her.
The green eyes opened. Dark, almost moss-coloured today. Joanna grabbed Prudentia’s hand. ‘No!’
‘Rest easy, child. I mean only to wash your neck and face. Make you comfortable.’
‘You must not touch it!’ Joanna sat up, clutching the mantle to her, her eyes wild. ‘This is the Blessed Virgin’s mantle. Did no one tell you?’
‘The — ’ Prudentia frowned. ‘Is this one of your stories, Joanna?’
‘I rose from the dead. Did you not hear? How else might I have done so? She gave it to me.’
Prudentia did not believe a word of it. ‘The Blessed Virgin Mary gave you her mantle?’
Joanna nodded. ‘So I might rise and return her milk to St Clement’s.’
‘Her milk?’ Prudentia had not heard about this offense. ‘You stole our relic?’
‘I have returned it.’ No guilt softened the eyes.
‘Selfish girl!’ Prudentia was horrified. ‘What of the pilgrims? What of their prayers at the shrine while the vial was empty? Were their prayers in vain?’
Joanna sighed. ‘I did not take it all. Even so, I have returned it. Now I may die and rest in peace. So you must not tend me.’
Not tend her? ‘Nonsense, child.’ Prudentia spoke with a brusqueness she did not feel. Joanna’s eyes were so dark, so intense, her skin so pale, the voice so certain. ‘I am the infirmaress here. It is my duty to nurse you.’
‘You must not. I was brought back to return the relic. I have done so. Now I must return to the grave.’
Prudentia crossed herself and whispered a prayer for patience. ‘Perhaps you would just fold back the mantle so I can wash your neck and face, child.’ She looked round for the girl with the water and cloth. The infirmary door was just closing silently. Lazy child.
Katie scurried from the infirmary to the garden, where the cloths were spread over the lavender to dry. While gathering some up, she told the laundress what she had heard.
Dame Isobel spun round, interrupted in mid-sentence by a timid knock on the door. ‘Come in!’
Dame Alice, the sub-prioress, poked her head in. ‘Reverend Mother, forgive the intrusion, but I pray you come to the infirmary.’
Isobel did not like the wide-eyed expression on the usually staid sub-prioress. ‘Is Joanna giving you trouble?’
‘Not Joanna. The others.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Please, Reverend Mother. It is best that you come at once.’
Dame Isobel excused herself and hurried out, exasperated. Dame Alice might have waited. Ravenser and Louth were going to the archbishop as soon as they left here. What would they say about such an interruption? But Isobel said nothing, just moved as quickly as her sandalled feet and significant bulk allowed. As Isobel and Alice approached the infirmary door, one of the novices tiptoed out, crossing herself as she closed the door behind her.
‘Jocelin, what are you doing away from the kitchen?’ Isobel demanded.
The novice bowed to Dame Isobel. ‘I took but a moment. Dame Margaret said I might.’ She bowed her head and hurried away before Isobel could ask more.
Isobel opened the door. Dame Margaret, the cook, knelt beside Joanna’s cot, praying.
Joanna lay quietly, her eyes closed.
‘Dame Margaret! Rise and come with me.’ Isobel turned to the infirmaress. ‘How did this happen? You were to tell no one of Joanna’s presence.’
‘I told no one, Reverend Mother. I believe it was Katie. I sent her to the garden for cloths and shortly Dame Felice was in here.’
Isobel should have guessed. The laundress was an unholy gossip. ‘And she of course stopped in the kitchen.’
Prudentia looked to Margaret, who nodded.
‘Dame Margaret, return to the kitchen and tell anyone who asks that Joanna’s mantle is made of Yorkshire wool, new wool, and cannot be what she claims.’ Isobel glanced over at Joanna and caught her listening with a hostile glint in her eyes. So be it. Isobel would not have all the sisters of St Clement’s hysterical.
But Margaret did not rise. Instead, she pushed back one of her sleeves and thrust her bare arm toward Isobel. ‘Marry, look you, Reverend Mother. The skin is clear.’
Isobel looked at the proffered arm. It looked reddened from scrubbing, but free of any blemish. ‘So it is. Why do you show me this?’
‘It was not clear before I touched the mantle. Our Lady’s mantle has worked a miracle, Reverend Mother. My rash is gone.’ Margaret bent low over the mantle once more, her hands pressed together in prayer. ‘Sweet Mother of Heaven, thou hast healed me, thy humble servant.’