The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery Read online

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  Epub ISBN 9781446440711

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Reprinted in Arrow Books 1998

  7 9 10 8 6

  Copyright © Candace Robb 1995

  The right of Candace Robb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1995 by William Heinemann

  This edition first published in 1995 by Mandarin Paperbacks and reprinted 7 times

  Arrow Books

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 0 09 942742 7

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY CANDACE ROBB

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MAP

  GLOSSARY

  PROLOGUE

  1 Lamentations of the Dead

  2 To York

  3 Lady’s Mantle

  4 A Consultation

  5 The Watcher

  6 Alfred’s Tale

  7 Subtle Manoeuvres

  8 Family Tensions

  9 Lucie Dines at the Palace

  10 Our Lady’s Mantle

  11 Calvary

  12 Witless or Cunning?

  13 An Archer, a Poet, a Prince

  14 A Pilgrimage of Disgrace

  15 Scarborough

  16 Near Death

  17 Vengeance Interrupted

  18 Bartering

  19 ‘… before Death’s sleep’

  20 Homecoming

  21 Steadfastness

  22 The Scabbard

  23 Mary Magdalene

  24 Farewells

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  To the people of York, past, present and future.

  The Nun’s Tale

  Wykeham noticed Thoresby’s brooding expression. ‘You think there is more to this nun’s death than an unhappy runaway struck down with fever?’

  Thoresby met the eyes of the man who was positioning himself to take over as Lord Chancellor. Perhaps they were intelligent eyes. He shrugged.

  ‘A nun runs away to a lover. ’Tis always the story,’ Louth said, pouring more brandywine, though his face was flushed by what he had already imbibed. ‘Think no more of it.’

  Thoresby closed his eyes, weary of idle speculation. He would like to know more about the dead nun, yet what would be the gain? She was dead, buried. He tapped his fingers impatiently in time with the steady plop of a new leak behind him, near the window. Perhaps the ominous ache in his bones was just the rain and his too many years of living.

  Candace Robb studied for a PhD in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. Her novels grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous fourteenth century. She is published in twelve countries and ten languages.

  Also by Candace Robb

  THE APOTHECARY ROSE

  THE LADY CHAPEL

  THE KING’S BISHOP

  THE RIDDLE OF ST LEONARD’S

  A GIFT OF SANCTUARY

  A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER

  A TRUST BETRAYED

  Acknowledgements

  I thank Lynne Drew for being an insightful editor with inexhaustible patience and a sense of humour; Jeremy Goldberg and Pat Cullum for fielding questions about everyday life in the fourteenth century; Karen Wuthrich for reading the manuscript with a critical eye; Christie Andersen for a delightfully dramatic reading of the galleys; Charlie Robb for taking on a plethora of supporting jobs, including outline doctor and mapmaker; and Jacqui Weberding for navigating the North.

  Additional thanks to the talented professionals who smooth the way: Evan Marshall, Patrick Walsh, Victoria Hipps, Rebecca Salt, Clare Allanson and Joe Myers.

  Glossary

  bedstraw

  a plant of the genus Galium

  corody

  a pension or allowance provided by a religious house permitting the holder to retire into the house as a boarder; purchased for cash or by a donation of land or property

  fulling mill

  a mill that cleanses, shrinks and thickens (fulls) cloth by means of water and pestles or stampers

  houppelande

  men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor-length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee-length; sleeves large and open

  Lady Chapel

  a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, usually situated at the east end of the church

  leman

  mistress

  liberty

  an area of the city not subject to royal administration; for example, the Liberty of St Peter is the area surrounding the minster which comes under the archbishop’s jurisdiction

  mazer

  a large wooden cup

  minster

  a large church or cathedral; the cathedral of St Peter in York is referred to as York Minster

  nones

  the fifth of the seven canonical hours, or the ninth hour after sunrise

  pandemain

  the finest quality white bread, made from flour sifted two or three times

  Petercorn

  income supporting St Leonard’s hospital, dependent on the harvest (Peter’s corn)

  prime

  the first of the seven canonical hours, or sunrise

  routiers

  see Author’s Note

  sext

  noon

  solar

  private room on upper level of house

  trencher

  a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the centre, used as a platter

  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 br
other 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.’

  Joanna stepped backwards, discomfited by the man’s nearness. ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘Hm. I reckon you do not represent St Clement’s in offering this relic. You’ve had another change of mind, eh?’

  Joanna hesitated. It seemed too soon to come to this point. But she had little choice. ‘I have stolen the relic. I need funds to travel. I mean to find my brother Hugh.’

  Longford raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you now?’

  He gestured for her to sit by the fire. ‘Wine, Maddy,’ he yelled. He sat back and nodded at Joanna’s muddy habit. ‘You’ll
never get warm in those damp clothes. Maddy will loan you something dry.’ He grinned at her.

  Joanna thanked him. But his grin did not have a comforting effect.

  It had been a year of deluges, and August was no drier. John Thoresby stared gloomily out of the window at the muddy Ouse rushing along the lower garden, the heavy rain pommelling the flowers so that they floated limply in the water pooling in the beds. Of the palaces that had come to Thoresby as Archbishop of York, Bishopthorpe was his favourite. But this summer it was more ark than palace; the roof leaked in almost every room and the water level had risen to threaten the undercroft. Thoresby had rushed back to Bishopthorpe to preside over the Lammas Fair, looking forward to a rest from the endless politics of the royal wedding which had kept him at Windsor. He had been anxious to doff his Lord Chancellor’s chain for a few months, get back to the business of God. But the rain had done its best to ruin the fair and he felt imprisoned in this great, leaking palace … and no one had good news for him, including the two men sitting by the fire.