Chapter Five - Unfurling

Maynard strode along the streets outside the walls so quickly Anne had to run to keep sight of him while avoiding tripping over her annoying skirts. When he turned the corner, Anne chased around the church to keep him in sight. But, as she rounded the bend, he was no longer ahead of her in the road. What? How could she have lost him? She looked in all directions.

There he was, right beside her, leaning up against the grey and white striped stone wall. Was he waiting for her? He was looking at his hand. Perhaps there was a splinter at the base of his thumb? He looked up to greet her with a nod.

Anne felt attack was the best defense. ‘What were you doing at the play?’

‘I’m a sculptor,’ Maynard said, ‘But, I think you already knew.’ He flashed her a cheery sidelong glance. ‘Was that you singing like an angel?’

‘Thank you,’ Anne said, but remembering the chorus said, ‘I wasn’t the only one.’

‘Indeed. Your convent has many angels.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘You know it’s Maynard. And you?’

‘Anne. Anne de Breuil.’

‘Anne. How old are you?’

‘Ten. And you?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘You’re old.’

‘Thank you. And you? Do you expect to get to my age, do you think? Given your penchant for violence?’

‘Of course, I will. I’ll be older than you when I’m dead.’

‘You’d best learn to protect yourself, my friend.’

‘How do I do that?’

Instead of answering her immediately, Maynard returned his attention to the splinter in the base of his thumb. Then he asked, ‘Who’s the young woman, who played the Virgin?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’d like to carve her image.’

‘Jeanette?’

‘Her name’s Jeanette?’

‘You’d better ask Mother Prioress. She’s the one who decides.’

‘Not Jeanette?’

‘Oh, no, she does what she’s told.’

Maynard surveyed the cloudy sky and then considered Anne. ‘Can you ask her?’

‘What? That you want to carve her image? Why not?’ She waited impatiently for him to speak.

‘You know that big tree? With the tawny owl nest?’

Anne remembered it, of course. She’d grown up exploring every metre of the land around Templemars. ‘The hollow one?’

‘The one at the crossroad to Wattignies. I’ll meet you there and you can tell me what she says.’

‘And in return?’

‘I’ll teach you how to fight.’

This was an excellent offer. There was nothing Anne would like more than skill in fighting. She did not hesitate. ‘I’ll ask.’

‘Jeanette. Beautiful name.’

‘I think it was because of Joan of Arc. She says, if so, then she, Jeanette, is a diminutive and therefore a small and unworthy warrior for heaven.’

Maynard smiled, ‘She doesn’t need to be a warrior except for herself, she’s so beautiful.’

‘She’ll not be Jeanette for much longer. Next month she’ll profess and take the veil. She hasn’t decided on her holy name. The Mother suggested Sister Agatha - the virgin—’

But Maynard interrupted her, ‘Next month?’

Anne was taken aback by the urgent tone in Maynard’s voice. ‘Yes. She’s been engaged for ages.’

‘Engaged? To whom?’

‘Jesus, of course. Don’t you know anything?’

‘No. No, I really do not. Not a single thing. I have no knowledge at all.’

Anne looked at Maynard with pity. ‘Except, you do know how to carve wood.’

‘I s’pose I do.’

‘So,’ said Anne, inspired, ‘You need to carve from real life?’

Maynard walked two more steps then stopped. He turned to look down at Anne.

Who said, ‘If I were you, I’d tell Mother Prioress I needed a model.’

His grin was reward enough, ‘And who better than the young woman who played the saint in the dramatic portrayal of her life?’ Maynard picked Anne up and whirled with her. ‘You genius!’

Anne, swirling through the air, could see Armaud, finished with his duties at Sainte Scholastica, walk around the corner of the church on his way back to the Abbey.

He took one look at this peculiar dance before he demanded, ‘What in the name of all that’s Holy is going on here?’

Maynard put Anne down and patted her shoulder, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’

Anne said, ‘You will’.

‘Be careful, May,’ Armaud frowned at Maynard. ‘The priory won’t give work to men who fancy young ladies.’

Maynard hit his old chum on the shoulder, ‘You know better than that, Armaud!’

‘The Mother does not. Nor the Abbot. Take care, Maynard.’

‘Armaud! He’s going to teach me fighting!’

Armaud looked from the eager face in front of him to Maynard’s older frown.

‘Maynard. Even worse.’ Armaud grabbed Anne’s arm, and as she squirmed to wave at Maynard, took her back to the convent gate. ‘You should know better, young lady, than to get so friendly with a strange man!’

‘How can he be strange? You know him!’

‘How do you know?’

‘You’d be surprised by what I know.’

‘Anne de Breuil, nothing surprises me about you.’

In the moments before she went inside, Anne questioned Armaud. She found out Maynard had a workshop in the town, his father a carpenter and builder, sharing the big barn where they dried wood. The workshop also fashioned furniture and smaller items such as bowls now his father was not strong enough for the big building works. Armaud was Maynard’s father’s cousin, and they had grown up together.

Armaud opened the gate for her. Standing at the inner gate, a dark sentinel, was Marie Therese, who stared at Anne and said in grim tones, ‘Where. Have. You. Been?’

Anne’s blood chilled, but her determination to talk to Jeanette kept her moving forward. Too late, her sense of caution told her, perhaps this was not the time to be bold.

‘Good evening, Marie Therese,’ Armaud stepped forward - not through the gate as visiting was over - and said, ‘Anne’s been helping me carry bunches of calendulas. Brother Noel has taken it into his head to flavour the beer with a different medicine each time. My theory is that he would prefer everyone drank water for the taste of some of his brews makes your tongue grow hair.’

‘Thank you. I understand.’ The way she said ‘understand’ made Anne’s hair stand on end. And it wasn’t medicinal.

Armaud also understood. He sent Anne a sympathetic glance.

Anne drew in a deep breath. She could bear it. She gave Armaud a grateful look for trying on her behalf and stepped forward.

As soon as she could reach, Marie Therese’s arm whipped out and took hold of Anne. They began walking, fast, toward the dormitory wing. She did not go into the refectory. They went past the door and headed to the animal buildings.

‘Marie Therese!’ Anne, realising where they were going, tried to pull away. She tried to keep calm despite her rising panic, but could not contain it. She tried to redirect her leader, ‘I’m supposed to be at supper.’

The nun would not give way. In fact, the grip on her arm grew stronger and the hiss between her teeth grew nastier, ‘Should think when you miss Vespers.’

‘But Marie Therese …’ Anne wanted so badly to fight this nun of the third order, to pull away, and kick and bite and hit, but she knew who was strongest and she still ached from the kicking she’d taken the day before. She remembered other scenes of screaming and fighting and they’d not led to success. The only way she could see was rescue from another quarter and, looking around, that was hopeless.

The tertiary was almost talking to herself although Anne supposed she was meant to hear. Sounded like hissing to her. ‘Sneaking and snooping. Lies. Deceit.’

Anne didn’t protest, as they marched so hurriedly, for she did have some sense of self preservation. Internally, she struggled with the unfairness of it all, but she said nothing, and let the stronger woman march her to the dark hole. Anne knew it to be no more than a cellar next to the stables, but she also knew it full of hellish dangers. When the door opened Anne could see nothing but darkness. There were legends circulating among the children about spiders, worms and serpents that lived in the dark hole. Most of the orphans understood those creatures lived only in their heads but they couldn’t like them any better for that.

Anne looked up at Marie Therese. Seeing no avenue for argument, she entered without fighting, hoping that her absence would be noted, and she’d be rescued before the morning. What if she had to stay for another day? Maynard would be at the owl’s nest, and she would not. He’d think her untrustworthy. He’d despise her. He’d come to the priory, and she would not be able to help him. She had to see Jeanette!

The heavy wooden door slammed. The key scraped in the lock. No escape. Anne leaned her hand on the door, breathing in the cold and dark and dirt. How long she’d be here was up to Marie Therese. She’d been here many times before. Sometimes just for an hour. Sometimes for days. She tried to remember the longest time. She thought perhaps it had been two days. Far too long. At that time, she thought it was her grave. She felt now the place stank of her fear, of other children’s fears, of piss and shit and diabolic terror. The fear seeped out of the dark and ingrained her. She began to shake.

She prayed earnestly to the Virgin Mother to talk to God and beg his forgiveness for any sins they could think of. She’d never do wrong again, she promised. Anything. Anything at all. Just please, God, get her out of here. “Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee, Blessed are thou among women” and on she prayed and prayed and on and on …

As time crawled by, Anne felt her eyes stretch past their limits, as though the very balls were about to pop out on stalks seeking the faintest tinge of light. Over the horror she smelled old pumpkins and knew slimy strands of melted orange flesh coloured the air with acrid rot, slid down from the shelves like long, thin corpses’ fingers. Even though she strained she could see nothing but blackness. She knew she was wasting energy. There was nothing to do but wait so she sat down where she was, eventually lying down, curling into a ball against the cold and damp. She closed her eyes for she could see nothing anyway.

Woken by sounds of rustling and nibbling, she stood as fast as she could, kicking out hard, beating around her with her cowhide shoes, feeling lucky she was wearing anything on her feet at all, whirling like a tree in a storm, shaking off imaginary things climbing her limbs, under her skirts, flailing at herself in every direction, thrashing her hair, terrified of being nibbled by a rat. Some of the cats had found large rodents recently. Anne knew a girl whose ear was chewed off almost entirely when she was a baby. She knew rats did not care if their food was alive or dead.

There was a long time of standing on a tiny space on the dirt floor, not wanting to step in any direction less she encountered another living thing. There were noises all around her and she spun around helplessly to face each rustle, each crack, each slither, and she was exhausted. She could not help her tears. They ran hot and salty and she licked at them when they passed her mouth. Dread darkness beat in her rib cage.

Three taps came at the door, and a soft, ‘Anne? Are you there?’

It was Jeanette, praise be to the Virgin.

‘Yes.’ Anne said, equally softly, ‘Keep talking so I can find you.’

‘I don’t know where the key is, but I’ll tell Mother first thing, and she’ll make Marie Therese give it to her. Are you warm enough?

Anne made a noise like a laugh and said nothing for there was no way to get anything in or out of the dark hole without the key and it didn’t matter if she were cold or wet or hungry or frightened.

Jeanette said, ‘What did you do this time?’

‘Nothing! Marie Therese thinks of me so unjustly! I may as well be a liar and a thief for then forgiveness will come all the quicker.’

‘Anne de Breuil! Promise me you won’t antagonise her further.’

‘Oh, Jeanette, I wish I could see your face! I saw you notice that tall man, the stranger, with hair untethered to his shoulders?’

‘There were many people in our audience today. I suppose there were two or three such men.’

‘Jeanette, you know there was but one and he had eyes only for you.’

‘Don’t say so.’

‘Yes, and he wants to sketch you for his sculpture of the Virgin Mary.’

‘The Mother will decide.’

‘But that’s just it! He wants to know what you think. He says if you don’t wish it, he won’t force the matter. It’s up to you.’

Silence. Darkness. Shit. Fear. Slithering.

Anne began to think her sister had left her alone, a prospect she feared greatly even though she knew it was inevitable. She leaned on the door. ‘Jeanette? Are you there? Jeanette? Don’t leave me!’

‘Night Office is soon.’

‘He’s a journeyman, and tomorrow he’ll be here to ask the Mother.’

After a pause Jeanette whispered, ‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s a good man for all he’s a journeyman. He did better than speak for me, you know, for in the market yesterday, or was it the day before, I can’t know how long I’ve been here, he rescued me from being beaten, and he’ll teach me how to look after myself in a quarrel and he didn’t tell Armaud I was fighting although I s’pect the monk knew but Maynard certainly didn’t tell the Mother—'

‘Anne de Breuil! Fighting? Think before you speak! You’ve told me far too much. What if I’m questioned? You know I must tell the truth.’

Anne understood but wished her sister was not so pious. ‘It’s better now that I have an ally. Don’t you think?’

Jeanette did not reply, and Anne heard the bells for Night, a shorter bell so as not disturb those who were allowed to sleep through the Nocturne and Morning prayers in this priory.

Then Jeanette said, ‘Try to sleep, little sister. I’ll see what can be done in the morning. Bless you, Anne.’

Anne heard her faint footsteps and even though she knew she was alone she could not help calling, ‘Jeanette! Jeanette!’

But her sister had gone.