Chapter Thirty - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband
Templemars, 1617
Visiting the overgrown triangular Priory cemetery, Anne went to the mounded fresh dirt, mixed as it was with mud and clay, piled over Marie Therese. She saw her birthmother’s grave was close to Claude but not within sight of Jeanette. Anne remembered how Marie Therese would round on Jeanette more strictly than she did on her younger children. That was, until Jeanette became a postulant, when her attention turned to Anne. She supposed her mother’s belief that while Jeanette had gone some way to being cloistered, Anne was running uncontrolled around the town in boys’ clothing, needing to be disciplined, was justified in many ways.
She opened her pocket to find the handkerchief containing the soil she had picked up from François’s grave. She rolled the knot of now begrimed lacy linen between her fingers. Then she bent to push it down beneath the mud. Perhaps one small part of François might be considered in consecrated ground. When she kicked at the fresh loam with the toe of her wooden clog, she could see a small jawbone with little shining teeth. She quickly covered it.
Dust to dust took time.
Later Anne whispered to her best friend, ‘I don’t wish to travel to an unknown country, a woman alone, asking directions, obviously a stranger … ’ The two young women walked in the cloisters. It was the cold of the night after Compline and they walked close together for warmth. Anne felt such fear her teeth chattered. Sister Winifred Marie put her arm around her friend to bolster her against the chill.
She whispered, ‘You shall have directions and you are bold. You’ve survived thus far. You’re resourceful. After the adventures you’ve reported, I can scarcely understand this world at all. If it were me, I’d be so fast back into the cloisters you’d not have even seen me move, I would have flown. But, be calm, Anne. Think of your new name.’
‘What?’
‘You need a name. You must know you can’t be French anymore. He might find you. You must take an English name.’
‘A Frenchwoman cannot renounce her country!’
Sister Winifred Marie pressed her pointed finger at Anne’s front, ‘This Frenchwoman can’t live in her country. You must change places, circumstances, and your name.’
‘But I’ll return.’ Anne mused for a minute and then said, ‘I will be Mademoiselle … ‘
‘Madame … ‘ corrected Sister Winifred Marie.
‘Why Madame?’
‘I fear, Anne, you cannot go back in time. There are certain attributes of a young virgin that you now lack.’
Anne couldn’t understand how she’d survive day to day without this kind of pragmatic help from her friend. There was too much for her to understand, too much for her to cope with without support. Perhaps she should stay here after all, and become a tertiary? No, the thought of enclosure made her feel sick. She had to be moving, going somewhere …
Sister Winifred Marie went on, encouraging her, ‘You’re a widow, perhaps?’
‘Yes … ?’ Anne said, doubtfully. When she looked at Sister Winifred Marie, she saw that the young nun was stern, so she said in a more definite voice, ‘I’m a widow.’
This positive move earned her a nod of approval. ‘Then you’ll be Madame or in English, Mistress … ‘ Sister Winifred Marie looked at her with her head tilted to one side. ‘Mistress What?’
‘Mistress … I don’t know.’
‘You’d best be English. Perhaps you married an English man? Your accent is not too bad, and Granny will look after you.’
‘An English name? But how can I return to France in the future with an English name?’
‘Take a name that shows your wish to return.’
‘Mistress Future? Toekomst?’
‘Retour? Terugcomen? Back soon?
‘Backson?’
‘Why not? Mistress Backson. Sounds English. I like it.’
‘Oh, Winny! I wish you’d come!’
‘Yes, of course, but you understand, you wish it for yourself and not for me. I have grown so fond of these walls, my protection, that to remove me would be like prizing a snail from her cosy shell.’
‘Or a silkworm from her cocoon.’
‘What?’
‘Teresa de Avila. Have you not read her?’
‘Mistress Backson.’ Sister Winifred Marie was thinking of the future, ‘You will dazzle England with your beauty. You’ll send me letters of fashion and the latest art. Tell me everything the painters are doing there. Oh, Annie, I wish … in a small way … I could go with you!’
‘Do! Please. You’d be my sister!’
‘Annie, I already love you as a sister, you know that. You’ll always have a family here. You have a Mother and many sisters, and you’ll always have the love of Our Father, the Lord God on High.’
In the workshop, Maynard slowly and deliberately sharpened a chisel with a smooth piece of sandstone. Anne watched as he maintained his tools, wrapped, and packed them into his travelling case. Becoming aware of her, he raised his eyes to hers. ‘Are you ready to go?
‘Yes. I’ve decided on my new name.’
Maynard looked at her seriously. ‘I can see you have been through much, Anne. But when I first met you, you were a fighter. I think perhaps you’ve forgotten some of those skills. You need to defend yourself.’
Anne nodded, ‘I must practice.’
‘That will keep us occupied!’
‘I shall be glad of it.’
‘Have you been baptised?’
‘With my new name? I think it’s enough it came from a nun.’
‘What should I call you, then?’
‘Mistress Backson.’
‘Do you have a Christian name?’ Anne and Winifred hadn’t got that far. As Anne opened her mouth to speak, to tell him she didn’t know, Maynard continued to wrap the chisel carefully. He didn’t seem that interested in her name. Then he stopped what he was doing and turned to her. His deep blue eyes watched her carefully. ‘Should we get married?’
Anne stared at him. The floor tilted and she grasped the workbench. She closed her eyes against the motion that caused her nausea. The room was crowded with other people. Jeanette was there, of course, and Olivier. Their faces swung through her mind. She could barely stand. What should she do? The pealing sound of the organ reverberating through Sainte Etienne, the Bourges Cathedral, vibrated through her soul. She couldn’t marry! Not again! To break more vows? Impossible.
Anne thought Maynard deserved the truth. She imagined telling Maynard, the sincere man who loved her sister so potently he couldn’t marry another woman, everything. She knew she couldn’t. Maynard wouldn’t understand. He would ask, why? Why did your beloved try to kill you?
‘For the sake of our travels, I mean. It might be easier for us as a couple.’
The air around Anne began to clear. The ground stopped heaving under her feet. ‘Yes. I see. You’re practical. A man and a woman together.’ She looked at him with her head to one side, ‘Can we be sister and brother?’
‘Of course,’ he said as though it was a matter of fact. ‘We’re already family.’
‘Then, Maynard, when you return, you must marry some pretty maid to help Sara. And give Jan more grandchildren. There’ll be no argument. Do you understand?’
Maynard snorted with laughter, ‘Yes, sister.’
But Anne’s levity did not last long. ‘Maynard, I don’t feel I’ve thanked you enough.’
‘For … ?’
‘Saving my life.’
Maynard shook his head as if he was shaking off her silly ideas. ‘As did you mine, when Marie Therese came at me, remember?’
‘You saved yourself that day.’
‘You warned me. But, Anne, I swear the guilt is grave and heavy upon my soul. I wish to confess. And I don’t feel safe locally.’
‘You’re like me. I can’t put the Priory in danger much longer.’
‘So we agree? We should leave quickly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know where we are going?’
‘Winifred says I can go to her family in England.’
Maynard was taken aback but asked, ‘Where in England?’
‘Surrey.’
‘Oh … ‘ said Maynard non-comittedly.
Anne was struck by his tone and asked curiously, ‘Do you know it?’
‘No, I know nothing of England.’
‘Winifred assures me my language is good enough, and of course I’ll improve when I am there. I don’t know what difference that makes to your journey?’
‘No difference. I’ll take you.’
‘To Calais? I think that is the nearest port.’
‘I’ll take you to England. That’s an end to it.’
‘But Maynard … It’s too far.’
He smiled at her. ‘Nowhere is too far for my family, Mistress Backson.’
Sister Winifred Maria came running into the guest rooms, holding a tattered object and thrust the bundle into Anne’s hands. Anne looked at the rags with some disgust, until she recognised the faded colours. She looked up at Sister Winifred Marie. In unison, the two girls said, ‘Charlotte!’ And they laughed.
Anne was so surprised she could find a laugh in her at all, she just stared at Win. This time the crack in the dark cloud was irreparable and light poured in through the crevice of merriment. She saw Sister Winifred Maria and the Mother were right. She did have a future. She could begin again. She was no longer Anne de Breuil. She was Charlotte. Mistress Charlotte Backson. A widow. Her husband, an elderly English trader, had died and now she wanted to travel to see his country.
Sister Winifred Maria and Anne-Charlotte began to plan in earnest. She’d need another name, another history, of course. And Charlotte, the doll, needed a wash.
Anne made vigils to Jeanette’s grave and discussed her new identity with a memory. As the ground grew warmer, she’d sit next to Claude and pray with him for guidance and assistance. Although she was leaving them, she’d always take them with her. For they were her real family. Before she left the convent, she even visited her mother’s grave once more. She resisted the urge to spit.
When Magdalene came to find her, Anne was not surprised. Word had come from Lille. The danger came not from the bandit’s gang. The threat was from the Executioner. He was released and had gathered troops enough to search for her. He’d be at the Priory gates on the morrow with plans of destruction if she wasn’t handed over to him.
Anne wouldn’t be there. She had no wish to see the Executioner of Lille ever again. If the Mother could honestly tell him Anne was not there, perhaps he would grant them mercy.
Without delay they went to her rooms, opened the trunk, and began to sort items to pack. Anne turned to Magdalene and asked her to send a messenger to Maynard. Peter must come with the cart at once. Magdalene patted her hand before moving away.
Anne had never packed so quickly. She must have one fine gown, to impress, and no fewer than two-day dresses, one for clean and the other to wear. She’d need extra chemises, partlets and sleeves, travelling shoes, stockings, slippers … And all her jewellery and money. She tucked money, a large emerald, and the sapphire and diamond ring from the Comtesse into the folds of her cummerbund. Other jewels, stones and necklaces went into pockets which she tucked amongst the under garments in the trunk. She’d have to leave two other gowns behind. The nuns and children would surely use them in dramatic productions.
Finding pen and paper Anne wrote a statement that she was leaving the Priory and would seek a new life with Vincent de Paul in Paris. She closed the lid of the trunk, dragged it to the corridor, and took up the emerald. She went to see the Mother and silently placed both statement and gem in front of the nun. The Mother picked up the stone and looked at it from all angles, understanding the value at once. She read the statement and smiled at Anne. ‘I’m not afraid of Executioners, Anne.’
Anne bowed her head to pray. She was very afraid of the Executioner. ‘He’ll bring militia. They say they’ll undermine the Priory.’
‘So they say. The Lord will look after us. And there’s always the Abbott. He owes me. We have resources, Anne.’
‘Where would you go? If you had to?’
‘To my niece in Caen. You may find us there, at the Abbaye-aux-Dames should the worst befall us. But I am not worried, Anne. Neither should you be.’
Anne could not help breaking with propriety. She bent down to the old woman and embraced her. She didn’t linger and moved to the door, looking back at the Mother.
The Mother blessed her and added, ‘Farewell, Anne. You have a long and happy life ahead of you, I’m sure of it.’
Anne wished that were true. ‘And the same for you, Mother.’
The Mother merely smiled, waved her hand, and bent to study her accounts once more. The emerald was nowhere to be seen.
The parting from Sister Winifred Maria was the most difficult Mistress Charlotte Backson had ever undertaken. They embraced and the nun whispered to Charlotte, ‘Remember, Anne—’
‘Charlotte!’
‘Charlotte! You can change your outer layer, of course, like clothes. Even while you change your name you, yourself, will survive in your deepest core. A life is never the same, no matter how strongly you will it to stay fixed. Always the people around us change: the governing laws change, Kings and Queens change, the Popes change; sooner or later our lives must alter whether we like it or not. You must bend with the change, not break. And so, you accept, and you move forward, always honest, and true to your inner self. Unless you are like me, a little snail in a Priory.’
‘Sister Winifred Maria. You change with every stroke of your brush.
‘I hope so.’
‘I cannot think how to thank you.’
‘You will think of something, Charlotte-Anne!’
Then Magdalene was there to tell her Peter had arrived.
Anne left the Priory for the second time in her life. This time she wasn’t concerned with her own life. This time she didn’t know if a nine-hundred-years-old priory would survive.
And if it was destroyed, it would be because of her actions. Because she ran away. Again.