Chapter Twenty-Eight - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband

Templemars, 1617

It took two days for the weather to clear before Anne could put on her wooden clogs and walk to the carpenters’ house. It was cloudy but generally agreed it would not snow or sleet that day. Most of the snow had already gone, the remainder in grubby piles and drifts around the roadside and the trees. The trees dripped and sometimes dropped surprising loads of cold wet slush.

She was full of fear as she travelled. Where had Cosimo fallen? She looked around nearly every tree she passed but saw no trace as she neared the workshop. She couldn’t think where they’d been. It must have been closer to the other side of town, to the Lille side of the road. How had she found her way back to the Priory? Everything was confused in her memory. The snow seemed to have wiped the forest clean again. Now she found she couldn’t even distinguish between truth and fiction. Did it even happen at all?

Still seeking the condeming body as she walked, she also tried to locate the old oak, her owl’s tree. She found a stump that might have been the right size. Presumably Maynard, Pierre and Jan had used the wood after all.

Anne stood by the stump in the cold shadowy forest and looked around her. The fallen leaves had blanketed small shrubs and vines through autumn and the snows had hardened to a crust. The frosty leaf litter was hopefully covering a new beginning. But it didn’t cover the banded feather, brown and white. She reached down to pick it up.

Up in the bare branches scratching across the grey sky there wasn’t a hint of green. But close to one branch, a sort of bulbous knot, a shape that, as Anne focused, revealed itself to be a large striped owl. Once she’d identified the bird, Anne could see more details, great sharp feet clenching the branch, fat wings hugging the body, white markings through the centre of the face and circling the eyes. The owl’s black eyes fixed on her own. Anne felt a life force drive out from the bird, an understanding of a greater force around them. Perhaps it would be called God. Perhaps it was Life. It simply was.

Anne gasped, shocked by the connection with the other creature. She waited to see if the bird would fly but the owl stayed still and observed her. Just that. They watched each other.

Anne nodded.

Just as Anne turned towards the workshop, the owl lifted and flew overhead, rising into the slate sky. Anne watched with wing wind blowing into her face and understood the portent was to go.

She held the feather in front of her as she left the woodlands and walked to the workshop entrance. She hesitated before the big double doorway, wide enough to get the cart inside, the doors half shut against the chill. What would her reception be, after all this time? Would Maynard and she be able to carry on the deception? Twirled the base of the feather between her fingers. Played her fingers over the soft surface at the vane and tapped her nails against the hollow strength of the shaft. She wondered if it were big enough to cut a quill. She was distracting herself. She must face Maynard.

She could hear the regular rasping of the pole lathe from the back room. Then heavy thunks of someone taking chunks from the side of a log, preparing the straight side for plank or beam. Here people were at work; she could see in her mind’s eye what they were doing. This was the family Anne tried to make her own as a child. Now she stood waiting for the courage to interrupt them, to bring those regular wooden sounds to silence. She closed her eyes. What if they should reject her? She held the feather almost as a protection.

But, then again, what if they should accept her? How would they expect her to behave? She hadn’t forgotten Sara’s suggestion that she marry Maynard. Unthinkable.

A wild black and white dog ran out of the entry way and, on seeing her, began to bark. It was Houtachtig, with mouth opening more than shutting, barking ferocious disapproval, and showing his dilapidated teeth. By his side ran a smaller, paler dog, with more shapely head and ears. She looked to Houtachtig and continued barking. Anne thought the little one must consider herself in training as a guard dog. This would be his daughter, remembered Anne, the dog which Pierre adopted. She bent to befriend Houtachtig once more and found the young one reluctant to stop her loud barking. It seemed she took her job seriously. Houtachtig might be little greyer around his nose, but he seemed to enjoy being patted as much as she remembered.

And now Pierre, of course it was Pierre, came to the door, holding a wooden bowl. He was examining the centre notch where it had broken from the lathe, holding it to the clearer light. He casually looked to the dogs, ‘Splinter! Come here!’

Then, he looked up and saw her. He recognised her at once and smiled. ‘Anne.’

She smiled at him, ‘My friend.’

Pierre crossed the space between them and embraced her warmly. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t want to talk to her and now she couldn’t help tears of relief. She brushed them away and tried to smile.

The two dogs, silent now, danced around them and, when they could get away with it, leaned their paws on their legs, asking for attention.

Pierre had grown taller than Anne. He was only a year younger than her, but she could see the man he would become, a dusting of beard and moustache across his face.

She smiled to see his hair. Even though it was straight it always stood up looking like the fur of an angry animal even though he rarely lost his temper. Pierre had one of the sweetest, widest smiles Anne had ever seen. He held her hand to bring her into the workshop. They didn’t feel the need to speak because at that moment, and they acknowledged it with a look between them, her forever-young brother Claude walked between them in memories.

Jan was by the log, bending to collect the wedges he had been clearing from the side. He still held the broad axe. He too looked up as Pierre brought her into the space, filled with the smell of freshly split wood and sap. His disinterest turned to delight when he recognised Anne. Laying down the tool, he came forward and pressed her shoulder with his good hand. ‘You are returned from your adventures!’

‘Hello, Jan. It’s good to see you.’

He seemed just a little more stooped by age, but still strong, still with his white hair in the leather tie. He looked at the feather, ‘You visited the owl?’

‘I did.’

‘Did she remember you?’

‘She flew away.’

Anne heard the deep voice behind her. ‘The owl is wise.’ Maynard smiled as he stepped forward from his carving area to shake her hand. He looked at her intently, his dark blue eyes serious, while his mouth curved into a slight smile. ‘Welcome, Anne.’

Anne smiled at him, too. She meant more than the welcome when she said, ‘Thank you.’ After all, the man had saved her life.

Jan said, ‘We’d best prepare Sara for the surprise.’

‘What surprise?’ Sara had come herself to see what was causing the disruption with the dogs barking, silence in the shed, and all the men away from their work. ‘Why do I need to be prepared?’ She wiped her hands on her apron before Anne watched Sara’s face turn from tired and cross at the men in her life to honest joy when she recognised, ‘Anne!’

‘See, I told you we should have prepared her!’

Everyone crowded around Anne, drew her in and bit by bit they were seated around the kitchen table, exchanging information and news. Anne found herself next to Lucy now, at seven years old, a miniature version of her mother. Anne couldn’t stop looking at her. Lucy lived in a happy family environment. When Anne had been seven, she’d been an orphan, shut in the cold environment of a priory. Although she had her brother and sister, their contact was strictly regimented, and she’d lived without the love of a parent. In contrast, Anne watched as Sara attended to Lucy before the others, making sure she was comfortable and fed, before looking to help Jan and then her brother Maynard and finally the apprentice, Pierre.

Anne breathed more easily. She’d known she was nervous, but it wasn’t until she was seated amongst them that she realised how concerned she’d been for acceptance. She also saw no sign of a wife beside Maynard. She enquired how the area had changed and Sara laughed, ‘Nothing changes around here, Anne.’

Jan disagreed, ‘Only the seasons!’

‘You know the cycles.’ Sara said, ‘Planting, weeding, harvesting … ’

Lucy said, ‘Spinning! We have a new wheel!’

After the meal, Anne watched Sara at the spinning wheel, fleet of foot and smooth of fly wheel while Lucy practiced on a hand spindle, pulling wool from a distaff of carded fleece. On her way to the basket that held the washed fleece, Anne admired Lucy’s work on a bottom weighted spindle. Anne could see that thread had slipped from the base of the mound of spun wool and was loose. She pointed out the little girl could better hitch the spun thread around the top of the spindle before setting the spin to twist again, telling the girl she was impressed by her work. ‘I could do no better at your age, Lucy.’

Anne found wool to comb, loaded up the hackles and began her efforts to bring the long fibres into combed order. The sleet pattered down on the roof. Ice slid down outside the mullioned glass. The fire spluttered. Steam fuzzed the small windows. Lucy jumped up to wipe them down, trying to bring extra light into the room.

After a time, Anne remarked upon Sara’s new wheel. How did it compare with the great wheel? Sara didn’t miss all that walking, she had to say. After a few hours hoeing manure in the fields the day before she was pleased to sit down to work! She and Maynard had seen these new wheels at the Arras marketplace, and he’d copied the plan for her.

Once the finer points of the wheel had been explained and the mother of all adjusted, so the tension was even across both bobbin and flywheel, the women settled, work began again, and Anne admitted to feeling stupid. She knew she had to solve the question of her own life, without bothering her friends.

Sara reached out to pat Anne on the arm. ‘You’re no bother, Anne.’

‘I fear I am. I can do nothing to help you.’

Lucy interrupted, ‘That’s not true! Look, even now you are preparing wool for Mama!’

Anne smiled at the little girl and turned her attention back to combing and smoothing the fluffy wool. The sleet clattered on. She felt safe and warm, picking out burrs and small sticks and enjoying the feeling of her fingers softened by lanolin. She knew Sara wanted more. Sara wanted her to be her sister, Lucy’s aunt, and Maynard’s wife. And that could never be.

Maynard said he’d walk her back through the forest to the Priory saying he’d heard there were blackguards abroad and didn’t want her alone. He rejected Pierre’s company, suggesting he begin the search for suitable wood to build a swing.

Once they’d quit the workshop, and could be sure of privacy, he said, ‘They found Cosimo’s horse. His friends search for him. Hopefully, the animals and weather will conspire with us.’

She nodded. ‘I should leave.’

They stared at each other.

Anne told him of the Prioress, and her contact at Caen, and asked if he had heard of Mont St Michel?

He said, ‘Wherever you go, Anne. I’ll be there.’

She went to Prime. She went to Terce. She went to Sext. She returned to the looms and practiced a straight selvedge.

She went to None in the Chapelle and felt the words:

“My soul cleaveth unto the dust: quicken thou me according to thy word. I have declared my ways, and thou heardest me: teach me thy statutes. Make me to understand the way of thy precepts: so shall I talk of thy wondrous works. My soul melteth for heaviness: strengthen thou me according unto thy word.”

Marie Therese would only lie in the parlour for one day. Then her body would be stored in the vegetable cellar with the others until the thaw. She seemed so small as she lay there, dressed in her tunic, the size of a young child. The nuns had managed to massage her limbs into a calm position. Her face was smooth and pain free. The candles flickered around her. The smell of dried lavender and thyme was strong. Sister Julieine prayed at Marie Therese’s side. She looked up to see Anne and then bent to her prayers again.

Anne came to her knees beside the bier, to the side of the nun. After a time, she became aware that Sister Julieine spoke, not to God or the Virgin Mary, but to her.

‘She only thought of you. Her bloody babies. I wanted her to love me. But she only loved you. Her children.’

Anne reached to pat her on the back. She felt ineffectual. At her touch, Sister Julieine began to weep. She clambered to her feet. Anne imagined the nun must be ashamed for breaking down and letting her emotions be seen by her of all people. So, Anne too rose to her feet and stood so that Sister Julieine would have to push past her to leave the parlour. Anne put out her hand to hold the stiff shoulder and said, ‘She relied on you. She trusted you. You were a better friend than any of her children were.’

Sister Julieine stared at her for a shard of a moment before walking away.

Anne turned back to look at her last blood relative. Her dead mother. Silent. The end of her family.

She would never know who she was.

Now where could she turn?