Chapter Twenty-Five - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband

Templemars, 1617

‘Please, Maynard,’ Anne began to push at the carpenter, urgently. ‘You were never here. Go. Quickly now, before someone should see us. Get away!’

Maynard twisted back to face her. ‘Anne, it’s not wise … ‘

‘Wise or not, Maynard, I’ll make my own way and tell my truth. It’s still true if I do not speak it. I haven’t seen you this day. Hurry!’

Maynard stood his ground. ‘I can’t leave you. Not like this.’

But Anne was adamant. ‘Yes, you can. You must go to Sara and Jan. God will look after you.’

‘But what will you say?’

‘That I fought him off, as we did, and he tripped, fell against this tree.’ She pointed to the nearby trunk. Her growing conviction made it seem the way it really happened. ‘I think I killed him.’

‘Not the axe?’

‘No axe. I’ll admit to the knife, but as he was attacking me, I had to defend myself as best I as could. I ran away. I don’t know what happened to him. I couldn’t risk him rising again. He may even still be living.’

Maynard looked around the ground. ‘It’s possible.’

Anne too looked around them. ‘Nothing shows you were here. Help me.’

She took hold of Cosimo and, together, they laid his body back against the tree, crunching through the iced snow. Blood and smears of brain spattered the ground. They picked up the mess and arranged it on the tree and around Cosimo. When the job was done, they looked at the body carefully and then wiped their hands on the wintery leaves around them.

Anne pointed to the axe and Maynard carefully wiped the metal head. They looked at each other.

‘Go,’ Anne said. ‘Now.’

‘You’ll come to us?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, but go.’

Maynard stared at her, messages of all sorts in his eyes, and then walked away.

Anne watched him leave, full of similar misgivings.

He turned back once more; his look questioning, as though he was about to speak, but she waved him on, urgent. Pleading with him, silently, she indicated he must leave.

He turned and walked. His feet crunched through the cold undergrowth. Soon enough she was alone with a dead man.

It began to snow. Quietly, soft persistent flakes of white floated through the air and dropped down on the figure leaning against the tree trunk.

She held her cut side and stared down at Cosimo. Did it look as though she had pushed him? She practiced events as she now remembered them. She paced out the fight. Rehearsed each move and struggle. That was how the story was.

She left his wicked blade fallen where it was and, finding her own small knife, she wiped it clean and replaced it in her scabbard. Cold gathered in her coif and down her shoulders. The snow was settling. Time to go. She turned towards the horse, still standing by the tree to which she was tied.

Then Anne remembered. Her stomach sank in her guts. Just one more thing. She came back to the body and took up Cosimo’s hand. It was warm. She almost dropped it. She hoped and prayed he really was dead. She took hold of the sapphire and tried to get it off his finger. It was stuck. Even with the sheen of melted snow she needed extra moisture. She spat, wet the area around the ring with the tip of her own finger and pulled as hard as she could. It wouldn’t come off. The diamonds set around the blue gem sparkled like icicle tips. There was nothing for it. She reached down for his dagger. She had to get that ring. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in strength and prayed to Our Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of God, before she began to cut.

The snow whirled in a silent world. It fell gently, softly, until everything turned white and clean. As she rode down the middle of the quiet road, Anne remembered young Saint Eulalia. After her death by torture, a white blanket of her ash had fallen like snow over her tormentors, bringing renewal and blessed peace to the world. Anne struggled to find any composure, much less peace. Still the snow floated down.

It was only a short distance to the Priory of Sainte Scholastique, but it seemed to take Anne forever. Each movement she made cost her deep concentration. Remembering later, she was not sure how she managed to ride the horse, much less dismount, but she did. She held the reins with one hand and the other she tucked in her armpit for warmth. She leaned on the stones of the wall when she rang at the portal furthest away from the church.

Magdalene came out of the servants’ building, opened the inner gate, and bustled up to the public gate. She was all brusque business, probably thinking of a hundred things she should be doing, saying, ‘What is it?’

Having little mind for words, Anne let the veil down to reveal her face.

Magdalene stared at her, and her eyes widened. Then, breathed in, opened her mouth as if to shout but hesitated and whispered instead. ‘Anne.’ Her face proceeded to shift through weeping and laughing all in a moment, she thought better of it, smoothed her features, and said, more calmly, ‘You are come home.’ The lay nun opened the gate and opened her arms to Anne. ‘Welcome. Dear girl.’

Anne went into her arms, and they stood together for a moment as the snow turned to rain.

Anne felt she could stay enveloped forever but forced herself to step back, saying, ‘Dear, kind, Magdalene.’

Magdalene registered the weather, the wet and then the state Anne’s clothes were in, the blood down her side and her ripped chemise. She looked her up and down, her face growing slack in shock.

‘Anne, child, you’ve been set upon?’ Magdalene stepped back and gestured with her arm, ‘Come in at once, out of this weather!’ She moved forward to take hold of the halter, but Anne dissented, feeling guilty making work for her. She kept firm hold of the reins, saying, ‘You keep warm. I’ll put the pony away.’

‘Nonsense.’ Magdalene said, ‘Stuff and nonsense. You can barely stand, you poor thing. Come inside. Clementia will put the horse away. Fret not, she loves the horses, as you used to. Leave her there.’ Magdalena pointed to the hoop in the wall where Anne was able to fit the reigns and follow the nun with the final ounces of strength she could muster.

Magdalena brought them into the cold flagstone entry of the office building. She showed Anne to a wooden chair in the foyer, outside the Mother’s office. ‘Sit, and Dear God in Heaven, look at the blood … Wait there.’

Anne didn’t think she could move further. She sank gratefully onto the hard bench, pulling the overskirt and her safeguard over her ripped chemise like knee blankets. She could see the wet sleet and snow on the ground, falling from her clothes, making puddles on the stone floor. She could hear Magdalena calling out in the kitchens and saw Clementia running toward the horse. She was grateful the horse would be looked after. She noticed she was sliding down the chair and tried to pull herself up.

‘Anne.’

She heard the voice and looked up through sleepy vision to see Sister Matildé peering down at her. She felt a flood of emotions, tainted in shame, but so pleased to see the gardener that she could not control her tears.

Sister Matildé patted her awkwardly on the shoulder with a large bony hand. Soon Anne saw behind her Sister Beatrix and the large form of the Mother herself. She looked up at them, seeing all three worried faces. She tried to reassure them, ‘Don’t worry, I’m well,’ but to even to her ears her voice was high and feeble, and her vision faded, hearing …

‘Come now, don’t let her slip!’

And hearing … ‘Dear God, what has befallen her?’

Sisters Matildé and Blandine washed her, Anne too weak to protest as they removed her ruined clothes. There was no remark about her brand, only soothing kind words. They dressed her in a simple linen smock, modest, clean, and warm. They put her in the small room with only two beds. The other bed was empty. She was quiet.

After Vespers, Sister Winifred Marie was allowed to visit Anne in the infirmary. Magdalene insisted on bringing food and drink for the two of them. Anne was grateful to her, and to Winifred, although it was difficult to see her in her black veil, knowing fully professed nuns were not supposed to think about worldly matters. She sat beside Anne’s bed, apparently sensible and calm, her usual reliable self. After she’d professed, she’d been allowed to retain her own saint’s name with the addition of the Virgin’s name as a blessing. Anne congratulated her on the profession and Sister Winifred Marie nodded, as if she didn’t think it very special. ‘You know it’s a means to an end. I’m free to paint. I make art to glorify God. What else do I need?’

As it was in the old days, Anne told Sister Winifred Marie everything. Sister Winifred Marie was, in turns, amazed and horrified. She’d imagined Anne’s life would be different; elegant and beautiful.

‘It was,’ said Anne. ‘For a time.’

‘That seems to make his actions all the more horrible.’

‘I think he was right. I should be dead.’

‘Anne! Please!’

‘Don’t be feared. I couldn’t follow François. That would be … ‘

‘Impossible. No, we must think you a fresh way ahead.’

‘I must face facts. I can’t stay here. The Mother is placed in a difficult position.’

‘She won’t shirk from her duties to succour an asylum seeker. Especially you.’

‘Have you heard news about the body?’

‘No. Presumably his horse will be recognised somewhere, and a search will ensue. When they find him, it may be, from what you said, that they will think he fell, riding in unfamiliar woods.’

‘But, unfortunately,’ Anne took a big sigh. ‘I had to cut off his finger.’ She showed Winifred the sapphire. ‘I had to get my ring back. I did put the bones back together. Who knows? Perhaps it will have frozen stuck.’

Winifred winced with disgust but said, ‘The finger may not be the worst of his losses. Consider the possibility other animals have found the body already and … ’

Anne nodded, thinking of another time and place. At least his body would have value as food. Perhaps Olivier had thought the same of her.

Before Sister Winifred Marie left Anne, she promised she would explain only the merest necessary facts about this unsavoury attack, unfortunately all too common in these unGodly days on the high roads between France and Flanders. Anne must try to rest.

Alone in the silence that smelled of sweet beeswax and incense, Anne lay back on the blanket. She could feel the straw beneath her. There was nothing to do but close her eyes. Even shame could not prevent her sleep.

Anne was sorry to have made the Mother climb the stairs to visit her in the infirmary, but she found herself so weak after the attack she could barely move. She was ashamed and angry with herself. How did she manage to get herself into such vulnerable positions?

The Mother, assisted by Sister Beatrix, sat down beside her bed, and looked at her. Anne saw Sister Beatrix tighten her lips as she left the room.

‘I wanted to reassure you,’ The Mother shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair. ‘We will make no move to report your attacker. It may be that he is alive, as you surmise. You did the right thing by running from him. He must take his chance. We will wait and see what information filters through to us, if any. Then we will assess our response.’

‘Thank you, Mother.’

They sat in silence for a time as Anne tried to think how she could ask about her birth mother. Where was she? She’d been expecting her from the moment she’d arrived in the building. The Marie Therese she knew from two and a half years ago would have appeared sooner than this.

‘I was grateful to receive your apology.’ The Mother said, ‘From the jail.’

‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ Anne was filled with guilt. ‘It could never be enough.’

‘I know you didn’t take those chalices.’

‘I did leave without telling you.’

‘It was a time of high emotions. The Lord God sees and forgives all who come to him with open heart.’

Anne knew she must be honest with the Mother. ‘I do want to heal my relationship with God, Mother. But I don’t want to do it as a nun.’

‘I wouldn’t expect that of you, Anne.’

Anne rubbed a finger pinch of fustian blanket in her lap before looking back at the Mother. ‘But … I would like to know … ’

She was regarding Anne with a steady gaze. Her eyes looked more green than brown today. ‘What can I tell you, daughter?’

‘I need to know about … ‘ The words were uncomfortable in her mouth, ‘Marie Therese. My … mother.’

‘Of course.’

‘I want to find out things about her, about my father … ‘

‘Naturally.’

‘I didn’t know how to ask … before.’

‘You were confused after her treatment of you all, overcome by Claude and Jeanette’s deaths.’

‘Father François as well.’

The Mother stared at Anne, taking in the import of this news. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘He is buried in Lille. At a crossroads.’

The Mother knew at once the implications of this burial site and bowed her head in sorrow. ‘May the Saints watch over him.’

Sister Matilde came into the room carrying infusions of chamomile for both Anne and the Mother. The cups were cool enough to handle. Anne sipped the warming tea gratefully. The taste of honey flooded her tongue. Anne guessed Sister Matildé would have added plenty of sweetness to the Mother’s cup.

Sister Beatrix also returned, waiting for the moment when she would be required to assist the Mother down the stairs. She didn’t seem to have such a benevolent softness in her face as the Mother. Anne guessed her disapproval. And why not? Anne disapproved of herself.

The Mother placed her ceramic cup down on the side table and looked Anne in the eyes. ‘What do you envisage, child?’

From their last meeting, Anne had tasted life differently. She wanted to be in society but knew not how to get there. ‘Mother, I would like to find my family. Perhaps there may be an opening to stay with some of my blood relatives?’

‘I can see that.’ The Mother said, ‘Remember when I suggested you should go to Lille? To my cousin in the Beguinage? You could have met people in Lille then. You could have had a different life.’

‘I know, Mother. I ruined my opportunities.’

‘God is merciful. Rest assured you can see your mother any time you’re ready, but you must prepare yourself … ’

Anne felt her heart thump. Marie Therese didn’t represent her mother. She dreaded seeing that woman, her birth mother, once more. As a child she’d been so frightened of those fierce eyes, eyes that bored into her, and seemed to see her faults magnified beyond reason.

Now, this soft-faced kind woman, the head of the Priory, with her pinching wimple, although stern and correct, seemed to Anne to be the epitome of motherhood. On impulse she leaned forward and gently touched the Mother’s hand. ‘You’re my mother.’

The Prioress looked surprised, and pleased, but Anne meant it. The Mother smiled before she placed her chubby hand over Anne’s for a light pat. Their brief contact over, she said, ‘You will find Marie Therese greatly changed. She suffered an apoplexy the year you left. Perhaps it was the stress of finally losing all her children. Perhaps God willed her to be punished for her lack of reason; we cannot know. She had not been well for a long time, as you may have guessed. I’m sorry, Anne. You will not know her.’

Anne agreed, of course she would do anything the Mother told her, but her preparation included strengthening her spine, en guarde, for the woman she used to know. It took another day of rest before Anne was able to venture outside the infirmary. She carried resolution to finally discover all she could about her family, her inheritance and her ancestors on both sides, father, and mother.

What would her mother tell her?