Chapter Twenty-Three - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband

Lille Prison exterior

There, beside the dirt mound where François lay, Anne watched Hugo’s soft, kind face adore her as he said, ‘Anne of Breuil. Please. Just say the words. How can I assist?’

She leaned forward toward him, as if she were overcome with gratitude, ‘Could you find it in your heart to help this miserable sinner?’ Truly, this was not an act. Anne was pleading for her life, ‘Against the dictates of the law? Against the filial duty of a son?’ He looked abashed and she wondered if she had pushed him too far. ‘Oh, Hugo thank you for listening to me! It’s true I broke my vows when I ran from the convent and now I feel I must return to answer my calling!’

‘What?’ Hugo appeared shocked. ‘The place that hurt you?’

‘You understand how guilty I’ve been ever since?’

‘But Father François told me how vindictive those nuns were and how you couldn’t survive there a moment longer … ‘

‘I’m older now, stronger. I’m a widow. I’ve experienced life. And death.’

He looked at her sidelong, for of course, she must not appear very strong.

She stood up straight, as though she were mustering her spiritual connection to Heaven. ‘I swear to you I’ll return to the nunnery to devote my life to Our Lord Jesus Christ and his Holy Virgin Mother, the Mother of us all. I’ve found my calling and it’s to help the poor and sick if my strength holds, and I’m physically able. You must see I am sincere. What use am I locked up in a stinking cell?’

‘It would only be for five, I’d estimate, Madame, as you’re only charged as an accessory to the theft, but perhaps you need never go to either place … ’

She cut him off, guessing he might propose some repellent romantic notion. ‘No matter, you understand, it’s too long for me, don’t you? How I need to pray with my sisters and do charitable works? Think of the lives I might save if I were to live my life as a nun? You know me.’ And she stood, open to his appraisal, eyes wide and direct and she sent forth her energy to move him in her direction. She willed him to believe her.

The jailor’s son looked away from her. A chill went through her like a knife of ice. She was distraught, thinking she had lost his attention. And, it is true, she had, but only because he had heard something else that disturbed his thoughts. He made up his mind, turned to her, grabbed her arm, and said, ‘Madam, follow me! Don’t waste a minute!’

‘But, Hugo, where do we go?’

‘Hush, speak no more. Here is the path back to the city centre.’

‘Yes, but Hugo, what do you mean?’

‘You must make haste for I hear my father calling me. I’ll tell him Evert is mistaken. You were some other woman that once knew François in Paris.’

Anne’s relief raced through her body. She really was full of gratitude. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Hugo.’

‘Pray for me, Anne of Breuil. But, stay, what is your name now?’

‘It is honest Anne of Breuil once more, as it was at first, my handsome young protector.’

She almost ran down the path back to the centre of Lille.

Hugo ran after her, ‘But, Anne, how can I find you?’

She was flustered when his hand reached out for her arm once more. She said, ‘I’ll be enclosed, a lay nun at the Benedictine convent in Templemars, as I was destined to be. But, Hugo, I’ll always remember you, kind boy, who helped me so generously in both my hours of need.’

She held him by that errant arm and kissed him gently on the cheek.

He turned back to her. His eyes were wild when he said, ‘Anne, I could come with you!’

‘For what, Hugo?’

‘To help you!’

‘I’ll be at my prayers all day.’

‘I’ll be a monk!’

‘Hugo.’ She looked at him as though he were a child. ‘You’re no monk. You must stay and help your father. And tell the Executioner of Lille that I’ve gone far beyond his reach. I am gone to Heaven.’

Of course, she wouldn’t go back to the nunnery to pray, she knew that. Even if she could be accepted as a lay nun she’d be working, not praying. But she did have a reason to return to the Priory of Sainte Scholastique. She wanted to see the only person who knew her family, who knew her grandparents, perhaps more, uncles, aunts, cousins …

If there was any family left for Anne in France, her birth mother was the only one who could tell her where to find them. If any still lived. Her mother, Marie Therese had said her parents lived in a large house. Her father’s parents had been farmers and owned land near Breuil. They had bought her jewels when they saw she was in need. Perhaps they still had substance after all these years. Perhaps there was still hope that these were civilised people, they might even be educated and part of respectable society. Anne hoped desperately she would be able to build a new life with them.

As she walked through the chill of the afternoon towards the town she thought of little else. Of course, she had a family somewhere. And now, she’d find them.

On her return to the hotel, she noticed the tri-petal emblem etched above the door. It was a shock to realise she was staying in the Inn of the Fleur-de-Lys. Certainly, she must move swiftly.

She entered the bar, ordered food, drink, and a bath be brought to her room. She watched in silence as the small table was laid and the bath filled. Once it was ready, she sent the servants out of the room, ignoring their protests, locked the door and disrobed. She straightened the linen sheet that protected her skin from the metal surface of the tub before getting into the water. She tried to relax. Thoughts skittered around her mind. She sat in the cooling water, shivering with fear and grief. Why? François? Was it her fault? What could she have done differently? Was it to do with God? How could she accept his loss?

She must think of practicalities. She looked around the room, noting the discarded clothes. She should send them to the laundry but that would take another day at least. Loneliness gnawed at her. And she felt it hard.

Anne pushed the greasy bubbles around the water. She should get out of the bath and adjust the fire, but she was overwhelmed by homelessness and grief. She didn’t belong back in Lille, a place where she’d found some comfort in the Hospice. She felt only uncertainty about returning to Templemars. She must concentrate on practical matters.

She would hire a horse, and ride. She could leave her trunk here, in the hotel until her way was clear again. She would organise her laundry. She’d carry her valuables with her. She could look after herself. Did she want to be recognised when she arrived at the Priory? She had done nothing wrong; she’d broken no formal vow. All she did was run away. She didn’t think the Prioress would give her up to the Abbot. But did she need to see the Prioress at all?

Anne decided she would go up to the front door and openly declare herself. She would take the consequences. Would she stay in the Priory? She’d have to see what kind of reception she received before she made firm plans.

Anne saw that her skin was beginning to pucker. She managed to get herself out of the bath and wrapped in a Turkish linen towel. Then she sat by the fire, ate, and kept going through her thoughts.

In the morning she dressed modestly, roused the innkeeper, paid for the room up until the day after the next, made sure her belongings were safe and sound behind that locked door, and enquired about hiring a horse. Obviously, she couldn’t trust the innkeeper’s locks as much as her own cummerbund, so she carried her valuables close. She decided against the wooden clogs, feeling the Priory would prefer a ladylike appearance.

Wrapping her travelling cloak firmly around her, she walked out into the streets of Lille. She found a stable yard with a choice of healthy ponies, and she chose a shining chestnut. She allowed the horse to breathe into her face and gave the pony a carrot. Finding the smell of stables soothing, Anne felt calmer as the groom arranged the saddle and led the pony to the mounting block. Soon they were walking quietly out of the town gates, through those lowlands and stinking areas of industry, and along the road where Anne had walked not eighteen months before. The pony seemed to be happy to be out and Anne’s spirits also rose. It was a pleasure to be moving with a horse beneath her and to have a plan, such as it was.

It was a cold morning. Clouds slipped over small patches of blue. Anne watched wind whip trees and stir those thin clouds. Soon they had thickened into a dark mass. A storm was coming.

The weather did not make her hurry. The horse seemed relaxed, happy to be sedate, and Anne relished the rhythm of moving along the track in the chilly air. The woollen cloak may have protected her from the chill wind, but nothing could prevent her rising trepidation as they drew closer to Templemars. She knew the road well enough to find her way but when she had seen it last the shadows had been tinged with blood-light and fear. Was this where she ducked behind the hedge to change from her nun’s habit? Was this where François had dropped the stolen chalices?

As they approached the town, the Priory bells began, calling the congregation to the Chapelle Sainte-Marie. It would be for Sext, she supposed, as it was no longer early in the day. After all, it had taken her the best part of the morning to organise the pony.

Her heart responded to those bells, surprising her. Perhaps, after all, the best thing to do was to render praise on High and glorify God. Perhaps she did need to make peace with her church. She would pray for guidance. May the Blessed Virgin Mary intercede for her and may the Merciful Lord forgive her own sins. For, indeed, Anne couldn’t help but blame herself. She knew she should have stayed in the Priory. She should have learned to forgive.

Anne stared up into the sky and drew in breath. The threatened rain had not started, although the clouds promised much. The wetness on her face came from a different source. She murmured the ancient prayer in time with the horse’s hooves, ‘We beseech thee, Master, to be our helper and protector. Save the afflicted among us; have mercy on the lowly; raise up the fallen; appear to the needy; heal the ungodly; restore the wanderers of thy people; feed the hungry; ransom our prisoners; raise up the sick; comfort the faint-hearted.’

Oh, she was faint-hearted. She longed for comfort. Could the Priory offer her anything at all? She couldn’t think of any other option. The Priory was her last hope. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’

Anne gazed around her at the flat land and the horizon over the farmers’ strip fields. She noted things so familiar made horribly strange by her new eyes. She rode with her knee hooked around the pommel and looked down upon toy houses nestled amongst fields and woodlands. Templemars didn’t call her as a home ought. She no longer belonged to this place. But hearing the faint bells to Sext claimed her soul.

She leaned down and patted the pony on the neck. ‘What’ll I do with you, my pretty?’ Would she house the pony into the Priory winter quarters? Not at first. She sat up straight again, looked at the sky, decided the weather would hold long enough to tether the horse in the common, time enough to attend prayers, and looked forward to accomplishing her plan. There’d been the odd passing cart or rider but mostly the road had been quiet this morning. She was unconcerned when she saw a lone figure on horseback approach. She decided to keep to the right and, making sure of her veil, kept her eyes on the horizon.

He came up level to her and said, ‘Good morning.’

She nodded and kept her eyes straight ahead assuming he’d go past on his own business as had all other riders that day.

But this saucy fellow seemed to decide she was his business, and he wheeled his horse around and turned to face in the direction she was travelling. Then he kept pace with her. He said nothing but he was staring.

Anne began to feel nervous and urged her horse to trot. Faster. When he reached out and took hold of her reins, she panicked. He kept pace with her horse without effort.

When he casually reached over to pluck the veil away from her face, she was exposed. She knew not where to look but did, once, look him full in the face as she sought avenues of escape.

His smile was wide and white, and he was terrifying. She knew him. It was Cosimo, the man to whom François had sold the gold chalices. The bandit with a treasure chest in his office and greed in his eyes. In her fear, Anne felt dread at the memory and shirked from it. She shrieked, ‘How dare you!’ Kicked out at him and, praying it’d be enough to shake him off, pushed her horse to go faster. As both beasts reached a gallop she tussled with the man’s hands over the reins. He was strong and determined. He would not let go.

All was panic and power, speed and frantic wrestling.

Anne knew she was fighting for her life.

She did not know if she had the strength.