Anne ran to the next building, through the kitchen and down into the laundry, pulling at her clothes. Crammed her dirty breeches and doublet into a basket, rummaged in another, found, and pulled on, smock, skirt, and caul, pressing, and smoothing the skirt’s fabric over her knees. Although she could feel the bruises, she knew no one would see them. Luckily the man in the market had scrubbed off the worst of the mud. It would have to do. Ran through the corridors towards the rear of the building. Leapt down the stairs, out into the light. A faint ray of sunshine came through the spring clouds. Turned her face to the sun.
When the caul slipped from her head she kept running with her hair untrammelled. The hair annoyed Anne who brushed it aside and ran to the donkey. He watched her with his dark brown eyes as she approached the cart.
The porter nuns unloaded barrels of wine and sacks of grain beside the buttery door. They would take some into the kitchen and some down to the cellarium to store. Anne slipped between the wooden rails and embraced the creature heartily. Doudou still wore clumps of his winter fur and looked disreputable. She leaned on him while she caught her own breath. He was hard and furry both at once.
But, oh, how would it be if Doudou was a proper pony! She would love that pony so much and feed him handfuls of grass freshly picked from the other side of the fence. She would explain to the shining, smooth brown creature with long eyelashes that the grass was always greener the further you had to reach. Sister Agnes had explained, more than once, that Doudou was needed to pull the cart to go to market and he protected the goats and sheep from wolves too, with his huge braying and his tremendous kicks. That was all the orphanage required. There would be no shining pony. Doudou was a good little donkey. If Jesus could ride a donkey, so could a little orphan girl.
So, Anne made her own pony. She collected sticks and leaves and bits of old fabric and made a funny little horse doll. She carried it with her and slept with it in her already crowded bed. Marie Therese broke the silly toy because she was too big for such ridiculous fantasies. When she got out of the dark hole, Anne had to take on responsibilities. She was to help Armaud at the market and work in the garden. Make herself useful. ‘The devil makes work for idle hands,’ growled Marie Therese. ‘You little devil.’
‘Doudou … ‘ Anne straightened up and took the walnuts from her pocket. ‘Sorry I left you at the market. But see … One for you and one for me.’
She put the nuts on the ground in front of the donkey. The donkey turned his head to hers and snorted at her reproachfully. ‘Oh, Doudou, you’re right!’ Ran to the grass, bent, and grabbed a handful. Clambered back to the donkey’s side and handed him the juicy stalks. Laughed as the donkey chewed. ‘Now, you have to work.’ Pushed the donkey forward. He didn’t move, just finished his mouthful, and eyed her hopefully. Would there be more? Of course! Laughed and climbed through the fence again. As she grabbed the grass she straightened. Yes, it was true, she could hear the bell to dinner.
‘Late again, Anne de Breuil!’ said the porter nun, arriving to take another sack from the cart and frowning down at her, patted her head and pointed to the fallen caul. ‘Remember!’
Anne grimaced and grabbed up her cap. She gave Doudou the last handful of grass with a quick little pat and hopeful gesture towards the nuts. Doudou eyed the walnuts with some disdain before he stepped forward and on them. They smashed into paste and shards. He smeared them into the ground. He looked up at his benefactor and bared his yellow teeth. ‘Oh! Doudou!’ Anne laughed, ‘You don’t know when to stop!’
Holding her clean skirts off the floor, Anne avoided servant nuns carrying trays of plates through the kitchen. Slipped through the hall to pause outside the dining room without incident. But now the tricky part, could she get to her table without being noticed? She put her head around the door of the refectory to see three of the senior nuns conferring just inside the room. Sister Beatrix, the more serious of the trio, was the person with whom Mother Prioress communicated the most and was at this moment likely reporting from the Mother.
Hoping she might learn something useful, Anne leaned back against the wall and listened as Sister Beatrix told Sisters Agnes and Matildé that Armaud had returned from the market without Anne de Breuil. ‘That child,’ she said.
‘So true,’ Sister Agnes agreed. ‘Claude and Pierre were also supposed to be at the market this morning, but they were too busy making their dragon. Anne promised to help Armaud so he wouldn’t notice their absence—'
‘—helping her little brother—
‘—Of course. She’d do anything for Claude—'
‘—and then she ran away herself, the naughty thing.’
‘Murder is no fit subject for a young girl,’ Sister Beatrix shook her head. ‘King or no King.’
‘Shouldn’t be going to market,’ Sister Matildé said.
‘Especially if she can’t be trusted to remain at her post,’ said Sister Agnes.
‘And dressed as a boy,’ added Sister Beatrix. Anne imagined the nuns shaking their disapproving heads in the ensuing pause.
Sister Matildé said, ‘I’ll find her different work.’
Just as she was about to step forward to argue, Anne was stopped by the next words.
‘There’s other news—’ Sister Beatrix added.
Anne stayed where she was.
‘—Armaud may have met a suitable journeyman.’ Sister Beatrix continued, ‘He’ll attend the play.’
Anne wondered what a ‘journeyman’ might be.
‘That blessed play can’t be over soon enough for me,’ Sister Agnes said. ‘However, it must be said, Mother will be grateful she doesn’t have to mingle with her guests completely ignorant of world news.’
‘This man.’ Frowning slightly, Sister Matildé regarded Sister Agnes, ‘Is it wise?’
‘As wise as any other friends and family who are invited.’ Sister Beatrix shrugged. ‘He’s no more nor less than the father or cousin of little Eloise or Griete.’
‘It’s true there’s no nun skilled in the art of carpentry,’ said Sister Matildé, ‘Perhaps we could learn something of the accomplishment while he’s here?’
‘The Virgin has sent us devoted patrons who have offered to defray the costs—’ said Sister Beatrix.
Anne was leaning forward so much she did not hear what was approaching from behind. A hard blow to her back sent her sprawling in front of the three nuns, sliding across the stone floor into the dining room, her skirts in disarray, in full view of the entire convent population. Crawled away from her attacker, who she guessed must be Marie Therese, moving instinctively closer to the senior nuns before she picked herself up and rubbed her head. When she could focus, she looked up to see Marie Therese’s dark eyes flashing with fury as she pointed upstairs toward the orphan’s dormitory. Anne knew the whereabouts of the leg irons and tried not to shake. She knew argument would get her nothing but trouble.
Sisters Agnes, Beatrix and Matildé came to surround Marie Therese. Anne tried a quick smile at Sister Agnes and saw, with relief, the smile briefly returned.
‘Don’t encourage.’ Marie Therese glanced at her seniors and then looked back down her nose at Anne. ‘Late. Again.’
Anne, however, under her eyelashes, looked hopefully at the other Sisters.
Sister Agnes said quietly, ‘Perhaps, not too late, Marie Therese?’
‘The child needs to eat, Marie Therese,’ said Sister Matildé. ‘You may go to your place, Anne. Say your Grace before you eat.’
Respectfully, Anne bowed to all four women and kept her head down as she carried on to her place in the refectory. Wasted no time in case the order was revoked. As she was leaving Anne heard Sister Agnes whisper, ‘Marie Therese, perhaps you forget we have rehearsal?’
‘Nonsense.’
Sister Beatrix spoke quickly, ‘The life of our Blessed Virgin Mary is hardly nonsense.’
‘Sacrilegious,’ said Marie Therese.
‘You don’t have to be involved,’ said Sister Matilde, ‘If you don’t wish.’
Anne recognised Marie Therese’s vexation in her response, ‘Do I not?’ Anne was compelled to hurry towards her table and her food. She’d try even harder to avoid Marie Therese. If she found herself alone with that nun, she’d find herself in the dark hole within moments. But she also thought about the puzzle. Why would Marie Therese participate in the play when she hated it so much? Anne loved it. Anne was singing a solo. With words! Each year she progressed to something greater. This would be glory, truly!
The meal had already begun. Sister Gertrude, the oldest nun in the convent, was reading the lesson from a lectern in the corner of the room in her papery voice. The children paid her no mind as they were always hungry. They were excited about tonight’s rehearsal and the performance that would take place on the morrow. They couldn’t help whispering about willow hoops or the shepherd’s dress or how they might arrange their hair if they thought they could get away with it.
Anne proceeded to sit at her usual place, at the girls’ table. Hungry, she still had blurred vision because of the blow, and her body ached because she’d been kicked by a trio of boys. So unfair! Noticed Sister Agnes take her place at the table. Saw everyone had red hands after dying things for the play. Bent her head and recited the Grace. Then she raised her hand and reached for the bread. Only, the piece of bread she grabbed had accidentally fallen to the platter upside down. The flat part of the bread was uppermost.
The children around her gasped as she bit into the crust. Looked from their faces to the bread in her hand, realised what she’d done, dropped it and stared around the table before bowing her head in shame. Couldn’t bear to look at their accusing eyes. The heat rose in her body. It was an honest mistake!
Although Sister Agnes was a rotund woman, she was able to move quickly and lightly. From her place at the head of the table, she rose, came around the seated children and put her cool hand on Anne’s arm. The other children were pushing each other in the ribs and whispering. Anne sat with her head bowed. Sister Agnes said quietly, ‘What is it, child?’
Anne could not speak. Hot embarrassment flooded through her body. Almost stood up, but Sister Agnes’s hand offered comfort, so she stayed where she was.
Léonie said in a loud voice, ‘She ate the Executioner’s bread!’
‘Executioner’s bread!’ cried Eloise.
‘The smell of death!’ Léonie said.
Clotildé said, ‘Sorrow!’
‘For the whole house!’ cried Eloise.
Léonie had no love for Anne, ‘God have mercy on her soul!’
Eloise said, as loudly as she could, ‘She brought bad fortune on us all!’
Léonie said, ‘Pray for forgiveness!’
Clotildé said, ‘Executioner’s bread!’ to the girls at the end of the table who had not seen, and the girls exclaimed and shook their heads in horror. The lightning words sped around the room, ‘Executioner’s bread!’
‘Mercy on us all!’
‘Enough, children,’ said Sister Agnes. ‘Finish your food quietly. Listen to Sister Gertrude. Focus your minds on the words of the Lord.’
Sister Gertrude had not stopped reading from Matthew, telling the story of the servant who wanted forgiveness but was not prepared to forgive others, in a monotone of familiarity.
‘Anne,’ said Sister Agnes, bending to speak in her ear, ‘Do not waste the Lord’s food. Please pick up your bread.’
Anne did as she was told, wiping the crust with her skirt. Placed it carefully, flat side down, beside her plate, and looked up to check the other children noted the correct positioning. Picked up her spoon and began to eat the thin broth.
Sister Agnes walked around the table laying a hand gently on a twisting young shoulder here or cautioning a stifled giggle before returning to her seat and taking up her spoon. She looked around her charges with mild warning in her eye.
As her shame cooled, Anne looked up to see Claude, her young brother, who sat over with the boys. He was scooping his soup as fast as he could and didn’t look back at his sister. Then Anne turned to check Jeanette, their older sister, seated at the table for younger nuns and novices. Jeanette was bent forward, folded into her novice robes, and almost covered with her white veil.
Anne saw Jeanette’s nose looked red. As Anne watched, her sister reached into her sleeve, pulled out a handkerchief, blew, and wiped. Anne sat up straight and waved to her sister. She would have called but she could see Marie Therese watching her like a thunder cloud, obviously keen to find out what had happened at the younger girls’ table. Sister Agnes indicated Anne should continue to eat. Anne nodded but kept her eyes on her sister even as she moved the spoon to her mouth. But, under the scrutiny of Marie Therese, Jeanette kept her spine curved and her head bowed.
The nuns and the children bowed their heads and prayed to Our Holy Virgin Mother at the end of the meal. Anne gave thanks to Sister Agnes for saving her, yet again.
‘We give Thee thanks, Almighty God, for all thy benefits,
Who livest and reignest, world without end.’
Anne could not help her hand straying to her neck. Her skin was hot under her hand. Smoothed her throat. She liked her neck. She would not want to be parted from it. All for a piece of bread.
‘Amen.’
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