‘Would that I never had.’ Marian drank some honeyed water, closed her eyes as she swallowed, thanked Owen. ‘After the death of my father, my mother asked Sir Thomas, my godfather, to be my guardian. I was to live away from home, in one of Sir Thomas’s manor houses, supervised by his sister, Lady Edwina. Her first act was to hire a tutor for me, to teach me all I needed to know so that I might be welcome at one of the great abbeys as an asset with my voice and knowledge of music – Sir Thomas had always encouraged me to sing at the Christmas and harvest feasts on the manor. The tutor, Phillip, was the brother of one of Sir Thomas’s retainers. Lady Edwina and my mother considered him a good choice because his father had once been a musician in the court of the King of Bohemia. And he was studying for the Church. Neither of them knew anything more of him. They had heard him play. One of his own compositions. I was happy. Music was all I cared about. That must be how he came to his grievous misunderstanding.’
‘Phillip? Your music-master?’ Lucie asked.
‘Yes. I often smile when I sing. Did he think I meant the smiles for him? All I thought about was the music. I looked forward to the day when I would devote my life to God.’
Seeing the pain and doubt in her eyes, hearing it in her voice, Lucie gently asked about that day, when she finally went to the abbey.
‘Mistress Edwina and Sir Thomas accompanied me to Wherwell. Everything depended on that meeting. I was so in awe I could not breathe when the abbess commanded me to sing for her. But with Mistress Edwina smiling and encouraging me I found my breath and began to sing Benedicamus Domino.’ Lucie knew that to be part of the daily office, a piece every sister would know. ‘The abbess interrupted to summon Dame Eloise, the cantrice. Once I saw Dame Eloise I found the courage and the breath to sing my best. She had such kind eyes.’
Marian broke off and rose to sing a Benedicamus Domino unlike any Lucie had ever heard, notes climbing, then curling back. Soul-lifting. When she paused, the silence in the room felt alive, resonant with prayer. Owen looked on in awe.
As if unaware of the effect she had Marian resumed her seat and continued. ‘After I sang Dame Eloise clapped her hands, tears streaming from her eyes. She enfolded me in her arms. She said that God had answered her prayers. She would train me to be her sub-cantrice. I felt so welcome.’
‘God answered your prayers as well,’ said Lucie. ‘Tell me more about Dame Eloise.’
‘I loved her the moment I met her, such a gentle, sweet face, her pale eyes a little clouded with age yet somehow still keen. And so kind. Her hands were soft, cushioned as if she had no sharp bones.’ Marian gave a little laugh. A lovely, throaty laugh.
‘How long were you there?’ Lucie asked.
‘Seven years. I thought I would live there until God claimed me.’ Marian pressed her hand to her forehead, her sleeve falling away from the slender wrist that seemed far too frail to support her long-fingered hands. ‘But everything fell apart in the spring. I have prayed and prayed and I cannot think what the sin might be for which I am so punished. Pride?’ She glanced up at Lucie, tears shimmering in her eyes, spots of color on her cheeks. ‘Was I too proud of my voice? I thought it God’s gift.’ There was an edge to her voice. ‘I thought I was meant to use it to praise Him. Dame Eloise said it was so. I cannot think why God so punished me.’
Reaching out to take Marian’s hand, Lucie held it firmly as she asked whether she needed some wine.
Marian shook her head. ‘To be among women again. You cannot know how good it has been to be with you, Dame Lucie. And Alisoun and Dame Magda, Dame Bess. You as well, Captain Archer. What you said – I have not felt so safe since that terrible night. And now I would – Gabriel promised to find out whether Dame Eloise survived the fire. But I cannot expect him to do so now. Rupert was his friend. I am sure he blames me for the deaths of both him and his brother.’ Her voice rose, her eyes flashing, but as suddenly as the anger flashed, she quelled it, paused to drink water, wipe her eyes. ‘I pray that the prioress of St Clement’s might find out for me. Or, as you said, Dame Lucie, perhaps someone coming for the enthronement will have news.’
‘Did Ambrose tell you who he was meeting at the minster?’ Owen asked.
‘No. He had mentioned only a few people in my hearing – the Riverwoman, you, Dame Lucie. I could not think it would be either Dame Lucie or Dame Magda, but I did mention you. I have betrayed you. And Master Ambrose. I do not deny it. I have been such a fool.’
‘You survived. That is no small accomplishment,’ said Owen.
Marian dismissed it with a shake of her head.
‘What else did you tell them about Ambrose?’ asked Owen.
‘I knew little else. He sometimes mutters to himself over his instrument, thinking perhaps that no one will be able to understand him. That is how I learned of the Riverwoman.’ A pause. ‘There was a time when I would have shunned a woman like Dame Magda. But I would have been wrong. God clearly works through her.’
‘She would smile to hear that,’ said Lucie.
‘That is what Alisoun said.’ Another pause, suddenly not meeting Lucie’s gaze. ‘Alisoun told me she lost her family to pestilence. It returned to the south in summer.’
‘Here as well,’ said Lucie. ‘Our nursemaid
