‘You.’ She pointed a long finger. ‘A Dominican, an inquisitor?’
Her English was good but the accent was heavy and pronounced. She blinked furiously, a nervous gesture. Her hand dropped and she leaned forward again. Athelstan scrutinized her. She was dark skinned, her eyebrows finely etched, lips pushed together as if she was ready to kiss. She was comely enough, though the dark mulberry stain which marked the entire right side of her face could be clearly seen, emphasized by the starched white wimple.
‘Well.’ She smiled. ‘Are you an inquisitor?’ She glanced up at Thibault and the smile faded.
‘I am no inquisitor, mistress. I am Athelstan. This is Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City. And your name?’
‘Eleanor,’ Thibault answered for her.
‘Not Eleanor,’ she retorted. ‘Call me Mara, for Shaddai has blighted me.’ Her answer caught Athelstan unawares yet he was sure she was making some reference to a verse in the Bible.
‘Why…?’
Mara, as she called herself, raised her hand and stroked the stain on her face. ‘A birth mark,’ she whispered, ‘but when I saw the play…’
‘The Straw Men?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen theirs but it was at the first staged in the nave of our convent church that I recognized it – my true name. I realized God has struck me, for God knows what reason.’
Athelstan nodded sympathetically. He’d met such people before who identified themselves with individuals in the Bible, be it Mary Magdalene or Job; after all, hadn’t he called Huddle a Judas? Wasn’t he hunting a child of Cain?
‘And your true origins?’ he asked.
Mara lifted her tearful eyes, small pools of sadness.
‘Brother,’ she murmured, ‘a curse. I always thought I was a foundling raised in that convent of Saint Bavin by the good nuns. I never gave it a second thought. I always considered my mother to be some poor woman who gave birth to me but could not nurse or support me.’ She brushed her eyes with the cuff of her gown. ‘That is, until Evangeline and her son arrived. They seemed fairly prosperous and took lodgings in our guest house; once settled she soon singled me out. She claimed to know the truth about me. I promise, I shall be swift.’ She glanced hard-eyed at Thibault. ‘I am sure the magister has related my story.’
‘He hasn’t,’ Athelstan interposed.
‘Evangeline and her son,’ the words now came in a rush, ‘maintained that I was the true daughter of Edward of England and Philippa his Queen.’
‘What proof did they offer?’
‘Evangeline claimed to be in the birthing chamber when I was born. She would repeat time and again what she alleged to have seen – how I was replaced by a peasant’s son because I was a sickly girl with this mark of God on my face.’
‘Did she say why she had delayed for so long in coming forward to tell you?’
‘She could not answer that except to say that she had been frightened and, of course, she did not know what had happened to me. Only much later did she discover that nothing, in fact, had happened. I had been raised in the same convent where I had been born, so she waited to summon up enough courage to visit me.’
‘But why? And just as importantly, why now?’
‘She claimed others in England would be greatly interested in my story. She said she had that on very good authority.’
‘Whose authority?’
‘She said she couldn’t say because she did not know their names, but Gaunt’s enemies would be interested in who I really was.’
‘Did that interest you?’
‘Brother, I will go on oath. I am not greedy or ambitious. I simply wanted to know the truth. Perhaps Gaunt’s enemies,’ Mara glanced at Thibault, ‘might have helped me.’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps even his friends and henchmen. The former nurse did say there were rumours that Gaunt might be illegitimate.’
‘Scurrilous tales,’ Thibault interrupted. ‘Filthy lies about a great prince!’
‘But what proof could she offer?’ Athelstan insisted.
Mara, hands folded in her lap, bowed her head.
‘I mean,’ Athelstan added, ‘with all due respect, mistress, you do not have the look or colouring of a Plantagenet.’
‘I know,’ Cranston intervened. Mara lifted her head.
‘I know,’ Cranston repeated. Athelstan sensed Thibault stiffen behind him.
‘They showed me a likeness of Queen Philippa,’ Mara murmured. ‘Peas in a pod was how Evangeline described both her and me.’ Mara glanced coyly at Cranston. ‘You met Queen Philippa?’
‘I did,’ Cranston declared.
‘And what further proof?’ Athelstan asked. He felt truly frightened for this poor, desolate prisoner. Thibault was, and would be, absolutely ruthless in defence of his master. This woman would not survive another winter.
‘Evangeline persuaded me to ask the lady abbess about my origins. I did so. I discovered I was not a poor foundling but left at the convent by a woman of quality.’
‘Left?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Not born there?’
‘Brother, that was forty years ago.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I was told. No manuscripts or records survived. I cannot tell if I was born there and left or taken there and left.’ Mara turned and sipped from a horn-shaped beaker on the side table. ‘Evangeline said her son, a scrivener, would relate my origins and later story. Of course, Brother, as you know, abbeys, monasteries, convents and priories are not closed communities
