CHAPTER 11
Sir John Cranston took one look at Sir Maurice Maltravers sitting beside Athelstan in the Jerusalem Tree Tavern and roared with laughter. He took his beaver hat off, slapping it against his thighs so the pedlars and tinkers who plied their trade along the waterside wondered if the lord coroner had lost his wits. Athelstan shook his head in mock reproval.
‘Sir John,’ he hissed. ‘This is supposed to be done in secrecy.’
‘I promise you, Brother. But do you think you can fool the hawk-eyed Lady Monica? This.’ He took the tankard Athelstan had ordered and took a deep slurp. ‘This,’ he repeated, ‘I must see. You are?’
‘Brother Norbert of the Order of St Dominic’ Sir Maurice spoke softly, pulling his face into what he thought was a look of piety.
‘Oh, for God’s sake! They’ll think you are from Bedlam if you look at Lady Monica like that. What I suggest, Brother, is Athelstan speaks to Lady Monica and you’d best keep your tongue quiet until we meet Angelica.’
They walked up the steep, winding trackway to where the nunnery, nestling behind its grey curtain wall, overlooked the Thames. A porter led them through the postern gate and across the exquisitely laid-out gardens with herbers, smooth green lawns, flower beds, arbours and raised turf seats. The air was tinged with the heavy perfume of flowers. Sir John stopped to admire a luscious rose which dangled out over the path.
‘The ladies of Syon are not sworn to poverty,’ Athelstan noted.
‘No, no, Brother, this is where the ladies of the court, who wish to retire from the glories of the world, can sit, reflect, meditate and pray.’
The nunnery buildings were made of honey-coloured stone. They passed the jewel of a chapel and entered cool, shady porticoes which wound past quiet cloisters and into the main building. Here the floor was paved and lined with boxes and pots of flowers. Gaily coloured tapestries hung on the wall displaying scenes from the Bible or lovely motifs such as a flaming rose beneath a golden crown. Now and again they passed nuns sitting in corners or in chairs, either reading from books of hours or talking softly among themselves. The porter, a wiry little man, turned a corner and knocked on an iron-studded door. Athelstan breathed a quick prayer. Sir John took one quick slurp from the wineskin and in they swept to meet Lady Monica.
Athelstan found her most forbidding. She was tall, elegant and more majestic than any queen. She was dressed in a snowy white habit with a cream-edged coif which framed an imperious face with sharp grey eyes, slender nose and thin, disapproving lips. She extended a bejewelled hand. Sir John went on one knee to kiss the long, ivory-white fingers. Athelstan and Sir Maurice bowed, the friar sketching a hasty blessing. Lady Monica sat down behind her desk while the porter, grumbling to himself, brought across three box chairs. Lady Monica nodded and all three took their seats. Athelstan felt as if he had gone back in time, to when he and his brother Francis were brought into the scullery to be reprimanded by Mother. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow and he wondered at the wisdom of what he had done. Lady Monica’s steel-grey eyes studied them all. Athelstan caught a glimpse of humour in her severe face.
‘It’s been a long time, Jack.’
Sir John’s face coloured and he shuffled his feet.
‘Do you remember the tourney?’ She sighed. ‘You and my beloved, Sir Oliver, fought all comers: the King gave you the crown as champion of the tournament?’
‘Grand days,’ the coroner muttered, the tears starting in his eyes. I am older, my lady, and much fatter, but you haven’t changed a whit. As beautiful as ever.’
‘You were always one for flattery, Jack, and for wine. Would you like some?’
Lady Monica gestured to the porter still standing behind them.
‘Cuthbert, some wine for our guests. The best claret you have.’ Her face creased into a smile. ‘Sir Jack has a partiality for that.’
The wine was served, the porter left. All the time Lady Monica threaded the ivory Ave beads which lay on her desk. She asked after Lady Maude and congratulated Sir John on the birth of the two poppets. She finally wrapped the Ave beads round her fingers and sat back in the chair. Athelstan couldn’t meet her gaze so he looked at the beautiful devotional paintings, framed in black and gold, which hung on the brilliant white walls.
‘Why are you here, Jack?’
Sir John coughed and rolled the small, intricately carved goblet between his hands.
‘Sir Thomas Parr, my lady.’
‘Ah, Angelica. Headstrong girl. Love is a terrible thing, isn’t it, Jack? It turns the soul and dazzles the mind.’ She gathered the Ave beads together. ‘Did you ever love me, Jack?’
He kept his head down like a little boy.
‘I asked you that once,’ Lady Monica continued.
‘My lady, you were betrothed. Sir Oliver was dearer to me than a brother.’
‘But you did love me!’ Lady Monica persisted.
Athelstan watched fascinated as tears brimmed in Sir John’s eyes and, for once, this bluff, rough-spoken coroner seemed tongue-tied.
‘You were always blunt, my lady. I think you know the truth. And, God forgive me if I gave any offence, but so did Oliver.’
‘My lady,’ Athelstan intervened, wanting to help his companion. ‘Sir Thomas Parr has put his daughter in your care. He has asked me to visit her and give her spiritual comfort.’
‘And does that need the three of you?’ Lady Monica studied Athelstan carefully. ‘I have heard of you.’ She pointed a finger. ‘I always listen to what happens to Jack. All your exploits. Anyway, why the three?’
‘My lord coroner is here because he knows you,’ Athelstan replied coolly. ‘I am here because I am his secretarius while Brother Norbert has just returned from the Bridgettine Convent at Oxford.’ Athelstan quietly prayed the lie would not be held against him. ‘Where he provided wise counsel and spiritual comfort for the good sisters there.’
‘And so why are you here?’ Lady Monica now stared directly at Sir Maurice.
‘I am here, my lady…’ He fell silent.
Athelstan closed his eyes.
‘You seem rather tongue-tied for one who gives spiritual comfort?’ Lady Monica’s voice was tinged with faint mockery.
‘I am here,’ Sir Maurice continued defiantly, ‘to remind Lady Angelica of love, its true nature, function and purpose.’
Lady Monica squeezed her chin between her fingers and clicked her tongue.
‘I’ve seen you somewhere before. Anyway…’ Lady Monica picked up a small bell and rang it. ‘I am charged with the Lady Angelica’s care. Any spiritual comfort you give her is because Sir Thomas Parr wishes it.’ She smiled thinly. ‘He has written to me on this matter. But,’ Lady Monica continued, ‘it must be given in my presence.’
Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Brother Norbert’ leaned forward as if to protest but Athelstan quietly kicked his foot. The porter returned. Lady Monica gave him instructions and a few minutes later he was ushering the Lady Angelica into the room.
Athelstan could tell that this was a time of great danger. The Lady Angelica was dressed very similarly to the abbess. One look at her beautiful, heart-shaped face framed in the clinging, silken coif and Athelstan knew why Sir Maurice was so deeply infatuated. Lady Monica made the introductions. Athelstan was sure she must be able to hear his heart thumping but Lady Angelica did not betray them. She bowed at Sir John and Athelstan and, when Lady Monica explained their presence, Angelica’s eyes, cold and hard, simply dismissed Sir Maurice with one imperious flicker.
‘You say Father sent you here,’ she began, taking a seat beside the Lady Monica.
‘I know your father of old,’ Sir John replied. ‘He was determined that you be taken out of danger and not be pestered by an upstart knight.’
‘And you are here to remind me of my duty to my father?’
‘In a word, my lady, yes,’ Athelstan said.
