But now, just the possibility of discovering something that would help the priory made my feet fly over the damp, cold ground.
I found John pitching dirty straw out of a stall at the end of the barn. My questions plainly made him wary.
“Why do you want to know how I found it?” he asked. “What does the doll matter to anyone?”
“Please think,” I begged.
Avoiding my eyes, he muttered, “I don’t know, it was a while back.”
“John, listen, I know it sounds
trivial, but it’s not. The doll matters.”
“Who would it matter to?” he asked.
“Well, to all of us here at Dartford, but most of all, to Brother Edmund.”
John put down his pitchfork. “Brother Edmund mended my arm . . . he kept the porter from dismissing me,” he said. “By the Virgin, I’ll do anything for him.”
“Then tell me exactly when you found the doll—and where.”
“All right, Sister. That morning, ye know the porter ordered me and Harry, the head farmhand, to stand guard outside the guest bedchamber, to keep anyone from viewing the corpse. After a time, I looked down the passageway, to the end, and I saw something small and white lying there. It was the doll. Looked like it had been dropped. The maids came by, and I asked them about it. They got all angry; they said the doll wasn’t there the day before. They swore they’d done a good job sweeping and cleaning and they wouldn’t have missed it. So I just stuffed it in my jerkin and gave it to the cook later.”
“Didn’t you think it strange?” I asked.
“What, Sister?”
“The doll was not there the day before, but appeared that morning?”
John threw up his hands. “I just thought the maids missed it. I didn’t want to get no one in trouble, especially since the men from Rochester came right after. Everyone was scared of them.”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t think the maids missed it, John.”
He looked truly bewildered. “What are ye saying, mistress?”
“Do you know where the Westerly house is in the village?” I asked.
“Aye. I’ve lived in Dartford all my life.”
“And their father, you know him?”
He made a face. “Stephen Westerly is not an easy man, I’ve not had many dealings, but yes, I know him.”
I patted his arm, excited. “John, prepare two horses. I have to go back to the priory. But I’ll return as soon as possible.”
33
W
hen
I ran through the entranceway to the chapter house, all the sisters were in place. They sat on the stone benches, their heads bowed. Sister Rachel stood at the lectern, finishing the reading from the Martyrology.
The prioress and Sister Eleanor, loyal
circator,
standing near the lectern, turned and stared at me.
“Forgive me, Prioress,” I said, out of breath. “But something has happened. I think it is quite possible that—”
“Take your place next to Sister Christina,” interrupted the prioress.
“But I need to tell you—”
“Silence, novice!”
Her thundering voice echoed off the stone walls.
I sat next to Sister Christina. She noticed the rag doll still in my hand and shook her head in disbelief, as if I’d gone mad, just like Sister Winifred.
The prioress gestured to Sister Eleanor. “You may begin,” she said.
And so it began, the list of chapter infractions. One sister was observed smiling in Matins, obviously distracted when she should be singing the office; another sister slept through midnight prayers; a third shirked her cleaning duties to spend more time in study. The acts of penance were proclaimed by the prioress and accepted with humility by the offenders.
It all felt unreal to me. I knew that our priory was built on rules, all of them created many years ago by spiritual men and women much wiser than I. And religious houses depended on strict adherence to such rules. But we existed in a time when following rules would not save us from destruction. Did no one see this but me?
Sister Eleanor cleared her throat meaningfully.
“And now,” she said, “I come to the case of Sister Joanna.”
I walked to the prioress and knelt before her on the stone floor. No one else had ever done that in chapter correction. I heard a rippling of unease around me.
“I plead with you, Prioress, to be allowed to speak,” I said. “After that, I will hear what Sister Eleanor has to say and gladly accept all punishment for every instance in which I’ve broken rules of the order.”
The prioress said, reluctantly, “Very well.”
But now I wasn’t sure how to begin. “I love this priory,” I finally blurted.
The prioress and Sister Eleanor looked at each other, startled.
“I know I have committed sins here, large and small, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” I continued. “I don’t deserve God’s forgiveness. But this place, this priory, is a sanctuary of light and beauty and purity in the darkness.”
My voice broke; I willed it to stop.
“I want so much to serve you, Prioress, to be your humble servant in protecting Dartford from all of our enemies.”
The wariness in the eyes of our prioress softened, just a little.
“Today I learned something. It may be small; it may be insignificant. Or it may be very important. It concerns the Westerly children, the same Westerly children whom I failed in the hour of their mother’s death. I know something about the children that I realize I should have told you before, but I did not think to do so. Which is that the children were able to move around this priory, day and night, with great subtlety. Were they not innocent children, one could say with deviousness. I found them in the infirmary one night, and I have no idea how they were able to get there, unnoticed.”
Sister Eleanor fidgeted; I could tell they were unsure why I was relaying this now.
I took a deep breath. “I believe that the children did not leave the grounds of Dartford when their mother died. I think they hid somewhere for at least a day. The night Lord Chester was killed, they may have at some point been in the passageway outside, in the front part of the
priory. The children could have seen or heard something . . . or someone.”
“Why do you think this?” demanded the prioress.
I held up the doll and explained that it had been found the morning of the murder, near the guest bedchamber, in a place that had been swept the day before.
“If I find the Westerly children, I can ask them what happened,” I said. “They will tell me the truth, I am sure of it. And what I learn could help clear Brother Edmund of suspicion.”
The prioress shook her head. “It is not our place to gather facts about a crime,” she said. “A judgment was made by a jury of men. As difficult as it is to accept, we must abide by their decision.”
“But they did
not
have all the facts!” In spite of myself, my voice rose.
The prioress stepped forward and reached for my hands, to pull me to my feet. “We all saw Brother Edmund as a true man of God when he served here. And we grieve the melancholia of Sister Winifred, caused by his imprisonment. But this is God’s will moving before us, in ways we simply can’t understand. One thing you have not yet learned, Sister Joanna, is to accept God’s will.”
She was correct. I could not give up.
“V
erum est notus per fides quod causa,”
I cried out, desperate.
The prioress stared at me, shocked.
“Truth is known through faith and reason,” I said quickly, for the benefit of those not proficient in Latin. “We are a priory—we worship divine truth. Saint Thomas said faith and reason complement each other: they do not contradict. And he said that the intellect must seek out facts to support reason. May I please be permitted to find the Westerly children, to gather those facts?”
The prioress managed to ask, “Just how would you proceed?”
“I will go with John, our trusted stable hand, to the village, to the house where the children’s father lives. There’s been no sign of them since the day of the murder. But Stephen Westerly did return to Dartford from London, and the children must be with him.”
The prioress clapped her hands three times. “Again, you would break the rule of enclosure? Have you learned nothing at all?”
A voice rang out behind me, from the stone benches. Sister Agatha said, “May I be permitted to accompany
Sister Joanna, to ensure all is done properly in gathering these facts?” Sister Agatha came to stand with me. “Prioress, I will be with her every minute. You have the authority to approve our leaving for a short time.”
The prioress went silent. I could hardly breathe.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Sister Joanna and Sister Agatha have my permission to go to the village, with John, our good servant, as guide and protector. But you
must
return by nightfall, whether you’ve found the children or not. And we shall list your correction at the next chapter.”
I turned to Sister Agatha. “Thank you,” I said.
Once we’d reached the stable, the travel plans changed. The fastest way to the village would be riding priory horses, but Sister Agatha, I learned, had not ridden a horse in almost twenty years. Today was not the day for a lesson. John hitched a wagon to the two horses, and we took our places in the back. The village was so close that it wouldn’t cause too much of a delay.
John shook the reins, and we rumbled up the priory lane.
Sitting beside me, Sister Agatha pulled nervously on the few hairs that sprouted from her chin. It occurred to me she probably had not left the grounds of Dartford since she had arrived as a novice.
“Why did you come forward?” I asked her.
“This is my home, Sister Joanna. The king’s commissioners will be here soon. Perhaps they will order us to be dissolved—and, yes, perhaps that is God’s will. But if there’s anything we can do to help ourselves, we must attempt it. If we can prove that Brother Edmund did not commit this terrible sin, it might prevent our closure.”
I reached out and hugged her.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
She hugged me back, making a little clucking noise.
I hadn’t passed through Dartford since last autumn, when my father brought me to the priory. Rumbling up High Street, past the shops and inns, the storefronts for carpenters, bakers, fishmongers, and tailors, I was newly impressed by how clean and well ordered a town it was. Though Dartford was by no means small—I’d heard almost a thousand people lived here—many of the townsfolk seemed to know one another. They called across High Street with a smile; two stout women, one
of them holding a parcel of fish, laughed in front of the parish church, Holy Trinity.
There were no smiles for us. A few people waved at John, sitting in front, flicking the horses on, but Sister Agatha and I drew uneasy stares. Some townsfolk stopped in their tracks to watch our wagon go by. John turned around and said apologetically, “It’s because of the death of Lord Chester. They talk of nothing else, the townsfolk.” The scrutiny unnerved Sister Agatha. When we passed the rabbit warren, a crowd of men scowled at us and she gripped my arm so tight I could feel her sharp nails through my habit and cloak.
In the center of Dartford, in the middle of High Street, stood a cross. Nearby was the large market building. Crowds of people streamed out, carrying bags of grain or buckets of fish. One well-dressed woman proudly touted a box of cheeses. John turned the wagon at the corner just past the market and, after passing a block of half-timbered homes, turned again.
The narrow street we ventured down was not as fair as the others. The homes looked less solid. A few sported thatched roofs, even though that was discouraged in town dwellings, for fear of fire. A flock of emaciated chickens scattered before our wagon wheels. Two men walked away from us, down the street. I saw no sign of the children.
I tapped John on the shoulder. “How much farther to Master Westerly’s house?”
John pointed at the house at the end of the street. “It’s that one. He lives on the top floor.”
“Why don’t you stop and tie up the wagon, John? We’ll walk the rest of the way.” I had the idea to come upon the house gradually.
While John attended to the horses on the side of the street, Sister Agatha and I approached the house. It was two stories tall and timber framed. The roof was steeply pitched, with a wide chimney on the side. At least the children would be warm this winter.
The door to the house was shut tight; there was no one out front.
The two men who’d been walking ahead had stopped. They stared at us, their eyes crawling up and down our nuns’ habits and caps. I hoped they would keep their distance, at least until we were inside the Westerly house.
But no. My heart dropped as the men doubled back toward us. One of them had a
thick black beard; the other was younger and red-haired.
“Sisters, what are ye doing in town?” asked the bearded man. “Is all not well at the priory?”
Sister Agatha recoiled from him, frightened.
“We know ye’re not supposed to go out and about,” said the red-haired man.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw another two men bearing down on us from across the street.
“Have they come to kill ye, Tom?” shouted one of the newcomers.
Our stable hand, John, had reached Sister Agatha and me. “Stay behind me,” he muttered. “These are ruffians.”
The man who’d shouted his insult strained to get around John. He had watery eyes and a thick, sneering mouth. “Ye killed Lord Chester, didn’t ye? Bashed in his brains while he slept under yer roof.”
“Show some respect,” demanded Tom, the black-bearded man.
“Why should I?” retorted the watery-eyed man. His companion snickered.
John called out bravely: “Do not interfere with the sisters. They come here on important priory business. If ye insult them, ye will be sorry indeed.”
I tapped John’s arm. “Don’t fight them, there are too many,” I whispered. “We must calm them with words instead. Let me attempt it.”
Sister Agatha said to me, “They are common varlets; you cannot address them directly, Sister Joanna.”
The watery-eyed man howled, “Hear me, Sister, I don’t barge into your priory and call you an ugly doxy, so I’ll thank you not to come on my street and call me a common varlet.”