The Innocent (14 page)

Aveline looked unwaveringly across at Piers, her expression composed and distant. Now she’d said what she had to say, she felt detached, though there was a soft fluttering in her belly, a poignant reminder that her body, and its occupant, felt fear even if she refused to acknowledge it.

Piers ignored her. “Mother, whatever Aveline has said to you, I ask you to believe that I am not, cannot be, the father of her child.”

“I am not your mother, Piers.” Margaret’s tone was neutral but the severity in her eyes warned him to be silent. “Come, Aveline, wipe your face before we go.”

There was a hasty knock at the little door that led on to the stairs to the kitchen and as Anne hurried through she saw something she had never seen before: Aveline, vulnerable. The older girl cast one quick glance at Anne and ran toward the garderobe. A moment later they all heard the unmistakable sounds of vomiting.

“Piers,” Margaret said, “you will accompany me to the chapel. Anne, please bring Aveline to me there when she has composed herself.” Piers did not acknowledge Anne as he stalked past her, furious, followed by Margaret, the new Book of Hours held gracefully between her hands.

In the silence of the empty room Anne heard Aveline vomit again. Collecting her wits, she dipped a cloth in water from the brass washing bowl and silently joined the older girl as she knelt over the stinking hole in the garderobe.

Aveline raised her pale face and smiled bitterly at Anne. “Well, Anne, you’ll know soon enough. I am quick with Piers’s child.” Her stomach heaved again and she threw up thin green mucus—there was nothing left in her belly. Anne hurried forward and, before Aveline could protest, wiped her forehead with the cool, damp cloth.

Anne shuddered. This could have been her—how close both of them stood to the edge of ruin, all because of Piers. Truly this city was a savage place, much more frightening than the untracked forest and wild beasts who dwelt among the trees. They killed because they were hungry—they did not destroy for sport, as Piers did. Aveline was in a desperate state and the future for her and her child was frightening. Perhaps she would be cast out, as Piers had said, and then who would help her?

Heart clenched with pity, Anne gently kissed Aveline on the brow. “I shall pray for you and the baby, Aveline. There is always help, if you know where to look for it.”

Poor Aveline. It was such a long time since anyone had been truly kind to her. The fierce pride that had always been her guardian and friend began to crack, so that Anne saw, for the first time, that Aveline was not much older than she was and a lot less sure—of anything.

Chapter Nine

Even midsummer did not take the cold edge out of the air in the chapel of Blessing House and now, deep into winter, the place felt like a cave. The space for the chapel had been made by removing the floor between a disused storage loft, partly built into the thickness of the walls that faced the river, and a large belowground undercroft. It was opulent but dark though there was a fine, small choir gallery above the expensively tiled floor and, in the main body of the chapel, a number of carved oak stalls for Mathew and his family placed as near to the altar table as was decent. Rows of plain wooden benches stood behind for his household: men on one side, women on the other.

Mathew had taken great pleasure in having this family chapel dedicated to Our Lady and he’d spared no expense creating a space filled with beauty and richly glowing color in her honor. He was particularly proud of the fashionable, very costly Flemish-style frescoes he’d had painted at the altar end of the chapel. His favorite was Adam’s expulsion from the garden with the penitent Eve pursued by Satan in the form of a wily snake. The other fresco he’d always been less certain about—it was so lifelike it made him uncomfortable when he looked at it. Its theme was the separation of the Saved from the Damned at the Last Judgment, and the expression on the Lord’s face was utterly pitiless as he thrust the screaming, naked men, women, and children down into the arms of waiting black devils, while His Holy Mother, painted to look a little like Margaret, tried to intercede with her Son out of pity.

Since it was the current custom in both Flanders and Italy, Mathew had also included himself and his family in the judgment painting. It always gave him a guilty frisson of pleasure to see his painted likeness, and that of all three of his wives plus Piers and Alicia his daughter—now married and living in the north—kneeling below Our Lady, eyes fixed on Christ Pantocrator in all his fearful glory. He’d wondered whether it was blasphemy to place himself and his family so close to Christ, but Father Bartolph, his confessor and private family chaplain, reassured him.

The subject matter of the paintings was surely designed to bring the penitent to God through the intercession of his Holy Mother. She would understand that his humble desire to be painted kneeling close to her son was the expression of a grateful heart dedicated to her service. And besides, it set a good example to the household to see their master and his family so close to members of the Holy Family: it gave them something to aspire to. Father Bartolph also said that the colors on the frescoes remaining so bright, among the smoke from the candles, the oil lamps, and the incense, was a clear indication of her favor toward this place and its owner.

Now Piers and Aveline knelt before the altar on each side of Lady Margaret, who occupied the time waiting for her husband by counting off prayers on her fine onyx rosary.

Aveline shivered with cold and tension, but silently continued to implore the Mother of God to hear her prayers. She would understand what it was like to be alone and fighting for yourself in a heartless world. Life was so unfair. Why could she not have been a lady with fine clothes and a complacent husband, rather than the illegitimate daughter of a minor squire in the West Country? Her father, trying to do what he could for her, had placed her as a child in Lady Margaret’s family home where she’d done well—and she’d been overjoyed to go with Margaret to London when her mistress married Master Mathew. As she grew into late girlhood she’d taken care to learn the ways of the polite world so as to please her mistress, and she’d realized early that men wanted her, not for her manners but for her body. Using her wits and sometimes her strength, she’d fought them off—not always easily—until Piers had forced her into his bed. Those first few desperate contests had left her with bite marks on her breasts and torn thighs, but then the fight she put up became something else, and in submitting to him, she’d begun to feel physical pleasure among the pain and fear. Yet, in her heart there was dark confusion and shame—but shame, even now, she had to suppress, both for survival and because she could not bear to leave London; she would not be sent back to the country to bear this child in disgrace, branded a slut, with no future but to prostitute herself in some stew in a provincial town.

Her resolve strengthened. Yes, with Our Lady’s help she would find a way to have Piers as her husband, dowerless and pregnant as she was, for she had nothing to lose. She would become a lady and she would protect this child and, with the help of Christ’s Mother, eventually atone for all the mortal sin Piers had forced on her, and that she had learned to enjoy, to the peril of her soul.

She squeezed her eyes shut and repeated the Ave Maria faster, doing all that she could to push away the certainty that she’d embarked on a terrifying course. Today Piers truly hated her—could that be turned?

Could hate be turned, if not to love, then tolerance? Would she have the strength? Unconsciously her hands strayed to her belly and stayed there. Mary would understand.

Silently, Father Bartolph arrived and lit the two tall candles on either side of the altar table. As the priest opened the ornate little casket in which dwelt the body of the Lord, Mathew arrived in the chapel and knelt before his own stall, crossing himself with an unconscious sigh.

Piers noticed with a start that the priest was dressed in his full regalia as if about to say Mass, and he felt Father Bartolph’s eyes bent severely upon him as he turned to face the little congregation of four people kneeling before the altar.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

Automatically, Piers muttered “Amen” as his stomach clenched with confusion and fear. His initial response in Margaret’s solar had been to deny what Aveline had said, but now he was feeling uncertain.

He knew that his father, above all things, despised him when he lied and was caught out in it; perhaps he should have confessed to the sexual relationship—got it over—but there was no way he was going to own to a child in Aveline’s belly. The girl was a slut, her behavior with him proved that; she loved what he did to her. No doubt there were others in the house who had also enjoyed what she had to offer.

The priest spoke, interrupting Piers’s uneasy thoughts. “Aveline, and Piers, would you come here to the altar, please.”

The girl got to her feet gracefully and with modestly downcast eyes stepped daintily up the three shallow steps to where Father Bartolph stood holding the Host.

Piers had no choice, and he felt his father’s eyes bore into his back as he went to the altar to stand beside the girl. Even then in the midst of his rage he found himself noticing the smooth white swell of her breasts at the top of her gown, and a brief image of her naked, lying with legs splayed wide at their last encounter, distracted him momentarily from what the priest was saying.

“I am going to ask you both to swear an oath before God and on the body of His most precious Son. If you lie you will imperil your immortal soul and when Christ comes in his judgment you will surely join the host of the damned who writhe eternally in hellfire.”

Involuntarily, both Aveline and Piers looked up to the fresco above them and just as quickly dropped their eyes—the images were too graphic.

“Aveline, you stand before your God and His Mother, just as you, Piers, stand here before your earthly parents who are God’s own deputies on earth.”

The girl shivered, and though she had had nothing to eat since breaking her fast after Mass at dawn, another wave of nausea spread throughout her body, making its way inexorably toward her throat. She could almost smell the roasting flesh and hear the screams of the sinners cast into the fiery pit. Sheer will alone kept her on her feet, mouth clenched shut, when she felt like howling with despair; she knew that she had to win this contest with Piers or she was doomed here on this earth too.

Father Bartolph held out the box containing the Host to Aveline and signaled that she should place her right hand upon it. “Aveline, you have accused your master’s son of rape and now say that you are carrying his child. In the name of God and the Holy Virgin, and in fear for your immortal soul, do you still say that this accusation is true?”

Sweat ran down her sides, but Aveline looked directly into the severe brown eyes of the priest and spoke without hesitation. “I swear by Our Lady, her precious Son, and by God himself that Piers is the father of my child and that he forced me against my will.”

Now the priest held out the box to Piers. Reluctantly, he placed his right hand on the cold metal. “Piers, you have heard Aveline swear before God. Do you still say now, before your father on earth and your Father in Heaven, that she is lying?”

Piers was not religious but he was superstitious, and now, standing before the altar beneath the images of naked men and women tumbling down into Hell and the waiting pitchforks of demons, he was stunned to find that he could not say the words of denial.

“Piers, I ask you once more. In the name of the Father of us all, and his Son, and his Holy Mother, are you the father of Aveline’s child?”

In agony, Piers burst out, “If she is with child, perhaps it could be mine since I have known her; but she is a slut who came willingly to me after many other poor fools had been there before. She begged me on her knees to—”

“Enough! This is God’s house.” Mathew’s disgusted roar cut across his son’s words as he strode forward. Before the priest could stop him, Mathew hit Piers around the head with his clenched fists.

And with that, Aveline fainted, striking her forehead hard on one of the stone steps as she fell, leaving blood on the pale marble.

The priest was paralyzed by the drama being played out in front of him, but not Lady Margaret.

“Husband!” The word was said quite sharply and it was enough to turn all three men’s faces toward her. Lady Margaret knelt down beside the unconscious girl on the floor and then spoke quietly once she had their attention.

“Piers, please go to Anne in the solar; ask her to come to me here. She must bring linen and water.” As the young man started on his way, almost flinching as he went past his father, she added “And then stay in your room until you are called. Father Bartolph, I ask you now to pray for us all.”

Silently, the priest nodded and then saw with relief that the girl was stirring.

“Husband, we have much to discuss. May I come to you a little later in your workroom?” Margaret asked.

Not for the first time Mathew was filled with admiration for his wife’s breeding. Her training as a child had taught her the art of managing difficult situations with restraint and tact. She gave him the confidence to act correctly, and with dignity, when he needed it most. “Wife, I shall expect you there,” he replied as he straightened his gown and stalked out of the chapel without so much as a glance back at the green-faced girl, now being held up by his wife.

Some moments later, Anne, hurrying down the passage, curtsied and pressed herself back against the stone wall outside the chapel to let Mathew pass, trying not to spill the water in her basin. Mathew did not even see her as he strode away to his workroom, deep in thought.

Balancing the brass basin in the crook of an arm, Anne knocked at the chapel door. It opened silently and Father Bartolph pointed toward the two women on the steps of the altar. Anne was truly shocked to see Aveline, lying like a corpse with blood covering half of her face. She hurried to her mistress as the priest retreated in silence to his robing room.