The nuns tale, p.1
The Nun's Tale, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Candace Robb from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Owen Archer mysteries
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Map
Prologue
1. Lamentations of the Dead
2. To York
3. Lady’s Mantle
4. A Consultation
5. The Watcher
6. Alfred’s Tale
7. Subtle Maneuvers
8. Family Tensions
9. Lucie Dines at the Palace
10. Our Lady’s Mantle
11. Calvary
12. Witless or Cunning?
13. An Archer, a Poet, a Prince
14. A Pilgrimage of Disgrace
15. Scarborough
16. Near Death
17. Vengeance Interrupted
18. Bartering
19. “ …before Death’s sleep”
20. Homecoming
21. Steadfastness
22. The Scabbard
23. Mary Magdalene
24. Farewells
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Read on for an extract of The King’s Bishop
Also by Candace Robb from Severn House
The Owen Archer mysteries
THE APOTHECARY ROSE
THE LADY CHAPEL
THE NUN’S TALE
THE KING’S BISHOP
THE RIDDLE OF ST. LEONARD’S
A GIFT OF SANCTUARY
A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER
THE CROSS-LEGGED KNIGHT
THE GUILT OF INNOCENTS
A VIGIL OF SPIES
A CONSPIRACY OF WOLVES
A CHOIR OF CROWS
THE RIVERWOMAN’S DRAGON
A FOX IN THE FOLD
THE NUN’S TALE
Candace Robb
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in the UK in 1995 by William Heinemann Ltd,
Acre House, 11-15 William Road, London NW1 3ER.
This eBook edition first published in the USA in 2023 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Candace Robb, 1995
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Candace Robb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1325-9 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1326-6 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Praise for the Owen Archer mysteries
“Robb reinforces her place among the top writers of medieval historicals”
Publishers Weekly Starred Review
“Recommended for fans of other historical writers such as C.J. Sansom, Ellis Peters, and Sharon Kay Penman”
Library Journal
“As full of intrigue as a Deighton or a Le Carré”
The Guardian
“Gripping and believable … you can almost smell the streets of 14th-century York”
Prima
“A superb medieval mystery, thoroughly grounded in historical fact”
Booklist
“Meticulously researched, authentic and gripping”
Yorkshire Evening Post
“An utterly delightful jaunt!”
Historical Novels Review
“Robb puts the history back into the historical mystery”
Kirkus Reviews
About the author
Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of the Owen Archer mystery series, three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries, the Margaret Kerr trilogy and two historical novels written as Emma Campion.
candacerobbbooks.com
Acknowledgments
I thank Michael Denneny for enthusiastic feedback; Lynne Drew for a critical reading that helped clarify things; Paul Zibton for the map; Walden Barcus and Karen Wuthrich for thoughtful readings; Evan Marshall for being everything an agent should be; Keith Kahla and John Clark for all their good humored help behind the lines; and Charlie Robb for publicity.
Research for this book was conducted on location in Yorkshire and in the libraries of the University of York, the University of Washington, King County, Washington, and the city of Seattle.
And many thanks to my support group that includes The Book Club, Paula Moreschi’s Physical Culture regulars, my family from coast to coast, and most of all the person who never lets me down, Charlie Robb.
Glossary
bedstraw: a plant of the genus Galium
corody: a pension or allowance provided by a religious house permitting the holder to retire into the house as a boarder; purchased for cash or by a donation of land or property
fulling mill: a mill that cleanses, shrinks and thickens (fulls) cloth by means of water and pestles or stampers
houppelande: men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee length; sleeves large and open
lady chapel: a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, usually situated at the east end of the church
leman: mistress
liberty: an area of the city not subject to royal administration; for example, the Liberty of St. Peter is the area surrounding the minster which comes under the archbishop’s jurisdiction
mazer: a large wooden cup
minster: a large church or cathedral; the cathedral of St. Peter in York is referred to as York Minster
nones: between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m. (varied with seasons)
pandemain: the finest quality white bread, made from flour sifted two or three times
Petercorn: income supporting St. Leonard’s hospital, dependent on the harvest (Peter’s corn)
prime: between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. (varied with seasons)
routiers: see Author’s Note
sext: noon
solar: private room on upper level of house
trencher: a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the center, used as a platter
Prologue
June 1365
Joanna hoisted her pack and trudged through North Bar, entering Beverley as the bells of the great Church of St. John rang out. She had been walking since sunrise; the sun was now overhead. The coarse weave of her habit chafed at her clammy skin. The city’s streets curved snakelike along the Beck and Walkerbeck, and as she walked Joanna glimpsed the becks through the houses. She imagined shedding her clothes and sinking into the cool, rushing water as she and her brother Hugh used to do in the river near their house.
It was a damp, cloying heat. Though this day was sunny and hot, it had been a summer of torrential rains and the dirt streets were waterlogged. Where the sun shone down between the houses, steam rose up, creating a fog that blurred Joanna’s vision. She found the dreamlike effect disorienting. The houses shimmered; lines dipped and spun. She clutched her Mary Magdalene medal and whispered prayers as she walked.
Laughter and the merry sound of singing tempted her as she passed a tavern. She yearned to enter and wash down the road dust with strong ale, but she must not call attention to herself in such a way, a nun traveling alone.
Not far past the tavern she spied a churchyard with a shaded well. Surely this was a safe refuge. Joanna slipped through the open gate, set her pack down under a shading oak that thrust a root up through the mud. Glancing round to check that she was unwatched, she shed her veil, her wimple, her gorget, folding them neatly on her pack, then unclasped the Mary Magdalene medal and set it on top. She drew up a bucket of cool water, cupped her hands to drink, then splashed her face, head and neck.
A sound made her turn. A boy in tattered clothes held the medal and chain in the air above Joanna’s pack. Joanna shouted. The little thief went running.
Damnable cur! Grabbing up her skirts, Joanna took off after the thief. “Give me the medal, you Devil’s spawn. A curse on your mother and all your kin!” She threw herself at the boy, tackling him to the ground. He kicked her in the face and wriggled out of her grasp, throwing the chain at her as he took off.
Pushing herself up onto her knees, her habit now heavy with mud, Joanna crawled awkwardly over to the silvery treasure. Sweet Heaven, no! She found an empty chain, no medal. Her heart pounding, she crawled round in the mud and weeds, searching for her precious Magdalene medal. Her brother Hugh had given it to her on another journey to Beverley six years before, and Joanna treasured the medal. It was all she had from her beloved brother. And the cur had taken it. Tears of anger and frustration blinded her. She gave herself up to weeping.
“My child, what troubles you?” A priest stood over Joanna, his expression one of curious concern.
Her hand went to her bare head. “Benedicte, Father.”
“What has happened here, my child?”
“I have been traveling since dawn and your well tempted me. I thought you would not begrudge me water.” She smiled into his kind eyes.
“Of course you are welcome to drink. I see that you wear the habit of a Benedictine. Where are your companions? Surely you do not travel alone.”
Joanna scrambled to her feet. “I strayed from my companions. I must hurry to catch them.” She could not allow him to accompany her or she would be discovered.
He gestured toward her wet, soiled skirt. “Why were you sitting in the mud?”
She glanced down at her habit, dismayed. She tried to brush off the mud, but succeeded only in smearing it. “’Twas nothing, Father. God bless you.” She fumbled for her head coverings.
“Perhaps you should come within to dry off. If you tell me where your companions are headed, I could send someone after them with news of you.”
Joanna picked up her pack. “No need, Father. Thank you for the water. God go with you.” She fled through the gate and on down the street, taking no notice of her surroundings, reprimanding herself for such stupidity. A wall suddenly stopped her, and she stared round, confused. Sweet Jesu, she had lost her way. She fought back tears, weary, frustrated, frightened. The medal was lost, there was nothing to protect her. She breathed deeply, trying to still her panic. She must find her way. She must reach Will Longford’s house before dark.
Slowly she groped her way back to North Bar and began again. It was now mid afternoon and clouds gathered overhead, deepening the gloom of the narrow streets. The air had grown heavy, pressing on Joanna’s chest. Her head pounded. It felt as if she had been walking for an eternity. At last the heavens opened, but instead of a refreshing shower the rain thundered down, turning the streets to rivers of mud. Joanna would not allow herself to stop and take shelter. She must not leave a trail. Her habit clung to her. Her veil slapped against her face. She fought for each step, pulling her feet out of the sucking mud. She wept for her lost medal, but trudged on. She had not come so far to be drowned by a summer storm.
At last, as the rain turned to a gentle shower, Joanna recognized the way. Round a corner, and there. The house with the whitewashed door. Will Longford’s house.
A skinny serving girl answered, stared at Joanna’s bedraggled clothes. “Surely you’ve taken the wrong turning, Sister. This be no place for nuns.”
Joanna tried to adjust her sagging wimple and veil. “I would speak with Master Longford. I’ve business with him.”
The girl scratched her cheek with a chapped hand. “Business? I warn you, there’s but one sort of business the Master has with women, and afternoon’s not the time for it. Nor does he endanger his immortal soul with brides of Christ.” She glanced behind her nervously.
Joanna reached out and grabbed the girl’s apron, pulling her forward. The shock on the girl’s face was rewarding. “Tell your master that I’ve a treasure to trade.”
The girl nodded. “I meant only to warn you.”
Joanna let her go.
“What name shall I give the Master?”
“Dame Joanna Calverley of Leeds.”
The girl scuttled away.
Shortly the doorway darkened. Will Longford was a huge, hairy man, his coarse black hair now streaked with white, a white beard—he had aged in six years. He wore a chemise that brushed the ground, but Joanna knew what it hid, a wooden peg that had replaced his left leg. Arms folded across his chest, Longford leaned against the doorjamb, formidable even when one knew he was crippled.
“You are a Calverley? From Leeds?” He did not so much speak as growl. His dark eyes glittered with hostility.
“I accompanied my brother Hugh when he sold you the right arm of St. Sebastian six years back.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “Ah. The little sister.” Longford scratched his beard and studied her face. “St. Sebastian. His arm, you say?” He grinned. “Have you come to offer me more of Sebastian? His other arm, perhaps?”
Joanna stood up straighter. She did not like the emphasis on little sister, or the nasty grin. “I offer you something more sacred still. The milk of the Virgin. From St. Clement’s in York.”
“The milk of—God’s blood, what’s the bastard up to?” Longford looked her up and down. “You are a nun of St. Clement’s?”
“I am. This has naught to do with Hugh.”
Longford stepped forward, peered up and down the street. “Your kind are wont to travel in groups. How do you come to be alone?”
Joanna’s knees knocked together from cold and weariness. “Might I come within and get dry by your fire?”
Longford grunted and stood aside. “Come within before the Lord God drowns you.”
He closed the door behind her. “How fares your brother Hugh?”
“I have had no news of him in six years. But I hope to find him.”
“Ah.” Longford scratched his beard again. “I remember something about you. What was it? You were off to learn housewifery from your aunt. You were betrothed then.” He touched her veil. “I thought your betrothed was a mortal husband, not our Lord God.
Joanna stepped backward, discomfited by the man’s nearness. “I changed my mind.”
“Hm. I reckon you do not represent St. Clement’s in offering this relic. You’ve had another change of mind, eh?”
Joanna hesitated. It seemed too soon to come to this point. But she had little choice. “I have stolen the relic. I need funds to travel. I mean to find my brother, Hugh.”
Longford raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”
He gestured for her to sit by the fire. “Wine, Maddy,” he yelled. He sat back and nodded at Joanna’s muddy habit. “You’ll never get warm in those damp clothes. Maddy will loan you something dry.” He grinned at her.
Joanna thanked him. But his grin did not have a comforting effect.
It had been a year of deluges, and August was no drier. John Thoresby stared gloomily out the window at the muddy Ouse rushing along the lower garden, the heavy rain pommeling the flowers so that they floated limply in the water pooling in the beds. Of the palaces that had come to Thoresby as Archbishop of York, Bishopthorpe was his favorite. But this summer it was more ark than palace; the roof leaked in almost every room and the water level had risen to threaten the undercroft. Thoresby had rushed back to Bishopthorpe to preside over the Lammas Fair, looking forward to a rest from the endless politics of the royal wedding which had kept him at Windsor. He had been anxious to doff his Lord Chancellor’s chain for a few months, get back to the business of God. But the rain had done its best to ruin the fair, he felt imprisoned in this great, leaking palace, and no one had good news for him, including the two men sitting by the fire.
One was his nephew, Richard de Ravenser, provost of Beverley Minster. Prominent bones, deep-set eyes, strong chin, a face that might be handsome with more flesh. It was as if Thoresby gazed at his own reflection with years erased. Did his sister look so like him? Or had she stared at him too intently when she carried Richard?
Ravenser’s news was an administrative headache. A nun of St. Clement’s, York, had run away and the prioress had not reported the incident. An irresponsible prioress could cause continuing problems.
Across from Thoresby’s mirror image sat a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man with a patch over his left eye. Owen Archer had spent July searching for the murderers of a mercer whose body had been found in the minster liberty. Archer reported no luck—discouraging news, because if he could not find the guilty parties, they would not be found.
