Chapter 28 #2
Now, they followed Lady Reynolds across the worn flagstone floor of the old cloisters. The breeze brought the faint fragrance of lavender and rosemary from the stillroom as they passed and in the distance they heard a single bell tolling from the small chapel.
‘Our day continues to be guided by our old routines,’ said Lady Reynolds as they climbed the spiral stairs to her solar in the tower room. ‘The bells provide us with direction, and they are also a comfort.’
As she climbed, Lady Reynolds’s fingers traced the pitted stone of the tower walls, stroking it as though it were a beloved pet. Elizabeth felt a sense of peace settle over her.
They followed Lady Reynolds into her solar and accepted the chairs she offered beside the window.
The views across the countryside were dazzling and Elizabeth felt as though she was experiencing the bird’s-eye view of the world she had often envied her white merlin when she soared into the endless blue.
There was a tentative knock on the door and, upon being bid enter, a girl of similar age to Anne and Mary came into the room.
Dressed in a simple green gown, her appearance formed a stark contrast to the luxurious dresses of Elizabeth and her daughters.
Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and, despite her quiet entrance, she exuded a mischievous energy.
The three young women eyed each other with friendly curiosity.
‘You requested I show our visitors to the scriptorium, Lady Reynolds,’ she said with a curtsy.
‘This is Isabel Wriothesley,’ said Lady Reynolds. ‘She has been sent to us while her father is abroad. Lady Boleyn, would your daughters care to visit the scriptorium with Isabel or wait for us to join them?’
‘They would far prefer Isabel’s company,’ said Elizabeth, who could sense Mary and Anne’s desire to explore. ‘We shall meet you later.’
‘Thank you, Mama,’ they murmured, curtsying first to Elizabeth, then Lady Reynolds.
Isabel beamed at them and the three girls hurried away, and within moments Elizabeth and Lady Reynolds heard a gale of swiftly suppressed laughter.
‘They will come to no harm with Isabel,’ said Lady Reynolds, ‘and Mistress Ellyn Godwyn, the Mistress of the Scriptorium, will ensure they enjoy their visit. She is keen to educate girls and it’s clear your daughters have scholarly natures.’
She reached for a jug of honey-sweetened wine and poured Elizabeth a glass before offering a plate of fresh rolls and honey, with dried figs.
‘These are from our tree, last year,’ said Lady Reynolds. ‘We dry them both to eat and use in preserves. Nothing here is wasted.’
‘Cerensthorpe is more gracious than I imagined,’ said Elizabeth. ‘From your letters, I believed you were further impoverished.’
‘We were, my lady,’ said Lady Reynolds. ‘The improvements you see are thanks to your generosity. There were always people who wished to help us, but as we were a poor house with few sisters, we could accept but a minimum of alms, making it impossible to repair and restore our beloved home. Your offer to convert the house, to restore our dignity, was a gift from God. You are our saviour, Lady Elizabeth.’
Elizabeth blushed at these softly spoken but nonetheless effusive comments.
‘You requested my help, and it was within my power to assist,’ she said.
The older woman gazed at her. ‘Cerensthorpe was built to endure and you are now part of its soul,’ Lady Reynolds said. ‘We were once a house of refuge. In the days when war swept the country like fire, women came here with their children or their secrets. We kept both safe.’
Elizabeth stared at Lady Reynolds in surprise; this was not what she had expected to hear. ‘What if the world came looking?’ she asked.
‘We buried their names,’ said Lady Reynolds simply. ‘Erased them from our rolls; while they remained within these walls, they were no one’s to claim – no angry father, husband, suitor or male relative could hurt them – even royalty was turned away.’
Elizabeth felt the words settle on her skin like a balm. A place beyond the reach of kings.
‘I was one of the children hidden here,’ said Lady Reynolds.
‘You were?’
‘Yes, which is why it was important to me to save this house,’ she said. ‘There is a sense of sanctuary here. Cerensthorpe chooses its own and I did not want its protection to end with me.’
The words made a shiver prickle down Elizabeth’s back.
‘My mother was the village cunning woman,’ continued Lady Reynolds.
‘When I was a baby, she was burned as a witch.
My father was behind her death; he was the priest of the church in the next village.
After I was born, he feared retribution if it was discovered he had forced himself upon her more than once.
He brought the accusation of witchcraft when she reported his behaviour to her cousin, who was a respected man in the village.
There was a scandal, but, in the end, who would believe my mother over a powerful priest?
‘My aunt saved me, taking me from my mother’s cottage to stop me from being flung into the flames alongside her.
When questioned by the priest and the magistrates afterwards, my aunt swore I had died in the night and she had buried me in unconsecrated ground, the daughter of a witch.
In fact, she smuggled me here where the abbess took me in.
My aunt and the abbess had both long known about the dark acts of the priest. I was not his only offspring to seek sanctuary. ’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Elizabeth, horrified by the story.
‘He ate a stew cooked by several of the village women which contained a plant that disagreed with him,’ replied Lady Reynolds. ‘It was an accident. No one was brought to trial.’
There was a finality to her words that Elizabeth did not challenge. Whether accidentally or not, she felt the man deserved his punishment.
‘The abbess was kind to me,’ said Lady Reynolds.
‘She encouraged me to become a nun, teaching me to read and write. The scriptorium was always my special place, though, and when I became Abbess, it was a wrench to pass my books and inks to Mistress Ellyn. She is, however, my superior in every way in the art of illumination and the library is in safe hands with her.’
She stood, shaking out her skirts.
‘Shall we?’ she said and moved towards the door without waiting for an answer.
They descended the spiral staircase and walked through the old chapter house, an octagonal stone chamber off the East Walk which was now used as a space for the inhabitants to relax, along a winding corridor towards the south cloister and a set of wide stone steps.
‘This part of the abbey has changed very little,’ said Lady Reynolds as they climbed. ‘The scriptorium has been the main source of income for many years; therefore, it was always maintained above other areas.’
They entered a short corridor with a vast wooden door at the end.
Lady Reynolds hurried towards it and Elizabeth could feel her eagerness to return to her beloved books.
She turned the iron handle and they entered a space of brightness and colour.
Tall, arched windows flooded the room with sunshine, the green tint to the glass creating a watery quality to the light as it flowed over the long trestle desks.
Each was angled like a lectern to support the heavy vellum sheets.
The air held a tang of sweet beeswax and bitter iron gall ink, overlaid with the muskiness of old parchment.
The walls were lined with oak presses and book cupboards, the doors carved with faded saints’ faces, each with a lock, to protect its precious treasure.
Elizabeth jumped as two cats wound past her: the first was a ginger and white cat, sinuous in her movements, the second was a glossy black with an imperious expression.
‘Mistress Ellyn has several cat apprentices,’ said Lady Reynolds, bending down to stroke the two elegant creatures.
‘Apprentices?’
‘They are very serious and diligent members of our household,’ said Lady Reynolds. ‘It is their job to ensure mice don’t eat our manuscripts. Come, let me show you around.’
Elizabeth followed Lady Reynolds to one of the empty trestles.
‘This is Isabel’s desk,’ Lady Reynolds explained. ‘She is a novice, but the tools of her trade are the same as Mistress Ellyn’s.’
Elizabeth listened as Lady Reynolds pointed to each item, explaining its use and value – the cut quills made from feathers from geese, crows and swans, sharpened to different widths, kept upright in horn pots filled with sand.
Lidded inkhorns held oak gall ink, glistening violet-black, even though it turned brown as it dried, beside this were pigment shells containing crushed azurite, malachite, cinnabar, red lead, verdigris, ochre and rare ultramarine, which would be mixed with egg glair or gum Arabic.
Stacked in small leather folders were sheets of beaten gold leaf which would be applied with a squirrel-hair tip and burnished with a dogtooth tool.
Other more specific tools were lined up on the other side: pounce powder made from ground cuttlefish bone to prepare the vellum’s surface; penknives and pumice stones for scraping errors and polishing away roughness; styluses and compasses for ruling neat lines; and slender rulers of ivory or bone.
These all shone bright under the illuminators’ lamps, with wide glass shades to focus steady light on dull days or through the dark hours of winter.
‘It’s breathtaking,’ said Elizabeth, gazing around.
‘Let me show you our finest treasure, which is now yours, Lady Boleyn.’
They walked the full length of the room to where Mistress Ellyn’s vast trestle table dominated the space.
Beside her work desk was a table of equal dimensions where a number of books were positioned, each open to reveal beautiful, illuminated designs.
At the end nearest to Mistress Ellyn’s desk, Mary, Anne and Isabel were gathered around Ellyn, gazing in wonder at a book, safely secured on a padded lectern.
‘Mama, come, you must see this,’ exclaimed Anne, her eyes shining with excitement.
‘Step back, girls,’ came Mistress Ellyn’s Welsh vowels.
‘Lady Boleyn, may I present, Mistress Ellyn, and one of our most treasured possessions, a copy of Mr Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, once owned by the author himself and with his notes in the margins.’
The book was bound in pale brown leather and the pages were edged in gold.
‘Master Chaucer presented the book to Cerensthorpe Abbey after they cared for his wife, Lady Philippa, when she suffered an ague. We have treasured it ever since and have added illuminations of our own. In fact, Lady Reynolds herself illustrated the tale which your daughters have said is your favourite, The Squire’s Tale. ’
Without waiting for a reply, Mistress Ellyn opened the book to a bookmarked page, as Mary and Anne watched her eagerly. Elizabeth smiled, excited by their enthusiasm, but when Mistress Ellyn moved away and she saw the illustration, she felt numb with shock.
An entire page was filled with the most exquisite drawing of a white falcon she had ever seen.
The feathers appeared to ripple on the page, the sharp eyes glistened with desire and she could almost feel the grip of the yellow talons on her arm.
Yet, despite its beauty, Elizabeth was overwhelmed with nausea.
In the corner were two perfectly drawn magpies and around the neck of the falcon was a slender gold whistle. A Latin motto at the bottom read:
Si metu flatus emittitur,
Periculum mox subsequitur.
Si flatus fervet ex furore,
Appareat diabolus ore.
Si flatus datur ex amore,
Frangatur maledictio more.
Elizabeth whispered the translation, staring at the image in transfixed horror.
‘“If breath is loosed in trembling fear,
Then danger soon will draw it near.
If breath is loosed in wrathful fire,
The devil shall appear in ire.
If breath is loosed in love sincere,
The ancient curse shall break – and clear.”’
It was as though the message were for her.
‘Isn’t it stunning, Mama?’ said Mary in delight. ‘The bird is similar to your falcon, Dorcas.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Elizabeth agreed, trying to force her voice to sound calm, untroubled, to offer praise to the two women who had shown her such kindness and hospitality. ‘When did you draw this, Lady Reynolds?’
‘When I was a novice, Lady Boleyn,’ she replied, but there was concern in her voice.
‘And the Latin?’
‘A poem, a small trifle which came to me,’ she said. ‘Along with the images of the magpies. They were portraits of two tame birds we raised here, called Night and Day. Are you quite well, Lady Boleyn?’
‘I feel faint,’ Elizabeth admitted. ‘Girls, stay here as long as you require, I shall retire with Lady Reynolds.’
Lady Reynolds offered Elizabeth her arm and led her back to the octagonal space, calling for refreshments.
As Elizabeth walked, she recovered from her shock at seeing the image, and as Lady Reynolds sat beside her, an idea began to form in Elizabeth’s head, one she thought might protect her from the gathering storm of the king’s dark passion.
She owned a scriptorium, there were scribes at her disposal, she could write her version of the truth, tell her tale, The Mother’s Tale, and leave it safely here, in the pages of the Chaucer for her daughters to find.
Should anything ever happen to her, they would discover the true story of her life.
‘Lady Reynolds,’ she said, accepting a glass of mead, ‘would you and Mistress Ellyn be able to help me write a tale of my own?’