Chapter 1 #7
‘Good gracious!’ Mother Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘That barely gives us time to make ready.’
‘It is his Majesty’s wish,’ he said stiffly.
She fumbled to detach the keys from her belt. Master Tregonwell shifted on his feet, clearly impatient to have this awkward moment over with. By Our Lady, he must be used to it now, I thought sourly.
I watched, tears welling, as the Abbess signed the deed of surrender, ending six hundred and fifty years of prayer and dedication, and granting the abbey, with all its estates and wealth, to the King.
I was already packed. My few possessions were stuffed into my old bag, along with the first instalment of my pension and with the parchment granting it.
Thanks to the Abbess’s hard bargaining with Master Tregonwell, we fared better than most. I was to receive ￡4.
12s.4d. annually. It was not much, barely enough to eke out a living, but it would suffice for my share of the rent if I lived frugally.
As soon as I was free, I donned a green gown donated by a kind benefactor – we nuns who were leaving the religious life had all been given secular clothing – and put a white cap over my cropped hair.
Then I went in search of Mary Cressett – I must not call her Dame Mary now – and together we went to the chantry priest’s house.
An hour later, our tenancy was confirmed.
We returned to the enclosure to say farewell to our sisters. Some we knew we would never see again, for they were departing for far-flung destinations. Most were very distressed at having to leave. There were a lot of tears that day.
We then went to see the Abbess. She was composed, but I suspected that her calm demeanour hid deep emotion.
‘Where will you go, Mother?’ I asked.
‘Back to my family, Dorothy. But I shall endeavour to keep in touch with you all, for you have been as children to me. I am very pleased that you both have somewhere to go. Now let me bless you, my daughters, and be on your way.’
We knelt before her. I was feeling choked.
In some trepidation, we ventured forth from the abbey for the first time in years, amazed to see the great gates standing open. Already, a line of carts had formed, alongside a procession of workmen. The commissioners were wasting no time.
What struck me forcibly about the outside world was the noise.
I was used to the convent, where quietness was enjoined upon us.
But the bustle of Shaftesbury was overwhelming.
It was market day: the town was full, people were chattering or shouting, stall-holders and street vendors crying their wares.
Hurriedly, we pushed through the crowds and made our way to the thatched cottage, which stood a stone’s throw from the abbey.
Pushing open the low door, we smiled at each other as we saw the little parlour furnished with a table, stools and a cupboard, its walls whitewashed, its ceiling beamed.
We ran through to the kitchen at the back, then up the twisting stair to the upper floor, where we found two bedchambers, each with a pallet bed.
Outside, the little walled garden was large enough for a bench and a small table.
It had been tended well, and there was a vegetable patch as well as what would be a wildflower area in a few weeks.
We congratulated ourselves on having done so well.
It did not take us long to settle in, and soon we had some pottage simmering on the hearth, for the cellaress had shared some food supplies among all the departing nuns.
That night, having wrapped hot bricks in scraps of flannel, we slept snug and warm.
And so we settled into our new life. We had just enough between us to get by, and we were lucky to have generous neighbours who ran a pie shop and would often give us unsold pies or let us use their oven.
Living near the abbey, we could not but be witnesses to its dismantling.
The King’s men took everything: the jewels from St Edward’s shrine, the carved statues of the saints that had adorned the church, the plate and gold candlesticks, the altar hangings, the jewelled crucifix.
We saw cart after cart leaving with valuables and books, which would doubtless be sold to enrich the King’s coffers, along with the lead from the church roof. That was the first thing to go.
Most of the convent buildings were pulled down and their stones carted away or carried off by the townsfolk. You could already see new buildings built of the abbey stone. I got a lump in my throat when I thought of how magnificent Shaftesbury Abbey had once been. Soon, there would be nothing left.
We heard that the shrine of St Edward had been broken up, but we never did learn what had become of his relics. There were rumours that the nuns had reburied them in a secret place before leaving, but I doubt that very much. We had all been too busy.
The Abbess kept her word. She wrote to us once a year, and I am sure that she wrote to our former sisters too.
Each Christmas, she sent us a goose from the Zouche estates.
I wrote to Jack, who I still thought of as my brother, to tell him what had become of me.
He replied in rather stilted terms, saying that his parents were dead and that he and Anne now had ten children.
He made no mention of my going home, nor had I expected or wanted it.
I realised that I could no longer think of the Clauseys as my family, even though I felt sad to hear of the passing of the old couple I had once looked upon as my mother and father.
We had been living in the cottage for eight years when Sir Thomas Arundel bought what was left of the abbey and much of the town of Shaftesbury too.
Some years later, he was beheaded for treason and his lands were seized by the Crown.
We watched the abbey fall into ruin as time passed.
The site was later sold to the Earl of Pembroke.
By then, I was ailing, suffering from stomach pains and a chill in my bowels.
I became dependent on Mary, whom I had grown to love as a sister, and she took the greatest care of me as I became bedridden.
Much as I deplored heresy, I was sad that I had lived long enough to hear of the burnings of Protestants ordered by Queen Mary, King Henry’s daughter.
Thankfully, no one has yet been sent to the stake in Shaftesbury.
Now that death cannot be far off, I find myself thinking more and more about my real father, Cardinal Wolsey, and wishing that I could have known him.
For with age comes wisdom, and I had learned tolerance over the years.
We do the things we do for the best, as I am sure now that he did for me.
And he had been right in his hopes for my future.
I was born to be a nun. In my heart, I am a nun still.
I keep the canonical hours, even as I lie in my bed, with the apple tree in blossom outside the tiny, latticed window.
And so I will go to my God in thankfulness, hoping to be united in death with the father who had no choice but to give me up. All is now forgiven.