1497

All Hallowe’s Eve

Blackfriars Priory

Gloucester

The scriptorium stood empty. A stillness in it.

The study carrels lined both sides of the long building. Thick damask curtains, normally pulled across each one to cloister the novices, were drawn back exposing oak desks and displaying a neat collection of ink wells, pen knives and quills. Leather-bound books and manuscripts lay open exposing the vellum, like crisp linen, the background to letters and illuminations waiting to be meticulously crafted. More books and manuscripts were stacked on shelves along the centre of the room. At one end was the prior’s study area, set apart to show pre-eminence. The friars had long since retired from their studies.

A sharp October wind blew through the unglazed windows. The bells of St Peter’s Abbey rang out, slow and ponderous. On the third chime, the luminous edge of a passing dark cloud revealed a full moon whose light shone through the windows, casting shards of shadows across the wooden floorboards. The curtains rustled softly.

On the floor lay a young woman, her eyes staring upwards at the finely crafted scissor-braced oak roof. Her mouth slightly open, her lips tinged with blue, she lay at an awkward angle, her body twisted, her fair hair streaked across her face. The claret and plum-coloured marks appearing on her neck were the only evidence of her violent and disrespectful death.

Maverdine Lane

Emmelina moved with the stealth of a fawn grazing in open fields at dawn. Limb by limb she edged her way to the outside of the bed so as not to disturb Humphrey. Moving the covers to form a lump beside his heaving hulk she lowered her left leg till her toes touched the cool, wooden floor. Her sleeping husband made a grunting noise and turned onto his back. Emmelina stiffened. Every muscle in her body tensed. Surely after drinking several flagons of beer in the Fleece Inn he would not wake. The Fleece, situated on the opposite side of the street, was newly built and packed full of pilgrims visiting the abbey. It had become a nightly haunt for Humphrey. Still she held her breath, closed her eyes, and waited until he settled.

Confident he was asleep, she raised herself from the bed, and tiptoed across the floorboards to a chair in the corner of the bedroom. Her shoes were underneath the chair where she had left them the night before. They were a gift from Humphrey and made from the finest Cordovan goat leather. He imported the hides from the city in Spain of the same name. Her day clothes were draped across the back of the chair. Keeping a watchful eye on Humphrey, she pulled on a shift and, still barefooted, left the bedroom closing the door behind her as quietly as she could. She crept down the creaky stairs and made her way to the fore-hall where her husband kept a large wooden chest in which he stored his old documents. He rarely looked in there, which was why she had chosen it to hide her faith garments and the wooden pattens she wore when walking through the streets late at night.

Tying the dark woollen over-garment tightly at her small waist, and securing a leather bag to her belt, she covered her head and shoulders with a scarf made from the same material and slipped her bare feet into the pattens. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to make a final check on her sleeping husband. His thunderous snores could be heard all through the house. Satisfied he would not wake from his beer-induced torpor before morning, she lifted the metal latch on the heavy wooden door and stepped out into Maverdine Lane. A quick glance in both directions confirmed no-one was about. Only then did she make her way towards the cross, an intersection where East, West, North and South Gate streets converged. Here stood the octagonal shaped High Cross so called because it was taller than any of the many smaller preaching crosses scattered about the city. It was topped with a spire and was a visible landmark. She looked up at it and crossed herself from habit more than anything else.

Continuing down East Gate Street she stopped just before the city gate and ducked into an alleyway. It reeked of stale urine and dog mess. She knew the porter would be entertaining his lady friend at this hour, and for this she was grateful. It would be easier to slip past them and out onto the fields beyond the city’s defences. Listening out for the familiar sounds of their raucous love-making and hearing them, she walked through the East Gate undetected with a confident stride. Once over the wooden drawbridge spanning the old Roman moat, she turned left and traced the outer walls of the city heading towards Gaudy Green. The evening had turned decidedly wintry. She hurried along in the dark pulling her scarf across her mouth in response to the burning sensation at the back of her throat from the searing cold air.

Now almost a mile from the city she heard the bells of St Peter’s Abbey chime twice.

On the third chime the clouds thinned, and a full moon illuminated her way. In the stillness of the night the only other sound to be heard was the swishing of her skirts and the occasional screech of an owl as she made her way upwards to Robin Hoodes Hill. Emmelina strode along the worn footpaths leading her to higher ground. With each step she became more alive more invigorated. She thought of her fat lump of a husband lying in his drunken stupor and in that moment a stronger resolve rose within her to carry her along what had now become a steep and thickly forested hill.

Since giving birth to a stillborn daughter three years ago a sombre change had occurred within her. At the same time a hidden facet of her character had emerged. The part that had no feeling and no thought of consequences. It was a cold inner core she retreated to each, and every time Humphrey violated her. When he forced himself upon her, she would lay there with her eyes tightly shut, her head turned away from his sour breath, conscious of his laboured breathing, smelling his ripe skin, and feeling the touch of his sweaty flesh.

Worst of all was the feel of him inside her thrusting without tenderness into the delicate parts of her she had not given him permission to enter. She always lay without movement waiting for him to finish so she could turn over and pretend to be asleep. It was at these most vulnerable times she would tell herself over and over that one day she would be free of him. She said it to her true self, not the cold shell she became when lying with Humphrey.

During the first few months of living under Humphrey’s roof she had made every attempt to stop him but soon realised it was hopeless. He was bigger and stronger, and it just hurt her more. The only consolation was the act itself lasted but a few minutes. She longed to be free of the burden of her marriage, but she could see no way out. Her secret faith had carried her through the last four years since her parents had died and given her an outlet beyond the confines of the home she shared with Humphrey.

As she reached the summit the trees thinned out until eventually, she came upon a clearing in the undergrowth where her fellow followers stood in a circle wearing the habitual dark robes their bare feet on the cold dark earth. She rummaged in her leather bag and brought out a candle, which she lit from a bank of candles arranged on a makeshift altar on the ground then took her place. Surrounded by a circle of oneness, of understanding and trust and of knowingness, Emmelina breathed in deeply and closed her eyes. The essence of calm and belonging enveloped her warming her deadened heart. This was the one time Emmelina was true to herself her authentic self.

A deep male voice addressed her as she took her place in the circle.

‘Welcome, Saoirse.’

She recognised his voice. It was Finn, his bleached, white hair standing out in the dark night. He looked younger than his years the kindness in his eyes twinkling in the moonlight.

‘Let us begin.’

Blackfriars Priory

Guido, the novice friar, entered the scriptorium from the east wing carrying a roll of sack cloth. His movements were quick and furtive. Laying the cloth out on the floor he knelt beside the young girl’s body and swept the hair from her face studying her a while. He had seen dead bodies before in the infirmary but none as pretty as this girl. With some difficulty he rolled her lifeless body onto the cloth, then seeming to change his mind, he un-wrapped her. He had never been alone or this close to a beautiful young woman before. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. A compulsion beyond his control took over. One hand searched beneath his black cappa whilst the other went to her breast. He looked at her pretty but expressionless face. Some minutes later, he re-wrapped her body in the cloth. With some difficulty, he hauled her over his shoulder, and staggering slightly, he made his way down the western staircase out into the cloister. The moon had disappeared behind the clouds. All was dark and quiet.

‘Excellent,’ Guido hissed, as he entered the monks’ refectory.

From there he made his way to the narrow lane the monks called the slype. This led from the priory down to the banks of the River Severn where the friars had a private mooring from which some of their supplies were delivered. Now very out of breath Guido staggered onto the wooden pontoon. With a mighty effort, he lifted the roll of cloth containing the young woman’s dead body from his shoulder, and heaved it into the fast flowing river, throwing her as far out as he could manage. Her body hit the blackness of the water like a sack of discarded butcher’s bones. Guido watched as the sack was swept along with the lunar tide making its way out towards Bristol and the sea beyond.

As he walked back to the dormitory in the grey light of dusk the familiar feeling of utter self-loathing and disgust returned. Whenever those feelings surfaced, he pushed them to the back of his mind. A cold and feverish sweat consumed him. He quickened his step and thought about Lauds.

Robin Hoodes Hill

To the east of the hill, just above the black horizon, a thin line of pale grey sky could be seen cracking the darkness. Dawn was breaking.

Emmelina knelt on the cold hard ground, her hands clasped together in prayer. Her long hair fell over angular shoulders to the small of her back. It was the colour of winter sloe berries, her eyes the shape of almonds and black as charcoal.

She had spent the night in quiet contemplation, interrupted only by the soft intonations of Finn’s voice, and the trance-like chanting of the others. No-one spoke. No-one ever spoke. Not in the normal way of conversation. Only to make announcements about the next meeting or to recite the sacred words of their faith. It had to be that way. Anonymous. It was safer. If the locals caught them practising their faith, they would be slaughtered where they prayed. They knew only their names, not their real names but their faith names. Hers was Saoirse meaning freedom and independence. She hoped one day she could truly become a free spirit. It was her dearest wish.

It was late and worried she would not be back before her husband woke, she wrapped her cloak around her, and left without saying goodbye, beginning the weary walk back home.

Treadworth House

The grass between Maud’s toes was wet and bracingly cold as she walked barefoot to the edge of her garden to pick herbs to make her early morning brew of fennel and peppermint.

She looked up at the sky as she leaned backwards, stretching her old bones to ease the stiffness that was always there on first waking. The sky was beginning to brighten in the east and yet the moon was still visible, a much paler version than the night’s full moon.

Break of day for Maud was a most magical time, not yet day, no longer night. A time of stillness and solitude before the dawn chorus.

As she bent down to break off a few stems of fennel she heard a noise. Expecting to see a family of rabbits hopping about in the field beyond or perhaps a hungry fox, she was surprised to see a young woman dressed in dark clothing, hurrying along the worn pathway that led towards the city’s East Gate. She straightened up to get a better look. The young woman turned her head and looked over at Maud. Maud stared back at her. The woman dropped her head, pulled her hood further down over her face and hurried on by. Maud continued to watch as the figure grew smaller and disappeared into the layers of morning mist.

She bent down again and gathered a few more stems and a clutch of peppermint before returning to her kitchen where the embers of the previous night’s fire were feebly glowing in the hearth. She took some twigs from a basket on the floor and placed them on top of the embers, blowing gently to re-kindle the fire. The dry twigs crackled, and an orange flame sparked into life. She quickly placed more twigs and several small pieces of wood on top. The fire began to take hold.

Maud separated the seeds from their pods, the leaves from their stems and placed them in a metal pot with some weak ale from a jug. She placed the pot on the metal peg above the fire to make her first drink of the day then eased herself into a large wooden chair by the fire warming her toes and waiting for her brew to boil.

Pomfrey her cat and companion jumped down from the window seat where he had been patiently watching the proceedings, stretched himself, and sidled up to her. Sitting at her feet, he looked up as if waiting for permission. Maud patted her lap and Pomfrey, taking the hint, took up his favourite position on her warm lap in front of a now roaring fire. The kitchen smelled of aniseed. Maud smiled while Pomfrey purred loudly.

‘She has become a beautiful young lady, Pomfrey.’