‘How is your throat?’
Joanna touched the bandage. ‘It is nothing.’
‘May I see it?’
Joanna shrugged.
Lucie unwrapped the bandage around Joanna’s neck. The skin had been scratched raw, not torn. Already it healed. ‘You are lucky someone watches over you.’
Joanna said nothing.
Lucie replaced the bandage. ‘How do you feel otherwise?’ Despite the scarred throat, Lucie saw a marked improvement in Joanna’s appearance. The pale, freckled skin was no longer a sickly grey. The shadows under Joanna’s eyes had faded. She stood up straight, her expression alert and friendly, though she had not yet actually smiled.
‘Does an apothecary know remedies of the spirit?’
Lucie paused a moment, considering her reply. She did not wish to get off to a bad start. ‘We can do much to balance the humours. And we have remedies for simple maladies of the spirit. Rosemary and mint to wake up a sluggish spirit, balms, bedstraw, catnip and camomile to soothe an agitated spirit before sleep, lavender to cheer up a sad spirit.’
Joanna clutched the blue mantle. ‘Rosemary helps the memory.’
‘Do you need a rosemary tisane to help your memory?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘I remember far too much.’
‘That mantle. Will Longford’s maid wore something similar when she was murdered. Do you know why?’
‘Murdered?’ Joanna looked alarmed.
‘You did not know?’
‘I — ’ Joanna covered her eyes with her hands, shook her head.
‘Maddy was wearing a blue shawl much like yours.’
Joanna dropped her hands to the shawl, stroked it. Her expression was no longer one of alarm. She smiled. ‘Poor Maddy. We all long for a sign of favour from God’s Mother.’
‘That is not an answer, Dame Joanna. I am not here to play games with you. I must open the shop before sext.’
The half-shut eyes widened in surprise. Joanna sank down on a bench beneath the window. Lucie pulled a chair over and motioned to the Reverend Mother to do likewise.
‘Now, please, Dame Joanna, tell us how you first came to Will Longford’s house.’
Joanna eyed Isobel, then dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped in her lap. ‘It rained. The streets were muddy rivers. My feet got cold. I got lost and walked in circles.’ Joanna glanced up at Lucie, back down to her hands.
Lucie wondered what that glance had meant. And the speech — it was as if she’d begun in the middle of her story. ‘Did you know Will Longford before you arrived in Beverley?’
Joanna shrugged.
‘Joanna! Mistress Wilton deserves your respect!’ Dame Isobel said.
Lucie saw a flicker of irritation in Joanna’s eyes as she glanced at her prioress. This would not do at all. ‘Reverend Mother, might I speak with Joanna alone?’
Joanna glanced over at Lucie with a look of profound gratitude.
Isobel inclined her head. ‘This does not mean we shall now allow you to rule us, Joanna. But I shall leave you with Mistress Wilton this morning.’ Isobel rose. ‘God bless you for your patience, Mistress Wilton.’ With that, she left the room.
Lucie studied the nun’s face. Except for the freckles, which were considered blemishes by many poets, Joanna was a comely young woman, with high cheekbones, pale lashes and brows, and eyes whose colour shifted according to the light, from deep to sunlit green. It was easy to imagine her catching a man’s eye. ‘Perhaps we should just talk, Joanna. Do you know anything about me?’
Joanna nodded. ‘I have heard how you escaped St Clement’s and married a man who taught you a trade, and when he died you became a master apothecary and married for love.’
Lucie winced. ‘Twice I married for love.’
Joanna smiled. ‘I have met your captain.’
Lucie waited for further comment, but Joanna said no more.
‘So. You know something of me. Now tell me about you. You speak of my “escape” from St Clement’s as if you are unhappy there. Yet they say you performed heavy penances, so I would think you devout.’
‘Without God’s love there is nothing.’
‘And you worry that God will cease to love you?’
Joanna twisted her head to look out of the window. ‘I was betrothed to a fat old man who scolded me. I dreamed of a man like my brother, Hugh. Strong and courageous. Someone who laughed. Someone who loved me as God loves His chosen ones. I wanted my one love. Jason Miller was not he. Jason did not love me. He wanted a nurse for his children.’
Hugh. It was her brother she called for at night. ‘So you asked to go to the convent.’
Joanna nodded.
‘But surely there was no need to take vows? By then Jason must have married someone else?’
The full lips pouted childishly. ‘I am devout.’
‘You felt you should take your vows?’
‘My parents paid a great sum to St Clement’s for the promise that they would be bothered with me no more. I was dead to them.’
‘In a sense, that is the custom, is it not? You are a bride of Christ and finished with the passions of this world?’
Joanna fixed her green eyes on Lucie. ‘I died, Mistress Wilton.’
‘You mean the burial?’
Joanna’s gaze seemed as if it could penetrate Lucie’s eyes, look through them into Lucie’s soul. ‘I received the last rites.’
Lucie must ask the Reverend Mother what it meant to receive the last rites. She had a vague memory that it permanently altered one’s standing in the eyes of God. ‘So the priest saw you before you were tied in the shroud?’
Now the gaze broke, the eyes moved over to the bed. ‘I lay there on the bed, my hands folded over my chest.’ There was something so focused about Joanna’s stare; Lucie wondered whether Joanna realised that it was not the same bed.
‘He must have touched your forehead in giving the blessing. You would not have felt dead to the priest’s touch.’
There was a flicker of annoyance in the eyes that moved back to Lucie. ‘I was dying, not dead then. But they had made me drink something to draw the warmth of life out of my hands and feet.’ Joanna touched her left shoulder with her right hand, a protective gesture, wadding the blue cloth of the mantle in her hand. ‘Nothing would warm me after I woke. That’s when he gave me her mantle.’
‘Who? The priest?’
Joanna stroked the worn wool. ‘You can see the radiance of Our Lady’s love. Would you like to touch it?’ she asked softly, looking shyly through her pale lashes.
‘So this is truly the Blessed Mother’s mantle?’ Lucie touched the cloth, then crossed herself. Was it wrong to pretend to believe? But how else was she to earn Joanna’s confidence?
‘You are protected now,’ Joanna said softly.
‘How does it protect you, Joanna?’
‘The Blessed Virgin watches over me. She keeps me from harm.’
Now Lucie understood why Wulfstan and Isobel said Joanna was confused. Should Lucie challenge this theory by asking Joanna about the bruises? About her own ability to hurt herself? She decided she should not. ‘Who gave you this wonderful gift?’
Joanna’s eyes darkened abruptly. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘It was a most loving gift. They tell me that two men visited Will Longford and were at your funeral.’
Joanna looked down in confusion.
‘You said “he” gave it to you when you were so cold. Was it one of the visitors? Or Will Longford?’
‘I was frightened. He put the mantle over my shoulders and told me it was the Blessed Mother’s mantle. She would now protect me. I was a virgin risen from the dead — as Mary was.’
‘Joanna, do you truly believe that you died and rose from the dead?’
The eyes challenged. ‘I did.’
‘And this man, the one who gave you the mantle, was with you when you. . rose?’
‘Stefan,’ Joanna whispered, her eyes focused on a distant memory.
‘He had been Will Longford’s guest?’
‘He was kind to me. He found my medal, too.’ She pressed a spot above her breast.