The Nun's Tale by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online Page B

no one, Reverend Mother. I believe it was Katie. I sent her to the garden for cloths and shortly Dame Felice was in here.’
    Isobel should have guessed. The laundress was an unholy gossip. ‘And she of course stopped in the kitchen.’
    Prudentia looked to Margaret, who nodded.
    ‘Dame Margaret, return to the kitchen and tell anyone who asks that Joanna’s mantle is made of Yorkshire wool, new wool, and cannot be what she claims.’ Isobel glanced over at Joanna and caught her listening with a hostile glint in her eyes. So be it. Isobel would not have all the sisters of St Clement’s hysterical.
    But Margaret did not rise. Instead, she pushed back one of her sleeves and thrust her bare arm toward Isobel. ‘Marry, look you, Reverend Mother. The skin is clear.’
    Isobel looked at the proffered arm. It looked reddened from scrubbing, but free of any blemish. ‘So it is. Why do you show me this?’
    ‘It was not clear before I touched the mantle. Our Lady’s mantle has worked a miracle, Reverend Mother. My rash is gone.’ Margaret bent low over the mantle once more, her hands pressed together in prayer. ‘Sweet Mother of Heaven, thou hast healed me, thy humble servant.’
    ‘You see?’ the sub-prioress whispered. ‘When word of this miracle spreads . . .’ She shook her head, her eyes wide, mouth pinched.
    Sweet Mary in Heaven, why have you done this to me ? Isobel took a deep breath. ‘Prudentia, did you examine Margaret’s arm before she touched the mantle?’
    The infirmaress looked confused. ‘No. I never thought –’
    ‘Have you ever seen this rash of which Margaret believes she has suddenly been cured?’
    Prudentia’s wrinkled face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, Reverend Mother. Many times.’
    Isobel closed her eyes, clutched her hands beneath her scapular, thinking fast. She was no longer so firm in her disbelief. Perhaps it was Our Lady’s mantle. But she must preserve the peace of the convent. ‘Dame Margaret, I order you to keep silent about this.’
    Margaret raised her head, her eyes dazed. ‘But, Reverend Mother, others might be cured.’
    Isobel drew herself up to her full height. ‘Remember your vow of obedience, Dame Margaret.’
    The cook bowed her head. ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
    Isobel turned to the infirmaress and the sub-prioress. ‘Not a word of this to anyone.’ They nodded and voiced their promise in unison.
    Isobel did not for a moment believe she could stem the tide of rumour, but perhaps she could slow it to a manageable trickle.
    Thoresby stood in the garden of his palace at Bishopthorpe, enjoying the mild morning and the company of his gardener. He liked Simon’s quiet doggedness, the simple joy the gardener took in his accomplishments. This morning the talk was of lady’s mantle, the beauty of the dewdrops caught in the furled, fan-shaped leaves, how the drops would dry as the leaves opened.
    ‘Mistress Wilton would collect the dew early in the day for her remedies. Apothecaries hold it in high regard.’
    ‘The dew? Why? What is its virtue?’
    Simon sat back on his heels, took off his battered straw hat, and wiped his brow with a clean rag. ‘They say ’tis changed to the water of life as it sits in the leaves. A remedy is all the better for it.’
    ‘The plant grows wild in the Dales. The women dry it, but I never knew what use they made of it.’
    ‘Mistress Wilton says the plant dries and binds. Stops a wound from bleeding and seeping. And she told me the proper name for it, the one clerics use. Leontopodium.’ Simon pronounced the Latin carefully, with obvious pride.
    ‘Lion’s foot?’
    Simon nodded. ‘For its spreading root leaves. ’Tis why Mistress Wilton believes in thinning the clumps. Gives them room to spread. I considered it a long while.’
    Thoresby envied the man his pleasant concerns. ‘And what have you decided? Will you be thinning these?’
    ‘Oh, aye. You’ll not find me wasting good advice. Mistress Wilton learned from the best of