Part One

The journey

1526 to 1528

Chapter One

1526

Standing outside the front door, seventeen-year-old Rosa Faceby squinted through her glass angel at the distorted image of the church across the road. Cool sunlight passed through bubbles and bumps in the old, flat glass, lending the building an air of glittering mystery.

Nearly 180 years ago the angel had been a small part of a coloured-glass window which had shattered, leaving it the only thing intact. Each little flat piece of glass which formed the gown, wings and halo was surrounded by a thin lead strip, soldered to the adjacent ones to make it a whole piece. Ever since, it had been passed down through the Faceby women as a talisman.

Rosa breathed on it, polished it with the hem of her smock and turned to look up the road. Looking through it again, she saw indefinite shapes approaching, accompanied by the clopping and metal tinkle of hoofs and bridle. She lowered the angel and saw a youthful messenger striding down the inclined road, leading a horse. He strode to the front door and peered inside over Rosa’s shoulder without looking at her. Her eyes were at the level of his chin and she closely observed a thin beard and volcanic spots.

‘Is Master Glazier Simon Faceby in?’ he said, twisting the horse’s rein.

Rosa stood on tiptoe to encourage him to look her in the face. ‘Why?’

His gaze remained behind her. ‘I’ve a message. I ’ave a note.’

‘Who from?’

‘None of your business. I asked for Master Faceby.’

Hammering noises, accompanied by a high-pitched whistled tune, came from somewhere in the depths of the building. ‘Da! Messenger!’ shouted Rosa.

She leaned on the door jamb, aware Simon Faceby would deliberately take his time – enough for whoever was peering inside to see the creamy framework of a screen spanning the width of what would become the main hall, separating it from a new kitchen, dairy, laundry, privy or any other number of places.

He appeared, gingerly stepping around the jumble of wood, nails, saws, chisels, buckets and ladders. His heavy clothing and close cap were littered with wood shavings that had landed on him like fallen blossom. He took the note. While he read it, the messenger still peered inside. Simon nodded assent, but the lad was too fascinated to move. Rosa prodded him to alertness on his breast bone. ‘Your job’s done,’ she said, and watched him leave.

‘Ee, you’re a cheeky lass,’ said Simon in mock anger. ‘He looked a nice young lad, a bit embarrassed by them pustular spots, I suspect. I bet he admired them curls of yours.’

Rosa pouted comically. ‘Well, he didn’t. He was too taken with your alterations.’ She pushed a curl behind her ear. ‘You came without haste just so he’d time to take it all in.’ She giggled.

‘Aye, for all an’ sundry to hear about!’ Katherine, Rosa’s mother had appeared, drying red, wet hands on a cloth at her waist. Her brow furrowed. ‘I know that lad. He spreads gossip like wildfire. He’ll report about the alterations bein’ done here. It could be at the well already. But that’ll satisfy you, husband, because it’ll raise your standin’ in the area,’ she snapped.

Simon ignored her and turned to his daughter, still standing in the doorway. ‘Ee, lass, the colour of your hair seems as pure and shining as sunlight on pale amber glass.’

Katherine pursed her lips reprovingly. Wrinkles radiated from them. ‘Away with ya, Simon. You’re too dreamy,’ she huffed, lifting a pile of dirty linen from a corner with a sigh. ‘She wears her hair too free. Curls bobbin’ about. It’s provocative. She needs to pull ’erself in. Be more serious-minded. Well, what does the note say?’ She stood to listen to her husband’s answer but ready to march away to the tub, believing it, Rosa surmised, to be of little interest to her.

Simon held up the paper. ‘It’s from Abbot Stoppe. You know a while back how he wanted me to think about new ways of making coloured windows for the abbey, such as those coming from abroad, like they have in Cambridge? He wants Meaux Abbey to be one step ahead of other northern monasteries who may be thinking likewise.’

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Well, he wants me to go with two monks to the Low Countries where they’ve new ideas, and Venice and Florence as well, even though it means many more miles to travel. He’s talked about it before.’

Rosa felt her heart beating wildly with a mix of excitement and regret at the thought of such a journey.

Katherine dropped the washing. ‘Let me see.’ She grabbed the note, written on precious paper, and looked horrified as she read it.

Simon grabbed it back. ‘It seems I’ve to leave soon. Next week.’ He took off his cap and rubbed his thin, greying hair.

‘An’ for ’ow long?’

‘Year ’n’ half at most.’ Rosa saw her mother’s face blanche. ‘The abbot feels the need to get on with the new south transept,’ said Simon, sounding as if it was a perfectly normal proposition to consider. ‘Best now, when those places are as safe as they’re ever likely to be. I’m to travel with two abbey monks. Father Tobias will come tomorrow to inform me. It seems he’s travelled the route before for his own learnin’. I’ve met him once or twice. He’s the infirmarian.’

‘Aye, well, I can’t accept it.’ Katherine’s tone was sharp and to the point. ‘It’s too short notice, an’ the house in this state.’ She was close to tears. Rosa saw her point.

‘The two lads’ll help, if you need owt,’ Simon added tentatively and without conviction. ‘Michael Carpenter’ll be in charge of the house alterations.’ He winked at his daughter. ‘He’s an eye for our Rosa so best keep him busy, eh? See he doesn’t stray. He’ll see to the house so’s it’s good for us to get back to. An’ the money’ll set us up for the rest of our lives.’

Just then, the short, shadowy figure of a dusty Michael Carpenter appeared, whistling a tune. It stopped the conversation. Rosa had no interest in him save for his craftsmanship, which was like none other. His cow eyes frequently looked at her adoringly, rather like a puppy, she thought. He was a thoroughly nice person, but dull. Rosa had been taught at the village priest’s school and with nuns at Swine Priory; she knew mathematics and Latin. Michael worked by instinct alone. She forced her face into blankness. He picked up a hammer from the table and left.

‘You just want to be like a lord of the manor,’ said Katherine, carrying on her rant. ‘Like Rauf Faceby up at yon manor house. A new tiled roof, you said, but if the thatch isn’t repaired soon, we’ll be wet all through winter, never mind waiting for tiles! Michael’s good but he’s slow. You and your wanting to be up to date – what’s good enough for them down south is good enough for us, you said. Well, I don’t want their ideas, especially if you won’t be ’ere to see ’em done. What suits them doesn’t allus suit us. An’ glass in our windows, you said. It’ll advertise our business, show we can adapt to new trends. Well, we can’t if you’re not here and there are no windows! And as for the lads, they’re useless – as you well know. In any case, I ’aven’t seen ’em for a couple of years.’ Katherine dropped dejectedly onto a stool, her eyes red-rimmed and her cap askew, revealing lank brown hair.

The lads, Rosa’s brothers, both lived at Dunghill. They were some years older than she was and were never seen in Warren Horesby, their station being too low. Rosa had no idea why they’d left home before she was born.

Her mother’s tirade carried on. ‘An’ if you get yourself killed or sick, I’d be left penniless. You might even drown.’

‘Kat, love, like I said, it might only be for eighteen months at worst. We’ll not die. You’ve sorted things before when I’ve been away. A big window at Meaux will see us have enough money for us to live in luxury. I’ll get you a fireplace done.’

‘I don’t want one,’ said Katherine, petulantly. ‘The central hearth is good enough.’

‘Well, they have ’em down south.’

A small wooden jug narrowly missed Simon’s head.

The day following, sheer envy compressed Rosa’s breast. ‘Oh, Ma, how lucky father is. I wish…’

‘It’s no good wishing, my girl,’ Katherine said tersely, with an expression of martyrdom contorting her sharp features. She passed the stinking pile of dirty linen left festering from yesterday to her daughter.

Her father had walked by and overheard. ‘You know, Kat, it might be good for Rosa to be away for a while.’

‘Away? She’ll need to knuckle down and get used to women’s work. She’ll be married soon, if I’ve anything to do with it. She ought to be married now!’

Rosa grimaced at the body smells from the bed linen. ‘I won’t marry! I won’t! I don’t want babies. I hate all the young men I’ve ever met.’

Rosa was nervous of the lads in Hull and Beverley; they were fashionable but superficial and often lecherous. And the local young men were dolts – like Michael: unromantic, too keen to have her as a hard-working, wifely prize. She knew she was not a beauty, but homely with good teeth – wife material. The mirrors her father had made out of wavy surfaced glass confirmed it. But in his workshop she’d touched coloured glass from the Low Countries, France, the mysterious-sounding Black Forest. How could her mother, who’d only ever worked in their home, understand the call of lands beyond England?

Rosa understood her mother’s fears of travel, but she found marriage, with the inevitable childbearing, a far greater fear. Her only sister, gentle Lily, had died following a long, agonising labour two years ago at the age of seventeen, Rosa’s age now. Her child lived. Her mother had assumed responsibility for the child, helped by their servant girl, Sara. Little Thomasin’s grieving father, Thomas, had then been tempted by an impending war with France to join the king’s navy, where life could be short; if death didn’t come with battle injuries, then it was with typhus, dysentery, plague or scurvy – thoughts that no doubt compounded her mother’s fears about journeys abroad. Thomas had not been heard of since.

The door knocker clattered. Rosa dropped her broom to the floor and, almost knocking her father over, ran through the partly built screen to the front door. On opening it, the early morning sun beamed so strongly behind the figure in front of her that he was haloed by it. She blinked, her eyes cleared and she squinted to see a man looking down at her, smiling. Her eyes roamed over him. He had a tonsure, shining smooth except for a few fresh abrasions from a shave, and balanced on his nose were occularies secured with twine passing over his ears and tied at the back of his head. Underneath a dark long cloak, she spied the creamy-grey of a Cistercian habit with dried mud reaching from hem to knees. Her eyes went back to his face. His hazel eyes were staring keenly at her and his broadening smile exposed a gap in his teeth. He was used to smiling, she thought. She readily beamed back.

‘Good morning. I’m Father Tobias of Meaux Abbey. Here to see Master Glazier Faceby.’

‘Ah, Father Tobias.’ Simon had followed his daughter. ‘Come in, please. We have much to discuss. This is Rosa, my daughter. Go now, lass, and bring us some ale in a little while.’

Rosa turned to go to the kitchen, feeling self-conscious and wondering if the monk’s eyes were following her. With shaking hands, she poured ale from a big wooden jug into horn vessels, all the while cocking an ear to hear what was being said.

Father Tobias was speaking. ‘We’re to travel from Hull by ship to Rotterdam, then on horseback and cart south through the Low Countries, on to Venice and then Florence. We’ll avoid Rome. It’s a hotbed. It’ll be safer to then go north and return by sea via Calais.’ Rosa felt faint at the adventure his talk presented. ‘We must be aware that wars have the habit of breaking out unexpectedly. Something is likely brewing in France but we should be safe enough.’

There was a short silence. Rosa felt her father’s reticence, which he would not dare voice to his wife.

Father Tobias continued. ‘In the Low Countries you’ll see innovative windows and in Venice you’ll learn of a secret glass process. It requires a special permit which has been secured for you.’

Rosa listened intently. A secret! How exciting! The way the monk spoke was smooth, precise and lyrical, almost disguising a Yorkshire brogue. She could imagine his hands and long fingers expressing the secret. His voice dropped and though Rosa strained her ears, she heard only whispers. She imagined her father wide-eyed as he learned more. The monk’s voice raised again.

‘Father Stephen, our abbey stonemason, will be with us to study intricate tracery for the top of windows. And I,’ his voice became louder, excited, ‘will visit infirmaries, some of which have new ideas about plagues.’ His enthusiasm for disease clearly showed his main interest was not windows. She felt unaccountably disappointed.

‘Are you expecting more bouts of the Great Pestilence to ravage us?’

‘Well, yes. It still lingers here and there, but there are other diseases peculiar to certain places. The Sweating Sickness, for instance. Each return seems to be worse than the last.’

‘Will you study it while we’re abroad?’

‘No – at present it’s only an English disease. I hope to be back before another bout arises. Finally, I’m to deliver a copied manuscript to our founding abbey at Cîteaux.’

Rosa’s eyes widened at the thought of windows, diseases, manuscripts and a secret mission. She crept nearer and hid behind a thick, upright oak beam.

‘Come, Rosa, I know you’re there,’ called her father loudly, ‘with your ear cocked to hear.’ She walked in carrying a tray while feeling her face flush. Father Tobias thanked her as he took a beaker and she found herself assessing his age from his freckled hand: older than herself by more than five years, fewer than ten.

He gulped his ale. ‘So… I’ll see you one week from today. Lay brothers will come with us as far as Hull. They’ll have carts to hold luggage, and horses which they’ll return to the monastery. Pack warm clothes and sturdy boots; we have much high land to cross and winter to get through.’

Rosa left them, hardly able to bare the agony of jealousy. Their chatter continued but too low to hear. She felt rather than heard the confidant authority of Father Tobias’ voice.

After a little while, Simon went to the kitchen. Rosa was sweeping under the table where her mother was furiously chopping vegetables.

‘Come into the hall, both of you.’ His face was unreadable. ‘Quickly, Father Tobias needs to leave very soon.’

The monk stood by the central fire looking at the flames, hands behind his back. Simon went to fan his hands in front of it. Rosa could see he was weighing up how to tell her mother something.

‘Well, Kat, seeing as how our lass won’t accept the hand of any of the lads round here, she needs to widen her horizons. I’ve had an idea.’ He threw a glance at his daughter. ‘I’ve asked if Rosa might travel with me.’ His words were golden. Rosa dropped the broom she still held. It clattered on the hard floor. ‘Father Tobias has assured me it will be possible for her to go with us on the trip. So she can stay here and find a husband,’ he said to his wife, ‘or come with me to yonder countries.’

Father Tobias lifted his head and looked at Rosa as if trying not to smile. She looked at him and tensed with joy; she felt bumps of gooseskin rise on her arms. She nodded furiously as words failed to come out.

Her mother’s eyes blazed. ‘What?! Alone? No chaperone?’

‘Oh, Ma, it would be wonderful.’

Her father spoke directly to Rosa. ‘But, as a young woman, you would be under my protection at all times. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father.’ She knew he was hinting at her mischievous spirit which sometimes gave her more confidence than a young woman should have. She would have to behave herself.

‘It’s for too long. It won’t be safe.’ Her mother was distraught. ‘Things can happen to a girl. It’s unheard of.’

‘Kat, I’ll keep ’er with me. Even riding to market in Beverley can be dangerous: horses throwing, kicking, trampling, carts overturning, rivers with rotting bridges, unpredictable fords…’

‘Aye, but there’s likely more bandits and evil men over there who’d take all they could from a young girl. Are they even Christian? And with three men? Monks, too, can be…’ She held herself in check. ‘No chaperone?’ she repeated explosively.

Rosa tried to ignore the fear she saw in her mother’s eyes.

‘Mistress Faceby,’ said the monk conciliatorily. ‘There’s a woman at the abbey who works in the infirmary who’d come with us to be a companion. Her name is Margaret. She’s very capable.’

Katherine made one last effort. ‘Then I’ll go to the abbey right now and meet her. Saddle a horse for me, Simon.’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Get on with the floors, Rosa.’

‘I’ll ride with you, Mistress,’ said Father Tobias.

At that moment, Michael came into hall and Rosa found herself pondering on the difference between him and the monk. It was a difference she could neither express nor quantify.

Katherine returned. She said nothing about her visit to the abbey except that the woman was portly and a little old for the task at forty-two, with the auburn hair of feistiness, and looked healthy and robust. She agreed, with great reluctance, that Rosa could go on the journey, and followed with a tearful tirade of instructions about being safe.

Rosa tried to look as though she was listening. She kissed the cheek of her mother’s martyred face and gave her a hug.

One week later, Rosa, in thick sheepskin boots and woollen cloak, her hair closely controlled under a woven cap, watched as bags were loaded onto the monastery carts. She felt for the weight of her glass angel safely wrapped in the padded bag hanging under her skirt and knew as sure as morning comes that she was leaving her old life and entering a new one. It was both thrilling and fearful.

‘Now you take care, my darling.’ Katherine’s eyes blurred with tears. They hugged.

Love and insecurity overwhelmed Rosa. ‘I will, Ma.’

In King’s-Town on Hull the group rumbled past grand merchants’ houses and lowly hovels, shops and street vendors, warehouses and offices. Eventually they reached the quayside, where the cold, salt smell of herring, spices, tar and stagnant, watery filth met their nostrils. While the carts were unloaded, Rosa stood on a wooden crate to get a view above the heads of passing people. Margaret assiduously clung to her ward’s skirt in case she should be knocked off. Rosa felt no similar fear. Through the seething mass she spied The Morning Star, the ship that would carry them over the sea. Restrained by ropes, it danced on slapping waves, its fore and aft castles rising and falling alternately, and its masts tipping in time with those of other ships. This was the edge of the sea opening on to the rest of the world!

With all their baggage stowed, Rosa gripped Margaret’s hand and stepped gingerly onto the wet, slippery stone. She knew little of Margaret but she thought a time might come when she’d be grateful for her temperament that would brook no hazards.

‘Now,’ said Father Tobias, ‘we’ve some hours to wait until we can board. We’ll take refreshment at the Cistercian Priory in town. There you may rest while I visit sick monks.’

An hour later, Rosa and Margaret, full of plain but good food, sat in upright chairs.

‘Father Tobias never gives up on the sick – monks nor anybody else,’ said Margaret, thoughtfully.

‘If monks pray so much, why do they get ill?’ asked Rosa.

Her companion raised and lowered her shoulders.

‘I’m curious about sickness. I can’t believe it’s always to do with sinning. Ma says I get so many spots because I do wrong things, but I don’t even know what the wrong things are! Way back, a distant relative of ours started a small hospital near Warren Horesby Manor House. It was moved to a bigger plot because they had so many sick. I’ve helped there since being twelve years old. I might…’ but Margaret wasn’t listening; she’d fallen asleep.

The sea was black and swelling as they boarded the ship. Barefooted young men scarily climbed rigging and great sails billowed as if they might detach themselves and fly away. Rosa then clearly understood why her sister’s husband had left after Lily died. The sea and its promise of adventures had called him. For certain, they would never see him again.

‘Come, Rosa,’ said Margaret. ‘We must go to our cabin below – I don’t want you leered at by sailors.’

In the gloom, Margaret deposited herself gingerly on one of four hard bunks with a bowl at her side. The cabin was low ceilinged and cramped. Their passage was an inexpensive one with no luxuries. The foetid air held odours of sweat, vomit, dampness, cats and rats. Rosa began to taste bitterness in her throat. She hadn’t bargained for seasickness and regretted eating so much food at the priory. In the cabin, fighting nausea as the ship tossed, Rosa’s heart pounded and, clutching her angel, she forced herself to believe she would survive long enough to have her adventure.