18

20th August 1580

Two pairs of silk hose for your daughter Viola’s wedding clothes eight shillings and four pence

Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

The seamstress Isabeau has been examined for her faith by the rector and has been found as observant as any of us who have lived through the great changes. Mayhap she does cling to beliefs from her childhood in the French court and mumbles the Protestant creed when it is politic to do so. But who has not? Even the queen, when princess in the reign of her sister Queen Mary, took Mass.

The rector’s sister has been physicked and is confined to her room. Agness’s intense dislike of Isabeau seems more than just suspicion of a foreigner. Her reason seems disordered.

I sit in my office for it is rent day, and each of Lord Anthonie’s tenants has their own tales to tell of why their rents are light. Each also seems to have a curiosity about the Frenchwoman, and I quell some rumours. I fine two, give others more time to pay, and caution many against the spreading of vile rumours about an innocent and hardworking woman. I shall be glad to see her leave; she has been much troubled and caused discord and suspicion.

So I find myself much surprised when the last visit to my office is the woman Isabeau herself, much distressed.

‘Master Vincent, I beg you to help me.’ She sinks into a curtsey, her kirtle splaying out around her in a pool of fine brocade.

‘I am trying, Mistress, the lies will abate—’ but she is shaking her head, sinking her face into her hands until she is kneeling on the floor.

‘I wish to go back to the mainland,’ she mumbles into her fingers.

‘But why? Any doubts as to your faith must have been allayed, at least for now,’ I say.

‘Je suis mariée – I am a married woman,’ she confesses, blushing and ashamed as if it were a sin. ‘My husband is un tyran, he is jealous. He beats me, so I run away to places far from London. If people talk, he may find me.’

I hold out a hand, and after a moment, she takes it, and rises to her feet. ‘You haven’t told Viola any of this?’ I ask, sternly.

She blushes again, and turns her face away from me for a moment, as she pulls her hand from mine. ‘Of course I have not. Lady Viola is a child, still.’

I study her averted face. So beautiful, so secretive. Her little teeth nibble her lip, as if trying not to say something. ‘What else, Mistress?’ I ask, but she shakes her head, and turns that sad face to me. ‘Well, I can tell you news moves very slowly off the Island. You will have finished your work in a few months, you say?’

‘Just after Christmas. Before le mariage, the wedding.’ This time I cannot mistake the tremble in her voice.

‘Mistress, something else troubles you sorely.’

Her eyes are full of tears. ‘I have sinned.’ She speaks in a low voice. ‘I have sinned in my marriage.’

‘What sin?’ I can see her tremble.

‘I left him. I feared for my life.’ She turns to me and wipes away tears. ‘He cannot find me. He would kill me.’

I am perplexed. The law says that a man may beat his wife if he finds fault, but no one would condone murder. ‘If that is so, we will protect you.’ I am reluctant to assist a woman to break her marriage vows but there is such sincerity in her voice, such grief in her face that I am moved. ‘No man shall harm you here.’

I stand and open the door for her. As she walks past it occurs to me that she moves with less grace than usual, bowed down with her sorrows.

Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir