Shroud of Shadow by Gael Baudino

But when the wooden gates did not swing open at the approach of the bishop and his party, when Dame Agnes herself did not step out of her abbey, crosier in hand, all ready to escort him to the chapel; when, instead, the elderly porter assigned to the gate stared at him from the loophole with an expression of consternation and bewilderment on his gnarled face, and he heard a woman's voice shouting:
    “ O my God! It's Bishop Albrecht! Someone run and call Dame Agnes! ”
    . . . Albrecht realized that something was wrong.
    This was most strange: along with the other papers he had brought, Albrecht had a receipt from Dame Agnes herself, written in her own hand, in the very best Latin, and sealed with the abbey signet, acknowledging his notice to her of today's visitation. He had assumed that all would be ready for his arrival. Such had always been the case.
    Until now.
    Still bewildered, though apparently concluding that it would not do to leave the Bishop of Furze waiting in front of a closed gate, the porter opened the heavy wooden doors, giving Albrecht and his men entrance into a clean, simple courtyard with neat herb gardens. Nothing amiss here, certainly, and from what Albrecht could see as he waiting, still astride his horse, the entire abbey exhibited the same care and attention and good housekeeping as the gardens.
    Odd. Very odd.
    Dame Agnes—plainly out of breath—arrived in a few minutes. A novice—arriving from an opposite door—brought the crosier and thrust it into her hands. The nuns—exchanging many a look of something close to terror—assembled hurriedly. The abbey church was hastily prepared for the customary high mass, and the chaplain knelt at the door to kiss the episcopal ring.
    Albrecht did his best to act as though nothing were amiss, and he managed to celebrate mass with dignity and attention. But his thoughts were running slightly ahead of him, and he unrobed afterward with the fervent hope that the upcoming meeting in the big hall of the castle that served as a chapter house would explain matters.
    But, no: worse and worse. Dame Agnes had apparently prepared no formal receipt of the summons to visitation, and evidently had to send her prioress and subprioress to rummage through chests and files for the documents relating to her election and installation, the status domus , and the charter granted to the abbey by Baron Martin delMari when he turned the ruined castle over to the Benedictines.
    The parchments arrived. Albrecht took them from the prioress and subprioress and nodded his thanks, disliking intensely the fact that Agnes was crimson with embarrassment and her nuns, from the obedientiaries down to the novices, were obviously frightened. Siegfried, he thought, might appreciate such reactions, likewise the members of the Curia, but not Albrecht of Hamburg.
    Troubled, therefore, Albrecht laid the requested documents aside and said that he was sorry that he had inconvenienced the abbey in such a manner, and that he would defer the personal examination of the nuns until the next day.
    “Dame Agnes,” he finished. “Would you dismiss the good sisters?”
    Agnes nodded. She signed to the nuns that they could leave.
    Albrecht cleared his throat. “And please remain behind after they have left, Dame Agnes. We obviously have to talk.” With a glance at Mattias. “Alone.”
    The nuns filed out of the hall. Mattias, with a knowing air, herded the clerks and notaries after them. Agnes stood silently in her place, hands clenched within her sleeves, and the door of the hall closed with a sound not dissimilar to the shutting of a tomb.
    Albrecht passed a hand over his face. This was not at all the impression he wanted to create. But, “My dear Dame Agnes,” he said, “I think you need to explain some things.”
    Dame Agnes, though, was so mortified that she knelt before him and repeated the Confiteor in fright. Albrecht, just as mortified, raised her to her feet, led her to a chair, and made her