Fortune Like the Moon (12 page)

He stood up, placing his empty mug down on the side table. ‘I must be going,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to have missed Sir Brice. Thank you for the ale, Mathild – it has refreshed me for my long ride back to Hawkenlye Abbey. The Abbess will be anxious for the tidings I take her.’

It did the trick. Mathild’s expression cleared, and she jumped up from the bench she had been perched on to see him to the door.

The boy, Ossie, had secured Josse’s horse in the corner of the yard. Noticing the mounting block, Josse had a sudden vision of Dillian, throwing herself on to her husband’s horse and racing off to her death.

Riding away from the house, feeling Mathild’s eyes on his back, it was a considerable relief to leave Rotherbridge Manor behind.

Chapter Eight

Josse got back to Hawkenlye Abbey in the late afternoon. He hadn’t hurried; for one thing, it was too hot, and, for another, he had a great deal to think about.

There was no one around when he rode up to the gates, which were closed. But then, hearing the sounds of a horse’s hooves, a lay brother appeared from within the stable, and hurried across to undo the stout chain. He had apparently recognised Josse – which was useful if unexpected, since Josse didn’t recognise him – and he took Josse’s horse as Josse dismounted, volunteering the information that the sisters were at their devotions.

Josse’s heart sank. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty, and, for the last five miles at least, had been looking forward to sitting with the Abbess in her cool and peaceful little room, expounding at length on the subject of the family background of the late Gunnora of Winnowlands, while Abbess Helewise, after plying him with a mug of some cold and delicious wine and a chunk of bread, listened with rapt attention.

Well, it always had seemed somewhat unlikely an image. But a man could dream.

With time on his hands, Josse decided that this might be his chance to go down into the vale and have a look at the holy spring.

*   *   *

He followed the path which he and Abbess Helewise had taken the day before. The sun was still hot enough to suppress animal and insect activity in the long grass on either side of the track, although, when he paused to listen, he could hear a soft, distant humming, as if a thousand bees were busy somewhere out of sight in the shade.

This time, he stayed on the main path, and, after only a few minutes, was standing outside the small and fairly basic dwelling where the monks lived. The wattle-and-daub house, low and quite small, was in deep shade beneath its thatched roof. A nearby trio of chestnut trees spread their branches over it, increasing the gloom. As in the Abbey above, there was nobody about; presumably the monks were at prayer with the sisters.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Josse peered in through the open door. The floor of the room was beaten earth, and on it stood a roughly made table with benches along both sides. A hanging divided off the sleeping quarters, but, for the daytime, it had been tied back. The quarters themselves were further divided, presumably so that the professed monks slept slightly apart from the lay brothers. Both monks and lay brothers, Josse observed, slept on thin straw pallets, and the neatly folded covers looked as if they would provide scant warmth and absolutely no softness. Even now, in the middle of a hot summer, the room felt damp and smelt slightly of mould. Underlying the mould was another, even more unpleasant smell. Either the monks had not situated their necessarium far enough from their sleeping quarters, or the warmth of the day was heightening the stench of the dung mixed in with the mud of the walls.

It must, Josse thought, backing out of the room, be even worse in winter. Particularly for any monk who had the misfortune to suffer from that crippling curse of damp-engendered pain in the joints. And, down in this grassy, shaded vale with the water source so close, the air would never feel dry.

He headed on towards the shrine, and the simply made, lean-to shelter that adjoined it. Within the shelter he could make out benches, a small hearth, at present swept out and empty, and a wooden shelf bearing roughly fashioned earthenware cups and jugs. There were more of the straw pallets, but these ones were rolled up and tied neatly, pushed out of the way underneath one of the benches. Pilgrims to Hawkenlye, Josse observed, were cared for adequately, but with not the smallest touch of luxury. Well, those who came as supplicants, with sincere and devout hearts, doubtless expected no more. Would not the healing powers of the sacred water be gift enough?

Another lay brother came out from behind the lean-to shelter on hearing Josse approach, broom in hand, cuffs rolled back, feet bare and long brown robe hitched up. Again, he appeared to know who Josse was; at any rate, he neither asked him to state his business nor assumed him to be a pilgrim in need of the miracle water. Instead, with a vaguely approving nod, he simply said, ‘You’ll be wanting to look inside Our Lady’s shrine. Go ahead, sir, you’ll have the place to yourself,’ before turning back to the obviously dirty task of sweeping out whatever detritus had accumulated behind the shelter.

Josse went on down the well-worn path to the shrine. Although he didn’t know what he was looking for, he had the strong feeling that he must be alert, all senses aware.

He stood for a moment outside the little building, staring up at the tall wooden cross on the roof, noticing how the shrine had been made. The spring, it seemed, issued out of a small and steep-sided depression in the ground, and the shrine was scarcely more than a roof and two walls, the remaining walls being formed by the natural rocky outcrops that bordered the spring. The walls had been economically made, again, of wattle and daub, but, unlike the monks’ quarters, this time fortified with pillars of stone, and a wooden door with a solid-looking lintel stood partly open.

Josse pushed it further open, and stepped into the moist coolness of the shrine.

The only light came through the door, and, since he was standing in the doorway, he was blocking most of it out. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then took a couple of paces forward. The ground beneath his feet was of the same beaten earth as the monks’ house, and the rock walls appeared to have been untouched; the result was that there was a great sense of naturalness about the shrine, a pleasing effect that seemed to say, this is the Holy Virgin’s place, we do but tend it.

The water seeped up out of a crevice right at the back of the shrine, where the two rock walls met. Over the countless years that it had welled up out of the ground, it had formed for itself a pool; the soft sound of running water was soporific, relaxing, and for a brief moment Josse was tempted to lean against the wall and rest.

No. He had work to do.

He moved forward again, and noticed a short flight of steps going down to the edge of the pool. They had been hewn out of the rock, and were wet with condensation. They were, he found out as he started his descent, extremely slippery. He put out a steadying hand to the rock wall beside him, and had a fleeting sense of fellowship with the countless other visitors who, momentarily unsteady just like him, had grasped at the same hand-hold.

He stopped on the third step from the bottom, and looked up at the statue of the Virgin.

The only man-made element in the shrine, someone had done his best to make sure that it was a good one. Carved of some dark wood, indeed it was. The Virgin stood above the spring, her feet at eye level and her outstretched hands palm-upwards, as if to say, come, drink of my healing waters. Her slim, graceful silhouette was elegantly draped in a hooded robe, and she inclined her head forward, a distant but welcoming smile on her lips. Above her head was a halo, a perfect circle, generously proportioned as if to emphasise her holiness.

As Josse stared at her, he noticed that the platform on which she stood had been cleverly designed to echo the shape of the halo, and had a gently reflective surface; it looked, he observed, as if, staring down into the waters of the pool, the Holy Mother could see her own halo-encircled face smiling back at her.

It was a most original and effective concept. Descending the last couple of steps, Josse had a closer look. The platform had been let into the rock, out of which it jutted some four or five hands’ span; to support the weight of the wooden statue, it had been braced underneath, although this was not apparent from above. It was made of the same dark wood as the statue, but the upper surface had been faced with a skin of silver. The Virgin’s delicate bare feet made a pleasing contrast with the bright metal; Josse found himself staring at her toes, and, without any great surprise, discovered he was smiling.

It was a powerful place, this shrine, he decided, returning back up the stone steps. Easy to see how it had moved men to reverence, easy to believe that the Holy Mother had wished this new and important centre of healing to come into being. Moved by it himself, he stopped at the top of the steps, turned once more to face the Virgin, and, dropping to his knees, began to pray.

*   *   *

Helewise found herself suffering from an uncharacteristic inability to concentrate during the late afternoon devotions. It was not, in fact, that she couldn’t force her brain to focus, but that it wouldn’t focus on her prayers. With a determined effort of will, ruthlessly she put the many disturbing matters clamouring for her attention to the back of her mind and made herself listen to the singing of the choir nuns.

Leaving the church afterwards, she felt uplifted; as if it were a divine reward for her efforts, she sensed that suddenly her mind was sharper. As she crossed towards the archway into the cloisters, Brother Michael appeared from the stables and informed her that Josse d’Acquin had returned, and had gone down to the vale to visit the shrine.

Thanking him, she walked slowly to a shady spot on the western side of the cloister, and, sinking down to perch on the stone bench that ran along inside the wall, swiftly she began to order her thoughts.

Josse would have information to impart to her, that was certain. Word from Gunnora’s father, if nothing else. But there
would
be more; Josse d’Acquin was not, she had already decided, the sort of man to be satisfied with what people elected to tell him, not when there was even the remotest possibility of winkling out more for himself.

And I, she thought, what have I to tell him?

Free now to return to the matters that had been demanding her attention in church, she put them in order of importance.

And uppermost in her mind was the postulant, Elvera. Who, in the days since Gunnora’s death, had changed. At first almost imperceptible, the speed of the change had suddenly accelerated, until, in the space of the last twenty-four hours, the young girl seemed like a different person.

I could have understood it, Helewise thought, had the alteration happened as soon as we learned of Gunnora’s death. After all, they obviously liked one another, and what would have been more understandable than that Elvera would have been struck both by grief and by the horror of her friend’s slaughter? Although Elvera did not appear to be the sort of girl who needed someone to lean on – Helewise would have said rather the opposite – one couldn’t always tell, and possibly the strangeness of Elvera’s new life within the Abbey’s walls had made her act out of character, affecting her with an unusual feeling of being at sea, in need of the stabilising influence of a sister who was more settled, more secure in the religious life.

Except that, were that the case, then Elvera would surely have latched on to one of the sisters who exhibited such an air of security. A girl of her intelligence – and, it was clear, Elvera did possess considerable intelligence – would not have chosen Gunnora.

Pulling her thoughts back from that intriguing diversion, Helewise returned to the question of Elvera’s changed behaviour.

No. For a week – over a week – following the murder, she had been much the same. Horrified, as they all were, but, had Helewise had to make an assessment, she would have said that, then, it was more a matter of Elvera’s reaction being less than one would have expected, not more. The laughter had been suppressed, but Helewise had had the strong impression that this was for form’s sake; nobody had so much as smiled in the dreadful days after Gunnora’s death.

It wasn’t like that now. Now, Elvera was pale and distracted, and the smooth young brow wore a frown. It was almost, Helewise reflected, as if the reality of what had happened had only now got through to her.

Was that it? Was it simply a case of delayed shock? Helewise had seen such phenomena, following both physical injury and bereavement.

Slowly Helewise shook her head. That wasn’t the answer, she was quite sure, tempting though it was to accept it and pursue the matter no further. No. Something had happened to upset Elvera, something that had occurred since Gunnora’s death.

Twenty-four hours since Elvera had been stricken. Twenty-four hours since Josse d’Acquin had blown into their lives and, as suddenly, gone off again. And it was common knowledge within the Abbey what he had come for and where he had gone.

The coincidence was too strong to be dismissed; the conclusion was, quite obviously, that something about Josse or, more likely, about his mission to Gunnora’s family, had unsettled Elvera.

Why
should either be a cause for distress? And in Elvera, of all people! The youngest of the sisterhood, the most recently arrived, the only person who could have been called, even in the loosest of terms, a friend of Gunnora. Helewise shrugged off an unaccountable sense of foreboding; I am being needlessly dramatic, she told herself, allowing my imagination to run away with the thought of a mystery, an intrigue, when, in all probability, what Elvera is suffering from is no more than reaction to what was, after all, a truly horrific event. And, naturally, a certain apprehension, since a girl as bright as she is must have worked out that, sooner or later, she would be summoned to speak to the man who has come to investigate Gunnora’s death.

Yes, Josse said he wanted to talk to the girl, Helewise remembered. Said, when I remarked that she probably wouldn’t last much longer in the Abbey, ‘Don’t let her go till I’ve spoken to her.’ There wasn’t the occasion before he left for Winnowlands, but there’s plenty of time now.