by E. M. Powell
It was clearly not a question that Reginald was expecting. He took a moment before replying. ‘Yes, I did. I laboured over it for more than a year. Why?’
‘Only that I look forward to reading it, brother.’
‘Then I hope you enjoy it. There are many valuable lessons to be learned from it. It was the finest work I ever produced.’ He held up his gnarled hands as much as he was able. ‘Alas, work I can do no more.’ He dropped his hands and his voice. ‘My gift has been taken from me.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
If Stanton thought the snow had been coming down hard in the courtyard, it was as nothing now that he was outside the shelter of the abbey’s roofs and walls and in the full force of the storm.
As he rode away, the hooves of the horse beneath him made little sound on the thickening carpet of white. He took a quick look back over his shoulder. At this time of day in the middle of January, he would expect to see the lamps of the monastery shining out into the dusk.
Now, with the snow that was falling, he couldn’t see the lamps. He could barely even see the bulky buildings of Fairmore.
He faced forward again, his feet and hands already numbing, despite his thick boots and gloves.
The wind blew in a low, ceaseless roar as it whipped through the trees and buffeted icy clouds of snowflakes into his face. And such flakes. They were nothing like the powdery fall of the last couple of days. Each one was like a large, square feather that settled on and stuck to him. Not only on him: on to his animal, the ground, the trees.
The world was whitening before his very eyes, the darkness of trees and bushes fading away like mud did from linen when it was put in water. Even his face wasn’t spared, the cold sting of the flakes blinding him and settling on his cheeks. He buried his face in his cloak against the chill and pulled his hat down further over his eyes to try to shield his vision.
It worsened now that they were climbing higher out of the valley.
He could only tell because of the altered angle of his horse’s legs under him. He was riding almost blind now. He leaned forward in his saddle, wary of losing his balance. Any injury from falling from his animal in these conditions could mean death. For both of them. His horse seemed to sense that too, and had slowed right down, head bowed like Stanton’s against the battering of the weather.
At this rate, getting out of the valley would take four times as long as it usually did.
And the weather was worsening still.
And it was the very beginning of the night.
And he was getting colder. Much colder.
Maybe Barling had been right to question this journey.
Stanton remembered the priest Theobald saying how Fairmore could get completely cut off in the snow. Stanton had understood what the priest had meant. What he hadn’t fully appreciated was how fast and completely it would happen. Probably just like the old abbot, Ernald, hadn’t. Ernald, the man who’d insisted on building his abbey in such a remote place, who had taken no notice of the warnings of the people who’d lived in the place for generations. And it was thanks to Ernald’s pig-headedness that Stanton was having to try to battle his way out, a battle he was losing fast.
He managed to keep on going, the climb steeper now.
His animal stumbled beneath him. Stanton clung on with an oath and saved himself.
He raised his head as much as he could. Damn it all, he couldn’t even tell if he was on the roadway any more.
His horse lurched again, almost fell into a deep snowdrift. That did it. This was impossible.
Curse this snow and curse it a hundred times. He knew how important it was to get help. He wouldn’t have insisted on riding out in this otherwise. But he couldn’t make it. To his shame. He’d have to turn back.
He looked around and swore again. Back to what? The storm was so fierce now, he could see nothing at all of where he’d come from. The only thing that was of any help was the downward slope of the ground.
He tried to bring his animal round, but the horse stopped dead, unsure. He didn’t blame it. He was asking it to make a move where it could neither see nor balance properly.
‘Come round, come round.’ He tried a call and a kick, pulled hard on the reins.
Nothing.
He tried again. But got a snort and a frightened eye roll. If he wasn’t careful, the horse would throw him.
He was going to have to dismount.
Stanton slid from the saddle, careful to keep a tight hold of the reins. Though he sank into the snow above his knees, his boots still didn’t meet solid ground but more snow underneath. Or at least he thought so. He hadn’t much feeling in his feet.
After a lot of gentle persuasion, he got his horse to turn and start walking back down.
Walking initially made him a little warmer. Then the wind won the battle again and the chill seeped through every inch of him.
Around him the snow swirled thicker than ever. He had to keep moving, keep his mind on following the slope that would take him to the valley floor. From there, he’d be able to get to the abbey. He hoped.
And then, through the noise of the storm, he heard a scream.
A female scream. For help.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Barling knocked to announce his arrival at another partitioned room. But this was not one in the infirmary. This was the one belonging to the late Brother Cuthbert in the monks’ dormitory, which was now occupied by Brother Maurice.
As he’d crossed from one building to the other, Barling had been struck by the full force of the snowstorm that now raged. Anxiety gnawed at him. He should never have allowed Stanton to set off today.
Maurice paused from his task of folding some clothes. ‘Yes, who is it?’ He looked around and squinted at Barling with his less bad eye. The other, sightless and white as milk, seemed to stare right at him.
‘It is me, the King’s man. Aelred Barling. May I have a word with you?’
‘So long as you don’t mind me carrying on with my work. Well, Cuthbert’s work at the moment.’
‘Not at all, brother.’ Barling walked in. He knew he would have to exercise caution with Maurice. The man seemed easily roused to fits of emotion, be it anger or sadness. Were Maurice to be overcome with either, his answers would be of little value. ‘You are still doing his duties as well as your own?’
‘I am. It isn’t a bother. I can’t do much reading now. God may have taken most of my sight, but He has left me my health and my strength. And what kind of man would I be to complain about extra work when Cuthbert was taken from us in such circumstances?’
‘Indeed,’ said Barling. ‘It was you that found him, was it not?’
‘It was.’
Barling listened as Maurice carried on his folding and gave his account: a wakeful night, as so often happened to him. Rousing the novices and monks. The locked stairs. The search. The stench. The discovery. Nothing the monk said was any different from what Barling had previously heard.
‘An unimaginable discovery,’ said Barling.
‘I can imagine it only too well,’ came the tart reply.
‘A harsh burden.’ Barling nodded, annoyed at himself for his poor choice of words. ‘May I ask if you were close to Cuthbert?’
‘If you mean close as a friend? No. He was a very quiet man. But he was a monk of virtue and holiness.’
‘Then you did not know him well?’
‘I knew him as a man very well, like I do so many here. As the novice master, I know all their sins and flaws. They come under my care and instruction, you see, when they first enter the abbey as young men. They are raw and unformed. They behave in all sorts of ways that need constant correction.’ Maurice sucked his few teeth in displeasure and set to folding a blanket.
‘Such as?’ asked Barling, keen for him to continue with what could be some very useful revelations.
‘Take Philip,’ replied Maurice. ‘He is abbot now, but he had brought with him all sorts of unacceptable behaviour from his time
studying in Paris. William, a monk who can watch over a dying man through the night, used to fall asleep the minute he opened a prayer book. Elias had no manners and a shocking tendency to swear. I could go on, but you can see what I mean. They have to be moulded, shaped. Endure the fire of God’s kiln. It is not an easy process. Our life here is harsh and it comes as a shock to them when they first arrive. They expect a life of prayer and devotion. What they do not expect is a life of hard work, little food and even less sleep.’ He sucked his teeth once more.
‘How do they react to such demands?’
‘Some of them run away. I have tracked many down over the years. Brought them back too. And they all have thanked me for it. But they should not be thanking me, they should be thanking God, for it is God, not me, who protects them from Satan’s relentless assaults.’
‘They are assaulted by the devil?’
‘Of course.’ Maurice gave a definite nod.
Barling chose his next question with care. ‘In what way does this happen?’
‘The devil can assail their souls, especially at night. There have been instances in the monks’ dormitory where novices have called out that they can see the devil. They have left their beds shouting in fear, trying to fight off Satan. They have seen the devil stand over them, or one of his agents in the form of a black dog, skulking amongst the shadows.’
Barling thought that perhaps the lack of sleep might have been doing some of this work and not necessarily the devil. After having himself kept some of the same hours as the monks today, he could understand it.
Maurice went on, clearly warming to his topic and beginning to work himself up, his folding task abandoned. ‘As well as inspiring terror with visitations and evil visions, the devil can also possess men of God and make them violent. A monk once flew at Abbot Ernald, striking him in the face and neck and injuring him quite badly. The monk had to be punished, of course. He was flogged and spent many months in the abbey’s cell. He did penance during that time and, through his punishment and his repentance, the devil left him.’
‘Oh.’ This sounded promising. ‘Which monk was this?’
‘One who died many years ago,’ he replied, to Barling’s disappointment.
‘I see. Are any other monks currently being troubled by the devil?’
‘Every day,’ said Maurice. ‘For this is the battle that is our life. The only battle. Where there is temptation, there is Satan. We must overcome him.’ He clenched his fists for emphasis. ‘At all times.’
‘Was Cuthbert ever possessed by the devil?’ This was easier to ask than whether Cuthbert had been a murderer.
‘Cuthbert?’ Maurice shook his head, his hands relaxing again. ‘No.’
‘He had no secrets or flaws that you discovered when overseeing him as his novice master?’
‘I do not think this is a suitable question, sir.’ Despite his ruined eyes, Maurice could still deliver a fierce glare. ‘Cuthbert was murdered. I do not see how prying into his past sins could help.’
‘I am sorry, brother. I am just trying to get an overall picture of him as a man.’
‘He was a far better novice than many. I had no serious cause for concern.’
‘That is good to hear.’
‘I think it might have been because he was a few years older than the usual age when he joined. He had a much greater maturity.’ He pointed a finger at Barling. ‘Maturity is also a great virtue, you know. Though not many think it.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘If there were more respect for a mature mind, then Reginald would have taken over as abbot when Ernald died. It would have been far more fitting. Silvanus thought so too. He was a great admirer of Reginald’s wisdom. But no. Instead we elect young Philip.’
Barling could not help a smile inside. Abbot Nicholas, the abbot who’d carried out the visitation to Fairmore, had spoken to Barling and de Glanville of petty jealousy and resentments behind Philip’s election, and here it was out in the open. Philip was the same age as Barling, which was young, perhaps, compared to Maurice and Reginald, but by few other measures. ‘Perhaps we can now talk about Silvanus. Can you tell me where you were the morning he was killed?’
‘I would have been in the cloister or with my novices in the monks’ day room. Or possibly up here checking the dormitory. I have many duties.’
‘Forgive me for bringing this up, but when I saw you, you were most distressed about Silvanus.’
‘Of course I was. I’d trained him as a novice.’
‘And the lady Juliana?’
His look darkened. ‘Women have no place here.’
‘The lady Juliana was most generous.’
‘Still no place. Like that girl who was with Lambert.’ His look darkened more. ‘Again.’
‘Agatha is her name, I believe,’ said Barling.
‘Her name matters not. A sinful, lustful little temptress is what she is. Ensnaring Lambert with her wiles. I have told her that she is to be gone. Gone.’ His hands balled into fists again. ‘I do not wish to see her here again. Ever.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Heart racing, Stanton looked to where he thought the source of the scream might be. He could see nothing except driving snow and the outlines of the closest buried bushes and rocks. The rest was a white, whirling wall.
‘Where are you? Hello!’
Stanton tried to shout above the noise of the storm. It was no good. The sound of his voice was lost, carried off by the gale.
He looped his horse’s reins around his forearm, cupped his gloved hands and tried again. ‘Hello!’
Nothing.
‘Can you hear me?’
Still nothing except pelting snow and the howl of the wind, which blasted in a sudden gust that could almost be a shriek.
His heart began to calm again. Maybe he hadn’t heard a scream at all. He’d heard the wind. It died down for a few moments, as if exhausted from the pitch to which it had built.
He set off again, his reins firm in one hand, watching where he put every struggling step.
And there it came again. Another shrill cry. A cry of terror. And another. ‘Help me!’
His pulse hammered again. This wasn’t the wind. ‘Hello?’ As he started to move towards the sound of the voice, he caught another sound in the wind’s brief lull. A deep rumble. The rumble of fast-flowing water. He was nearer to the abbey than he thought.
‘Please! Somebody!’
And so was whoever was screaming.
‘Where are you?’’ He tried to break into a run, floundering in the deep drifting snow.
‘Help me!’
The river. He let go of his horse – the animal was only slowing him down. ‘Hold on, I’m coming!’
The wind built again, drowning out his call and masking the sound of the river.
But he knew where he was now, recognised the thrashing white-covered shadows of the tall stand of trees.
He forced his way through the low branches, sending clumps of snow falling on to his head and shoulders. He was there, he was in the steep, rocky clearing with the snow still hammering down, where the river roared and boiled through the narrow rocky channel.
And on one of the snow-covered rocks, right next to the torrent, lay Agatha, face down, arms and legs spread-eagled under a cloak that was being covered in falling snow.
His guts turned over. ‘Agatha!’
She raised her head to meet his gaze. Just. ‘Hugo!’ Her cry was shrill with terror.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No. But I can’t get up. I couldn’t see where I was going and I fell. It’s all slippery.’ Her voice choked on her terror. ‘If I move, I’ll fall in.’
‘I’ll come and get you.’
‘Now. Now! Do you hear me?’
He moved towards her, mindful that this snow lay on wet, mossy rocks. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be in the water. And that would be the end of him. The snow under his right boot shifted and moved, breaking off and collapsing into the river
. Stanton went down on one knee with an oath, steadying himself.
‘I can’t get any closer, Agatha.’
‘You must. Oh, you must.’
He moved a couple of steps back to more solid footing and grabbed for a snow-covered branch. He broke it off. Then edged his way back towards Agatha as far as he dared.
‘You need to grab this,’ he said. ‘And hold on tight.’
‘If I have to grab it, I’ll fall!’
‘Don’t think about falling. Just grab it, grab it when I say. Tight. Tight as you ever held anything. And don’t let go. Do you hear me?’ He pushed the branch to her, holding it firm in both his gloved hands.
‘I’ll fall, damn you!’
He pushed. Pushed. ‘Now!’
She grabbed at it. Slipped towards the water with a scream.
Then stopped. She had hold of the branch.
Stanton’s gloved hands were slipping from it. ‘Curse it all.’ He braced his knees, praying his footing was sound. Gave one mighty haul.
Then she was up, out, a couple of feet from the edge in a pile of soft snow, screaming and thrashing her way from the deadly water’s edge on her hands and knees.
Stanton sat down hard. Hell’s teeth. She was safe. He might have lost one woman to an untimely death. But not this one.
He righted himself in the snow and moved to help her get as far away from the water’s edge as possible. ‘Here, take my hand.’ He bent to her, pulled her to her feet.
She looked up at him, shaking hard from cold and shock. ‘You came looking for me, then?’ Her question was a thin echo of her usual bravado. ‘I can say thank you, you know. I know how.’ She shuddered from head to foot, her wretched clothes plastered to her thin frame. ‘I do it all the time.’ Tears pooled in her grey eyes and she scrubbed them away.
He’d no doubt that even half-frozen and distressed as she was, she’d let him use her. It was all she knew. He’d no appetite for it – not out here, not now. ‘Hush,’ was all he said. He drew her to him, pulled his own cloak around her to try to warm her. ‘There’s no need.’