A Promise to Keep (Out of Time Book 2)

by Loretta Livingstone

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A short while before Vespers, Sister Berthe sat on a bench outside her gatehouse, reading from a book on the life of Alban, her favourite saint.

  So engrossed was she, the faint scratching on the gate went unnoticed. A more peremptory banging made her jump, nearly losing her grip on the precious volume.

  Grumbling under her breath, she laid it to one side, rose stiffly to her feet and unbarred the gate to see a lone pilgrim standing before her, the badges on his hat proclaiming his wanderings had led him to such exalted shrines as Walsingham, Rome and Santiago de Compostela.

  He enquired humbly of the porteress whether there might be room enough in the guest-hall for a night or two and, before she could answer, slid inside the gates like a snake slithering over a stone. Sister Berthe shut them behind him and shivered as though the day had suddenly grown cold, for about this pilgrim was an aura of evil despite his meek tones.

  Those eyes! Berthe, not normally an imaginative woman, shuddered and crossed herself, muttering a prayer whilst inwardly chiding herself for such foolishness.

  Father Dominic, wandering through the guest-hall, greeted a familiar face here and there. Some tradesmen, some poor travellers, a merchant. Sir Giles and his wife were not there, he noticed regretfully, but his men were and her maids.

  Spying a new pilgrim, his round face creased into a smile of delight when he noticed the badges on his hat before freezing into a rictus grimace as he saw the face beneath. He turned swiftly and secreted his portly frame behind a pillar. Keeping to the shadows, he peered out, head dipped to obscure his face. Taking another swift glance at the man, whose gaze was darting hither and thither, he withdrew again, breathing shallowly. That was no pilgrim. Father Dominic had seen him before although never spoken to him. Hamo Bardolf, these days one of John’s creatures, more wolf than man; lean, hard and finding pleasure in the kill.

  Father Dominic had not exaggerated when he told Shannon he was much travelled. A few years before coming to Sparnstow, he had served a great lord, going to many places. He had seen Hamo but thrice, and each time, where Bardolf had been, trouble followed.

  Deeply alarmed, the priest attended Vespers with only half a mind, escaping immediately afterwards and retreating to his small lodging where he sat at his table, eyes unfocussed, long-forgotten images flitting across his mind like small torments. Recalled to his surroundings by the sudden chatter of a magpie outside his window, he heaved himself to his feet and set off towards the cloisters determined to find the Abbess. If Hamo was here, the Abbess needed to be told.

  His brow wrinkled as he puzzled over the problem. What was Bardolf after? He hadn’t seen the Abbess, though he knew she’d returned, and they’d been gone a bare two days. Bardolf’s quarry could not be Hildegarde, therefore it must be de Soutenay.

  Dominic liked the knight; there was a wholesomeness about him. Should he go to him first? No, the Abbess was his immediate priority. He quickened his pace, keeping a wary eye out for Hamo as he walked.

  The Abbess proved elusive, but as Father Dominic trotted along as fast as his stubby legs would allow, he finally spied her exiting a chamber in what could only be described as a furtive manner, followed by de Soutenay. The priest put on a spurt, wheezing slightly as he came to a halt before them, barring their way.

  Giles regarded him coldly. Much as he liked the little priest, he could talk the ears off a mule, and now was not the time. He nodded tersely and moved to pass him. To his astonishment, Father Dominic grasped his arm. Affronted, he glared; the priest gazed at him earnestly before turning to the Abbess, gasping, "Abbess, my lord, a word please. It is urgent."

  Hildegarde eyed him with an expression which spoke volumes; however, he was not to be deterred. “It is most urgent,” he repeated, tugging at Giles sleeve. Giles was about to protest when Father Dominic’s desperate expression gave him pause, and the priest appeared to sag with relief as Hildegarde indicated a door just a little further down. He stepped back to allow them entry, then almost tumbled in after them, leaning against the door for a moment before moving as far from it as possible.

  The room, a storeroom of sorts, was barely more than a cell. He looked around, glancing up at the high, narrow window above his head, then explained as briefly as possible in low tones that Giles had to strain to hear.

  Hildegarde listened without speaking, her face drawn, then said, “Thank you, Father.”

  That was all, yet the priest nodded, satisfied, and had turned to leave when she spoke again. “And, Father, if you might manage to keep his attention for a candle-notch or two?”

  He nodded again, a smile flitting briefly across his face. “I shall recall my many wondrous journeys and then insist on him describing his own. Do not fear, Abbess. I will keep him occupied.”

  “And he will,” she said, as he quit the room, a twinkle briefly lighting her eye. “He can be most tedious on the subject of his travels, as I know to my cost.” The gravity returned to her face. “I think we must change our plans somewhat.” She hesitated. “Originally, I was not going to tell you this, for I didn’t wish to give you reason to hate John more than you already do. Now, however, I think it necessary.

  “Shannon had spilled some wine on her gown. I did not notice, and Alys took her to her parents’ chamber. John saw them, although I don’t believe he thought aught of it beyond the usual.” Giles face tightened, and she hurried to reassure him. “Do not fear, Sir Giles, no harm was done, although the encounter was not pleasant. Unfortunately, Alys saw fit to lend her a green gown, and in it, Shannon resembled Marion considerably. I saw it immediately they returned and swept her off to change into something less memorable.

  “John noticed; he seemed as though he was cudgelling his brain. I do not think he realised who she reminded him of; it was, after all, some years ago. Now, I think her likeness, coupled with my presence, may have roused his curiosity.”

  She looked stricken. “Sir Giles, it’s my fault. I should have had a greater care for her. I fear my attention had been distracted; I didn’t see the danger until it was too late. Even then, I thought we had her safe away.” She bit her lip. “I should have confided in you the reason why Shannon should not attend court.”

  Giles touched her hand. “Abbess, you had your reasons. And indeed, had it not been for Adam, I should still be none the wiser, is that not so?”

  “Even so, I should have foreseen John’s predilection for fresh female faces. I should have realised he would notice her.”

  She appeared so guilty, so downcast, Giles tried to reassure her. “Why should you? I did not spot the resemblance.”

  “You, Giles, do not search for plots beneath every stone.” And as he quirked an eyebrow at her, she said, “Very well, but not in the way John does.”

  “I still say it could not have been foreseen. Now though, Abbess, our immediate priority is to keep Bardolf from speaking to your nuns or lay brethren. Like as not, he’ll winkle information out of them as easily as shelling peas.”

  Hildegarde pressed her fingers to her temples, closed her eyes and was silent for a moment. “I shall speak to my prioress immediately and call for three days of silence. I do not often invoke the rule, however, I shall say that after so much recent levity, we need to compose our hearts again before our Lord.

  “Perhaps you would be good enough to loiter here, Sir Giles, in the corridors near Shannon’s chamber. I shan’t be long. This is a secluded part of the abbey, so it’s doubtful anyone will come upon you. If they do, distract them, ask foolish questions, send them on pointless errands if you must, but make sure Shannon keeps that door closed.”

  “Do we tell Shannon?” Giles wondered aloud.

  “I think not; no need to fret her. She knows the need for subterfuge. We must decide how best to move her without attracting notice. I need to think on this.”

  She left him standing in the corridor, trying to look as though he was not on guard, and slipped quietly into Shannon’s chamber. She w
as asleep. Hildegarde regarded her for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest, then touched her hand lightly.

  Shannon opened her eyes, blinking owlishly at first as though recalling her surroundings. The dark shadows beneath her eyes had cleared a little, and if the frown of pain still lingered between her brows, at least the sleep had given her respite.

  She glanced up smiling, until she saw the nun’s expression.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My dear, if we needed to get you home sooner than anticipated, would you be able to use your, um, mobile to call a friend to collect you once you get through the beech tree? Or,” she struggled to remember the word she wanted, “a taxi?”

  Shannon’s face fell. “I thought we were going to wait until my ankle was better. I thought I’d have a few more days to spend with Giles and Isabella.”

  Hildegarde kept her gaze steady. “Circumstances have changed. There would likely not have been the opportunity to see them again in any case. Now, however, I really think it would be for the best…” She tailed off, not wanting to alarm Shannon. Surely, the girl had had enough upsets in the last few days.

  Shannon chewed her lip and then grimaced; Hildegarde kept her face impassive. “Well?”

  “Anyway, I might have to wait until my ankle is better. The battery’s probably dead by now. Do you have it?”

  Hildegarde fumbled beneath her habit and brought out the mobile. Shannon looked startled. “I thought they didn’t have pockets in the twelfth century.”

  “They don’t. I, however, do.” She held out the phone, and Shannon took it, switching it on. It flickered for a moment, then died.

  “Nope, the battery’s dead. I can’t charge it from here, can I? And I don’t think I can walk.” She swung her legs off the bed and put her weight gingerly on her bad ankle, yelping and collapsing back onto the bed. “No. I can’t. We’ll have to wait until it’s better.”

  Hildegarde tried to stay composed, but, beneath her calm exterior, she was reeling. She left Shannon, returning to her own rooms, where she summoned Ursel to join her, explaining the latest problem.

  Ursel’s brow creased, and she sat quietly. Hildegarde started to speak, but Ursel held up her hand. “Wait. I’m thinking.”

  Hildegarde subsided, then sat in an agony of impatience. Her own resources had been drained by now, her ingenuity all but exhausted. There was naught for her to do until Ursel spoke again, so she closed her eyes and prayed for inspiration.

  The silence in the room felt heavy. Hildegarde opened her eyes again and saw Ursel watching her, eyes bright.

  “Mother, how would it be if Sir Giles and Lady Isabella took their leave at first light tomorrow, before this Hamo is about? Rohese could be among their party.”

  Hildegarde sighed. If only it could be that easy. “Dear Ursel, if Hamo is indeed a spy, will he not be watching for just such an eventuality? And if he sees Rohese leave with them, do you not think he will take note? I do not wish to bring John down upon Sir Giles.”

  The hazel eyes crinkled until they were mere slits. “I think, dear Mother Abbess, Hamo may well find he sleeps long into the morrow and awakens with a bad sickness. Nothing dangerous, just something that will confine him to the infirmary. I’m sure Brother Anselm will kindly isolate him to make sure the ‘sickness’ is not passed on.”

  Hildegarde was speechless. Ursel nodded and continued. “And I think, with so many men and maids about, no one would notice if Lady Isabella happened to have acquired an extra maid. As long as Rohese can be assisted to a horse, she can quite well ride pillion. It will pain her ankle sorely; however, needs must.”

  “It’s a good idea, Sister Ursel, but I’m afraid it won’t work. Rohese will not be able to summon help once she gets to her own time. The device she brought with her – her mobile, as she calls it – will not have sufficient power to contact anyone. I had thought of going back with her and staying until she could obtain aid, but, now Bardolf is here, how shall I return without being seen? And if Sir Giles goes, how will he contrive it so his party do not notice his absence? For we don’t know how long it will take her to obtain aid.”

  Ursel looked taken aback for a moment, then said, “And how if Brother Bernard…or wait, we do not wish to have any unusual absences, I suppose. Then, how if we confide in Father Dominic?”

  “Father Dominic?” Hildegarde was horrified.

  “Ah, Mother, you’re thinking he will be shocked.” She smiled. “I imagine you’ll discover our Father Dominic is a lot more able to cope with the extraordinary than you’d expect. And of a surety, he does love adventure, does he not?

  “He may seem an unlikely repository for secrets, for certѐs, but you may be sure he knows how to keep a still tongue in his head, and he’s already proved you can trust him, hasn’t he?”

  Hildegarde nodded, though she was still doubtful. “Yes, Sister, but this…this is so fantastical, and–”

  Ursel cut in. “Fantastical, yes; however, you are not considering the man. He may be a priest, my lady, yet have you not seen beneath the cloth? You’ve heard his tales of pilgrimage often enough; have you not noticed the gleam in his eyes? And he has not been travelling this many a year. If ever a man was hungry to add to his experiences, I should say Father Dominic has that hunger.”

  Hildegarde was amazed. She’d thought she knew the priest, had thought herself to be good at seeing below the surface. She considered for a moment, recalling the conversations she’d had with him. Ursel was absolutely correct; how had she missed it? “Sister, you never cease to counsel me well.”

  Ursel’s wrinkled apple of a face creased even more at the praise from her Abbess. “And, since he regularly goes about outside the abbey, his absence would attract little or no notice. So, Mother, when shall we speak to him?”

  Hildegarde raised her head as a bell began to toll. “Oh, I think immediately after Nones, dear Sister, don’t you?”

  Father Dominic proved a little more difficult to speak to than they had anticipated, since he was determined to remain with Hamo. Eventually, Sister Ursel took more direct action, going to him, telling him his presence was needed elsewhere.

  To judge by the relief on Hamo’s face, her interruption was much appreciated. Ursel repressed a chuckle, knowing the reprieve would be only temporary, for Brother Anselm had been taken partly into their confidence and informed of the necessity of keeping the ‘pilgrim’ busy in conversation. He was bearing down on the unfortunate Hamo even as Ursel drew Father Dominic away, leading him not to the infirmary as he had expected but to the Abbess’s quarters.

  Father Dominic could scarce believe his ears when the Abbess poured out her tale to him. With his love of intrigue, he recognised this as the answer to his recent prayers.

  For the last few years, he had been unable to find reason to travel far beyond the shire, and now, this! The greatest of all adventures, save only death. For what other man on earth would ever see so far into the future?

  This was the stuff of legends, of romantic tales; even the stories he had devoured, the books he had collected in his small but cherished library, had not spoken of the future.

  Dominic felt lit from within and mentally rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation before taking note of the worried faces observing him. He made haste to reassure them. “Dear Mother Abbess, you were right to ask me. I should be delighted to aid you.”

  This was too easy. A niggle of worry prodded Hildegarde. Had he really understood? “Father, you do realise that I speak of the future, not Bolohovenia, do you not?”

  He nodded at her, beaming cherubically.

  “And you believe me?” This was surely too easy.

  “My lady Abbess, you are the most truthful, most sensible woman I have ever known. Indeed, I have the greatest respect for you. If you say this thing is so, then it is so.”

  Hildegarde was still dubious. Did men from this century really dive straight into fantasies like…like characters from Enid Blyton? Doctor Who, e
ven? How could this little man believe her so easily? For certѐs, he was a rarity. Furthermore, she was beginning to have second thoughts, to wish she had never involved him. It was one thing to face the possibility of being stuck in the future herself – that would be daunting enough – but to involve someone else! How could she even have considered it? It was wrong of her. She must dissuade him. She must. She would manage the thing without risking anyone else.

  She looked hard at him. “And you do realise the dangers?” She was finding it more difficult to believe him than he had found it to believe her.

  He nodded enthusiastically. “My one regret, dearest lady, is that I will not be able to speak of it to another. But, Abbess, this is the most wondrous adventure. To be a traveller in itself is a marvellous thing. This – to travel to another time, another century…” He broke off and sat there, his face cast Heavenward, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with excitement.

  Hildegarde tried again. “And what, dear Father, if you are unable to go through? And if you do, what then if you cannot return? For we do not know for sure whether it’s possible.”

  He seemed a little taken aback, but then smiled again, and Hildegarde could almost see the cogs inside his mind beginning to turn.

  “My lady, we will not know at all if we do not try. And if we can help this young woman, you know we must. Is that not our calling? To serve our Lord by serving our fellow man? Did our Lord not say it is a blessed thing to lay down one’s life for another?”

  Hildegarde could only nod helplessly. His reasoning was unarguable.

  Father Dominic continued, “And if I’m not able to reach this future time, then there is no more to be done. Yet if I can go there, it seems probable that I will also be able to return.”

  Hildegarde found she was beginning to wring her hands and placed them flat on the table before her. “But how shall we know? You must not return here immediately. That would be most suspect. So how shall we know whether you are here and waiting to return to us or lost forever in a future about which you know nothing? Are you truly sure you wish to do this?”