The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  Meggie returned the smile. ‘I thought, since they’re out there for our sake, it would be nice to show we appreciate it.’

  She slipped outside. Her face felt red-hot; guilt was flowing through her again. It was very hard, she was discovering, not to be truthful with someone who trusted you implicitly. It was so easy to fool them that it hurt.

  She hurried across to the crude but sturdy shelter that the lay brothers had put up and pushed aside the heavy piece of leather which served for a door. The two young men lay either side of the fire, which was now burning brightly. They were wrapped snugly in sheepskins, their eyes shining with excitement.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Meggie said. ‘I just wanted to check that you were all right.’

  The elder of the two laughed. ‘Reckon that’s our job, miss,’ he said. He glanced at his companion. ‘We were about to come to make sure you and the others were tucked up snug for the night.’

  ‘We are,’ Meggie assured him. ‘We’ll be settling down to sleep soon, so you can too.’

  The younger monk gave a huge yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he said with a grin. ‘S’been a busy day.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ Meggie said.

  She stayed outside for a while longer. Then she went back to the cell and closed the door.

  She did not have long to wait. She lay on her back, warm under the covers and not bothered by the hardness of the plank bed. She strained to hear her companions’ breathing: slow, steady, she said silently to them, yes, that’s the way. Sleep. Sleep.

  When she was sure both women were asleep, she got out of bed, took her heavy cloak off her bed and, making barely a sound, quietly left the hut. She tiptoed past the lay brothers’ shelter – she could see the glow of the fire but there was no sound other than the soft, rhythmic snoring of one of them – and hurried off across the clearing and into the forest.

  There were a few clouds in the sky, occasionally covering the waxing moon, but Meggie knew her way so well that she could have done the journey with no light at all. The sky, however, had all but cleared by the time she reached the hut, and the moonlight enabled her to see that the rope knot with which door was secured had been retied.

  Someone had been inside.

  Not one of the family; she was sure of that. Only Ninian and Josse ever came to the hut. Ninian was far away, and Meggie knew that her father never came from choice. She was almost certain, moreover, that he would not go inside the hut without an invitation. He never spoke of it, but Meggie knew without being told that his memories of Joanna’s hut were bitter-sweet.

  So, a stranger had used the place. Meggie walked slowly all around the hut and its surrounding clearing, stopping to inspect the herb garden and going down to the stream, behind which the tall, ancient trees of the forest stood in silent protection. Eventually, she went back to the hut and, unfastening the rope, went inside.

  She got up on to the sleeping platform and wrapped herself in her cloak, unfolding the heavy wool blankets and draping them over the top. She was warm from walking and wanted to preserve her body’s heat. She thought about what she had just seen.

  There were signs that a horse had been tethered under the shelter of the skeletal willows down by the little stream. She had noticed some droppings, covered with a scrape of earth. She had fetched a spade and removed the dung to the herb bed, bare in that end of winter season. The unknown visitor, she realized, had covered his – or her – tracks pretty well, considering what an out-of-the-way spot it was, but Meggie’s thorough search had uncovered some hoof prints and a scatter of oat husks. The visitor had clearly taken good care of the horse; Meggie had found a wisp of horse hair from where the animal had been groomed. The hair was reddish-brown. Now she held it in her fingers, absently plaiting it into a neat braid.

  She raised herself on one elbow, looking around the hut. She had left the door open, and the blueish moonlight streamed in. The interior of the hut looked almost exactly as she had left it, and anyone but Meggie would not have noticed the tiny differences. Whoever had used the hut – and she knew without a doubt someone had – had been careful and respectful.

  It was just as she had thought. She gave a small private smile of satisfaction, pleased that again she had trusted her instincts and again they hadn’t let her down. She’d known even before she saw the retied knot that someone had been there. She had tested her reaction to this alien presence and, as extra protection, sent up a swift thought to Joanna’s guardian spirit. Her mother’s and her own response had been the same: there was no danger.

  She settled back on the platform. Her mother felt very close. Whoever had been inside the hut had not disturbed the sense of Joanna’s presence; this in itself told Meggie that the visitor meant no harm.

  She felt herself relax. Soon, oh, soon, she would sink down into the light trance state in which she so urgently needed to be. There, with any luck, she might begin to understand why she kept having the strong sense that her mother was calling out to her. I’m here, she said silently to Joanna. Tell me what it is you want me to do.

  Her breathing slowed and deepened as the trance took her.

  Within Hawkenlye Abbey, the three dead men lay like statues on the trestles in the undercroft beneath the nuns’ dormitories. Sister Liese had left incense burning, and the air within the stone-walled crypt was very cold, but still the stench of death was slowly and steadily permeating the room. It was rumoured that the men were to be buried within the next couple of days, and many among the Hawkenlye community considered that it would not be a moment too soon.

  No priest was meant to bury the dead. Under the pope’s interdict, funerals were not permitted. Abbess Caliste and her priest did not believe that a king’s quarrel with a pope should mean men went to their graves with nobody to pray for their souls, and the abbess had murmured to Father Sebastian that such prayers were even more vital when the bodies in question belonged to men who had in all probability been violent criminals.

  Not that the indistinct figure creeping along in the deep shadow of the dormitory walls was aware of any of that. He was there to do one task only, and all his thoughts were bent towards its completion.

  He reached the low door that led to the undercroft. It was locked, but locks did not present a problem. Reaching into a pouch that hung from his belt, he extracted a set of narrow, delicate tools fixed on to a ring, careful not to let the pieces of metal clink together. With a quick look around him – there was nobody in sight; the abbey seemed to be fast asleep behind the security of its stout gates – he put the first of the tools into the lock. He used two more in swift succession, then the lock gave and, opening the door a crack, he went inside. He took a candle stub from a fold of his tunic, striking his flint to light it. Then, unhurriedly, he went on down the passage.

  The door to the room where the three men lay was not locked. He raised the latch and went inside. He stood for a moment looking down at the corpses, the light held up over each in turn as he folded back the covering sheets.

  He saw what he was looking for. He reached out his free hand, muttering a prayer as he did so. He replaced the covers and then, without another look at the dead men, he spun round, left the room and paced swiftly back up the passage. Outside, he locked the door again – if those within the abbey chose to lock up the dead at night, he would not argue with it – and then he slipped back into the shadows.

  A few moments later, anyone watching the section of wall behind the herb garden would have seen a dark shape quickly climb over and disappear into the night.

  SEVEN

  Josse had been persuaded by Sabine de Gifford to stay the night at the sheriff’s house. By the time he had finished explaining to Gervase about the implications of the strange marks on the dead man’s chest, it was late. Having experienced before the delights of Sabine’s cooking – even in straitened times, her flair meant that her family still enjoyed variety in their meals – Josse had readily accepted the invitation. Gervase had provided wine, of so good a qu
ality that it too was a treat.

  Josse took breakfast with the family the next morning. Gervase and Sabine’s two sons were big boys now – too grown-up to be petted – and both they and their parents tended to spoil the eight-year-old Alazaïs. The cheerful meal was disturbed by the arrival of one of Gervase’s deputies, urgently demanding his attention. With a muttered curse, Gervase got up from the table and went outside. There was murmuring – a quick question from the sheriff and a quiet reply – and more conversation, then the sound of footsteps hurrying away.

  Gervase stood in the doorway and beckoned to Josse; whatever he had to say, clearly he did not want his daughter to overhear. Josse got up and followed him back outside into the courtyard.

  ‘One of the king’s agents has been attacked,’ Gervase said. He frowned. ‘He’s a—’ But whatever he had been about to say concerning the man was bitten back; to judge by Gervase’s expression, it had been derogatory. ‘His name’s Matthew and he works for Benedict de Vitré.’ Josse raised his eyebrows at the name, and Gervase nodded. ‘I see you know of Lord Benedict,’ he murmured.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Josse replied. Lord Benedict de Vitré was said to be a very close friend of the king, a position he chose to interpret as meaning he could do exactly what he liked as long as he did his job. Since his job was extracting money from everyone in his manor and forwarding it to the king, he was universally loathed. His habits of callous ruthlessness had been adopted by his underlings, and Josse had heard rumours that Lord Benedict turned a willingly blind eye to assault and rape.

  ‘It seems Lord Benedict had sent Matthew and his gang of thugs sniffing around the outlying hamlets and villages down to the south-east of Tonbridge,’ Gervase went on. ‘After money, of course. Lord Benedict clearly hopes to impress his friend the king by dispatching a few more bags of gold in order to help finance this new expedition into Wales.’

  ‘No doubt creaming off a decent portion of the bounty for himself first,’ Josse said quietly. Gervase glanced swiftly at him but did not comment. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Matthew arrived at an isolated farm just to the north of the forest,’ Gervase said. ‘An all too familiar tale, I fear: the man of the house said he’d already given everything he could spare, Matthew refused to believe him and set his men ransacking the place, the man protested and Matthew got his men to take him outside and tie him to a tree so that Matthew could flog him.’

  ‘Matthew is wicked!’ Josse hissed. ‘He—’ With difficulty, he stopped. ‘And now you say he too has been assaulted?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t turn up at Lord Benedict’s house yesterday, and Benedict sent his men out to look for him. They found him early this morning. He’d been tied to a tree and flogged.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes, although he won’t sleep on his back for a week or two.’ Gervase paused. ‘He was given exactly the same number of strokes as he meted out to the farmer.’

  Josse couldn’t help the small cheer that seemed to sound inside his head. ‘An eye for an eye,’ he said.

  ‘Vengeance again,’ Gervase said tersely. ‘If we are right in our thinking, those three men who lie dead up at the abbey were murderers, and hence were killed. Lord Benedict’s man Matthew abuses his position and does not hesitate to flog a man for no reason, and he in his turn has been given the same treatment.’

  ‘Is that not justice?’ Josse demanded. ‘Matthew is a vicious man and has got what he deserves, and—’

  ‘Hush, Josse!’ Gervase looked quickly around, but there was nobody in earshot. ‘Whatever else he may be, Matthew is acting for the king.’

  ‘Even so, you should be—’

  ‘Enough.’ The single word was barked out. Leaning close to Josse, Gervase said, ‘These are dangerous times, Josse. Do not be provoked into speaking words that may land you in trouble.’

  ‘I’ll speak my mind!’

  ‘Not in my presence.’

  Stung, Josse stared at his old friend. Gervase whispered, ‘I know, Josse. But what would you have me do?’ He paused, then went on, ‘Lord Benedict will be howling out in fury at this assault on one of his men. We shall have to redouble our efforts to find who is behind these attacks, and, moreover, make sure that we are seen to be redoubling them.’

  ‘And what will you do with the perpetrator if and when he is caught?’ Josse asked coldly.

  Gervase turned away. ‘What I must do.’

  Then he went back up the steps into the hall.

  Helewise woke in the morning following the first night back in the little cell beside St Edmund’s Chapel and wondered at first where she was. When she remembered, she gave a smile of happiness. I can do some good here, she thought. I know I can.

  Little Helewise was still asleep, curled up under her covers, but Meggie’s bed was empty. Helewise got up, arranged her gown and her simple headdress, then went outside. Meggie was emerging from the forest, her arms full of firewood.

  ‘You’re up early!’ Helewise said, going to help her with her burden. ‘And how busy you’ve been!’

  ‘I thought our supply needed replenishing,’ Meggie replied, ‘and we shouldn’t rely on our sturdy lay brothers for everything.’

  ‘No, indeed, and they’ll have their own duties down in the vale today,’ Helewise agreed. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘Do you think we need to tell your dear father that we’re only going to be guarded during the hours of darkness?’

  Meggie gave her a quick smile. ‘No, I don’t. It’ll only worry him.’

  ‘We are, after all, in sight of the abbey,’ Helewise said. She stopped, looking down the long slope to the familiar outline of the abbey buildings. It was odd, but she was discovering that she had no desire whatsoever to venture inside . . .

  ‘I wonder when we’ll have our first pilgrims?’ Meggie said as she followed Helewise on towards the hut. ‘I’m sure word is already spreading that you’re here.’

  ‘And you,’ Helewise said. ‘You, I’m sure, are the greater attraction, healer that you are.’

  ‘I can only heal bodies,’ Meggie replied. ‘You heal souls.’

  ‘Only God does that.’ The protest came automatically. Then, thinking Meggie might have read the remark as a snub, Helewise added, ‘Meggie, if St Edmund’s Chapel isn’t locked, do you think we could go up and visit it? Just the two of us, now, before Little Helewise wakes up?’

  Meggie put down her firewood beside the door of the cell. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It isn’t locked – I just checked.’ Her eyes met Helewise’s. ‘It’s high time we went to see her, isn’t it?’

  They stood side by side in the crypt beneath St Edmund’s Chapel, staring at the statue of the Black Madonna in her secret niche. Helewise was only vaguely aware of Meggie beside her; almost all her attention was on the small, dark figure. The Madonna had been fashioned sitting on a low, simple throne, and she wore a headdress like the crescent moon turned on its back. She was heavily pregnant, her precious boy child swelling in her womb.

  For Helewise, she was the Virgin Mary.

  For Meggie, Helewise suspected, she was someone – something – else entirely.

  Helewise began to pray. Silently, she asked for help and support in this new venture. Let those who are in need know we are here, she begged, and bestow on us the strength, the wisdom and the compassion to give to each one whatever it is that will help them best.

  After quite a long time, the two women left the crypt, carefully replaced the trapdoor disguised as a flagstone, and returned to the cell.

  People began arriving later that morning. Little Helewise, who stressed that she could neither heal the sick nor offer help to those who were troubled but knew how to stir a pot, had volunteered to work at the hearth. She busied herself keeping the fire going and tending the restorative broth that Meggie had prepared, doling it out to the visitors. Observing her, Helewise thought that the sweet smile and the gentle words of welcome probably did almost as much good as the broth.

  Megg
ie was much in demand, and by noon her supply of herbal remedies was considerably diminished. Helewise had prayed with three different family groups, all of whom had called her my lady abbess and all of whom expressed their delight at seeing her in the little cell once more. She reminded them that she was no longer Abbess Helewise, but she wasn’t sure they took any notice.

  When the daylight began to fade, she could hardly believe that the day was ending. Little Helewise was tidying up the cell, washing out the little wooden bowls in which she had dished out the broth, and then she was going to begin preparing another batch for the following day. Meggie had gone down to the abbey to visit the herb shed, where she was hoping to find more supplies. The two guardian lay brothers had not yet arrived.

  Helewise, then, was alone outside the cell when the last visitor of the day arrived. It was a young woman, pale faced, thin, ill-looking. Grieving, Helewise guessed. The girl was dressed in a worn gown that had been neatly mended; over it was what looked like a man’s rough work jerkin.

  She stopped a few paces away from Helewise, as if unsure whether to advance. Helewise approached her, holding out her hands. ‘May I help you?’ she asked. ‘There is a little broth left, if you are hungry.’

  The woman shook her head. Helewise thought she paled slightly at the mention of food. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Helewise waited.

  ‘Are you—?’ The young woman stopped. ‘They said there’s a healer here,’ she said instead. ‘Someone that knows about herbs.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Helewise said with a smile.

  She had been about to say that Meggie was down at the abbey but would soon be back, but the girl interrupted. Coming right up to Helewise, she whispered, ‘I need your help.’

  Then she told Helewise what was wrong with her and what she wanted Helewise to do.

  Horrified, Helewise realized the young woman had taken her for the healer; apparently not knowing that Meggie was a generation younger, in her desperation she had blurted out her problem to the first female face she saw.