The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be a worthy addition,’ Ninian said neutrally.

  The knight narrowed his eyes, clearly suspecting irony, but Ninian kept his face bland and the big man did not pursue it. ‘Ja, they are fine knights,’ he mumbled, ‘marching in a long, wide column from their homes in the north, marching to join their brothers here, marching to . . . marching to . . .’

  He had apparently lost his thread. He turned to give the other knights a bemused look, then his legs gave way and he sank to the muddy ground. While the man’s companions tried to get him to his feet, Ninian put his heels to Garnet’s sides and hurried away.

  He did not think anybody would come chasing after him. Why would they? In that great encampment of fighting men and camp followers, who was going to miss one man? Ninian had been surprised at the total lack of security, but, on reflection, it was another reminder of de Montfort’s invincibility. He didn’t care if the enemy knew where he was; didn’t even seem to be bothered by the details of his future plans being bandied about by the whole encampment.

  He knows he’s going to win, Ninian thought.

  The concept, once lodged in his mind, seemed to become a certainty.

  As he rode along, keeping as much as possible within the sparse cover of the springtime woodlands, always moving in the general direction of the south-west, his resolve hardened. He had an important piece of information, and he was going to make quite sure he put it to good use.

  Back in the village, he had heard the young fighters he’d been training speak in awe of the Count of Foix. An Occitan lord in the traditional mould, his support of the bonshommes was as much due to indignation at the crusade against them as belief in their faith; that and the sheer love of a good fight. His ferocity in battle was legendary, and, in his stronghold at the foot of the Pyrenees, he clearly felt himself safe from reprisals when he sent out his wild-eyed knights to besiege an enemy castle or murdered a priest or two.

  All in all, Ninian reflected, he was the very man who might make good use of the knowledge that Simon de Montfort was poised to besiege Lavaur and was expecting the arrival of a vast column of German knights, fresh from the north and spoiling for a fight, to support him.

  In the hill country half a day’s ride from Foix, Ninian stopped by a rushing stream to eat the last of his food. Although the day was sunny, the air was cold, for he was already in the lower reaches of the mountains. As he sat munching his way through dry bread and a rind of pungent cheese, he looked idly around and noticed that what he had taken as rocky outcrops were in fact the ruins of dwellings. Still chewing, he got up to investigate.

  It had been a little village of perhaps fifteen or twenty dwellings; simple stone houses, many linked together in rows on either side of an overgrown cobbled track. He wondered who had lived there, and what had caused them to abandon the place. Unlike so many villages and towns in the region, this was not the site of a recent catastrophe. Nobody could have lived there for decades.

  But somebody still came to the place; walking on between the ruins, Ninian discovered a tiny chapel, its wooden door hanging off the hinges and most of the roof gone. He went inside, and the scent of fresh greenery hit him. A garland of spring leaves, beautifully woven, had been placed on the floor in front of a statue.

  Ninian went closer. The statue was in shadow and, after the bright light outside, it took his eyes a few moments to adjust.

  When he saw what the figure was, he gasped aloud. In an instant, he was back in his own past. Back to a terrifying time when he had almost lost his life and then hurried across France to England, helping to escort an object of great antiquity and immense power to somewhere it – she – would be safe.fn3

  That object was a statue depicting a heavily pregnant woman dressed in a sweeping robe and wearing a horned headdress like the crescent moon. She was made of dark wood and was known as a Black Madonna.

  She looked exactly like the figure at which Ninian’s eyes, wide with wonder, were now staring.

  It was as if seeing this figure had opened a locked door in Ninian’s mind, for now as he stood there in the little chapel, his head swimming and spinning, he was assaulted by memories, dreams and visions. He saw Josse and a certain tree on the fringe of the Hawkenlye Forest. He saw St Edmund’s Chapel and the Black Goddess who reigned there, serene and secure in her secret niche down in the crypt. He saw the hut in the forest, which Meggie had taken over from Joanna. He saw Meggie, whose face was anxious and who was calling out to him, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly, so that he knew she was trying to tell him something but could not make out the words.

  Perhaps she was telling him he was no longer wanted for murder and it was safe to come home. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

  Briefly, heartbreakingly, he saw his mother. Not as he had last seen her; for he had been only a boy when she had left him in Josse’s care and gone to embark on her strange life in the forest; no, she was older now, her long dark hair streaked with grey, her face lined but still beautiful.

  He shook his head to try to clear it, for he didn’t understand. He was seeing images of home – powerful images, joined now by a vision of Little Helewise laughing up at him, flowers in her hair, love and healthy, eager lust in her eyes – but another, more powerful message was pressing down on him.

  It was to do with the Black Goddess. Out of nowhere came the memory that she had been destined for the new cathedral at Chartres, but removed to Hawkenlye because she would be safe there. Chartres . . . It was where his mother had died. Where he and Josse also had almost lost their lives.

  ‘What must I do?’ he asked the black figure now. ‘I want to stay here and fight with the people who have become my friends. I’ve got information that’s going to help those who stand in opposition to the crusaders, and maybe it’ll give us a chance . . .’

  It won’t.

  He wondered where the words came from. He looked around, but there was nobody there.

  He felt a wave of dizziness. Had the statue spoken? Or was it just his own good sense, telling him, now that he was in this strange, altered state – he was nearly exhausted and half-starving – what he could not bear to face when he was his normal self??

  This battle will not be won, went on the voice, because the forces ranged against the south are too strong. Church and king together can draw on endless resources and are ultimately invincible.

  ‘But I can’t leave!’ he protested, almost weeping. ‘They took me in, they’ve cared for me over the long winter, and I’ve shared their lives all this time!’

  They made use of you, said the voice. You were sent from danger into greater danger, bearing a treasure which they wanted so badly that they did not care how they got it.

  ‘But—’ He stopped. It was true.

  Standing there all alone, weak from hunger, his mind reeling so much from the onslaught that he felt on the verge of delirium, a change began to come over him.

  He saw again the images that had so stunned him, one after the other in swift succession: Josse, the forest, the chapel above the abbey, Meggie, the hut.

  Little Helewise.

  Home.

  Then, flashing so fast that he was not sure he’d even seen her, Joanna. And a huge building soaring up into the sky that he recognized as Chartres cathedral, contained within a cone of bright, white light that rose high up into the sky . . .

  A stab of pain like a knife thrust hit Ninian between the eyes. With a groan, he slumped to the stone floor. The voice and the visions faded, and he sank into unconsciousness.

  NINE

  At a very early hour soon after dawn, Abbess Caliste and Father Sebastian stood either side of an open grave. The rain had only just stopped, and the air still had its night chill. Mist obscured the land. It was a good time for committing a forbidden act.

  The previous evening, six lay brothers had dug a big hole in the sodden ground, wide and deep enough for three bodies. It was not within the perimeter of Hawkenlye’s burial
ground; given the present ban on funerals, it would have been foolish to create a large, new grave out in the cemetery for any passer-by to spot. Under the abbess’s instructions, the pit was behind the huge compost heap where the straw and horse manure mucked out from the abbey’s stables went, together with the scraps and remains from the kitchens. The kitchens were contributing little to the compost at present.

  Abbess Caliste watched as the cloth-wrapped bodies were lowered into the ground. She was glad that the three men were so closely covered, for she had no wish to look at them again. She told herself repeatedly that there was no proof they were guilty of the terrible crimes which Gervase and Josse apparently were attributing to them. ‘Judge not,’ she said firmly, muttering the words under her breath. She forced herself to pray for their souls. They had been dead for five or six weeks, according to Josse. They would, she reflected, already have been judged by the ultimate authority awaiting everyone . . .

  Father Sebastian had finished. He nodded to the lay brothers, who picked up their shovels and began filling in the grave. With a final glance in Caliste’s direction, he turned and disappeared into the mist.

  Hurrying back towards the safety of the cloister, glancing furtively over her shoulder, Caliste wondered if this was what it felt like to be a criminal.

  Josse had returned to the House in the Forest the previous day, after his visit to Gervase. The conflicting emotions raised by his conversation with the sheriff had gone on raging in his head. If whoever was extracting eye-for-an-eye vengeance on the cruel and lawless – and Sister Estella’s mysterious Brown Man so far seemed the only likely suspect – then Josse for one wasn’t going to make any great effort to apprehend and stop him. Gervase, of course, could not afford such an attitude, sworn as he was to uphold the law. Murder, and the flogging of a king’s agent going about his duty, were very serious crimes, even when perpetrated against those who richly deserved their fate. Such, Josse was well aware, was Gervase’s view.

  Josse had found it sweet to return to his own hearth and the company of his household, although with Helewise and Meggie absent, home had not provided its usual restorative. He missed them and, judging by his son’s dismal expression, Geoffroi did too.

  Which made Josse feel decidedly guilty as he saddled up in the morning and set out for the abbey. Especially since Geoffroi had clamoured to go with him and Josse had said he couldn’t. It would have made an exciting change from the day’s normal round for the boy to ride out with his father, and Josse was well aware that the reason for his ruling against it was entirely selfish: if Geoffroi was at home with Will, Ella, Gus and Tilly, then he was perfectly safe and Josse didn’t have to worry about him.

  The three women at the cell by the chapel had a guest: Tiphaine had arrived. She sat with the others to eat the small meal that passed for breakfast, and Meggie noticed straight away that she was distracted.

  ‘You seem troubled, Tiphaine,’ she said, pouring out a cupful of the herbal concoction she had just brewed for them all and watching the older woman sip it. ‘May we help?’

  Tiphaine looked at her for a long moment. Then she said simply, ‘No.’

  She did not stay. Beckoning to Meggie, she nodded a quick farewell to Helewise and her granddaughter, then got up and left. Meggie followed her out of the cell and away across the clearing towards the forest. The grass was soaking; it had rained hard during the night.

  ‘You’ve left those two scratching their heads,’ Meggie remarked as they went in under the trees.

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ Tiphaine replied shortly.

  Meggie was puzzled, for Tiphaine normally treated Helewise with respect, as if she regarded her still as abbess of Hawkenlye in all but name. Hoping to take the older woman’s mind off whatever was troubling her, Meggie said, ‘Helewise had a bit of a shock last night.’ Tiphaine didn’t respond, so she went on: ‘Little Helewise told her she’s pregnant.’

  A smile twitched Tiphaine’s lean features. ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘She’s delighted. She was anxious to begin with, and said lots of things about Little Helewise and Ninian not being married, but then Little Helewise pointed out that they hadn’t really had the opportunity, and wasn’t Helewise happy at the thought of being a great-grandmother, and Helewise started to laugh and said she certainly wasn’t ready for that, and then she put her arms round Little Helewise and said she – all of us – would take care of her till Ninian comes home.’

  ‘She’s a good woman,’ Tiphaine pronounced. ‘Heart’s in the right place.’

  They had reached the tree line. ‘Now,’ Meggie said, ‘what’s the matter?’

  ‘Funny we should just have been talking about a pregnancy,’ Tiphaine murmured. Then, abruptly: ‘I need your help. I want you to make a draught to rid a woman of an unwanted child.’

  Meggie sank down on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. She guessed who the person in question was and, yes, it was not surprising. The young woman who had spoken to Helewise yesterday had not given up. Somehow, she had managed to seek out one of the few people in the region who would not throw up their hands in horror at her request.

  ‘She came here,’ Meggie said after a moment. ‘She – er, she had the misfortune to find Helewise alone, and when she said what she wanted, Helewise – well, she reacted as you’d expect.’ Meggie was reluctant to criticize; she knew that Helewise had very good reasons for her shocked response, and she also knew that Helewise now regretted that she had been so hasty.

  Tiphaine, it appeared, was similarly reluctant. ‘Understandable,’ she commented. She paused, then added, ‘Shame she didn’t wait to find out more.’

  Coming from Tiphaine, that mild criticism struck like a snake.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ Meggie said.

  Tiphaine sat down beside her. For a few moments she sat gazing out through the trees into the sunshine beyond. Then, speaking softly and swiftly, she said, ‘Her name’s Melania. She lives in a lonely house on the edge of the forest, and in January she and her elderly parents had an unexpected visit from three ruffians. They broke in, took whatever there was to take and two of them raped Melania while her parents looked on. Drove her poor mother out of her mind, seeing her daughter suffer like that and unable to help her. The old father had a bad heart, and the shock and the horror killed him.’ She glanced at Meggie. ‘Soon as he felt his heart start to pain him, he’d have known he ought to take his medicine, but it looks as if the ruffians wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘Would the medicine have saved him?’ Meggie asked.

  ‘It would have got him over that attack,’ Tiphaine answered. ‘He wasn’t going to get well again, but if he’d gone on taking the mixture when he felt his heart stutter, he had a few years left in him. It was foxglove and lily of the valley, mainly, with some borage and birch to help with his rheumatism,’ she added, although Meggie hadn’t asked.

  ‘You used to prepare it for him?’

  ‘I did.’ Tiphaine looked down at her hands. ‘They were good people, Melania’s parents. Lived there on the edge of the trees, minding their own business, not harming a soul. Unlike others, they accepted the forest people’s right to live their own lives and often did them small kindnesses in the years since times became really tough.’ She sighed. ‘Most of the forest folk have gone,’ she said softly. ‘They’ve left the area in search of wilder, more remote places where they’ll find some peace.’

  Meggie barely heard. She was thinking about a sick old man, begging for the medicine that would help his labouring heart and ease the agonizing pain. Those who refused to give it to him were as guilty of killing him as if they’d slit his throat.

  ‘Stands to reason Melania doesn’t want a rapist’s child growing inside her,’ Tiphaine said bluntly. ‘And that’s the fact of it, whatever anyone might say about it not being the fault of the unborn child and it having a right to live.’

  Slowly, Meggie nodded. All her healer’s instincts were to save life, and she had encountered far mo
re pregnant women desperate to save a fragile pregnancy than demanding to have an unwanted one terminated. But what must it have been like for this poor girl, this Melania, to have discovered, as the weeks went by, the outcome of that night of careless brutality? And did Meggie – did anyone – have the right to impose on her the further punishment of bearing, suckling and raising the child of the man who had raped her?

  After what felt like a long time, she turned and looked at Tiphaine. ‘You asked for my help in making the abortifacient,’ she said. ‘Why can’t you do it yourself??’

  ‘I’m lacking some of the ingredients,’ Tiphaine answered gruffly. ‘I still use the stores in my old shed down at the abbey – Abbess Caliste knows I do, and she doesn’t object, since most of them are my work anyway – but what I need for Melania isn’t kept in a place like Hawkenlye Abbey.’

  No, Meggie reflected, it wouldn’t be.

  Abruptly, she made up her mind. ‘I’ve got what you need. I’ll go out to the hut and prepare the potion. You can pick it up there this evening.’

  There was a silence. Then Tiphaine said, ‘Thank you.’

  Meggie studied her. She had imagined that this – Melania’s dreadful dilemma – had been what was preoccupying Tiphaine; it was surely enough to make any friend of the poor young woman preoccupied. Yet, as Tiphaine got up and turned to go, she appeared, if anything, even more careworn than before. It was as if, Meggie realized with a flash of understanding, Tiphaine was bearing the weight of a deep and abiding anxiety and knew she could not put it down . . .

  There was no point in hurrying after her and pressing her to share her burden. Meggie knew, from long experience, that Tiphaine was her own woman. She only ever shared things when she was good and ready and if there was no other way. Meggie would just have to wait and see.

  She stood looking down into the clearing. Helewise and her granddaughter had emerged from the cell and were walking across to the chapel, where the first of the day’s pilgrims had gathered in a small, huddled group. It seemed a good time to slip away. Without further thought, Meggie headed off into the forest in the direction of her mother’s hut.