The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  ‘You missed a visit from your father,’ Helewise said to Meggie as they ate the evening meal. ‘He was at the abbey and called in to see us.’

  Meggie looked up, glancing from Helewise to her granddaughter. ‘Did you—?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t know yet,’ Little Helewise said. She was looking very serene, Meggie thought, and quietly joyful, as if she were communing silently with the new little life inside her. ‘I was down at the abbey when he came, and Grandmother felt it was up to me to tell him, not her.’ She gave Helewise a sweet smile. ‘I think,’ she added, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  Meggie wondered if she would be as calm at the prospect of breaking the news to her mother. Out of nowhere she had an image of Ninian’s face; it tore at her heart to think of other people knowing he was going to be a father before he did. Ninian, come home! Fervently, she sent out the unspoken plea, so familiar now. ‘Did Father bring any news?’ she asked, to take her mind off worrying about her brother.

  ‘Well, in fact he did,’ Helewise said. She told both young women what Josse had told her, and, when she had finished, Meggie had the distinct sense that the solution to a mystery had just presented itself.

  She left the hut as soft-footed as the last time and was soon outside and past the lay brothers’ shelter, heading out of the clearing and in under the trees. It was a clear night, and she wrapped her shawl round her against the chill.

  When she reached the glade where the hut stood, she stopped. She knew he was there; she could see his horse, in a simple rope head collar and tethered to one of the willows by the stream. The horse was looking at her out of friendly, interested dark eyes. It was a gelding, chestnut in colour, with a long flaxen mane and tail. It shifted a little out of the shadows, and Meggie could see it stood some fifteen or sixteen hands and was stockily built. She sent it a reassuring message, and it gave a very soft whicker.

  Meggie stepped closer to the hut. The rope that fastened the latch was undone and hung on a nail. She stopped, closed her eyes and, using all the skill she possessed, sent out feelers to assess what sort of a person was inside the hut.

  She could have sworn he was not evil and posed no threat. She sent out a message to her mother and had the clear sense that Joanna was smiling. Go inside, her mother said.

  Meggie opened the door.

  He was sitting facing her, cross-legged beside the cheery fire, exactly where she had sat a few hours earlier.

  She saw the glitter of very dark-brown eyes, staring at her as intently as she was staring at him. His skin was smooth and dark – the colour of peaty water with the sun shining on it – and he was lightly bearded. His facial hair was black, like that on his head, which was long, glossy and hung down to his chest. There was a heavy gold ring in his left ear.

  Glancing down at the rest of him, she saw that he was bare-chested. A long cloth in some dark colour was wound round his waist, spread across his crossed legs and covering him as far as the ankles. At his side lay a sword in a leather scabbard. His feet, she noticed, were long and graceful. His hands had the same elegant shape, but they were heavily calloused as if from some sort of hard work. He was, she guessed, some seven or eight years older than her.

  He smiled, his teeth white and even. ‘I have been expecting you,’ he said. ‘I knew you would come.’

  She went to sit down opposite him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m called Jehan Leferronier.’

  ‘You’re – a Frenchman?’ Did they come as dark as him, she wondered.

  ‘A Breton.’ The smile widened. ‘I have other ancestry. My grandmother was a woman of Ethiopia.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t see at all. She wondered why she should feel so happy. So relaxed, talking to a stranger in her own hut. He had just told her his name and was smiling at her as if delighted to see her, but was that any reason to lower her guard like this?

  Apparently, it was . . .

  ‘My name’s Meggie,’ she said. ‘My father’s Sir Josse d’Acquin, and my mother – well, she isn’t here any more, but this used to be her hut.’

  He made her a low bow. ‘I am sorry that I have been staying in it without your permission.’

  ‘That’s all right. Thank you for the present.’ She touched the slim leather sheath that she had made to keep the knife in, hanging from her belt.

  His dark eyes widened. ‘You carry it always with you!’

  She’d only just acquired it, so always was an exaggeration, but she could see what he meant. ‘Yes. It’s lovely.’

  He looked gratified. ‘I am happy that it pleases you. Thank you for the coin.’

  He had found it, then. ‘You have to make a token payment when someone gives you a blade, because—’

  He put up a hand. ‘I understand, Meggie,’ he said.

  She took her knife out of its sheath and looked at it. ‘That’s a garnet, isn’t it?’ She pointed to the red stone.

  ‘Oui. It is traditional to put such a stone in a full-sized sword.’

  ‘For protection. Yes, I know.’ She paused. ‘I’ve heard it said that, as a gift, a garnet grants affection and loyalty.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He echoed her words.

  Some strong emotion seemed to tremble in the air between them. She could almost see it. With an effort, she recalled why she was there. ‘You’re – did you pay a visit to the big abbey on the edge of the forest?’ she asked. ‘Five or six weeks ago?’

  Gravely, he nodded. ‘I did. I was in search of a priest, but I learned that the priests are forbidden to tend to their flock because his Holiness the Pope has placed England under an interdict.’

  ‘You told one of the nuns that you needed forgiveness for an action you were about to take.’ Now his expression became guarded. She pressed on. ‘I – we, that is, my father, his close friends and I – know what you did, and also we know of the other things you’ve done more recently.’

  He shook his head, trying to protest, but Meggie did not want to listen to lies.

  ‘You ought to know that someone saw you and there’s a manhunt on your trail,’ she said, speaking hurriedly, ‘but, as far as we’re concerned, you’ve done nothing wrong and we don’t think you should be arrested and tried, because they’ll undoubtedly find you guilty and hang you. The law isn’t very reasonable,’ she added.

  ‘Not very reasonable,’ he repeated. She could not read his expression. There was quite a long pause. ‘You have come to help me?’ he asked, and she thought he was suppressing a smile.

  ‘Yes, if you need my help.’

  Slowly, he stretched out one long hand and, without even thinking about it, she put up her own hand. Above the hearth, their fingers met and clasped. His touch was extraordinary; she felt as if something had shaken her, deep inside.

  ‘You have already given it, by permitting me to stay in this hut,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Until recently I did not know you were here.’ How strange it was, she reflected, to think that this man, this stranger with power in his touch and mystery in his eyes, should have been living here in the hut – a place she’d been longing to get to for months – while she was penned up within the safe walls of the House in the Woods. On impulse she said, ‘I think my mother knew. She doesn’t mind.’

  He accepted that without comment.

  ‘You must go,’ she urged, although to see him ride away was the last thing she wanted. ‘It’s not safe for you here.’

  He nodded. ‘Perhaps not.’ He looked rueful. ‘I have not completed the task for which I came here.’ Were there more revenge killings he was planning? Meggie wondered. ‘Now, I think I shall not be able to, because—’ He stopped.

  Because what? Because the forces of law and order were hunting for him? ‘You should go back across the narrow seas,’ she said. ‘I doubt if they’ll follow you.’

  Memories were stirring. She’d had a very similar conversation last autumn with Ninian. He’d had to leave England for France, for much the same reason. He hadn’t come ba
ck, and she missed him all the time.

  Jehan Leferronier was watching her as if he was trying to read her thoughts. ‘You are sad,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes.’ She wasn’t ready to speak to him about Ninian. ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. ‘You said you’re a Breton?’

  ‘Oui. My birthplace was a village in the middle of Brittany. Now, I no longer live in my own land. Along with many other men, I travel to find work. There is a big new cathedral, and the people of the town, wishing perhaps to be remembered for posterity, donate funds so that beautiful things may be included in its fabric.’

  A shudder went down her spine. ‘Chartres,’ she whispered.

  ‘Chartres, oui.’ He did not ask how she knew. The enigmatic smile was back on his face. ‘My horse and I, we set out from home, and for many months I worked in the cathedral. I—’

  ‘I saw your horse,’ she interrupted. ‘He’s very friendly. He didn’t object when I appeared out of the forest.’

  ‘Perhaps he knows this is your place,’ Jehan suggested. ‘But, yes, he is very friendly. His name is Auban.’

  ‘He also looks very strong.’

  ‘Strong, oui. He is that blessed creature among horses: one that has a comfortable, steady gait and yet does not protest when his master hitches him to a cart and asks him to haul a heavy load. He is quite capable of carrying two riders, over very many miles,’ he added.

  Meggie hardly heard, for her mind was reeling. Chartres. He had come from Chartres, and that, presumably, was where he would be returning. Chartres, where her mother had disappeared. Designated resting place for the Black Goddess who now lived in St Edmund’s Chapel, brought to England by Ninian. Chartres, Joanna, the Black Goddess, Ninian . . .

  I asked my mother for her help in bringing Ninian home, she thought. I begged her to tell me what she wanted me to do.

  Had she just received the answer?

  Suddenly, she realized what he had just said: his horse could carry two. Her fingers were still entwined with his, and now she gripped his hand hard. ‘How did you know I’d need to get to Chartres?’ she demanded. How, she could have added, when I didn’t know myself till this moment?

  He shrugged. ‘I do not fully understand,’ he admitted. ‘I knew of no connection when first I came here to the hut, but since then, during the long, dark nights it seems I have heard a voice, or perhaps she spoke inside my dreams.’ He shook his head. ‘I would have left weeks ago, but it felt as if someone was telling me, urging me, to wait.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘For you, I think.’

  Her thoughts were flying through her mind, one after the other, so fast that she barely had time to acknowledge each one before the next succeeded it. One outstripped all the others: could she go with him? Was it folly, to set out with a stranger to a foreign land where she would be friendless, helpless?

  Not friendless, for he will be with you, a voice seemed to intone inside her head. Not helpless, for I will be there and so will your brother.

  She knew she had already made up her mind. With a stab of pain in her heart as she thought of what her father’s reaction would be, she stood up. ‘Wait here for me,’ she said. ‘I must collect some things that I’ll need. I won’t be long.’

  He nodded. ‘I will not leave without you.’

  As she set off at a run through the trees, in the direction of the cell, she wondered if there were some way she could leave word to tell Josse what she was doing, where she was going and why. The first two would require few words; regarding the third, she knew there was no way she could tell him, for she didn’t know herself.

  ELEVEN

  Ninian came back to himself to find he was lying in a pile of straw and someone was trying to force water between his lips. At first he pushed the hand away, but then, realizing how thirsty he was, he grasped it by the wrist and held the flask up to his mouth.

  ‘Gently,’ said a voice close by as he drank greedily, ‘too much all at once will soon reappear.’

  He looked up. A man clad in the rough garments of a peasant was crouched over him. They appeared to be in a barn, or outhouse – no, it was a makeshift lean-to, with stone walls and some sort of hanging cloth serving as a door – and, judging by the light, it was evening. Was the man friend or foe? He seemed eager to help, but it was quite possible he had taken Ninian for a crusader, in which case it wouldn’t be wise to reveal where his sympathies truly lay.

  He struggled to sit up, and waited until the dizziness passed. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘I found you in the chapel.’ The man leaned closer. ‘It was not safe to leave you there, and so now you are here at my little vineyard, safely hidden, and—’

  ‘Where’s my horse?’

  ‘He, too, is safely hidden.’ The man smiled. ‘You did not think I would leave him for others to find and ask about? Besides, I could not have carried you all this way.’

  Ninian tried to work it out. From whom would he not have been safe? He studied the man’s face, trying to find a clue. He looked friendly enough, his tanned, bearded face creased in lines of concern as he tended his patient.

  The man, apparently appreciating Ninian’s dilemma, leaned closer. ‘I know who you are,’ he said, so quietly that Ninian barely heard. ‘Friends—’ he laid heavy emphasis on the word – ‘told me that you were in the area. I have been watching for you. I am Roger of Pépoulie,’ he added. Then, in the merest whisper, ‘Alazaïs de Saint Gilles is my aunt by marriage.’

  ‘You’re one of the bonshommes?’ Ninian asked.

  ‘Shhhh!’ Roger looked anxiously around. Then, with a wry smile: ‘I have allegiance to no faith, but I recognize that the bonshommes are exactly what the name implies. I do not approve of their slaughter, especially by an agency as corrupt as the Church of Rome.’

  Neither do I, Ninian thought. He took another gulp of water, then said, ‘I have to find the Count of Foix. I have some very important information for him, concerning—’ He stopped. He only had Roger of Pépoulie’s word that he was no friend of the crusaders. The information Ninian had was surely best told first to the count.

  Roger of Pépoulie was nodding his approval. ‘Quite right to keep it to yourself,’ he muttered. ‘And, before you ask, I can help you find the count. He will be pleased to meet you, I imagine.’ He put the flask of water down beside the sweet-smelling straw on which Ninian was lying. ‘For now, sleep, recover your strength, drink water, eat bread and cheese.’ He indicated a platter covered with a cloth. ‘Tomorrow, we shall seek out the Count of Foix.’

  Ninian was deeply asleep when some small sound disturbed him. Shocked awake, his heart thundering in his chest with alarm, he reached out for his knife. The sound came again; a soft fumbling against the sheet of heavy fabric that protected the lean-to from the elements. His hand closed over the handle of his knife, gripping it tight. When this nosy intruder finally came inside, Ninian would be ready . . .

  A hand slid under the fabric. It was holding the handle of a heavy earthenware jug. It vanished, to return almost immediately bearing two stubby mugs. Then a bearded face appeared.

  ‘I hoped you’d be awake!’ Roger of Pépoulie said. ‘I’ve just broached a barrel of my own rosé, and it’s rather good. I wondered if you’d like to share it with me?’

  In the morning, Ninian disposed of his headache with a combination of breakfast, several mugs of water and an invigorating wash in the stream that burbled along behind Roger’s house. Garnet stood saddled and bridled, and beside him was a small, stocky pony, whose bridle was old and worn and over whose broad back was spread a piece of sacking. Roger of Pépoulie might be related to one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the Languedoc, but his disguise as a poor grape-farmer was very convincing.

  Bearing in mind they were about to go before a count, Ninian brushed down his tunic as best he could, buffed up a shine on his boots, and was in the process of trying to smooth his tangled hair when Roger, observing him, burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so
funny?’ Ninian demanded.

  Roger shook his head, still chuckling. ‘Wait and see.’

  The Count of Foix’s castle was on the knees of the mountains, and the ride up to it took the form of a long climb that varied only in the intensity of the incline. By mid-morning Ninian and Roger had left the wine-growing regions far below. Ninian thought he saw an eagle soaring in wide circles high above. They must, he realized, be roughly on a level with Alazaïs’s village.

  The castle was well-concealed behind a huge rocky outcrop, and Ninian did not see it until they were almost upon it. It was more of a fortress than a castle, ringed by high walls from which sentinels looked down. Roger must have been recognized as a friend, for as they approached the formidable gates, they were opened from within. Roger, riding ahead, led them into a narrow courtyard bustling with men, women, children, horses, dogs and chickens. Ninian stayed on Garnet’s back while Roger dismounted and went to speak to the huge man who was marching across the yard towards him.

  Was this the count? Ninian wondered, staring in wonder at the giant’s enormous red beard. There was no time to ask, for Roger turned and said, ‘Come with us; leave your horse with him.’ He indicated a skinny youth who had materialized from the shadows.

  They followed the giant in through an arched opening – the big man had to duck – and then up a steep flight of stone steps, emerging on to a platform set high up on the fortress walls. Ninian had a quick glimpse of a huge patchwork of land, spreading out impossibly far below, and then Roger grabbed his arm, spun him round and hissed, ‘Bow to the count.’

  He had not known what to expect but, perhaps affected by the possibility that all these mountain men were like the giant who had ushered them into the count’s presence, Ninian was surprised to see that he was a small, wiry man, on the face of it hardly meriting the reputation for audacity, savagery and ruthlessness that he had won. Then he looked right into the count’s small, dark eyes, and he realized his mistake.

  ‘I’m told you have information for me,’ he said, the eyes holding Ninian’s. His voice was harsh, like the caw of a raven.