The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  He turned towards her, a frown creasing his brow. Then he saw her face. His eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Hush,’ she whispered, ‘no time now for explanations. Can you walk?’

  ‘I will walk,’ he muttered.

  She helped him to sit, then to stand. It broke her heart to see that he was unable to straighten up. For a tall, long-legged man like him, the punishment cell must have been a torment.

  She stood, supporting his weight as he tried to get his balance. She could tell he was very weak; she cursed under her breath, calling down every horror she could think of on those who had treated him in this way. After a while, she felt the heavy pressure of his arm across her shoulders lessen; he was standing unsupported.

  ‘Come on,’ she murmured. She helped him up the steps and out of the cell, locking and bolting the door once more. Then she led him back along the passage, pausing to put the key back beside the man who had been entrusted with it. Now they were at the door to the undercroft, the abbess and the man from the punishment cell, and they spared a moment to embrace, for the love between them was deep and enduring.

  They hurried towards the gates, and she helped him shin up the wall. Propping herself on the top of it, she watched as he dropped down on the other side. He looked up at her. ‘Aren’t you coming? We should hurry.’

  ‘Soon,’ she replied. ‘There is one more thing I must do.’

  He nodded, understanding. ‘Very well. But be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you. You know where.’

  ‘Yes. Keep out of sight!’

  He grinned, teeth white in the soft moonlight. ‘I usually do.’ Then he turned away and began to run, and in a few moments had merged into the night landscape.

  The abbess let herself fall back inside the abbey wall, brushing the dust off her habit. Then, hurrying light-footed over the hard ground, she went back to the little room at the end of the cloister and quietly let herself in.

  Early the next morning, Josse and Helewise arrived at the House in the Woods. Josse had not slept much, and he doubted if she had, either. They had slipped out of the little cell by the chapel soon after dawn, leaving Little Helewise asleep. She knew where they were going, and why; apart from saying how much she wished she could be setting out with them, she was more than happy with their plans. The lay brothers still slept in their shelter by the cell; Little Helewise would be quite safe. One of the nuns from the abbey stables helped Josse and Helewise prepare their horses and wished them God’s speed as she saw them off.

  As predicted, Geoffroi was very angry at being left behind. ‘It’s not fair!’ he cried, the eternal protest of the child, and Josse took some time to explain all the reasons why he couldn’t go. To no avail, since the boy was still cross and upset when Helewise quietly came to stand beside Josse and announce that their provisions were packed and they were ready to go.

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ Josse muttered to Gus. ‘He’ll probably try to follow us.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, Tilly, Will, Ella and me’ll keep him out of mischief,’ Gus replied. He reached out his hand and, in an unexpected gesture, clasped Josse’s. ‘Good luck, sir,’ he added. ‘We’ll be praying for you.’ He paused. ‘All of you.’

  Josse opened his arms and embraced him. ‘We’ll be back as soon as we can manage it,’ he said gruffly. Then – for this was proving more painful than he had expected – he grabbed Helewise’s hand and hurried her out of the house, across the yard to where Will was waiting with the horses. They mounted, then put heels to the horses’ sides and hastened away.

  For a few moments, the House in the Woods rang to the echoes of goodbyes and the clatter of hooves on stone. Then the deep silence fell again.

  Helewise was very relieved to see that Josse looked his old self. She had been worrying about him for weeks – months, really – and had been at a loss to know what to do to restore his usual optimistic good spirits. He’d been missing Ninian, of course, ever since the young man went away, and their failure to catch up with him and bring him back last autumn had hit Josse very hard. As had her own role in the matter; she hoped he might at long last have forgiven her. It was going to be a rough trip, she mused with a wry, private smile, if he hadn’t.

  Then, to add to poor Josse’s woes, Meggie too had gone, and perhaps only Helewise understood in full how much pain her departure had caused him. That’s why he’s himself again, she thought now, riding hard to keep up with the pace he was setting as, away from the forest, the countryside opened up before them. Because the waiting is over at last and he’s actually able to do something.

  She was glad – more than glad; glad didn’t begin to describe it – that he had asked her to go with him.

  She had used the time of Josse’s distraction to do a great deal of thinking. Several things had happened – one, in particular – and she did not view the world, and her place in it, in quite the same way any more.

  She hoped very much that there was going to be a chance to tell him so.

  The forest was a great bulge to the west and, eventually, the north of the road. They were going at a steady, sustainable pace, for there were many miles to go. Presently, there came the sound of fast-moving horses from behind.

  Josse turned and met Helewise’s eyes, realizing that she, too, was remembering the last time this had happened.

  The horsemen came galloping round the bend and into view; not a big gang of roughs but just two men, Gervase de Gifford and one of his deputies. The deputy drew rein and Gervase came on alone, trotting up until his horse was close beside Alfred.

  Leaning towards Josse, Gervase said, ‘They told me at the house that you hadn’t long left. I had to catch you, Josse. There’s something I must tell you.’

  Instantly, Josse feared that something had happened to the prisoner; that Lord Benedict had arrived in a surprise dawn visit, dragged the man out and hanged him.

  But Gervase was shaking his head, smiling. ‘It’s not news from Hawkenlye that I bring,’ he said softly, ‘for, indeed, I did not stop to call in on my way up from Tonbridge.’ He paused, his light-green eyes intent on Josse’s. ‘The news is from much further afield.’

  And then Josse knew. ‘He’s safe? He’s all right?’ He felt his heart thumping in his chest like the feet of a galloping horse.

  ‘He left the south several weeks back,’ Gervase said, still in the same low voice, as if this were too secret a matter to be overheard even by Helewise or his own trusted deputy. ‘I’m told he’s making for Chartres.’

  Josse could have sung. A huge bubble of joy seemed to swell up inside him, making it hard to breathe for a moment. Then, reaching out to grasp Gervase’s hand, he said, the grin spreading right across his face, ‘So are we.’

  At Hawkenlye Abbey, the cry went up as the nuns were leaving the abbey church after tierce, which was the third office of the day. It was only then that the four guards, stumbling around after their long and exceptionally heavy sleep, had thought to go and check on the prisoner. Puzzled at finding themselves waking up in the small room by the undercroft door, they had wasted quite a lot of time wondering how they had got there and blaming each other for being too heavy-handed with the wine, of which they had a dim memory.

  The guard who looked after the key had been fooled by its presence, on the floor beside his hand, into believing nothing was amiss. How could there be, he had thought vaguely, when he still had the key?

  It might be incomprehensible, but the fact remained: the prisoner had gone. The four guards were all yelling at one another, their anger swiftly turning to fear as they realized the unpleasant truth: Tomas would be bringing Lord Benedict to the abbey later that morning, to collect a man who was no longer there.

  A man whom they had been ordered to guard.

  ‘It’s that bloody abbess’s fault,’ one of the men cried, loud enough for several Hawkenlye nuns and monks to overhear and making them frown their disapproval
. ‘She shouldn’t have brought us that spiced wine!’

  Another of the men rounded on him – the leader, if anyone was. ‘And that’s going to be our excuse, I suppose? The abbess brought us something tasty to drink, out of the kindness of her heart, and we forgot all about being on guard and drank it down till we were all so pissed we fell asleep?’

  ‘She probably put something in it to make us sleep,’ muttered the first man. ‘They know about potions and that, these nuns.’

  The leader swore in frustration, grabbing his companion by the collar. There was a ripping sound. ‘And Tomas is going to believe that, is he? He’s going to take your word – the word of a man facing the very serious charge of falling asleep on duty and letting his prisoner escape – over an abbess swearing blind she only brought us some warmed wine because it was a cold night?’

  ‘How did he get out?’ a third guard said.

  One of the others shuddered, making the sign against the evil eye. He muttered something.

  ‘What’s that?’ the leader demanded.

  ‘I said, he’s got magic powers,’ the man repeated, only slightly more loudly. ‘It’s them eyes, and that weird howling. Reckon he summoned the spirits, and they fetched him out.’

  The leader gave a furious, disgusted snort. ‘Try telling that to Lord Benedict!’

  ‘I still reckon we was drugged,’ said the man in the torn jerkin.

  The leader rounded on him, clutching his wrist so hard that he winced. ‘And I say I don’t want to hear another word about that!’ he hissed. ‘We’re in deep enough shit as it is without you going hurling accusations at the abbess. Who d’you think’s going to believe you?’

  ‘I’m only saying,’ the man mumbled.

  ‘Well, don’t say.’ He released him, and he stumbled and fell. The grumbling went on as the four men went back inside the undercroft.

  Tiphaine had been approaching the undercroft entrance as the exchange began, and had stopped, out of sight of the guards, to listen. Now she continued on her unobtrusive way over to the abbess’s room, smiling to herself.

  So far, so good.

  Abbess Caliste felt as if she were in a dream. The night just passed had been extraordinary. Her head buzzed with questions, although in her heart she understood, and already she was beginning to accept. Now she needed to decide how best to act and speak over the next crucial few hours.

  She stood up and strode around her room. She felt strange, even now; as if she were still half asleep.

  There was a quiet tap on the door. Caliste’s heartbeat quickened; were they here already? Oh, and she had had no time to work out what she would say . . .

  ‘Come in!’ she said loudly, with a confidence she was far from feeling.

  The door opened, and Tiphaine entered, shutting it quickly behind her. I might have known, Caliste thought with a wry smile. It was unlikely that Lord Benedict and his men would even bother to knock, and if they did, it would not be quietly and considerately.

  Caliste sank into her chair. Opposite her, Tiphaine stood quite still, watching her. Caliste waited. After a long pause, Tiphaine began to speak. She went on for some time, and Caliste did not interrupt.

  ‘How long had you known about him?’ she asked when finally Tiphaine fell silent.

  ‘I’d suspected what was going on for some time,’ she replied. ‘There’s a group of them, but it was his idea and he’s always been the leader. They look up to him. He’s special, see.’

  Caliste could readily understand what she meant.

  ‘They’ve been trying to protect the households on the forest fringes from these bands of brigands that have been preying on the defenceless. Someone’s got to,’ she added vehemently. ‘The forces of law and order don’t seem prepared to do their job properly and look after the vulnerable, and, in addition, the lads from the forest take it as a personal insult when violence occurs on the fringes of their domain.’

  ‘I know,’ Caliste said softly. She wasn’t sure that Tiphaine heard.

  ‘They hoped that, by demonstrating what would happen to those who attack the weak and helpless and abuse their positions of power, it would discourage others from acting in the same way,’ Tiphaine went on. ‘He’s been the inspiration, and he’s a fine leader, partly because he has quite a lot of the old magic about him.’ Her eyes darted quickly to Caliste’s, as if she wanted to check that this mention of magic was acceptable to the abbess of Hawkenlye. ‘He’s fierce, and strong, and full of supernatural abilities – they say he can make himself invisible. Some folk even claim he’s the Green Man come amongst us again.’ Tiphaine gave a rather unconvincing laugh, as if to imply she had no time for such fanciful ideas.

  Caliste smiled to herself.

  ‘It’s on account of that they all follow him, I reckon,’ Tiphaine added. Again, she shot that swift glance at Caliste.

  ‘Yes,’ Caliste breathed. She understood.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ Tiphaine asked.

  Caliste shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ It was the honest answer.

  ‘They’re blaming the wine.’

  ‘How long will it be until he is safe?’

  ‘He is safe now,’ Tiphaine replied quickly. ‘Already he’ll be far away, deep in the forest. He’s on his own territory now, and no man will find him unless he allows himself to be found.’

  ‘Will he continue in these acts of revenge?’

  There was a long silence. Eventually, Tiphaine said, ‘What do you think?’

  When Tiphaine had gone, Caliste sat gathering herself for what lay ahead. She got up, propped her door open and sat down again. She did not have long to wait, for presently she heard the sound of horses’ hooves – a large group of mounted men, to judge by the volume – and, presently, loud, angry voices. Then there came heavy footsteps along the cloister outside, and a large, stout, red-faced man erupted into her room, followed by a second man close behind him; several others were pushing and shoving in the doorway.

  The stout man came and leaned his hands on the table in front of Caliste, towering over her. ‘I am Lord Benedict de Vitré,’ he announced.

  ‘I thought perhaps you were,’ Caliste murmured.

  A further suffusion of blood flooded the red face. Clearly, he had detected the faint irony. ‘What the hell have you done with my prisoner?’ he demanded, spittle from his loose, wet mouth spraying over the table.

  Caliste drew back. ‘I have done nothing with him, save permit my nuns to tend his wounds,’ she replied coldly. ‘And I will inform you right now, Lord Benedict, to save you the trouble of asking to use it again: the punishment cell is to be destroyed this afternoon.’ She had only just made the decision, but this purple-faced bully wasn’t to know. ‘It will never again house anybody, be they clergy or layman. Is that clear?’

  Her firm voice had an effect on Lord Benedict, for he stood up and took a pace away from the table. It is true, then, Caliste thought. Stand up to a bully, and they step down.

  But Lord Benedict was not deterred for long. ‘Do what you like with your damned cell,’ he growled. ‘Where’s my prisoner? I’ve a rope waiting for him and a gaggle of peasants lined up to watch him hang. Those ignorant, insolent bastards need to find out what happens to men who take the law into their own hands.’

  ‘I have no idea where your prisoner is,’ Caliste said calmly and with almost perfect truth.

  Lord Benedict was eyeing her with deep suspicion. ‘You took wine out to the guards last night,’ he said, an accusing finger pointing at her heart like a dagger. ‘Funny thing for an abbess to do, wasn’t it?’

  She glared at him. Not prepared to dignify his second comment with a reply, she said, ‘I was working late into the night and my cellarer had provided spiced wine for me. I did not want it, so I took it out to the men on my way to the dormitory. We do not approve of waste, here.’ She let her eyes rest on his fat stomach. ‘Nor of overindulgence; it is your men’s own fault, Lord Benedict, if they act like gluttons.’

 
The man standing behind Lord Benedict stepped forward – Caliste recognized Tomas – and muttered something in his ear. Lord Benedict’s anger blasted out of him and, turning to Tomas, he shouted, ‘And what bloody good will that do? You can whip ’em all you like, Tomas, and I dare say they deserve it, but it won’t bring my fucking prisoner back!’

  Caliste stood up. She was secretly enjoying the scene, quite unfazed by the bad language, but it seemed better not to let on. ‘Restrain yourself, my lord,’ she said reprovingly. ‘Such words are not permitted within these walls.’

  He rounded on her, about to yell at her too, but she held his eyes with her own and, somewhat to her surprise, he subsided.

  ‘That f— That prisoner got out of a locked, bolted cell,’ he said with icy control. ‘Any ideas how he did it, my lady abbess?’ He laid heavy, sarcastic emphasis on her title.

  ‘Absolutely none,’ she replied. ‘According to my nuns, your guards think he used his magical eyes and his uncanny animal howl to summon supernatural assistance, so maybe that was it.’

  Lord Benedict appeared to comprehend that she was making fun of him, and he clearly did not like it at all. One hand clenched automatically into a fist, and for a worrying moment Caliste seriously thought he was about to hit her. Fortunately, he reconsidered.

  She nodded, slowly, thoughtfully, as if something had silently been agreed between the two of them. Perhaps it had . . . Then she said softly, ‘Hadn’t you better get on with organizing your search parties and looking for him? He probably has quite a start on you already, my lord, and your chances of finding him must surely lessen with every moment you waste here.’

  She thought she had gone too far. His face was maroon, his forehead bulging with veins like small, blue worms. He was covered in sweat, and a nerve pulsed beneath his right eye. Perhaps his heart will give out, she thought. She was quite surprised at how little the possibility worried her.

  It was the moment to seize the initiative; before he did. She said pleasantly, ‘Now, Lord Benedict, I am, as I’m sure you can appreciate, a busy woman. If there is nothing else I can do for you . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished.