The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  I should have thought for myself, she told herself. Not sure even now if she could have made and administered with her own hands the concoction that had aborted the foetus, she realized what she ought to have done. She should have told the poor young woman she could not give the help she most wanted, but then have offered another sort of help: to care for and support her through the pregnancy, make sure she had assistance at the birth, and then quietly take the child to the abbey orphanage. Sooner or later, a home would have been found for it; there were always barren couples wishing to adopt, and probably there always would be.

  Because of what I did, Helewise thought gravely, a human being has been robbed of the chance to live.

  I will not allow such a thing to happen again.

  The secret that she was hugging to herself – and that she longed to share with Josse, were he to be a little more approachable – was the hard-won realization that she was not, and no longer wished to be, any part of the church as it now was. Her love for the beloved Saviour was as strong as ever, and she knew, without even thinking about it, that it was a devotion that would last until she took her dying breath. But her time back in the little cell by the chapel had made her understand that good deeds could be done even if you didn’t belong to an abbey and wear a habit. Many of those who had sought out her help had no idea she had once been a nun; once been an abbess. By those who came in need, she had been taken as what she now was: an ordinary woman offering a little food, a little precious time to listen to worries and anxieties, a hand to hold, and advice when and if it was asked for.

  She had prayed in the chapel, and she had spent wakeful hours at night in contemplation. Something seemed to have happened to her, and at last she knew what it was. Perhaps she had needed to be back in the vicinity of Hawkenlye Abbey to understand at last that she no longer belonged there. The time spent with Meggie and Little Helewise – yes, and with Tiphaine – in the cell by the chapel had shown her that there was another way. She might no longer be a Hawkenlye nun, but there was still a vital, important role for her among those who helped the needy and the desperate. That role could be carried out anywhere, and if she moved back to the House in the Woods it would not be long before word spread and those in need found her there; not only her, for there were others who lived there with far more to offer in the way of practical help.

  And, as a free woman who answered no longer to the church but only to God and her own conscience, she could do as she pleased and take her own decisions. One, in particular: she raised her head and searched the crowded road ahead.

  Yes. Josse.

  Images and memories of him rushed into her mind and heart, almost as if they had been waiting for her to complete her long and complicated meditation and, now that she had, were too impatient to hold back any longer. With them came a fresh understanding of what life must have been like for him since she left the abbey and went to the House in the Woods.

  I am sorry, Josse, she said silently to his broad back. I came to your house too soon, and I made you suffer because, not knowing what I wanted, I forced you to question everything you thought was solid and unchanging.

  She knew she loved him; she always had done. She was almost certain he reciprocated that love. Surely, no man would endure what he had from a woman unless he loved her.

  She would have to find out. After what she had put him through, it was only right for her to declare herself first, hoping and trusting that he’d respond in the way she prayed he would.

  As, at long last, the cry came up from those far ahead that Chartres was in sight, Helewise felt her insides flutter with nerves.

  Have courage, she told herself. Then, straightening her shoulders, she stood up in the stirrups for her first glimpse of the town.

  Meggie first sensed danger as she and Jehan reached the outer perimeter of Chartres. She thought at first that the growing sense of unease was because the streets were heaving with people, animals, carts and barrows, and she was not used to such a crush. She and Jehan had been forced to dismount, and Jehan was now leading Auban. Admittedly, the roads had become steadily more congested as they’d approached the town – the sunshine had brought out the crowds, and everyone seemed bent on having a look at how the cathedral was progressing – but Meggie didn’t think she’d ever before encountered so many people crammed together in such a small area.

  Her dismay grew. She was sure there were eyes watching them, and not with any kindly intent. Jehan had headed into the workmen’s section of the town, where artisans in the various crafts associated with cathedral building congregated. The streets were narrow and, because of the houses and hovels rising up on either side, relatively dark, especially in contrast with the sunshine outside. Many of the structures were open-fronted workshops, and glaziers, masons and carpenters could be seen hard at work. In a smithy, a great furnace suddenly blazed up as the blacksmith, stripped to the waist with a leather apron protecting his bare, sweating chest, worked furiously at the bellows.

  Passageways led off the main tracks, small windows overlooked the street, and the road itself twisted and turned. There were, Meggie realized, dozens of places where someone could hide and watch, unobserved, the comings and goings.

  The warning was now sounding loud in her head. She hurried to catch up with Jehan and, grabbing hold of his sleeve, spoke urgently to him. ‘Someone’s watching us,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know,’ he whispered. Then, giving her a quick smile, he added, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon be safely under cover. If I can remember the right way . . .’ He stared around him, frowning. Then, his expression clearing, he pointed. ‘Up there. The iron-workers’ lodgings are at the end of that street.’

  He set off again, and she hurried to follow, wanting to keep close. She had not appreciated that the different crafts had their own areas, but it made good sense. In her own craft, people enjoyed the chance to get together and compare their ideas and experiments, and it was no surprise to discover that other métiers did the same.

  Jehan stopped outside a low door leading into a one-roomed dwelling, with a beaten earth floor and mud walls. Pushing it open, he ushered Meggie inside. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said with a grin, ‘if it merits the name home.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she protested. There was a low bed in the far corner, a rough table and two stools and, on a smaller table, a big pitcher for water and a shallow bowl. The tiny window was unglazed, but the weather was mild, and, besides, she had been sleeping under the stars for the last few nights. This would be no worse than the hut in the Hawkenlye forest on nights when the fire wouldn’t draw. ‘If you tell me where to find the well,’ she added, ‘I’ll fetch water.’ She indicated the pitcher.

  He hesitated, looking to his right and left, and she knew that, like her, he still felt that unseen, unfriendly presence. ‘The well’s down at the end of this street,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. But be careful, oui?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had turned away, clicking to Auban to get him moving again; presumably in the direction of whatever stabling was available. Instinctively, she reached out, grabbing his hand. ‘You be careful, too.’ She met his eyes, almost black in the dim light. She read his expression. ‘You feel it, don’t you?’ she whispered.

  He nodded briefly, then hurriedly led Auban away.

  She went inside, picked up the pitcher and set off to the well, filling the pitcher and then turning back the way she had come. There were other iron-workers’ dwellings on either side of the street, although nobody was busy in the workrooms, and the lodgings appeared similarly deserted. Perhaps they were all up at the cathedral? Anyway, they weren’t to be found. If Jehan had expected to meet up with the workmen he had known here before he’d set off for England, it looked as if he was going to be disappointed.

  As she went back into the little room, a thought struck her: on the boat that brought them over the narrow seas, Jehan had told her how the men and women spying on King John’s movements had come to Chartres specifically to
seek out Jehan and his group of Bretons, knowing that they would be eager to answer the summons and take swift advantage of the opportunity to strike against the king who had murdered their prince. Did that mean, then, that all the workmen who had once lived in these empty buildings had been part of the group now, presumably, on their way to Wales? The fact that there was nobody here suggested that it did.

  She put the heavy jug down on the little table, pouring some into the shallow bowl so that she could wash her hands and face. The water was cool and very refreshing, and she bent lower, scooping up a handful and trickling it down the back of her neck.

  It was thus, bending down with her back to the door, fully engaged in her wash and enjoying it so much that she momentarily forgot her fear and her apprehension, that they jumped her. The first she knew was a heavy hand on her mouth and a brawny arm wrapped round her chest and upper arms, pinning them to her sides. Panicking at the sensation of being so suddenly helpless, she kicked out hard behind her with her right foot, hearing a grunt of pain as the side of her boot sole raked down a shin bone.

  The arm round her chest tightened, and she could not draw breath. ‘Stop that, bitch,’ said a voice in her ear, ‘or I’ll crush the life out of you.’ The arm tightened some more, and she thought she heard her ribs creak. She forced herself to relax.

  ‘Get her over here, behind the door,’ a second voice ordered curtly. ‘Jacques, get over there too.’

  Trying to turn her head to look – difficult, with the brutal hand over her face – Meggie saw that there were three of them. Three big, tough men, armed with knives and their own huge, scarred fists. And Jehan would not know they were there. Oh, dear God, he wouldn’t stand a chance!

  She started wriggling, twisting and turning, trying everything she could to escape the grip of her captor. He moved the hand from her mouth but, even as she took a deep breath and prepared to shout out, he bunched it into a fist and hit her very hard on the side of her head.

  She saw bright lights, and then blackness.

  She could not have been out for long, for she came back to herself to see Jehan on his knees, held by two of the men, one each side, who were forcing his head and shoulders down to the ground. His forehead was actually in the dirt.

  His sword was propped up beside the door.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ the third man said approvingly. ‘A bit of humility doesn’t go amiss, although I can’t promise it’ll help you any, my friend, once you stand before King John of England and explain why you and your companions were planning on joining those bastard Welshmen, damn their impudence, in their fight against him.’ He paused, a smile spreading over his hard face. ‘Didn’t think we knew about you, did you? Well, let me tell you, you’re not the only men to have organized an efficient spy network. Did you really believe England’s borders aren’t watched? Or that, having picked up one of your lot and persuaded his tongue to loosen, we wouldn’t come back here and root out the rest of you?’

  Jehan managed to raise his head sufficiently to look the man in the eyes. ‘What did you do to him?’ he demanded.

  The big man laughed. ‘We didn’t do anything, except give him a bag of gold. He betrayed you, my friend.’ He bent down, his face close to Jehan’s. ‘A piece of advice: if you can afford to buy information rather than torture it out of your captive, you’d be surprised at how much better the results are.’ He nodded, as if agreeing with himself, and straightened up. Then he gave a curt nod to the men holding Jehan, and one of them put a heavy foot on the back of his neck, forcing him down again.

  Meggie’s head was thumping, but she knew she must think. These were the king’s men, and, once they succeeded in getting Jehan back over the seas to England to face their master, the outlook for him was terrible. She could not let that happen.

  She was lying on her side, facing into the room, and the man who had held her was directly in front of her. Nobody was watching her. She drew up her knees and carefully turned over so that her legs were underneath her body. She rested on her elbows for a moment, steadying herself, then, not wanting to wait and risk someone noticing her movements, gathered her strength and pushed herself off the floor, upward and forward, head down, arms held rigid and crossed over her breasts, so that she drove like a battering ram into the big man’s back.

  He felt as if he were made of stone, and for a terrible moment she thought her desperate plan had failed. But she had caught him unawares and, off balance, he took a step forward, tripped and fell against one of the men holding Jehan. It was enough for Jehan, who was up and on his feet in the blink of an eye, swooping down to pick up his sword and then grabbing her arm with his free hand and flying for the doorway.

  She thought they’d got away. But then she felt someone grab her round the legs, and she fell to the ground, her hand dragged out of Jehan’s grip. He twisted round, staring at her out of shocked and horrified eyes. ‘Go on!’ she yelled. ‘It’s you they want, not me – run!’

  He didn’t run. Instead, he reached down and helped her to her feet, pulling her out of her captor’s grasp. But in saving her, he had condemned himself, for now the big man had hold of him.

  ‘It is you who must run,’ he said. He pushed her very hard away from him, up the deserted street towards the town.

  She ran a couple of paces, then turned round. ‘I can’t!’ she wailed.

  He flicked his head round very briefly and, for a heartbeat, his dark eyes held hers. ‘You must,’ he said as he turned back to face his assailants. He had wrested himself out of the big man’s grasp – damaging him somehow in the process, for the man was doubled up with pain – and was holding him and the others at bay with his sword. ‘I can’t come with you just yet. Either they or I must die, for it must end here,’ he added softly.

  The big man was kneeling on the ground now, but his two companions were edging forward, their eyes on the point of Jehan’s sword. They were muttering, heads close together, and Meggie caught a few chilling words that sounded like let the woman go and kill him right here and now.

  Jehan shot her another quick look, and there was a message in his expression . . . and she suddenly knew what she must do.

  She turned and fled up the street, the sound of her feet echoing off the walls. Either they or I must die. Kill him here and now. Oh, oh, but there were three of them – the big man would surely soon be up again – and Jehan was alone. By herself she could not help him fight them all, but the cathedral was nearby, and surely there were workmen there, maybe even men who knew Jehan, who would help her. If only she could be quick enough – she redoubled her efforts, flying up the street – then there was a hope, a faint hope, that she could bring help before it was too late.

  Forcing herself to keep in mind the image of him swinging his sword – that ancient, magical sword with power in its very metal – she burst out of the narrow street and came face to face with the cathedral.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Ninian was deep in his reverie. He felt uplifted; as if some power outside himself was entering into him, filling him with its own strange force. It was odd, he thought – as much as he was capable of thought just then, in his trance-like state – for, although he was in no doubt about the strength of the weird power, he was also quite sure that it meant him no harm. Quite the contrary, in fact; he felt as if he were surrounded with the warmth of love.

  He had no idea of how long he’d been down in the crypt, eyes closed, kneeling before the Madonna and child. Time seemed to have stopped; either that, or somehow he had entered another realm that lay parallel to the real one, a place that closely resembled it but yet was subtly different. Could two worlds exist side by side? he wondered dreamily. If so, then maybe he had slipped unwittingly through the portal.

  He thought he might risk opening his eyes.

  He was in the same place, or it felt as if he was, for it was cool, dark, silent, and both walls and floor were made of stone. But before him there was not a statue in a niche; there was a ragged-edged hole
in the ground. It was filled with water, the surface of which seemed to broil slowly and steadily, as if a spring welled up in it.

  The very air was filled with unearthly power, and Ninian knew without even thinking about it that he was in the presence of the spirits.

  It was enough – oh, God, it was more than enough. He forced his eyes to close again, pressing his hands hard against his eyelids.

  He did not know if it was no more than a product of his imagination, but, just before he shut off the extraordinary sights that his mind could not accept, he thought he saw his mother.

  He must have fallen into some sort of swoon.

  He was awakened by the sound of voices; a woman, shouting, screaming for help; footsteps running hard; angry protests. The woman’s voice again.

  Despite his efforts to shut it away and forget all about it, he was still half in his dream world, and for a moment he thought the shouting voice was Joanna’s.

  But then he realized it wasn’t.

  Leaping to his feet, he raced across the crypt and up the stone steps. Panting, dizzy, he emerged out on to the floor of the cathedral.

  She was standing in the middle of a group of cross-looking officials, many of them in clerical robes and all of them remonstrating with her, angry, apparently, at her unseemly behaviour within God’s house. She was frantic, pleading with them to help her, go with her, and all of them were shaking their heads in incomprehension.

  It was extraordinary, he thought in a moment’s clarity, but he was not in the least surprised to see her.

  He pushed his way through the clerics and approached her. He spoke her name, very softly.

  She spun round – he noticed she had a large bruise on the side of her face – and, after one swift, delighted look, fell into his arms. Then, allowing herself no more than an instant, she pulled away, glared up at him and, as if he had been deliberately detaining her, said, ‘There’s no time for that! He’s in terrible danger, and we have to help him!’