by Clio Gray
‘George, Joachim,’ said the Abbot warmly, as both George and Joachim were ushered into his room. ‘And how are you feeling, Joachim? You look much better than even a few days past.’
‘I feel it, thank you, Abbot,’ Joachim said, and meant it. In fact he felt pretty good, despite the arm that was strapped across his chest from having dislocated his shoulder when he fell, not that George was having any of it.
‘He should still be in his bed another week …’ George began, Joachim cutting him off abruptly. Lord knew he was grateful for George’s ministrations, without which he would undoubtedly have fared far worse, maybe even have died out there by Saint Drostan’s shrine, but enough was enough. The man was turning into the most intolerable kind of nursemaid, and that was not for Joachim. He was the one who tended to the sick, not the one tended.
‘Not at all,’ he said in rebuttal. ‘Indeed I was meaning to talk to you, Abbot. I think I’ll be fine to return to my normal duties any day now.’ Joachim ignored the snort that came from George but smiled tolerantly adding, purely for George’s benefit:
‘As long as I have my helper here by my side for just a little longer.’
The Abbot nodded. He was not unaware of the devotion newly sprung in George Gwilt since his part in rescuing the survivors of the Collybuckie, nor the impact made on him by finding the body of Golo Eck and thereafter his involvement – facilitated by Joachim – of taking care of his corpse. George had even spoken a few words when Golo Eck was buried, a feat more daunting for George than anything he’d ever done, and far more than Golo’s ward – Ruan Peat – had done, for by then Ruan had skidaddled, scarpering off soon as he was able to Deventer. Yet another reason – if he needed one – why the Abbot had come to the decision he had.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m glad of it, but that’s not why you’re here. There’s someone I want you both to meet.’
There was a knock on the door and the Abbot nodded at its timeliness. Mysterious, God’s ways, but occasionally just exactly when you needed them.
‘Come in,’ he said, and in came Greta Finnerty.
She’d been given – at the Abbot’s orders – the pick of abandoned clothing from the Servants’ stores. If she was put off by the fact it had come from dead people she’d made no mince of it, and had found herself a new old pair of boots that actually fitted her feet, a new old shirt and a new old pair of britches. She hadn’t entirely abandoned her previous look and refused absolutely to swap her scruffy leather jacket for something more serviceable. But in she came, undoubtedly a girl this time, despite the boy’s woollen bonnet on her head that hid whatever hair was underneath.
‘This is Greta Finnerty,’ the Abbot introduced her, Greta unabashed by the situation and looking hard at both Joachim and George, though mostly at Joachim, for it was plain by his garb and demeanour he was a Brother, presumably the one she’d come looking for.
‘Greta has come all the way from Ireland,’ the Abbot went on, speaking first in Dutch and then in English so all would understand. ‘She’s seeking our help which, as you know, is our primary duty. She’s carrying the last possessions of a man who is believed to have died some while back in Ireland, a man named Fergus Murtagh, of the household of the late Golo Eck, and has letters, one of which must go to Hendrik Grimalkin in Deventer.’
Joachim drew in a sharp breath and shifted his gaze from the Abbot to Greta, but the Abbot wasn’t finished and snagged the attention of all three with what he said next.
‘And I need you both to accompany Greta to Deventer, make enquiries there for Ruan Peat at the library of the Athenaeum, secure delivery of one of the two letters she has in her possession. The other I can take care of myself.’
George froze, gripping the back of Joachim’s chair to keep himself upright. Joachim, by contrast, was rigid as an icicle. He stared unwaveringly at the Abbot, a man he thought of as a friend, unable to fathom what he considered tantamount to betrayal. George found his voice first, at least what little he could squeeze out.
‘But Joachim’s hardly healed,’ he protested, ‘And I’ve never been anywhere further than three villages over. It’s just not possible,’
‘And yet it is,’ the Abbot contested quietly, keeping his eyes latched on Joachim’s. ‘There’s things you all need to do,’ he said in his habitually calm tone. ‘Greta has a duty to deliver her letter where it has been sent, which ultimately is Deventer; and Joachim could do with a little holiday from his chores. He left his family there in a manner that has never been fully resolved, and the time to do both is now. And you, George,’ the Abbot went on without mercy, ‘have only just found your faith and you need it testing. And here is that test. Fallen into our laps like manna. Three people, three problems, one solution. A holy trinity, one might say.’
The Abbot looked away from them all, stretching his neck, rubbing at his jaws with finger and thumb before going on.
‘And I will not allow a young girl to travel across the country without protection, and when she gets to Deventer she will undoubtedly need someone to intercede on her behalf with Hendrik Grimalkin, for the probability is that Ruan Peat has already moved on.’
He had the grace to clear his throat as Joachim flexed the fingers of his free hand, the storm brewing behind Joachim’s eyes plain to see.
‘Can you not send anyone else with her?’ Joachim spoke in a monotone. He knew the Abbot had made up his mind and that, once made, it would be harder to break than a feather going at an anvil, but he had to try.
‘I could,’ the Abbot said soft and slow, ‘but I will not. Both you and George had the most to do with Ruan and Golo while they were with us, and if anyone has a need to speak to Hendrik Grimalkin, Joachim, then it’s you.’
Decision made. No point arguing. Padraig O’Shaunessy had not spent the last forty years of his life - travelling from Cork to becoming the Abbot of the Servants of the Sick on Walcheren - for nothing. He’d earned his authority and it was not to be disobeyed.
Joachim, George and Greta set off from Walcheren to Deventer that same morning, soon as they had gathered what they considered necessary, delayed only by George having to nip back to his village to tell them what was what. Their journey was shorter and far less arduous than Ruan and Caro’s had been for the Abbot had granted them monies to assist. They took a trap to Vlissingen and from Vlissingen onto a boat to Amsterdam, and from there another straight to Deventer, arriving only two days after they’d left the Servants.
Once in Deventer Joachim led the way, this being his home patch, no matter he’d left a long time ago. On the way, he’d freed his bandaged his arm, flinging it in wide circles through the air to grant it back some strength, invigorated by the sea air. It was an odd feeling for him, this homecoming, but the more they’d gone on the more the Abbot’s words had taken root, and far from dreading seeing Hendrik – now the meeting was imminent, and now he’d had time to reflect on it – he was actively looking forward to it, if with trepidation. There was a jauntiness to his step as he led his two companions up the way from the river to the Brink, waving his arm at the great conglomeration of market stalls sited there as if they were all his own doing.
Greta too was chirpy as a grasshopper on a hot summer’s day, fascinated by how different everything looked, how colourful, compared to back home – every shop, every building, every street, everything everybody was wearing – all was new to her, and she couldn’t stop talking. George was thankful he couldn’t understand a word she said, but found it oddly comforting, the chattering of this young girl and the evident thrum of adventure that energised her every movement and exclamation. They were about to leave the Brink, head toward the Singel, when Joachim placed his hand on George’s arm and pointed.
‘Look,’ he said, and George did, just as the clock in the square struck midday and out came the woodcutter, chopping diligently.
George laughed to see it as Joachim had described, the first time Joachim had ever heard George laugh, the sound like the creaking of
a robust door being dragged across the floor. A miracle, Joachim thought, hoping there were more to come, hoping that Hendrik would not send him off into the wide afternoon without even giving him the time of day. He gazed up at the odd trail of smoke blowing across the sky, reminding him there would probably be a new pope in a couple of weeks, Pius VI believed to be on his deathbed. Even in a community so far flung as the Servants of the Sick on Walcheren they’d heard the news that he was ailing badly and would most likely be dead in a matter of days. He hoped the man could hang on until Joachim got back to the Servants, for the election of a new Pope was not to be taken lightly. Prayer would be needed, there being two prime candidates to take over the role, both looking good on the outside and one maybe a nose above the other. But you could never tell. It was a time that Joachim wanted to spend amongst his own and not here in Deventer, in the very heart of the Protestant north.
‘It’s this way,’ Joachim urged, eager to get on now that he was he was here, enjoying the easy brightness of the day, Greta and George following on his coat tails as he marched quickly on; until they turned the corner onto the Singel when all three stopped in their tracks. A great black tide looked to have been swept down half its length, seeing it to be wet when it should have been dry, and covered in dark detritus, scraps of charred paper and cloth caught upon its surface, a faint glow emanating from a heap of rubble at the next intersection down.
They could feel the heat coming from it as they approached, the corner house shrugging down from its neighbour, almost completely collapsed, hanging on by a few smoking joists that lay at uncomfortable angles above an ash-covered heap. The adjoining house was black with smoke but still standing. Across the Singel itself was the thin snaking of a pump-operated hose, a litter of buckets strewn higgledy-piggledy along its length, a small gaggle of men squatted down by the capstans of a pier that jutted out into the waters of the lagoon beyond, ready to take up arms if the fire should start up again, although that seemed unlikely.
Every hair on Joachim’s body stood up and itched. Twenty four years since he’s stepped along this street but he remembers every stone of it, and knows the destroyed house to be his family home. His stomach tightens, forcing his breath into short hard gasps.
‘What’s happened?’ he managed to squeeze out, while his skin goes into a cold sweat.
‘Whole place went up in a fireball yesterday afternoon,’ one of the men about the capstan offered. ‘One minute nothing, next it’s like hell itself has come up for a bit of a look around.’
‘Two dead, far as we know,’ said another. ‘Both women. Both…’
His voice petered out abruptly as the memory of the smell hit him and he turned his head, retched and spat, still seeing Teresa torso twitching.
‘Women?’ Joachim asked, a couple of the men standing up on seeing Joachim’s religious garb, the rest taking no mind.
‘Grimalkin’s wife,’ one of the standing men supplied, fiddling with the rim of the cap he’d thrust hastily off his head and into his hands as the religious approached. ‘And the woman a couple of doors down. Poor sod.’
Joachim’s throat was so dry it was all he could do to scratch the words out without choking.
‘And Hendrik Grimalkin himself?’
‘Went off to that library of his. The Athenaeum,’ came the reply, Joachim gasping with relief, managing a nod because he knew about the library and of course that was where Hendrik would have gone, and where Joachim needed to go now. The stink of the burned-down house was getting right into his lungs and he turned to go, George and Greta trailing after him, Greta frowning, turning back to look at the wrecked house again, wondering what it meant.
‘Mind he’s just lost his wife in there,’ one of the men called after them, seeing Greta’s looking. ‘And she’s still in there somewhere, though Christ knows there’ll be little enough left of her to find, if we ever do.’
31
AND NOW THE ATHENAEUM
The door-bell of the Athenaeum jangled loudly, a coarse sound, like a nightjar screeching into an otherwise peaceful dawn, Ruan jumping up and running towards it as if it was about to save his life. He suddenly had in his head that it might be Fergus come to drag him from the mire and, despite the fact they’d recently got on no better than a horseradish root rubbed up against a grater, there was no one he would rather find standing there, except Golo Eck but that, of course, was impossible. He got to door before Isaac – the watchman – got there and undid the bolts, wrenched it open and stood there staggering with surprise.
‘Christ All bloody Mighty,’ he announced without grace or civility. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Is Hendrik here?’ Joachim asked, pushing past Ruan who hadn’t had the wit to move. Ruan jerked his head.
‘Down the bottom. Hasn’t moved a muscle since we got here last night. Must have the bladder of an ox.’
‘Have some pity, boy,’ George said sharply. ‘He’s just lost his wife, and in a dreadful way.’
‘Can think of worse,’ the words slipped out before Ruan could stop them, ending his sentence with an embarrassed clicking of his tongue.
‘No use clicking,’ said the third visitor, ‘better bite that tongue right out of your head before you say anything else.’
Ruan took a step backwards as a young girl marched in behind George, and it was definitely a girl, despite her get up. She immediately took off her moth-eaten cap as if she’d just entered a church, releasing a short crowd of ginger spikes that shot up like hedgehog spines.
‘Crikey, but that’s a lot of books!’ Greta said, Ruan taking a few quick paces to catch her up, his eyes latched onto her back as it swayed and swivelled as she took in the vast atrium of the library.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he got out. ‘If this place had gone up instead of the house it’d be burning from here till Sunday. Chuck in a few of the idiots who spend their days buried in this mausoleum and what a party that would be.’
He’d not registered she was speaking English nor that he’d replied in the same. He’d been long enough in Holland to be almost naturalised to the Dutch but was captivated by that spikey hair, wanting to put out his hand and brush his palm across it but she turned just then and pinned him with a hard, green-eyed stare.
‘That’s horrible. Why would you say such a thing?’ she sounded angry and Ruan bristled.
‘What would you know?’ It was a weak comeback, and he knew it. Greta straightened her shoulders and glared at him.
‘Plenty, as it happens. Ever seen a barn full of men being burned alive?’
Ruan blinked because of course he hadn’t, and presumably neither had she.
‘Well I have,’ she said in immediate rebuttal, ‘and I can tell you that you’d never want to see or hear such a thing again.’
Ruan was without words. His head had gone completely blank. The girl looked at him for another two seconds that seemed to stretch on and on, before jutting her chin at him.
‘Thought that might shut you up,’ she said defiantly, ‘and if ever a mouth needed shutting then it’s yours.’
Further down the library George was busy striking his tinder and lighting the few candles liberally placed upon the desks, at least the few that hadn’t already burned down to stumps. It was only a half hour after noon but the thousands and thousands of books on their hundreds and hundreds of shelves sucked away the light, leaving the place in permanent shadow.
Joachim was standing a few yards in front of him, completely still. There was a tiny red circle on the back of his habit exactly where the arrow had struck him through. George worried for him, wanted to go to him, but understood how huge a moment this was for Joachim. He shook his head. He knew what it was like to lose a wife and wouldn’t wish it on anyone, let alone in the circumstances he’d witnessed up on the Singel. Joachim must have been thinking the same thing because he took one step forward, hesitated, turned and looked at George.
‘No better time,’ George said quietly
in response, ‘and no worse. But it has to be done.’
Joachim nodded, rubbing his eyes with his fingers before moving on down the library towards his son.
‘So who are you, and what are you doing here?’ Ruan had regained speech and plonked himself down on the seat opposite Greta, who had chosen to keep a respectful distance from what was about to unfold down below and sat herself neatly at the desk closest to the Athenaeum’s doors.
‘Not sure what it’s got to do with you,’ she said, with such disdain that everything inside Ruan shrivelled like a salt-covered slug. Jesus, but she was annoying, getting right under his skin.
‘Get chucked out of the work house?’ he asked, trying to sound casual, looking pointedly at her clothes, his eyes resting a little too long on the small rise of her breasts.
‘Hear they’ve still got places,’ Greta replied, quick as a snake flicking out its tongue, ‘if you’re looking for somewhere to call home.’
Ruan flinched. Words a bit too close to home. He let out a breath. He’d met his match and knew it, and oddly did not begrudge it. He’d not had much contact with women, or girls – for plainly she was a couple of years younger than him – and when he had, his kneejerk reaction was to dismiss them. They’d been servants, cooks, one governess who’d not lasted a week in the wilderness of Loch Eck. But this one was different. She’d seen men burned alive in a barn, for God’s sake, or so she said.
He looked at her speculatively. She was Irish, that much was plain. Different type of accent from Fergus, but a bogtrotter all the same. And then it hit him like a side of beef. Irish. Like Fergus. Like where Fergus had gone after he and Golo boarded the Collybuckie. And maybe a lifeline, a way out, especially now Hendrik was a mewling wreck and unlikely to be amenable to helping Ruan, having more pressing concerns of his own. But Fergus, maybe this was Fergus, or Fergus’s way of getting a message to him, and oh God, he hoped that it was so.