by Sarah Rayne
‘Master Firkin closed his letter with an apparently casual question as to whether the cottage might be available for him to buy for, if so, he would be very interested to discuss the matter.
‘Thankfully, there was time to draft and then to dispatch a letter to Alberic (by way of the invaluable Dan again, who promised to deliver it into Alberic’s very hands). I wrote that no repairs were required, and that instructions are that the cottage is to remain in the joint ownership of the Chandos family and this convent, and never to pass from that ownership.
‘I fear it was not an entirely satisfactory response, but it was the best that I could manage in the short time available. Dan will see to it that signs warning trespassers away are posted around the land at strategic points as soon as possible.
‘Mother Superior and I have charged Dan with the task of caretaking the convent for us. In my capacity as bursar, I have been able to place a sum of money at his disposal, for the undertaking of any repairs to the convent’s fabric. He will engage the services of Master Alberic Firkin as and when necessary.
‘After Mother Superior had gone away, I laid upon Dan another task.
‘“A memorial, d’you mean, Sister?” he said, having listened carefully to my request. “D’you mean like a statue or a stone tablet?”
‘“Not exactly a memorial, Dan. A memory. Something I want to preserve in the event that … In the event of my not returning.” I handed him the page I had carefully cut from the old book. I had done this in the privacy of my room, cutting the paper close to the centre binding of the book so that it would be virtually impossible for the page’s removal to be noticed.
‘“I want these images to be created in some form,” I said. “And for it to be placed in the church. Can you arrange for that?”
‘Dan was studying the illustration. It is a reproduction (I think this is the right word) of an old engraving, and extremely clear.
‘“It doesn’t matter what form is used,” I said. “Stone, marble, glasswork – whatever seems most suitable.”
‘“I’m no expert, but I’d think wood carving’d be best,” he said at length. “What they call alto-relief.”
‘For a gardener, he has a remarkable amount of knowledge. I said, pleased, “Yes, alto-relief. I think that would be exactly right.”
‘“It’s the kind of thing you see in churches,” he said. “On rood screens and suchlike. You could have a screen – or even panels. A panel inside the main door, maybe.”
‘“That sounds very suitable. Would you know of a workman who could do that kind of work?”
‘“There’s a chap over to Little Minching I could have a word with,” said Dan. “He’d charge a fair amount, but I’d argue the convent’s cause for you.” He folded the illustration away carefully and gave me another of his direct looks. “I’m hoping it won’t be necessary to do any of this, Sister.”
‘I said, “It won’t be, Dan. We intend to come back.”
‘I hope that work – that carving – will never have to be commissioned. But if I do have to face death, it will feel good to know that I may have dispersed the darkness of those images; not by destroying the music, because I don’t believe music is something that can ever be destroyed. It lingers in people’s memories – it gets passed on, generation to generation. But by placing those images in a church – perhaps it is not fanciful to say by trapping them in a holy place, a place consecrated to God – the dark essence of it may be diluted.’
It’s the Lemurrer, thought Phin, laying down the small book for a moment. That’s what she’s talking about. She went to France, although she doesn’t make it clear why – maybe she will later. And she never came back. None of them did. But Dan faithfully carried out her request. He had the engraving she gave him copied – carved in wood – and he had it placed in the church. Then, to make sure he had done what she wanted, he had another one made for the convent itself – this building I’m in now. Did he know what the images actually represented, I wonder? It doesn’t sound as if he did. She knew, though. Sister Cecilia. I’m glad I’ve got a name for her.
It was after one o’clock by this time, but sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He re-arranged his pillows, wished he had another slug of Dilys Davy’s port and brandy, and turned to the next section.
It looked as if this had been written immediately before the nuns had left Cresacre. It was vaguely annoying that Sister Cecilia had not dated any of the entries – there was only the information on the title page that the book had been printed in 1798. But it would not have been written with an eye to publication. It seemed likely that it had been edited and printed after her death.
It was intriguing to wonder who had done that editing, and who had arranged for the publication.
FIFTEEN
‘Earlier this evening we held a small service in our chapel. I believe Mother Superior thought we should draw strength and comfort from the familiar surroundings and the atmosphere of prayer and serenity.
‘We prayed for strength and guidance during our journey, and Chimaera and Dan both attended the service; in fact Chimaera insisted on taking part in it. He said he had sung in an Italian choir as a boy; he was very fond of sacred music, and he would like to sing as part of the service this evening. He rendered for us “Joy to the World”, and I was able to accompany him on the organ. With all his faults, it must be said that Chimaera’s voice is beautiful, and also his disposition is extremely amiable. He did not in the least mind Sister Agnes telling him afterwards that “Joy to the World” was a Christmas carol. He simply said, very courteously, that it had turned out to be the only piece that he and I both knew, and added that he thought the lines about heaven and nature singing were applicable in any season.
‘He and Dan took supper with us after the service (Dan very irreverently referred to it as the last supper), and the two of them shared a flagon of wine. I have no idea where the wine came from and I cannot think either of them would have plundered the little stock of communion wine, which is kept in the sacristy. Mother Superior once offered a glass of it to Sir John Chandos, and when she told him that it was obtained for us by the Black Boar, and that she believed it was what was termed “off the wood”, Sir John said, “Oh, dear God”, and politely declined.
‘While we ate, Chimaera suggested that we might infuse our journey with a modicum of adventure by thinking of it as a quest. He embarked on a description of some of the great quests of literature – he speaks fluently and vividly, and his accent makes his speech attractive. Everyone was very interested, especially Anne-Marie (I do hope we are not heading for a difficult situation there). Chimaera waxed lyrical on the voyages of Sinbad and also of Jason and the Argonauts. I suspect Mother Superior and Sister Agnes both wished he had not gone on to relate the tale of Odysseus, though, which is full of violence, and that Dan had not then contributed the legend of Scheherazade, which has certain questionable aspects.
‘I would not have expected a gardener to be familiar with Persian legend, but Dan constantly surprises. And it has to be said that he was quite restrained in his description of the thousand and one nights, and that he fielded Anne-Marie’s innocent questions afterwards very tactfully.
‘Finally, and at last, we are ready to set off.
‘At first light we shall make our quiet and unobtrusive way down to the highway, and wait at the appointed place. We shall wear our dark cloaks, and we do not think we will attract any attention.
‘Chimaera will join us there. He has already painted for us a vivid and very amusing picture of how he intends to steal along the lanes, his cape folded across his face, constantly looking over his shoulder to be sure no one is following him. He will wait beneath a particular tree, he insists, with obvious relish in the adventurous romance of this. I hope he will pay his reckoning at the Black Boar before he leaves.
‘Dan will be there as well, to help us into the coaches and make sure the arrangements are all reliable. I believe two mail coaches have someho
w been commandeered, but no one has wanted to enquire too closely into Chimaera and Dan’s methods, and we are all hoping that nothing actually criminal has taken place.
‘Our modest possessions are ready in the hall. They do not take up much space, even though Sister Agnes has insisted on packing various foods for us to take, saying there is no knowing when we shall be able to procure meals for ourselves. I pointed out that we will have money with us to buy what we need as we travel, and Chimaera reminded her that France is said by many to be the centre of gastronomic excellence. He also mentioned my knowledge of the French tongue and his own native Italian. We should fare very well, he said.
‘Sister Agnes sniffed dismissively, and said that was all very fine and good, but there was no use pretending we were not going into foreign lands, nor was there any knowing what currency or strange food we might have to grapple with. She makes it sound as if we shall be fording the River Styx and bargaining with Charon himself, or venturing into such uncharted lands as are believed to be populated by cannibals. But then dear Agnes has never travelled far beyond Cresacre, apart from when she accompanied Sister Gabrielle to visit her dying mother, and that was only on the other side of Little Minching.
‘It feels as if we have packed up our lives and are leaving an emptiness in this convent – an emptiness that once was filled with prayer and work and study. Will those things remain, I wonder? Will the secrets remain as well? Please God they will – please God I have hidden them sufficiently.’
There it was again, that glancing reference to secrets inside that long-ago convent. Could it be the Lemurrer that Cecilia was referring to? But if so, why had she left those instructions with Dan for the carvings? Phin turned the page and read on.
‘I feel it is better to draw a polite veil over the actual crossing of the English Channel, which was a sore trial to several of us. Poor little Anne-Marie was shockingly indisposed, and as for Chimaera, he retired with some haste to a discreet corner of the ship’s deck, carrying a basin, wrapped himself in a blanket, and quaveringly ordered us not to approach him until the storm was over. The sea was perfectly calm, it seemed to me, so I assumed he referred to his own inner tempests. Sister Agnes observed that it was fortuitous that she had thought to bring along a flagon of her peppermint and ginger infusion, which was sovereign for such indisposition. Mother Superior, meanwhile, had by some means or other procured a bottle of brandy, and she and Agnes spent most of the journey administering these two remedies to anyone who might be in need of them. Nobody has dared ask how the brandy was come by.
‘A short while ago I saw a smudge on the horizon that can only be the coastline of France. Calais. I stood watching it approach with eagerness, because this is a great adventure.
‘And yet …
‘And yet I am conscious of a growing apprehension – almost as if a darkness is gathering just out of sight. Adventure this may be, but it is a dangerous adventure, because France is a dangerous place in these times. I have to remind myself, though, that Cresacre had become a dangerous place for us. We could not have remained there. God willing, though, we shall one day be able to return.
‘As we prepare to step onto French soil, I find myself remembering Chimaera’s light-hearted comparison of this journey to the quests of fiction, and I can’t help thinking that the analogy of Jason and the Argonauts might turn out to be closer to reality than any of us thought. We shall not, of course, be likely to encounter harpies or sleepless dragons, but on the other hand we might be confronted by sans-culottes and revolutionaries. Of the two, I am not sure which I prefer.
‘I shall place this diary in a corner of my own small travelling bag. By keeping it close at hand, I feel I have a friend I can talk to. I can’t imagine that anyone will ever read it – I can’t imagine I shall ever permit anyone to read it! – but it provides a comfort.’
Phin saw that he was three-quarters of the way through Sister Cecilia’s reminiscences. He resisted the temptation to turn to the ending. He would take the journey Cecilia had taken, and see it unfold. But it puzzled him how – if she had taken the diary with her to France – the diary had got itself back to England and into print. And since Dan had arranged for the carvings to be carried out, that must mean she had not returned.
Or had she returned in such secrecy that no one had known?
It was two a.m., but by this time Phin had given up the idea of sleeping. He turned to the next page.
‘I write this in a jolting and hideously uncomfortable carriage which is rattling over cobblestones and through ill-smelling streets with huddles of wizened houses. I can only write with considerable difficulty, but am persevering because it is better than looking at the soldiers who are riding with us outside the carriage. I cannot ignore them completely, though – they are keeping very close to us, peering through the windows at intervals. They have rifles and they wear the tricolour. Their eyes are cold and their lips set in implacable lines.
‘Our small group is crammed into several coaches – I am with Chimaera, Sister Agnes, and Anne-Marie. A guard travels with us. He has a rifle, with a bayonet.
‘The soldiers surrounded us almost as soon as we arrived – there were too many of them to resist, and even though I sought to explain that we were here only to seek out our imprisoned French sisters and give them what comfort we could, it was to no avail. Chimaera demanded to be set free, using a mixture of French and Italian and much hand-waving, but that was to even less avail, and he was told, very sharply, to hold his tongue if he did not want to find it ripped from his mouth.
‘He has spent the last few miles earnestly describing to us (in a low voice), what he will do to the soldiers when the coach finally stops. I do not think there is much substance behind his words, but it is reassuring to have him with us.
‘On a more prosaic note (and perhaps to keep me from wondering what lies ahead), at least no one has been unwell from the jolting of the coach. This is fortunate, because there is nothing left of Sister Agnes’s peppermint cordial, and the brandy is in one of the other coaches with Mother Superior.
‘It is growing dark, and the coach drivers have lit flares which flicker wildly and make it seem as if strange creatures prance alongside us, rather than soldiers on ordinary horses.
‘I have lost all sense of time, and I think I have drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep, so that I have no clear idea of how long we have been travelling, or how far we might have come. It feels as if it might have been quite a long journey.
‘As far as I can see, we have left the smaller districts behind us, and we are passing through a more prosperous quarter. Several times it’s possible to see the glint of a river, with crimson lights reflecting in it from the buildings along the banks. The River Seine? I think it must be.
‘A few moments ago I leaned forward to look again, and this time I saw, directly ahead of us, a sprawling grey building, crouching on the banks of that darkly glinting river. Turrets rose into the night sky, and as we drew closer I saw that there were rows upon rows of windows. Most were in darkness, like sightless eyes, but lights burned in others. A prison house? Cold dread began to clutch at my chest, and I leaned forward to ask the guard where we were.
‘“Paris, of course,” he said, with a kind of pitying surprise, as if there was nowhere else it could be.
‘“That building—”
‘He looked at me then he said, “That’s the old Palais de la Cité.”
‘I was still staring at the monstrous building. “The City Palace,” I said, half to myself.
‘“Yes. They call it The Conciergerie now,’ said the guard. “That’s where you – and the others – are being taken. It’s the place where—”
‘“Where Marie Antoinette was held before she was beheaded,” I said.
‘“Yes. But our orders are to take you, Sister, to the Bonbec Tower. It contains a place you will not have heard of, but it used to be known as—”
‘“The Salle de la Question,” I said. “The torture
room. Yes, I have heard of it.” Within my mind, I whispered the other name I knew for the place.
‘It was my grandmother who called the Bonbec Tower the place of darkness.
‘“A medieval palace,” she used to say to my cousins and me. “It is the royal palace of the medieval kings of France – all the way back to the old Merovingian rulers.” She would tell us of the Sainte-Chapelle that housed the crown of thorns – the thorns placed on Christ’s head during the crucifixion – and of the Silver Tower, used as a storehouse for royal treasures. They were tales to enchant any child, and Grandmamma had the gift that so frequently comes to the elderly: the art of tale-spinning.
‘But as she aged, her mind would sometimes slip, and she would forget her audience. “In that palace is the Bonbec Tower,” she would say at those times, her eyes fearful and inward-looking, as if at some black memory we could not see. “It was named from the French word, bec, for mouth. So-called, because the poor souls taken there always ended in confessing whatever was wanted. They were the damned. Always they confessed.” She rocked herself to and fro, slightly, until the one who was the dearest to me of all my cousins got silently out of her chair, and put her arms around Grandmamma.
‘“Always, the confession, and then the punishment,” said Grandmamma, softly to herself. “And always this family watched. They knew we possessed the ancient forbidden music, and they were fearful that we might use it against them. Perhaps some of our ancestors did use it – I don’t know. Stories handed down over so many centuries become frayed … distorted. But I know for myself that one of the Bourbon line took my grandfather to the Bonbec Tower – the place of darkness – and imprisoned him.”
‘“Because of the music?” I whispered.
‘“Yes. They believed he had tried to revive the Lemurrer ritual. I was a small girl, but I remember it happening. I saw him dragged from the house – I saw my grandmother sobbing, begging the soldiers to let him go. They did not, and we never saw my grandfather again. We knew where he had been taken, though. We knew we would not see him again.”
