by Jon Mackley
‘Not as such. There are two versions of the lives of St Winefride: the first was written by the monks of St Werbergh’s in Chester – they owned St Winefride’s well – a little before 1148. There isn’t much detail about her in those pages. The most information was in the Vita secunda by Prior Robert of Shrewsbury, who also talks about the life of St Beuno. But then, Robert, by his own admission, was something of a story teller. The Shrewsbury monks were interested in the well. There’s a story of a monk who was dying, and they prayed to Winefride and received a cure, which further promoted the cult.’
‘If she was a saint then wouldn’t there be some record of her being … sainted in Rome?’ Lara wondered.
‘The word is “canonised”,’ Will said kindly.
‘I doubt it,’ Margaret added. ‘The Church would’ve recognised the customs of the cult. She wouldn’t have needed a bishop to petition on her behalf if the cult was already strong. Celts never called churches after Our Lady, but named them after their founders, or someone buried in them: holy graves made holy sites. No, there’s only one record of a papal indulgence offered to Holywell in the mid-fifteenth century as a request for alms.’
‘What about the old shrine?’ Will said. ‘Is there any information on what that would have looked like?’
Again, Margaret shook her head. ‘We can’t tell. Gerald of Wales mentions it in his Description of Wales. That’s all. We have no idea of what the buildings looked like. Certainly, the shrine must have been quite extensive, else the Pope would not have granted so much in alms for the rebuilding of the church. In the First life of Winefride, the vita prima, there are a couple of lines which describe how between her martyrdom and her death she went on a pilgrimage to the Pope, but it’s fairly unlikely that that happened. It’s just one of those conundrums of the legend. Despite being written in Latin, they use the vernacular: the word they use is pélerinage.’
‘What’s so special about that?’ Lara asked.
‘That is odd, isn’t it,’ Will said, he looked down at Lara. ‘Pélerinage is Old French. It means “pilgrimage”. But it should have been something like peregrinatio.’
Pilgrimage, Lara mused, then a series of images connected together. ‘You’re sure that’s what it said?’
Margaret nodded. ‘Absolutely certain.’
‘Will,’ she breathed. ‘We have to go.’
‘In a minute, Lara,’ Will said.
‘We need to take the car back,’ Lara said. ‘We can’t stay any longer.’ She was tugging on his sleeve.
After a moment, Will took the hint. He gave Margaret a professional smile. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said. ‘For both your hospitality and the information, it’s been most fascinating.’ He followed Lara outside. ‘What was so important it couldn’t wait?’ he demanded. ‘She could have told us something about the shrine.’
‘She already has,’ Lara said. ‘I know where the next clue is leading us.’
Will was surprised. ‘You’re sure? How do you know? We already know this is a sixteenth-century building. Do you think the custodian came down one day and started to scrawl graffiti on the chapel with a “Choose your adventure” game around the walls? Get real, Lara.’
‘When she said pélerinage it struck a chord at the back of my mind, and I’ve just realised what it was.’
‘What what was?’
‘The chord. You ever read Geoffrey of Monmouth?’
Will nodded. ‘A long time ago. Monmouth was probably as much of a fiction writer as Prior Robert of Shrewsbury.’
‘Yes, which is probably why one event was in the first life of Winefride, but not in the second.’
‘The trip to Rome,’ Will said. ‘Yes, I saw you get all excited about that. Why?’
‘She didn’t say “a trip to Rome” she said “a pélerinage to the Pope.” In Geoffrey of Monmouth, Gawain was sent to Rome as well, it’s not sure whether he was an ambassador, or whether he was sent there to receive his schooling, but Monmouth says Gawain was dubbed knight by the Pope himself.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, I wondered why the word was written in French and not in Latin.’
Will’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Lara!’ he cried. ‘You’re a genius! In the fourteenth century the papal court moved to Avignon. That’s why the word was written in French and not Latin or English. Both Winefride and Gawain would have travelled to see the Pope, but the poet wouldn’t have guessed the Papacy would move back to Rome in 1386. That’s what he means. The next clue is somewhere in Avignon.’
*
Will took a direct route back to Crewe. There was no sign of a helicopter or the road blocks that Will had anticipated. Lara doubted that – whoever it was – had given up their search. But perhaps they believed Will and Lara hadn’t left Chester and were still searching the city for them. There was nothing to link them to Holywell or beyond. Perhaps the stern-looking man in the trench coat believed that the trail had gone cold.
Lara had also been thinking about the healing waters of Holywell and how much solace they could bring. But, she was suddenly aware of Will speaking: ‘The papacy was in France for a century only,’ he was saying. ‘At the start of the fourteenth century, Pope Clement V moved the papacy from Rome, first to Poitiers, then to Avignon.’
‘Why?’ Lara asked, disinterested.
‘Clement was French. He felt threatened by the civil war that had broken out in Rome. Avignon was strategically situated with the river about it. That’s why Prior Robert was so linguistically precise.’
Lara considered this. Then she thought of something. ‘How did the story end?’
‘What story?’
‘The one you were telling me last night, about the other Lara by the seaside?’
Will smiled. ‘I don’t know. I was making it up as I went along. I stopped when your breath became rhythmic.’
She was disappointed. Her eyes glazed to the scenery as they drove.
‘Any idea where the nearest airport to Avignon is?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Nîmes.’ Will spoke without hesitation. ‘But I don’t think we should go there. They’ll work out that we’ve travelled by plane. We need to expand the number of places they have to look for us. I suggest we go to Marseilles.’
‘Marseilles?’
‘It’ll only take an hour or so to get to Avignon. We might shake them off for a while.’
Lara thought Will was starting to look tired. The strains of the chase were starting to show, especially when she realised he was unable to follow the signposts that directed him into the city. He started to curse when he realised his mistake and snapped at Lara when she tried to pacify him. His face was fixed into a mask that combined determination and frustration.
Soon they were outside the car rental showroom. They walked to the station from there. Will occasionally glanced over his shoulder. He seemed happier when he melted into the emotional and fraught expressions of the other travellers.
He jerked abruptly. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he breathed. ‘I can smell it in the air.’
Lara’s heart thumped. Adrenalin coursed through her body. Will’s fears were manifesting in her brain. Suddenly she wanted to run, but Will’s hand was tight on her wrist. He led her to the ticket desk, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead. He bought two tickets. There seemed to be a pause between his asking for the tickets and the machine printing them, as if the vendor was scrutinising them, examining his face.
The machine spat out the tickets, Lara almost snatched them from the basin under the glass and turned and ran. Will grabbed her by the arm. ‘Calm down.’
She felt his hot hands through her blouse. He was as nervous as she was. ‘Let’s just walk calmly.’ He pointed at the Departures screen. ‘We want the train down to Euston.’
Lara almost didn’t hear him, her eyes were wide with anxiety. ‘Are they here?’ she asked and tried to conceal a tremble in her voice.
He nodded. ‘So we’re going to have to look as though w
e’re just a couple of holiday makers on our way back south.’
Lara gave a long sigh and let him lead her towards the platform. Suddenly she was exhausted. She wished she’d never met Will. At least with Michael life was … normal.
Her breath caught. How could she have considered that life again? Michael had been brutal. It had taken every ounce of her strength to get away. Whatever fears she had when travelling with Will, they were nothing compared to knowing Michael would have beaten her for any transgression. True, she and Will were running, but she was not living in terror for every bitter day of her existence.
Stepping down to the platform, Will’s breath caught in his throat. He pushed her into one of the waiting rooms. ‘They’re out there,’ Will told her. ‘They’re looking for us.’
Lara instinctively peered round. Will jerked her back. She fought the urge to turn again. She realised she’d never seen their pursuers, aside from the dawn at Stamford station.
Suddenly Will’s lips had closed over hers. Shocked, she tried to pull away. His grip was strong, almost brutal. ‘I’m trying to hide us,’ he growled. She tried to relax, but her instincts took over. She tried to pull away again. ‘I’m married …’ she protested.
But her shoulders slumped. She wasn’t married any more. Not in her heart.
Part of the cover, she told herself. Two lovers saying goodbye.
She didn’t close her eyes. Neither did he. His eyes were alert.
Will broke the embrace when the train arrived at the platform. ‘Walk straight on to that train. Just look ahead.’ He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. ‘For luck,’ he told her. ‘Let’s go.’
Lara didn’t look around. They joined the crowds. She fixed her eyes on the train. They were just two bodies amid hundreds.
Someone jostled her.
For a second she believed she had been recognised. Her heart pounded. She looked again. The same man, hauling two suitcases, was pushing past someone else to get on to the train. She glared at the back of the man’s head.
Three steps until she could climb on to the train, but each step was an enormous gulf, the queues were moving slowly. Someone had time to scan the crowd, analysing itfor two familiar faces.
‘Look for a seat on the other side of the train,’ Will whispered to her. ‘They’ll still be able to watch the train as it’s leaving. We’re not out of the woods yet.’
Two steps until they would be on the train.
Then just one step. Lara’s body was drowning. Every fibre urged her to turn, to see if there was someone standing behind her. The muscles in her neck were taut.
Then she was standing at the door of the train, waiting for other passengers to move inside and find their seats. She scanned the carriages, wondering which she should enter. Will dragged her impatiently by the arm and pulled her into the carriage on the right.
The compartment was busy. They sat on opposite sides of the aisle. It seemed an eternity before they pulled away. Lara finally allowed herself to breathe out once they had cleared Crewe station. Will was far from relaxed. Even so, she saw worry lines clearing from his face the further away from Crewe they travelled. Journeying had a rejuvenating effect for Will. She watched as he finally allowed his shoulders to drop and his breathing became slow and rhythmic. He closed his eyes, as she had seen him do many times before and, for a while, his face became a picture of serenity.
*
From Euston they took the underground to Victoria, and another train from there to Gatwick. Will managed to blend in with the other travellers, yet was on the alert throughout. But even though she tried to stare into space, Lara was aware of her eyes darting nervously, watching to see if someone was watching her.
At Gatwick, they ran to the British Airways desk. For a moment it seemed they were too late, but a member of staff appeared seconds after they arrived. ‘You need to go through now,’ they were told.
‘Suits me,’ Will said dryly.
‘I suppose it’s too late to ask now,’ Will said as the plane began to taxi towards the runway. ‘How are you at flying?’
‘Not too good,’ Lara said. ‘I only did it that once to Italy. I think it’s like going to the dentists. Worrying about it is the worst part.’
Will winced, as if he had remembered a bitter experience. ‘Depends on the dentist.’
Lara couldn’t relax on the aeroplane. Pain stabbed through her eye from the pressure. She clung to the seat arms. Her stomach muscles had clenched. She needed to make frequent visits to the loo. When she closed her eyes, she heard the blood pounding in her ears.
She just wanted the flight to be over.
‘Look on the bright side,’ Will leaned across to her. ‘We’re still ahead of them.’
‘We’ll lose any advantage as soon as we go through passport control.’ She gazed at the mountains out of the window. ‘They’ll know we’re in France. If they know we’ve left the UK, they may have sent out someone to “meet” us.’ She rubbed her temples. ‘As soon as we hire a car they’ll send the gendarmes to watch out for it.’
‘As soon as we clear the airport, we try and blend in. Get to Avignon tonight and see if we can make head or tail of the clues.’
‘Do we have to go on?’ Lara yawned. ‘I’m exhausted. I just want a nice hot bath and a long spell in bed. Anyway, I can’t blend in. I’m about as English as they come.’
The plane started its descent, circling over the sea. Lara closed her eyes and prayed the journey would be over soon.
8
Hiring a car in Marseilles, they drove north along the A7 autoroute: the inappropriately named Autoroute du Soleil. Lara was exhausted. Every sinew in her body protested and her nerves were frayed. Her anxiety was heightened by Will reminding her of something Tantris had said, something about the length of the web of deceit.
‘This might be a horrible mistake,’ he told her for the umpteenth time. ‘The poet could have meant somewhere else. It’s a very tenuous link that both Gawain and Winefride both sought out the Pope, whether in Rome or Avignon.’
‘It’ll fool our followers for a while,’ Lara said. ‘Let’s pretend we know what we’re doing.’
She stared out of the window. The dismal sky was an unbroken shield of grey. The windscreen wipers made wide arcs in the light rain. Lara had hoped to see something of the countryside, but the high motorway banks blocked her view. Even when she could see something, it was nothing more than a bleak two-tone landscape. The countryside was anaemic as though a vampiric winter had drained it of blood. There were skeletal pockets of forests and desolate fields of grapevines. Occasionally she saw an abandoned farmhouse, the desolate walls daubed with French political slogans. Those settlements still in use had stored wood for the winter; the great piles were like huge funeral pyres.
There were few cars on the autoroute. Signs flashed overhead warning drivers about the weather conditions. They arrived at a péage. Will leaned out and handed the frozen woman a fifty-euro note and received little change. No wonder the roads were deserted.
He drove along the D225. A ditch at the side of the road was in danger of overflowing with rainwater. They passed a rock formation which appeared like an emaciated jawbone. The stark landscape was unfriendly and forbidding. The distant hills were gaunt with barren shadows, wraiths in the night. At the foot of the hill she saw the welcoming lights of an auberge. She thought about a delicious, long shower, then curling up in bed.
‘Can’t we stay there?’ Lara pleaded. ‘We’re almost at Avignon now.’
Will shook his head, his face remaining firmly resolute. There were dark shadows under his eyes and now it was sheer strength of mind to keep himself going. ‘Like you said, we’re almost there,’ he told her. ‘There’s no point stopping now.’
She agreed, even if she didn’t like it. The idea of a warm bed was becoming more enchanting.
Time slowed, but before too long they were crossing the Rhône. The grey river was swollen and bloated, flowing fast. Will turned off th
e main road which would by-pass the city and suddenly Lara saw the sand coloured, machicolated elliptical walls of Avignon. Numerous watchtowers surveyed the crenellated glacis.
‘The walls are contemporary with the Gawain-poet,’ Will told her. ‘I read somewhere that they were mid-fourteenth century.’
‘How do you know these things?’ she quizzed.
‘I was a history teacher. I specialised in the fourteenth century, although it wasn’t on the curriculum. I was interested in the Great Schism, so I read everything I could about it.’ He smiled. ‘Not that these would be much use as defences. There are parts of the Rémparts with no fortification at all. It would have been impossible to defend them, but it had to look good. They served their purpose. They tried to tear them down during the French Revolution, but the craftsmanship was so precise. Even with all their tools, the French soldiers couldn’t break the wall, so they gave it up as a bad job and the walls still stand.’ He pointed at a hotel just outside the city walls. ‘That’s where we’ll stay. I’m shattered.’
There was a small parking area at the back of the hotel. When they went inside to book two rooms, Lara was surprised to discover that Will’s French was fluent. She felt frustrated, not understanding what was going on. Her knowledge of French came from school and what she’d picked up on a school trip which had been over a decade ago.
Then her heart sank: the hotelier seemed to be interrogating Will about something.
Will walked back to her and handed her a key. ‘Two rooms,’ he said, leading her to the lift. He lowered his voice. ‘She wanted to know when we would be bringing in our cases. I told her we were travelling light and staying with my sister in Lyons.’
‘I thought maybe they’d …’ her voice trailed away, leaving her fears unspoken.
The lift doors opened. They stepped in. The doors closed behind them.
‘You worry too much,’ Will told her. There was a kind smile on his face. ‘I mean, you care about what other people think and try not to tread on anyone’s toes in the hopes people won’t tread on yours.’ He patted her hand gently and Lara was surprised by his sudden show of affection. ‘It’s a nice trait. Wish I could be as sensitive as you. But it has its downsides. It means you get hurt easily.’
