The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  Equally gently, Ninian reminded Guillaume why it was that he was there. ‘I’m a wanted man,’ he murmured. ‘Remember? I told you that back in England they think I’m a killer, and they’d hang me if they caught me.’

  Guillaume gave a dismissive snort. ‘Ah, they’ll have forgotten all about that by now,’ he said briskly. ‘Men have short memories.’

  No they don’t, Ninian thought, picturing the furious face of King John. Not this man, anyway.

  But then a strange thing happened. For all those months since the fight in the glade beside St Edmund’s Chapel, so far away in the Hawkenlye forest, he had believed without a shadow of a doubt that what he had just said to Guillaume was true: if he went home, he would, although innocent, be arrested and hanged for murder.

  Now the thought came to him: what if it wasn’t true?

  What if, somehow, the king’s men had discovered what had really happened and everyone else also knew that Ninian was no murderer?

  He seemed to experience a sudden flash of bright light within his head, and he thought he heard his sister’s voice. It wasn’t the first time; quite often – more frequently, recently – he’d experienced the odd sensation that she was calling him, trying to tell him something, but he’d convinced himself it was nothing more than his imagination and his yearning for a glimpse of home.

  Now, as he came to a halt at the foot of the path, aware of Guillaume’s worried eyes on his face, he realized that, if Meggie really was trying to communicate with him, she had suddenly got a lot more urgent . . .

  He didn’t tell Guillaume. He didn’t tell anyone. Using as an excuse the need to go out to the stables on the edge of the village and tend to his horse – let them think he was taking their advice and starting his preparations for departure – he went off by himself to think.

  What could Meggie be trying to tell him? Could it be that Guillaume was right? Against all expectations, could those at home who loved Ninian and believed in him have somehow managed to prove his innocence? Oh, but if that were true, then he could indeed return to England.

  Home. The family, the House in the Woods, Hawkenlye.

  Little Helewise. His Eloise.

  With a shock of horror, he realized he could no longer bring her face to mind.

  In despair, he crouched down, his head in his hands. I love her, I truly love her! The hundreds of miles between us, the months since we’ve been together, don’t matter, for nothing can change our love!

  He raised his head, a smile beginning.

  So why, came the cruel question, instantly wiping away the smile, can’t you recall her face?

  He did not know, but, back in the village, he was the subject of a concerned conversation between Guillaume, Alazaïs, and four of the other elders.

  ‘He is young, he is passionate, he has become deeply involved with his new friends and the rest of us here,’ Alazaïs said, ‘and they have taken the place of his family. It is quite clear that he is a loving man, and, having given his affection to us, he does not want to leave us. Especially,’ she added with a soft sigh, ‘when he knows as well as we do that danger will return soon.’

  ‘We have no claim on his loyalty,’ one of the other elders said. ‘Coming here as he did, bearing our precious manuscript all the way from its hiding place in England, he has already done us a great service.’

  ‘His flight here was not entirely selfless,’ a tall, slim woman pointed out. ‘He was accused of murder, and he needed a place in which to hide.’

  ‘He could have found one a great deal closer to home,’ Alazaïs pointed out. ‘It was my son who suggested he came here to the Midi, and my son, I am certain, was primarily concerned with getting the manuscript to us. He used Ninian,’ she said in a low voice.

  There was a short silence.

  ‘You should not feel the need to share your son’s guilt over this,’ Guillaume said gently; he knew Alazaïs very well.

  She gave him a quick smile. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She turned to look at the others, huddled close in the dim light within the cottage, and her smile disappeared. ‘I have indeed felt guilty, but I have put the guilt to good use. I have, I believe, come up with a way in which we can persuade Ninian that, if he agrees to leave, he will actually be helping us.’

  The five old people leaned closer and, in a very quiet voice, she told them her plan.

  SIX

  Vengeance.

  Riding back down the long slope to Hawkenlye Abbey, Josse thought about what Meggie had just told him. So the three dead men had been killed in revenge for something they had done, and, to make quite sure that the world knew, the appropriate runes had been carved into the biggest man’s chest. If Gervase was right in his assumption that the dead trio were the same men who had been performing the many acts of assault, robbery and violence throughout several counties, then there must be any number of people crying out for vengeance.

  One of them – or possibly a group – must have followed the brigands to the Hawkenlye Forest and extracted that vengeance.

  Josse had decided that his first act should be to ask the nuns and monks at the abbey if any of them remembered a stranger, or group of strangers, who had arrived some five or six weeks ago. Normally, such an enquiry would be fairly pointless, since the abbey’s widespread reputation as a place of succour and healing meant that it was always full of strangers. But now the abbey church was closed, there were no services, the king’s commissioners doled out that meagre part of its own money that the abbey was allowed to spend on charity and, it seemed, most would-be pilgrims had decided it wasn’t worth making the trek and so they stayed at home.

  Thinking guiltily that the major cause of Abbess Caliste’s distress was possibly about to help him in his quest, Josse left his horse in the care of a lay brother in the abbey stables and went to find her.

  ‘Vengeance,’ Abbess Caliste murmured. ‘Three runes merged together into a bind rune.’ She looked up at Josse. ‘A very powerful symbol.’

  Again he had to remind himself that she had not always been a nun. She had not always been called Caliste, either; the name given to her by the plain but good people who cared for her for the first fourteen years of her life was Peg.fn1 Helewise had once told Josse that Caliste had known what her true name was because it had been carved on a piece of wood that she had worn round her neck on a leather thong. Not that anyone else would have been able to make it out, since it was written in the strange script of the forest people.

  If the young Caliste had been able to read the symbols carefully written on her pendant, it was little surprise that the adult abbess was familiar with the concept of bind runes . . .

  Forcing his mind back to the present, he said, ‘I’m wondering, my lady, if perhaps the person responsible for the deaths of the three men could have visited the abbey. It would have been early in January, and, although I agree it’s unlikely that a man intent on murder would deliberately go among the company of people who might later recall him, we have to remember that he could have come from far away and reckoned on being back home again when the bodies were discovered.’

  The abbess was nodding. ‘Quite so.’ She paused, clearly thinking, then said, ‘Besides, the killings were committed for revenge. Possibly that emotion overrode the fear of being caught.’

  ‘Aye, possibly.’

  ‘So, you wish to ask my nuns, monks and lay brothers if they recall any visitors who turned up here at the time of the deaths,’ she said briskly. ‘Please do.’

  ‘I would ask you too, my lady,’ he said with a smile. Busy as she always was, preoccupied with the huge problems of running a big abbey on barely any money, still he knew very well that she managed to keep an eye on almost everything that went on within the walls, and probably within a mile radius outside them as well.

  She sat for a while, a slight frown on her face. Then she said, ‘We were very quiet then. Few people were about, strangers or otherwise. We—’ Then the frown cleared and, her face suddenly animated, s
he said, ‘There was a man . . . yes, I remember now.’

  ‘What—?’

  She held up her hand. ‘Sir Josse, I did not meet him myself, so I can tell you little. I only knew about him because Sister Estella was troubled by her encounter with him and sought me out to ask what she should do.’

  ‘What happened, that she should be troubled?’ Josse asked.

  Abbess Caliste paused, and he guessed she was putting her thoughts in order so that she would be able to tell her tale quickly and efficiently. It was something Helewise had always done. ‘Sister Estella is one of our novices,’ Caliste began, ‘and she is a light-hearted, happy soul who loves to chat.’ Perhaps thinking this did not sound very nunlike, she added, ‘She lifts our hearts in these hard, sad times, and we value her simple, optimistic spirit. She often goes down to the vale, where she shines her cheery light on those few pilgrims who still come to Hawkenlye to take the water, and on the day in question, she saw a man standing beside the little chapel down there. She—’ Abbess Caliste frowned. ‘No, this will not do, for you need the exact details and I do not know them.’

  She rose to her feet, swiftly crossed to the door and, opening it, hurried outside. The sound of her voice briefly floated back, then she returned.

  ‘I have sent for Sister Estella,’ she said, resuming her seat. ‘Best that you hear what she has to say in her own words.’

  Sister Estella must have been nearby, for very soon there was a timid tap on the door. The abbess admitted her, swiftly introduced Josse and told her what he wanted to know. She seemed somewhat overawed, Josse noticed, the cheerful, round face a little pale as she stood before her abbess biting her lips.

  ‘The abbess tells me that in January you were worried by a man you saw by the chapel in the vale,’ he said, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Could you tell me about him? It would be really helpful if you would,’ he added.

  She returned his smile, and he saw that she was a young woman made for happiness. She was very pretty, her wide blue eyes fringed with long lashes. ‘I’ll try, sir.’ She turned back to the abbess, who nodded encouragingly. Then she said, ‘He looked so anxious, and I reckon that’s why I went over to him. Since he was standing outside the chapel – actually leaning on the door – and it was, of course, locked, I wondered if he wanted to go inside and pray or something, so I asked him. He seemed to come out of a deep reverie, and when he actually managed to focus his eyes on me, he said, “I have need to speak to a priest, but priests are not here.”

  ‘I said, no, they weren’t, but if he needed a friendly ear, I could provide one, then he gave a sort of laugh, but it sounded as if he was hurting, and he said, “There is a deed I must do, but it is wrong, and I need to know that I will be forgiven.”

  ‘I told him that only God can forgive, but that he always does if someone sincerely repents.’ She turned to the abbess. ‘That’s right, my lady, isn’t it? I said the right thing, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, Sister Estella, you did,’ the abbess agreed.

  ‘What happened then?’ Josse asked. ‘Did he – I don’t suppose he gave you any idea of whether he was going to go ahead with this deed?’

  Sister Estella frowned in thought. ‘He – oh, I don’t know! It’s hard to describe, and I may mislead you if I don’t explain properly.’ Her worried frown deepened, and Josse felt he’d do anything to bring back her happy equanimity. On the other hand, it appeared she had some information that it would be very useful to know.

  ‘Tell us about this man,’ he said. Trying to keep his tone pleasant and free of the stress he could feel within himself, he added, ‘Can you describe him? What did he look like?’ If he asked her something simple to begin with, perhaps she would find it easier to proceed to whatever was worrying her.

  Sister Estella’s expression relaxed and, not stopping to think, she said, ‘He was brown.’

  ‘Brown?’ Josse and the abbess said together.

  Sister Estella gave a chuckle. ‘Yes. His skin was the colour of a chestnut just out of the shell, as if he’d been stained. It was a lovely colour,’ she added, ‘and his flesh looked very smooth. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and he had a neatly-trimmed beard. I couldn’t see his hair, because he wore a long bit of cloth wound round and round his head. He was dressed in a dark-brown robe that swept right down to the ground, and he had a cloak thrown back over his shoulders. Oh, and he had a gold ring in his left ear. He was very handsome.’ Blushing suddenly, as if realizing that such a flowing description of a man was perhaps not fitting in a woman vowed to chastity, she lowered her eyes and stared down at her feet.

  ‘That’s very good, Sister Estella,’ Josse said encouragingly. ‘I can almost see him!’ She risked a look at him from under her eyelashes, and he thought he saw a swift grin. ‘How old would you say he was?’

  ‘He wasn’t a lad, but he wasn’t all that old either.’ She bit at her lip. ‘I’m not very good with ages. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Never mind. Was there anything else about him that struck you? How did he sound?’ She looked puzzled, so he rephrased the question. ‘Did he speak like people round here?’

  Her face cleared. ‘No, he didn’t. When I said how he’d asked about priests, those were the exact words. That’s when I noticed he didn’t sound like a local.’

  ‘Tell us again, if you would.’

  ‘“I have need to speak to a priest, but priests are not here.”’

  ‘Could you detect any particular accent?’ Abbess Caliste asked.

  Estella shook her head. ‘I don’t really know about accents,’ she said. ‘I don’t come across many strangers.’ Josse thought she had finished, but then she added, ‘He sounded as if he was unused to speech. His voice was sort of rusty, as if he didn’t use it much.’

  Josse nodded. Then he said very gently, ‘Sister Estella, you’ve been most helpful and I’m very grateful. Now, a few moments ago you wanted to tell us something, but you weren’t sure quite how to. Can you now say what it was?’

  She looked as if she was plucking up her courage. Then she said, ‘I had the feeling that he was a man who would do what he felt he had to. He’d come seeking a priest, and that made me think he knew very well that what he intended to do was wrong. But I reckoned that, even if he didn’t find a priest, he’d go ahead anyway. He was . . .’ She paused, clearly searching for the right word. ‘Driven.’

  Abbess Caliste caught Josse’s eye. ‘A man who would perhaps carry out his intended task and afterwards pray for forgiveness,’ she murmured.

  ‘Aye.’ Josse sighed. What a pity, he reflected, the confessional was sacrosanct; even if this dark stranger had managed to find some priest to hear his confession for murder, nobody was ever going to know.

  Both women, he noticed, were watching him; Sister Estella looked apprehensive. ‘My lady abbess, Sister Estella, thank you for your time,’ he said with a bow. ‘I shall go now and seek out Gervase de Gifford. It may be that others have come across your brown stranger, Sister—’ he turned to the novice with a smile – ‘and perhaps one of Gervase’s men will know where he is.’

  He turned to go, but there was a quick movement, and suddenly Sister Estella was right beside him, a hand on his arm. ‘Sir Josse?’

  ‘What is it, child?’ he asked kindly.

  She seemed to struggle for words. ‘He’s – oh, I know I said he was handsome, and went on about how he looked as I’ve no right to do, but it’s not his looks that were important, not really. He—’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was a good man!’ she burst out. ‘Yes, he said he needed forgiveness for a bad deed, but I reckon it was something bad done for a good cause, and that’s not really terrible, is it?’ She turned to the abbess and then rapidly back to Josse. ‘Is it?’ she demanded.

  Josse sighed. He knew what she meant and, if indeed it had been this mysterious stranger who killed the three brigands, and the deed was done in vengeance, then it was exactly as Estella had said: somet
hing bad done for a good cause.

  Quite how he was going to persuade Gervase of that, if and when they ever caught this man, he didn’t know.

  As the day drew on, Meggie grew increasingly desperate to evade the company of Helewise and her granddaughter, not because she did not enjoy being with them but because the compulsion to get away to her mother’s little hut was becoming unendurable.

  The intensity of her need to escape made her feel guilty because the three of them had spent such a happy day together. Little Helewise seemed quite different from the pale, hollow-eyed, sorrowful and anxious young woman who had arrived at the House in the Woods with her father the previous day. Now she had colour in her cheeks and her ready smile had frequently turned to laughter. Having feared at first that Little Helewise might have been sick, Meggie had been watching her closely. She had concluded that, whatever had ailed the girl, a day of very hard work, largely spent in the invigorating open air, had put it right. Perhaps it had been no more than a sudden intolerance of the endless weeks shut up inside the walls of her father’s house. Plus, of course, pining for Ninian.

  Perhaps, though, it was something else entirely . . .

  Now, as Meggie sat with Helewise and her granddaughter beside the fire – set in a small circle of hearthstones inside the cell that was to be their home – she cast a surreptitious glance at the young woman.

  She thought hard for a few moments.

  Then she smiled.

  The three women ate their simple supper, and as the other two cleared up, Meggie got to her feet.

  ‘I’d better go and see if our two guardian angels are all right,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘They were having a job getting their fire going, and it’ll be cold out there tonight.’

  Helewise looked up with a smile. ‘They’ll be used to cold nights,’ she said. ‘Their usual accommodation down in the vale is very basic, you know. But it’s a kind thought,’ she added.