The Song of the Nightingale

by Alys Clare

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘Sorry, Sir Josse.’

  Ninian was nearing the end of his journey. He was south-west of Paris, and now the roads were in better condition. The weather stayed fine, so he managed to keep up a consistent number of miles covered per day. Garnet was in good health – Ninian said a daily prayer of thanks each morning for that small miracle – and so was Ninian himself. To save the horse that had carried him faithfully over so many miles, often Ninian would dismount and walk for the last part of the day.

  As he had travelled steadily north, he had been dismayed to find so many people going in the opposite direction. There were great companies of mounted knights, calling to one another in loud, braying voices about the exploits they were about to undertake, the fine lands in the south they were going to win. The heretic blood they were going to shed. There were also long lines of foot soldiers, slogging along with their heads down, determined expressions on their faces. They, too, were seeking the shedding of blood, and all in the Lord’s name. Even the lowliest of them expected to receive the reward of the promised remission of sins and the hope of fewer days in purgatory that the priests said awaited all the faithful who answered the call and went on crusade.

  Ninian feared for the friends he had left behind. On many occasions, he had felt the urge to turn round and go back. Each time a firm voice in his head had said no. As he neared Chartres, the forbidding voice had become more authoritative, and he was quite sure it was his mother’s. Sometimes he even fancied a man’s voice joined hers, and the fancy took him that it might be that of his illustrious father . . .

  Not that it was in the least likely, since, as far as he knew, his parents had not so much as set eyes on each other after the Christmas that he had been conceived. Josse was Ninian’s father; if not in the flesh and in the blood, then in the heart and the strong love between them. Nevertheless, Ninian could not prevent himself from wondering, just occasionally, about the man who had sired him. Would he have turned round and gone to help the bonshommes in their desperate fight?

  No, came the voice in his head, because that fight is unwinnable. Only a fool takes up arms in a struggle in which he has no hope of victory.

  Perhaps it was his father, after all.

  Tiphaine had done all she could. Now there was nothing to do but wait; and, from the rumours flying around, she knew the wait would not be long.

  She had slipped, unnoticed, back inside the abbey, and she was quietly working away in the little hut that had been her domain when she was Sister Tiphaine, the Hawkenlye herbalist. Abbess Caliste, bless her understanding heart, made no objection to Tiphaine’s presence, and the other nuns all took their cue from the abbess. Tiphaine still worked as hard as she had ever done, and she knew that the many ointments and remedies she constantly turned out were much appreciated. As was her wealth of wisdom, acquired over a long lifetime, much of which she was now intent on passing on to young Estella. Now she was a promising healer if ever there was one.

  The rumours were spreading right there within the abbey walls, and it was precisely to pick them up that Tiphaine had returned. She smiled grimly to herself as she worked, thinking about the guards that Lord Benedict’s man, Tomas, had left to watch the prisoner. They obviously knew practically nothing about life within an abbey, and they had neither the intelligence nor the common sense to work out what it might be like. They appeared to think that women and men vowed to the service of God would be above gossiping like old wives round the well, and, in consequence, they didn’t bother to lower their voices when they spoke of confidential matters. Such as what the rider who had raced through the abbey gates that afternoon, both he and his horse in a lather of sweat, had come to tell them. And the effect his news had had on arrangements for the prisoner.

  Two lay brothers tending the blowing horse, and a nursing nun heading for the infirmary had overheard the muttered conversation. It was not long before virtually the whole abbey knew what the messenger had come to say. Lord Benedict de Vitré had apparently had enough of making his prisoner suffer inside the punishment cell and was coming in person to fetch him next morning. The messenger had added a directive from Tomas to his men: Lord Benedict had commanded that the prisoner be kept fed and watered, so the guards had better make sure he got something to eat and drink, and they’d better clean him up a bit before morning.

  Now Tiphaine was praying as she worked, her lips moving soundlessly as she repeated the same incantation, over and over again. It has to be tonight. Let it be tonight.

  The plans had been laid, and everything was ready. They had not appreciated the urgency when the finishing touches had been put in place, but Tiphaine did not think it made any difference. Once they saw that the idea had a good chance of working, nobody was going to delay it by even a day.

  It would be tonight. Tiphaine was quite sure of it.

  As the day drew to a close, Josse wondered if he ought to set off for the House in the Woods. He did not in the least want to, for he was as tired as he ever recalled being. He was lying stretched out on Meggie’s bed in the cell by the chapel, boots off, soft pillow under his head, warmed by the glowing fire in the hearth. He and Helewise had been out all day, searching near and far through the forest once more, looking for any sign of Meggie, but they had found nothing. They had been forced to conclude that, wherever she was, she was far beyond their reach.

  They had no answer for the question that had been burning through Josse since he had spoken to Sister Estella: if the unknown man in the punishment cell was the killer of the three brigands and Rufus, then with whom had Meggie had ridden away? If the prisoner wasn’t the Brown Man, then perhaps that dark stranger really was Meggie’s companion; but, if so, then why had he come to Hawkenlye, what was the sin he was preparing to commit when he had spoken to Sister Estella, and why – presumably having done whatever he was planning to do – had he hung around in the immediate vicinity for a further six weeks?

  And, if the man in the punishment cell wasn’t the Brown Man, who was he?

  It was too much for one head to contain, Josse thought with a deep sigh. Helewise, hearing him, looked up from her sewing. She was sitting on her own cot, her face glowing from the warmth of the hearth, and the scene would have been one of cosy domesticity had it not been for the anxiety that ripped the air like summer lightning.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it again?’ Helewise asked.

  He smiled at her. ‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t think of anything new to add, and you and I have been over it all so many times that my head’s spinning.’

  ‘Mine too,’ she said feelingly. She looked down at the neat darn she was making in the hem of one of Little Helewise’s robes. ‘At least I can keep my hands busy. It helps, believe me.’

  ‘Perhaps I should take up sewing,’ he said.

  She had folded the garment and set it aside, and now she got up and went over to the corner where they stored their food. ‘I’m going to start on the meal,’ she announced, ‘such as it is.’

  He, too, got up. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘You get on with the darning.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I hope you’re not doubting my ability,’ he said.

  ‘Not in the least.’ There was a twinkle in her eyes that suggested the contrary.

  He set water on to boil, and then peeled a few very tired-looking carrots to add, with some handfuls of oats, once it was ready. There was a little of the stock saved from yesterday’s pot, which would add some much-needed flavour, and half a mangy cabbage to shred into the mix. Little Helewise had promised to bring a loaf of bread back from the abbey when she returned. It was the most basic food, Josse reflected as he chopped and shredded, but probably better than most people would eat that night.

  The pot was bubbling nicely when Little Helewise came in, her face flushed from the chill in the outside air. She flung the bread down beside Josse and, before he even had time to acknowledge it, said, ‘Josse,
I’ve remembered something!’

  Helewise, picking up her agitation, had swiftly got up and was now standing beside her, an arm round her waist. The girl leaned against her, and Josse noticed in that instant that both faces wore the same expression and were suddenly very alike.

  ‘Sit down,’ Helewise commanded, gently but firmly pushing Little Helewise on to her bed. ‘Get your breath back.’

  Little Helewise was indeed out of breath, panting hard.

  ‘It’s the growing bump in the belly,’ Helewise said over her shoulder to Josse. ‘You can’t seem to breathe as deeply as you want to.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Josse said.

  Little Helewise, recovering, gave her grandmother a smile. Then, eyes on Josse, she said, ‘I told you how I was awake when Meggie came to fetch her pack?’

  He nodded, tense with anticipation.

  ‘Well, she said she’d found a way to bring Ninian home. That’s the bit that stuck in my mind, because suddenly I began to hope he might actually be with me again before – well, before the baby.’ Her hands went to the bump under her gown. ‘But just this evening I was talking to a woman in the infirmary, and she very much wanted to give thanks to God because she’s recovered from a fever, and since she’s got four children, all under six years old, it’s really important that she’s healthy, and she— Sorry, I’m digressing. Anyway, she was saying it was a shame nobody was allowed to go into the abbey church any more, and even the shrine in the vale was locked, and so I said she ought to slip away and come up to St Edmund’s Chapel, because nobody seems to watch it and it’s stayed open. I didn’t tell her about the secret down in the crypt, but I did say there’s a power in the chapel that particularly watches over mothers and children, and she said it was nice to think of a church being more about women and babies than men and their need for power, and then I remembered what else Meggie said!’

  Her triumphant expression suggested she thought Josse and Helewise would understand without her telling them. With a frustrated frown at Josse, Helewise crouched by her granddaughter’s side and said, ‘You’ll have to tell us, since we weren’t there.’

  ‘No, sorry, of course you weren’t.’ Little Helewise took a steadying breath. ‘I’m pretty sure she – Meggie – thought I was more asleep that I was, because she was muttering quite a lot, and it didn’t really make much sense. She said something about the goddess’s resting place, and a summoning voice, and links in a chain, and she mentioned Ninian and her mother.’ She glanced at Josse, a quick look with an unspoken apology in her eyes. ‘She seemed to be driven, as if she’d heard a voice calling and suddenly everything made sense. As if—’ she paused, searching for the right words – ‘as if something that had greatly puzzled and worried her did so no longer, for the way was now clear.’ She stopped, eyes going from Josse to Helewise and back again. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’ she asked, her gaze resting on Josse. When he didn’t speak, she went on, ‘Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve raised your hopes for nothing, but I—’

  He reached out and took hold of her hand, clasping it firmly. ‘Not for nothing, dear girl,’ he said, a grin spreading over his face. ‘And as for meaning anything, oh, aye, it does that, all right.’

  He looked up at Helewise, whose expression suggested she understood the implications as well as he did. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her softly. ‘Shall you and I ride off again, with a little more purpose this time?’

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to, for he could see her answer in her shining eyes.

  EIGHTEEN

  Hawkenlye Abbey lay serene and quiet under a clear night sky. The springtime constellations stretched out above, stars shining brightly in the inky blackness. Here and there, soft lights burned still; in the infirmary, a nun sat beside a restless patient, and a candle still burned in Abbess Caliste’s little room. There was so much work to do, and she was in the habit of staying up late to complete a few outstanding tasks at a time when there were no interruptions.

  The four guards that Tomas had left to watch over the man in the punishment cell were bored. The days had seemed very long, for the prisoner was so secure in his tiny cell that there was no chance he might escape, and little point in trying. Occasionally, they had heard him banging on the door, and once or twice that unearthly howl had split the air.

  All four of the guards loathed that howl. It made their flesh creep, and they feared it just as they had feared the prisoner’s clear, deep-blue eyes. Tomas had told them to put that hood over his head; good old Tomas, always one to look after his men. The prisoner wasn’t wearing his hood now, but they could usually contrive not to look into his face on the few occasions when they had to open the cell door to chuck food or water inside. Not that they’d done much of that.

  The guards were unsettled by the prisoner. There was something about him . . . To a man, they would be heartily relieved when this bugger of a duty was over and done with, and the prisoner had been handed over to Lord Benedict. He wouldn’t live long, once that had happened. He’d soon be dangling from the end of a rope, feet dancing in the jig of death.

  It was an image to cheer a man on a cold night of guard duty.

  One of the men stood up and went to urinate around the corner of the high stone wall of the dormitory building. As he stood there, his water steaming in the cold air, he looked up at the place where the nuns lay sleeping. Some of the younger ones were quite pretty. He grinned, imagining a plump young novice suddenly turning up and offering to warm him with her soft flesh . . . Reluctantly, he tucked himself away and went back to join the others.

  He settled down with them again, all four of them huddled inside the partly-open door of the undercroft, and they were beginning on the nightly ritual of arguing over who would do the first watch when they heard soft footsteps.

  The door was pushed further open, to reveal the abbess standing on the step. She had an earthenware jug in one hand and four stacked wooden cups in the other. Giving them a faint smile, she stepped inside and closed the door.

  They sat where they were, looking up at her in the light from a lantern placed on the floor beside them. Not one of them was aware that it was courteous for a man to stand up in the presence of a woman, especially when that woman was the abbess of a large foundation and, as such, worthy of respect.

  She held up the jug. ‘It is a chilly night for being on guard,’ she said, keeping her voice low, ‘and I have brought you a warming draught.’

  The nearest man scrambled to his feet and took the flask, pulling out the stopper and sniffing at the contents. ‘Smells good,’ he commented, giving the abbess a toothy grin.

  ‘Drink it while it’s hot,’ advised the abbess. ‘Here.’ She handed him the cups, which he laid on the ground, filling each to the brim with the hot drink.

  The four men slurped greedily at their cups. ‘Mmm,’ said another man appreciatively. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Wine, honey to sweeten and herbs for flavour,’ Abbess Caliste replied. ‘It is a sovereign remedy prescribed by my nuns to keep out the cold and bring heart to those who are weary.’

  The guards smacked their lips, grinning to each other. The drink was better than anything they’d tasted since they had been put to this tiresome duty, and they all took a refill. The abbess watched them, a faint smile on her lips.

  The guards were coarse, ignorant men, chosen by Tomas not for their sophistication but for their strength and their brutish willingness to do anything he told them to, the crueller, the better. As a consequence, none had more than the sketchiest idea of how an abbey operated. They didn’t care, for they took their cue from the men of power who ruled their lives, and they, in turn, took theirs from the king. King John had no respect for the religious foundations, viewing them simply as a rich vein of wealth to be tapped whenever he saw fit. The four men who now sat chuckling with each other, finding the same old lewd jokes suddenly amusing again, were merely a despicable by-product of the world which John had brought into being. Had they ever
had the least curiosity as to what life in an abbey was like, and had they made the smallest attempt to satisfy that curiosity, they might well have found it odd that the abbess herself had brought out refreshments.

  They steadily drank their way through the spiced wine until the jug was empty. So sweet, so spicy, it was hard to resist. Sweet, spicy . . . and drugged, with one of Tiphaine’s more potent sleeping draughts.

  The abbess watched as the four men fell asleep. It was quite amazing, she thought; although she had known what to expect, still the swiftness with which one man after another abruptly slumped down on to the floor took her by surprise. Hitching up her skirts, the abbess leaned down and grasped the shoulders of the first man, dragging him down a couple of shallow steps and inside a small room set into the wall beside the door. The second man was lighter, and she was able to move him more easily. Panting, she went back for the third – a heavy, thickset man – and had to resort to rolling him over and over in order to move him. His head bumped once or twice on the hard floor. The fourth man was almost more than she could manage, and it took her a long time to get him into the little room with his companions. When at last all four were laid out in a row, she checked to see that they were still breathing, removing the key on its iron ring from the belt of one of the men as she did so. She then hurried out, closing the door.

  She picked up the lantern and, clutching the heavy key, went on down the passage to the punishment cell and turned the lock, then slid back the bolts, which moved more easily than she had expected. Then she hurried inside, almost falling down the steps in her haste. She put the lantern on the floor and stared down at him.

  He was lying with his back to her, and she saw immediately that the wounds on his shoulders were already healing. She sent up a prayer of gratitude for Joanna and her ointment; and for Tiphaine, who’d had the good sense to bring it to where it was needed. She took hold of his upper arm, shaking him.