Alys Clare: Girl In A Red Tunic

He was about to nerve himself to cut deeper when there was a loud cracking sound and, as a portion of the pen wall gave way, thirty starving, screaming pigs hurled themselves at him. He maintained just enough presence of mind to realise that the gravest danger was while he stood by the cart and he jumped out of the way as the lead pig — a vast sow — leapt for the meat meal that he had provided.

He used the animals’ fierce fixation on what lay on the cart to his advantage, hurrying away to the encircling trees and climbing up on to the lowest stout branch of an oak. From there he watched in horror as the swine attacked the dead man. They had overturned the cart in the first attack and now the corpse lay splayed out so that several pigs at once could get to work on his four limbs. Then the big sow opened her mouth wide and plunged her sharp incisors into the bloated stomach. The stench that filled the air made the young man retch but seemed to drive the swine to greater heights; fighting each other for the prime cuts, they plunged their snouts into the wide cavity in the dead man’s belly and ate his innards in a matter of moments.

It seemed to go on for hours. The young man, body aching, sick at heart and numb with horror at what he had done, sat in his tree and waited until the swine had finished. There were various awful noises — the lapping of blood from the forest floor, the crunch as a pig’s strong back teeth bit through bone — but eventually the sated animals wandered away and silence fell.

He climbed down, flexing his stiff muscles, and went across to the pen. He would dismantle it and pack the hurdles and posts on to the cart first, he decided, while he plucked up courage to inspect what was left of the body. The pen came to pieces readily — he had done such tasks many times before — and before loading it on the cart he removed the sacking that had wrapped the corpse. It was now ragged and full of holes where the swine had gnawed away the bloodstained areas. He bundled it up and stuck it away at the back of the handcart; when he got home, it would follow the dead man’s clothing on to the fire that he had stoked up before he left.

At last he knelt down to see what the swine had left. There was not very much: the dome of the skull with one empty eye socket; a few dark-coloured and rotten teeth; part of the solid pelvis; a single overlooked finger with a blackened, broken nail. The young man carried these remains a few paces deep under the trees, where he dug a shallow pit and buried them. They might stay hidden, or else some carnivorous predator — he remembered the distant howl of the wolf, and there were plenty of foxes in the forest — would discover them and consume them. Either way, he did not think it likely that the bone fragments would come to human attention.

Or so he fervently hoped.

Back in the glade, he spent a long time scuffing up dead leaves, beech mast and other forest floor detritus until he was satisfied that there was nothing to distinguish this glade from any other. He filled in the pen’s post holes with earth and made sure that the bloody ground was well covered. The moon had risen some time during this endless night and, although it was only just over the half, there was sufficient light for him to work by.

I can do no more tonight, he decided at last. I will return tomorrow, in the daylight, and do then whatever further covering-up is necessary.

He picked up the handles of the cart. It was heavier now and he realised that he was aching all over and almost exhausted. Then he straightened his back and set out on the long road home.

Helewise, Abbess of Hawkenlye, was in a troubled state of mind. She tried to rationalise it by admitting to herself that she was very tired. The pressure to come up with yet more money towards King Richard’s ransom had been relentless and wherever she looked she saw evidence of the terrible punishment which a king’s arrogance and folly had inflicted upon his people. Even Hawkenlye Abbey, favoured as it was by its special place in Queen Eleanor’s heart, had not been excused from providing what seemed a vast sum. Fortunately, with the invaluable help of the intelligent and quick-witted Sister Emanuel, Helewise had just about managed to raise the money from the Abbey’s revenues and they had kept hold of their treasures.

Hawkenlye Abbey possessed two extraordinary items. One, the Last Judgement tympanum that had pride of place over the great West Door of the Abbey, it would have been difficult (although not impossible) to take down and sell. The other treasured possession was the walrus-ivory carving of the dead Christ supported by Joseph of Arimathea, reputed to be a gift from Eleanor herself; the nuns’ and monks’ secret prayers must have been heard, for the ivory remained safely locked away in its usual place.

Helewise was deeply concerned, too, for the ageing Eleanor. On the one hand, the huge effort that she had made to gather together the ransom that would buy her favourite son’s release had filled her with restless vitality and apparently boundless energy; on the other, it had to be remembered that she must be well into her seventh decade. The English, who knew and loved her, saw her only at a distance and believed her blessed by God with eternal youth. Helewise, however, honoured by being the Queen’s hostess whenever she graced Hawkenlye Abbey with a visit, knew better. Queen Eleanor had recently made a swift overnight stop at the Abbey, dashing from one place to another — the explanations had been terse and Helewise, distressed by the Queen’s pallor, had not absorbed the details — and her fatigue had been tangible. Such was Eleanor’s preoccupation that she could not relax, pacing up and down in the best guest room even as she nibbled at her food and sipped warm, spiced wine from a goblet kept especially for her use. It was her usual custom to pray with the community when she was with them, but she passed up every opportunity, spending the hours of prayer closeted with her ministers in secret conversation.

Reviewing these her concerns, Helewise tried to convince herself that their sum was surely enough to trouble anybody, even a nun who had risen to the rank of abbess and ought to be able to discipline herself to her duty and the pressing needs of her life of devotion. For this was her problem: try as she might to lose herself in prayer, to still her mind and open her consciousness so as to receive God’s voice, she could not do so. She realised that she had previously taken for granted the ease with which she had formerly emptied herself for God; now this facility seemed to have abandoned her and she did not know what to do.

She had spent a long time with her confessor, Father Gilbert. He had given her but modest penance for the preoccupations and the wandering thoughts that kept her mind too busy to hear the word of God; she would have preferred a heavier punishment and was secretly denying herself half of the daily food ration. But when the formality of confession was over and the two of them spoke as the affectionate friends that they were, he had been kind to her and said that he understood her predicament only too well, suggesting that it was something that afflicted many people in Holy Orders from time to time. His advice had been simple: keep trying, keep asking for God’s help, and sooner or later He will hear you.

But she had not yet told Father Gilbert what it was that persistently and exclusively occupied her mind. He would have to know soon, she was well aware, if the sorry situation did not mend itself. She redoubled her efforts, spending so long on her knees that her work piled up on the heavy old oak table that served her as a desk and she had to labour long into the night to catch up. Then she would drag herself to bed, exhausted with the work and the emotional strain, hoping against hope that the dream would not come back.