Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

There was a slight scratch on the left wrist, but it looked old; a scab had formed and partly fallen off, which he did not think would have happened had it been done at the time of death. The nails were bitten, and on the right forefinger a torn quick felt unpleasantly squelchy. Other than that, the hands were undamaged.

‘Look, Abbess,’ he said. ‘Look at her hands.’

The Abbess did so. Then said, ‘She did not put up a fight.’

‘No, exactly. Had she struggled, tried to ward off the knife, her hands would show it.’ He frowned, trying to work out what that meant. Either she was unconscious when the attack came — or asleep? — or … Or what?

Or she was assailed by more than one person.

He returned to the sleeves, pushing at them more urgently now, searching the upper arms … finding what he sought.

‘Look.’ He pointed. On the white flesh were small bruises, two on the right arm, four on the left. Without pausing to think if it was appropriate, he hurried round to stand behind the Abbess, holding her arms. ‘You see? She was held, like this, from the rear. Held hard enough for the attacker’s fingers to make those bruises.’

‘Held by one man, whilst another cut her throat,’ the Abbess said, infinite pity in her voice. Standing so close to her, still holding her arms, he felt the slight sagging of her body. Then, as if they had simultaneously realised the unseemliness of their position, he stepped back and she moved forwards. His hands dropped to his sides, and he was about to apologise when she spoke.

‘Do you wish to look at any more of the corpse?’ she asked briskly. Corpse, he noticed. Perhaps it made it easier, to refer to Gunnora as a corpse.

‘I think not. I am content to take the word of your infirmarer as to the contrived evidence of rape.’ He sensed her relief.

He walked slowly round the coffin. There was something else he should check, he was sure. What? Absently he watched the Abbess as she rearranged the dead girl’s clothing, placing the plain wooden crucifix under the crossed hands, smoothing the veil so that it lay in perfect folds …

Yes. That was it.

‘May I look at her feet?’

The enquiry in the Abbess’s eyes was not vocalised. Instead, she turned back the hem of the habit, revealing small feet in narrow leather shoes.

The soles felt cold, and, pushing with a finger, he detected moisture. Yes, she had been out in the middle of the night, hadn’t she? Of course her shoes would be wet with dew. He inspected the feet, then the ankles, but the skin was clean.

‘Would her body have been washed?’ he asked.

‘Naturally. The blood.’

‘Aye, that. I meant her feet, her lower legs.’

The Abbess shrugged. ‘I cannot say for sure. I imagine so.’ Then, although he could sense her reluctance to have to ask, ‘Why?’

‘I’m wondering, Abbess, as I’ve been wondering all along, what a nun was doing out of her dormitory — out of her convent, even — in the middle of the night. I’m thinking, did she go far? She met her death close by, yes, but was she on her way out or on her way back? I ask about her feet and legs because, had she left the track, which she would have had to do had she gone further than the shrine, then she would have been walking through long grass. I would expect to have found the signs on her legs, on the hem of her garments. And her shoes would have been soaked through.’

The Abbess nodded quickly. ‘Yes, yes, I see. You are right — the paths only extend to the shrine and the monks’ house, and to the little pool that forms below the shrine. That track — the one, in fact, on which she was found — is smaller. It is not much used.’

That, then, was one question answered. Whatever mission had taken Gunnora out that night, she had not gone far. But, as seemed increasingly to be the case, one question answered posed more: had she completed what she had set out to do, or had she been killed on the way?

He watched as, again, the Abbess performed her rearranging task.

Then, coming to stand beside him, they both stood in silence, gazing at the dead girl.

He no longer had the feeling that there was more to be learned from her. It was time, finally, to leave her alone. He stepped forward, picked up the coffin lid and replaced it. Then, inserting the tips of the nails back into their holes, he used his baulk of timber to bang them down again.

He resumed his place beside the Abbess. Then, as if they had been waiting for some inaudible sign that they were dismissed, they turned and went back up the spiral staircase.

* * *

‘I have been trying to arrange it that someone usually sits in vigil,’ she said as they left the church, which, as it had been when they went in, was still conspicuously empty. ‘But it has been so long, now. I sensed that my nuns were distressed by the task, that, by continuing to take their turn at sitting with poor Gunnora, this dreadful event was kept in the forefront of their minds.’ She gave a slight shrug. ‘I no longer insist on it.’

‘Wise, if I may be allowed to comment,’ he said. ‘Probably the feeling that she has been abandoned, that no one from her family has come for her, increases the poignancy.’

‘It does indeed. My lord d’Acquin, it is strange, is it not, this failure in response? I sent word, of course, as soon as I could, and the family home is but a day’s ride away at most. And I know my message was received, for the bearer reported back to me to that effect.’

‘Did the bearer say how the tidings were greeted? With shock and distress, I’m sure, but-’

‘He — it was one of the lay brothers — did say that the father appeared shocked, yes. But it was peculiar, he said, because the man seemed shocked before the brother had so much as got down from his horse.’

‘He guessed, do you think? Surmised that a rider arriving on a hard-ridden horse from the Abbey where his daughter lives must be bringing bad news?’

‘Perhaps.’ She frowned. ‘Yes, probably no more than that. But it’s odd…’

He waited. ‘Yes?’

Again, the shrug. ‘The brother had the strong impression that the father hardly took in the news. He — the brother — took some pains to repeat his brief account of what had happened, this time in the presence of two of the household servants.’

‘With no more response the second time?’

She gave a half smile, as if even she found it hard to believe what she was suggesting. ‘That’s the strangest thing of all. The father, so the lay brother says, seemed to brush him away. Gave the strong impression that he was preoccupied with something else, that this dire news of his daughter was a distraction.’

‘A distraction,’ Josse echoed. Yes, it was strange. ‘You can trust the word of the lay brother? He is not the sort of man to embellish a tale so as to increase the drama?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She was vehement. ‘Brother Saul is an excellent man, reliable, trustworthy, and observant.’ She glared at Josse, as if to say, why else do you imagine I chose him?

‘Very well. Then let us ask ourselves why a father should treat news of a daughter’s death — her murder, indeed — as if it were something of a nuisance, taking him away from more important matters.’

‘Matters already causing distress,’ she added.

‘Aye. That too.’

They had moved right away from the church and were standing in the shade of the cloisters, and she, he was sure, was as relieved as he was to breathe in the clean, warm air. Now she made a move towards a doorway in the wing of the building on her left, gesturing with her hand.

‘Let us reflect on that,’ she said, ‘while we make our way to the refectory for the midday meal.’