Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

Josse’s heart sank. He was tired, hungry, and thirsty, and, for the last five miles at least, had been looking forward to sitting with the Abbess in her cool and peaceful little room, expounding at length on the subject of the family background of the late Gunnora of Winnowlands, while Abbess Helewise, after plying him with a mug of some cold and delicious wine and a chunk of bread, listened with rapt attention.

Well, it always had seemed somewhat unlikely an image. But a man could dream.

With time on his hands, Josse decided that this might be his chance to go down into the vale and have a look at the holy spring.

* * *

He followed the path which he and Abbess Helewise had taken the day before. The sun was still hot enough to suppress animal and insect activity in the long grass on either side of the track, although, when he paused to listen, he could hear a soft, distant humming, as if a thousand bees were busy somewhere out of sight in the shade.

This time, he stayed on the main path, and, after only a few minutes, was standing outside the small and fairly basic dwelling where the monks lived. The wattle-and-daub house, low and quite small, was in deep shade beneath its thatched roof. A nearby trio of chestnut trees spread their branches over it, increasing the gloom. As in the Abbey above, there was nobody about; presumably the monks were at prayer with the sisters.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Josse peered in through the open door. The floor of the room was beaten earth, and on it stood a roughly made table with benches along both sides. A hanging divided off the sleeping quarters, but, for the daytime, it had been tied back. The quarters themselves were further divided, presumably so that the professed monks slept slightly apart from the lay brothers. Both monks and lay brothers, Josse observed, slept on thin straw pallets, and the neatly folded covers looked as if they would provide scant warmth and absolutely no softness. Even now, in the middle of a hot summer, the room felt damp and smelt slightly of mould. Underlying the mould was another, even more unpleasant smell. Either the monks had not situated their necessarium far enough from their sleeping quarters, or the warmth of the day was heightening the stench of the dung mixed in with the mud of the walls.

It must, Josse thought, backing out of the room, be even worse in winter. Particularly for any monk who had the misfortune to suffer from that crippling curse of damp-engendered pain in the joints. And, down in this grassy, shaded vale with the water source so close, the air would never feel dry.

He headed on towards the shrine, and the simply made, lean-to shelter that adjoined it. Within the shelter he could make out benches, a small hearth, at present swept out and empty, and a wooden shelf bearing roughly fashioned earthenware cups and jugs. There were more of the straw pallets, but these ones were rolled up and tied neatly, pushed out of the way underneath one of the benches. Pilgrims to Hawkenlye, Josse observed, were cared for adequately, but with not the smallest touch of luxury. Well, those who came as supplicants, with sincere and devout hearts, doubtless expected no more. Would not the healing powers of the sacred water be gift enough?

Another lay brother came out from behind the lean-to shelter on hearing Josse approach, broom in hand, cuffs rolled back, feet bare and long brown robe hitched up. Again, he appeared to know who Josse was; at any rate, he neither asked him to state his business nor assumed him to be a pilgrim in need of the miracle water. Instead, with a vaguely approving nod, he simply said, ‘You’ll be wanting to look inside Our Lady’s shrine. Go ahead, sir, you’ll have the place to yourself,’ before turning back to the obviously dirty task of sweeping out whatever detritus had accumulated behind the shelter.

Josse went on down the well-worn path to the shrine. Although he didn’t know what he was looking for, he had the strong feeling that he must be alert, all senses aware.

He stood for a moment outside the little building, staring up at the tall wooden cross on the roof, noticing how the shrine had been made. The spring, it seemed, issued out of a small and steep-sided depression in the ground, and the shrine was scarcely more than a roof and two walls, the remaining walls being formed by the natural rocky outcrops that bordered the spring. The walls had been economically made, again, of wattle and daub, but, unlike the monks’ quarters, this time fortified with pillars of stone, and a wooden door with a solid-looking lintel stood partly open.

Josse pushed it further open, and stepped into the moist coolness of the shrine.

The only light came through the door, and, since he was standing in the doorway, he was blocking most of it out. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then took a couple of paces forward. The ground beneath his feet was of the same beaten earth as the monks’ house, and the rock walls appeared to have been untouched; the result was that there was a great sense of naturalness about the shrine, a pleasing effect that seemed to say, this is the Holy Virgin’s place, we do but tend it.

The water seeped up out of a crevice right at the back of the shrine, where the two rock walls met. Over the countless years that it had welled up out of the ground, it had formed for itself a pool; the soft sound of running water was soporific, relaxing, and for a brief moment Josse was tempted to lean against the wall and rest.

No. He had work to do.

He moved forward again, and noticed a short flight of steps going down to the edge of the pool. They had been hewn out of the rock, and were wet with condensation. They were, he found out as he started his descent, extremely slippery. He put out a steadying hand to the rock wall beside him, and had a fleeting sense of fellowship with the countless other visitors who, momentarily unsteady just like him, had grasped at the same hand-hold.

He stopped on the third step from the bottom, and looked up at the statue of the Virgin.

The only man-made element in the shrine, someone had done his best to make sure that it was a good one. Carved of some dark wood, indeed it was. The Virgin stood above the spring, her feet at eye level and her outstretched hands palm-upwards, as if to say, come, drink of my healing waters. Her slim, graceful silhouette was elegantly draped in a hooded robe, and she inclined her head forward, a distant but welcoming smile on her lips. Above her head was a halo, a perfect circle, generously proportioned as if to emphasise her holiness.

As Josse stared at her, he noticed that the platform on which she stood had been cleverly designed to echo the shape of the halo, and had a gently reflective surface; it looked, he observed, as if, staring down into the waters of the pool, the Holy Mother could see her own halo-encircled face smiling back at her.

It was a most original and effective concept. Descending the last couple of steps, Josse had a closer look. The platform had been let into the rock, out of which it jutted some four or five hands’ span; to support the weight of the wooden statue, it had been braced underneath, although this was not apparent from above. It was made of the same dark wood as the statue, but the upper surface had been faced with a skin of silver. The Virgin’s delicate bare feet made a pleasing contrast with the bright metal; Josse found himself staring at her toes, and, without any great surprise, discovered he was smiling.

It was a powerful place, this shrine, he decided, returning back up the stone steps. Easy to see how it had moved men to reverence, easy to believe that the Holy Mother had wished this new and important centre of healing to come into being. Moved by it himself, he stopped at the top of the steps, turned once more to face the Virgin, and, dropping to his knees, began to pray.