Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

Called again, went deeper into the shrubbery.

Then, as she stood still to listen, heard a footfall.

Turned, a smile of relief and love on her face.

And, as he approached, moved forward into his arms.

Josse had been offered accommodation in the shelter down in the vale, where pilgrims coming to the shrine were put up. Just as he had suspected, it was not particularly comfortable, but the floor was swept and the straw filling of his palliasse was reasonably fresh.

Whether or not it was because rumours had spread about the recent murder, at present there were no visitors to the shrine. Few, if any, pilgrims were arriving during the long, warm summer days to take the miracle waters; certainly, none were asking to be accommodated overnight.

Josse was inclined to be impatient with a man — or a woman — who would let a surely unreasonable, superstitious fear stand between them and a possible cure for whatever sickness or trouble ailed them. Why, the greatest fool in the kingdom could see, couldn’t he, that this was no random crime of violence? That, whoever had slaughtered Gunnora, he had somehow been involved in her secretive, complicated life?

No. He corrected himself. Of course they couldn’t see it. For Josse’s speculations had been shared with no one but the abbess, and she, he was quite sure, hadn’t been passing them on.

No. As far as the outside world was concerned, this murder remained what it had been from the start. A random crime committed by a released prisoner.

Mentally putting spurs to himself, Josse vowed to increase his efforts and prove, once and for all, otherwise.

Settling down as best he could in his solitary discomfort, he closed his eyes and made himself relax.

* * *

He did not sleep well. Disturbed by dreams of violence and by the conviction that there were living things within the straw, things, moreover, determined to feast off his blood, it was a relief when the faint grey of dawn lightened the eastern sky.

He got up and, scratching, went outside and walked the short distance to the latrine, hidden behind a paling fence. He held his breath as he relieved himself. It appeared to be some time since the trench had been dug, and the contents now neared ground level. Then he crossed to where a trough of water stood against the wall to the rear of the shelter. Plunging his head into it, he scrubbed at his short-cropped hair and splashed the back of his neck. It served to bring him to full wakefulness, even if he didn’t feel a great deal cleaner. On his wrists, he noticed, were several rough circles of small red bites, which, he was sure, hadn’t been there when he went to bed.

I’m getting soft, he decided as he stood staring out at the scene before him, the details gradually clarifying as daylight brightened. Shaking the drops of water out of his ears, he thought, fleas, lice, a hard pallet and the constant stench of shit, what should they matter to a former soldier? I’m too used to the comforts of court, to the pleasure of cleanliness. To the sweet perfumes of the ladies of Aquitaine. I must accustom myself to different standards here.

Outside the narrow world of the convent, the English, Josse had been discovering, stank.

His thoughts wound to a halt as his eyes focused on an object on the path. The smaller path, the one that led to the pool.

The path where Gunnora had been found.

Not pausing to raise the alarm, he was off, running as fast as he could. Although, even then, some deep awareness within him was telling him it was too late for haste.

She was lying face-down, and her head and shoulders were under the water. Grabbing her by the tops of her arms, he dragged her backwards, then, turning her on to her back, he put his cheek right by the partly open mouth.

He could feel not a whisper of breath.

Her face was dead white, the lips blueish. Her tongue, protruding slightly, looked swollen. Rolling her over on to her front, he pressed down with his hands and leaned his weight on her back, at the level of the lungs: he had seen a man saved that way once, seen how the pressure squeezed the water from the body, brought the victim back from the brink so that he coughed out the muck in his throat and drew a life-restoring breath …

But that man had been under water for a matter of minutes. And this girl, this poor girl, had, Josse was forced to recognise, been immersed for hours.

She was quite dead.

He sat back on his heels, staring down at her. He felt tears running down his face, and brushed them away.

Her hair, he noticed absently, had been reddish. Curly, springy. It would have been sad when the day came to clip it short for the donning of barbette and wimple. He hadn’t noticed it yesterday … No. Of course not. Yesterday she had been wearing the short black veil of the postulant.

He took off his tunic and draped it over her head and the upper part of her body. Then, bare-chested, he went to find Abbess Helewise to tell her that Elvera had drowned.

* * *

If the Abbess were surprised at being summoned by a half-naked man before Prime, she gave no sign. Very shortly after Josse had located one of the sisters on night duty in the hospital, and told her the brief details of his urgent mission, Helewise had appeared, gliding down the steps from the dormitory, perfectly dressed, bringing with her a faint scent of lavender.

She, Josse thought absently, was indeed the exception to the general rule. She was as sweet-smelling as an Aquitaine gentlewoman.

‘Good day, Sir Josse,’ she greeted him. ‘It was you who found her, Sister Beata tells me?’

‘Aye, lady.’

‘Drowned.’

‘Aye. Drowned.’

She was having the same dreadful thought; he could read it in her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder, but Sister Beata had gone back to the hospital. Drowned postulants, her attitude seemed to say, were not her business, not while she had the sick and the suffering in her charge.

‘Do you think she died at her own hand?’ Helewise asked quietly.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

She was nodding slowly. ‘We both noticed her state of mind yesterday,’ she said, in the same quiet, controlled tone. But he noticed the agitated hands, the strong fingers pulling at each other. As if she realised, she folded her hands and hid them away inside her sleeves. ‘I should have stayed with her, comforted her,’ she went on. ‘If she took her own life, I am to blame.’

He wanted to shake her. Tell her that, ultimately, every man and woman on God’s earth is responsible for themselves. That, if a soul is intent on self-destruction, that is their choice.

He said simply, ‘ If she took her own life, Abbess, it was because it had gone so terribly awry that she considered it no longer worth the living. And that, you must agree, is not something for which you must blame yourself.’

She didn’t answer for some time. Then, after a faint sigh, she said, ‘We had better arrange for her body to be brought up to the Abbey.’

‘Not just yet.’ He heard the urgency in his voice. ‘I only had the briefest look at her. Let us return together. There may be things we can learn.’

She gazed at him. She seemed hardly to hear, and he wondered if she were in shock. Then abruptly she gave herself a shake, and said, ‘Of course. Lead the way.’

* * *

She made a detour from the track to go to the lay brothers’ quarters, and he heard her telling one of them about this latest death. ‘Come along in a little while,’ she said, ‘and bring something on which to carry her.’

The lay brother glanced at Josse, made some remark, and disappeared inside the shelter, to emerge with a brown robe in his hands. He nodded towards Josse.