Alys Clare - Fortune Like the Moon

‘Is it clean?’ Josse asked as Saul turned the heavy key on the boy.

Saul said, with a slight suggestion of reproof, ‘It is indeed, sir. Abbess Helewise, she does not allow slack housekeeping, not anywhere within the Abbey.’

Josse touched his arm in mute apology, both for having suggested the cell might be dirty, and for the underlying accusation that Brother Saul would have put a prisoner in there if it had been.

Prisoner.

The word kept reverberating in his head.

‘If you have no further use for me, sir,’ Saul said as they left the undercroft, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn, ‘might I be allowed to go and catch a few hours’ sleep?’

‘Eh?’ His voice brought Josse back from the disquieting paths where his mind had been walking. ‘Aye, Brother Saul. And my thanks for your company and your help this long night.’

Saul bowed his head. ‘I’ll not say it was a pleasure, sir, but you’re welcome none the less.’ He paused, and Josse was certain he had more to say. Then: ‘He is guilty, Sir Josse? Without any shadow of a doubt?’

‘It’s not for me to judge him, Saul,’ Josse said gently. ‘He will go to trial. But me, I have no doubts.’

Brother Saul nodded. He said dolefully, ‘It’s as I feared. He will hang.’

‘He almost certainly killed two young women, Saul! Nuns, who had done him no wrong except prevent him getting a fortune!’

‘I know that, sir,’ Saul said with dignity. ‘It’s just that…’

He didn’t finish. Sighing, as if all this were far beyond his comprehension, he lifted a hand in valediction and set off back to the shelter in the vale.

And Josse, after a moment’s indecision, went into the cloister and sat down to wait for the Abbess.

It would be, he was well aware, a long wait. But then he had nothing better to do.

* * *

Helewise saw him as she went to her room after Prime.

He was slumped in a corner, wedged in the angle formed by the junction of two walls. He looked hideously uncomfortable, but, notwithstanding that, he was fast asleep.

His craggy face was pale, and there were deep lines running from the sides of his nose to the corners of his mouth. The heavy brows were drawn down as if, even asleep, he was troubled and frowning. Poor man, she thought. What a night he has had.

Word had been brought to her of Milon d’Arcy’s arrest as she went into church for the Holy Office. Brother Saul had spoken to Brother Firmin, who had taken the tidings straight to the Abbess.

It had taken most of her reserves of self-control to proceed with her devotions, when everything left in her that was worldly — and there was quite a lot — was telling her to go straight to the undercroft and start demanding some answers from the murderer.

Now, though, she was glad she had made herself go to pray. The dignity, power and atmosphere of the Abbey church was always most moving, for her, in the early morning, and the solace and strength she derived then was the greatest. And, perhaps because of that, it was at the first service of the daylight hours that she felt closest to the Lord. It was, she often thought, as if God, too, was enjoying the innocence of the world as another new day began. Was, perhaps, like the Abbess — if the comparison were not sacrilegious — revelling in the purity of the morning, before the concerns of those who peopled their two domains, God’s so vast, her own so small, had a chance to sully it.

Feeling uplifted, strong from having come fresh from communion with the Lord, she crossed the cloister, approached Josse and gently touched his shoulder.

He shot into wakefulness, hand going to where, no doubt, he usually carried a sword, eyes glaring up at her.

Seeing who it was, he relaxed.

‘Good morning, Abbess.’

‘Good morning, Sir Josse.’

‘They’ll have told you.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Indeed. You and Brother Saul did well. And my congratulations on the accuracy of your prediction. You said Milon would come back for the cross. And he did.’

‘We don’t know for certain that’s what he came for.’ Josse was stretching in a huge yawn as he spoke, remembering only half-way through it to cover his mouth with his hand. ‘Sorry, Abbess.’

‘It’s all right. When do we speak to him?’

Josse got to his feet, scratching at a day’s growth of beard. ‘Now?’

She had been unaware she’d been holding her breath. Overwhelmingly relieved — she didn’t think she could have borne delay — she said, ‘Very well.’

* * *

She sensed a new tension in him as they went down the steps to the undercroft. She was about to speak, but just then she became aware of the noise.

Was it what had disturbed Josse? She would not have been surprised if it was. It was a dreadful noise, like that of an animal in a snare, containing both pain and, predominantly, despair.

As if he, too, felt the need of light in this suddenly terrible place, Josse took a flare out of its bracket on the wall and held it in his left hand as he unlocked the door of the makeshift prison, carrying it in with him as he and Helewise advanced into the cell.

She saw him immediately, for all that he was cowering right in the far corner. As the light from the flare fell on him, his face relaxed into a smile. But only for a moment; seeing who stood beside her, he gave a low moan, and slumped back against the wall as if he were trying to bury himself.

Glancing over her shoulder, Helewise noticed that Josse had positioned himself with his back to the closed door of the cell, his stance appearing to defy the prisoner to challenge him. His face, in the light of the flare, was stern; she was, she reflected briefly, now seeing the man of action, the King’s agent, making quite sure a murder suspect didn’t make a break for freedom.

The young man whom she knew must be Milon d’Arcy was now sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, head dropped on to his knees. Stepping forward, Josse said, with a gentleness which greatly surprised her, ‘Milon, get up. The Abbess Helewise is here, and you must show her respect.’

Slowly the youth did as he was told. For the first time, Helewise was face to face with the husband of the late postulant, Elanor d’Arcy, known in this community as Elvera.

She hadn’t known what to expect. But it certainly wasn’t this thin, white-faced young man, whose fine bright clothes were muddied and torn, and whose eyes bore an expression which, although she couldn’t yet read it, struck a chill in her.

And who, quite obviously, had been crying.

Not knowing of any better way to begin, she said, ‘Did you kill your wife, Milon?’

She heard a brief exclamation from behind her — Josse, apparently, did not approve of her straightforward interrogation methods — but, after a tense moment, slowly Milon nodded.

‘And why was that?’ she continued, in the same quiet tone.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he whispered. He sobbed, sniffed, and wiped his wet nose on his sleeve. Raising his eyes to Helewise, the pupils wide in the dim light, he said urgently, ‘She came to me, you see, that night, down in our secret place. Just like she always did on a Wednesday. I used to wait for her, on those nights, in the bed I’d made for us deep in the undergrowth. We’d lie together till the very first glimmer of light, then she’d run back to her dormitory and pretend to be asleep when the summons came for Matins.’

‘Prime,’ Helewise corrected automatically.

‘Was it?’ Incongruously, in that dread place, he gave a sudden swift smile. ‘She said it was Matins.’

‘Well, she was very new to convent life.’ Dear God, but this was difficult! ‘So, she came to you that night, Milon. And you — you spent some time together.’