Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

‘Who goes there?’ a man shouted from a house.

Alisoun’s head shot up. Could he see her? The moon was behind clouds, so she could not identify the vague form in the doorway. But that was good. If she could hardly pick out the man in the gloom, he could not see her well, either.

‘Come, boy, come here,’ the man called.

The dog hesitated, then ran to him, barking.

At that moment Alisoun took off. She knew that as soon as the dog reached his master, he would head back to Alisoun, barking for his master to follow.

She beat the dog to the church, let herself in, shut the door and slumped down against it, exhausted. Sanctuary at last. He could not come for her here. She could safely sleep, and in the morning she would pray God to forgive her for wounding the man. As she began to nod, she felt a chill draft from beneath the door, where it did not quite meet the stone threshold. Though the day had been hot, the stone church was damp and cool. She crawled away to a more sheltered corner and settled once more. Within moments she was fast asleep.

Alisoun woke with her heart pounding. The stench of pestilence was strong in the air. She looked round in confusion. Moonlight shone dimly through the windows, illuminating the altar. Now she remembered. She was in the village church. She had come seeking sanctuary after injuring the intruder in the barn.

But the stench. That had not been there when she’d arrived. Shivering with cold and fear, Alisoun probed her armpits, groin, behind her knees, her throat, behind her ears — all the places where pustules had appeared on her family. But she found nothing. Thanks be to God Almighty.

But whence came the foul odour? Perhaps there had been a burial today and the odour lingered? No, that could not be, not without a change of priests, for Father John would not allow the parishioners to bring the corpses into the church. He said they defiled the house of God.

Alisoun stood, looked round, but the moonlight did not reach the floor. Slowly, inching down along the north wall, she made her way towards the eastern end of the church. As she moved, the stench lessened. At last she found the air more redolent of damp stone and stale incense than pestilence. She settled back down against the wall to resume her night’s sleep.

At dawn a curious rat woke her as it sniffed her ankle. She kicked at it, sat up, clutching her pack to her. The stench almost gagged her. Once more she searched her body for signs of pustules, said a prayer of thanksgiving when she found nothing. But whence came such a stench?

She stood, blinked in the soft dawn light. But it was the buzzing of flies that led her to the west door of the church, the door through which she had entered in the night. A child and an elderly one-armed man lay naked on the stones, dumped unceremoniously, the old man’s nose to the floor, the boy’s arm pinned beneath him. They reeked of pestilence and decay.

Alisoun backed down the aisle to the altar, carefully, fearful lest she trip on yet another corpse. At the altar she knelt, crossed herself, then rose and searched for the sacristy door. It did not open at her first try, so she beat on it. No one answered, but her energetic hammering at last swung it wide. A high window in the dark room illuminated a couple beneath a pile of clothes. The man had opened his eyes.

‘Who is there?’ he cried out in a voice thick with sleep. Father John.

‘What? Someone is here?’ the woman squeaked, sitting up quickly, exposing her bare breasts.

After a moment’s hesitation, Alisoun pushed past the pair, both now fumbling for their clothes. She did not care who they were, she wanted only to escape. But the room was so dark. She dropped to her knees and crawled round, seeking a draft from beneath a door. At last she found one.

A light suddenly flickered. A lantern that had been shuttered had been opened, and Father John, his clerical gown hastily donned, blinked in the raw light and rubbed his eyes. A village woman held the lantern, her gown now pulled up to hide her nakedness.

Before either of them could focus on her, Alisoun flung open the door and ran out into the dew-drenched cemetery.

She cursed all men — thieves, liars and fornicators — as she stumbled across the mounds and out on to the common fields surrounding the village. A dog barked, perhaps the same one as last night, but she kept´ running. She must retrieve her horse and leave this curséd place. But where could she go? Where might one find sanctuary if not in a church?

Alisoun sank down in the grass and stared at the empty field. She had searched everywhere — the barn, the surrounding area. She had called and called. But the nag had been stolen. And she knew who had taken her. And the saddle. She should go after him, hunt him down, finish the work she had begun.

But for now all she could do was stare at the empty field and wonder why God so punished her.

Dame Constance escorted Honoria into the waiting area of the infirmary. The young woman had been scrubbing floors, and her veil was tucked into the neckline of her gown, her sleeves rolled up revealing slender forearms. She gave Owen a quizzical look as she curtsied respectfully. He had forgotten how lovely she was. The rumours about her had tarnished his memory.

‘Captain Archer wishes to speak with you, Honoria,’ Dame Constance said. ‘He represents His Grace the Archbishop. Look you show him respect.’

Two lay brothers bustled through the waiting room, eyeing the three with curiosity.

‘Is there a more private place we might talk?’ Owen asked.

Dame Constance pressed her hands together, glanced aside, thinking. ‘There is the gaol. You might speak in Honoria’s cell with a guard outside the door.’

‘You think she might escape me, Dame Constance?’

The nun coloured. ‘Her reputation, Captain Archer. I would not leave His Holiness the Pope alone in a room with her.’

Owen bit back a smile, nodded to Honoria to lead the way. Even the notorious Alice Perrers was trusted in a room alone with a man. What powers did they think Honoria possessed?

In her room, Honoria offered Owen the seat by the window. She perched on the edge of her bed, pushed her sleeves down, folded her hands primly in her lap, but her gaze was frankly curious, studying the scarred side of Owen’s face.

‘They say a jongleur ’s leman did that to you.’

‘Aye, that she did. They say that you own clothing and goblets far too valuable for you to afford.’ Barker, the gatekeeper, had told him about the silks.

A grimace, but the eyes remained level. ‘You are quick-witted, Captain Archer.’

‘I try not to be so entertained by my wit that I forget my purpose.’

‘And what is that?’

‘To discover the truth about the recent thefts and deaths at St Leonard’s.’

Honoria tilted her head, smiled slightly. ‘You think I hold a key to these troubles?’

Too sly, Owen thought. ‘Why did you hide the goblets?’

A surprised laugh. ‘Is it not obvious, Captain? You see what has happened — precisely what I feared if someone saw them.’

‘You might have confided in Don Cuthbert. He has championed you before.’

Now she dropped her head, sighed. ‘You are right, of course. But I recognised my folly too late — after Dame Constance had asked us whether we had noticed anything unusual, and I said nothing.’

‘Your silence was no lie.’

She met his eye. ‘You heard what Dame Constance thinks of me. It is so with all the nuns here. In faith, they think all lay sisters base, with our partial vows and no education. But me …’ She shook her head sadly.

‘Don Cuthbert thinks differently.’