James Forrester - Final Sacrament

In this manner, the meal continued for two hours. At the conclusion, fruit fritters were passed around and Simeon produced some fine Cypriot wine. This caused them to debate whether Ancient Greek wine would have tasted as good, and whether things Roman-roads and architecture particularly-were necessarily any better than they were in the modern world.

“After all, we know more than the ancients,” reflected Simeon.

“What do we know now that they did not?” asked Fyndern, ever curious.

“Forty-five years ago, a Spanish ship sailed all the way around the world.”

Fyndern was confused at first; later, when it had been explained to him that the world is a globe, he was astounded. He had never considered that it had a shape, still less that one could sail off to the east and arrive from the west. “You sail that way,” he said, holding out his right hand, “and come back from that way,” holding out his left.

“If only the human spirit were shaped like the world,” said Clarenceux, savoring the sweetness of the Cypriot wine.

***

Late that night, Clarenceux donned his cloak and gloves, and joined Fyndern in the inn yard. Simeon was there to open the gate for them and lock it behind them. They set out on foot with no lantern. The stars and first quarter of the new moon offered little light, but Clarenceux reassured Fyndern that this was to their advantage; it meant less light by which they could be seen.

They walked for most of the way along the road toward the abbey-until they heard the voices of men coming toward them. Clarenceux grabbed Fyndern’s cloak and pulled him back into the darkness beneath the wall of a barn. As the men approached and were only a few feet away from them, they heard Walsingham’s name mentioned.

“We have got to get off the road,” whispered Clarenceux, once they were alone again.

They moved around the barn to a hedge running away from the road. The weak moonlight allowed Clarenceux to lead Fyndern, slowly and carefully, across the middle of the field, along the balks between recently ploughed strips of land. They felt a breeze on their faces. At the end of the furlong they followed the balk between the next series of strips, which were parallel to the road.

It was only a mile to the abbey by road but it took Clarenceux and Fyndern most of an hour. Even at the gatehouse there were men posted. The dark shadows of trees loomed just to the north; it was a small wood, planted long ago for the now-vanished monks to have timber on hand for rebuilding their roofs and outbuildings. At the foot of an old elm they waited, listening in the darkness.

“I explored this way last time,” whispered Fyndern, steadying himself against the elm. “I followed the stream from the fishponds up to the gatehouse there-it runs along the edge of these woods.”

Fyndern now led the way, tracing the stream by listening to its trickling sound and looking for the moon’s reflection in its surface. The cold night raised the smell of damp earth; sticks cracked under their weight and the bushes brushed their cloaks, clawing at them. Clarenceux heard the leaves rustling above him; he crossed himself and prayed that the sounds they were making would not carry.

“Shhh.” Fyndern had stopped. “Listen.” He paused, and slowly stepped to the edge of the stream.

Clarenceux could hear an owl hooting and the stream flowing. An animal rustled in the undergrowth on the bank. In the distance, pinpoints of light indicated that men were moving in and out of the abbey. There were about a dozen of them. There was a barn a hundred yards away, and men were waiting there too.

“Walsingham did not follow my instructions,” whispered Clarenceux. “He was meant to come after dawn. I told him. How far is it to the drain?”

Fyndern bit off the broken part of a fingernail and spat it out. “It is in the southeast-it empties into the long fishpond.”

“Have you got the tinderbox?”

“Yes-yours and a spare from the inn.” Fyndern began to tread carefully through the wood again.

Fifteen minutes later, they came to the southeastern edge, where the trees met the great monastic fishponds which formed the eastern border of the abbey precinct. The ground here was lower, and the dark roofs of the abbey buildings, three hundred yards away, could be clearly seen against the starry sky. A duck, disturbed by their movement, quacked and flapped its wings, splashing the water, as it took flight. Fyndern and Clarenceux both crouched down and looked across the undulating ground, but there was no one to be seen. They proceeded cautiously along the bank of the pond. When they came to a tree they sheltered in its shadow and listened. Soon they were within forty yards of the east end of the church. But Fyndern went on further, until they were ninety yards southeast of the abbey.

“It’s near here,” whispered Fyndern. He took off his boots and thrust them inside his doublet, then let his feet slip down the bank into the shallows of the pond. He moved carefully, one hand on the bank. He stumbled and stepped into a deeper part and swore, but continued searching for the opening. A minute later they both heard the trickling of water and Fyndern placed his hands on the square stone mouth of the drain.

“This is it.”

Clarenceux looked up at the abbey, silhouetted against the stars. “Do you feel brave?”

“No.”

“Good-you’d be mad to feel brave at a time like this.”

There was a pause. Neither of them said anything.

Fyndern crouched down and looked into the blackness. The drain was about two feet high and although there was only a trickle of water running through it, it was oppressive. Also, it smelled foul. “I hope you are going to tell someone to reward me for this if everything goes according to plan.”

“I will tell Thomas.”

“How much?”

“That will be up to Awdrey. I will tell Thomas I promised you ten pounds.”

Fyndern stood up. “I told you I was worth more than two pence a day.” He looked at Clarenceux’s crouched outline against the stars above him and swallowed. “We will not meet again, will we?”

“No, we will not meet again, Fyndern. But I am glad I met you.”

“And me too, I am grateful,” said Fyndern in the darkness. “No one has ever trusted me as much as you, and made me feel worth something-more than just a trickster.”

“Prove it now, Fyndern. Do this well and you will help stop a war and thereby save countless lives. Use all your skills and senses. Remember, go under the shaft from the refectory, find your way into the kitchen drain. The door to the undercroft is behind it. You have the key. Don’t put the boots back on until you are out of the water; we don’t want to leave tracks. And remember, everything now depends on you lighting that flame at the right time. When I send the signal. And when you are sure that the fire is going, get out quickly. Swim the pond if need be.”

Fyndern reached forward and grabbed Clarenceux’s hand. He shook it vigorously and long. Then he let go, crouched down again, and plunged headlong into the stone tunnel.

Clarenceux waited until he could hear no more sounds from the drain. When it was quiet, he turned and made his way back along the bank, moving quickly. Looking at the monastery, he could make out the curve of the moon reflected in the glass. A single light seemed to be burning in the upper chamber of the abbot’s house. But the window of the refectory itself was black.

***

Thomas, Simeon, and Alice were all waiting for him in the hall, gathered around a large fire. Simeon shut the gate behind Clarenceux, locked it, and showed him into the warm.

“I thought you would have gone to bed,” said Clarenceux, as he unbuckled his sword and laid it and the belt on the top of a barrel.