Alys Clare - The Joys of My Life

God’s boots, Josse thought. Only six years old and she has the understanding of an adult. They walked along, Meggie now chattering happily about squirrels’ dreys and deer tracks, and Josse marvelled all over again at this extraordinary daughter of his. They always said she’d be one of their Great Ones, he thought. What he had learned in that brief time in the clearing indicated they were right.

They emerged from the forest just above the abbey, behind the spot where, had they known, Martin the mason wanted to build the new chapel. Suddenly Meggie gave a surprised cry and, pulling her hand from Josse’s, ran off to stand at the base of an oak tree. She was jumping up and down, trying to reach its lowest branch. ‘Josse, help me!’ she called, turning to look at him. ‘I can’t get up by myself.’

He hurried over to her. It was a huge tree and he was not at all sure that it would be safe for her to climb. She was fearless and would go right to the top if nobody stopped her. ‘It’s a very big tree, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Why not try a smaller one?’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, becoming frustrated. ‘I don’t want to go high — only up to there.’ She pointed.

He followed the line of her finger and, resting at the place where a branch about two men’s height from the ground left the trunk, he saw a small bundle. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said.

‘I saw it first!’ Meggie protested.

‘I’ll get it,’ he repeated more firmly.

Meggie stuck out her lower lip. He swung up to the lowest branch, hauled himself up and put his foot on the branch above. Standing up and stretching, he got his fingers round the object. For a startled, disbelieving moment, he almost thought it sent a shock wave through him. Don’t be fanciful, he ordered himself. The object was wrapped in soft cloth. It felt hard and it was about the length of his forearm and the width of his two fists. Clutching it, he climbed carefully down again.

He kneeled and placed the object on the ground in front of him. Meggie was right beside him; he could feel her warm breath on his neck. ‘What is it, Daddy?’ she asked excitedly.

Daddy. His heart gave a great lurch.

The moment had taken on huge dimensions. Before him was a strange object that even his limited powers knew was so far out of the everyday and the ordinary that it was all but incredible, and his beloved daughter had for the very first time called him by the name to which he had always been entitled.

Slowly, reverently, he unfolded the cloth. He and Meggie, both shocked into awed silence, sat back and stared. It was a statue of a woman seated on a low, simple throne. She wore a mysterious headdress like a pair of horns, or perhaps the crescent moon on its side. Her eyes were closed, and her blissful, beautiful face wore an expression that was at the same time serene and powerful.

‘She is the Virgin Mary,’ Josse whispered, but something told him he was wrong.

‘No she’s not,’ Meggie whispered back. She put out her grubby little hand and gently touched the figure’s belly. Then she picked it up and put it in Josse’s hands.

Just then he realized what had troubled him. Meggie was right; this woman was not the Virgin. For one thing, unlike every representation of the mother of God that he had ever seen, this woman was heavily pregnant. In addition, whatever smooth, shining wood she was made from was also like nothing he had seen before.

It was black.

He had been holding his breath and now, noticing that his discomfort was rapidly growing, he let it out and tried to breathe in.

He couldn’t.

He tried again, but it was as if he were under a sudden enchantment. His ribs felt as if they were encased in steel and, panicking, he turned wide, horrified eyes on to his child. Perceiving his distress, she smiled and calmly took the black figure from him. Immediately air whooshed into his lungs and he gulped and gasped, his eyes watering. Then the dreadful thought struck him: dear God, if it — she — can do that to me, a strong man, what will she do to a little girl? He lunged towards Meggie, ready to strike the black figure from her hand, but Meggie, muttering softly under her breath and with a happy smile on her face, was nursing the statue as if it were nothing more dangerous than a doll.

Walking back to the abbey, Josse suggested to Meggie that they leave the figure in the safety of the abbess’s room. ‘People come and go freely at Hawkenlye,’ he explained, ‘and we would not want such a wonderful object to go missing, would we?’

His daughter turned her bright brown eyes up to him. ‘Nobody will steal her,’ she said confidently. ‘You know what she did to you.’ He did; it was all too vivid a memory. She must have seen the distress that briefly crossed his face, for she grasped his hand, gave it a quick squeeze and said, ‘You can hold her now and nothing will happen.’ She pushed the wrapped statue into his hands and reluctantly he took it, waiting for that paralyzing grip on his chest.

But it did not come.

‘She didn’t know who you were,’ Meggie said. ‘When you took her out of the tree and then when you held her, she did not know if you were all right or not. Now she does.’

Josse grinned. ‘She did not appear to have that dilemma with you,’ he remarked.

And Meggie said simply, ‘Of course not.’

They went in through the gates and Josse led the way to the abbess’s room. The door was ajar and, looking up, she smiled and beckoned them in.

Josse took a deep breath and, unwrapping the figure, prepared to explain to her what Meggie had found.

That evening, Josse went off to the vale to settle Meggie for the night in a cosy little bed beside his habitual place down in the monks’ quarters. He had asked Helewise if he might return when he had done so and she had instantly agreed. She could tell by his face that something had happened; something that he did not wish to discuss in front of his child.

He came into her room, closed the door, leaned back against it and then said, ‘The Domina says Joanna had to stay in Chartres. She-’ His face crumpled and tears filled his eyes. Brushing them away, he cleared his throat and went on. ‘I don’t understand, but the Domina seemed to be implying that what Joanna has to do may remove her into some other sort of existence and… and I may never see her again.’ Briefly he put his hand up to cover his eyes.

Helewise longed to rush over and comfort him. Longed to take this big, tough, brave man with the tender heart in her arms and pour out words of reassurance. Longed to say, I’m still here Josse and I love you!

But she was abbess of Hawkenlye. She stayed where she was in her chair.

When she felt she had given him enough time to control the emotion that threatened him, she said, ‘Is it certain that this will happen?’

His red-rimmed eyes met hers. ‘No. You know the Domina — like all her kind, she talks in riddles. All I could make out is that Joanna and the others have to give some of their own power so that what they are — what her people are — and what they believe in becomes fixed in the new cathedral. I don’t know. It sounded like a lot of nonsense.’

Helewise said after a moment, ‘I believe I perceive a little of what they are trying to do.’

‘I wish you’d explain it to me,’ he said, his grief making his voice harsh and cruel.

‘I’ll try.’ She swallowed nervously, for she knew how crucial this moment was. ‘Josse, did you not feel that the magnificent cathedral at Chartres is… well, just a little brash? It’s as if the rich people who are paying for it are determined to show off their wealth and their power, as if they want a permanent memorial — in the form of a window or a beautiful carving — so that, for all the years the building will stand, people will know their identity and how rich they were.’