Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

‘I understand,’ Gerome said, giving Josse a calculating look. ‘Well then, I shall say but this: Thibault of Margat has his own reasons for catching up with Brother Ralf and these reasons are not necessarily — to use your phrase — in Ralf’s best interests.’

‘I know that he has with him something of very great value,’ Josse said. I suspect would have been more accurate, but by assuming a certainty he did not have he was hoping to flush out information.

But Gerome was too experienced to fall for the ruse. ‘Do you, now?’ he said with a grin. ‘Well, that’s as maybe; perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t. This Hospitaller of yours has his orders, Sir Josse. Things are not always as they seem, and there is very much more at stake here than meets the eye.’ Abruptly he stood up. ‘Now we will return inside, for the sun is sinking and we shall soon be in shadow. We will draw a jug of the best wine and presently you will eat the evening meal with us and sleep in our best guest room. My sister and my daughter receive too few visitors in this chilly weather, when folk prefer their own firesides, and they will blossom in the company of a handsome and courteous knight such as yourself. What do you say?’

Facing the full force of Gerome de Villieres’s open-hearted, generous and hospitable nature, there was only one response. Josse said, ‘Thank you. I’d be delighted to accept.’

As he walked back to the house beside Gerome — who was now explaining in his customary detailed way just where the inspiration for his garden had come from and how they had made it — Josse reflected on the man. He was affectionate, gossipy and, on the face of it, a sybarite who lacked backbone. But that was only half of it. Beneath that amiable exterior there was steel, for here was a man who did not hesitate to take his knights and his men on a hazardous journey of well over a thousand miles to go to the aid of his beleaguered kinswoman. He might not have liked the experience of fighting, but then that applied to a great many men and Gerome had not been raised as a soldier.

Aye, there’s strength there all right, Josse decided.

Which for his present purpose was not the best conclusion. He was quite sure that Gerome de Villieres had not revealed everything. But he was in no doubt that, having made up his mind not to divulge any more about what happened between himself, his kinswoman, the Knights Hospitaller and Brother Ralf out in Outremer, Gerome would not be persuaded to say another word.

As soon as Josse set out from the Abbey, Helewise shut herself decisively in her room. She had been preoccupied with all that had been happening and her regular duties had suffered. She worked swiftly through the many fat ledgers for several hours, breaking off only for the office. By the time she set off to the church for vespers — with the exception of compline, with its satisfying sense of completing the daily round, her favourite office of the day — she felt that she had just about caught up.

She returned to her room after the evening meal, intending to work until every task was finished. She thought it would not be long; however, she became engrossed in studying a proposed scheme to market wool from sheep on the Abbey’s lands to the north of Romney Marsh and several hours passed.

One of the candles on her table flickered and went out. Looking up in surprise, she saw from the little that remained of the second just how long she had sat there. She leaned back in her chair, stretching luxuriously and feeling the taut muscles at the base of her neck crack in protest. She looked down at the manuscripts that she had been studying and at her own notes, written in her tidy and space-saving hand on a piece of scrap vellum. Confident that she now knew enough about the proposal, she tidied away manuscripts and writing materials and, lighting her little lantern from the dying candle, left her room, closing the door quietly behind her.

There was still a light in the infirmary but it was dim; it would be the shaded lamp of whichever sister dozed at her post on night duty. Elsewhere the Abbey was dark and silent. Helewise looked up at the night sky. There were wisps and tatters of cloud beginning to paint their soft veil over the stars. The wind had changed, bringing warmer air up from the south-west. In the south-east, Orion was still unobscured; Helewise stared up at him and then followed the line of his belt down to the horizon and found the brilliant Dog Star.

It was a long time since she had contemplated the glory of the heavens. Aware that her preoccupation with the recent dreadful events and, this afternoon, with catching up on her work had left her little time for her devotions, she decided to spend a quiet, precious interlude alone with the dear Lord and then slip up the night stairs to the dormitory.

She strode past the end of the infirmary and on to the church. The great west door was locked but the access to the side of it was open, as it always was. The gates were fastened and bolted; there was no need to put a lock on God’s dwelling place. She pushed the small door open just a crack, slipped inside and quietly closed it.

The air was heavy with incense, and in the soft glow of the sanctuary light she could see smoke from the censer lying in strata. She looked down the length of the nave, then raised her eyes to the vast wooden beam of the rood screen that swept from north to south above the transept, marking off the chancel beyond with its new double rows of choir stalls, beautifully carved out of local oak. Slowly she walked up the nave, pausing beneath the rood screen to look up at Christ on the cross high above her, then on between the choir stalls until she knelt before the altar. Closing her eyes, she stilled her mind in the hope of hearing God’s voice.

Some time later, she opened her eyes once more. Feeling peace all around her as if loving arms had placed a soft blanket on her shoulders, she rose to her feet. She heard a noise. She stood quite still, listening to see if it would come again, but there was nothing. Probably a mouse scouring the stone slabs for drops of wax. It was quite amazing what mice ate…

She walked on.

The soft, small noise came again.

She crossed to the end of one of the choir stalls and, holding up her small lantern, shone its light down on the shelf where the cresset lamps were kept ready for services after dark. She lit the five separate wicks — there was still plenty of oil in each depression — and, holding the lamp in one hand and her lantern in the other, slowly began to walk around the church.

She saw it when she was still several paces off. There was nothing particularly alarming about it at first sight, nothing to warn her; it was just that it was there where it should not be.

It was in a recess in the rounded wall behind the altar. There was a large wooden chest there with stout locks where the sacristan nun kept altar cloths, candlesticks and the precious beeswax candles. There was something on top of the chest. It looked like a bundle of clothes.

Helewise fought a sudden dart of fear. I am in the house of the Lord, she told herself. The gates were locked at sunset and there is nobody within to harm me.

Holding both lantern and cresset lamp high, she approached the chest.

She had been right in her guess, but from one end of the bundle protruded a sturdy boot. It was not very large and it showed signs of hard usage. The heel was worn down at one side, as if the wearer walked on the outsides of his feet, and the sole had been mended. Helewise moved her light to the other end of the bundle. Leaning down, she could make out the sound of deep, regular breathing. She sent up a swift and heartfelt prayer of gratitude, for in that first moment she had feared yet another dead body.