That had proven to be an expensive vice, she acknowledged ironically. The priests preached that wanton, fallen women risked ruination, scandal, and mortal sin. But none had ever warned her she could end up in an unheated almonry, sleeping on a bare floor, sharing her bed with good-hearted companions who were, nonetheless, much in need of baths, keeping an eye peeled for a killer.
Actually, she’d given him surprisingly little thought since arriving at the almonry. In part, she was distracted by the novelty of her surroundings, in part she was fascinated by the drama provided by the other pilgrims. But she also felt secure, confident that she had outwitted her enemy. This was one fox who had eluded the hounds. And she meant to make the most of it. She would prove to the Almighty and His Archangel that she deserved to be a miquelot. She would convince Constance to help her found a nunnery, where the nuns would pray for her immortal soul and the souls of her dead husbands and even her lovers. Well, at least most of them. And she would begin her good deeds by saving Yann from the gallows and eternal damnation, whether he wanted to be saved or not.
Because their numbers were small, the February miquelots were allowed to visit the Archangel’s shrine again that afternoon. They were also permitted into the nave for the Vespers service that evening, and after being fed supper, they settled down in the almonry for the night. It was early by Arzhela’s reckoning. But as the candles provided by the monks began to burn down, the drone of conversation gave way to drowsy murmuring, and eventually to silence.
An hour later, Arzhela was wide awake and very bored. Beside her, Juvette was snoring softly. On her other side, Yann had begun to squirm and she leaned over to whisper, “Do not even think about it, lad.” She’d finally figured out what do to with the boy. She wouldn’t be in a position to aid him herself until she’d got out of this snare, which, God Willing, would be soon; Johnny’s men ought to be arriving any day now. Once the trouble was over, she’d find a place for him on one of her manors. Until then, she’d send him to Brother Andrev for safekeeping.
She couldn’t tell Yann about her long-range plans for him, but she had confided her intent to entrust him to Brother Andrev. He’d objected vehemently, of course. She was confident, though, that Brother Andrev would be able to keep the sly imp under control until she could reclaim him. Mayhap by then she’d have thought of a suitable trade for him. With those nimble fingers of his, he might make a weaver one day. Or even a silversmith. Well, no, that might not be the best apprenticeship for a lad with larceny in his heart. She laughed soundlessly, imagining Yann stealing spoons right under his master’s nose, and warned him to stay put when he started wriggling again.
The silence of the night was not really silent. The Aquilon wind was howling at the shutters. Pilgrims were snoring and muttering in their sleep. One of the remaining candles was sputtering. And over all, like the distant sound of the sea, was the coughing of the pilgrim with consumption. Arzhela was so accustomed to that throttled hacking that it had become background noise. It was a while before she realized that it had changed timbre.
Rising, she groped her way over to him. As soon as she touched his face, she jerked her hand back, for his skin was burning. It took her only a moment to decide what to do. “Get that candle, Yann,” she murmured, as she stooped and maneuvered the man to his feet. He was so pitifully light and frail that it was not difficult at all. He gave her a feverish, bewildered look, but did not resist when she began to guide him toward the door. Yann had picked up the candle, although he’d yet to move. “Come on,” she prompted. “You do not think I’m going to let you loose on these poor sleeping sheep, do you?”
It was too dark to see for certain, but she thought she caught the glimmer of a grin as he followed. “Where are we going?” he asked as soon as they were out in the portico. “The monks will have our hides for roaming around like this.” He sounded more excited than alarmed at the prospect, and did not protest when she instructed him to help her support the man’s weight.
“We have to get him down those steps,” she said, jerking her head toward the great gallery stairs. “That will not be too hard. But then we have to get up a second flight of stairs.”
Yann’s expression clearly said that he thought she’d lost all her wits. “How? The last I looked, none of us have archangels’ wings.”
“Are you saying you cannot keep pace with an ailing man and a woman past her prime?” Arzhela gibed. “We are going up to the abbey guesthouse.”
“As if they’d let the likes of us in there!”
“Oh, ye of little faith. Above the guest hall is the abbey infirmary.”
“Oh,” Yann said, somewhat deflated. “But what makes you think they’ll treat him there?”
“Because the Almighty and I would have it so.”
Yann shook his head. “You are daft, woman.” He stopped complaining, though, and did his part as they began their laborious climb. It seemed to take forever, for they had to stop and rest repeatedly. The stricken pilgrim asked no questions, obediently shuffling forward in response to Arzhela’s coaxing. His coughing had eased, but he seemed in a daze, only dimly aware of his companions and his surroundings. Arzhela knew there was little to be done for him, not unless the Archangel chose to bestow one of his miracles. But at least he’d get to die in a bed, she vowed. Every man deserved that much.
When they finally reached the infirmary, she did not bother seeking admittance, simply shoved the door open. Within, a flickering lamp cast eerie shadows, but it gave off enough light for her to make out several beds, simple structures little better than pallets. In two of them, ailing monks snatched at broken sleep, turning and tossing restively. Upon the third, the infirmarian was napping, still fully dressed for in a few hours he’d have to rise for Matins. Attuned to his patients’ needs, he awakened at once.
“What is it?” he whispered. As his eyes fell upon the man sagging between Arzhela and Yann, he came swiftly to his feet. He was only of middling height and the sparse hair crowning his tonsure was as white as newly skimmed milk. But his appearance was deceptive, for he lifted the pilgrim without apparent effort and deposited the man upon his own bed. He asked no questions, for the patient’s condition was self-evident, and hastened over to a table holding vials and powders. Arzhela and Yann watched with interest as he blended several herbs in a small mortar. He seemed quite competent, but Arzhela could not resist offering her help, suggesting softly that lungwort was good for consumption, as was wood betony. Her assistance was unappreciated, and within moments, she and Yann found themselves banished from the infirmary.
They stood there in the gloomy south stairwell, momentarily at a loss, for this seemed to be an anticlimactic end to their rescue mission. “Will he die, do you think?” Yann asked at last and Arzhela shook her head emphatically.
“Indeed not,” she lied, with such assurance that Yann’s face brightened, reminding her that for all his worldly, cynical posturing, he was still a child. “I’d go so far as to say your good deed tonight cancels out your theft last night, at least in the Almighty’s account book. Mind you, another such lapse and you’ll find yourself in Abbot Jourdain’s dungeon, alone with the rats.”
His eyes widened. He summoned up his usual bravado, though, saying skeptically, “Why would they need dungeons in an abbey? How many evil-doers go to church, after all?”
“You’d be surprised, Yann,” she said dryly. “Moreover, the abbot is a lord as well, for he holds the barony of Genêts.” She regretted having to scare him into hewing to the straight and narrow, but thieving was both crime and sin. “Now, are you sleepy yet?’
“No,” he admitted, and added hopefully, “Have you some mischief in mind?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she said, and there in the dimly lit stairwell they grinned at each other in a moment of comfortable and cheerful complicity.
XIII
February 1194
Genêts, Normandy
Genêts had many small, shabby taverns. Justin and Durand ha
d been making the rounds after their guide refused to escort them back across the bay, seeking another local man to take the defector’s place. Until the third tavern, they’d had no luck. Again and again the tavern patrons heard them out with interest, only to balk once they were told the crossing must be made now. Again and again Justin and Durand were warned about the treacherous tides and quicksand bogs. Again and again they were reminded that high tide that night would be soon after Compline, and Compline was not that far off. Finally, they offered a sum so large that the tavern fell silent.
One of the loudest nay-sayers, a cocky youth with snapping dark eyes and a birthmark upon his cheek, stood up abruptly. “I am Baldric,” he said, “though some of these jesters call me Cain for reasons anyone with eyes can see. For what you are going to pay me, you can call me by either name.”
The other tavern regulars had chuckled at the mention of Baldric’s ironic nickname, but by the time he finished speaking, most of them were regarding him in dismay, and one of Baldric’s companions seemed to speak for them all when he asked, “What will you use the money for, cousin, the fanciest funeral Genêts has ever seen?”
Baldric grinned. “No, I mean to spend it in St-Malo on Cock’s Lane!” Snatching up his cousin’s drink, he drained it dry, then swaggered over to Durand and Justin. “I want payment now, in case you do not make it to shore.”
“Payment when we reach the shore,” Durand countered coolly. “That will give you incentive to see that we do ‘make it.’ ”
They settled upon half now, half when they reached Mont St Michel, and before Baldric’s friends could seriously try to dissuade him, he led his new employers out into the night.
The Mont was still sharply etched against the darkening sky and seemed to have a halo of stars. The horses were edgy, sensing the mood of their riders, and Baldric had difficulty getting his mount under control. “I usually do this on foot during the day,” he admitted. “Any advice about keeping on this nag’s good side?”
“Just do not fall off,” Durand said laconically, and the young Norman laughed mirthlessly.
“Passing strange that you should say that, for I was about to warn you that we do not stop, not for anything or anyone. If one of you blunders off course into a bog, a pity, but we’ll not be riding back to your rescue. Understood?”
Justin and Durand traded smiles like unsheathed daggers. “Understood.”
Baldric was studying the clouds scudding across the sky. “At least the wind is from the north. The tide comes in faster if it’s driven by a westerly wind. Given a choice, I’d rather be crossing at least two hours before the next high tide. But we still ought to have enough time. Just follow after me, and hope that the Archangel is in a benevolent mood tonight.”
Justin was quite willing to put his fate in St Michael’s hands. He was not as sure about Baldric. They dared not wait, though. If the murderous “monk” had crossed over after learning of Arzhela’s masquerade, her chances of living to see the dawn were not good. The killer had several hours’ head start on them, and a knife still wet with the blood of Brothers Bernard and Andrev.
The wind was cold and wet and carried the scent of seaweed and salt. The muted roar of the unseen sea echoed in Justin’s ears, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. Seagulls screeched overhead, their shrill cries eerily plaintive. His stallion had an odd gait, picking up its hooves so high that it was obviously not comfortable with the footing. One of the tavern customers had told Justin that walking on the sand was like treading upon a tightly stretched drum; he very much hoped that he’d not have the opportunity to test that observation for himself. Behind him, he could hear Durand cursing. Justin kept his eyes upon the glow of Baldric’s swaying lantern, doing his best to convince himself that, as St Michael led Christian souls into the holy light, so would this Norman youth lead them to safety upon the shore.
The sound of the surging sea was louder now. Along the horizon they could see the starlit froth of whitecaps. Despite all they’d been told about the tides of St Michel, they were amazed by the speed of those encroaching waters, and it was with vast relief that they splashed onto the sands of the Mont. Baldric did not slow his pace, though, urging them off the beach and on toward the steep rocks that sheltered the village.
They soon saw why he’d been in such haste. The water was rising at an incredibly rapid rate. By the time the tide hit the isle of Tombelaine, it had merged into a single white wave. It was soon swallowing up the beaches of the Mont, a wall of water slamming against the rocks with such force that spume was flung high into the air, and for the first time, Justin and Durand fully understood why it had been so difficult to find a guide.
Morgan and Jaspaer took the reins of the horses and led them off. Neither man seemed very sober to Justin, and he could only hope that there’d be a stable groom on hand. They could spare no more time, though, for Baldric was already some distance away and beckoning to them.
“Come on,” he called, “and I’ll show you the fastest way to get up to the abbey. If you go through the village and then up and around, you’ll not get there for days! This is much quicker.”
Baldric’s shortcut was indeed that, although it also required the agility of a mountain goat. They scrambled up the slope after him, were breathing heavily by the time they reached the narthex, a vast arched porch that stretched along the west side of the abbey. “There you go,” Baldric said, with an expectant pause that lasted until Justin added some extra coins to the pile already jangling in his money pouch. “You ought to have no trouble with old Devi. He’s been the gatekeeper for the abbey since before the Great Flood, and is well nigh as ancient as God. Nine out of ten nights he forgets to latch the door, and since he sleeps like the dead, you ought to be able to sneak right past him. We outran the tides, so you seem to be on a lucky streak.”
Durand grunted and headed for the porch. Justin paused long enough to throw a “Thank you” over his shoulder. “Our men have rented lodgings in the village. You can sleep there if you like.”
“Not needed. I know a lass here who’ll be happy to share her bed with me.” Baldric had already started down the slope toward the village. “I do not know what you’re up to, and better that I do not. Good luck, though,” he said, before disappearing into the darkness.
It worked out as Baldric had predicted. The great wooden door was unlatched and they were able to creep past the elderly servant into the abbey’s portico. Conferring in whispers, they agreed that the door to their left was most likely the entrance to the almonry. Creaking the door open, they slipped inside.
They found themselves in a vaulted stone chamber filled with slumbering pilgrims. Raising their lanterns, they began to walk among the sleepers, pausing before each muffled female form. The search proved futile. None of the faces revealed by the candle flames was Arzhela’s, and the inevitable soon happened. A woman sat up, saw them, and screamed.
The hall erupted into chaos. People struggled to free themselves from their blankets, most of them talking at once. Justin did his best to calm them down, saying loudly that nothing was wrong, that there was no cause for alarm. His words went utterly unheeded. It was Durand who silenced them, shouting “Quiet!” in a voice like thunder.
They subsided, watching Durand warily as he stalked among them, mantle flaring, hand on sword hilt, a figure to intimidate anyone leery of authority. Once he’d quelled the clamor, he began to demand answers. “We are seeking a woman pilgrim, garbed like most of you, past her first youth, tall for a female and slim, with bright blue eyes, prideful, and a talker.”
His words echoed into a void. They regarded him blankly, faces shuttered and eyes veiled. He’d bullied them into submission with no difficulty, for the poor were always vulnerable to coercion of that kind. Justin could see, though, that these people would tell them nothing. Suspicion of the powerful, self-protection, a sense of solidarity with one of their own, fear: They had any number of reasons to keep silent.
“We mean this lady no harm,” J
ustin said, with all the conviction he could muster. “She is very dear to me and I fear for her safety.” As he’d expected, his sincerity was no more productive than Durand’s belligerence. It occurred to him that some of the Bretons might not understand French, and he tried again, this time in his slow, careful Welsh. And because he was watching their faces so intently, he saw a young girl open her mouth, then shut it quickly when the woman beside her clamped a hand on her arm.
Crossing to her, he knelt beside the child. “Do you know this lady, lass? You can do her no greater kindness than to speak up.”
The girl hesitated. But then the woman, rake-thin and careworn, hissed, “Mikaela, roit peoc’h!” Putting her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders, she looked defiantly up at Justin and he knew he’d get nothing from either of them.
Getting to his feet, he made one final attempt. “We will give twenty silver deniers to the person who can tell us of her whereabouts.” That was no small sum, would buy a man four chickens. But there were no takers, and when Durand swore and strode toward the door, Justin followed reluctantly.
Out in the portico, they communicated again in whispers, keeping an eye upon the sleeping gatekeeper. “We’ll have to start searching,” Justin said softly, but even as he spoke, he realized that would be an impossible undertaking. The abbey was the size of a small city, honeycombed with crypts, chapels, narrow corridors, and unlit stairwells.
Durand was gazing back at the almonry. “Wait,” he counseled, refusing to say more. Justin fidgeted at his side for what seemed like an eternity. He was about to leave Durand and begin searching on his own when the almonry door hinges squeaked. A moment later, a shadowy form emerged and headed for the circle of light cast by their lanterns.