The Song of the Nightingale (31 page)

It could have survived if God had ordered it, she told herself firmly. In which case, the shift was truly miraculous, and people were right to revere it and credit it with magical healing powers. But she found she no longer automatically believed in such miracles. Human hands healed people: hands worked by minds inspired to use the right herbs and administer the correct sort of touch. Yes, it was undoubtedly God who provided the inspiration – hadn't Helewise, when she was abbess, heard so many of her hard-working nursing nuns say that they were but God's instruments, carrying out his work? – but it surely made sense to put your faith in a healer and not in an old piece of cloth . . .

Moreover, were there not more important things for God to do than to ensure the preservation of one small garment? Would not a loving God of power who cared for his creation be more likely to preserve one small life?

Her mind drifted on. Perhaps the true miracle was not the Sancta Camisia itself, but the impetus it had provided. Without it, the great edifice to the Holy Mother might not have been built and rebuilt over the centuries.

Virgin Mary. Holy Mother. Suddenly, Helewise seemed to see the Hawkenlye Black Madonna floating before her eyes, face serene and inscrutable, belly swelling with the growing child inside her.

Virgin, mother, goddess. Were they one and the same? Were the different manifestations simply mankind's attempt to render in wood or stone some great fundamental truth that he barely understood? A
female
truth. Oh, if that were so, then what of the man-made, man-ruled, man-dominant church that had risen up, flourished and now ruled the world?

Helewise rode on, her thoughts profound and troubling. Josse was now some way ahead, and she was separated from him by a cart and a family group consisting of five on horseback and four walking, one pushing a small barrow. Spared from the need, then, to explain her absorbed silence, she allowed her mind to lead where it would.

She had been nursing a secret. She had learned a lesson about herself; a realization that had come to her in the days that she had been back in the little cell by St Edmund's Chapel. She had told Josse that her motive in returning there had been because she felt she must be useful, and she had truly believed that good deeds could only be done within a religious environment; that the very fact of living and working in a place that was a part of a great abbey somehow imbued her efforts with an extra power.

But then that young woman had come begging for help. She had come to Helewise and, forcing down her shame and her horror at speaking of what had been done to her, had asked Helewise to help her get rid of the rapist's child that had taken seed in her.
And I, oh, I thought only of what I had been taught
, Helewise thought, anguished.
I thought in the black and white manner of the men of the church, and I turned her away.

Where was compassion then? she wondered. Where was the natural understanding that one woman should have had for another, facing as she did the awful prospect of a lifelong reminder of the terrible night that robbed her of her maidenhood and implanted in her the child of a man who had done her and her family such harm?

I should have thought for myself
, she told herself. Not sure even now if she could have made and administered with her own hands the concoction that had aborted the foetus, she realized what she ought to have done. She should have told the poor young woman she could not give the help she most wanted, but then have offered another sort of help: to care for and support her through the pregnancy, make sure she had assistance at the birth, and then quietly take the child to the abbey orphanage. Sooner or later, a home would have been found for it; there were always barren couples wishing to adopt, and probably there always would be.

Because of what I did
, Helewise thought gravely,
a human being has been robbed of the chance to live.

I will not allow such a thing to happen again
.

The secret that she was hugging to herself – and that she longed to share with Josse, were he to be a little more approachable – was the hard-won realization that she was not, and no longer wished to be, any part of the church as it now was. Her love for the beloved Saviour was as strong as ever, and she knew, without even thinking about it, that it was a devotion that would last until she took her dying breath. But her time back in the little cell by the chapel had made her understand that good deeds could be done even if you didn't belong to an abbey and wear a habit. Many of those who had sought out her help had no idea she had once been a nun; once been an abbess. By those who came in need, she had been taken as what she now was: an ordinary woman offering a little food, a little precious time to listen to worries and anxieties, a hand to hold, and advice when and if it was asked for.

She had prayed in the chapel, and she had spent wakeful hours at night in contemplation. Something seemed to have happened to her, and at last she knew what it was. Perhaps she had needed to be back in the vicinity of Hawkenlye Abbey to understand at last that she no longer belonged there. The time spent with Meggie and Little Helewise – yes, and with Tiphaine – in the cell by the chapel had shown her that there was another way. She might no longer be a Hawkenlye nun, but there was still a vital, important role for her among those who helped the needy and the desperate. That role could be carried out anywhere, and if she moved back to the House in the Woods it would not be long before word spread and those in need found her there; not only her, for there were others who lived there with far more to offer in the way of practical help.

And, as a free woman who answered no longer to the church but only to God and her own conscience, she could do as she pleased and take her own decisions. One, in particular: she raised her head and searched the crowded road ahead.

Yes. Josse.

Images and memories of him rushed into her mind and heart, almost as if they had been waiting for her to complete her long and complicated meditation and, now that she had, were too impatient to hold back any longer. With them came a fresh understanding of what life must have been like for him since she left the abbey and went to the House in the Woods.

I am sorry, Josse
, she said silently to his broad back.
I came to your house too soon, and I made you suffer because, not knowing what I wanted, I forced you to question everything you thought was solid and unchanging
.

She knew she loved him; she always had done. She was almost certain he reciprocated that love. Surely, no man would endure what he had from a woman unless he loved her.

She would have to find out. After what she had put him through, it was only right for her to declare herself first, hoping and trusting that he'd respond in the way she prayed he would.

As, at long last, the cry came up from those far ahead that Chartres was in sight, Helewise felt her insides flutter with nerves.

Have courage
, she told herself. Then, straightening her shoulders, she stood up in the stirrups for her first glimpse of the town.

Meggie first sensed danger as she and Jehan reached the outer perimeter of Chartres. She thought at first that the growing sense of unease was because the streets were heaving with people, animals, carts and barrows, and she was not used to such a crush. She and Jehan had been forced to dismount, and Jehan was now leading Auban. Admittedly, the roads had become steadily more congested as they'd approached the town – the sunshine had brought out the crowds, and everyone seemed bent on having a look at how the cathedral was progressing – but Meggie didn't think she'd ever before encountered so many people crammed together in such a small area.

Her dismay grew. She was sure there were eyes watching them, and not with any kindly intent. Jehan had headed into the workmen's section of the town, where artisans in the various crafts associated with cathedral building congregated. The streets were narrow and, because of the houses and hovels rising up on either side, relatively dark, especially in contrast with the sunshine outside. Many of the structures were open-fronted workshops, and glaziers, masons and carpenters could be seen hard at work. In a smithy, a great furnace suddenly blazed up as the blacksmith, stripped to the waist with a leather apron protecting his bare, sweating chest, worked furiously at the bellows.

Passageways led off the main tracks, small windows overlooked the street, and the road itself twisted and turned. There were, Meggie realized, dozens of places where someone could hide and watch, unobserved, the comings and goings.

The warning was now sounding loud in her head. She hurried to catch up with Jehan and, grabbing hold of his sleeve, spoke urgently to him. ‘Someone's watching us,' she said quietly.

‘I know,' he whispered. Then, giving her a quick smile, he added, ‘Don't worry, we'll soon be safely under cover. If I can remember the right way . . .' He stared around him, frowning. Then, his expression clearing, he pointed. ‘Up there. The iron-workers' lodgings are at the end of that street.'

He set off again, and she hurried to follow, wanting to keep close. She had not appreciated that the different crafts had their own areas, but it made good sense. In her own craft, people enjoyed the chance to get together and compare their ideas and experiments, and it was no surprise to discover that other métiers did the same.

Jehan stopped outside a low door leading into a one-roomed dwelling, with a beaten earth floor and mud walls. Pushing it open, he ushered Meggie inside. ‘Make yourself at home,' he said with a grin, ‘if it merits the name
home
.'

‘It's fine,' she protested. There was a low bed in the far corner, a rough table and two stools and, on a smaller table, a big pitcher for water and a shallow bowl. The tiny window was unglazed, but the weather was mild, and, besides, she had been sleeping under the stars for the last few nights. This would be no worse than the hut in the Hawkenlye forest on nights when the fire wouldn't draw. ‘If you tell me where to find the well,' she added, ‘I'll fetch water.' She indicated the pitcher.

He hesitated, looking to his right and left, and she knew that, like her, he still felt that unseen, unfriendly presence. ‘The well's down at the end of this street,' he said. ‘It's not far. But be careful,
oui
?'

‘Yes.' He had turned away, clicking to Auban to get him moving again; presumably in the direction of whatever stabling was available. Instinctively, she reached out, grabbing his hand. ‘
You
be careful, too.' She met his eyes, almost black in the dim light. She read his expression. ‘You feel it, don't you?' she whispered.

He nodded briefly, then hurriedly led Auban away.

She went inside, picked up the pitcher and set off to the well, filling the pitcher and then turning back the way she had come. There were other iron-workers' dwellings on either side of the street, although nobody was busy in the workrooms, and the lodgings appeared similarly deserted. Perhaps they were all up at the cathedral? Anyway, they weren't to be found. If Jehan had expected to meet up with the workmen he had known here before he'd set off for England, it looked as if he was going to be disappointed.

As she went back into the little room, a thought struck her: on the boat that brought them over the narrow seas, Jehan had told her how the men and women spying on King John's movements had come to Chartres specifically to seek out Jehan and his group of Bretons, knowing that they would be eager to answer the summons and take swift advantage of the opportunity to strike against the king who had murdered their prince. Did that mean, then, that all the workmen who had once lived in these empty buildings had been part of the group now, presumably, on their way to Wales? The fact that there was nobody here suggested that it did.

She put the heavy jug down on the little table, pouring some into the shallow bowl so that she could wash her hands and face. The water was cool and very refreshing, and she bent lower, scooping up a handful and trickling it down the back of her neck.

It was thus, bending down with her back to the door, fully engaged in her wash and enjoying it so much that she momentarily forgot her fear and her apprehension, that they jumped her. The first she knew was a heavy hand on her mouth and a brawny arm wrapped round her chest and upper arms, pinning them to her sides. Panicking at the sensation of being so suddenly helpless, she kicked out hard behind her with her right foot, hearing a grunt of pain as the side of her boot sole raked down a shin bone.

The arm round her chest tightened, and she could not draw breath. ‘Stop that, bitch,' said a voice in her ear, ‘or I'll crush the life out of you.' The arm tightened some more, and she thought she heard her ribs creak. She forced herself to relax.

‘Get her over here, behind the door,' a second voice ordered curtly. ‘Jacques, get over there too.'

Trying to turn her head to look – difficult, with the brutal hand over her face – Meggie saw that there were three of them. Three big, tough men, armed with knives and their own huge, scarred fists. And Jehan would not know they were there. Oh, dear God, he wouldn't stand a chance!

She started wriggling, twisting and turning, trying everything she could to escape the grip of her captor. He moved the hand from her mouth but, even as she took a deep breath and prepared to shout out, he bunched it into a fist and hit her very hard on the side of her head.

She saw bright lights, and then blackness.

She could not have been out for long, for she came back to herself to see Jehan on his knees, held by two of the men, one each side, who were forcing his head and shoulders down to the ground. His forehead was actually in the dirt.

His sword was propped up beside the door.

‘That's more like it,' the third man said approvingly. ‘A bit of humility doesn't go amiss, although I can't promise it'll help you any, my friend, once you stand before King John of England and explain why you and your companions were planning on joining those bastard Welshmen, damn their impudence, in their fight against him.' He paused, a smile spreading over his hard face. ‘Didn't think we knew about you, did you? Well, let me tell you, you're not the only men to have organized an efficient spy network. Did you really believe England's borders aren't watched? Or that, having picked up one of your lot and persuaded his tongue to loosen, we wouldn't come back here and root out the rest of you?'