A kite’s alarm call tore through the woodland, fading as the bird winged away. A twig snapped. Brother Dominig lifted his as yet untonsured head and said cheerfully, ‘Good morrow.’ Receiving no answer, he sighed. No answer meant that whoever was skulking in the woods was more than likely on the run. He turned without haste, wondering whether he was going to be attacked for the food in the nets.
St Félix’s Monastery, whose only stone building was its simple chapel, was protected by God alone. The church’s reed-thatched roof was easily fired, and simple to break through. There was no stone wall to keep out predators. There were no fortifications of any sort, and the community was vulnerable to those with no respect for God’s Holy Writ. Despite its holy status, Brother Dominig’s order had borne the brunt of attacks from outlaws before now. Whoever was watching him was keeping well out of sight in that hazel thicket. Were they outlaws? Poachers? Pirates? All he saw was a wall of lush foliage, but he could hear them. At least two of them, panting hard.
‘May God protect me,’ Dominig murmured, and though he did not approve of violence, he cast about for his spade. It lay on the grass, a few feet to his left. He dropped the net back into the fast-flowing river, and shuffled casually to his spade. Violence or no, Brother Dominig did not pretend to have martyr’s blood in his veins. He pitched his voice louder. ‘Good morrow.’
‘What shall we do, Ned?’
It was a young woman’s voice, and it was verging on the edge of panic if Brother Dominig was any judge. He scooped up the spade and thus emboldened, repeated his greeting. ‘Good morrow.’
The hazel shook. Its branches were parted by a young man with untidy flaxen hair who stepped into the clearing. The young man, whose mien was military, was about Brother Dominig’s age. Sweat and blood mingled together on a countenance that might be fresh and comely were it not so bruised. The stranger’s chest was heaving, and he was carrying a small child. A child?
‘’Ware, Ned!’ the girlish voice came, trembling, from the sprouting hazel. ‘He’s holding his spade like a spear!’
The battered young man, presumably Ned, deposited his burden – a small girl – on the grass behind him, and placed his hand on his sword hilt. ‘Help us,’ he said, and his blue eyes blazed like beacons. ‘Give us sanctuary, for God’s sake. We cannot run forever.’
‘We?’ Brother Dominig gripped his spade.
Another twig cracked, the kite mewled overhead, and the young man’s hidden companion emerged cautiously from the thicket. ‘There’s only me and the babe,’ a girl said. She wore a simple blue gown and no veil.
Brother Dominig lowered his spade, disarmed and dumbfounded. When Brother Marzin had first joined them, he had started on a mural which depicted the Virgin Mary. The wary brown eyes of the girl hovering on the edge of the fish pond mirrored Marzin’s Virgin with uncanny exactness. ‘The flight from Egypt,’ he murmured, coming forwards to gaze at the baby in the young woman’s arms. He had taken the baby’s crying to be a kite, he realised, while she must have been trying to muffle the sound.
‘Yours?’ he asked, wondering who was after this youthful pair and what they had done. The prior loved saying that evil came in many guises, but surely so handsome a couple could not have done evil. Were they married? They must be, he decided, for the young soldier’s eyes were fiercely protective when they lighted on the girl.
‘The babe is my brother,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Help us. Please, Brother. They’ll kill him if they catch us!’
This was resembling the flight from Egypt more with every passing moment. Brother Dominig was intrigued, and his soft heart was moved. ‘Who are you running from?’
The young man, Ned, drew closer, an angry spark kindling in his eyes. ‘We don’t have time to explain. Do we look like a party of brigands?’
Brother Dominig gazed pointedly at Ned’s bloody sword, at his beaten features, and ripped clothing. He spread his hands. ‘You tell me.’
‘We’ve done no wrong!’ The girl thrust the infant under the monk’s nose. ‘Help us, or you condemn Philippe to death. If you doubt us, you must see that he can have done no wrong.’
They seemed to care more about the children than themselves. They could not be evil. Uncertain as to the best course, Brother Dominig temporised. ‘Our chapel is not secure from attack.’
The girl lost colour and clutched the babe to her breast. ‘Ned, there must be somewhere else,’ she said. ‘There has to be.’
The young man ran a hand round the back of his neck. His hand had been bleeding, and scabs were forming on his knuckles. ‘I don’t know. If the brothers won’t help us, we’ll have to keep running.’
‘Running!’ she repeated helplessly, as though she had come up against a lofty stone wall.
Dominig had marked this exchange with some interest. ‘I will help you,’ he decided, ‘if you tell me about your plight. The prior will not take it kindly if I bring trouble to our order.’
The young man named Ned drew his brows together. ‘But, Brother, you say your church is not secure. If we cannot claim sanctuary, how can you help us?’
Brother Dominig smiled. ‘I know nothing about you. You might be murderers. I’m taking a risk in trusting to your honesty. Will you not trust me?’
‘You’ve somewhere we may hide, and rest?’ the girl asked with heart-rending eagerness.
‘Aye.’
The couple exchanged glances. ‘Well, mistress?’ The young man looked at the girl. ‘It’s for you to decide.’
Ned’s mode of address revealed that the pair were not wed, and Dominig found himself wondering as to the propriety of what he had in mind. But a moment’s reflection brought him to the conclusion that since the infant’s life was at stake, the couple’s need outweighed any petty moral considerations. He prayed Prior Hubert would see eye to eye with him on this.
Large brown eyes surveyed Brother Dominig from the top of his unshaven crown to his bare toes. The baby wailed fretfully, and a tired smile flickered across the young woman’s lips. She looked spent. ‘Aye,’ she said, rocking her brother, ‘we had best go with this good monk, Ned. We can explain on the way. I swear I can run no more.’
***
The anchorite’s cell was built into the north wall of the monastery chapel, in order to test more severely the vocation of its occupants. As a consequence, it was dank and cold with rising damp. An odour of death clung to the porous stones, and Gwenn faltered as she forced herself through the low break in the wall. ‘It smells in here, Ned. I don’t like it. Is there nowhere else, Brother?’
Ned turned enquiringly to Brother Dominig. The novice was holding a bucket of mortar he’d snatched from a fellow monk who had been doing some pointing around the piscina. There had not been time to consult Prior Hubert, but he had dispatched Brother Marzin to stand as look-out.
‘This cell is the safest place there is,’ the novice said. ‘You can thank St Félix it’s empty. No one has been called to fill it since Brother Biel died.’
‘When did he die? Yesterday?’ Gwenn shuddered. ‘I swear I can smell him.’
Brother Dominig smiled. ‘Nay, sister. Your imagination plays games with you. Brother Biel died last Christmas, and no one has been called to fill his place. The hermit’s cell has been empty since then.’
Swallowing, Gwenn gripped her baby brother and ducked into the cell. Ned pushed Katarin after her and followed himself.
‘It’s cramped, I know,’ Brother Dominig thrust his head through the opening to apologise. ‘It was only designed for one person. Here,’ he tossed a bundle onto the earthen floor, ‘I sent for some blankets for you. And here’s bread and cheese, and some milk for the baby.’
As Gwenn’s eyes adjusted to the poor light, she saw a stone ledge running along the back of the cell. She set her brother down and lifted the blankets from the floor before the damp got to them. Katarin pressed close to her skirts, and she dropped a comforting arm about the child’s shoulders. ‘We’ll need water too,’ she put in, ‘to drink, and to cleanse Ned’s hurts.’