The novice lowered his head in assent. ‘Don’t worry, mistress, I can give you food and water in the usual manner via the other opening. This is to tide you over.’
‘Other opening?’
‘Even anchorites do drink and eat, sister.’ Dominig was mildly shocked at her ignorance. ‘There’s a slit in the north wall which opens onto the yard. It’s shuttered from the outside – that’s why you can’t see it. Brother Biel took all his food and drink through it.’ Dominig smiled at Gwenn. Both she and the little girl were white as chalk, poor things. And no wonder. Brother Dominig might like to be solitary, but he would hate being bricked up in that unnatural hole, where sunlight never ventured. ‘Never fear, sister,’ he said, reassuringly. ‘I’ll not leave you sealed up any longer than I have to.’
A shout drew the novice’s kindly eyes to the church door. ‘That’s Marzin,’ he said and snatched his head out of the cell. ‘He must have sighted someone.’
Stone scraped on stone. Brother Dominig grunted as he shifted the first granite block into place. Dipping a trowel into the bucket, he slapped the contents onto the stone and smoothed it down. He had three courses to complete, and though he was no mason, he must do it more swiftly than a master. He hauled another stone into position.
‘That’s mortar, isn’t it?’ Ned asked, blue eyes sharp as steel. ‘Won’t mortar be difficult to break down when they’ve gone?’
With deft strokes, Brother Dominig smoothed the mixture onto the block, and hoisted another stone. That was the first course done; with another two to go, the entrance was shrinking fast. ‘I only wall anchorites with mortar,’ Brother Dominig said, discovering that urgency had not blunted his sense of humour. ‘With women and babes, I use mud.’
‘Mud?’
Through the diminishing gap, Ned’s countenance was not amused. He was no dissembler, this honest young man. ‘My apologies.’ Brother Dominig grunted, heaving on another block. ‘It is mortar. If I piled the stones on dry, they would look out of place, and your pursuers might be tempted to rip them down to investigate. It’s got to look convincing. On my soul, it will be easy to get you out when all is clear.’
Another trowel-load of mortar slapped on stone. Another course completed.
Ned backed into the cell and trod on Gwenn’s foot. ‘Sorry, mistress.’ Her teeth were chattering.
‘I don’t like confined spaces,’ she said.
‘Neither do I.’ Ned took Gwenn’s arm and drew her towards the ledge. Clinging to her sister like ivy, Katarin came too. ‘As we have a long wait, I think we should sit down, don’t you?’
***
It was soot-black in the anchorite’s cell, save for a couple of feeble splashes of illumination where two small apertures admitted a grey light from the interior of the church. The greater of the apertures, a quatrefoil carved out of the wall, threw the distorted shape of a Greek cross onto the muddy floor. The cross on the ground measured less than a foot, but the quatrefoil itself was smaller, large enough for the anchorite to receive Our Lord’s body through it when Mass was being celebrated but with not an inch to spare. The quatrefoil had been carved at an angle to prevent the hermit from taking a too-worldly interest in the goings-on in the chapel. The other, dimmer, source of light was the squint. As its name implied, this reed-like crack was positioned so as to allow the anchorite to squint through it, and get a glimpse of the High Altar. No other portion of the church was visible, but despite this Ned had been standing with his eyes glued to it for most of the half hour they had been incarcerated in the cell.
‘Can you see anyone, Ned?’
‘Not a soul.’
‘What can be happening? It’s some time since the alarm was raised. Perhaps it’s another visitor to the monastery. Perhaps it’s not – what was the name?’
‘Malait.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t Malait. It could be anyone. A pilgrim?’
Withdrawing from the squint, Ned groped for the stone bench and wedged himself next to Gwenn. Katarin had her head buried in her sister’s lap, and Gwenn was caressing her. ‘I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it being anyone else,’ he said, candidly. ‘This monastery is too small and too out of the way to attract pilgrims. Besides, it has no relics.’
‘Aye, but until last Christmas they had a hermit,’ Gwenn pointed out, clutching at the faintest hope. ‘You know how people will bring their troubles to holy men.’ She shivered, hugging Katarin. ‘Ned, I’m cold.’
‘So am I.’ Ned draped an arm round Gwenn’s shoulders and reached for a blanket. She did not draw back. ‘Better?’
‘A little.’ She leant against him, and when she spoke again, her tone had changed, become hesitant. ‘Ned? Do...do you think my father was killed outright?’
‘Aye. That thrust would have killed anyone,’ Ned said, firmly.
‘I...I would not want him to die a lingering death.’
Ned’s hold on Gwenn tightened. ‘It would have been a swift end.’ He slanted his body towards hers. ‘Mistress Gwenn–’
‘I don’t want your pity, Ned,’ she said, stiffening her spine. ‘It would weaken me, and I have to be strong, for my sister and my brother’s sake.’
‘Your father’s last thoughts were of you, mistress,’ he said quietly. ‘He bade me look after you. He said to take you and the children north. He said that you would know where to go. Do you know what he meant, mistress?’ He heard her swallow.
‘Aye.’ Ned could hear from her voice that she was struggling to hold back the tears. ‘How like P...Papa, to think of us, when he was f..fighting for his life.’
‘He was a good man,’ Ned said, and then regretted it for he heard a stifled sob.
‘A g...good man. Aye. A dead man.’
Ned had no words with which to comfort her, though he hurt with wanting to help her.
‘Ned?’
‘Mistress Gwenn?’
‘Did you see Raymond? I saw him lying in the rushes. He was only knocked out, wasn’t he? Do you think he will have managed to escape?’
Ned chewed his bottom lip. He had indeed seen Master Raymond, lying on the floor, disarmed, and with the blood drained from his head. He’d been as pale as the limestone effigy of St Agatha in the church back home.
‘Ned?’
‘Mistress...’ Ned gulped.
‘You think Raymond’s dead.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Aye.’
She sagged against him. ‘The children are all I have left,’ she said, her voice catching in her throat. Katarin lifted her head. ‘What is it, my love?’
The little girl reached for the bundle which Gwenn had insisted on bringing and without a word, dropped it onto her sister’s lap.
Gwenn gazed at the child, uncomprehending. ‘There’s no one in the chapel. You can whisper, Katarin. What are you trying to tell me?’
‘Perhaps she’s reminding you that you have your grandmother’s statue as well as her and Philippe,’ Ned suggested.
‘Next to the children, Grandmama’s icon is as nothing,’ Gwenn said. Her voice warmed. ‘But you are right to remind me of it, Katarin. I am glad to have the Stone Rose. It will remind us of home when we are on our travels.’
Katarin made no response.
‘Why is she so quiet, Ned?’
Ned shrugged before he remembered the poor light shrouded him. ‘No doubt she loathes it in here. Count it a blessing she’s silent. Rather that than she fill the cell with crying.’
‘Aye. And thank God Philippe has gone to sleep. He screeched his head off while we ran through the woods, poor lamb. He’s worn himself out.’ Close to tears, Gwenn set the Stone Rose to one side. It was too soon to be reminded of the past, better by far to concentrate on the future. She was pleased she had her grandmother’s statue but, practically, she was more glad of its hidden treasure. She would tell Ned about that later. In all likelihood they would be forced to sell the gem if they were going to survive on the long and hazardous road north. If it bought them their lives and liberty, it would have been sold in a good cause. Izabel would approve of her selling it under these desperate circumstances. ‘Ned, if we ever get out of here, will you... will you stay with us?’