Chapter Twenty-One
Isabelle was waiting for Linnet as soon as she was up the next day. She was paler than usual, Linnet thought, and coughing a lot.
‘Pol and I has something to show you,’ she announced with great importance.
‘Do I have to come now, Isabelle? I have to get to the Scriptorium.’
Isabelle looked offended as though she couldn’t believe she’d be made to wait. Linnet gave in. It wasn’t as if her absence would be noted anyway.
The girl, with her raven perched on her shoulder as if he were light as a sparrow, led her out of the Priory, up to the Heugh, over the side and down the path to the shore.
The tide was out so it was a muddy walk across to Cuddy’s Island, where Linnet had found Isabelle after Tom’s death.
Less of a walk and more of a scramble, each rock and stone covered in dark green seaweed and slime.
The simple stone ruins on the island reminded Linnet of Inner Farne. This had been Cuthbert’s first attempt to move away from the querulous, busy world of the monks. The more time Linnet spent with them, the more she felt the saint had had good reason.
Isabelle was walking with purpose, stopping every now and again to catch her breath, leading her to a small mound of stones just out of view from the mainland, in what had been the nave of St Cuthbert’s-By-The-Sea.
‘We found these here – you can read ’em.’
Under the stones, wrapped in cloth, were more of those manuscript pages. Linnet gasped. They were so fresh and clear, as if written yesterday but they were much, much older than that and she wondered how they’d been protected.
She touched the pages carefully. They couldn’t have survived out here under this pile of stones, even wrapped up, for more than a few months.
They were torn and holed in places, but dry and well preserved.
The hand was similar to that in St Cuthbert’s Gospel, she was sure of it, even if she’d only seen that once for such a short time.
It was an old joining-hand style that hadn’t been the fashion for hundreds of years.
It wasn’t another Gospel though, more a book of prayers.
Her mind was racing. Could these have been written by St Cuthbert? She was setting her imagination free, she knew it was unlikely, even incredible, but they could be as old as the saint’s time.
The prayers were simple, inspired by the sky and the sea and the animals and birds around the island.
Amongst the prayers she found notes and scribbles in the hand of that monk of long ago, complaints about his aching hand or his head, a jest about a duck, grumbles about the weather.
It was all in English but with many old words and she found much of it hard to understand.
She’d been looking at the pages for a long time, with Isabelle sitting patiently next to her. Pol had hopped off to scratch in the dirt for grubs.
‘How did these get here, Isabelle?’
The child shrugged. She might know more but she wasn’t going to tell everything. After their journey together, she trusted Linnet more, but she was naturally wary.
‘Should we take them somewhere?’
‘No, or whoever put them here will know. I’ll come and make a copy when I can. Thank you, Isabelle, this might be important but we mustn’t talk about it to anyone for now.’
‘Does it say who killed Tom?’
That was why Isabelle had shown her.
‘No, not this. I am looking for Brother Oswyn’s household book though, have you seen it?’
Isabelle seized on the chance to do something and ran off immediately to look for it in all sorts of unlikely places, Linnet thought.
She watched her clamber back across the rocks and the low tide coming in, heedless of her clothes and her safety, with Pol flying just above her, circling round and back lazily.
She put the manuscript pages back carefully, hiding them just as she had found them.
They looked like the ones she’d seen in the chest on Inner Farne but she’d only seen those briefly in the dark so she couldn’t be sure.
If they were the same, then it had to be the Prior.
He was the only one to visit Inner Farne regularly and she knew he loved the manuscripts and books that the Priory had.
Was he taking them from Cuddy’s Isle to Inner Farne, or was he moving them from Inner Farne to here?
Why wouldn’t he display them in the Priory?
But the next day, Isabelle wasn’t running around looking for answers. Linnet found her in the corner of the kitchen, curled up way past the time she was normally up. She shook her to rouse her but the child was hot to the touch, coughing and not awake, her eyes rolling around in her pale face.
Ann saw her looking at the child and said, ‘I tried her with a spot of warm honey last night but she’s got that cough.
She needs some of the monks’ dose, I reckon.
’ She looked worried, more so than usual.
She knew all too well how quickly a child could fade and die, she’d buried three of her own, leaving her with just Judith, now married to a farmer on the isle.
Linnet knew Ann was right, but the person to ask was Godfreyd. Would he listen to her? She found him in the Infirmary looking over his leech book. Luke was in there too, grinding some seeds, looking sullen and unhappy. He much preferred being in the Scriptorium, she knew.
‘Brother Godfreyd, the Prior has asked if you would make a dose for Isabelle for her cough and fever.’
Godfreyd looked up, eyes narrowing as he saw who it was. ‘The Prior? Are you sure about that? Maybe I should ask him. I don’t think he’d want my skill wasted on a kitchen brat, do you?’
She opened her mouth, trying to think of something that would persuade him, and stop him from seeing the Prior. ‘Yes, he is using her for his purposes, so it will not suit him to have her sick. But I can tell him that you are unwilling if you like?’
They stared at each other for a minute, Luke looking from one to the other in the silence.
Godfreyd broke it with a snort, almost a laugh as if something had just occurred to him.
‘Yes of course, I will get Brother Luke here to mix it up, the remedy for fever in the leech book, I’ll find the page for you. ’
He was smiling broadly at Linnet as she left, although she was sure she had the better of him for this.
The rest of the monks were preparing Brother Aldus’s funeral.
The Inspector had taken charge, ordering a day of sung prayers for the venerable monk, more than the other deaths had warranted.
Linnet thought that Aldus had become wiser and more venerable by the hour since his death.
She had heard of him as a rather simple old man, a monk since he was a boy, good at catching rabbits but not able to read or write, singing all his prayers from memory.
Linnet had been sent to help in the kitchen with the funeral food.
Isabelle was still curled up in the corner, coughing violently from time to time but not showing any other sign of life.
She would make sure Luke did give her the dose today, she was sure that would help her.
She was half-heartedly chopping when she heard a loud, arrogant voice from the courtyard.
‘Fetch me the Prior. Lady Margaret will be here soon and she will need a room.’
She dropped her knife. Stricken.
‘What’s with you? Too proud to chop when you’ve been told to? It was the Prior promised me you would help today.’ Ann was not impressed by Linnet suddenly stopping work. Unable to think what to do next, Linnet started chopping again.
She tried to hear what was happening outside but there was just general noise. She could hear a horse being led to the stables and the Prior talking but she couldn’t hear that voice, the voice she hoped never to hear again.
At long last she was able to escape, although Ann was still complaining as she slipped out of the door.
She went around the side of the inner courtyard, moving slowly and carefully, keeping to the walls for fear of being seen. Then she saw him.
Guy looked almost the same as the last time she’d seen him, being led into debtor’s prison, but much better dressed.
He was looking around with that air of confidence he’d always had, the slight smile on his face as he talked to the Prior, who was listening to him as if he had something worthwhile to say.
He was slender, not as tall as Godfreyd, but handsome. She had wondered if anything had lasted of what she’d felt for Guy when she was a girl, but now she knew it had long ago died. What was he saying? She crept a little closer to listen.
‘The Lady will need a room, of course, and somewhere for her maid.’
‘Forgive me, but why is she coming to stay with us?’
‘She is bringing the money for the prayer book and wanted to see your Scriptorium. She is only passing. Her Lord has called her up to Berwick where he is encamped.’
‘And you are her new man? Where’s the other one?’ The Prior had clearly forgotten his name.
‘He’s with her, I am to go north too with my Lady to take up the office of secretary to Lord Edmund. I came across her on the journey to the island and was glad to be of use to her, saving her from troubles on the road.’
This would be perfect for Guy, Linnet thought, to be a secretary again where he could get his feet under a fine table, feted as a literate man, letting everyone think he was counselling those he was merely scribing for, and known as a hero.
But what could she do now? Did he know she was here? Was this just a very unlucky chance?
As she was considering desperately what choices she had, Guy looked up and saw her in the shadows of the wall. He looked directly at her, smiled slowly and then winked. He’d obviously been thinking he might find her here, but she would have to wait to find out what he intended to do.
She lost the argument. They stayed and sold three more indulgences, but Guy, despite his bluster, was quieter in the taverns now, and Mary stayed in their rooms, working and only coming out for food.
The money was good. Guy let her take half to carry, in case he was robbed. He was poor at counting and she continued to take a coin here or a couple there, building up her own money.
Once Guy had teased out all the wealthy sinners who were looking for indulgences, he agreed they would leave.
‘But we must go back to Ely, all my things are there,’ he insisted. She was scared to go back but had no choice.
No one followed them out of Bishop’s Lynn. The farmer who took them the first few miles was taciturn, not interested in their reasons for travel or anything about them at all. Guy did at least take the quieter paths, avoiding the main market towns.
When they reached Ely, Mary was eager to get their things and leave. They had been arguing about where to go next. Mary thought London would be safest but Guy wanted to go back towards the north, maybe Lincoln or York. A fine cathedral town that would work for them.
She stopped outside their lodging. She didn’t need to go inside to see the men had been there. That was the first warning then, who knew what else they would do to them.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Guy kicked the door as they went in. His clothes were scattered all about, her inks – the ones she’d left here, curing while they were away – spilt all over the wooden floor, a swirl of muddy colours, and nothing was in its place.
They didn’t speak to each other as they gathered their things, packing up to leave. The woman they had the rooms from came by. Angry about the mess. Guy threw some coins at her and snarled at her to get out, they were leaving soon, the rooms were damp.
Mary followed her out. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘He’s—’ What could she say?
The woman brushed aside her apologies. ‘Never mind that, he’s an arse-spittle – always was so. You’d be better to find someone else.’
‘Did you see who did this?’
‘I’d have told the arse but he don’t want to listen.
It were those two men that used to come and see you.
I expect you know why, none of my business.
Anyways, they said to tell you that they’d be back.
And they asked if you knew about that young scribe – the one who got his throat cut in a brawl after market day. ’