Chapter Six #2
Access was across a bridge that spanned a dry moat and led to an ancient, raised portcullis.
Behind the grill, two metal-studded wooden doors rose within a tall archway.
Cut into the door on the left side was a much smaller grilled door through which he would have to convince the porter to admit him.
That was the easy part.
Once inside, he had to find his contact without the benefit of Gervais—God rest his soul—and whatever password had been agreed upon.
Will rubbed his lower lip with his thumb and pondered his dilemma. First, he had to gain admittance to the abbess.
Once across the bridge, he dismounted, led the horse to the door, and knocked loudly. “A traveler wishes to speak with the abbess.”
Listening intently while he waited, he heard the clink of keys before the metal grill opened. A pair of hazel eyes peered at him from beneath a wimple. “Who wishes to speak with the Mother Abbess?”
“One who seeks news of a relative.”
Why Will had expected the porter to be a male, he didn’t dwell upon. Giving himself a mental shake, he focused on gaining admittance. The story of his missing niece seemed a fitting one in this place.
“Please wait.” The grill closed, and Will waited, conscious of feeling out of place and unconnected to this religious house of women. Looking out over the orchard, he patted the horse’s neck and refined the story about his missing cousin. He waited—until the hair on the back of his neck rose.
He was being watched.
From where, he didn’t know, but he forced himself to remain calm and in his chosen role as he lifted his head and scanned his surroundings. Seeing nothing out of place, he looked up at the facade.
There!
It was the smallest twitch of a drape on an upper floor, the merest hint of a shadowy figure, and then the feeling faded.
Moments later, the door within a door opened, and the porter stepped through.
“I will take you to the abbess. The stableboy will be here momentarily to take care of your horse, monsieur. Tie him to the hitching ring for now.” The nun pointed to the metal ring beside the door, and when Will had done as requested, she gestured for him to precede her through the narrow opening, before closing it quietly behind her.
Will waited until she moved in front of him and then followed the young nun through a room that may once have been a porter’s lodgings and into a cobblestone courtyard slick with puddles.
Buildings rose on all four sides. Beyond the far roof, he espied the abbey steeple towering over all before the porter nun opened a door into the western wing.
She led him up a staircase, the stone treads clean but worn down by the passage of thousands of feet over the centuries.
Outside a pair of polished oak doors, the nun stopped, raised a hand, and knocked gently, twice.
“Come in.”
Will squared his shoulders, set a hand to the door, and entered, bowing before he met the gaze of the mother superior. “Monsieur, you are welcome in our house. I am Mother Bernadette, the abbess of this house of worship. How may I assist you in your search for a relative?”
Her voice didn’t prepare him for his first sight of the abbess.
Will straightened and found himself facing a woman of perhaps thirty years, with fine, clear skin, a patrician nose, and a way of looking at him that he suspected revealed a shrewd understanding of humankind.
Despite the severe black gown and pristine wimple, and the simple wooden cross around her neck, she bore herself as upright as any duchess in England and looked every inch a noblewoman.
Indeed, the room in which they stood was a mixture of a well-stocked library with overtones of Lord Carstairs’s London office.
Maps hung on the wall on either side of a crucifix.
Along one wall, lines of books rose, shelf upon shelf to the ceiling.
Neat and organized, it was the room of an educated person, a strategist, one who . . .
His gaze narrowed on Mother Bernadette.
Was it possible he had found Gervais’ contact? Gervais had been clear that their contact would be found within La Belle Dame. Who better than the woman in control of the abbey?
With care and constant attention to the abbess’ smallest reaction, he offered a blend of his fake story with a smattering of truth. “Holy Mother, I seek a young cousin who has left home, or been enticed away. I was given directions that have brought me to your door.”
The woman’s steady, dark-brown gaze didn’t waver from his face, but he felt she was assessing him and his tale, and found him wanting.
“I see. And where and when did this cousin disappear?”
“A little more than two weeks ago. From my Uncle Gervais’ house in Calais. Alas, he was unable to come himself.”
If Will hadn’t been watching the abbess so closely, he would have missed the slight flaring of her nostrils. Abruptly, she turned and reached for a bottle of wine that sat on a tray on her desk. “Will you partake of a glass of wine, monsieur, or do you prefer ale?”
Wine. Ale.
Did she deliberately use those words to draw me out? Is she my contact?
If Will backed his hunch and risked using the password, it was innocuous enough to be ignored if he was wrong. But these words carried power. If he were right, these words would continue his mission.
Nerves jiggled like worms in his gut. He drew in a breath. Careful to keep his nerves and his hopes under control, he watched the abbess closely, loosing the password into the space between them. “The ale here is pale, but the wine is fine, or so I was led to believe. I’ll take a glass of wine.”
Mother Bernadette filled a glass and handed it to Will. “Nature is kind in her bounty to us, monsieur. Here, she takes the guise of the d’Aubray family who send us a barrel of their wine each month. I think you will enjoy what comes out of their estate.”
Will closed his eyes and inhaled the bouquet of d’Aubray wine to mask his relief. When he opened his eyes, Mother Bernadette had moved behind her desk. She sat and gestured for Will to take the facing seat.
“Will you not join me, Mother?” He indicated the second glass sitting on the tray.
“I am not the one who has ridden through foul weather from Calais in search of—what is the name of your missing cousin, monsieur?”
“Sophie, and I am remiss in offering my name. Guillaume de Corbeau, at your service.” He bowed his head.
He felt more comfortable in his role using a French version of William Raven, almost his true name.
Being so close to his real name, it was easier to respond to than if he had created a very different pseudonym.
“Monsieur de Corbeau, I understand you arrived alone, but I once knew your Uncle Gervais. Please, tell me how he looked when last you saw him. Is he well?” Mother Bernadette folded her arms into the wide sleeves of her habit and sat back in the chair, her gaze steady and assessing.
Will sipped his wine and set the glass on the desk. Lowering his eyes, he sifted through what little he could share. Stark reality was unlikely to shock a woman like this. From what he had seen and heard so far, she was made of stern stuff.
“The last time I saw Gervais, he was lying in a pool of his own blood. I regret to inform you, but he was murdered in the stables sometime during the night before we were to set out on our quest.”
Mother Bernadette’s eyes closed. She crossed herself before clasping her hands together in a white-knuckled prayer.
She murmured words too soft for Will to hear, but perhaps she offered a prayer for the dead.
When she was finished, their gazes connected.
Sadness clouded her eyes. Was it for yet another lost soul, or was there a hint of something deeper in her sadness?
“I am sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings,” he offered. “I should have offered a more gentle telling of such grave news.”
“My brother knew the risks of what he did, monsieur. Did he give you something?”
Gervais was the abbess’ brother?
Shocked into stillness, Will sat, castigating himself for being an insensitive fool. Why had he not considered the possibility that his contacts knew one another well? Why had he not revealed Gervais’ death more kindly, more gently?
“Je suis désolé, Mère.”
“You are surprised, but you could not know of our connection, monsieur,” she said. “Do not deal harshly with yourself. I have to face reality, and I can do that best if we are honest with each other, n’est ce pas?”
Will nodded and dug into his pouch for the marked coin, even while his mind still grappled with the knowledge that Gervais and Mother Bernadette were siblings.
He recalled the man’s features beneath the covering of grime. A patrician nose and a shrewd, assessing gaze from dark brown eyes like those of the woman sitting across from him.
He set the coin on the desk. “Holy money, Mother.”
Mother Bernadette picked it up and ran her finger over the drilled hole. From beneath her surplice, she drew a coin with a reversed matching hole and set it down beside Will’s. “Holy, indeed, monsieur. What these coins may buy is dearly bought with too many souls.”
“May the soul of your brother rest in peace. I knew him but a few hours. I hope you have good memories of him to sustain you, Mother Bernadette.”
“Some. Too few, thanks to the war. But what I have must suffice. Now it is for me and for you to continue my brother’s work.”
“Is that possible from within the confines of your convent?”
“Yes, although it is not without difficulty. But an abbess may travel where other sisters may not. And the Abbess of La Belle Dame understands the ways of powerful men. Will you join me after Vespers in the refectory? I must think how best I may fulfil my brother’s role in your quest now he is gone. ”
Will stood. “My thanks—and my condolences.”
“Many besides Gervais have died in this quest. I pray you will not be another. Do not speak of either him or our task. Even within these walls, there are some who would justify turning you in to Bonaparte’s officers as their duty.”
With a nod, Will departed, but once outside the doors of the Mother Superior’s office, he stopped, unsure whether to wait for someone to attend him or to strike out on his own.
Heading back to the courtyard seemed sensible, and he had barely set foot on the cobblestones when a figure approached, garbed in the dark habit of the order, hands folded behind her surplice.
She stopped three yards from Will and looked up. Gray eyebrows made a straight line above her gray eyes. “Monsieur, if you will follow me, I will show you to your lodgings. They lie outside the main buildings, near the almoner’s room.”
Will agreed with a nod, and the nun led the way across the courtyard and out through a tall arched passageway.
At the other end, she picked a path through several piles of horse droppings, and Will noted the stables to his left.
He hoped his horse was faring well as they turned to the right towards the almonry.
Stopping before a plain door marked only by a thick, short cross, the gray nun, as Will thought of her, nodded towards it and knocked gently. “In here, monsieur. Brother Jacques will see that you have all you need.”
“I thank you.”
A middle-aged Benedictine monk, cowled against the cold, opened the door and welcomed Will as a traveler, even before Will offered a donation towards the abbey’s excellent work. “Follow me,” the almoner said as they entered a narrow hallway. Their footsteps echoed on ancient stones.
“Have you had many travelers recently?”
“You are our first since the rain stopped. The roads around here were impassable for several days, and we were cut off in both directions. And once the snows come, there will be few travelers brave enough to attempt the road.” Brother Jacques opened a door halfway down the hall and gestured for Will to enter the room.
The monastic cell was tiny. A narrow cot clung to one wall, and a wooden cross hung from the wall at its head. Beside the bed stood a small table on which a candle holder held an inch of candle, and in the other corner, a brazier was set, needing only fire to share its warmth.
“Before the Revolution, we did not have so many cells available for travelers.” The almoner bowed his head and crossed himself before leaving Will alone.
For those who died in the monastic purges, Will thought.
Although not a Catholic, Will crossed himself as well.
While William Ravenshoe was a member of the Church of England, Guillaume must be either a Catholic or an atheist. Later, when he met Mother Bernadette after Vespers, Will would ask her advice about which might be the safer option in a country he was beginning to realize was very different from that he had visited as a child.
Returning to the hallway, Will began exploring, noting but a single exit from this section of the building—back the way he had come. Praying this did not prove to be a trap, he mentally mapped the layout. Caution was quickly becoming second nature.
What else about him would have changed by the time he returned home to Clem? Two weeks and the storm-tossed English Channel lay between them.
He pulled himself up short.
La Manche. I must not think like an Englishman again.
For now, thoughts of Clem must remain in the back of his mind at all times, except perhaps when he lay alone in his bed late at night. From now on, he was Guillaume de Corbeau, a Frenchman from Paris in search of his mythical cousin Sophie.
Consoling himself with Rufus’s promise not to abandon him in France for too long, Will made his way back to the church. Once inside, he spent some time examining the architecture, noting two boarded-up holes where stained-glass windows should have been.
Had they been shot out by passing armies?
Overall, however, the church and its secular buildings were in remarkably good condition.
The survival of this abbey was a small miracle, and finding his contact without Gervais was another. As he knelt in a pew, he crossed himself and bowed his head, and he wondered: Do miracles come, like luck, in sets of three?
Will prayed to whichever god—Catholic or Anglican—ruled over all that it would be so.