Chapter Three
It was raining. Starting with the slow rain in the air that caught at clothes and hair and settling in to a solid sheet of water coming down unceasingly.
Linnet stood outside the kitchen and looked out across the church and the graveyard.
Everything was grey, the Priory’s warm stones washed out by the grey light, the grey water, the grey sky.
The land around was still, the only sound the streaming rain, and dimly through it, the people hurrying and cursing at their labours.
The Inspector strode through the inner courtyard without minding the weather at all, as if he was protected from it somehow, although his hair was plastered wet to his scalp.
The Prior followed, eyes narrowed and thoughtful from beneath his cowl.
The novice was looking around at the Priory with keen blue eyes.
Isabelle and Pol were almost dancing in the rain, with the bird flapping around her head as she span, not noticing the monks until they nearly ran into them.
The Inspector stopped for a moment as if to assess their presence, then marched on, through a large puddle, splashing the child from head to foot.
Linnet smiled. It wasn’t kind but the dripping child’s barely contained fury and the bird’s indignant hopping brightened the grey day.
The Prior stopped to ruffle Isabelle’s wet hair and say something to her, before catching up with the Inspector. The child ran off mollified, the raven swooping behind her.
All the monks trooped through, going to Prime, their second morning prayers.
Their usual chatter was subdued by the Inspector’s presence.
Today he would watch them at their offices and rites, and tomorrow he would start on his report.
Brother Marcus was a half-step behind Oswyn as usual, close enough to breathe in the air the other was breathing out.
Oswyn walked a little faster, trying to put more space between them, but as his legs were half the length, Marcus only had to stretch a little to be as close.
And just a pace behind the two of them, the childlike skipping of Brother Maykin, too fresh-faced for anyone to call his given name of Matthew, shoving and whispering with the other younger monks, despite their attempts to be solemn.
After the first morning bustle, the courtyard fell quiet again, with the rain the only noise, falling on the stones with a dedicated solidity, a sworn devotion of wetness.
Linnet roused herself. She’d been standing idle for nearly half an hour, just watching the rain and the people. Watching the rain and the people from under the courtyard eave, as if she were a lady of leisure. It was also foolish to be out here, not hidden away in the Scriptorium.
In the silence, the fear about Oswyn’s words from last night came rushing back.
What had he found out about her? What did he mean by ‘a Dutch mouse’?
She knew he’d been at the Durham Priory as a novice, but he’d left years before she and her father had been in the area.
The monks were always moving, from priory to abbey to cathedral.
Migrating crows her father used to call them.
She thought about her father and the last time she’d seen him.
It must have been about five years ago. His face, a mask of indifference, her own red with shouting.
Did she regret running off like that? No, not even with what had happened since.
She couldn’t have stayed any longer and she hadn’t wanted to travel with him.
He said he was off to scribe for one of the makers of bibles overseas, but she knew there was more to it, something hidden from her.
He wanted to marry her off, have her safely looked after, he’d said.
She had asked him safe from what but he’d refused to answer.
Even if they’d not argued, once she was no longer a sweet child on his travels, for the nuns and servants to fuss over, she’d have been a burden and he didn’t take kindly to burdens.
He didn’t take kindly to much, although none of his friends would have known it, always laughing and joking and telling tales.
It was Linnet who saw his sour side, the silences that lasted for hours.
As a small child, she thought he’d a set number of words and he’d use them up with the monks, leaving nothing for her.
Older, she realised his words were currency and he hoarded them, flashing them around as bait to catch greater prizes, not to be wasted on a useless girl as they walked and rode between his fishing grounds.
There was the roll they carried, sometimes two rolls, for the monks to write their remembrances on, then there were the secrets, the stories and the gossip and the news, which could be dangerous, taken from town to town.
He had meetings with men who never gave their names, who didn’t look at her or pay her any mind, low talking and then tasks given.
Letters of introduction written, documents made that she doubted were real.
The monks were in the Priory Church now, singing their prayers.
Linnet could hear them from the Scriptorium, the familiar words and patterns washing over her like the rain.
She ground up more oak galls for ink, sharpening quills from goose feathers, scraping the vellum smooth for use.
When her mind was taken up with worry, she couldn’t write, but there was always other work to do.
The oak gall ink scent rose up to soothe her, the spicy notes so familiar.
People thought of scribes sitting on their high stools loftily writing but they didn’t see all the preparations and the labour – and backache – that took up so much of the time.
Linnet stood up and went back out to the courtyard to stretch.
As a child, all the walking she did with her father had kept her supple but now her days were spent in the Scriptorium with the books.
Ann in the kitchen thought of her as idle, which she supposed she was in her eyes.
She didn’t lift heavy pots or scour them, or constantly have her hands in water, even on the coldest days.
None of the island women had much time for Linnet, she wasn’t pretty or young, or interesting to them, not a good source of gossip or chatter.
She’d never had close friends. Only Tom now.
The monks were filing out of the Priory for their tasks.
They seemed smoothed out and set apart after their singing.
Even the ones who quarrelled most, pinching each other during mealtimes and fighting for the best tasks, came out looking almost saintly.
She envied them those moments of certainty and peace.
As she watched, that smooth surface began to crack and fall off as they became themselves again.
Godfreyd pushed arrogantly past Brother Benedict, a short, round-bellied monk who was always following him around.
Godfreyd had somewhere important to go to, at least he thought so, probably the Infirmary.
He was a strange Infirmarian, he so hated touching people she’d noticed, but was very aware of his senior position in the Priory.
Oswyn was bustling and trying to catch up with the Prior and the Inspector.
She could hear him starting to talk about ‘when I met the Bishop’.
The Inspector looked impatient and kept turning his face away.
They went off to the Prior’s parlour. Brother Marcus looked after them wistfully, wanting to join them.
He had his eye on Oswyn’s role, she knew.
And of course, Brother Maykin, showing off to the other novices as he chattered on about St Vincent, the topic of the day’s sermon.
She heard him say the saint’s body had been protected by ravens – she wondered if Isabelle knew that.
If Oswyn was busy trying to impress the Inspector, she hoped he would be distracted from her and her past. He would probably prefer to keep taunting her for longer anyway.
She’d seen him the same with others, a sly insinuation here, mockery there.
She thought he grew fat on people’s secrets. Was he really a threat?
She’d stood around long enough today. She went back to the prayer book and wrote methodically for several hours. Sometimes it really did feel like work.
At one point she could hear voices outside.
She looked out of the small window in her room and could see the Prior and Oswyn were arguing with each other, but in low tones, trying not to be heard.
The Prior was leaning back against the damp wall, ignoring the cold that would be seeping through.
Oswyn was trying to tell him something – she heard ‘if someone were not who you thought’ – but the Prior brushed him away, eager to get back to the Inspector.
Was Oswyn about to tell the Prior about her? Thanks to the Inspector, it would have to wait. She could do nothing without knowing what he was going to say, so she would have to keep quiet. Back to her book.
Another disturbance brought her out in the late afternoon. She could hear squawking and yelling and something being thrown. Looking out, she saw Oswyn chasing Isabelle out of his room. The raven was fluttering around aggressively, swooping at him while the child dodged his hands.
‘And don’t creep in here again, you rat!’ Oswyn yelled at her, raising his voice above the loud croaking from the bird, who seemed to be taunting him, swooping just out of his reach.
He was rarely seen to lose his temper, unlike the Prior who would often be seen shouting, and Linnet wondered what Isabelle had been doing.
The noise and commotion had brought out the Prior and the Inspector.
The Inspector looked askance at the girl and the bird again.
Linnet could see he was asking the Prior about Pol.
Whatever the Prior said didn’t seem to satisfy him, as he shuddered and crossed himself.