Chapter Eight #2
Tom was sitting by the harbour when she found him, throwing stones into the water.
She felt suddenly awkward about talking to him.
Ann had made a mean comment that morning, about her setting herself at him.
She’d never thought of him as a lover. He was a fair bit older, and anyway, she counted him as her friend, and she’d known him when she was a child.
Ann seemed to like people in boxes, paired up neatly, doing their work as set down by scripture and habit, not strangers like Linnet, somehow existing on her own and doing something special.
‘After your cloak are you?’ he asked, not looking up.
‘Is it finished?’
‘It will be soon, I’m nearly done.’
‘I was going to talk to you about Brother Oswyn, whether you thought anyone disliked him, I mean really disliked him.’
He looked up, sharply, but she just looked back at him, innocently.
‘He just drowned. I told you already.’
‘Yes, but he got a lot of people annoyed, I think. Don’t you think so?’
‘Mebbe.’
He wasn’t giving anything away.
‘What about Brother Godfreyd?’ she asked, determined to find out more.
‘What about him?’
He’d turned his back to her and was throwing stones again.
‘I thought maybe he didn’t like Oswyn?’ she persisted.
‘Ah, you know those monks, none of them get on all the time, they’re cooped up together like a flock of hens and they start pecking when they’re peevish.’
‘Yes but—’
‘I heard two quarrel the night before Oswyn drowned, and it weren’t Godfreyd. I was out near the stables, thinking I’d left my net there to dry out maybe, and right after Vigils, when they should have been abed, two monks hissing at each other like geese.’
‘Did you see who they were?’
‘No, no.’
She was sure he was lying but she didn’t know why. Why would he leave his net drying by the stables? He wouldn’t, he’d leave it on the beach with the other fishermen’s nets. So what was he doing by the stables? She thought about asking that, but decided on a different question.
‘If you didn’t see who then how did you know it wasn’t Godfreyd?’
‘Weren’t neither of them tall, lass, you know how he stands out from the rest of them.’
As he said that, she remembered the quarrel she’d seen and heard that night, Oswyn and the novice. But was that later? Or had Tom been watching too, also in the shadows?
‘Did you ever want to leave the island, Tom?’
‘No, I had my mother to look after until last year, and the fishing is good. Where would I go anyways?’
‘But no wife, Tom?’
His face looked haunted suddenly, darker, but he laughed as he got up. ‘Never found a woman who didn’t ask too many questions, did I?’
She reddened, worried he might think she was interested in him that way.
No matter, she followed him to the inn where he was quickly surrounded by the masons, Jack amongst them, and a wild game of dice started.
She noticed he was gambling hard and his laughter was forced.
She’d never seen him lose so fast, but he kept going, putting more and more coin on the table in an attempt to win it back, until at last it was all gone.
The masons clapped him on the back as he left, promising another game tomorrow, and settled in to more drinking.
Jack glanced over at her and she slipped out. Best not to attract his attention if she could help it.
‘Watch yesself!’
She’d been so busy looking behind her that she’d walked straight into the parish priest, Sir Cyrus. He was staggering about, clearly soused, a quiet man, except at the pulpit or the inn.
‘You want to watch yesself – the company you keep,’ he continued, stabbing one sweaty finger at her but missing. ‘That Tom is a sinner. That witch’s brat is a sinner. You’ll be sharing a table with them in hell.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Something not right about that Tom, always crying and praying in my church.’
She’d seen Tom head into the church often of an evening. Was he asking for forgiveness for his dice? When she first came back to the island, she thought he was happy but the longer she’d seen him, the less that seemed true.
‘And – and that brat!’ His face was purple with indignation and beer. ‘’Tis not godly to be prancing about with ill-omened birds. She should have died with her mother, that one.’
‘What happened to Isabelle’s mother?’ Linnet asked. She realised she had no idea where the child actually came from.
The priest waved his hands around. ‘The sickness, the one that took all the families down the way. They found a heap of bodies in that hovel she lived in and that changeling – about two at the time – sitting in the corner, not a worry about her, playing with a raven chick.’
The image formed, unbidden, in Linnet’s mind. Flies probably, the stench of death, and Isabelle, her back to the chaos around her, focusing on Pol as if her life depended on it.
The priest was muttering prayers and curses, all mixed up, as he stumbled back to his house.
Struck by what he’d said, Linnet looked in at the church, but it was dark and silent, just a rat or two scurrying about.
The next day was still and clear, almost spring-like if not for the cold in the air. Tired from another night of bad dreams, Linnet walked slowly to the Scriptorium, faces swimming around her as if she were underwater.
The fishermen went out early but Tom and the Prior were off to Inner Farne. The Prior would go there to pray in peace every now and then. Peace for him but a long round trip for Tom and the other fisherman, rowing against all the crashing waves and the strong current.
Isabelle was off with her secrets again, talking to herself and Pol, apron gathered as she collected a herb here, a weed there. She thought she saw her playing amongst the old kiln stones in the room next to the stables, clambering up and then jumping off.
The Inspector was in the parlour with Oswyn’s account book, making notes and sometimes calling loudly for wine or bread and cheese. Marcus was there too, talking at the Inspector to show off his thoughts on the accounts. The Inspector didn’t seem to be listening to him.
Linnet spent the morning cutting parchment to size for the last few pages of the prayer book, carefully picking through the sheets to find the pages with the fewest holes and scars.
Her good knife she’d had for years now, stolen from a market stall before she met Guy.
She hummed to herself as she sliced through the tough skins, marking the lines first with prick holes to make it easier to cut.
The village tanner was nearly ready with the next skins for her to look over.
She had to stop a few times to sharpen her knife. She wouldn’t use it on bread and cheese like most did, keeping it clean and sharp for her work, and tearing her food by hand instead.
‘I see you’re still at your manuscripts here.’
The Inspector’s slightly reedy voice made her jump. He walked into the Scriptorium like it was his own for him to wander around as he pleased which made her bristle.
‘Have you seen printed books yet?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen several.’ They might be on the far side of the country but they weren’t cut off from everything.
‘What did you think?’ He seemed truly interested in her opinion.