Chapter Fifteen #3
‘Mees,’ he said sternly, but with a grin that belied the tone. ‘It’s a name in my country, as Bartolemew is here, I think.’
‘When were you last in your country then?’
‘A year or so back. The money is better here. I carve stone good – that right, boys?’
A distracted cheer from the rest of the masons who had lost interest in this boring talk.
‘Which is your country then? Is it as beautiful as around here?’
That was enough. Mees settled into what sounded like a familiar litany of how wonderful his birthplace Bruges was, how the buildings were better, how many learned men and artisans there were.
‘And have you ever heard of a scribe, John-the-Lies? I heard he’d gone there.’
Jack wasn’t listening and she was careful to keep her voice low.
‘Yes, yes, Fader John-the-Lies, he is a monk, yes?’
Struck dumb by what he was saying, she just nodded, hoping he would say more.
‘He is working in a monastery there, in their library. Working with papers, soft work, not like stone. This mouse—’ he poked his chest then – ‘can nibble away at stone like a good cheese!’
With that, he turned back to the rest of the masons and Linnet sat, bread forgotten, while she tried to work out what her father was doing, was this what Oswyn had found out? And who her father was – a monk? That couldn’t be right.
Suddenly Jack was too close to her and swaying.
‘Now, I’m not saying you are Mary, but if you were,’ he paused significantly, ‘you might want to know that Guy’s had his debts paid off and he’s out of prison now.’
Linnet struggled to stay still and unmoved.
‘I don’t know a Guy,’ she said.
‘Well, as I said, if you were to, you might want to know he’s freed.
He’s looking for whoever betrayed him – and he’s all of a rage.
So I’ve heard. If I were to pass on word that I thought Mary was here on this island, I reckon he’d run all the way up here just to have a word with her. A word with his fists.’
She couldn’t help it – she flinched a little at that. Guy had always been ready with his fists. She looked up at Jack and made her mouth go slack with confusion.
‘He might be coming up here anyways. I told him we were going to be doing a job for the Priory and we could take some ale with him.’
He laughed, enjoying goading her. He’d hit a mark if she were Mary or tormented some simple girl if she wasn’t.
Linnet finished her drink and left, walking through the graveyard to the Priory.
She was shivering despite the warmth of the last half hour.
One reason she’d been feeling almost safe up here was the thought of Guy being locked away.
She’d not betrayed him, but he would think she had.
If he did find her, would she have time to explain?
And anyway, what she had done hadn’t been much better than betrayal.
Despite Mary’s misgivings, they continued to make the indulgences for St Mary’s-By-The-Sea.
She wondered where Warham sold them, no one local would be buying.
He didn’t ask her to do any other work for him, not after the family tree which she had aged with a pale yellow ink, using different gall inks to make it look like different hands had filled it in over the years.
The money he paid for the indulgences was good, and Guy spent most of it on new clothes.
She managed to get some from him for ink materials, telling him they were more expensive than they were, so she could keep some for herself, hidden away.
She had the money for the family tree too that he hadn’t known about.
After the first couple of times, Warham sent his men to order and collect the indulgences. Broad, heavy-set men, they didn’t speak much and showed no interest in what they were given. It was regular, once every five or six weeks, and soon Guy was spending the money in expectation of the next order.
He came in late one night. It was many months since she’d worried when he wasn’t home by dark.
He liked to think she was pining for him and fretting about who he was with, but she relished the peace, using the time to work quietly by herself.
She had fallen out of love with him. She knew him now as the vain and spiteful failed scholar, lashing out at others when he felt small.
She wondered if he missed his family but he rarely spoke of them, just a passing word or two about their lands in Buckinghamshire.
He must have been a second or third son, or they would have kept him regardless of his manner, she was sure.
When they’d met, when she thought he would be a life for her, he had flattered her, spoke with genuine pleasure about her work. She’d mistaken that as admiration for her, not respect for a talent he was hoping to use for his own gain.
Crashing about in their rooms, she knew he was drunk, even before he opened his mouth and breathed ale into her face.
‘Damn it, Mary, we need that money you have!’
She lay still, breathing carefully to feign sleep, but he wasn’t fooled.
‘I know you’re awake, you subtle bitch.’ Delivered in a low hiss, it was still a shock to find his hand on her throat, shaking her like a dog shakes a rat.
Scrambling away from him, she tried to speak soothingly, to find out what the urgency was. It was a liturgy of complaints, of small people who had no idea of why a gentleman like Guy might have to wait on settling his debts. She realised the men Guy owed had been threatening him, and he was scared.
‘Why haven’t Warham’s men come this month? They’ve come every other time, once a month for more work.’
He’d spent the money then, the money they didn’t have yet. In expectation of promises not made.
‘But I have an idea!’ Even in the gloom of the room she thought she could see his eyes brighten.
‘If Warham can do it, we can too, look what I have here for you.’ And with a flourish, he threw some cloth at her. She shook it out, trying to understand what she was seeing. Could it be a nun’s habit?
She said, ‘No, no, I’m not doing that,’ and he was at her again, this time grabbing her hands hard. He looked carefully at her fingers, then up at her face and said, ‘Which one do you want to lose?’
Before she could understand what he’d been saying to her, the sharp, hot-white pain took her breath away as he casually snapped her left little finger. As she sobbed and gasped in shock, he said simply, ‘Next time, it will be one you use for your scribblings.’
She knew he needed her to scribe and illustrate, but she couldn’t bear the thought of having that taken away. That was the last time she said no to him, until she left.
Guy scared her as did those who might follow him. She knew how to travel around the country keeping quiet and low to the ground while he couldn’t enter a town without making a shout and a show of himself. What if Warham’s men were looking for her too?
This group of masons were dangerous. They were constantly on the dice. She’d seen them cheating some of the other islanders for small sums. She could spot a thief when she saw them and at least one of them was a thief.
The Prior had hired them anyway, getting them cheaper by providing ‘table’, the meals Ann made for them.
He had the new floor to lay that the last gang of masons had got halfway through before a cathedral in the south had offered them more for urgent work on some new pillars.
They were probably cheap. He liked to hire cheap.
She wasn’t always sure if the account books had the right sums in them.
He and Oswyn had worked on those books together very late some nights.
All this musing was just her looking away from the danger she was in.
Would word that she was here reach Guy? How did the masons pass the word along?
Her father had been a great passer-on of messages.
He’d always had what he called his message book, a love note here, a minor death there, some monies owed or a summons to a relative.
And then he’d had the other messages, the hidden ones, the ones she wasn’t supposed to know about, the ones set down in his own code that she’d never learnt to read.
Would Guy need to have a message passed down or was he on his way already?
One of the faces in the tavern came to mind – the pedlar who was to see the Prior tomorrow. He’d come tonight before the tide cut the island off. He must be the one who had brought Jack the news that Guy was out of prison. There was no other way.
The black cat strolled past her, showing not a care. There was nothing she could do tonight. Maybe she could listen to the pedlar tomorrow and see if she could find out where he’d been. Then she could decide what she had to do.
She didn’t sleep well. She woke up early, before the morning light and went out walking on the shore. She wasn’t alone – the fishermen were gathered there, and Isabelle and Pol.
They’d dragged Tom’s boat out to the shallows and were filling it with brush and dried leaves. Peter, the one who’d been kind to her in the tithe barn, saw her looking and came over.
‘We’re burning his boat this morning, at the dawning.’
She looked at him for more explanation.
‘It’s bad luck to take a dead fisherman’s boat, if he died not – right. Anyway, there’s no one to take his craft, what with him not having children and his mother dying last year.’
‘So you burn it?’
‘Aye, we send it off burning, to the sea. It’s been the custom here for many years, I dunno if other places do the same, but it’s the custom here.’
Isabelle was nearby, watching and listening. She darted to the boat and tucked something in the bracken before kicking through the waves back to the shore.
‘What did you put in?’ Linnet asked her.
The little girl shrugged. ‘Just somefing. In case he weren’t a self-killer after all.’
Linnet looked at her thoughtfully. Should she let her know she was wondering about Tom’s death? No, she was just a child and anyway, it was a mishmash of thoughts right now, nothing firm as yet.