Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Prior gathered the monks after Prime and announced that the Inspector had left, gone on a pilgrimage to St Patrick’s Purgatory in Ireland. Isabelle spoke up to say she’d seen him leaving early that morning.
This was unexpected and the monks’ usual quiet muttering rose to excited chattering. They knew of the cave in Ireland but none had seen it. Only the most devout pilgrims would go to such a wretched place, especially as it was only true penance if you walked all the way.
Linnet watched Cassian closely. He looked the most startled by the news.
‘But, Father, he would have spoken to me afore going? Did he have words for me?’
The Prior gave the novice a stern glance. ‘Was it not your duty to look after your master? I feel you have fallen well short. Still, I see no reason to complain to the Bishop about this, you did try to the best of your abilities.’
Cassian flushed red with shame and a little rage, but shuffled back into the crowd.
Brushing aside the talk, the Prior announced the new bursar, which led to more gossiping but no real surprise as Brother Marcus stammered some thanks. Linnet was to go back in the Scriptorium with Father Thomas and Brother Samuel, and Luke, if he ever got better.
As she pricked out the next illumination for the Gospels book, she felt numb. Could the last few weeks just be buried like that? As if nothing had happened?
Isabelle came in, still carrying Pol’s body. A reminder that some things couldn’t be scraped away and changed.
‘He’s going to start to smell soon, Isabelle, you’ll need to let him go.’
‘I can’t.’ The words were stark in their simplicity.
Father Thomas came over to help, speaking to her kindly.
‘What beautiful feathers he had, your bird, what lovely glossy feathers.’
Linnet had a thought. ‘Isabelle, can we use his feathers? Make quills from them? Then it would be like he was still with us.’
The child considered, then gave an uncertain nod and laid him on Linnet’s desk. They started plucking and soon had a fine pile of very good quill feathers. Linnet put some in a box for later, gave some to Isabelle who hid them in her skirts and one to each of the monks, keeping a few in her pouch.
‘Can you learn me to scribe with that?’ Isabelle asked.
‘Maybe later,’ Linnet said, glancing at the monks, but they had returned to their quires and weren’t listening.
‘Can we give him a fisherman’s burial now, like Tom’s, the rest of him?’ Isabelle asked, and Linnet was glad to see Isabelle brave again.
The short day had nearly ended, so it was sunset this time as the little raft they’d woven from twigs floated off, burning, into the sea.
The flames disappeared into the sun as if it swallowed it up rather than the water dousing it.
Isabelle gave one last cry of anguish and then visibly shook herself straight-backed.
One of the fishermen, Peter, was nearby, watching. He nodded in agreement that this was fitting.
‘Want me to look out for a raven chick for you, my sweet?’ he asked.
‘It wouldn’t be Pol,’ Isabelle said, but she looked like she was considering it.
Guy was in the inner courtyard as Linnet came back from the shore. He greeted the Prior as his equal and strode into his parlour without being asked.
‘I have an urgent message from Lady Margaret, she needs you to enlarge the book of hawking for Lord Edmund.’
Linnet had paused outside the parlour listening, and raised an amused smile.
This was hardly urgent – Lady Margaret could have sent her servant with a note.
But it explained why she’d seen him earlier.
The Prior murmured something and she could tell he was writing down the new suggestions, then he opened the door and pretended he’d not caught her listening.
‘Come in, Linnet, we need to change the hawking book. Bring your notes.’
In the parlour, she looked at Guy who was even sleeker and more polished than before.
‘So are you working as Lord Edmund’s secretary now?’ the Prior asked.
Guy flushed. ‘He’s been very busy, he’s not been able to see Lady Margaret or myself, so for now I will be helping with her work.’
‘She didn’t want to send her servant?’
The Prior was goading him, delicately, and Linnet could see he was enjoying it, as was she.
‘No, it was important to tell you of the changes she required before you began. Lady Margaret would not want to put you to any more labour than necessary.’
She was plainly toying with him, seeing how far he’d obey her wishes, however fickle.
Linnet wondered for how long Guy would be able to hide his annoyance.
That would depend on how he was rewarded, in money or any other way.
His gamble on joining Lady Margaret’s party on the road appeared to be paying off so far.
The Prior told Guy he could have the guest room for the night and he could ride back tomorrow when the tides allowed.
‘Has the Inspector left?’
‘Yes, this morning. He’s going on a pilgrimage to Ireland, to the cave at St Patrick’s Purgatory.’
‘Which way did he go? I didn’t see him.’
‘Oh, he left before Lauds and I expect he is walking down the coast.’
‘The Bishop won’t be pleased.’
‘No, I dare say not. But the Inspector has written to the Bishop and I’ll be sending the letter and his report to Durham with the novice.’
Guy glanced at Linnet as she left for the kitchen. Could he tell something was amiss? She hoped not. He would pick at a story until it gave up its truth. She wondered if he’d jumped at the chance to come back to the island to torment her further, but she was too tired to let it needle her now.
In the kitchen, the masons were shouting at Ann to bring more potage, singing and swearing and taking up all the space.
‘Behaviour more fitting to the inn,’ Ann muttered as she filled bowls and avoided their groping hands. Linnet knew she did not like her tidy, well-ordered kitchen overrun by a pack of filthy workmen in their cups.
Jack saw Linnet and waved her over. ‘I see Guy’s back, must be missing you.’
Ann looked at Linnet sharply. ‘Bit soft on the Lady’s man, are you?’
Linnet did her best to look indifferent and slightly amused. ‘He’s a man who thinks more of his clothes than of women.’
Ann smiled thinly. Guy’s attention to his clothes had been the subject of much mockery in the kitchen. The masons set up a small jeer. Linnet sat down next to Mees, the large mason from the Low Countries.
‘You told me about Father John-the-Lies,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes, yes.’ He didn’t look up from his food, shovelling it in fast before they were to go drinking again no doubt.
‘What did you say he was doing in Bruges?’
‘Working on the old papers, the Church papers, you know? The old stabooms, the papers, what do you call them here?’
He waved his hand vaguely then shouted, ‘Tree! The trees of your ancestors. He was sorting those for the church faders.’
‘And he was newly a monk, a novice?’
Again Mees looked a bit confused.
‘Like the one here, Cassian? A learning father?’
‘Ah, a greenhorn? Yes? No, Fader John, he tells me he has been a monk many, many years, since he was a boy.’
What could her father be doing with old Dutch Church papers, and why was he saying he had always been a monk? She felt the urge to find out, to solve another mystery. Maybe one day she would travel to the Low Countries and find out more.