Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 12

February 1194

MONT ST MICHEL, NORMANDY

While pilgrims and travelers of the upper classes would find a welcome in the abbey’s guesthouse and the abbot’s own lodgings, Christ’s poor were admitted to the almonry. It provided protection from the rain, but it lacked fireplaces, and because it was exposed to the Aquilon, the name locals gave to those merciless winter winds that swept in from the north, it was a stark, frigid refuge. To people unfamiliar with luxury or comfort, though, it was enough.

It was different for Arzhela. Her first night at the almonry had been the longest of her life. She’d been sure they’d find her body come morning, frozen so solid that they’d have to thaw her out before burying her. The blankets provided by the monks were as thin as wafers, and the icy tiled floor was a martyr’s bed of pain. She didn’t doubt that she’d have slept better, and been warmer for certes, burrowing into the straw in the abbey stables.

But her shivering and chattering teeth finally awakened her nearest neighbors. “I am Juvette,” a woman whispered, “and this is my daughter, Mikaela. Come huddle with us. Three bodies are warmer than one.”

Arzhela hesitated, but she could no longer feel her feet, and she edged closer, discovering that the woman was right. When she awakened in the morning, she was snug against Juvette’s back, and Mikaela’s head was pillowed in her lap. Stirring as soon as Arzhela did, Juvette sat up sleepily. “We are stacked like pancakes,” she laughed, and Arzhela’s stomach rumbled, reminding her how long it had been since she’d eaten.

“Do the monks feed us?’ she ventured.

“Of course, and right well. There’ll be ample helpings of bread and cheese.” Juvette easily recognized the notes of hunger in Arzhela’s voice; that was a song she knew well. “We saved a bit of bread from yesterday’s meal,” she said. “Here, take some.”

Arzhela looked at the stale pieces of bread wrapped in a scrap of cloth and quickly shook her head. “I could not, for you have so little!”

“We have enough to share,” Juvette insisted, giving Arzhela no choice but to accept a small crust.

As the day advanced, Arzhela was astonished by the goodwill of these impoverished pilgrims. She’d expected that they would be pious, for a pilgrimage in winter, especially one as dangerous as this, was proof of serious intent. She’d not expected, though, that they would be so generous, so willing to share their meager belongings, their stories, and their laughter. There was a communal atmosphere in the almonry unlike anything she’d ever experienced on her own pilgrimages, and again and again she saw small examples of kindness and good humor.

Most were Breton or French, although there was one dour Englishman. While pilgrimages were lauded as acts of spiritual renewal, most pilgrims had more pragmatic, mundane reasons for making them. People sought out saints to beg for healing, to pray for forgiveness, and sometimes to die in a state of grace. Other pilgrimages were penitential in nature, for the Church often ordered caught-out or repentant sinners to atone for their transgressions at distant holy shrines. One of their company had already confessed cheerfully that he was there for habitual fornication, although he did not put it as delicately as that. Another admitted that his offense had been poaching on his bishop’s lands. If any were expiating the sin of adultery, they prudently kept that to themselves.

Most of these February pilgrims were at Mont St Michel for obvious reasons. There was a man who coughed blood into stained rags. Mikaela had been born at Michaelmas, named in honor of the Archangel, and now that she was ailing, her mother had brought her to the Mont to plead for his intercession. One woman was there to pray that her hearing be restored. A man crippled by the joint evil was tended lovingly by his wife, but Arzhela could not imagine how-even with her help-he’d managed to climb the hill and the steep steps to the almonry. A young couple seemed in the bloom of health, but they’d wept together in the night.

Miquelots they were called, those who dared to brave the tides for the sake of blessed St Michael. With a dart of pride, Arzhela realized that she was one of them; she was a miquelot, too. She was amazed by the feelings that her fellow pilgrims had stirred in her. They were strangers, after all, lowborn, most of them, the sort of people she’d seen but never truly noticed before. But after just one night and one day, they’d begun to matter to her. When they’d been allowed to visit the shrine in the nave, she’d spent almost as much time praying for them as for herself. She winced every time she heard that strangled death rattle of a cough. She’d gotten two of the able-bodied men to assist the cripple and his wife up the great staircase into the church. She’d surreptitiously hidden a pouchful of coins in Juvette’s bundle, confident that when she eventually discovered it, Juvette would joyfully conclude that this was the Archangel’s bounty. And she’d taken charge of Yann.

She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with him. She guessed his age to be between eleven and thirteen; he claimed to remember eleven winters, but truth telling was not one of his virtues, and she thought him quite capable of making himself younger than he truly was to appear more sympathetic. He said he was an orphan and she had no reason to doubt him. He was cunning in the way of children and young animals left to fend for themselves at an early age. He was also cheeky and quick to take advantage of an opportunity, qualities that she should deplore but found amusing instead.

While she’d lain wakeful and miserable late into the night, she’d seen him creeping cat-like among the sleeping pilgrims, deftly removing some of the coins from the self-confessed poacher’s scrip. Clever lad, she’d thought, not to take it all, for the theft was less likely to be discovered that way. And the next morning she cornered him out in the north-south stairwell.

“You need a new trade, my boy, for you are a pitiful cutpurse,” she announced, and waited until he’d run through his litany of impassioned denials. It was then that she pried his name out of him, as well as a grudging confession that he’d followed the pilgrims like a seagull followed fishing sloops. She made him promise that he’d do no more thieving whilst he was at the abbey, but she knew hunger would always win out over promises, especially those given under duress, and she insisted upon keeping him close for the remainder of the day. He protested at length, but she did not think he truly minded once he was sure she’d not turn him in, for attention was as rare as hen’s teeth in an orphan’s world.

He was as sharp as a Fleming’s blade, though, the only one to notice that she did not talk like the others. As he put it, she sounded “like you’ve just eaten a marrow tart.” She explained away the telltale echoes of education and privilege in her voice by telling him she’d been taught by nuns, and he seemed to accept that. She found it sad, though, that food was his tally stick, his only means of measurement.

Arzhela was thoroughly enjoying her incursion into this alien world, so much so that she wondered idly if she ought to consider giving over her life to God. A pity nuns had to live such cloistered lives. If only she could do good on a wider stage than a secluded convent. Though if she were to be honest, vows of poverty and obedience might begin to chafe after a while. And then there was that irksome vow of chastity. By now Arzhela was laughing at herself, realizing how ludicrous it was for her to even contemplate a religious vocation. She liked her comfort too much, liked feather beds and good food and Saint Pourcain wine from the Auvergne. She liked getting her own way and for certes, she liked men.

That had proven to be an expensive vice, she acknowledged ironically. The priests preached that wanton, fallen women risked ruination, scandal, and mortal sin. But none had ever warned her she could end up in an unheated almonry, sleeping on a bare floor, sharing her bed with good-hearted companions who were, nonetheless, much in need of baths, keeping an eye peeled for a killer.

Actually, she’d given him surprisingly little thought since arriving at the almonry. In part, she was distracted by the novelty of her surroundings, in part she was fascinated by the drama provided by the other pilgrims. But she also felt secure, confident that she had outwitted her enemy. This was one fox who had eluded the hounds. And she meant to make the most of it. She would prove to the Almighty and His Archangel that she deserved to be a miquelot. She would convince Constance to help her found a nunnery, where the nuns would pray for her immortal soul and the souls of her dead husbands and even her lovers. Well, at least most of them. And she would begin her good deeds by saving Yann from the gallows and eternal damnation, whether he wanted to be saved or not.

Because their numbers were small, the February miquelots were allowed to visit the Archangel’s shrine again that afternoon. They were also permitted into the nave for the Vespers service that evening, and after being fed supper, they settled down in the almonry for the night. It was early by Arzhela’s reckoning. But as the candles provided by the monks began to burn down, the drone of conversation gave way to drowsy murmuring, and eventually to silence.

An hour later, Arzhela was wide awake and very bored. Beside her, Juvette was snoring softly. On her other side, Yann had begun to squirm and she leaned over to whisper, “Do not even think about it, lad.” She’d finally figured out what do to with the boy. She wouldn’t be in a position to aid him herself until she’d gotten out of this snare, which, God Willing, would be soon; Johnny’s men ought to be arriving any day now. Once the trouble was over, she’d find a place for him on one of her manors. Until then, she’d send him to Brother Andrev for safekeeping.

She couldn’t tell Yann about her long-range plans for him, but she had confided her intent to entrust him to Brother Andrev. He’d objected vehemently, of course. She was confident, though, that Brother Andrev would be able to keep the sly imp under control until she could reclaim him. Mayhap by then she’d have thought of a suitable trade for him. With those nimble fingers of his, he might make a weaver one day. Or even a silversmith. Well, no, that might not be the best apprenticeship for a lad with larceny in his heart. She laughed soundlessly, imagining Yann stealing spoons right under his master’s nose, and warned him to stay put when he started wriggling again.

The silence of the night was not really silent. The Aquilon wind was howling at the shutters. Pilgrims were snoring and muttering in their sleep. One of the remaining candles was sputtering. And over all, like the distant sound of the sea, was the coughing of the pilgrim with consumption. Arzhela was so accustomed to that throttled hacking that it had become background noise. It was a while before she realized that it had changed timbre.

Rising, she groped her way over to him. As soon as she touched his face, she jerked her hand back, for his skin was burning. It took her only a moment to decide what to do. “Get that candle, Yann,” she murmured, as she stooped and maneuvered the man to his feet. He was so pitifully light and frail that it was not difficult at all. He gave her a feverish, bewildered look, but did not resist when she began to guide him toward the door. Yann had picked up the candle, although he’d yet to move. “Come on,” she prompted. “You do not think I’m going to let you loose on these poor sleeping sheep, do you?”

It was too dark to see for certain, but she thought she caught the glimmer of a grin as he followed. “Where are we going?” he asked as soon as they were out in the portico. “The monks will have our hides for roaming around like this.” He sounded more excited than alarmed at the prospect, and did not protest when she instructed him to help her support the man’s weight.

“We have to get him down those steps,” she said, jerking her head toward the great gallery stairs. “That will not be too hard. But then we have to get up a second flight of stairs.”

Yann’s expression clearly said that he thought she’d lost all her wits. “How? The last I looked, none of us have archangels’ wings.”

“Are you saying you cannot keep pace with an ailing man and a woman past her prime?” Arzhela gibed. “We are going up to the abbey guesthouse.”

“As if they’d let the likes of us in there!”

“Oh, ye of little faith. Above the guest hall is the abbey infirmary.”

“Oh,” Yann said, somewhat deflated. “But what makes you think they’ll treat him there?”

“Because the Almighty and I would have it so.”

Yann shook his head. “You are daft, woman.” He stopped complaining, though, and did his part as they began their laborious climb. It seemed to take forever, for they had to stop and rest repeatedly. The stricken pilgrim asked no questions, obediently shuffling forward in response to Arzhela’s coaxing. His coughing had eased, but he seemed in a daze, only dimly aware of his companions and his surroundings. Arzhela knew there was little to be done for him, not unless the Archangel chose to bestow one of his miracles. But at least he’d get to die in a bed, she vowed. Every man deserved that much.

When they finally reached the infirmary, she did not bother seeking admittance, simply shoved the door open. Within, a flickering lamp cast eerie shadows, but it gave off enough light for her to make out several beds, simple structures little better than pallets. In two of them, ailing monks snatched at broken sleep, turning and tossing restively. Upon the third, the infirmarian was napping, still fully dressed for in a few hours he’d have to rise for Matins. Attuned to his patients’ needs, he awakened at once.

“What is it?” he whispered. As his eyes fell upon the man sagging between Arzhela and Yann, he came swiftly to his feet. He was only of middling height and the sparse hair crowning his tonsure was as white as newly skimmed milk. But his appearance was deceptive, for he lifted the pilgrim without apparent effort and deposited the man upon his own bed. He asked no questions, for the patient’s condition was self-evident, and hastened over to a table holding vials and powders. Arzhela and Yann watched with interest as he blended several herbs in a small mortar. He seemed quite competent, but Arzhela could not resist offering her help, suggesting softly that lungwort was good for consumption, as was wood betony. Her assistance was unappreciated, and within moments, she and Yann found themselves banished from the infirmary.

They stood there in the gloomy south stairwell, momentarily at a loss, for this seemed to be an anticlimactic end to their rescue mission. “Will he die, do you think?” Yann asked at last and Arzhela shook her head emphatically.

“Indeed not,” she lied, with such assurance that Yann’s face brightened, reminding her that for all his worldly, cynical posturing, he was still a child. “I’d go so far as to say your good deed tonight cancels out your theft last night, at least in the Almighty’s account book. Mind you, another such lapse and you’ll find yourself in Abbot Jourdain’s dungeon, alone with the rats.”

His eyes widened. He summoned up his usual bravado, though, saying skeptically, “Why would they need dungeons in an abbey? How many evil-doers go to church, after all?”

“You’d be surprised, Yann,” she said dryly. “Moreover, the abbot is a lord as well, for he holds the barony of Genets.” She regretted having to scare him into hewing to the straight and narrow, but thieving was both crime and sin. “Now, are you sleepy yet?’

“No,” he admitted, and added hopefully, “Have you some mischief in mind?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, and there in the dimly lit stairwell they grinned at each other in a moment of comfortable and cheerful complicity.