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
