and screamed.
The hall erupted into chaos. People struggled to free themselves from their blankets, most of them talking at once. Justin did his best to calm them down, saying loudly that nothing was wrong, that there was no cause for alarm. His words went utterly unheeded. It was Durand who silenced them, shouting “Quiet!” in a voice like thunder.
They subsided, watching Durand warily as he stalked among them, mantle flaring, hand on sword hilt, a figure to intimidate anyone leery of authority. Once he’d quelled the clamor, he began to demand answers. “We are seeking a woman pilgrim, garbed like most of you, past her first youth, tall for a female and slim, with bright blue eyes, prideful, and a talker.”
His words echoed into a void. They regarded him blankly, faces shuttered and eyes veiled. He’d bullied them into submission with no difficulty, for the poor were always vulnerable to coercion of that kind. Justin could see, though, that these people would tell them nothing. Suspicion of the powerful, self-protection, a sense of solidarity with one of their own, fear: They had any number of reasons to keep silent.
“We mean this lady no harm,” Justin said, with all the conviction he could muster. “She is very dear to me and I fear for her safety.” As he’d expected, his sincerity was no more productive than Durand’s belligerence. It occurred to him that some of the Bretons might not understand French, and he tried again, this time in his slow, careful Welsh. And because he was watching their faces so intently, he saw a young girl open her mouth, then shut it quickly when the woman beside her clamped a hand on her arm.
Crossing to her, he knelt beside the child. “Do you know this lady, lass? You can do her no greater kindness than to speak up.”
The girl hesitated, But then the woman, rake-thin and careworn, hissed, “Mikaela, roit peoc’h!” Putting her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders, she looked defiantly up at Justin and he knew he’d get nothing from either of them.
Getting to his feet, he made one final attempt. “We will give twenty silver deniers to the person who can tell us of her whereabouts.” That was no small sum, would buy a man four chickens. But there were no takers, and when Durand swore and strode toward the door, Justin followed reluctantly.
Out in the portico, they communicated again in whispers, keeping an eye upon the sleeping gatekeeper. “We’ll have to start searching,” Justin said softly, but even as he spoke, he realized that would be an impossible undertaking. The abbey was the size of a small city, honeycombed with crypts, chapels, narrow corridors, and unlit stairwells.
Durand was gazing back at the almonry. “Wait,” he counseled, refusing to say more. Justin fidgeted at his side for what seemed like an eternity. He was about to leave Durand and begin searching on his own when the almonry door hinges squeaked. A moment later, a shadowy form emerged and headed for the circle of light cast by their lanterns.
He looked surprisingly sleek and well fed for a pilgrim, and wasted no time with preliminaries. “Three sous,” he said, “for what I know about the woman.”
That was nearly twice what Justin had offered, but he was not about to haggle. Reaching for his money pouch, he said, “Tell us.”
“And if you’re lying,” Durand warned, “I’ll come back and cut out your tongue.”
The man smiled faintly. “I’ve been threatened by a bishop, friend, so your threats scare me not. Anyway, I am not lying.” Holding out his palm for the payment, he said, “There are three people missing from the hall. The woman you seek, a poor, doomed soul, and a bothersome whelp. Your woman took the cub under her wing, God knows why, and she was hovering over the ailing man earlier in the day. My guess is that you’ll find them all up in the infirmary.”
After knocking lightly upon the infirmary door, Justin pushed it open. The scent of herbs was heavy in the air, mingling with the fetid odors of the sickroom. The infirmarian was leaning over a bed, tending to a man racked with convulsive coughing spasms. At the sound of the opening door, the monk glanced over his shoulder, barking out a brusque “What?”
“May I have a word with you, Brother?”
The infirmarian took note of Justin’s demeanor and clothing, concluded that this was not one of the poor pilgrims from the almonry, but a higher-status guest, and said, more politely, “Unless you are deathly sick, it would be best if you come back later. As you can see, this patient’s needs cannot wait.”
Justin’s eyes were roaming the infirmary, his hopes and heart plummeting when he failed to find Arzhela. “I am not ill,” he assured the monk. “I am seeking a woman who came to you earlier this eve.”
The infirmarian helped the dying man turn so that he could vomit into a small basin. “That one… she’s gone.”
“Where did she go?”
“How would I know? Make yourself useful and hand me those clean towels.”
Justin did as he was bidden. “When did she leave? Was a youth with her?”
“A while ago,” the monk muttered, so distractedly that Justin saw further interrogation was useless.
The infirmarian wiped his patient’s face, frowning at the streaks of blood in the basin. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Why do you want this woman? Need I remind you where you are? Any man who’d sin with a wench in God’s House is courting eternal damnation.” When Justin did not answer, he glanced over his shoulder again, just in time to see the door quietly closing.
Where would she have gone, if not back to the almonry? Surely she’d not wander about with a killer on the loose!”
Durand snorted. “If you’re offering a wager, I’ll take it. I’d not put anything past that fool woman.” Fairness forced him to add grudgingly, “She did not know Brother Bernard had betrayed her, so she may have thought the danger was past.”
“And she is not alone, after all.” Justin was doing his best to sound positive and optimistic. “It seems likely the lad is still with-” He checked himself, catching a glimpse of Durand’s expression. “What? Why do you look so sour?”
“It just seems very convenient for this stripling to turn up with Arzhela at the almonry. We know nothing about him, do we? How do we know the killer does not have a partner?”
Justin stared at him. “Thank you for that comforting thought,” he said at last. “We’re accomplishing nothing standing here, arguing. Since she did not go back down to the almonry, she must have gone that way.”
With Durand on his heels, he opened the door. His lantern’s flame illuminated a small chamber, stark and simple, with an exposed timber beam ceiling and sparse furnishings: an altar, a long trestle table, several coffers, and, under an archway, a large stone bath.
“Bloody Hell,” Durand muttered. “This is where they prepare their dead for burial.”
Justin agreed with him, and since Arzhela was clearly not there, he continued on into the adjoining building, a central nave flanked by smaller bays on each side. Bitterly cold and austere, it looked sepulchral in the blanched moonlight filtering through the high windows of the nave. The men knew at once what it was-the abbey cemetery and charnel house. Here the monks would be buried until the cemetery was too full for any more graves, and then their bones would be dug up and stored in the charnel house. Some ossuaries were constructed to display skulls and skeletons as a reminder to all of man’s mortality. The charnel house at Mont St Michel was partially walled up, much to their relief. They were not squeamish about death, but the sight of bleached human bones would have been ominous under the circumstances. Justin spoke for them both when he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The corridor led them past the huge stone cistern, on into another chapel. By now they’d figured out where they were, agreeing that this must be the crypt of St Martin. Their guess was confirmed when they discovered they could go no farther, for St Martin’s chapel was not within the monks’ enclosure. Here, wealthy benefactors of the abbey would have the honor of being buried under the protection and sanctity of the holy relics preserved above them in the south transept of the church. This beautiful stone sanctuary did not have the same oppressive atmosphere as the funeral chapel and the charnel house, but Durand and Justin did not linger, hastily retracing their steps.
When they’d gotten back to the funeral chapel, they paused to plan their next move. “Damned if I know where she’s gone,” Durand confessed. “I do not see how she could have gotten entry into the abbey enclosure.
