that he could keep his voice from breaking as he pleaded, “Then come straight back and we’ll go.”
There was a crack, as of a pebble kicked uncautiously against a wall. Constance drew in her breath sharply. “Tomorrow – tomorrow at the grille. I’ll see you there after Matins.”
Elias watched her hurry away, and as she disappeared along the cloister he saw the shadow of someone else flit past the alleyway to his side. The shadow of a nun.
Chapter Twelve
Hugh opened an eye and pulled a face. It was the darkest hour of the night. Pulling his coat up to his chin, he thrust his head beneath his pillow. Even then he couldn’t keep the row from his ears.
The tolling bell was still more unwelcome because of the relative silence of the world. There was no birdsong, no barking, no crowing of cocks or clucking of hens; only a dead, dull nothing that somehow emphasised the melancholy nature of the hour. The bell itself sounded flat and doomladen, as if it heralded the Day of Judgement which the priests so enjoyed predicting.
To Hugh it was intolerable. His head ached, and although he knew he would soon have to rise to go and find a urinal-pot somewhere, he longed to put off that hideous moment when he must emerge from his blanket and coats, and expose his body to the stark gelidity of the cloister.
A groan and muffled comment of “God’s blood!“ told him that his master had not managed to sleep through it either, and when Hugh opened his eye again and peered through the gloom towards the bed, he saw that Sir Baldwin had already got to his feet, and at the other side of the room the bishop was out of his bed and stood huddled, his robes pulled tight around him.
Seeing Baldwin haul Simon’s bedclothes from him with a chuckle, Hugh hunched his shoulders against the horrible prospect, but soon he was exposed, and found himself glowering up at the repellently cheerful knight.
“Come on, Hugh. Even your master has managed to get up.”
It was many years since Hugh had spent the nights out with the sheep and lambs on the moors near Drewsteignton in sub-zero temperatures, and ever since he had enjoyed the sensation of snugness that a warmed hall gave him. There was no such comfort here.
Wind penetrated every corner of the room, whistling and moaning gently, and bringing with it the promise of snow, while doors rattled against their latches and shutters complained. Each breeze managed to find a fresh gap between Hugh’s clothing, or perhaps it simply forced its way through, like daggers of ice. He stood, shivering, trying to pull on tunic, jack and cloak in one movement before he froze into a block.
Out of their room it was no better. Bertrand led the way, walking at a solemn pace which gave the men no opportunity to warm themselves. They went from their guestroom down a ladder to the ground floor, and from thence to the passageway that gave on to the cloister itself. Here the cold was, if anything, still more intense, for the wind eddied and blew around the buildings. It was like a mischievous animal suddenly released, enjoying the freedom of the garth by whipping around unprotected legs, delving down through the neck of shirts, or searching upwards from loose-fitting hose.
Hugh trailed miserably after the other two men to the church and waited with them in the queue at the door while the canons filed inside. Remembering what he had seen the night before, he tugged at Simon’s sleeve. “Sir?” he asked quietly.
“What is it?” Simon hissed. “If you’re going to complain, I’ll give you something serious to complain about.”
Hugh knew his master was as unenthusiastic about early rising as he himself. “Sir, it’s what I saw last night in the frater while you were with the nuns.”
Quickly he told his master about the prostitute, and Simon gave a low whistle. As the queue moved into the church, Simon whispered the gist of it to Baldwin.
At last they were in, but even inside there was nothing to take the edge from the bitter weather. With no fire, many gaps between ill-fitting doors and the hole in the roof, the four walls about them might have not existed for all the use they were. And Hugh became aware of another effect: at least outside while walking his feet had remained reasonably safe; now, standing on the tiled floor, it felt as though the heat was being sucked away through the soles of his boots, leaving the rest of his body frigid.
In these circumstances, Hugh looked about him to find something – anything! – which could distract him from the misery of the hour and the temperature.
The canons appeared to be taking a great deal of time to prepare for the services. They muttered amongst themselves, occasionally throwing interested glances towards the four strangers, but no one appeared to make any effort to observe the rituals. Then he realised that they were waiting for a signal from the other side of the wall where the nuns congregated, and when a single, male voice rose from the nuns’ cloister, suddenly the canons joined in.
It was all new to Hugh. He had never been in a cloister before, and the ceremony was strange and not a little threatening. He was used to the little shed-like church at Drewsteignton, and after that the chapel at Sandford, then the larger building at Lydford, but at none of them was there anything like this. Keeping his mouth tightly shut to save himself embarrassment, he looked at the others. Bertrand, he saw, sang along, his head high and a curious expression of suspicious concentration on his face. Hugh guessed that he was listening to the women, but had no idea why. Simon tried to join in at first, but then resorted to moving his mouth silently. The strange Latin words were unfamiliar, and he couldn’t keep up with the others; Baldwin appeared to know the service, and sang quietly in his deep bass.
The place was odd even without the singing. As Hugh looked along from where they were standing, towards the altar, he found himself feeling strangely out of place.
It wasn’t only the sense of dislocation caused by the hour. He had no idea what the time was, but he had heard that this first service of the day was held in the middle of the night because it was intended to herald the new day, which according to the priests began somehow during the night. To Hugh this was daft: he knew, like everyone, that day started at dawn, but there was no point arguing with priests. They believed what they wanted to.
No, it wasn’t just the time, it was the whole atmosphere: the men facing each other in the choir forming a tunnel, the distance between them emphasised by the candles in their brackets behind, which seemed to create another tunnel, this one of light; while incense wafted, and reinforced the oddly otherworldly nature of the sight, creating a kind of fog around the men’s ankles, almost as if they were floating on a whitish, yellowish smoke that rose in whisps and peaks where the gusts from outside caught it. And all the time the high voices of the nuns floated above them, reaching over the high wall which separated the cloisters.
Hugh wasn’t fanciful, but as he stared along the ranks of canons, he had the impression that he was dreaming. The voices were not as smooth, refined, or pleasant upon the ear as they should have been; they didn’t match with the female singing, which itself sounded harsh and unmusical; the whole appeared even to Hugh’s ear to be too fast, and in some parts he thought the nuns were gabbling their words, like women keen to return to their beds.
There was none of the religious atmosphere he would have expected, and when he glanced at Baldwin and the bishop, he saw that they felt the same. Sir Baldwin stood stiffly, his eyes drifting along the lines of men in the choir, and every so often his gaze would rise to the dividing wall as if in disbelief at the racket from the other side.
The nuns’ choir was a long, darkened tunnel, filled with the scent of incense; candles guttered, giving sufficient light to see the nuns’ features, and the priest’s up at the altar, each face flickering into clarity as a nearby candle responded to a short gust, then dimming once more. The great doors creaked and rattled. At one point there was a long slithering sound as a slate slipped free from its moorings and hurtled down the incline of the roof to shatter into fragments on the cloister, but this was too regular a noise to cause any of the freezing nuns to look up.
Lady Elizabeth winced as yet another psalm was hurried, but she was more intrigued by the gap in the ranks
