Gisborne: Book of Pawns (20 page)

We walked
off the shore and onto
a thin ribbon of coastal path as Guy continued.

‘I sa
iled to Calais with Davey and
thought it expedient to have
plans in place for our return.
Whilst I travelled into Aquitaine, Davey sailed back to England, organized things and th
en beat back
to await our arrival in Calais.’

The mist had dampened even more
, turning to a fine mizzle that
dampened our faces and settled on our clothes in a laye
r of moisture and
reminded me of dew on a spider’s web.
We plodded through the damp coastal
grasses and I followed behind Gisborne – i
f there was one thing I had learned in the past weeks, it was that he knew where he was going.
He showed no sign of being tired, his stride determined and long.

‘What is the conn
ection between you and Davey?’ I asked.
‘It must be very strong.’

It was one of the few times he
was
genuinely
forthcoming.

‘His family were a part of the Gisborne estate
long before I was born.
Davey’s mother
,
Ailsa, was my mother’s maidservant a
nd was dearly loved
. As to Davey’s father, he died not long after
Davey was born so my mother made sure
young Davey was
always provided for within the house.
But Ailsa sickened with a flux and even though Lady Ghislaine tried valiantly to care for her, seeking all the help sh
e could, it was of little use.
I was quite youn
g when my parents buried her
and Davey has never forgotten the care. He left not l
ong after, to find his own way.
He always felt he
and the sea belonged together.
But by the same token, he always promised to be of service if ever h
e could be.
He said he had a debt to pay and would pay it over and over out of love and respect
for the Gisborne name
.’

‘A sad story; poignant but
heartwarming.’

I also thought it was reminiscent of Halsham’s story but would not say so, nor would I credit the latter with any of Davey’s apparent qualities.

Gisborne nodded.
‘Davey is my friend and shall always be.’

Something about those wor
ds gave me the confidence in Gisborne
that was so lacking when
Halsham
hovered
in the background of his life, as if deep in his soul he
knew
that good outweighed bad by far, because no matter what, Halsham implied
bad
to me.

I pushed stray strands of hair from my eyes.

‘Where are we bound?’

‘Saint Eadgyth’s close by.’

‘And this has also been arranged by Davey?’

‘No, it is familiar to me and I let them know…’

‘Ah yes,’ I interrupted.
‘You let them know we would possibly be coming their way.’

Another religious house.

My sarcasm earned me a hard look.

‘Yes,’ was all he said.

The mist showed no sign of easing as we trudged on and all I could think of was how constrained I felt. I, who had known freedom and who until a few weeks ago had not a care in the world. The mist pressed in on me as though it represented all my troubles. There were moments where I just wanted to scream against the injustice. I had never been cruel or foul-mouthed and I followed the religious rule so why did I suffer so? It was as if I were a mere speck being tossed around in some fierce wind from here to there. Each new revelation that came my way battered the speck against this barrier and that and I felt pieces of me falling away.

When I had first met Guy of Gisborne, I had thought the worst that could happen was becoming aware of my father’s weak-minded perfidy. But now Baron De Courcey stood facing me across the battle-lines.

Is this what a soldier feels as he stares at the opposing forces across the battlefield? Loosening bowels, shaking hands and sweat dampening his palms as he tries to hold his bow more firmly.

I thought back to the moment in the woods when I had nocked that arrow into the fated Saracen bow and drew a deep breath.

‘Ysabel?’

‘I’m just tired…’ I butted in. ‘And wondering why my life has, to this point, become a progress through many, many religious houses.’

Gisborne laughed.

How could he seem so at ease?

‘Ah, my Ysabel…’

My
Ysabel?

‘I suspect that is not what you were thinking at all. But in truth, the houses of the religieuses are always trustworthy when we need such secrecy.’

‘Saint Eadgyth’s?’

‘Completely.’ He turned and waited for me to catch up. ‘See, there it is.’

He stood back and I looked past him, the mist having begun to thin. The weak sunshine drew the vapour up to the heavens as if it had been God’s loan to us for just as long as we needed it.

The path joined a pockmarked road that trundled from a far distance, perhaps Great Yarmouth, I know not. Set to the side of the road amongst a coppice of ancient beeches, a small church gleamed palely. Walls extended further and I could only assume they were built around an inner space, perhaps a garden of some sort and that this dainty priory was surrounded by a miniature cloister and cells, perhaps a small frater and kitchen combined, maybe even a communal space where the good Sisters could congregate for contemplation.

‘It’s so small,’ I said.

‘There are only eight sisters.’

‘Truly? Then how do they survive? What work do they do? Where are their lands, their income?’

‘They are a small priory of Benedictines attached to an abbey near Great Yarmouth and they are scribes, doing handsome work for the bigger religious houses and for the nobility. They are self-sufficient materially and spiritually.’

Ah, is that a lesson for us both to learn, Gisborne?

Our path headed downhill and inland a small distance before it met with the road and as we walked, I thought of Ghislaine of Gisborne.

‘You rarely speak of your mother,’ I dared.

‘No.’

‘I should think she is worth talking about. You would honour her.’

By God, Ysabel,
said this tiny, easily ignored voice in my head,
you may think you’re courageous but you’re infinitely stupid as well.

‘But,’ he stopped, standing deadly still. ‘I choose not to. Ysabel, do not ask again. Some doors need to remain shut. This one and the Order of Saint Lazarus are just two.’

We reached a door in the wall and he rang a bell. It was rusty and its rope careworn but the bell’s tone was clear. A panel slid back behind a grille and a face surveyed us.

‘Sister, I am Guy of Gisborne returned.’

The panel slid shut and the door opened with much rattling of keys. A nun smiled and nodded at us.

‘The Prioress expects us,’ Guy added. ‘I have my companion as was planned and she is in sore need of rest, food and a bath.’

The nun bowed over her hands and then beckoned for me to follow. I took a step and then hesitated.

‘What will you do?’

Guy rubbed at the leather of his gauntlets.

‘Go to a roadside tavern close by.’

‘And?’

It truly was like getting blood from a stone.

‘Well, I shall endeavour to have a wash of some sort or even a bath.’

His smile was mischievous if small.

No doubt appalled at the implied intimacy of our discussion, the good nun touched my sleeve, eager to shut the door on this licentious world. I lifted my hand and said, ‘A moment please, Sister. I would speak with my escort.’

I turned straight back to Gisborne, my gaze searching his face, fixing on his eyes and daring him to run from my eternal questioning.

‘A bath. Of course. But what else will you do? What else have you done in our travelling time while I have been on my knees praying in some chapel or other. No…’ I grabbed his arm as he turned away. ‘No. Out of respect for our … closeness … I charge you to answer.’

He sighed and his lips tightened.

‘I walk about. I talk with the villagers. I manage to secure valuable intelligence.’

‘How valuable?’

He stood for a moment and then looked over my head.

‘Sister,’ he said. ‘My friend is ready to accompany you. Ysabel, I shall see you on the morrow.’

Chapter Eight

He turned and walked away, dismissal in the set of his shoulders, and the nun pulled hard on my sleeve so that I had little choice but to follow. Any disquiet at his reticence would have to be shelved in the back of my mind as the door in the wall closed behind me.

A dulcet quiet drifted over us - bees, birds, water trickling somewhere, and silence. Whilst Guy had ensconced me in a number of religious houses, this one had a different air. There were similarities to be sure, but the preciously small nature of the place made me feel as if Mary had taken me in her arms and lifted me to some place beyond strife. The thought I
could become a religieuse floated through my mind once again.

I envied these nuns their horarium, each day evenly divided into an ecclesiastical infinity. They prayed for God’s grace but expected none and were grateful for everything. They were safe within their cloistered community and I envied them with a passion.

But Ysabel, you could never exist here. Not if your life depended on it.

My heart twisted sharply as the words
‘Not if your life depended on it’
resonated. As if some sort of prophecy had crept in the door as the Sister turned to lock it. I watched her heavy brown robe swing. The sun caught on the plain ring on her hand and her toes spread across leather sandals beneath her hems.

The woman’s feet made a crunching sound as we moved from the stone flags of the cloister to a graveled path that cut through the neatly trimmed, central herb garden. Only twenty or so steps and we reached another heavy door. The Sister knocked, waited and then knocked twice more before swinging the door open and indicating I should enter. I walked inside with due diffidence, conscious of my dirty clothes and that I may be less than fragrant.

The space was larger than a cell to be sure, but austere. A cot, folded blankets, a straw-stuffed mattress, a stool with a woven rush top, a crucifix. A tallow candle. And a tall thin woman whose face was the image of a heavenly being – ageless and with the purity of a saint imprinted on her features.

‘God be with you,’ she said by way of preamble. ‘You will be taken to your room by Sister Thea where you will find a tub and things you may need. They were organized by Master Gisborne. Of course you are familiar with the horarium…’

The Prioress was perfunctory and to the point and I could see she would invite no comment or question.

‘… so you will understand how we divide our day. You will eat with us. We do not know who you are as I required Master Gisborne not to tell us and I would ask that you refrain from engaging with our Sisters. Saint Eadgyth’s Priory is a cloistered and quiet community and we prefer to keep the world at the door. You may walk in our garden and orchard but unless you are accompanied by a Sister, I would ask that you do not wander elsewhere in our domain. God keep you.’

She picked up a small hand-bell in hands that were slim, white and heavily veined with blue. The spider’s web of her delicate bone structure moved as her fingers rattled the bell. In response, Sister Thea opened the door and stood back for me to pass. But something made me turn back and I caught a glimpse of the Prioress’s clear, guileless eyes gazing at me. I smiled and before I could stop myself, my voice, as alien as a man’s in that place, drifted over my turned shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ I said and followed in Sister Thea’s determined footsteps.

We proceeded at a measured pace and because the remains of the earlier mists had dissolved, I had time to observe that the walls continued further than I imagined. There was a hedge across the end of the herb garden and through a withied gate I could see the ordered rows of a vegetable garden and the longer pasture and wildflowers that underlay an orchard of trees. Everything around me was touched with an odd luminescence; I would thereafter call it God’s Light as it was gentle, soft as light touching a pearl. The fragrance of herb and the sounds of bees again stirred the embers of envy in my troubled soul.

We progressed through the cloister and its west-facing end was hung with roses that were heavy with buds. I was so busy looking at everything, at the carved pillars, at the Roman numerals above various entrances, that I hadn’t realized good Sister Thea had led me through a narrow door. Only the change in the ambience, the diminished sounds of the ever-present bees and birds, made me look up. The cell wrapped around us, more sparsely furnished than the Prioress’s. A narrow cot, as though it were a child’s, sacking laced in a frame; a brown woven blanket, a crucifix hanging on the whitewashed walls. But my eyes rested longest on a cut-down wine-barrel lined with a piece of fine linen and from which steam eddied.