The only other light came from the nuns’ dormitory, where a faint glow framed the doorway. It was another of the precepts that St Benedict had laid down in his Rule: that a fire be kept burning in the dormitory throughout the night, a symbol of the eternal light of our Lord. And to those who neglected their duty – who fell asleep when it was their turn to watch the hearth, and so allowed the flames to dwindle and die – were dealt the harshest punishments, as I knew only too well.
Still I recalled that frosty winter’s morning as I stood before the two of them: the circator with his lantern, who was the one who had found me, and beside him the prior, his face dark as he delivered his words of condemnation. Still I could picture the crowd of monks gathering around, witnesses to my failure. And I remembered my own desperate pleas to mercy and to God as they struck and struck again, each time harder than the last, bringing their hazel rods to bear upon my exposed back – pain of a kind I had never before known – until at last I was left trembling, bloody and alone upon the hard earth.
It was not the first time I had been beaten for my sins, but I was determined it would be the last. And so I fled.
Of course I had to wait for the right opportunity. For the next day and night I was watched carefully, in case I made any more mistakes for which they could punish me, and so I had to bide my time. But on the following night, under the light of the full moon, I took my chance, treading lightly as I passed the other monks in their beds, making my way quickly across the yard, past the smith’s workshop and the stables, hoping to avoid the circator as he made his nightly rounds. The gatehouse I knew was guarded; instead I made for the northern wall and the gnarled old tree that grew beside it – an oak which, it was rumoured, had stood there ever since the monastery was founded, two hundred years before.
I had reached the infirmary when I heard voices close by. I ducked around its corner, my heart pounding. Lantern-light glowed softly upon the ground, and I held my breath, determined not to be heard. The gruff tones of the circator carried across the yard as he conversed with one of the other monks, whose voice I did not recognise. The light grew brighter; they were coming closer.
What I should have done was wait until they had passed, and probably they wouldn’t have noticed me. Instead I panicked. Thinking that they would find me and all would be lost, I decided to run.
Almost straightaway I heard cries behind me, demanding to know why I was about so late, but I didn’t stop as I made for the old oak and quickly began to climb. I heard their feet running across the grass as I slid along one of the branches and scrambled over the wall, the stone grazing my palms and my knees as I dropped down the other side. And then I ran, down the hillside, towards the river and the town of Dinant below. They tried to come after me, of course, but I was fast and a boy of just thirteen years is easy to lose in the shadows, and before long their shouts had faded to nothing. As soon as I had made it into the woods, I collapsed. All my strength was gone and I was half-starved besides, but I knew at last that I had done it: I knew that I would never have to go back there.
A few days later, I met Robert de Commines, and my life’s path was set.
This story I had told to few others. Of those who were still alive, none but Eudo and Wace knew it. Yet even when I considered everything that had happened, still a part of me felt ashamed for having left, for having forsaken that life, and I did not know why.
From far off came the sounds of cattle: one long, doleful cry that was answered by another, and then a third and a fourth, carrying clear across the convent. I was aware of Burginda behind me, watching me from the doorway. When she saw me putting on my cloak earlier, she’d tried to stop me from going out. Perhaps she thought I was planning on paying a visit to one of the younger nuns – although if I had, there was little she could have done to prevent it. But that was not why I had come out here. My mind was filled with so many different thoughts, like a hundred skeins of yarn, all twisted together, and I needed the space to tease them out.
Still, I did not blame her. Countless were the stories I had heard of nuns taken against their will, by men who had lusted after them before they’d taken their vows. Often such men would arrive at a convent feigning injury or some other affliction to gain entry; sometimes they would come alone, sometimes in bands. The details changed from tale to tale, but in each one they wasted no time in showing their true purpose once they were inside: marching straight to the chapter house, or wherever else the nuns might be gathered at that time of day, and then stealing away just as quickly.
And so I didn’t resent Burginda for continuing to watch over me, though I did my best to ignore her. My thoughts, however, were not of any of the nuns here, but of Oswynn, and the dreams I’d had the other night. It troubled me, the way her face had been hidden from me; as if my memory of her were already fading.
I heard raised voices behind me. Over my shoulder I saw Wace trying to get by the nun, who was standing in his path.