Without a moment’s hesitation I made for the church entrance. The door was already slightly open – not by much, though if the circatrix had noticed it, she would have known that something was wrong. I went in, taking care to close it again.
Inside, the church lay in almost complete darkness. Only the moon gave any light, its milky gleam coming in shafts through the great glass windows that I had seen when we arrived, lending everything a grey, ghostly appearance. Columns rose up in two rows from the nave, decorated with plant-like designs in many shades, though it was too dim to see what they were. Nor did I have time to admire them: I didn’t know how long it would be before the circatrix’s rounds brought her here.
All was quiet, and I wondered if perhaps there was another way out of the church that I had not seen from the outside. I stepped forward across the stone floor, towards the centre of the nave, and looked around for any sign of the nun. Beyond the choir benches lay the chancel with its high altar, draped with white cloth trimmed with gold, upon which rested a gospel book. To either side were side altars, smaller and less grand in their decoration, but probably no less effective as hiding-places.
I tried the high altar first of all, approaching slowly, listening out for the slightest sound of movement that might give her away. But I could hear nothing, and when I reached it and searched behind it, there was no one there. I crouched down, lifting the cloth to reveal the cavity where relics were often kept, but it was barely large enough for a child to squeeze into, let alone a woman.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned as a shadow darted out from behind one of the columns in the nave, running towards the door. She had a start on me but I was faster, and before she had even reached the handle I had caught her, placing my hand on her outstretched arm and spinning her about to face me. She gave a stifled cry and tried to shake me off, but I held firm.
It took me a moment to recognise her, but then she looked up at me and I saw her face: her skin pale in the moonlight; the wrinkles about her eyes; the weary expression she wore, as if she had seen everything there was to see in the world, and wished only to be free of all its burdens.
Eadgyth.
She tried to tug her arm away, and I realised I still had hold of her wrist. I let it go. ‘The circatrix is close by,’ she said in strongly accented French. ‘If I were to call out now, she would hear me, and you would face the abbess’s wrath.’
If it was meant as a threat, then it was a poor attempt. ‘And you would have to explain why you’re not in your chambers,’ I replied. ‘What were you doing in the guest house?’
She looked back at me, lips pursed, unspeaking. I pulled the scroll that she had left out from my belt, brandishing it in front of me. ‘What is this?’ I asked her.
She eyed it carefully. ‘It is meant for your lord.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Do you expect me to tell you?’
I ran my fingers towards the seal. ‘I could read it for myself, and then I would know.’
She looked at me doubtfully, probably wondering if I were bluffing, since what reason would I, a knight, have for knowing my letters?
‘I cannot stop you,’ she said eventually. ‘All I can do is give it to you in good faith, and hope that you will do the right thing.’
I placed the scroll back in the loop of my belt; I would return to it later. ‘You were speaking with ?lfwold earlier,’ I said. ‘What were you saying?’
‘I was telling him how worthless your lord is,’ she said. ‘How he is too free in making promises that he does not intend to keep.’
‘Promises?’ I asked. ‘What promises has he made?’
She did not seem to hear me. ‘It is amusing, I suppose, that it should be so, given that your people accused Harold of the same failing.’
Of course: several years ago, Harold had sworn an oath to be Duke Guillaume’s man, to support his claim to the kingship. An oath made upon holy relics, which he had later broken when he had assumed the crown for himself. As a result he was now dead, killed on the field at H?stinges.
‘Your husband was a perjurer and a usurper,’ I told her.
‘He was a good man,’ she said, and I saw tears forming in the corner of her eyes. ‘He was kind and honest and truthful in all matters, and above all else loyal to his friends. Your lord used to be one of them, at least until his betrayal.’
‘Malet betrayed him?’ I asked. ‘How?’
‘First by joining your duke’s invasion,’ she said, almost spitting the words. ‘And even now, after Harold’s death, he continues to betray his memory. He and ?lfwold both.’
‘?lfwold? What do you mean?’