Dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper, Thomas said, ‘I’ve got nails and needles, soft satins and a silver cup on my old cart and I must make haste to reach my destination while the light is good and bright. I’ve been entrusted with a special order — an important order — and the man who awaits me is impatient for his goods.’ He eyed the group, gratified to see that they were hanging on his words. ‘It’s going to change things around here,’ he went on, ‘you see if I’m not right, for news is spreading like the tide through a breached dike and there’s an air of excitement everywhere I go. Oh, yes, it’s going to change things all right!’
‘What is?’ breathed young Brother Augustus.
Thomas turned to him. ‘They’ve found something,’ he whispered. ‘Unearthed it from the ground, put up a shelter to keep it from the elements, spread word that there’s been a miracle discovery and organised a place for folks to refresh themselves and stop overnight.’ Eyes widening in feigned amazement he went on, ‘Why, it’s much like this here settlement in the Vale, now I come to think of it!’
Alarmed now, the monks were muttering to one another. A ripple of unease spread through the company.
‘You mean — you’re telling us that somebody has found another source of holy water?’ It was Old Brother Firmin who courageously voiced the unthinkable.
‘No, not exactly that,’ Thomas said, turning to the elderly monk with a kindly smile. ‘It’s bones, see. That’s what’s been found: great, heavy bones, like as if a giant’s buried there.’
‘And. .’ Brother Saul paused, swallowed and tried again. ‘And the bones work miracles?’
‘Oh, aye, I reckon they do that all right,’ Thomas assured him. ‘Leastways, that’s the claim. Whether they do or not’ — he shrugged lightly — ‘well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’
‘Whose bones are they?’ Brother Micah whispered, glancing nervously over his shoulder in case some higher authority stood there about to punish him for indulging in dangerous gossip.
‘Didn’t I say?’ Thomas asked innocently. ‘Dear me, no, I don’t believe I did!’ He shook his head at his careless omission. ‘Well, you’ll know the name right swift enough when I tell you and you’ll readily understand, clever and learned men that you are, why this here discovery has led to the construction of the shrine I’m heading for with my goods and why it’s going to bring about all the fuss that’ll follow, sure as my name’s Thomas.’ The remark, long-winded even by Thomas’s standards, left him slightly breathless.
‘Who is it?’ cried Saul. ‘Whose skeleton’s been dug up?’
Thomas looked from monk to monk, meeting each anxious pair of eyes for a moment. Then he told them.
Josse d’Acquin, King’s man and long-time friend to Hawkenlye Abbey, learned of the news sitting in a cool, shady corner of his neighbour’s garden contentedly supping a mug of ale and watching the antics of the children of the family.
Brice of Rotherbridge had wed Isabella de Burghay in the summer of 1193 and she had born him a daughter, Fritha, the following April. The baby girl, now a couple of months past her first birthday, was laughing infectiously as her elder half-brother and sister played with her beneath the sweet chestnut tree. As Josse watched the trio — all three were attractive children and Roger and Marthe were well-mannered into the bargain — he and Brice were joined by Isabella.
She walked gracefully across the grass towards them, a jug in her hand. Her heavy, dark blond hair was neatly braided and covered by a small veil held in place by a narrow silver circlet and she wore a gown of dark green whose sleeves, lined with paler green and flaring widely at the cuff, trailed almost to the ground. Her full breasts and the beginnings of a bulge under her waistband suggested that she was pregnant again; in fact Josse knew this to be true for Brice had just told him. He got up from the rough bench on which he and Brice were seated and with a smile indicated to Isabella that she should take his place: ‘You should rest, my lady, in this heat,’ he said solicitously.
Isabella returned his smile. ‘Brice has told you, then,’ she said.
‘Aye, and right glad I am,’ Josse replied earnestly. Both Brice and Isabella had suffered tragedy in their lives; to see them married and so happy together, the new baby girl and the older children whom Isabella had born her first husband close-knit into a real family, made his heart glad.
It also made him realise how lonely he was and how purposeless his life had become.
But now was not the time to dwell on that.
‘Do you wish for a boy or a girl?’ he asked. A little too heartily, if the concern in Isabella’s eyes as she shot him a look was anything to go by; he had forgotten how very perceptive she was. She moved closer to him and briefly took hold of his hand as if trying to give him her understanding and her support.
‘For my part, I do not mind one jot as long as the child is healthy,’ Brice said.
Isabella laughed. ‘Don’t you believe him,’ she said lovingly, ‘for, already having a daughter, he would dearly love a son.’
‘I’m quite sure-’ Josse began.
Isabella put a hand on his arm. ‘Do not worry, Josse,’ she whispered, ‘for the baby that I carry is indeed a boy and we shall name him Olivar, after Brice’s late brother.’
‘How can you know it’s a boy?’ Josse hissed back.
But Isabella’s only answer was a serene smile. Then she reached for his and Brice’s empty ale mugs and refilled them.
They sat together on the bench beneath the chestnut tree for some time, the heat making them too lazy for anything but the most trivial conversation. There was a soft but constant humming in the air, as if a thousand invisible insects were close by. The sweet scent of gillyflowers lay on the summer air. The ale combined with the excellent meal that Josse had just consumed, making his eyelids heavy so that he found himself nodding; the sounds of the children and the baby seemed to drift further and further away. .
. . and then he heard the word Hawkenlye and was suddenly wide awake.
‘Hm? What was that?’ he demanded, making himself sit up straight and blinking his eyes open.
Brice chuckled and Isabella said kindly, ‘We were speaking of the new shrine on the southern fringe of the forest, Josse. Brice was saying that Hawkenlye Abbey will have to take care that it does not lose all of its pilgrims.’
‘What new shrine?’
‘Have you not heard?’ Brice sounded surprised. ‘They’ve found some bones — large ones, or so I’m told. Some young lordling has cleared the ground around the site and he’s put the word around that there have been some miracles — cripples throwing away their crutches, deaf old women suddenly regaining their hearing, barren women becoming pregnant, that sort of thing. He’s built a shelter and he’s offering food and drink. For a price,’ he added.
‘They’re saint’s bones?’ Josse asked. He was both amazed at something so extraordinary happening so close to home and, at the same time, very apprehensive because of what this new discovery might mean for the Abbey. In particular — she was very dear to him — for its Abbess. She fought a constant battle with what to him seemed a perfectly natural pride in the Abbey and its place at the centre of life in the vicinity and any threat to it would be like a direct threat to her. .
Brice and Isabella exchanged a glance. ‘Not exactly a saint,’ Brice said.
‘Whose are they, then?’ Josse asked, with some impatience.
Isabella looked down at her hands and then said quietly, ‘Josse, are you familiar with the Matter of Britain?’
‘Er. .’ The phrase was familiar but it took Josse a few moments to gather his thoughts and recall what he knew about it. ‘It’s to do with King Arthur, isn’t it?’ Isabella nodded. ‘Aye, and he’s meant to be sleeping in a hollow hill somewhere with all his knights, ready to come to England’s aid at our hour of gravest danger.’
Brice smiled. ‘In brief, you have it,’ he said. ‘There is, however, rather more to the story.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Isabella is the expert,’ he continued. ‘I am sure that she will explain further, if you would care to hear?’