I had heard something from Clement and Eugene of what life in the Abbey had been like. I knew of the hours of penance which had to be performed in the cells and how at any time the Abbot would walk silently along the landing and peer through the grille to see what was going on inside.
“The watchful eye which came we knew not when,” was Eugene’s way of expressing it. I knew something of their habits, how there were long periods when silence was the order of the day; how they were not allowed to touch each other in any way; how they must perform their tasks and their devotion with equal fervor. A strange life, particularly for men such as Clement, Eugene and certainly Ambrose, who had broken free of it on more than one occasion.
I could imagine the anguish of that man, the soul-searching, the earnest prayers for guidance, the suffering and torment that must have gone on in his cell.
I don’t think I should have been very surprised when I reached the top of that staircase to have come face to face with some long-dead monk who found it impossible to rest in his grave.
As I stood there on the landing I asked myself which of these identical cells had been that of Ambrose. It was impossible to know. Could I ask someone? Clement? Eugene? They would immediately report my interest to Bruno. I did not wish for that. No, I must find Ambrose’s cell and if possible his confession by myself.
I went into the first cell. I caught my breath with horror as the door shut on me. I felt a panic such as I had rarely felt before. It is amazing how much can flash through one’s mind in a short time. I imagined myself imprisoned in one of the cells. No one would think to look for me there. I should remain in my cold stone prison until there was no life left in me, and in time I should join the ghosts of the monks who haunted the dorter.
But there was no need for such panic. The door had no lock. I remembered Clement’s explaining that. Doors could be opened at any time by the Abbot or any of his subordinates without warning, in the same way that they could peer through the grille.
I stepped back into the cell. I examined the walls. I could see no place where a confession could be secreted. I touched the walls, all the time looking over my shoulder, so convinced was I that I was not alone.
The cold dankness of the place chilled me. I looked into several of the cells—all alike. If only I could discover which one was Ambrose’s that would help. A confession secreted in the wall! Why should Ambrose have confessed when his great desire was to cover up his sin?
I wanted to convince myself that there was no confession, and the reason was that I wanted to get out of this place and never come here again. I could not rid myself of the feeling that I was overlooked and that something evil was waiting to catch up with me.
There were forty cells on this landing. I looked into all of them; they were all alike, every one of them. How could I possibly tell which had belonged to Ambrose?
At either end of the landing was a spiral staircase. I reminded myself that while I was mounting one stairway, someone else could be mounting the other. Someone could lurk in one of the cells and leap out on me.
Who?
What was the matter with me? At one moment I was afraid of ghosts, at another I was looking for a human assailant.
I could not understand myself. All I knew was that whenever I entered the monks’ dorter I was conscious of something warning me that if I were wise I should keep away.
Kate wrote that she was bringing Catherine back to the Abbey.
I replied that I would be delighted to see her as always, and I trusted that Catherine had behaved with the decorum which was now becoming necessary to her increasing years.
I looked forward to Catherine’s return and the arrival of Kate with great pleasure. Both of them had a cheering effect on me.
I had not yet found the confession although I had been several times to the dorter. I would attempt to search and then some inescapable feeling of imminent danger would come to me. I should look through my grille expecting to find someone standing there and even when my gaze met nothing, the fear persisted.
I began to dread going there and yet had a great compulsion to do so.
I should have liked to confide in someone. Kate was not the one on this occasion. Rupert? I thought. No, I could not talk to Rupert. The fact that he had asked me to marry him and still thought of me tenderly debarred me from that for I could not speak openly to him of my feelings for Bruno. In fact I scarcely knew myself what they were.
I went again to the dorter. I mounted the stone stairs. I always hoped that this would be the time when I should find what I sought. I had examined six of the cells thoroughly, touching the stone slabs on the walls carefully to assure myself that nothing could be secreted there. My efforts had been without success.
Perhaps this afternoon, I thought.
How quiet it was everywhere on that afternoon. A pleasant June day; the sun was hot on the grass outside but the dorter was cold as ever.
My steps on the stairs had a hollow echo. I mounted them quickly and stood on the landing, and as I did so I thought I heard a sound from below. I stood still listening.
There was nothing.
I went into the seventh cell. Lightly I touched the buttress, then the walls which separated this one from that on the other side. I went to the long narrow slit and looked through the aperture in the very thick wall. Suddenly I felt the goose pimples rise on my skin because I knew that I was not alone. I swung around. A pair of eyes were watching me through the grille.
I heard myself gasp and putting out my hands grazed them against the granite wall.
The eyes disappeared.
I wanted to get out of this place but I had to know who was there in the dorter. But had I imagined those eyes peering at me? I thought of monks who had lain in their cells and suddenly looked up to see a pair of eyes watching them. That was the purpose of the grille—that someone outside could look in and catch the cell’s occupant unaware.
I began to shiver. I went out into the corridor. I walked along it, looking into the cells. They were empty except for the pallets which had served as beds and which Cromwell’s men had not thought worthy of taking away. I stood still and listened. Silence…and yet there was that uncanny awareness which clung to me and which told me I was not alone.
I pushed open the door of one of the cells. I stared aghast. Seated on one of the pallets was a man. I looked again to assure myself that it was Bruno. His eyes were cold, snakelike. He gave a sudden low laugh which had an unpleasant ring.
“Bruno,” I cried, “what are you doing here?”
“I might ask what you are doing here.”
“It was you who looked at me through the grille.”
“Did that disturb you?”
“Naturally. It was so…uncanny. Why didn’t you speak? Why didn’t you let me know you were there? Why go away so dramatically?”
“Did you think it was a ghost who was looking through the grille at you? You had a guilty conscience, Damask. Why? Was it because you were doing something you would rather not be caught doing? What were you doing?”
I could not tell him. How far we were apart! We were enemies. And yet this man was my husband. How could I tell him that I was hoping to find something which he would go to great lengths to stop my finding?
“I…I was looking at the dorter.”
“You find it interesting…suddenly?”
“Not suddenly. It was always interesting.”
“You were here recently. You seem to make a habit of visiting the place. I wondered why.”
“So you followed me.”
“What I want to know is why you are so startled to be found here.”