harness to her ears. The two nuns, and the novice waiting beside Agatha with the towels, turn their heads sharply toward the gate.
I have seen something wonderful, something marvellously surprising in this wet, wretched island of bogs and haunted forests. It made me think immediately of you, dearest sister, and of a service you might do for me.
The words he wrote to her, in his own hand, in the note accompanying his letter to the Abbess, in which he requested, with all courtesy and every expectation of being obeyed, an audience with his beloved sister and daughter in Christ, Jean-Baptiste, and that the enclosed message be given to her. A service you might do for me. She knew he would ask one day.
She does not recognise him at first, among the small party of armed men who trot single file through the gate and reassemble in the courtyard. Although it is only a short time after Sext, the afternoon is dark and flares have been lit in the courtyard, sending gigantic shadows of men and horses leaping up walls and across the snow, the play of light and shadow confusing the eye. She looks for a mule, for episcopal dress, with a tiny trickle of dread, insistent as water dripping from the thatch over the kitchen, whose fires have melted the snow. What does it mean when you cannot recognise your own brother, your favourite brother, the person you love most in all the world?
Then a figure detaches itself from the rest, taller perhaps, but dressed the same, in short cloak and mud-spattered leather gaiters. As he approaches the women, he pauses suddenly, as though he has forgotten something, to unbuckle his sword from its belt, a task which seems to cause him some difficulty and is eventually completed for him by a second, shorter, older man she recognises as her brother’s servant, who takes the sword and stows it in a saddle scabbard. Odo then pushes back his hood to reveal his tonsure and the familiar contours of his face with its strong bones and seducer’s smile.
“You are welcome, my lord,” says Mother Abbess, curtseying, as Agatha steps forward with her bowl of water.
“I am glad to be here. The God of Moses has thrown all His box of tricks at us on the journey save fire and pestilence. I will save your gentle ears any account of the sea crossing.”
So why has he risked it? wonders Agatha, handing the water bowl to the novice and taking a towel to dry his hands. As she performs this service, she realises why he struggled with his sword. His left hand is badly bruised and splinted at the wrist. Though she is tender and careful with him, he cannot repress a hiss of pain as she dries it. Yet she observes no swelling; it is not a recent fracture, just poorly tended, probably beyond proper healing.
“Thank you, Sister,” he says, exchanging with her the briefest of glances, teasing, affectionate, before she lowers her eyes and kneels with the others to kiss his ring and receive his blessing.
As they go indoors, he addresses himself to the Abbess. He has brought gifts from England. Some plate come by in Winchester, a pair of particularly handsome gold chalices from the island of Saint Columba, etched with designs in knotwork, a pleasing crucifix set with agates, a vial of water from the pool at Bethesda. The carcass of a boar they were lucky enough to kill en route and some flagons of a liquor made from honey by which the English set great store. The king? The king, God be praised, is in excellent health and spirits. And now, by Mother Abbess’ leave, time is short and he has urgent business with his sister while the horses are rested and his men refresh themselves.
Agatha accompanies him to the room normally set aside for lay guests. It has a larger fireplace than the nuns’ parlour and more comfortable furniture, and she has been given permission to light some candles, though only tallow; beeswax candles are kept strictly for the great festivals and the Feast of Saint Justina. By their smoky light she examines him,
I have seen something wonderful, something marvellously surprising in this wet, wretched island of bogs and haunted forests. It made me think immediately of you, dearest sister, and of a service you might do for me.
The words he wrote to her, in his own hand, in the note accompanying his letter to the Abbess, in which he requested, with all courtesy and every expectation of being obeyed, an audience with his beloved sister and daughter in Christ, Jean-Baptiste, and that the enclosed message be given to her. A service you might do for me. She knew he would ask one day.
She does not recognise him at first, among the small party of armed men who trot single file through the gate and reassemble in the courtyard. Although it is only a short time after Sext, the afternoon is dark and flares have been lit in the courtyard, sending gigantic shadows of men and horses leaping up walls and across the snow, the play of light and shadow confusing the eye. She looks for a mule, for episcopal dress, with a tiny trickle of dread, insistent as water dripping from the thatch over the kitchen, whose fires have melted the snow. What does it mean when you cannot recognise your own brother, your favourite brother, the person you love most in all the world?
Then a figure detaches itself from the rest, taller perhaps, but dressed the same, in short cloak and mud-spattered leather gaiters. As he approaches the women, he pauses suddenly, as though he has forgotten something, to unbuckle his sword from its belt, a task which seems to cause him some difficulty and is eventually completed for him by a second, shorter, older man she recognises as her brother’s servant, who takes the sword and stows it in a saddle scabbard. Odo then pushes back his hood to reveal his tonsure and the familiar contours of his face with its strong bones and seducer’s smile.
“You are welcome, my lord,” says Mother Abbess, curtseying, as Agatha steps forward with her bowl of water.
“I am glad to be here. The God of Moses has thrown all His box of tricks at us on the journey save fire and pestilence. I will save your gentle ears any account of the sea crossing.”
So why has he risked it? wonders Agatha, handing the water bowl to the novice and taking a towel to dry his hands. As she performs this service, she realises why he struggled with his sword. His left hand is badly bruised and splinted at the wrist. Though she is tender and careful with him, he cannot repress a hiss of pain as she dries it. Yet she observes no swelling; it is not a recent fracture, just poorly tended, probably beyond proper healing.
“Thank you, Sister,” he says, exchanging with her the briefest of glances, teasing, affectionate, before she lowers her eyes and kneels with the others to kiss his ring and receive his blessing.
As they go indoors, he addresses himself to the Abbess. He has brought gifts from England. Some plate come by in Winchester, a pair of particularly handsome gold chalices from the island of Saint Columba, etched with designs in knotwork, a pleasing crucifix set with agates, a vial of water from the pool at Bethesda. The carcass of a boar they were lucky enough to kill en route and some flagons of a liquor made from honey by which the English set great store. The king? The king, God be praised, is in excellent health and spirits. And now, by Mother Abbess’ leave, time is short and he has urgent business with his sister while the horses are rested and his men refresh themselves.
Agatha accompanies him to the room normally set aside for lay guests. It has a larger fireplace than the nuns’ parlour and more comfortable furniture, and she has been given permission to light some candles, though only tallow; beeswax candles are kept strictly for the great festivals and the Feast of Saint Justina. By their smoky light she examines him,
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