Cilia's next memory was of a plump
soft kindly woman in black and white robes, who took her hand and led
her to a small covered cart full of cushions and drawn by two white
mules. The swaying sleepy motion of the cart seemed to go on for days
while the black and white woman and another in exactly the same
clothes sat with her on the cushions in the tented space.
Occasionally they got out to walk and stretch their legs a while and
to pee behind the bushes, but at last they reached this house, the
Priory of Saint Catherine at Holystone, the only place Gilla could
remember living in at all, for of her first home with her mother she
had no memory, being only three years old when her mother died.
Time
passed, and the child laid down more memories as life took on shape
and pattern, ordered by bells and peopled entirely by women in black
and white, save for Sir Bernard, the nuns' priest, and Ambrose the
bailiff, who was frequently glimpsed stumping along the passage to
report to Prioress Hermengarde. Prioress Hermengarde was Gilla's
great-aunt, sister to her mother's mother, and to her surprise Gilla
learned that somewhere far away, over the sea--'Outremer' they called
it –she had a father! No, pet, not like Sir Bernard, and no,
certainly not like Bailiff Ambrose. Your father's a knight, a brave
warrior fighting the Infidel. The Infidel are wicked heathens who
captured God's Holy City, Jerusalem, and make slaves and prisoners
of poor Christian pilgrims.
Knights
and heathens took their place in Gilla's mind-world, along with
saints and angels, dragons and wizards, nuns, priests, peasants,
horses and dogs. She longed for her father's return, but by now her
mother's face was fading from her memory, overlaid by Aunt Prioress,
dear Dame Domitia who told such splendid stories, and Dame Perdita
who tucked Gilla into bed and fussed over her when she had the cough,
or the spotted fever, or the earache.
She
was seven when her father came back. Sent for to the guest parlour,
she saw the man waiting –a face almost blackened by sun but
with blazingly blue eyes and a smile that broke over the little girl
like a glorious sunrise as he swept her up into his embrace and held
her close. His chin was scratchy, and when she pulled her face back
she was horrified to see tears in his eyes and spilling down his
cheeks.
'Oh
there, there,' comforted the child. 'Don't, don't cry! Everything
will be all right!' And loved him with all her being. The little
girls played in the priory orchard on fine afternoons, watched by a
lay sister or one of the nuns. Dame Matilda would sometimes teach
them a new game; Hoodman Blind had been such a success that their
immoderate mirth brought sharp rebuke. Dame Margaret would sit under
a tree and doze while they played. Dame Hawise had produced from her
capacious pocket knucklebones from the priory's own mutton, which
occupied them for days and could be played with in the cloister when
it was too wet to go into the garden.
Today
it was Dame Margaret, nodding under a pear tree, more than half
asleep, only just aware of their light voices and laughter on the
edge of consciousness ... until there was silence, which the nun
realised had lasted some time. She sat up and stared about, seeing
the children standing by the orchard wall. Why so quiet? No one hurt,
no one crying, but something not as it should be ... What? Yes!
Only
three little girls. Not four.
'Where
is Devorgilla?' she called.
Three
little faces turned to her, pale and worried, and three voices
answered all together, mixed and muddled.
'We
were playing hide-and-seek ...'
'Gilla
climbed the tree.'
'This
one, here, by the wall.'
'Someone
sat on top of the wall and called her.'
'He
called Gilla's name, and she climbed higher ...'
'And
he pulled her up ..."
'There
were horses, we could hear them'
'And
she's gone, Dame.'
“ I
shall go myself,' said the prioress. 'Dame Januaria will go with me,
and Sir Bernard, and Ambrose. A message
soft kindly woman in black and white robes, who took her hand and led
her to a small covered cart full of cushions and drawn by two white
mules. The swaying sleepy motion of the cart seemed to go on for days
while the black and white woman and another in exactly the same
clothes sat with her on the cushions in the tented space.
Occasionally they got out to walk and stretch their legs a while and
to pee behind the bushes, but at last they reached this house, the
Priory of Saint Catherine at Holystone, the only place Gilla could
remember living in at all, for of her first home with her mother she
had no memory, being only three years old when her mother died.
Time
passed, and the child laid down more memories as life took on shape
and pattern, ordered by bells and peopled entirely by women in black
and white, save for Sir Bernard, the nuns' priest, and Ambrose the
bailiff, who was frequently glimpsed stumping along the passage to
report to Prioress Hermengarde. Prioress Hermengarde was Gilla's
great-aunt, sister to her mother's mother, and to her surprise Gilla
learned that somewhere far away, over the sea--'Outremer' they called
it –she had a father! No, pet, not like Sir Bernard, and no,
certainly not like Bailiff Ambrose. Your father's a knight, a brave
warrior fighting the Infidel. The Infidel are wicked heathens who
captured God's Holy City, Jerusalem, and make slaves and prisoners
of poor Christian pilgrims.
Knights
and heathens took their place in Gilla's mind-world, along with
saints and angels, dragons and wizards, nuns, priests, peasants,
horses and dogs. She longed for her father's return, but by now her
mother's face was fading from her memory, overlaid by Aunt Prioress,
dear Dame Domitia who told such splendid stories, and Dame Perdita
who tucked Gilla into bed and fussed over her when she had the cough,
or the spotted fever, or the earache.
She
was seven when her father came back. Sent for to the guest parlour,
she saw the man waiting –a face almost blackened by sun but
with blazingly blue eyes and a smile that broke over the little girl
like a glorious sunrise as he swept her up into his embrace and held
her close. His chin was scratchy, and when she pulled her face back
she was horrified to see tears in his eyes and spilling down his
cheeks.
'Oh
there, there,' comforted the child. 'Don't, don't cry! Everything
will be all right!' And loved him with all her being. The little
girls played in the priory orchard on fine afternoons, watched by a
lay sister or one of the nuns. Dame Matilda would sometimes teach
them a new game; Hoodman Blind had been such a success that their
immoderate mirth brought sharp rebuke. Dame Margaret would sit under
a tree and doze while they played. Dame Hawise had produced from her
capacious pocket knucklebones from the priory's own mutton, which
occupied them for days and could be played with in the cloister when
it was too wet to go into the garden.
Today
it was Dame Margaret, nodding under a pear tree, more than half
asleep, only just aware of their light voices and laughter on the
edge of consciousness ... until there was silence, which the nun
realised had lasted some time. She sat up and stared about, seeing
the children standing by the orchard wall. Why so quiet? No one hurt,
no one crying, but something not as it should be ... What? Yes!
Only
three little girls. Not four.
'Where
is Devorgilla?' she called.
Three
little faces turned to her, pale and worried, and three voices
answered all together, mixed and muddled.
'We
were playing hide-and-seek ...'
'Gilla
climbed the tree.'
'This
one, here, by the wall.'
'Someone
sat on top of the wall and called her.'
'He
called Gilla's name, and she climbed higher ...'
'And
he pulled her up ..."
'There
were horses, we could hear them'
'And
she's gone, Dame.'
“ I
shall go myself,' said the prioress. 'Dame Januaria will go with me,
and Sir Bernard, and Ambrose. A message
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