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Authors: Cassandra Clark
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had time to enter Hildegard’s chamber while she was absent. Nothing told her who had failed to put in an appearance, and there was no way of finding out.
Only one course suggested itself. She would have to match the piece of fabric she held with a tear in one of the nun’s habits. It was no use expecting to find a match here She would have to find an opportunity in the refectory. One of these furtive, hooded figures knew she had been attacked, and had, in turn, been toughly resisted. Her face must be blotched with small wounds, thought. Hildegard, smiling to herself. The culprit would have to do something out of the ordinary to get out of the trap she had set herself.
And so would Hildegard herself, to spring it.
The barefoot novice who brought the bread round to everyone was there again.
Thinly clad as usual, she held out a basket of wastel to each of the nuns in turn with her head bowed. She looked too cowed to do otherwise. Chewing on the fine white bread, Hildegard watched her scurry from one to the next, giving a little curtsy to each nun in turn It was plain she lived in fear. This must be the one the masons had referred to as Alys, the one who had found the body of Giles in the woods. No wonder she looked frightened.
Her attention moved to the other diners. Four sat on each side of the long table, including herself on one side. As usual, no one spoke. In order not to interrupt the reading from the lectern, they merely waved a hand for what they wanted, beckoning, dismissing, never looking the novice in the face. How old would she be? Younger than Hildegard had first assumed. Thirteen? Fourteen? Approaching marriageable age. Assigned to the monastic life by some guardian or a parent reluctant or unable to feed her? And by the look of her, profoundly unhappy.
Hildegard gestured for more bread. When the girl was near enough, she asked, “How long have you been at Handale, my child?”
The girl gave a darting glance at the nearby nuns and whispered, “Since Martinmas, mistress.” She saw that nobody was bothering much, so she added in a whisper, “I was sent from Rosedale. I do not wish to be a nun.”
Hildegard glanced at the dirty feet, the thin shift, the broken fingernails and tangled hair. “Come to my guest chamber before compline,” she murmured. “I would like to know more about this.”
The novice gave a slight nod and moved away.
No sign of a torn sleeve. It was difficult to inspect the hems of the cloaks tumbled onto the benches beside the sisters. Three or four still wore theirs, hoods up, faces concealed. One of those four, guessed Hildegard after looking at the smooth faces of those with their hoods thrown back. She rose to her feet.
There was rustle of speculation. No one got up from her place before the prioress.
Hildegard moved behind the line of nuns sitting on the bench she had just vacated. She could not see their faces, but she could do something to make them turn. With a sudden loud scream, she pointed into the corner of the refectory. At once, heads swivelled. Three hooded nuns briefly turned to stare at her. Two of them had faces as smooth as alabaster. The third was covered in scratches and had a red mark under her left eye.
“Mistress York! What is the meaning of this?” The prioress was in a fury and started to heave herself out of her chair.
“There, my lady! In the corner! I think I see something moving!” she exclaimed. She lowered her hand. She had found out what she wanted. “Forgive me, my lady. I now see I was mistaken.”
There was a rustling, not quite a murmur, from the nuns. The word dragon was heard.
“One of you go and have a look. Set our minds at rest,” replied the prioress, giving Hildegard a hard glance as she sank back among her cushions.
The subprioress got up and peered cautiously into the corner, here she poked around for a moment. “Nothing here, my lady.”
Hildegard dropped a curtsy. “My dear and reverend prioress, pray
Only one course suggested itself. She would have to match the piece of fabric she held with a tear in one of the nun’s habits. It was no use expecting to find a match here She would have to find an opportunity in the refectory. One of these furtive, hooded figures knew she had been attacked, and had, in turn, been toughly resisted. Her face must be blotched with small wounds, thought. Hildegard, smiling to herself. The culprit would have to do something out of the ordinary to get out of the trap she had set herself.
And so would Hildegard herself, to spring it.
The barefoot novice who brought the bread round to everyone was there again.
Thinly clad as usual, she held out a basket of wastel to each of the nuns in turn with her head bowed. She looked too cowed to do otherwise. Chewing on the fine white bread, Hildegard watched her scurry from one to the next, giving a little curtsy to each nun in turn It was plain she lived in fear. This must be the one the masons had referred to as Alys, the one who had found the body of Giles in the woods. No wonder she looked frightened.
Her attention moved to the other diners. Four sat on each side of the long table, including herself on one side. As usual, no one spoke. In order not to interrupt the reading from the lectern, they merely waved a hand for what they wanted, beckoning, dismissing, never looking the novice in the face. How old would she be? Younger than Hildegard had first assumed. Thirteen? Fourteen? Approaching marriageable age. Assigned to the monastic life by some guardian or a parent reluctant or unable to feed her? And by the look of her, profoundly unhappy.
Hildegard gestured for more bread. When the girl was near enough, she asked, “How long have you been at Handale, my child?”
The girl gave a darting glance at the nearby nuns and whispered, “Since Martinmas, mistress.” She saw that nobody was bothering much, so she added in a whisper, “I was sent from Rosedale. I do not wish to be a nun.”
Hildegard glanced at the dirty feet, the thin shift, the broken fingernails and tangled hair. “Come to my guest chamber before compline,” she murmured. “I would like to know more about this.”
The novice gave a slight nod and moved away.
No sign of a torn sleeve. It was difficult to inspect the hems of the cloaks tumbled onto the benches beside the sisters. Three or four still wore theirs, hoods up, faces concealed. One of those four, guessed Hildegard after looking at the smooth faces of those with their hoods thrown back. She rose to her feet.
There was rustle of speculation. No one got up from her place before the prioress.
Hildegard moved behind the line of nuns sitting on the bench she had just vacated. She could not see their faces, but she could do something to make them turn. With a sudden loud scream, she pointed into the corner of the refectory. At once, heads swivelled. Three hooded nuns briefly turned to stare at her. Two of them had faces as smooth as alabaster. The third was covered in scratches and had a red mark under her left eye.
“Mistress York! What is the meaning of this?” The prioress was in a fury and started to heave herself out of her chair.
“There, my lady! In the corner! I think I see something moving!” she exclaimed. She lowered her hand. She had found out what she wanted. “Forgive me, my lady. I now see I was mistaken.”
There was a rustling, not quite a murmur, from the nuns. The word dragon was heard.
“One of you go and have a look. Set our minds at rest,” replied the prioress, giving Hildegard a hard glance as she sank back among her cushions.
The subprioress got up and peered cautiously into the corner, here she poked around for a moment. “Nothing here, my lady.”
Hildegard dropped a curtsy. “My dear and reverend prioress, pray
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