Chapter 38. THE ABBEY

The abbey was an enormous twelfth-century edifice, walled to resist both the smashing of sea storms and the onslaughts of land-based invaders. Now, in more peaceful times, its gates stood open to allow easy traffic with the nearby village, and the small stone cells of its guest wing had been softened by the addition of tapestries and comfortable furniture.

I rose from the padded chair in my own chamber, not sure exactly how one greeted an abbot; did one kneel and kiss his ring, or was that only for Popes? I settled for a respectful curtsy.

Jamie’s slanted cat-eyes did come from the Fraser side. Likewise the solid jaw, though the one facing me was somewhat obscured by black beard.

Abbot Alexander had his nephew’s wide mouth as well, though he looked as though he smiled somewhat less with it. The slanted blue eyes remained cool and speculative as he greeted me with a pleasant, warm smile. He was a good deal shorter than Jamie, about my height, and stocky. He wore the robe of a priest, but walked with a warrior’s stride. I thought it likely he had been both in his time.

“You are welcome, ma niece,” he said, inclining his head. I was a little startled at the greeting, but bowed back.

“I’m grateful for your hospitality,” I said, meaning it. “Have – have you seen Jamie?” The monks had taken Jamie away to be bathed, a process in which I thought I had better not assist.

The Abbot nodded. “Oh, aye,” he said, a faint Scots accent showing through the cultured English. “I’ve seen him. I’ve set Brother Ambrose to tend his wounds.” I must have looked dubious at this, for he said, a bit dryly, “Do not worry, Madame; Brother Ambrose is most competent.” He looked me over with an air of frank appraisal disturbingly like that of his nephew.

“Murtagh said that you are an accomplished physician yourself.”

“I am,” I said bluntly.

This provoked a real smile. “I see that you do not suffer from the sin of false modesty,” he observed.

“I have others,” I said, smiling back.

“So do we all,” he said. “Brother Ambrose will be eager to converse with you, I’m sure.”

“Has Murtagh told you… what happened?” I asked hesitantly.

The wide mouth tightened. “He has. So far as he knows what happened.” He waited, as though expecting further contributions from me, but I stayed silent.

It was clear that he would have liked to ask questions, but he was kind enough not to press me. Instead, he raised his hand in a gesture of benediction and dismissal.

“You are welcome,” he said once more. “I will send a serving brother to bring you some food.” He looked me over once more. “And some facilities for washing.” He made the sign of the Cross over me, in farewell or possibly as an exorcism of filth, and left in a swirl of brown skirts.

Suddenly realizing how tired I was, I sank down on the bed, wondering whether I could stay awake long enough to both eat and wash. I was still wondering when my head hit the pillow.

I was having a dreadful nightmare. Jamie was on the other side of a solid stone wall without a door. I could hear him screaming, over and over, but couldn’t reach him. I pounded desperately on the wall, only to see my hands sink into the stone as if it were water.

“Ouch!” I sat up in the narrow cot, clutching the hand I had smashed against the unyielding wall next to my bed. I rocked back and forth, squeezing the throbbing hand between my thighs, then realized that the screaming was still going on.

It stopped abruptly as I ran into the hall. The door to Jamie’s room was open, flickering lamplight flooding the corridor.

A monk I had not seen before was with Jamie, holding him tightly. A seepage of fresh blood stained the bandages on Jamie’s back, and his shoulders shook as though with chill.

“A nightmare,” the monk said in explanation, seeing me in the doorway. He relinquished Jamie into my arms, and went to the table for a cloth and the water jug.

Jamie was still trembling, and his face was glossy with sweat. His eyes were closed, and he breathed heavily, with a hoarse, gasping sound. The monk sat down beside me and began to swab his face with a gentle hand, smoothing the heavy, wet hair away from his temples.

“You would be his wife, of course,” he said to me. “I think he’ll be better presently.”

The trembling did begin to ease within a minute or two, and Jamie opened his eyes with a sigh.

“I’m all right,” he said. “Claire, I’m all right, now. But for God’s sake, get rid of that stink!”

It was only then that I consciously noticed the scent in the room – a light, spicy, floral smell, so common a perfume that I had thought nothing of it. Lavender. A scent for soaps and toilet waters. I had last smelled it in the dungeons of Wentworth Prison, where it anointed the linen or the person of Captain Jonathan Randall.

The source of the scent was a small metal cup filled with herb-scented oil, suspended from a heavy, rose-bossed iron base and hung over a candle flame.

Meant to soothe the mind, its effects were plainly not as intended. Jamie was breathing more easily, sitting up by himself and holding the cup of water the monk had given him. But his face was still white, and the corner of his mouth twitched uneasily.

I nodded at the Franciscan to do as he said, and the monk quickly muffled the hot cup of oil in a folded towel, then carried it away down the hall.

Jamie heaved a long sigh of relief, then winced, ribs hurting.

“You’ve opened up your back a bit,” I said, turning him slightly to get at the bandages. “Not bad, though.”

“I know. I must have rolled onto my back in my sleep.” The thick wedge of folded blanket meant to keep him propped on one side had slipped to the floor. I retrieved it and laid it on the bed beside him.

“That’s what made me dream, I think. I dreamt of being flogged.” He shuddered, took a sip of the water, then handed me the cup. “I need something a bit stronger, if it’s handy.”

As though on cue, our helpful visitor came through the door with a jug of wine in one hand and a small flask of poppy syrup in the other.

“Alcohol or opium?” he asked Jamie with a smile, holding up the two flasks. “You may have your choice of oblivions.”

“I’ll have the wine, if ye please. I’ve had enough of dreams for one night,” Jamie said, with a lopsided answering smile. He drank the wine slowly, as the Franciscan helped me to change the stained bandages, smoothing fresh marigold ointment over the wounds. Not until I had resettled Jamie for sleep, back firmly propped and coverlet drawn up, did the visitor turn to go.

Passing the bed, he bent over Jamie and sketched the sign of the Cross above his head. “Rest well,” he said.

“Thank ye, Father.” Jamie answered drowsily, clearly half-asleep already. Seeing that Jamie would likely not need me now until morning, I touched him on the shoulder in farewell and followed the visitor out into the corridor.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m most grateful for your help.”

The monk waved a graceful hand, dismissing my thanks.

“I was pleased to be able to assist you,” he said, and I noticed that he spoke excellent English, though with a faint French accent. “I was passing through the guest wing on my way to the chapel of St. Giles when I heard the screaming.”

I winced at the memory of that screaming, hoarse and dreadful, and hoped I would not hear it again. Glancing at the window at the end of the corridor, I saw no sign of dawn behind the shutter.

“To the chapel?” I said, surprised. “But I thought Matins were sung in the main church. And it’s surely a bit early, in any case.”

The Franciscan smiled. He was fairly young, perhaps in his early thirties, but his silky brown hair was threaded with grey. It was short and neatly tonsured and he had a brown beard, finely trimmed to a point that just skimmed the deep rolled collar of his habit.