The Keepers of the Library (13 page)

Elizabeth grabbed Clarissa’s hand again and squeezed it so hard it ached. “You’re like an angel who’s come to me in my hour of need.”

“I’m no angel. I’m just a lass like you who wants t’ go home.”

O
n the twelfth of February, the night was dark, cold, and cloudy. Clarissa made her final preparations and waited for the cathedral bells to summon all worshippers to the cathedral.

For the past week she’d been requesting extra food and had hidden nonperishables like dried fruit and hard bread in a kerchief, which she stashed under her mattress. When the dormitory was quiet and locked, she bundled the foodstuffs into her spare blanket. Rolled with its ends tied together, it made a fine across-the-chest shoulder bag to hold provisions and booty for her journey.

When the bells rang she waited just long enough for worship to begin. Then, clutching her small candle, she used her key to free herself for the last time.

Quiet as a flea, she unlocked a door down the hall and entered Elizabeth’s room. The pretty girl was waiting for her, fully dressed. “You came!”

“I told you I would. Now, take my key. I’ll lock you in when I leave but use the key to let yourself out. I beg you t’ wait for a good while before you exit. In case you’re caught, say nothing about me and tell them you stole th’ key. I must have time to get off th’ isle. Will you promise?”

“I’ll do as you ask, dear Clarissa.”

“You’ll meet your young monk then?”

“In the stables. I managed to speak to him this afternoon when I went outside to the privy closet. He was waiting nearby in case I emerged. Blessedly, Sister Hazel was attending to another girl with a fever.”

Clarissa embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Then good luck to you, Elizabeth. Be careful. I wish you a long and happy life.”

“And I wish you the same. I will pray you make it home safely.”

Clarissa patted her tense belly. “I beg you to pray that both of us make it home safely.”

Clarissa crept from the dormitory and followed the rehearsed route to the abbot house, where she found everything exactly as it had been during her scouting mission. She helped herself to a pair of silver candlesticks and a silver plate, its rim encrusted with jewel stones. She could not and dared not take more. Her blanket bag was now considerably heavier as she slipped from the abbot house and made her way to the main abbey gate.

She quenched her candle and let her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Through the predawn murk she could see the rudiments of the great iron portcullis that secured the entry arch. She prayed
the gate was unattended, but if not, her plan was to heave a stone and hope a dim-witted gatekeeper went looking for the source of the noise.

As it happened, the gate was not attended but that created a different problem, one Clarissa had not anticipated. The iron portcullis grate was fully lowered. How would she ever pass? Certainly, she was in no condition to climb over!

Tucked against one of the archway pillars was an iron ratchet wheel. Her heart was beating out of her chest as she grabbed the cranking handle and turned it. With all her weight into it, the wheel moved and ratcheted a turn. The grate raised a mite.

It seemed she’d be able to manage the infernal machine but it wouldn’t do to run off with the gate left open. Someone would notice, and she’d be caught!

An idea came to her which immediately she ascribed to God’s helping hand. A dried branch lay nearby, blown from a tree overhanging the abbey wall. She took the branch and commenced ratcheting the wheel again until the gate was lifted just enough for her to be able to slither underneath on her back. With her shoulder pressing hard against the crank shaft she slid the branch between the ratchet and the nearest tooth of the wheel. When the branch was in place she eased her shoulder off the shaft and heard cracking as the weight of the ratchet crushed the tree limb. But it held the gate in position.

Quickly she got to the ground, lay on her back and with sandaled feet, pushed herself under the portcullis with the terrifying cracking and popping sound of a pinched branch in her ears. If it fell, her baby would be the first to be pierced, and both of them would die a sad, painful death.

Mercifully, she cleared the gap and rose triumphantly at the other side of the abbey wall. Then with
all the strength in her body she pulled down on the grate with both hands and hung from it.

There was a snap and the branch gave way, followed by a ground-shaking thud as the portcullis slammed shut.

She turned her back on Vectis Abbey and looked for the path to the ferry.

H
orses shuffled and whinnied when Luke, a brawny young monk, came into the stables. It was black and cold, and he was frightened by his own boldness for even being there. “Hello?” he called out in a half whisper. “Is anybody here?”

A small voice answered, “I’m here, Luke. At the end.”

Luke used the slice of moonlight penetrating the open stable door to find her. Elizabeth was in the stall of a large bay mare, huddling beside its belly for warmth.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.” She wasn’t crying anymore. It was too cold for that.

“You are freezing,” he said.

“Am I?” She held out her arm. When he felt her alabaster wrist, he encircled it with his hand and would not let go.

“Yes. You are.”

“Will you kiss me, Luke?”

“I cannot!”

“Please.”

The young monk looked distressed. “Why do you torture me? You know I cannot. I have taken my vows! Besides, I came to hear your plight. When last we met, you spoke of crypts.” He let go and pulled away.

“Please do not be angry at me. I am to be taken to the crypts tomorrow.”

“For what purpose?”

“They want me to lie with a man, something I have never done,” she cried. “Other girls have suffered this fate. I have met them. They have birthed babies that are taken from them when they are suckled. Some girls are used as birth mothers again and again until they lose their minds. Please do not let this happen to me!”

“This cannot be true!” Luke exclaimed. “This is a place of God!”

“It is the truth. There are secrets at Vectis. Have you not heard the stories?”

“I have heard many things, but I have seen nothing with my own eyes. I believe what I see.”

“But you believe in God,” she said. “And you have not seen Him.”

“That is different!” he protested. “I do not need to see Him. I feel His presence.”

She was growing desperate. She composed herself and reached for his hand, which, in an unguarded moment, he allowed her to grasp. “Please, Luke, lie down with me, here in the straw.”

She carried his hand to her bosom and pressed it there. He felt the firm flesh through her cloak, and his ears filled with rushing blood. He looked like he wanted to close his palm around the sweet globe, and for a moment, he almost did. Then he regained his senses and recoiled, banging into the side of the stall.

Her eyes were wild. “Please, Luke, don’t go! If you lie with me, they will not take me to the crypts. I’ll be of no use to them.”

“And what would happen to me!” he hissed. “I would be cast out! I will not do this. I am a man of God! Please, I must leave you now!”

As he ran from the stables, Elizabeth’s soft wails mixed discordantly with the neighing of disturbed horses.

C
larissa was sure she was on the right path because the sound of the sea grew ever louder in her ears. At the water’s edge, the ferry boat was tied up against a wooden pier for the night. Bedside the pier was a small cottage, its windows black. The ferryman was asleep, she reckoned, but when he woke at dawn, she would be there to make him an offer.

I
n the morning, storm clouds lay low and heavy over the island. Luke had lain awake through the night, fitful and troubled. At Lauds, it was almost impossible to concentrate on his hymns and psalms and, in the brief interval before he was obliged to return to the cathedral for the Prime Office, he rushed through his chores.

Finally, he could bear it no more. He quietly approached his superior, Brother Martin, clutching his stomach and asking for permission to forgo Prime and attend the infirmary.

Permission granted, he put up his hood and chose a circuitous route to the forbidden buildings. He picked a large maple tree on a nearby knoll, close enough to watch but far enough to conceal himself. From that vantage point, he stood guard in the raw, gray mist.

He heard the bells ring for Prime.

No one came or left the chapel-sized building.

He heard the bells ring again to signify the end of the office.

All was quiet. He wondered how long he could pass unnoticed and what the consequence of his subterfuge
would be. He would accept his punishment, but he was hopeful that God would treat him with a small measure of love and understanding for his pitiful frailties.

The bark was rough on his cheek. Consumed with fatigue, he dozed briefly but awoke with a start when his skin chafed on the jagged surface.

He saw her coming down the path, led by Sister Sabeline as if towed by a rope. Even from a distance, he could tell she was crying.

At least this part of her tale was true.

The two women disappeared through the front door of the chapel.

His pulse quickened. He clenched his fists and softly beat them against the tree trunk. He prayed for guidance.

C
rouching behind a bush, Clarissa watched as the dawn sky seemed to touch the sea and bring it to life. The wind picked up, and the waves rolled higher and stronger. She feared the ferry might not embark into the peril of a storm.

The thin wisps of smoke from the ferryman’s chimney turned heavy. He was stirring. The effluent of a chamber pot was flung from a window, and, before long, the ferryman emerged, his eyes on his ship and the heaving waters.

She stood and approached with a tacked-on expression of cheer to belie her fugitive status.

“Good sir. I would like passage this morning,” she said.

“And who might you be?” the hoary seaman asked.

“Just a lass from Newport who must reunite with her husband.”

“You been here all night?”

“Nay, sir, I’ve just arrived after spending a night with a relation in Fishbourne.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from Newport,” the man said.

She thought quickly. “I was born up north.”

The ferryman tugged at his beard. “It’s rough this morning, and I see no other passengers. It’s hardly worth my while to risk my boat on one lass.”

She looked at the brightening sky. Sister Hazel would soon be coming by with morning victuals, and she’d be found out. She lost the pretense of good humor. “I must go now! I cannot wait. I can pay. I can pay handsomely.”

The seaman arched one brow skeptically and asked to see evidence of her claim.

She knelt and unrolled her blanket just enough to produce one of the candlesticks. “I can give you this,” she said.

He took it and felt its heft in his hand then scratched at it with a thumbnail. “It’s a fine piece of silver, it is. Did you steal it?”

“I did not! It was a gift from my relations.”

His smirk was evidence enough of his nonbelief, but he pressed her no further. “Is there more treasure in that blanket of yours?”

“No more for you, sir. That is more than enough for a ferry ride I reckon. I have a long journey to the north country, and I will meet other men who will want to be paid for their services.”

He shifted the candlestick from hand to hand while considering his decision, then said, “Right then. Prepare yourself for rough passage. If you’ve eaten, you’ll lose it, that’s for certain.”

She nodded and silently thanked God.

Come my baby, we’re going to sail away from this place
.

“I’d like to keep more of that treasure of yours in
my
family,” the ferryman said. “On the other side, I’ll bring you to my brother, who has a horse and a cart. If I know him, for silver like this he’ll take you where you want to go.”

S
ister Sabeline pulled a terrified Elizabeth through the chapel door and led her down a stairway that plunged into a netherworld.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, Elizabeth was shepherded through the Hall of the Writers, where one puny, spindly youth raised his ginger head and grunted, and from there she was led into the sickening void that was the catacombs.

Inside, candlelight flared against grotesque skulls, and the old nun had to use both arms to keep the fair-haired girl upright.

They were not alone. Someone was beside the girl. Elizabeth whirled around to see the dumb blank face and green eyes of the young writer blocking the passageway. Sister Sabeline withdrew. Her sleeve brushed the leg bones of a corpse, and they clattered musically. The nun held the candle high and watched from a short distance. Elizabeth was panting in fear. The ginger-haired man stood inches away, his arms limp by his sides. Seconds passed. Sister Sabeline called to him in frustration, “I have brought this girl for you!” Nothing happened. More time passed, and the nun demanded, “Touch her!”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, bracing for the touch of a living skeleton.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder, but it was not cold and bony, it was warm and reassuring.

Elizabeth heard Sister Sabeline shrieking, “What are you doing here! What are you doing!”

She opened her eyes, and, magically, the face she saw was Luke’s. The ginger-haired man was on the ground where Luke had roughly shoved him.

“Brother Luke, leave us!” Sabeline screamed. “You have violated a sacred place!”

“I will not leave without this girl,” Luke said defiantly. “How can this be sacred? All I see is evil.”

“You do not understand!” the nun screamed.

From the hall, they heard a sudden pandemonium.

Heavy thuds and crashes followed by flopping and thrashing sounds as if great fish had been hauled onto land.

Elizabeth’s ginger-haired youth turned away and walked toward the noise.

“What is happening?” Luke asked.

Sister Sabeline did not answer. She took her candle and rushed toward the hall, leaving them alone in the dark.