Time had taught me not to cry. Tears would pool and might even run, but I no longer allowed myself to sob for what was the use? In this instance I just allowed the strength of my friend’s arm to remind me that I was not, nor perhaps never would be, completely alone. Eventually he sat back, holding me at arms’ length.
‘Alright?’ he postured.
I nodded. We had learned both of us to be economical with word and feeling.
‘Then while you read your letters, I shall check the horse’s hoof. He seemed sore as we came along the village track last night.’
Without more explanation he left quietly and once again I wondered why he had never taken Orders as he truly was the most remarkably thoughtful and prescient person.
I was left alone in the room with three letters that sat blindingly white in the morning light bleeding through the window. One of those letters might as well have been from the Devil, so much did I shrink from its opening. But the other two were messages from angels I knew, designed to comfort and guide and give me succour and so I reached for the first.
It was not sealed, merely folded once with a strip of hemp cord knotted to hold it closed. I undid the thick parchment and saw at once the hand of Brother John, the refined graceful style that made him a scribe of note in his past life. I smiled. He had illuminated the opening letter, a conceit carried out as a gift for me, because set into the square in which rested the letter Y, a four square castle was depicted surrounded by a lake. An image of my home and a reminder of things dear from my past … my long past, not the most recent when the Moncrieff daughter had been raped and her face scarred for life.
In my mind I could see the industrious old priest bent over his work, his bald skull shining in the light from the window under which he worked. I could hear him swearing as he nicked his hand sharpening the quill, and swearing again as he removed one too many hairs from his available brushes. His robes I noted were clean and fresh and he was shaven and glistening as if he had developed a new pride in his God, St.Agatha’s and his work. Ah, the imagination is a wonderful thing when one lets it fly, and how heart-warming.
‘Ysabel of Moncrieff,’ it read. ‘Lady de Courcey by the Grace of God.
Or not…’
I laughed with delight. Sometimes Brother John could be so irreligious and I loved him for it.
‘My dearest Ysabel, I think henceforth to dispense with your married title as it offends those of us who love you and your family.
Ulric of Camden informs us that your journeys have been long but safe for which we thank God in his Mercy. I should also inform you that though Guy of Gisborne is shamed before his king, the Church thought to absolve him and he seemed well because of it…’
Written then before Guy was transported to London and whilst he was still well. How I wished Brother John could have travelled with him as the Church’s representative. Maybe then…
‘Daughter, with what is to come I must ask you to think twice, pray and ask for God’s guidance and then act once with assurance for there is none but God and your own resources to help you make decisions of great bearing.’
I wondered what Brother John knew that I do not and a faint disquiet stirred the hairs on my neck.
‘I am glad you have Ulric by your side, and Bridget’s little family as well but it is you who must think of William and yourself ultimately. Rest assured that Moncrieff is in the fine and upright care of Cecilia of Upton…’
I looked out of the window heavenward and thanked God for this good thing. I would not thank my king for surely such governancewas an act of Divine Providence.
