Chapter 13: The Monastery
Their conversation was oddly stilted, yet comfortable. Elizabeth was too upset to think, or discuss the past, which Darcy seemed to understand. Therefore, he instead spoke to her of his observations for some time.
"Wandering these grounds earlier, my arms heavy with firewood, I spotted at every turn fascinating traces of that past. The monks here hardly know what they pass each day."
"You are overcome by suspicion. Will the soldiers really come? Who'll tell them we're here? Surely these monks believe you to be but a simple shepherd."
"Perhaps we'll be left in peace. But there's one I fancy may betray our presence here, and even now the good Brennus may be issuing his orders. If you don't mind, please test that well. I have heard that Britons have a way of dividing a bale from within with wooden slats. I need it pure hay all the way down."
They had made it to the barn behind the old tower. Darcy had clearly worked here earlier in the day, and now had returned to finish his task. The warrior had apparently been seized by the urge to load a rickety wagon high with the hay stored at the back of the shed. As Darcy had set about a return to this task, Elizabeth had been required at regular intervals to clamber up onto the bales and prod into them with a stick.
"These holy men are just the sort to get absent-minded," Darcy said by way of explanation. "They may have left a spade or pitchfork in the hay. If so, it would be a service to retrieve it for them, tools being scarce up here."
Although Darcy gave no hint as to the purpose of the hay, Elizabeth knew straight away it had to do with some confrontation that he was expecting.
"Who'll betray you? The monks don't suspect anything. They're so concerned with their holy quarrels, they hardly glance our way."
"Maybe so. But just now let's concentrate on what faces us here. We must load this wagon in a sure and steady way. We need pure hay. No wood or iron there."
Elizabeth was touched that he trusted her enough with his defence mechanisms to make her part of it. "You have been preoccupied with that old tower from the time we first arrived at the monastery. You were continually glancing up at it."
Darcy bit his lip in contemplation, before speaking. "When we entered under the low arch into the chilly dimness of the tower's interior, what did you see at your feet?"
Elizabeth thought back. "A kind of moat which followed the circular wall all the way to form a ring, on the inside of the tower. It seems too wide for a man to jump, with the simple bridge of two planks the only way to reach the central floor of trodden earth."
"And did you notice the lack of water in the moat? And even if you fell right in, I'd say you'd find it no deeper than your own height. Curious, don't you think? Also, why a moat on the inside? What good can a moat do on the inside?"
Elizabeth tried to think analytically. "Perhaps, the ancients built the tower to slaughter animals. Perhaps once it was their killing floor. What they didn't wish to keep of an animal, they simply pushed over the side into the moat. When I looked up, and saw a circle of clear sky high above. It's open at the top, Darcy. Like a chimney."
"That is an excellent observation. What do you make of it?"
"If the ancients used this place for their slaughter, Darcy, they'd have been able to build a fire in the centre. They could have jointed the animal, roasted the meat, the smoke escaping up to the sky."
"What else did you see looking up, Princess?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Only the steps."
"Ah, the steps. Tell me about the steps."
"They first rise over the moat, then circle and circle, bending with the roundness of the wall. They rise till they reach the sky at the top."
"That's well observed. Now listen carefully." Darcy stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Like I said earlier, this place, not just this old tower, but this entire place, I'd wager was once a hillfort built by my Saxon forefathers in times of war. So it contains many cunning traps to welcome invading Britons."
Darcy moved away and slowly paced the perimeter of the barn. Eventually he looked up again and said "Imagine this place a fort. The siege broken after many days, the enemy pouring in. Fighting in every yard, on every wall. Now picture this. Two Saxons, out there in the yard, hold back a large body of Britons. They fight bravely, but the enemy's too great in number and our heroes must retreat. Let's suppose they retreat into the tower. They skip across the little bridge and turn to face their foes. The Britons grow confident. They have my cousins cornered. They press in with their swords and axes, hurry over the bridge towards our heroes. The heroes bring down the first of the Britons, but soon must retreat further. They retreat up those winding, narrow stairs along the wall. Still more Britons cross the moat until the space is filled. Yet the Britons' greater numbers can't yet be turned to advantage, what with the narrow stairs. The heroes are skilled, and though they retreat higher and higher, the invaders cannot overwhelm them. As Britons fall, those following take their place, then fall in their turn. But surely my cousins grow weary. Higher and higher they retreat, the invaders pursue them stair by stair. Do my forefathers finally lose their nerve? They turn and run the remaining circles of steps, only now and then striking behind them. This is surely the end. But look carefully. What do you see? What do you see as my Saxon cousins near that halo of sky above?"
Elizabeth swallowed. "I see a trap." She considered for a moment. "Just before the stairway reaches its highest point, there was what looked to be an alcove. Or is it a doorway?"
"Good. And what do you suppose hides there?"
"Can it be a dozen more warriors?"
"Hmmm," Darcy said. "How would they have known to hide there in advance? And where is that much space? Let's try again."
Think like a soldier, Elizabeth told herself. She thought further. "Fire, Darcy! There's fire behind that alcove!"
"Well said. We can't know for sure what happened so long ago. Yet I'd wager that's what waited up there. In that little alcove, hardly glimpsed from down, was a torch, or maybe two or three, blazing behind that wall. Tell me the rest, Princess."
"Our heroes throw the torches down."
"What, onto the heads of the enemy?"
"No, down into the moat."
"The moat? Filled with water?"
"No," Elizabeth said, and now grinned. "The moat's filled with firewood. Just like the firewood you've sweated to cut. The enemy is now surrounded by fire inside the tower, and only a narrow rickety bridge to escape the tower, with fire fanning both sides of bridge, and nothing beyond the stairs but open sky."
Darcy grinned back at her, and Elizabeth felt herself glow. "But the heroes. Must they burn in the flames with their foes?"
"That would certainly be a noble death. But enough of this. While we share this quiet moment, let me ask your forgiveness, for the discomfort I have caused you. I refer, of course, to my anger and bitterness over the loss of your memory."
"Think no more of it, sir. There's no offence taken. This is…it has been difficult for all of us."
"I thank you for your understanding. But it still does not excuse my conduct. I…you are one who I can never forget, and I was bitter and angry over your lack of remembrance. I acted as a little child. My conduct was shameful."
"But understandable," Elizabet said quietly. "I am so upset with myself for not having memories of many things. In your place, I may have acted the same. We…I remember some now. I recall that you had a stallion then, not a mare like now."
"That's right, when I came to your village – not this same village as now, but the one from your past. The stallion, in a village who knew only farmers and boatmen, was a thing of wonder."
"I recall the boys following you all about the village, though always at a shy distance. Some days you'd move with urgency, talking with Elders or calling a crowd to gather in the square. Other days you'd wander at leisure, talking as if to pass the day."
There was a smile in Darcy's eyes. "But you never spoke to me, always keeping your distance…you thought me proud."
"Until I needed your help to fetching the bucket I lost," Elizabeth said, smiling shyly. She realised that as she spoke, the smaller details of her past came to her naturally.
"I am grateful for that lost bucket."
Elizabeth was about to respond, to speak more of their shared past, when a sound, as a distant human screech, disturbed them.
Darcy looked about, immediately suspicious. He spoke quietly. "I wish to discover what that may be about. Let us walk as we've no clear purpose to see what is about, in case a monk is left on purpose to spy on us."
Indeed, they found a solitary monk sweeping the courtyard and as they came closer, Elizabeth noticed he was mouthing words silently to himself, lost in his world. He barely glanced their way as Darcy led them across the courtyard and into a gap between two buildings. They emerged where thin grass covered uneven sloping ground, and a row of withered trees, hardly taller than a man, marked a path leading away from the monastery.
They came upon three wooden shacks standing at the side of the lane, in such disrepair that each appeared to be held up by its neighbour. The wet ground was rutted with wheeltracks, and Darcy paused to point these out.
Elizabeth wondered why anyone would visit such downtrodden sheds, especially with a barrow.
Darcy stepped inside the first shed; Elizabeth left to explore the furthest of the three shacks. There was no door, and much of the roof was open to the sky. As she came in, several birds flew off in furious commotion, and Elizabeth saw, in the gloomy space vacated, a crudely made cart - perhaps the work of the monks themselves - its two wheels sunk into the mud.
What arrested the attention was a large cage mounted on its carriage, and coming closer, Elizabeth noticed that though the cage was itself iron, a thick wooden pillar ran down its spine, fixing it firmly to the boards underneath. This same post was festooned with chains and manacles, and at head height, what appeared to be a blackened iron mask, though with no holes for the eyes, and only a small one for the mouth.
The cart, and the area all around it, was covered with feathers and droppings. Elizabeth pulled open the cage door and proceeded to move it back and forth on its squeaking hinge.
Elizabeth heard Darcy enter behind her. "It's curious," she said, "these monks should have need of such an object as this. Do you suppose that it is to aid some pious ritual?"
Darcy started to move around the cart, stepping carefully to avoid the stagnant puddles. "I saw something like this once before," he said. "You may suppose this device intended to expose the man within it to the cruelty of the elements. Yet look, see how these bars stand far enough apart to allow my shoulder to pass through. And here, look, how these feathers stick to the iron in hardened blood. A man fastened here is offered thus to the mountain birds. Caught in these cuffs, he has no way to fight off the hungry beaks. This iron mask, though it may look frightful, is in fact a thing of mercy, for with it the eyes at least aren't feasted on."
Elizabeth stepped back in horror, gasping.
"Earlier, I found a spot nearby on the cliff's edge," Darcy said, eventually. "The ground was well rutted there, showing where this wagon has often stayed. In other words, the signs all support my guess, and I can see too this cart's been wheeled out just lately."
"This object sends a chill through me and I fear for Lydia, out there alone with naught but the protection of your horse. I also become more and more worried for the lack of my father's presence. Is Lydia going to be safe, left here alone?"
Darcy looked grim, but made no answer. As they came out of the shack, Darcy stopped abruptly. Looking past him into the evening gloom, Elizabeth could see a robed figure in the tall grass a short distance from them.
"I'd say it's the monk lately sweeping the yard," Darcy said to her.
"Does he see us?"
"I'd say he sees us and knows we see him. Yet he stands there still as a tree. Well, let's go to him."
The monk was standing at a spot to the side of their path, the grass up to his knee. As they approached the man remained quite still, though the wind pulled at his robe and long white hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his protruding eyes stared at them without expression.
"You observe us, sir," Darcy said, stopping, "and you know what we've just discovered. So perhaps you'd tell us the purpose to which you monks put that device."
Saying nothing, the monk pointed towards the monastery.
"It may be he's vowed to silence," Elizabeth said. "Or else as mute as you lately pretended."
The monk came out of the grass and onto the path. His strange eyes fixed each of them in turn, then he pointed again towards the monastery and set off. They followed him, just a short distance behind, the monk continually glancing back at them over his shoulder.
The monastery buildings were now dark shapes against the setting sky. As they drew closer, the monk paused, moved his forefinger over his lips, then continued at a more cautious pace. He seemed anxious they remain unseen, and to avoid the central courtyard. He took them down narrow passageways behind buildings where the earth was pitted or sloped severely. Once, as they went with heads bowed along a wall, there came from the very windows above sounds from the monks' conference. One voice was shouting over a hubbub, then a second voice - perhaps that of the abbot - called for order. But there was no time to loiter, and soon they were gathered at an archway through which could be seen the main courtyard. The monk now indicated with urgent signs that they were to proceed as quickly and quietly as possible.
As it was they were not obliged to cross the courtyard, where torches were now burning, but only to skirt one corner under the shadows of a colonnade. When the monk halted again, Elizabeth whispered to "Good sir, since your intention must be to take us somewhere, I'd ask you to let me go fetch my sister, for I'm uneasy leaving her alone."
The monk, who had turned immediately to fix Elizabeth in a stare, shook his head and pointed into the semi-dark. Only then did she spot Lydia standing in a doorway further down the cloister. Relieved, she gave a wave, and there came from behind them a surge of angry voices from the monks' meeting.
"Lizzy! I was so scared, when this silent monk appeared before me, like a phantom. I was defiant, but then became scared after everything so agreed to come with him."
"It's fine now, Lydia. He's keen to lead us somewhere and we'd best follow."
The monk repeated his gesture for silence, then beckoning, pushed past Lydia across the threshold where she had been waiting.
The corridors now became as tunnel-like, and the lamps flickering in the little alcoves hardly dispelled the darkness. Elizabeth felt Darcy hold her arm with one hand, keeping his other held out before him.
For a moment they were back in the open air, crossing a muddy yard between ploughed allotments, then into another low stone building. Here the corridor was wider and lit by larger flames, and the monk seemed finally to relax. Recovering his breath, he looked them over once more, then signalling for them to wait, vanished under an arch. After a little time, the monk appeared again and ushered them forward. As he did so, a frail voice from within said "Come in, guests. A poor chamber this to receive you, but you're welcome."
The three of them, together with the silent monk, squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and she felt Lydia recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, Darcy and Lydia in the corner furthest away.
There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position. Their host was white-haired and advanced in years. His frame was large, and until recently must have been vigorous, but now the simple act of sitting up appeared to cause multiple agonies. A coarse blanket fell from around him as he raised himself, revealing a nightshirt patched with bloodstains. But what had caused Lydia to shrink back was the man's neck and face, starkly illuminated by the bedside candle. A swollen mound under one side of the chin, a deep purple fading to a yellow, obliged the head to be held at a slight angle. The peak of the mound was split and caked with pus and old blood. On the face itself, a gouge ran from just below the cheek bone down to the jaw, exposing a section of the man's inner mouth and gum. It must have cost him greatly to smile, but once he was settled in his new position, the monk did just this.
"Welcome, welcome. I'm Jonus, whom I know you waited a long way to see. My dear guests, don't look at me with such pity. These wounds are no longer new, and hardly bring the pain they once did."
"We see now, Father Jonus," Elizabeth said, "why your good abbot's so reluctant to have strangers impose on you. We'd have waited for his permission, but this kind monk led us to you."
"Ninian here is my most trusted friend, and even if he's vowed to silence, we understand one another perfectly. He's watched each of you since your arrival and brought me frequent reports. I thought it time we met, even if the abbot knows nothing of it."
"But what can have caused you such injuries, father?" Elizabeth asked. "And you a man famed for kindness and wisdom."
"Let's leave the topic, Miss, for my feeble strength won't allow us to speak for long. I know two of you here, yourself and your sister, seek my advice. Let me see your sister first, who I understand carries a wound. Come closer into the light, dear girl."
The monk's voice, though soft, possessed a natural command, and Lydia started to move towards him. But immediately Darcy reached forward and gripped Lydia by the arm. Perhaps it was an effect of the candle flame, or the warrior's trembling shadow cast on the wall behind him, but it seemed to Elizabeth that for an instant Darcy's eyes were fixed on the injured monk with peculiar intensity, even hatred.
The warrior drew Lydia back to the wall, then took a step forward himself as though to shield her.
"What's wrong, shepherd?" asked Father Jonus. "Do you fear poison from my wounds will travel to her? Then my hand needn't touch her. Let her step closer and my eyes alone will test her injury."
"The girl's wound is clean," Darcy said. "It's just Miss Elizabeth who seeks your help by way of advice."
Darcy continued to stare at the monk. Father Jonus, in turn, regarded the warrior as though he were a thing of great fascination. After a while, Father Jonus said "You stand with remarkable boldness for a humble shepherd."
"It must be the habit of my trade. A shepherd must stand long hours watchful of wolves gathering in the night."
"No doubt that's so. I imagine too how a shepherd must judge quickly, hearing a sound in the dark, if it heralds danger or the approach of a friend. Much must rest on the ability to make such decisions quickly and well."
"Only a foolish shepherd hears a snapping twig or spots a shape in the dark and assumes a companion come to relieve him. We're a cautious breed, and what's more, sir, I've just now seen with my own eyes the device in your shed."
"Ah. I thought you'd come upon it sooner or later. What do you make of your discovery, shepherd?"
"It angers me."
"Angers you?" Father Jonus rasped this with some force, as though himself suddenly angered. "Why does it anger you?"
"Tell me if I'm wrong, sir. My surmise is that the custom here has been for the monks to take turns in that cage exposing their bodies to the wild birds, hoping this way to atone for crimes once committed in this country and long unpunished. Even these ugly wounds I see here before me have been gained in this way, and for all I know a sense of piety eases your suffering. Yet let me say I feel no pity to see your gashes. How can you describe as penance, sir, the drawing of a veil over the foulest deeds? Is your Christian god one to be bribed so easily with self-inflicted pain and a few prayers? Does he care so little for justice left undone?"
"Our god is a god of mercy, shepherd, whom you, a pagan, may find hard to comprehend. It's no foolishness to seek forgiveness from such a god, however great the crime. Our god's mercy is boundless."
"What use is a god with boundless mercy, sir? You mock me as a pagan, yet the gods of my ancestors pronounce clearly their ways and punish severely when we break their laws. Your Christian god of mercy gives men licence to pursue their greed, their lust for land and blood, knowing a few prayers and a little penance will bring forgiveness and blessing."
"It's true, shepherd, that here in this monastery, there are those who still believe such things. But let me assure you, Ninian and I have long let go such delusions, and neither are we alone. We know our god's mercy is not to be abused, yet many of my brother monks, the abbot included, will not yet accept this. They still believe that cage, and our constant prayers, will be enough. Yet these dark crows and ravens are a sign of God's anger. They never came before. Even last winter, though the wind made the strongest of us weep, the birds were but mischievous children, their beaks bringing only small sufferings. A shake of the chains or a shout was enough to keep them at bay. But now a new breed comes to find us, larger, bolder and with fury in their eyes. They tear at us in calm anger, no matter how we struggle or cry out. We've lost three dear friends these past months, and many more of us carry deep wounds. These surely are signs."
Darcy's manner had been softening, but he had kept himself firmly in front of Lydia. "Are you saying," he asked, "I have friends here in this monastery?"
"In this room, shepherd, yes. Elsewhere, we remain divided and even now they argue in great passion about how we are to continue. The abbot will insist we carry on as always. Others of our view will say it's time to stop. That no forgiveness awaits us at the end of this path. That we must uncover what's been hidden and face the past. But those voices, I fear, remain few and will not carry the day. Shepherd, will you trust me now to see this girl's wound?"
For a moment Darcy remained still. Elizabeth put her hand on his shoulder. She had come to trust Father Jonus, and believe that his words held some truth. After a pause, Darcy moved aside, signalling to Lydia to step forward. Immediately the silent monk helped Father Jonus to a more upright position - both monks had become suddenly quite animated - then grasping the candleholder from the bedside, tugged Lydia closer.
For what seemed a long time, both monks went on looking at Lydia's wound - Ninian moving the light one way then the other - as though it were a pool within which a miniature world was contained. Eventually the monks exchanged what seemed to Elizabeth looks of triumph, but the very next moment Father Jonus fell shaking back onto his pillows, with an expression closer to resignation or else sadness. As Ninian hastily put down the candle to attend to him, Lydia slipped back into the shadows.
"Father Jonus," Elizabeth said, "now you've seen the wound, tell us if it's clean and will heal on its own."
Father Jonus's eyes were closed, and he was still breathing heavily, but he said quite calmly "Father Ninian will prepare an ointment. Your shepherd here knows what needs to be done for the wound."
"Father," Elizabeth said, pressing ahead. "Your present conversation with this shepherd isn't entirely within my understanding. Yet it interests me greatly."
"Is that so, Miss?" Father Jonus, still recovering his breath, opened his eyes and looked at her.
"When I left my village, I asked two Elders, one being my uncle, about this fog, the same that makes us forget the last hour as readily as a morning many years past. They said if there was one wise enough to know, it would be you, Father Jonus, up here in this monastery. It was my hope you'd tell us something of this mist and how my village might be free of it. It may be I'm a foolish woman, but it seemed to me just now, for all the talk of shepherds, you and Darcy were speaking of this same fog, and much bothered by what's been lost of our past. So let me ask this of you, and Darcy too. Do the both of you know for certain what causes this fog to fall over us?"
Father Jonus and Darcy exchanged looks. Then Darcy said quietly "It's the dragon Querig, Princess, that roams these peaks. She's the cause of the mist you speak of. Yet these monks here protect Querig, and have done so for years. I'd wager even now, if they're wise to my identity, they'll have sent for men to destroy me."
"Father Jonus, is the fog the work of this she-dragon?" Elizabeth asked.
The monk, who for an instant had seemed far away, turned to her. "The shepherd tells the truth, Miss. It's Querig's breath which fills this land and robs you of memories."
Elizabeth blinked rapidly, trying to piece together her thoughts at this confirmation. "The she-dragon's the cause of the fog…so then…if some one can slay the creature, our memories will be restored to us?"
Nobody answered her question.
Father Jonus said to Darcy, "Shepherd, if you know your danger, why do you dally here? Why not take this girl and be on your way?"
"The girl needs rest, as do I."
"But you don't rest, shepherd. You cut firewood and wander like a hungry wolf."
"When we arrived your log pile was low. And the nights are cold in these mountains."
"You've come to this country on an errand, shepherd. Why jeopardise yourself? I say to you, take this girl and be on your way, even before the monks come out of their meeting."
Elizbeth's blood chilled, as she understood the meaning behind Father Jonus' words.
"Father, I have nowhere to take this girl, or even Miss Elizabeth. My path forward is paved with danger and uncertainty; I cannot protect either of them much further than this. Besides, if Lord Brennus does me the courtesy to come here after me this night, I'm obliged then to stand and face him."
Elizabeth recalled the conversation between her father and Darcy, moments before Steffa Ivor passed, as well as their dialogue soon thereafter. She wanted to speak to Darcy, to be free of danger, to explore their past and perhaps work together for a joint future.
That was what she wanted.
But, Elizabeth realised that there was something more important, something more important than her wants.
"Darcy," she said, "if it's your mission to slay the great dragon Querig, I beg you, don't be distracted from it. Lydia nor I are your responsibilities. You should not let us hold you back from your mission."
"The Miss is right, shepherd," Father Jonus said. "I fear I know too the purpose of all this woodcutting. Listen to what we say, sir. This girl with her wound gives you a unique chance the like of which may not come your way again. Take her and be on your way. We will arrange for Miss Elizabeth to be taken back to her village safely."
Darcy looked thoughtfully at Father Jonus, then bowed his head politely. "I'm happy to have met you, father. And I apologise if earlier I addressed you discourteously. But now let me take my leave of you. If Miss Elizabeth still wishes for advice, and she's a brave and good woman, I beg you preserve some strength to attend to her. I will wait outside. Now I'll thank you for your counsel, and bid you farewell."
Darcy departed Father Jonus's chamber. The silent monk, Ninian, left as well, probably to provide the ointment. Lydia, looking between Elizabeth and the departing Darcy, chose to follow him.
Father Jonus looked up at Elizabeth. "Miss, you seem happy to know the truth about this thing you call the fog."
"Happy indeed, father, for now there's a way forward for us."
"Take care, for it's a secret guarded jealously by some, though it's maybe for the best it remains so no longer."
"It's not for me to care if it's a secret or not, father, but I'm glad to know it, and gladder still that it can be acted on."
"Yet are you so certain, good Miss, you wish to be free of this fog? Your shepherd calls it a mist. Is it not better some things remain hidden from our minds?"
"It may be so for some, father, but not for me. I wish to have again the happy moments that – the happy moments from my past. The love that I shared, the pain of loss. The tears of joy and sorrow. To be robbed of them is as if a thief came in the night and took what's most precious from me."
"Yet the fog covers all memories, the bad as well as the good. Isn't that so, Miss?"
"I'll have the bad ones come back too, even if they make us weep or shake with anger. For isn't it the life we've led?"
"You've no fear, then, of bad memories?"
"What's to fear, father? What I feel today in my heart tells me that truth, no matter how painful, is a better medicine than to stay lost and hidden all my life. Joy can be found in the journey of life, no matter what sorrows and hardships we pass through. How am I to appreciate the good things, when I have nothing else in my memories to compare that to? How do I recognise happiness without unhappiness, or recognise sadness having never remembered joy? I cannot continue to live like this, in a perennial fogged existence."
Father Jonus nodded slowl, closing his eyes. After a few moments of silence, Elizabeth realised that the father was in no shape for further conversation. She poured him a glass of water, and exited the room.
After she left Father Jonus, she found Darcy, Lydia, and Father Ninian waiting outside in silence. They were then returned to their chamber on the upper storey where much earlier, she and Lydia had enjoyed lunch.
The monks had taken some time to disperse after emerging from their meeting. Father Brian returned to give them some dinner, which was gratefully accepted. Quietly, while eating, Darcy asked that she think about what she wanted to do. He pointed out that Elizabeth knew the dangers of the monastery, particularly of leaving Lydia there, but returning with Lydia to the village was equally not an option. He warned also that there was little place else to wander further forward that they could be certain was trustworthy and would not bring harm to Lydia.
Darcy stayed with them, sitting over by the window, dozing, waiting for the last monk to leave the courtyard below, and then went out into the night.
Lydia immediately fell asleep, but Elizabeth struggled. Several times she came close to sleep only to be brought to the surface again by voices below. Sometimes they were four or five, always lowered, often filled with anger or fear.
Elizabeth could not shake the feeling there were monks below their window, not just a few, but dozens of robed figures, standing silently under the moonlight.
On top of that, the sounds of Darcy's blows resounded across the grounds. The woodcutting noises paused briefly, then started up again. It occurred to Elizabeth that the warrior might remain outside the entire night. Darcy appeared calm and thoughtful, even in combat, yet it was possible the tensions of the last two days had mounted on his nerves.
Even so, his behaviour worried Elizabeth. Father Jonus had specifically warned against further woodcutting, yet here he was, back at it again and with night well fallen. Darcy, as far as Elizabeth knew, had not slept at all. And now here he was cutting more firewood. It was with these thoughts that Elizabeth eventually fell asleep.
Elizabeth didn't know how long she had slept, but awoke to a hand shaking her.
By the time she sat up, the figure was already on the other side of the room, bending over Lydia and whispering, "Quickly, quickly! And not a sound!"
Lydia started to stir, and Elizabeth rose unsteadily to her feet, the cold air startling her. She reached down to grasp Lydia's outstretched hands.
It was still the depths of night, but voices were calling outside and surely torches had been lit in the courtyard below, for there were now illuminated patches on the wall facing the window.
Elizabeth tried to shake off her sleepiness, as she felt Lydia's hand slip away. She followed the space where Lydia had been, to hear shuffling. Soon, Wickham's face emerged from the dark.
"Shhhh, not a sound, and hurry!"