The Fifth Knight(78)

The post rider handed over her bag with a respectful bow. “Good day to you, mistress.” He led the horses away.

Amélie drew breath to ask him for further directions but contained herself. Brother Edward had said he would find her. She would not seek the judgment of a man with the post over a holy, ordained one. Clasping her bag close to her, she walked back out onto the main street, where she joined a steady stream of people. They all seemed to be going in the same direction. Why, they must all be heading to the church, of course. Even at such an early hour, on such a cold morn. She relaxed. What a godly place indeed it was. Brother Edward would surely be among them.

But the chattering strangers walked past the high doors of Saint Michael’s as they drew level. She saw for herself the doors were still closed. Mystified, she stayed with the flow of people and turned to the right again, which brought her to the other side of the church, showing her the reason for the crowds.

A fish market, set out beneath the shadow of the looming church. That was where the folk of the port of Southampton hurried to, hurried to in their droves. The sights and sounds of its business at dawn’s break assailed her senses. Men’s coarse shouts as they unloaded the cram of carts. Raucous cries from hardened women as they squabbled over the price of slick silver fish. Charcoal fires that hissed with steam from boiling pots. A group of mangy dogs that snarled over a discarded rotten fish.

Yet she had no choice but to thread through the dreadful throng, to try and catch sight of Brother Edward, or he of her.

While the din was bad enough, the chaos and disorder were worse. She stepped through suspicious-looking puddles, slick and brown with clumps that squelched under her feet. A gap-toothed man, dressed in foul rags and reeking of ale, staggered into her and bumped her hard.

“Sorry, dolly.” He leered openly at her.

Amélie shuddered inside, drew her cloak tighter round her, and hurried on. She detested these lay clothes. Without her wimple and veil, her head felt chilly beneath the simple linen wrap. The cloak was a nuisance, slipping this way and that. Worst of all, she felt exposed, nay, almost naked, without her sacred black habit.

She craned her neck and looked to see if she could catch sight of Brother Edward. Nothing, only hordes of strangers. She took a deep breath but stopped it, revolted by the smells of fish and frying bacon that overwhelmed the fresh dawn air.

Amélie set her mouth to avoid its turndown in disappointment. She would have to remain here until the church opened its doors. That would give her a refuge in which to wait. The thought that Edward might not come, that she might be amongst these hardened folk as night fell again, panicked her to the core.

“Mistress.”

A powerful hand landed on her shoulder.

She turned with a suppressed cry.

A tall man stood before her, shrouded in a dark brown cowl and cloak.

As she parted her lips to challenge his rudeness, he brought both hands to his hood and lowered it to his shoulders.

She could have wept with relief. “Brother Edward. Oh, thank the Lord.”

“Sister Amélie.” His green eyes shone with his success at finding her. “God be praised for your safe arrival.”

“The years have hardly changed you, Brother,” she said, permitting herself a smile of chaste welcome.

“If only that were the case, Sister. I don’t move as fast as I did. And it’s well I have my tonsure, as I’m sure I’m half bald.”

She eyed his thick black hair with its few silver threads. “Oh, do not belittle yourself so, not with such a fine head of hair for a man.”

“Let me take your bag.” Edward gave the nearby crowds a quick perusal. “We are completely anonymous here, which gladdens my soul. I have arranged a couple of rooms. Saint Michael’s has a fine maison-dieu where we can await our sailing to France. It’s this way.” As they made their way out of the market, he paused by a woman selling a hot milky drink. “Two, please.” He handed over a small coin for two steaming cupfuls.

Amélie held up a finger to him as he proffered one. “It does not have alcohol?”

He shook his head. “Honey only. I wouldn’t insult you with such baseness, Sister. I remember your virtues well.”

“Bless you, Brother.” She took the steaming cup and sipped with relish at its wholesomeness.

“I hope it revives you a little,” he said.

“Indeed it does,” she said. “The journey with the monastery post horses was swift, for which I was grateful. But I feel my bones are rattled to pieces, as well as my dignity.” The delicious warmth spread through her limbs. “Are you still planning for us to sail the night after next?”