On the night of the full moon on the banks of the Rhine, mercenary troops dismounted from their horses and surrounded a small chapel. When all was secure, they opened the door. Inside were six men and six women, all naked, in the middle of a very unorthodox form of worship. Roped together, feeling little because of the copious quantities of alcohol they had consumed, they were led, still naked, to the town gaol, where they were woken every hour until Matins.
There would be no leniency. Heresy had already been found in Cologne, where the inquisitor had been censured for releasing some of the perpetrators, who vanished long before confessions started to implicate them. It was worrying that such vileness remained abroad to infect this beautiful area. After Matins, the prisoners were taken to the great hall, where the inquisition sat in judgement. Tired, hungry and dishevelled, they nonetheless declined to confess heresy, until the youngest, a pert young woman no more than sixteen years of age, was put to the trial.
After her fingernails had been removed, they started on her teeth. She confessed to everything they asked. The aim of the meeting had been to defame the name of Christ by committing sin in a dreadful parody of His Holy Writ. Adultery was a necessary part of this defamation - only by such work could a soul be joined in union with the devil.
Others quickly added further details. Yes, they had indeed supped the blood of a stillborn babe from a chalice. No, not stillborn - the child had been conceived in an earlier service deliberately for the sacrifice. There was a great contest to confess, for the more they confessed, the shorter would be their days in purgatory. Consistency of testimony was not a requirement of the inquisitors. The eleven who confessed were granted the mercy of death by the sword.
The twelfth was a man of about forty. To the end he denied the charges, all save that of intercourse in the chapel, which had been witnessed. They were gay on wine, and the chapel was far enough away from town not to attract attention. There had been no chalice, no blood, and no babe. He maintained his story until the flames reached him and he started to scream incoherently.
The Flemish captain of mercenaries watched impassive.
There had indeed been a tip-off, but to the inquisition and from a jealous husband. Even then, no action would have been taken had the entire group been poor. Two, however, were rich and the possessions of confessed heretics were forfeit. No need to tell the town that the chapel had been under observation since before the first person had entered.
A thorough search had failed to find the chalice and the conclusion of the town was that the heretics had received a warning and spirited the precious item to safety. His men didn't care a fig for the truth of the event. They did, however, care that they would be paid to go wherever they liked in pursuit of the chalice and the heretic carrying it. An expenses-paid trip home to the Flemish coast seemed in order. Soon, the weather would close in. It might well be impossible to return until spring.
Three evenings later, Ross and the two women met at the abbey once again for a friendly glass of wine. By Hilda's side were three leather packets impressed with the abbey seal of four lilies in a diamond. Two she handed to Moina - "you know what these are" - and one to Duncan Ross - "it will be demanded of you". This time, he noticed the stiffness and the second wine flask. He recalled the dance and the taste of the kiss. A great deal fell into place. At the end, they exchanged pleasantries.
"The Lady give you safe passage, and a warm welcome." Hilda ventured.
"And so may it be for us all." replied Ross. He arranged to meet Moina at the gate after evensong, with their travel bags.
They walked through the quiet streets to the dock. Eventually, Moina spoke.
"I swore not to tell you until after we sail, but you may have need. Abbess Hilda..." Ross cut across her.
"...is dying. No need to break your oath. Wine laced with poppy; though it took me long enough to notice."
"Stones of the gut and an excess of black bile. She would not have it affect your judgement of the situation. I have a small flask of wine from Aix, to be used, she said, for a final toast. 'Would we take all and give nothing?' she said, and said you would understand."
"That's one of the things I love about her. Her own woman to the end and, thankfully, the opportunity to be so. We are, of course, cut form the same cloth - she would not burden me and I could not let her know I had guessed. But, at the end, we said our farewells, and I left a letter for her, should she have need of it when her time comes. I think, though, that she will know she made her final peace with me many years ago.
The mercenaries rode west and camped at a farm on the outskirts of Ulm, paying well over the going rate for the privilege. The tactic was deliberate - publicity was cheap. Hennen, the captain, sought out the chief inquisitor, whilst his men made enquiries at every household.
There was no word of a chalice. The men rode on, towards home.
After they had gone, an argument sprang up between a visiting merchant from the Rhineland and a local prostitute he had failed to pay. He and his party were accused and taken by the inquisition. Their souls were saved by their confessions. Their battered bodies were garrotted, then, still living, thrown into the flames.
The sea journey was uneventful, but extremely unpleasant. Ross turned green almost before the ship untied. Struggling to make it to the rail, he vomited a mixture of oatmeal, vegetables and fine red wine until there was nothing left in his stomach. Moina helped him below, then, and gently stripped and bathed him, laying him on the bed where he dozed fitfully. He woke later to see her naked and unconcerned, washing herself. She persuaded him to take a little water, but it came back up immediately.
Later, he was told that Moina had eaten her meals on deck with the men, rather than disturb his stomach further. Later, he learned that he was a guardian provided by her father's executors. Her father had died with little money and, too old to marry without funds, she was coming to Brugge to join other women of similar circumstance in the hermitage there. He was, she had told the men contemptuously, the best that anyone could be bothered to provide.
The steersman had suggested an alternative arrangement. In public, she had gently rebuffed him with a laugh. That night, for some reason, he tripped and fell hard against the steering oar, breaking his arm badly. Moina set it for him. The pain was excruciating, but at the end he thanked her for her efforts.
Ross' own abiding memory of the trip was that Moina was there whenever he woke, to gentle and hold him. He felt better once the oarsmen had taken the ship in tow, down the canal to the port. He was ravenous by the time Moina helped him down the gang-plank, her strength making it look as if he were leading her.
Moina already knew where they were going, but finding the hermitage would have been easy in any case. Brugge was proud of it. Women who had played an active part in commerce and other functions of the town retired there for a life of contemplation. They supported themselves by weaving fine cloth - or so it appeared.
"If we never sold another yard of cloth," the abbess laughed. "we would still be rich. But it helps us to remain part of the town, and makes us special to them. Everyone here was once a wife, a mother, a lover. Now we give comfort to the town in other ways. There's no shortage of brightly dyed wool and flax. The women like bright facings to their dresses and the weaving helps us to remain part of the town."
"You have something that will speak for you?" the abbess' tone made it clear that in some fashion, Moina was already spoken for.
"I believe so." Ross handed over the leather pouch, its contents unknown to him. She broke it open and removed the oiled linen, within which was a single sheet in the familiar, neat hand of Hilda's assistant. The abbess took in the contents and her eyebrows rose as she did so.
"The maker of the cup at Aix, indeed. Your reputation precedes you. Yet I am to use you as I will. I assume that you were aware of that?"
"I agreed to what would be, before I knew the task. There is little difference."
"Then, you must find a room at the port. Quite public, if you take my meaning. For some reason, the inquisition seeks a chalice. The seekers have left Ulm for Antwerpen..."
"...and a merchant in bright livery, a stranger in town, may prove a useful distraction." Ross completed for her. "Only the crew of the Carite know that I arrived accompanied by my young charge, and they will be gone tomorrow. I will leave after dark. Asking for lodgings unanounced at night should draw attention rather nicely."
The hermitage buildings were relatively new - a small church of simple construction in a walled enclosure and surrounded by tiny two-roomed buildings - little more than huts, and a communal refectory. It was to the latter they headed after paying their respects to the abbess. A serving-woman fetched bread and thin ale. Ross ate so greedily that he began to feel ill once again. Moina sat with him until the nausea passed and made him eat the remainder more slowly.
Afterwards, warm and fed for the first time for days, he drowsed. She left him for a while, until it was fully dark.
"Time to go," she said, gently, holding out a dark woolen cloak, which she helped him to fasten over the bright jerkin and hose. "But," she added "someone in a plain cloak, hooded, would attract no attention at all coming to our gate. No need to deny ourselves companionship and worship. Full moon it may be, but we will hold a special service tomorrow after dark."
Ross slipped out of the gate in the direction of the port once again. After a few hundred yards, he dcked into the shadows, folding the cloak and putting it in his pack. This he shouldered once again, and it was a merchant in a fine red and green jerkin who appeared on the quayside looking for lodgings. Even at that time of night, someone who was prepared to pay well above the going rate - and to pay for three nights in advance - had little trouble finding a comfortable room. His exhaustion was unfeigned and he slept soundly, then spent the next day making well-publicsed enquiries about glass and silver.
That night, the merchant ate early and went up to his room. He would, he said, break his fast late. Minutes later, a stooped and cowled figure with a walking staff presented himself at the door of the hermitage and was given space in the abbess' cell. The service, in the newly whitewashed chapel, was quite beautiful and, as the now-familiar sense of awe arose within him, Ross finally realised why Moina's presence here must be protected at all costs.
The old abbess lay back in her bed, a candle clasped comfortably in her hands. As was the custom, she was making her peace with those she had wronged, though they were few enough, and arranging for the disbursement of her possessions, though they, too, were few. At the finish, the candlelight grew brighter and the ring of people round the bed parted.
From the shadows, familiar faces moved into the light. Madeleine, blonde ringlets sparkling in the light, hand in hand with Sir Patrick. They smiled and after all the years, Hilda knew that all was well. Then they kissed her, one on each cheek, placed a strong arm under each shoulder to help her rise, and walked with her from the circle of candlelight.
In a hut at the hermitage, Duncan Ross came instantly awake in the middle of the night. Confused, the last thing he recalled was Hilda thanking him for his thoughtful letter. Then he realised where he was, and was unsurprised when he recognised the shape of Moina standing over his mattress, holding a small flask of wine.
From Antwerpen, the mercenaries finally rode to Brugge. Anxious to show their diligence, they made enquiries about any newcomers who might be bearing the chalice. Their plans for a speedy return to Antwerpen and protracted stay with good wine and food and a port full of willing whores were dashed when they learned of the merchant staying down on the quay.
Word had reached the hermitage an hour before Prime, and long before the the troop arrived. Plans were made and the cowled figure slipped out in the direction of the port. If he returned, there would be time to mourn Hilda properly. If not, others would, he hoped, mourn. Or perhaps not. What would be, would be.
The wealthy merchant changed his plans, set out early and paid a brief visit to the hermitage to collect a horse that was tethered behind the chapel. Then he rode out of the gate, south for Namur. The watch-keeper especially remembered the big black horse with a distinctive white blaze.
The hermitage was immediately suspect, of course. Hennen and his men wanted to bring the abbess for interrogation. The inquisitor, however, knew when he was beaten. The abbess was a Van der Voort, and no amount of forfeit silver would make it worthwhile offending the family who paid for the town watch. Besides, virtually every woman in town had intricately woven facings to their finest gowns. The hermitage was popular. The mercenaries stayed for the office of None with the nuns and then hastily rode south to find the merchant.
The Flemming troop rode fast to Namur, but the single rider had a half-day's start. When Hennen's band arrived in mid-afternoon, they easily discovered that a man on a dark horse with a white blaze had taken a room near the basilica. He had left early in the morning, heading into France. Disgruntled to be heading away from home, the band rode south with a will. They were fit and trained: the merchant must tire soon.
They lost the trail somewhere south of Dinant, and back-tracked wearily, but there was no sign. They found a young man who had bought a large horse at the fair in Dinant, but it was all black, without the distinctive blaze. Of the merchant, there was no sign. Confident that they had not missed him on the track by the river, they reasoned that in desperation he had cut east or west across the hills. Even the inquisition did not pay enough to make that journey worthwhile this late in the year, so they agreed between them that when cornered the man had put up a fight and had unfortunately been killed. Hennen sent one of the men into Dinant to purchase a glass cup, which they broke into two to add flavour to the tale.
The inquisitor in Antwerpen had the cup sent east, with word that the gallant band would return in the spring. The good folk of Antwerpen welcomed the men with, sometimes literally, open arms. And the good folk of Brugge breathed a sigh of relief. A shame that the merchant had died unconfessed, but in many ways better than the alternative.
Just before Vespers, a stooped figure in a plain cloak slipped in through the gate of the hermitage. Homesick, he had briefly considered returning to Scotland, but there was nothing there for him, now. Under the cloak he carried a flask of sweet wine from Dinant, a present, he said, for the abbess. Not quite as good as that from Aix, in his opinion, but the best he could acquire. He hoped to be able to stay for a few days.
At Vespers, the chapel windows gave scant light that was augmented by candles. The familiar Latin chant drew him in and he focused on the statue of the Lady, prayed, finally, for the soul of Hilda, and thought of home.
When he emerged from his reverie the chapel was empty except for Moina and the abbess. The bowl was on the altar and he could taste the sweetness of the wine, although he did not remember drinking from it. Then a sense of well-being washed over him and he realised that he was home, amongst these people, and always would be.
