Scrivener’s Tale

‘Since you began treating her, do you mean?’

Reynard sipped his coffee slowly and didn’t give any indication of offence. ‘She’s not prepared to communicate with doctors anymore. I don’t think it’s directed specifically at me.’

Gabe flicked a glance at Angelina and the surreptitious look she gave him over the rim of her cup contradicted Reynard’s claim.

‘Angelina is frightened and capable of harming herself,’ Reynard continued, unaware of the silent message. ‘But if, Gabriel, you can be persuaded, I think you might be the right person to guide her through this.’

‘This what?’ Gabe asked.

Reynard looked at him quizzically, his silvery eyebrows knitted together. ‘This period in her life, of course. You’re my last hope. If I can I’d like to find her family, get her reconnected and hopefully out of enforced care — which is all that she can look forward to unless we can fix this.’

Gabe put his cup down deliberately softly to hide his exasperation. ‘When you say “last hope”, Reynard, what exactly do you mean?’

Reynard sat forward. ‘I’ve saved her from mental health hospitals. I’ve taken her on as a special case with a promise that I will find the right doctor for her. Soon she’ll be returned to the care of institutions and become a ward of the state … and you know what that means. She’ll be lost to the corridors of madness. They’ll drug her, labelling her schizophrenic or bipolar, and they’ll move on to the next youngster. She’ll be tied to a bed, kept like a zombie for most of her waking hours, they’ll —’

‘I work in a bookshop,’ Gabe appealed. ‘I’m writing a book,’ he added, his hands open in a helpless gesture, a desperate attempt to avoid this task.

‘Ah, yes, the scrivener,’ Reynard replied. ‘It’s your distance from your previous profession, perhaps, that makes you all the more valuable. You haven’t forgotten how, surely?’

Gabe sighed. ‘No. I haven’t forgotten.’

‘So you’ll see her?’

He recalled standing opposite Angelina’s last night — it was an omen. He remembered the note crumpled in his left fist, which was now plunged into the pocket of his jacket. He shifted his gaze back to her. In her look was a plea.

‘Yes, I’ll see Angelina.’

‘Excellent. Oh marvellous, thank you, Gabriel … I —’

‘There are conditions —’

‘I understand,’ Reynard said, barely hearing him, Gabe was sure.

‘Don’t be too hasty. Hear me out first. I insist on seeing her alone,’ Gabe said, knowing it would not go down well.

Reynard’s face clouded. ‘Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘Why?’ he asked reasonably.

‘I am responsible for Angelina … for every moment that she is out of hospital.’

‘Are you suggesting she’s in danger with me?’ Gabe asked, without a hint of indignation.

‘Not at all. She’s unpredictable, Gabriel.’

They both glanced at Angelina, who had in the last minute or so seemed to tune out of their conversation. She was staring through the window but with unseeing eyes. Her coffee was cooling, untouched; crystals of sugar were scattered around from her opening the sachets carelessly.

‘Unpredictable?’ he queried, returning his attention to Reynard.

‘Dangerous,’ Reynard replied.

Gabriel tried to school his features but he wasn’t quite quick enough to shield Reynard from the slight slump of his shoulders that clearly conveyed his mistrust of this diagnosis.

‘I don’t feel threatened by her,’ he said as evenly as he could. ‘And Reynard, this is not a request, it’s a condition of me doing the assessment for you. You’re the one asking the favour.’ How quickly that firm note came back into one’s voice, he thought, privately impressed. So many times in his working life he’d had to adopt that calm but implacable stance with parents, guardians, teachers, even other doctors.

‘Where?’ Reynard asked sounding reluctant.

‘It will have to be my studio, I suppose. It is neutral for Angelina. It is also spacious and quiet. You can wait downstairs in the lobby or you’re welcome to sit on the landing outside. But I want to speak to her without interference of any kind.’

‘I will wait on the landing as you suggest. When?’

Gabe shrugged, surprised by Reynard’s continuing possessiveness. ‘It’s my day off tomorrow. Let’s say eleven, shall we?’

‘That’s fine.’

Gabe stood. ‘Bring a book. The landing offers no diversion,’ he said, his tone neutral. He looked at the girl. ‘Bye, Angelina.’ She ignored him. Reynard began to apologise. ‘Don’t,’ Gabe said, ‘it’s okay. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ Reynard said.

Gabe left without another word, unaware of how Angelina’s gaze followed long after most people’s vision would have lost him to the blur of street life.

Brother Josse opened the door to the calefactory and felt the change in temperature. It was the only chamber, other than his private room, where a fire was permitted. But he invariably went without setting a fire in his living quarters as he believed in leading by example, and though his bones were weary — when he lay down these nights his muscles seemed to lock themselves without his permission, then the aches and pains would arrive — and his eyesight failing, he would not capitulate and give himself more comfort than the rest of the Brothers.

The warmth enveloped him like a blanket and he sighed with silent pleasure. He regarded the back of his visitor, who was looking out of the window onto the herb gardens. Spare and small-framed, the man turned at the sound of Josse closing the door.

‘I didn’t hear you arrive,’ the stranger said, soft of voice but with a warm and ready smile.

‘That’s the point, I believe,’ Josse replied, equally genially. All in the Brotherhood could move in silence. ‘It has been a very long time.’

‘It has,’ came the reply. ‘You were not much more than a lad last time we met.’

Josse nodded. ‘And you said one day you would need my help, that you would come,’ he said, taking in his guest’s straight bearing beneath the simple grey robe, the neat hair shot through with silver, but the face surprisingly unlined for one so old. How could that be?

‘I have kept my promise,’ the visitor said gently.

Josse knew he was staring, trying to make sense of the man’s presence. He finally gathered his wits. ‘Er, will you break bread with me?’

‘Thank you. My tastes are uncomplicated though, Brother Josse. I eat no meat.’

‘Ah, that’s right. No living creature; I remember you telling me all those years ago.’

The man smiled again, the echo of its brightness sparkling in his eyes. ‘I think the fruits and vegetables forgive me though,’ he said with a shrug.

‘I have followed in the same steps.’

Surprise registered on the man’s face. ‘Truly? I’m impressed.’

Josse laughed. ‘I believe I’ve been in awe of you since childhood.’

‘I don’t know why,’ came the reply and even the tone was modest.

Josse shook his head. ‘Even now you surprise me with your own humility and yet I know that you are —’

‘Please,’ the man said, ‘do not treat me with any deference. I am, as you see, a simple soul with simple needs.’

‘May I offer you a cup of gleam?’

‘Certainly, it would be a treat. I haven’t tasted the spicy wine in many years. It will loosen our tongues for we have important matters to discuss.’

Josse felt a thrill of excitement. He didn’t know why this man had taken such an interest in his life when he’d been brought to the priory at the age of nine. He remembered him not much differently than how he stood here now: the hair was a little less silvered perhaps, but beyond that the eyes were still sharp and bright, pierced by a curious shot of gold around the pupils.

The jug of gleam arrived, and although they seated themselves by the fire, Josse was sure that his guest did so only out of cordiality rather than need. Josse had asked for them not to be disturbed, and so now they sat opposite one another, but not really in a comfortable silence — because Josse felt nervous.

Josse grabbed his opportunity. It was now or never. ‘May I ask, um … forgive me, I don’t know what to call you. I have never known your name.’

The man smiled and it was as though new warmth filled the room. ‘How remiss of me. My name is Fynch.’

‘Brother Fynch,’ Josse repeated the name, as though testing it on his tongue.

‘Just Fynch,’ his guest said mildly.

Josse took a breath. ‘May I ask another question, er, Fynch?’

‘By all means.’

‘You were a friend of our great King Cailech.’

‘I was.’ He paused to smile in private memory. ‘And of his queen, Valentyna,’ Fynch added.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Josse hesitated, but then decided he had to clarify this or he would die wondering. ‘Um, and yet I am in my winter years and you look like spring.’

They both chuckled at the metaphor.

‘Looks can be deceiving, Brother Josse. I can assure you I am much older than you.’

‘But —’ and something in the look Fynch gave him told Josse to leave it. There was no reprimand, no irritation in Fynch’s expression, just a soft glance that seemed almost painful to behold, so Josse looked away and accepted that the mystery would always remain so. ‘Well, you are an inspiration.’

Fynch smiled. ‘I’m sure you would like to know why I’m here after all this time.’

Josse sat forward, placing his half-full cup of gleam on the small knobbly table that sat between them. He noticed Fynch’s gleam was untouched. ‘Yes, I would. I’m intrigued.’

‘I need the aid of the Brotherhood.’

Josse looked surprised. ‘But you know we are here only in the service of the Crown?’

‘I do.’ Fynch eyed him now and the golden glints in his eyes seemed to glow even brighter. ‘Tell me about the man in the forest.’

‘Cassien? Of all our men, why him?’

‘Because you were asked to prepare him.’

Josse looked astonished. ‘But those were secret instructions, from the desk of —’

‘The royal chancellor. Yes, I know and I’m sorry for the stratagem. It would have prompted too many questions had I approached you directly on this matter when you took over as Head Brother.’ Fynch gave a small shrug of a shoulder. ‘I know it’s confusing, Brother Josse. Tell me all you know about him. And then I’ll tell you why he is so important to me.’

Josse sat back and took a deep breath. ‘All right. Cassien came to us as an infant … an orphan. His mother was a slattern.’ He paused as Fynch smiled tightly at the polite word. Josse cleared his throat. ‘She was nonetheless incredibly beautiful, and it was said rich men from far and wide would journey to see and partake of this woman’s … er …’

‘Services?’ Fynch offered.

‘Yes,’ Josse agreed, relieved to discover that his guest was not stuffy about these things, even though he’d always thought of him as something of a holy man. ‘She lived and worked in Pearlis, not far from the cathedral. She died neither young nor old — in her prime perhaps you might say, ravaged by a disease that no-one had any knowledge of, or cure for. It is believed the sickness was brought from across the oceans, and her body was burned as it frightened everyone so. Cassien knows none of this. He believes his mother died soon after childbirth. She gave him to us when he was little more than nine months. I have to say her attitude sounds cold, but I met her and she was a warm, laughing individual who wanted the best for her son, which she knew she could not give him. I never visited her. She accepted no money for him, asking only that she be allowed to glimpse him from time to time.’

‘And did she?’

‘Every moon until she died. We would take Cassien through the market and past a designated spot where she would be watching him from a close distance. I always felt sorry for her, even though she’d given her child away. There was only ever tenderness and love in that beautiful face of hers. I gave her my word that her son would never know.’

‘The father?’

‘According to her he was a traveller, a wastrel. She loved him, apparently. He was rarely home from what we learned. Again, I never met him.’

‘There were brothers, weren’t there?’

‘An elder brother,’ he corrected. ‘I never saw him and I have no idea of his life.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, the young Cassien charmed us all from his arrival. He was an agile, bright-eyed infant with great curiosity and the sharpest of minds. We all loved him. I most of all, I suspect. I taught him all that I could and ensured that he had the best training. He didn’t disappoint. As he grew he showed himself to be the most adept and willing student. Everything he turned his hand to he did well.’ Josse reached for his spiced wine again. He knew it had cooled but he didn’t mind. His voice became scratchy when he talked for long periods. Fynch’s drink remained untouched.

‘The Brotherhood has a knack for finding each of its members’ special talents, does it not?’

‘Indeed, Master Fynch. We pride ourselves on it. Some of our Brothers become specialists at negotiation, while others are skilled poisoners; some have a talent for inciting political instability, while a few down the years have shown a gift for subterfuge and all manner of clandestine activity from spying to assassination.’ He shrugged. ‘It just depends on the individual. We nurture all skills and then we choose which to focus on for a particular individual.’ Josse sighed. ‘Only a few know of our existence — most think we are a small religious sect — but we are at the Crown’s disposal, always ready to meet its needs. We are looked after by the Crown.’

‘And yet you live quietly as monks … frugal, spiritual even.’

Josse nodded. ‘It cannot be any other way or these skilled men could be turned to the wrong side for money or status. Emperor Cailech set us up in this manner. His aim was for us to Opérate as a religious Brotherhood, and ensure our members make their commitment to the Crown as a monk might make his to his god. It is definitely a spiritual undertaking.’

‘Yes, Cailech was inspired in this creation. And you have not let him down.’ Josse nodded his head, pleased with the compliment. ‘And what of Cassien?’ Fynch continued. ‘What is his speciality?’

‘Ah, he could have gone several ways. However, Cassien has become something of a one-man army.’ Josse laughed but there was no mirth in it. ‘He is a living, breathing weapon.’

‘Please explain that to me, Brother Josse.’

‘Quite simply: I defy any man to be his equal in combat. He can run faster, longer, harder than anyone in the empire, I suspect. He can take uncharted levels of pain. His stamina, thinking speed and range of thought are immense — and by that I mean his strategic decisions are usually always right and they are made in a blink, even under pressure. He is strong, flexible and supple; light as air if he needs to be. If you blindfold him, he can still “see” because his senses are so finely tuned. He has developed a method of bouncing sound off hard objects to gauge his nearness to them.’ Josse gave a tight smile. ‘Just as a bat might,’ he added and frowned.

‘What is it, Brother Josse?’

‘There is something else about Cassien that I don’t know how to explain.’

Josse watched Fynch lean forward slightly. ‘Yes?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s an intangible skill. One I cannot put competently into words, but it’s as though he possesses an otherworldly sense that the rest of us don’t know or understand. I know he keeps it secret.’

‘You mean it is an inherent part of him.’

‘Exactly. He alone owns it, wields it, but I know not when or how. He has only admitted once to me of its existence, when he was a child, and even then he could barely explain it. I suspect he’s forgotten ever mentioning it.’

He watched Fynch’s eyes blaze now. ‘Magic?’

Josse felt genuinely uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, sipped his gleam. ‘There is no other explanation, I suppose.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Me? I haven’t seen Cassien for a decade. Our man, Loup, visits him each new moon to put him through various, shall we say, tests. And he is certainly rigorous, Master Fynch.’

‘And?’

‘He is astonishing. Two moons ago Cassien bested Loup for the first time. Loup tells me he now believes our charge to be near enough invincible in a one-on-one fight. We believe he could do a lot of damage to any enemy if he was sent in alone. One of his strengths is his quiet presence. Loup says there are times when …’ Josse trailed off, unsure how to say it, for it sounded so far-fetched.

Fynch’s head snapped up from where he had been staring thoughtfully at the fire. ‘When what?’

‘Er … well, when he believes Cassien is somehow not entirely of this world.’

He watched Fynch straighten, his chest swell as though it was being filled with anticipation and excitement. ‘This is very good news, Brother Josse.’

‘Is it? Frankly, it frightens me, this talk of magic.’

‘One must not fear magic, Brother Josse.’ His guest stood, contemplating. ‘Good …’ Fynch murmured. ‘Very good.’

‘So, this mission you mention suggests the Crown has a specific use for him, Master Fynch?’

‘It does.’

‘Then by all means ask the palace to —’

‘No. This is the most secret mission that any of your men will ever undertake because they will do so without the knowledge of the Crown.’

Josse shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to. I promise you, he will be working for the good of the realm, for the empire it is part of and for the young royal who presides over it.’

Josse blinked.

‘You trust me, Brother Josse?’

‘I do,’ he replied without hesitation.

‘Thank you. I will personally brief Cassien.’

‘Of course. You will need a guide. Loup will take you.’ There was a soft knock at the door. ‘Ah, perfect timing. We can offer a hearty vegetable stew with chesil manchets baked here in our own bakery. We prefer the grainiest of bread … I hope it suits.’

Fynch smiled. ‘Bread is a rare treat in whichever form it is given to me. Thank you.’

Josse pointed to a basin nearby and heard the sound of Fynch washing his hands as he opened the door to young Turc, who brought in two bowls of stew, vapour rising enthusiastically from the brew, and bread still so warm he could smell its escaping steam. A chunk of butter he knew had been churned only the previous day was scattered with salt flakes.

His guest was taking an inordinately long time to dry his hands and Josse realised Fynch did not want to be seen.

‘Leave the tray, Turc. Thank you, lad. I can take it from here.’

FOUR

Gabe had half an hour to kill before Reynard arrived. He paused at the sideboard where the swan quill sat in its box and traced a finger over the feather, watching the individual spines part and then flick back into a soldierly line.

He remembered that Angelina had a sweet tooth and realised he had time to nip out and grab some simple fruit pastries drizzled with white icing, plus a new bag of his favourite coffee beans. He liked a strong roast that hinted of chocolate and licorice, and having invested in a 15bar Italian coffee machine, he enjoyed the ritual of making his coffee to order.

He thought again about Angelina and Reynard’s peculiar possessiveness about her. And then he remembered the note. Hell! He’d left the café yesterday and hurried back to the shop, only to get sucked into a black hole of new stock and paperwork, and had forgotten about Angelina’s piece of paper, which she’d pushed into his hand surreptitiously.

As soon as he was back at the apartment he threw down his packets from the bakery and dipped into the pocket where the note had been stuffed. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table and read it.

Don’t trust him! He is lying to you! Trust only me and what I say!

The three exclamations made her warning look desperate. So her fear was about the physician. He is lying to you! Why would Reynard lie? Lying about what? He presumed he was soon to find out more.

He set out the pastries and put some background music on very softly. It was melodic guitar music, nothing too Latin and upbeat but nothing melancholy either.

At just a minute or so to eleven he heard the security buzzer sound.

‘Reynard … Angelina?’

‘Good morning, Gabriel,’ Reynard’s disconnected voice said through the loudspeaker. ‘Thank you for your emailed directions.’

‘Just push the door,’ Gabe replied and hit the button to let them enter. He walked outside his flat to the landing, where he’d put a chair for Reynard. It was cold and, even though it felt churlish, he didn’t care. He was not permitting the physician inside while he was assessing Angelina. He leaned over the elegant wrought-iron railing that twisted serpentine-like around the shallow white marble stairs between floors and heard the lift crank into use. The lift took its time in its creaky ascent but finally it opened and there they were, the oddest couple.

Reynard was dressed in his habitual pinstripe suit while Angelina looked wan in a short skirt, ankle boots, thick tights, a duffel coat, scarf, gloves, beanie … it was as though she was a child being dressed by a protective grandmother against the elements.

‘Hello again, Monsieur Reynard, Angelina,’ he said warmly to both, but looking at her.

They stepped out of the lift.

‘So how do we do this?’ Reynard asked. He looked nervous.

‘I’ve put a chair here,’ Gabe said, gesturing toward the landing’s window. ‘It’s cold but you’re well wrapped up, I see. Did you bring a book?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Reynard replied. ‘How long?’

‘I’d say we need at least forty-five minutes undisturbed.’ He gave a sympathetic grin but his tone was firm. ‘I can offer you coffee?’

‘I understand. And no, but thank you. I’ve recently had one,’ Reynard said.

‘Angelina, will you follow me, please?’ Gabe offered. She nodded.

Reynard touched his arm. ‘Be careful, Gabriel. Remember my warning,’ he whispered.

Gabe looked over his shoulder with a quizzical frown. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he assured Reynard. He closed the door on the physician and turned to the young woman. ‘It’s warm in here so feel free to take off your coat and put it down over there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. He left it entirely to her. But it pleased him to see that she began peeling off her heavy garments. It was a good start. He turned away. ‘Now, how about a decent coffee?’

She shook her head, dark eyes regarding him far from suspiciously. In fact, he’d describe her look as hungry but not for food. He convinced himself he was imagining it and decided that she was probably relieved to be away from Reynard’s supervision.

‘This is not jar coffee,’ he insisted, mock offended.

Angelina’s face broke momentarily into a grin. She pulled off her beanie and shook out her hair; again, he had the desire to touch it. Without her bulky coat on she looked so vulnerable.

Helena, a female colleague at university during his PhD, was doing her thesis on personality types with regard to romance and/or sex. She had used Gabe as one of her test subjects and had surprised him with a summary of the sort of woman he was most attracted to. He’d argued it, of course, and he’d seen many women since who didn’t fit that bill, but, curiously, Angelina ticked many of the boxes: small, dark, not a chatterbox, someone who seemed slightly remote from the mainstream. She would have to be very pretty, Helena had assured him with a wry smile, but not traditionally so. How thoroughly annoying, he thought now, as he looked at Angelina, that Helena could have been so accurate … or more to the point, that he could be so predictable. He cleared his throat as Angelina stepped closer.

‘I don’t like caffeine in any form,’ she said, and there was lightness in her tone that he had not heard before. He took a private pleasure in thinking that Reynard had probably never heard her voice.