Chapter Six
Abbotsbury Abbey, Dorset
Abbot John awoke before the bell for Lauds, a sudden and startling departure from sleep. Heart racing, he lay still and stared into the darkness, waiting for his inexplicable anxiety to pass. It was a remnant, no doubt, of a forgotten dream. But the anxiety remained, pressing on his chest as if it had clambered up and sat on his ribs. He felt like he’d committed a wrong and been found out. Yet his conscience, as far as mortal sin went, was not overly burdened. Had he forgotten something of importance? Nothing came to mind. Maybe he was sickening for some reason. His hand drifted to his forehead. No fever. He moved his limbs. No weakness.
The bell sounded, pulling John from his self-examination. He whispered a prayer for relief and rose to begin his day.
His malaise continued through Lauds, where his additional prayers for a reprieve appeared to go unheard. The unsettling sensation cast troubling ripples across his usual calm demeanor as he went about his morning business.
Perhaps he’d eaten a bad shellfish, he mused, since he’d feasted well on mussels the previous night. Or perhaps he’d washed them down with a little too much wine. Yet, on reflection, he discarded those notions, too. Not a great lover of wine, he’d been quite sober come bedtime and not in the least discomforted by symptoms of overindulgence. Besides, the turmoil in his gut didn’t feel like a digestive malaise. It felt like apprehension.
Nay, God help him, it felt like fear.
But fear of what? Something intangible. For the umpteenth time, he tried to recall his dreams, wondering if some dark vision had contaminated his spirit in the night. Then it occurred to him. Maybe God was trying to tell him something. In that case, he needed to listen. To try and understand the message being imparted.
After morning prayers, which again granted him little relief, John decided to go for a walk, seeking to meditate among nature’s blessings. Not that he could see much of what nature had to offer. A bank of thick fog had rolled ashore the previous eve and still remained. Unperturbed, he headed for the beach. The crunch of gravel beneath his feet and the endless whisper of tumbling waves never failed to soothe him. There, with prayer and contemplation, he hoped he might at last find some solace.
The sacred walls of Abbotsbury soon vanished into the fog as John wandered down the rutted track leading to the shore. The monastery’s guest house loomed ahead, overlooking a large inland lake. Of all Abbotsbury’s blessings, he secretly found the most pleasure in the scene he now beheld. Naturally formed, the shallow stretch of water sat between land and shore. Known as the Fleet, it served as one of Abbotsbury’s most renowned assets – a swannery.
The flock of several hundred mute swans was a remarkable sight. On this particular morning, their graceful, white forms created a stark contrast against the gray. Their presence, however, while pleasing to the eye, actually served a practical purpose. Swan, plucked, roasted and stuffed, was a gracious and common addition to the abbey’s banquet table. Honorary visitors always applauded the sumptuous feast.
John skirted around the perimeter of the mere and paused at the edge of the beach. The horizon lay hidden and a prickle ran across John’s scalp as he peered out into nothingness. The narrow sea lay buried in the fog. Only the sound of the waves, falling in endless succession onto the pebbles, hinted at what lay ahead.
He paused a moment, noting that his angst still remained, and then picked his way to the water’s edge. There, he kicked off his sandals and allowed the gentle waves to wash over his bare feet. At first, he relished being surrounded by the fog. It subdued all earthly distractions and allowed him to turn his sight inward with ease. Yet inner peace continued to elude him, as did an explanation for his troubled mind.
After a while, in contrast, the persistent fog became oppressive. Stifling. It served to intensify rather than ease his apprehension. Becoming desperate, he paused and looked back toward Abbotsbury, all trace of it hidden from sight.
I should go back.
It was a fleeting thought. At the same time, something compelled him to turn his gaze seaward. A chill brushed the back of his neck as he squinted into the impenetrable mass. Not a sound disturbed the eerie silence. Even the sea seemed to slumber beneath its thick, gray blanket, listless waves tumbling ashore in slow, melodic succession. John held his breath as if waiting for something he could neither identify nor understand.
God help me. Am I possessed of some madness?
He crossed himself and mumbled a few words of supplication. He had the sudden and distinct impression that something was out there, buried in the mist. A ship in trouble, perhaps? Doubtful. There had been no storms of late, nothing that might cause a ship to founder. Invaders, then, preparing to sneak ashore unseen.
No, that makes no sense. Yet…
He took a step closer to the water’s edge as if the single stride might allow him to see farther into the gloom. Then, from somewhere in the murk came the mocking cry of a gull, a sound akin to laughter that grated on John’s weary nerves. Uttering a curse worthy of the Devil, he picked up a good-sized pebble and hurled it into oblivion. He didn’t hear a splash. He heard a muffled thud.
The stone had hit something solid.
With a gasp, John stumbled back, one hand seeking out the cross that graced his chest. Every instinct told him to run, yet fear and fascination kept him rooted to the spot. As he watched, a large section of the fog appeared to darken and bulge as if some trapped behemoth was struggling to free itself.
Still grasping his cross, John fell to his knees. “What, in God’s name…?”
In response, a ship slid out of the mist like a morsel regurgitated from the depths. Ghostly in appearance, she drifted toward the shore in silence, guided solely, it seemed, by the slow, steady hand of the tide. Only when the encrusted hull buried its spine in the seabed did the ship release a strange, shuddering groan. The limp sails trembled from the impact before settling back to their motionless droop. A gull cried out again, the waves continued with their lazy rhythm, and John struggled to his feet.
He waited, wondering why no one had stepped up to the bow or peered over the side. Why had she foundered? Was she abandoned? He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hoy!” he shouted, his voice dampened by the fog. “Any souls aboard?”
Nothing moved. John glanced back toward Abbotsbury, uncertain of what to do. This event was the cause of his angst that day; he knew it beyond all doubt, and God had undoubtedly guided him to the shore. He was surely meant to be there to help those aboard. He resisted an urge to return to Abbotsbury and seek help. He reasoned he had nothing to fear. He was a priest – an abbot, no less – a blessed vocation that surely offered some extra divine protection.
So, he waded into the waves, flinching at the chill. The sea pulled at his robe, weighing him down with each step he took. By the time he reached the hull, the water was waist deep and his teeth chattered with cold. He looked up at the ship’s name, written in faded gold lettering on her bow.
Gabrielle
A vessel with such a heavenly name could not, surely, be a harbinger of anything evil. But how to board her? John’s gaze raked the ship’s stout hull, seeking a net, a ladder.
There!
A single strand of rope, draped over the side, and within his reach. Would it hold him? Eager, he pushed through the waves with little care and stepped into an unseen indentation. He went under like a bag of rocks, taking in a mouthful of salty water before breaking the surface again, coughing and sputtering.
“By all th-things h-holy,” he stammered, reaching for the rope, wishing he’d discarded his robe before entering the water. The saturated weight of it pulled at him as he hauled himself up the side of the ship. By the time he reached the top, his arms burned with pain. Breathless, he leaned over the rail, balanced on his heaving rib cage, and surveyed the deck.
The stench hit him before his brain processed the cause of it. John tasted vomit, tumbled from the rail, and fell back into the merciful safety of the sea.
*
John had no memory of climbing the cliff path. Indeed, he remembered nothing but the hellish vision of what he’d seen aboard the ship. Yet, to his great confusion, here he was, standing in front of the door to his office. His legs ached and his teeth chattered so loud his head hurt. And the stone floor felt like a block of ice beneath his bare feet.
Bare feet?
Puzzled, he looked down. Where were his sandals? Then understanding dawned. In his panic, he must have left them on the beach. Ah, but he couldn’t go back there to look. Not yet, at least.
Something touched his shoulder and he let out a yelp.
“My lord abbot,” a quiet voice said, “what ails you? Why is your robe soaking wet? And why are your feet bare?”
John blinked and regarded the monk at his side. The man’s face looked familiar but his name remained elusive. Lucas? Aye, that’s it.
“It is here.” John shifted his gaze back to his door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. “May God help us all, Brother Lucas, it has arrived.”
“What is here?” Lucas asked, following John over the threshold. “My lord, of what do you speak?”
“That French wine merchant said it would come.” John, still shivering, began to tear off his wet robes. His heart felt as heavy as a stone and cold as his flesh. “I confess I doubted him. My mistake, for it is clear he spoke true, although it is far worse than he described. Pass the word, Brother, and may God grant us His divine mercy. The Devil’s pestilence is upon us.”