The Scrivener's Tale #1

THREE

The next morning at the bookshop passed slowly, but Gabe kept himself busy in the office catching up on paperwork. Eventually his rumbling belly told him it was nearing lunchtime. He emerged from the office stretching, wound his way down the rickety staircase and saw that the shop was all but empty.
‘I’m just ducking out for a baguette,’ he said. He didn’t offer to pick up for anyone else. Didn’t want that becoming a habit.
The day had not improved with age. It was overcast and drizzly. He zipped up his jacket. He didn’t walk along the river, as the cafés here tended to ply their trade — and their prices — for hardy tourists. Instead he walked deeper into Saint-Germain unaware that he was being followed.
‘Bonjour, Gabriel,’ he heard a familiar voice call after him.
He turned. Reynard waved to him. He was not alone. Standing alongside, dwarfed by the tall physician was a fragile-looking girl. Gabe could hardly ignore them. He smiled weakly.
‘Bonjour, Reynard … mademoiselle.’
‘This is Gabriel, whom I’ve mentioned,’ Reynard said to her.
Gabe noticed how Reynard held the girl’s arm. There was something possessive in his stance. Reynard was nervous, too. Gabe took all this in with a brief gaze at the man and then shifted his attention to the reason they were surely paused in a damp, narrow street of Paris. She turned her dark and solemn eyes on him, but said nothing. He felt his breath catch slightly. She looked like a piece of exquisite porcelain; her skin was almost translucent it was so pale. Her ebony-black hair cut bluntly in a bob only accentuated her alabaster complexion as it skimmed the line of her jaw. It was a severe style yet she seemed to wear it with ease, and the texture was shiny and slippery like silk. In that moment he wanted to touch it.
He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, I hadn’t expected to meet anyone,’ he said, cutting a look at Reynard.
‘Gabriel, could you spare us just five minutes of your time?’ the man began, and when Gabe started to shake his head Reynard put a hand up. ‘A quick coffee,’ he appealed. ‘Two minutes … if you could just …’ His words ran out as he gestured at his companion.
Again the dark eyes of the girl regarded him. How odd. He’d thought they were dark brown, but now he noticed they were the smokiest of greys, brooding and stormy … and troubled. In a moment of hesitation, he recalled Reynard’s fear that the girl might kill herself. He felt suddenly obliged.
Just a few minutes couldn’t hurt. The smell of grilling meat and spices of cumin and coriander, anise and cinnamon wafted over from the kebab shops in the narrow streets around Place Saint-André-des-Arts, reminding him he was hungry. His mouth began to water at the thought of lamb with tzatziki, perhaps some tabbouleh and hoummos wrapped in a warm pita. It would have to wait. A swift coffee first.
‘Sure,’ he said, shrugging a shoulder and noticing at once how Reynard’s anxious face lit with surprise. Nevertheless, he appeared tense despite his relief at Gabe’s decision.
‘Over here’s a café,’ he said, pointing, then guiding his companion.
Gabe followed Reynard noticing that his charge was as uninterested in her surrounds as she was in her companions.
He sat down opposite the odd pair and smiled at her.
‘We haven’t been introduced yet,’ he said, but as he’d anticipated, Reynard answered before she could.
‘Oh, my apologies. Gabriel, this is Angelina.’
His mind froze momentarily as though he’d been stung.
‘Gabriel?’
‘Sorry. Er, like the famous tea salon,’ he muttered. Then took a breath and smiled at them. ‘I was only staring at its sign last night.’
She said nothing but fixed him now with an unwavering look. Her expression didn’t betray boredom or even dislike. He felt as though he were being studied. He’d experienced such regard before and allowed her to fixate without showing any discomfort in his expression.
‘Do you believe in coincidence?’ Reynard asked him in English.
Gabe remained speaking in French to let Reynard know that he had no intention of isolating Angelina, if she didn’t understand English. ‘Do I believe in coincidence?’ he repeated. ‘Well, I know it happens too often to not be a reality of life, but I would never count on one, if that’s what you mean.’ He noticed Reynard was trying to catch the attention of the waiter. ‘Er, with milk for me,’ he said.
Reynard nodded, conveying this to the waiter before returning to their conversation. ‘I meant,’ he continued, now in French, ‘do you believe in coincidence or do you believe in fate?’
‘I’ve never thought about it. But now that you make me consider it, I think I’d like to believe in predestination rather than chance.’
Reynard raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s interesting. Most people would prefer coincidence. They don’t like the notion of their lives already being mapped out.’
‘You can change life’s pathway. I’m testimony to that. But then the question was hypothetical. I like the notion of fate. It doesn’t mean I believe it’s what runs our lives or that chance doesn’t have a lot to do with what happens to us.’ He returned his attention to Angelina, feeling highly conscious of her penetrating gaze. The winter sun was filtering weakly into the café and lighting one side of her face. The other was in shadow and just for a moment he had the notion that her spiritually darker side was hidden.
The waiter arrived to bang down three coffees and their accompanying tiny madeleine biscuits.
‘Do you enjoy Paris?’ he tried.
‘I should tell you that Angelina is mute,’ Reynard said. ‘She is not unable to talk, I’m assured, but she is choosing not to talk.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s where you come in, I hope.’
She hadn’t shifted her gaze from Gabe and now — as if to spite Reynard — shook her head and he realised it was in answer to his earlier question. He persisted. ‘If you could be anywhere, where would you go?’ He reached for his coffee.
She blinked slowly as if she didn’t understand the question. Then turned to Reynard and pointed at the sugar up on the counter. Reynard looked in two minds. He cast a gaze around to nearby tables but it seemed sugar wasn’t routinely left on them.
Gabe frowned. ‘Er, I think you’ll have to go to the counter,’ he suggested.
It was clear Reynard didn’t want to get up. Angelina pushed her coffee aside suggesting she wouldn’t drink it without the sugar. It was done gently but the message seemed forceful enough. As a couple, they were intriguing. Gabe felt a tingling sense of interest in unravelling the secrets of the relationship before him.
Reynard rose. ‘Back in a moment,’ he said.
Angelina was astonishingly pretty in her elfin way but she shocked him as his gaze returned from Reynard to her. ‘Help me.’
He coughed, spluttering slightly with a mouthful of coffee. ‘So much for being mute,’ he remarked.
‘You have to get me away from him,’ she urged, fumbling for his hand beneath the small table. ‘Don’t look at it now. Just take this,’ she said, pressing a small note into his hand.
Reynard was back. ‘There you are,’ he said, sliding a couple of sticks of sugar onto the table.
Gabe was in no small state of shock at her outburst. The girl was obviously frightened of the physician.
‘So,’ Reynard began, sipping his drink, ‘Angelina will not mind me saying this, I’m sure, but she is suffering a form of depression. She has feelings of persecution and —’
‘Wait,’ Gabe interrupted. ‘If she’s mute how can you know any of this?’
‘Previous notes from previous doctors,’ Reynard answered. ‘“Delusional” is the word that has been used time and again. Her muteness is a recent affliction. Remember, she’s choosing not to speak.’
‘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.’