That the monks were directing their search in the woods near the Austin priory made Hildegard sceptical. It would be more cunning, as the Prioress might call it, to hide out close to Meaux itself while the searchers looked in the wrong direction.
She wanted to believe Leonin’s story, now more than ever, for some reason. It was the hideous idea that they were on a man-hunt.
There was something guileless about him. She could be wrong, she knew that – he could just be a good liar – but then there was the footprint. It didn’t have to belong to an assassin, of course, it could have been anyone’s. One thing was certain – it did not belong to Leonin.
She couldn’t help speculating further. His dark skin suggested – where? Castile? Rome? Or somewhere in the direction of Outremer? Might it have a bearing on his disappearance?
Confused, somewhat fearing the existence of the assassin, she called for Nimrod, and when the others set off for Swyne she swallowed her fears and slipped away down a narrow track beside the walls of the abbey. Eventually she reached the wooden footbridge onto the opposite bank of the canal.
The nuns’ house she had opened some years ago had quickly grown out of its cramped quarters, filled by the many children living on abbey lands wanting an education, and they had been forced to move the school to larger premises in Beverley. Some of the boys even went on to the famous Song School, later becoming choristers in prestigious foundations.
Her old building was unoccupied now, silent and shuttered, the garden overgrown. After the bursting of the canal bank the house was up to its windowsills with water. No one could be inside with the pressure of the flood against the door.
Boots slipping in the mire she took the once-familiar path along the top of the bank away from the house. Despite being flattened by the rain the grass showed where someone had walked this way quite recently and her confidence rose.
Glad she had Nimrod beside her, she reached the watermill. After the nuns moved out it had fallen into disuse. The monks had built a bigger one on the river where the more powerful current was better able to turn the massive new waterwheel to supply the needs of the abbey itself as well as the granges.
Usually sluggish the canal came to an end here, fed by a single stream draining from off the marshes. Now it flowed fast over hidden obstacles under the surface, creating whirlpools as it raced to meet the river beyond the lock gates. Someone must have opened them to take some of the pressure off but it did no good now. The mill race was a white foaming torrent. God help anyone who falls in there, she thought.
Overspill from the millpond surged across the path and she had to wade up to her knees in cold slime. Apart from the hiss of the rain again and the occasional creak of the wooden wheel straining against the force of the water, it was eerily quiet.
Nimrod in the manner of his breed loped ahead with scarcely a splash until he came to the door to the mill. It was fastened on the outside by a tattered rope. Bedraggled but still keen he glanced back to wait for instructions.
First she waded round the puddled outside of the building but there was nothing unexpected on the other side. The meadow had already been turned into a lake. The mill itself was half under water where it abutted the canal, and only the landward side stood clear of the flood. By the look of it the timbers would not stand much more, the building was near collapse and the force of the current would soon drag it into the canal.
Deciding not to call out until she knew what lay ahead she paddled back to the door and unknotted the rope, wondering as she edged it open who had tied it so hurriedly.
It was gloomy within. Only a column of light fell from an opening on the upper floor where the miller had once stored his grain. It took a moment to see that the place must have been cleared out long ago. To make sure she opened both doors to let in more light.
As soon as she stepped inside the hissing of the rain was cut off. It made the creaking timbers sound even more dangerous in the echo-chamber housing the grinding mechanism.
She froze.
On the far side where the flood waters were gushing in through cracks in the planking and the gap cut through for the axle she saw a shape. Much like a sack of flour that might have been left behind, but it seemed to move slightly. The fear of rats swept over her.
She forced herself to look more closely and shivered again but for a different reason. There were no rats. It was a human shape.
‘Nimrod, heel!’ she whispered.
Together they made their way across the canted floor, its timbers sinking with every step, until she was able to stare down at what lay in front of her. Fear gripped her. It was a man after all. A body lying awkwardly half in and half out of the swirling water. He must surely be dead not to move out of it.
Bending down she saw what must be his head wrapped in the folds of a black hood. She stretched out a hand to push the fabric aside and revealed a face. It was mashed up, swollen and distorted by bruises, scarcely human.
One eye opened.
She flinched back.
Recovering, she whispered, ‘Matthew? Is this you?’
A moan greeted her remark. Quickly looking him over she saw that his hands were bound in front of him by a length of twine. Hacking quickly with her knife she released them. Instead of moving he lay where he was, oblivious to the rising water. Urging him to get up if he could, she asked, ‘Can’t you move out of it?’
In reply he moaned again and she thought she saw him give a weak shake of his head.
‘Come, try to move. The waters are rising. I don’t give much chance for the entire building if it goes on.’
Her words only seemed to make him more resigned.
She spoke more sharply. ‘Matthew!… It’s Hildegard. Can’t you get out of the water?’
He made an effort and managed to mutter something about his legs.
She put an ear closer to his lips. ‘What’s that about your legs?’
‘Broken,’ his lips scarcely moved. ‘Both broken.’
She put her hands under the water up to her elbows. No bonds there. ‘I’m going to try to drag you onto the drier part of the floor. Will you grit your teeth for me?’
His lips lifted for a moment and he gave a faint nod. Putting both hands under his armpits she heaved with all her strength and little by little managed to haul his inert body clear of the flood water. Eventually she got him onto the high side of the floor and he sprawled helplessly with water sluicing from his robes. Slowly he began to return from the half-conscious state in which she had found him. His poor face was horribly battered and one eye was swollen shut.
He put out a hand to touch her sleeve as if to catch hold of it then let it drop. It was clear he was in no state to help himself. Deep in his eye was the shadow of some horror.
The rumble of falling timbers alerted her to their immediate danger. ‘The building’s going to go over,’ she told him. ‘I’ll try to drag you further. Can you find a way to help me?’
He must have understood because when she took hold of him again he began to half crawl using only his arms to claw himself forward, groaning with pain, until at last he collapsed and allowed her to wedge him in the doorway. There was another crash followed by a splash as a different part of the building toppled into the canal.
‘If I can get you outside you might be far enough above flood-level to be safe while I fetch help.’
She peered into his face. ‘Matthew? Can you hear me?’ He seemed to be falling in and out of consciousness. ‘Be brave. We will not be defeated by mere water.’
He held onto her sleeve.
‘Water means redemption—’ As if that was all he needed to say, his eye flickered shut.