Heloise’s curious grey gaze alerted Hugh to the fact that he had drifted into past recollections rather than answering her question. His hand dropped self consciously from his neck, where it had been holding the worn and dirty amulet.
“We’ve come to pray for the souls of William Marshal and my father, who both died this past year.” They were at least his ostensible reasons for a pilgrimage to Canterbury. He could also have included his wife and child in the list of suffrages. Hugh though had no intention of revealing his true motivation - penance. Even his friend Richard was unaware of how far the past still haunted him. After Eleanor’s death his actions had become wild and undisciplined in an attempt to penetrate the numbness that had settled over him like a shroud. He had lost his lands to the Welsh, debauched himself with women and drink, and gambled away the rest of his money. On the journey to Canterbury Richard had railed against Hugh’s strictures for the forsaking of pleasures, mockingly stating that Hugh might as well become a monk. He was however happy for Richard to believe him particularly prudish, for it kept him further from the truth. Part of the reason that he had spoken up for Richard at the Earl’s table was because he saw in his younger friend the same potential for the downward spiral of self-destruction. His own soul might be beyond redemption, but he would try and save that of his friend’s. “And yourself? What has brought you to the city?” Heloise gazed back at her father, who she had just seated with much grumbling by the fire. Her tone when she turned to face Hugh was worried.
“My father is unwell. The physicians can only say that his humours are imbalanced, which is their way of saying they have no idea what is wrong with him. But father believes that a miracle is what he needs to cure him, hence why we’re here. He thinks that Becket’s tomb will make him well again. But I…” She trailed off, her hands fidgeting with the worn leather belt looped around her shapely waist.
“And you think?” She dropped the belt and looked him squarely in the eye.
“And I think he should not have made this journey. It has only made him unnecessarily worse.” Hugh thought back to the soldier at the gate and his miracle story, presumably told to every pilgrim that entered the city to confirm that their journey had been worthwhile. Heloise’s calm practicality and scepticism stood in contrast to her outwardly pious actions and youth. She shrewdly guessed his surprise and continued, “A warm fire and rest will do a man more good than traipsing across the country in the cold and damp to visit a bunch of dusty old bones. No matter how holy they are. It’s common sense. And I imagine that most of our fellow pious pilgrims have come for equally practical reasons. Your own motivations seem rather unlikely, and explain nothing of the presence of your friend.” Her eyes flashed daring him to challenge her perceptions.
“Perhaps. But perhaps they are also exactly as they seem.”
“I cannot consider though that a man in your position and with your experience can possibly believe that a pile of mouldering bones can make lame beggars walk or forgive a man his mortal sins.” Heloise instantly wished she had bitten her tongue rather than impetuously spoken her mind. Lines of sorrow darkened Hugh’s face as he replied,
“But don’t we all need something to hope for?” Heloise felt once again, that though his eyes were fixed upon her, his gaze had in fact turned inwards. She reached out a hand, intended to comfort and apologise, but a loud shout from the undercroft made her outstretched hand freeze and made Hugh regain his senses. They regarded each other for a moment, before a second shout and a loud clatter followed swiftly after. Heloise turned, her gown bunched in her hand so it did not impede the speed of her movements.
“It’s coming from the undercroft. Quickly, follow me.”
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