The novice’s rota was a means whereby Brother Dominig’s superiors gauged where a new brother’s talents might lie. Once his vows had been taken, Bother Dominig would be allocated a permanent chore. He doubted that he would be given the privilege of maintaining the traps and fish tanks once he was professed; for while doing his stint in the kitchens, he had miscalculated...

During the Prior’s last fish fast, Dominig had cooked a beaver’s tail for him – as beavers spent their lives in water and had hairless tails, their tails were counted by churchmen as fish. Prior Hubert had enjoyed the dish, so much so that he had sent for Dominig to congratulate him on his cooking of it. Brother Dominig wished now that he had burnt that wretched beaver’s tail. His culinary success probably meant that he would be employed in the monastery kitchen rather than by the river.

Feeling a pang of jealousy for his fellow novice, Marzin, Brother Dominig frowned. Marzin, who had been christened William but was adopting the name of that saintly protector of beggars at his profession, was a lucky man. Brother Marzin was an artist of no mean ability, sent to them from the main house of their order to finish a mural in the chapel. Marzin had brought with him a letter from the Abbot of St Gildas on the distant Rhuys peninsular, singing his praises. Prior Hubert had been cautious – Marzin was only a novice and there was a danger of his head being turned by too much praise. But when Prior Hubert had seen Marzin at work, he had changed his tune and had showered the novice with praise. Brother Marzin’s future doing what he loved was secure.

Brother Dominig shook his muscled shoulders. He did not admire jealousy and was not about to sour today worrying about tomorrow. Sufficient unto the day, he told himself. He smiled. He could spend all of today by his beloved river. He felt nearer to God by the river, and loved it in all seasons. This May had brought with it a flurry of late rainstorms; the river was now so full its banks were brimming. The swollen waters swept past the fish tanks, a dark, gleaming rush of water heading inexorably for the marshes and finally for the Small Sea. The river was clouded with mud which it had snatched from somewhere deep in the Argoat. It looked as thick as Brother Peter’s best bone broth. Noah’s flood, Brother Dominig thought, must have started like this.

Drooping willows planted by an earlier generation of monks trailed delicate, greening fingers in the swollen river. Behind the willows, bushy hazels and slender birches reached for the sky. Behind these, rank on rank of giant oaks marched deep into the heart of the forest, shading the woodlands with a spring-fresh canopy of leaves. The brothers still harvested the willows and hazels, and the fish tanks were edged with coppiced trees whose roots held the banks together at times like this when the river was in full spate.

Dominig slipped off his sandals, tucked his habit into his belt and stooped over the riverbank. With his toes gripping the edge, he hauled on one of the lines. His smile broadened. The net was heavy. He heaved it out. It was gratifyingly full of wet, wriggling eels. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the arching trees, silvering the water which dripped from the eels’ slippery bodies.

A kite’s alarm call tore through the woodland, fading as the bird winged away. A twig snapped. Brother Dominig lifted his as yet untonsured head and said cheerfully, ‘Good morrow.’ Receiving no answer, he sighed. No answer meant that whoever was skulking in the woods was more than likely on the run. He turned without haste, wondering whether he was going to be attacked for the food in the nets.

St Félix’s Monastery, whose only stone building was its simple chapel, was protected by God alone. The church’s reed-thatched roof was easily fired, and simple to break through. There was no stone wall to keep out predators. There were no fortifications of any sort, and the community was vulnerable to those with no respect for God’s Holy Writ. Despite its holy status, Brother Dominig’s order had borne the brunt of attacks from outlaws before now. Whoever was watching him was keeping well out of sight in that hazel thicket. Were they outlaws? Poachers? Pirates? All he saw was a wall of lush foliage, but he could hear them. At least two of them, panting hard.

‘May God protect me,’ Dominig murmured, and though he did not approve of violence, he cast about for his spade. It lay on the grass, a few feet to his left. He dropped the net back into the fast-flowing river, and shuffled casually to his spade. Violence or no, Brother Dominig did not pretend to have martyr’s blood in his veins. He pitched his voice louder. ‘Good morrow.’

‘What shall we do, Ned?’

It was a young woman’s voice, and it was verging on the edge of panic if Brother Dominig was any judge. He scooped up the spade and thus emboldened, repeated his greeting. ‘Good morrow.’

The hazel shook. Its branches were parted by a young man with untidy flaxen hair who stepped into the clearing. The young man, whose mien was military, was about Brother Dominig’s age. Sweat and blood mingled together on a countenance that might be fresh and comely were it not so bruised. The stranger’s chest was heaving, and he was carrying a small child. A child?

‘’Ware, Ned!’ the girlish voice came, trembling, from the sprouting hazel. ‘He’s holding his spade like a spear!’

The battered young man, presumably Ned, deposited his burden – a small girl – on the grass behind him, and placed his hand on his sword hilt. ‘Help us,’ he said, and his blue eyes blazed like beacons. ‘Give us sanctuary, for God’s sake. We cannot run forever.’

‘We?’ Brother Dominig gripped his spade.

Another twig cracked, the kite mewled overhead, and the young man’s hidden companion emerged cautiously from the thicket. ‘There’s only me and the babe,’ a girl said. She wore a simple blue gown and no veil.

Brother Dominig lowered his spade, disarmed and dumbfounded. When Brother Marzin had first joined them, he had started on a mural which depicted the Virgin Mary. The wary brown eyes of the girl hovering on the edge of the fish pond mirrored Marzin’s Virgin with uncanny exactness. ‘The flight from Egypt,’ he murmured, coming forwards to gaze at the baby in the young woman’s arms. He had taken the baby’s crying to be a kite, he realised, while she must have been trying to muffle the sound.

‘Yours?’ he asked, wondering who was after this youthful pair and what they had done. The prior loved saying that evil came in many guises, but surely so handsome a couple could not have done evil. Were they married? They must be, he decided, for the young soldier’s eyes were fiercely protective when they lighted on the girl.

‘The babe is my brother,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘Help us. Please, Brother. They’ll kill him if they catch us!’

This was resembling the flight from Egypt more with every passing moment. Brother Dominig was intrigued, and his soft heart was moved. ‘Who are you running from?’

The young man, Ned, drew closer, an angry spark kindling in his eyes. ‘We don’t have time to explain. Do we look like a party of brigands?’

Brother Dominig gazed pointedly at Ned’s bloody sword, at his beaten features, and ripped clothing. He spread his hands. ‘You tell me.’

‘We’ve done no wrong!’ The girl thrust the infant under the monk’s nose. ‘Help us, or you condemn Philippe to death. If you doubt us, you must see that he can have done no wrong.’

They seemed to care more about the children than themselves. They could not be evil. Uncertain as to the best course, Brother Dominig temporised. ‘Our chapel is not secure from attack.’

The girl lost colour and clutched the babe to her breast. ‘Ned, there must be somewhere else,’ she said. ‘There has to be.’

The young man ran a hand round the back of his neck. His hand had been bleeding, and scabs were forming on his knuckles. ‘I don’t know. If the brothers won’t help us, we’ll have to keep running.’