Free The Song of the Nightingale by Alys Clare Page A

paid attention when one of the elders read aloud from the bible only because it was such a novelty to hear and understand, since the words were not in the Church’s language, Latin, but in the vernacular of the people. The bonshommes had not only translated the bible into the
langue d’oc
, they had also set up paper mills in the region so that they could copy out as many copies as the people desired.
    Mary Magdalene turned out not to be a sinner and a prostitute, as she was in Ninian’s vague memory. On the contrary, she was held in great esteem by the bonshommes as the close and beloved companion of Jesus. She was honoured and worshipped throughout the Languedoc, for the people believed she had lived the last years of her life there. One of Ninian’s new friends came from the village on the Mediterranean coast where they claimed Mary Magdalene had arrived in an open boat in which she’d travelled all the way from the Holy Land, in the company of Martha, Lazarus and a dark-skinned Egyptian maid called Sarah Kali. So beloved was the Magdalene in the south that it seemed to Ninian she was virtually the region’s patron saint.
    The bonshommes were diligent and thorough teachers, painstaking and patient. When they encountered credentes who could not read and who found it difficult to understand the central tenets of the faith, they used a series of images to help comprehension. Many of the good men and good women carried their own set of images, some beautifully painted and printed on thick card; some more crude and on thin, flimsy paper that showed signs of long handling. The paper mills must have been busy, Ninian reflected, and somewhere there must be rooms full of artistically-gifted bonshommes and credentes, patiently copying out the images.
    He was reminded of the precious manuscript that he had unwittingly taken with him on his long journey from southern England to the Midi. The same life thrummed through the little cards as in the vibrant paintings in the manuscript. The manuscript he knew to be so holy, so inherently powerful, that it was virtually magic. It contained, amongst other treasures, a notation of the celestial music that the good men and women tried so desperately to recall from their days in the spirit realm. Just once, Ninian had heard human voices reproduce the music. Shaken to his core, he’d felt as if the solid earth had tilted beneath him. He knew he would never be the same again.
    Curious about the images that the bonshommes used as teaching aids, Ninian had asked Alazaïs. The images, she explained after a moment to gather her thoughts, were symbolic. The idea was that a glimpse of an image would bring to mind what lay at the heart of the illustration: ‘They stand for much more than they are,’ she added.
    Ninian was none the wiser. He would have liked to ask if he might examine a set, but somehow he understood that his request would politely and kindly be turned down. Perhaps he just wasn’t ready . . .
    The weeks passed and turned into months. In time there came the first signs that the iron grip of the ice and snow was starting to relent; the drip-drip of melting icicles was a constant music to the day’s work; snowdrops pierced the snow; both humans and animals were restless.
    Everybody knew, although it was not spoken aloud, that the crusade would start again as soon as the roads up into the mountains were clear of snow. And now, increasingly, well-meaning people with anxiety in their eyes would hint to Ninian that it was time he began to think about going home.
    Home.
The word seemed to echo round inside his head. He wished there were some way to get word to England that he was safe and well, but he could not think how to do it, and nobody in the village volunteered a suggestion. Perhaps they feared that any such attempt would somehow reveal information to the enemy. He did not know.
    Home
. The House in the Woods, Josse, Meggie, Geoffroi, all