Free Cannonbridge by Jonathan Barnes Page B

can.”
    “You must be a man of god.” For the first time since she has awoken, the woman seems a little afraid.
    “No.” Her saviour sounds uncertain. “At least, I do not think so. Rather what I do... I think it is as a kind of penance, I think, for deeds yet to be committed.”
    “How is that possible, sir?”
    “I do not know. I do not know.”
    Only silence between them. Then, very softly, the man speaks again.
    “Will you tell me now, if you wish, why those men are pursuing you? I sense that they possess... considerable determination. A certain ruthlessness also.”
    The woman does not reply.
    “I promise that whatever you say shall make not the slightest difference. I have promised to protect you and that pledge shall stand. I make no judgement of any man or woman.”
    “I think...”
    “Yes?”
    “That you should tell me first.”
    “Me? Of what?”
    “I am... curious. Your words are strange. You are not, I think, quite as other men are.”
    “Madam, I am far from certain what manner of man I am. Indeed, I have travelled widely and sought much wisdom upon the subject yet still I have no firm conclusion. Merely suspicions, you see. Merely bad dreams.”
    “Yet you try to do good?”
    “As much as I can. Fortune seems to strew such opportunities in my path. Yet there remain... moments when I seem to have no life of my own at all. I simply fade from the world.”
    “Perhaps you are unwell, sir. It might behove you to consult a reputable physician.”
    “I have visited many such men yet they have found no physical cause for my... uncertainties.”
    “Then a doctor of a different kind, perhaps? Though, not, sir, for the sake of your own soul, I beg you, a priest.”
    “Now there you speak from experience, I think?”
    “I do, sir.” And she shudders, Maria Monk, she shudders in the night.
    “You spoke of the soul. I have of late begun to fear for the sanctity of my own. I believe, you understand, that it is in some manner encircled and in the gravest peril. I fancy myself like some winter traveller alone in the forest who, strayed too far from the path, discovers, in a hideous moment of realisation, that he is quite surrounded, by wild wolves, that they have tracked him in the snow and that they are now but a leap from his throat.”
    “I do believe I know, sir, whereof you speak.”
    “Yes. I sensed somehow that you might.” Cannonbridge shifts uneasily in his chair. “Maria, I have been told that there is some change due to take place within me, some transformation which will mean that, quite soon now, I am no longer to be the person that you find today. And I have begun to suspect—I have begun to fear—that my apotheosis is almost at hand.”
    “You should not be so fearful, Mr Cannonbridge, lest fear make of you its servant. In spite of all that I have witnessed, all that I have endured, I still believe in my heart that goodness is inherent in man and that it shall in the end prevail over evil.”
    “Then I admire your courage, madam. You spoke of what you have endured. You need tell me nothing if you do not wish it but I should be happy to hear you speak further of those dark times.”
    Maria stares into the gloom, her eyes blank and glassy. “Tell me, Mr Cannonbridge, have you heard tell of the Black Nunnery of Montreal?”
    It seems that the woman has succeeded in shocking even Mr Cannonbridge. He leans forward in his chair and his voice is laced with horror. “Then...” He murmurs, swallows hard. “The rumours are true?”
    “Worse, Mr Cannonbridge. Whatever the nature of the gossip that you have heard, the truth, believe me, is unutterably worse.”
    He is about to ask her to continue when there comes a knocking at the door. It is not a ferocious nor is it an insistent sound. Rather it is sly. It is careful. It is insidiously polite.
    It comes again, a gentle tapping, which might almost be that of a lover who, treading lightly down the corridor in the watches of the night,