Yes, he had been there. And to so many other places, but he had focused only on the needs of the moment because he cared more to keep moving than to be where he was. There would always be some place new.
But Anne, forced to move slowly, all but trapped in each place, had absorbed the vision of it as if it were a gem, to be savoured and saved, treasured and revisited in memory in later days.
The loss of all he had seen, yet not seen, cut his breath. How many days, how many sights, had been lost to him? When he turned to look at the years behind him, he saw only war and mud and windswept sky.
Now, he was in England’s most revered cathedral. Today, he could take away more than a badge. He could take away a memory, a vision to summon up when he was days and miles gone from here. Something to remember of his life.
He looked around, but all he saw was a blur of pilgrims, all he heard was the din of their prayers and the monk’s description of how the evil men cut off the head of the saint.
And in front of him, Anne smiled, silent, because she had realised he was no longer listening to her description of the abbey.
‘How do you do it?’ he asked.
‘Do what?’
‘How do you see so clearly, remember so much?’
They were close to Trinity Chapel now, and the tomb of the saint himself, crowded with pilgrims. ‘Tell me what you see,’ she said. ‘Right now. Look down.’
‘Stone.’ Something to stand on. Something to walk over.
‘Not just stone. See, this is older, more worn. And over there, it is newer. More polished.’
They had reached the stairs and she leaned on him to climb. One, two, three, four. Not quite in the chapel yet, but above the heads of the crowd, he could see the edge of the golden shrine, beckoning them. But instead of studying the tomb, he scanned the crowd, looking for a path of escape. There were so many people, so closely packed, that he could not see beyond them. What if he needed to get her away? How would he do that?
Beside him, a little breathless, she looked up at the windows and the carved pillars, as if she had come to see the Cathedral instead of to seek a cure. ‘There, that window. It shows St Thomas’s martyrdom. And the three murderers. And there, that one shows him curing the lame daughters of Godhold of Boxley.’
A moment before, he had thought only of how they would move through this space and how he would take care of her. Now, as he saw with her eyes, bits of colour became a story.
And he was struck with an unexpected sense of wonder. Not for the saint and his miracles, but for the men who had made such lasting beauty.
‘How long have they been here?’ he asked. ‘These windows?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Hundreds of years.’
Hundreds. He had spent his life foolishly proud that he could arrange for food and supplies that would vanish within a day, handling details that would be forgotten by Yuletide. Meanwhile, with their lives, these nameless, long-dead men had left something that would last until the Second Coming.
What would he have at the end of it all? Nothing more than he had today. No home, no family, not even memories.
Nothing but a blur of days and miles, travelled, but not lived.
* * *
Relieved, Anne saw they had reached the final steps. Had Nicholas heard anything she had said? Noticed anything around them? It did not matter now. Just a few more and she would be in the chapel with St Thomas’s relics.
Steps again. One, two, three...an endless struggle. A good reminder. Struggle was her life, not this moment of joy. Not this strong arm offered to support her.
She let go of Nicholas. ‘I will go on alone.’
He frowned. ‘Are you certain?’
She nodded and turned her back on him.
Yes, she was certain. She had become weak and soft these last few days. Oh, the travel, the riding had been difficult, but she had been able to lean against this man, even dreaming that he might see more than the leg she dragged behind her.
More fool she. Not only could Nicholas threaten everything, but in a few weeks he would be gone.
She took each step carefully, no longer letting the windows distract her. Some of those around her could move no more easily than she. That was what she must remember. She was fortunate for only one reason. A reason she must not jeopardise.
Another step. Step seven, eight, almost done. The steps were as uneven as waves, worn by the feet of too many pilgrims to count. There were too many surrounding her now, a crush of broken humanity, some with wounds visible, others atoning for sins she could not see.
Now, close to their final goal, they began to push and shove. Someone knocked against her. Her stick slipped off the smooth worn stone and she went down on one knee, hard enough to rattle her teeth and make her bite her tongue.
No tears. No tears.
Her stick clattered down the stairs behind her and disappeared in the crowd, just as Nicholas had.
Do you want to crawl? It seemed as if God would insist on that. A good reminder. Penance for the lie that brought her here.
She tried to rise, but her bruised knee protested. Someone crawled over her hand. Her fingers slipped on stones worn as slick as ice, and she slid down a step.
Where was Nicholas?
But she saw only a wall of bodies between her and the tomb. Above their heads, the top of it shone like a golden sun embedded with twinkling rubies, so close it seemed that God must want her to reach it. Instead, she was going to slide to the bottom of the stairs and be trodden on by the next wave of seekers.
No more than she deserved...
Again, she stretched out her hand. Again, her fingers slid on the slick stone...
And then, she was lifted up, off the stairs, into his arms.
The last few steps, the steps she had struggled to mount, dissolved beneath his feet and suddenly, she was at the top, standing, her stick tucked firmly under her arm once more.
She clutched his sleeve. ‘I did not realise, when I asked, how much I would need you,’ she whispered. More than she wanted to.
‘I will not leave you.’
‘I know you did not intend...’
He shrugged and squeezed her hand before stepping behind her. ‘We are all pilgrims now.’
No time to look around, to study, to remember. Pilgrims at the front fell to their knees. She joined them. Here, too, the stone had yielded to the years of knees. A groove worn by prayer...
The priest started to pray.
She could barely listen. This journey had been a sham, a pretence, an elaborate deception so that she could stay close to Nicholas as her lady had demanded. Why should God help her? She was a living lie. She had used the pilgrimage as a disguise instead of a pious act. There could be no miracle for Anne.
God had decreed her fate years ago.
Yet, as the words swirled over her head, something else surrounded her. Incense. Dizziness. The spirit of the saint himself, his earthly remains here, in front of her. Would it be possible...truly?
And suddenly, all the pretence, the falsehoods, fell away and there was only hope.
The priest stopped before her and held out an empty palm. She handed him the coin that Lady Joan had given her. Then he held the small vial, filled with the holy water of the saint for her to taste.
She wet her lips. Wanted more. Touched his hand and tried to drink.
He