Crossing To Paradise by Kevin Crossley-Holland

woke, all the rain clouds had blown away.
    South they rode, under the sun’s primrose eye, and before reaching Auxerre they came to the banks of the River Yonne. There they boarded a flat-bottomed ferry, but the ferry began to rock from side to side and Lady Gwyneth’s stallion whinnied and kicked out at the passengers standing behind him. Then he leaped right out of the boat. He swam ahead of it to the riverbank, shook himself until he whirred, and then stood quite quietly, waiting for Lady Gwyneth to disembark.
    â€œThe distance from success to disaster,” Lady Gwyneth told Emrys, “is no wider than this milky French river.”
    Now the pilgrims saw the Morvan hills rising up ahead of them, and before long they breasted the first of them. They picked their way down into sloping valleys past little hillside vineyards, they padded through whispering pinewoods.
    After three more days, they crossed the great pilgrim road leading west all the way to Saint James of Compostela in Spain. And, as Lady Gwyneth had predicted, they rode into the great monastery of Saint Mary Magdalen in Vézelay in good time to die with Jesus, and lie with Him in the cold rock tomb, and on the third morning rise with Him again.
    While all the others hurried straight to the stables, Gatty stared about her in absolute amazement. A giant courtyard! Walls so white and bright they half-blinded her. Chapels and colonnades and pointed towers and granaries. The monastery was a town in itself. Nuns and monks, hundreds and hundreds of them, all wearing black habits, were striding and streaming and criss-crossing and huddling, busy as ants. And up in the high belfry bells chorused with rich, shining voices, the fruit not only of their tongues and throats but their whole bodies.
    â€œ Pays de dieu! ” a monk called out. “ Pays de la Madeleine! ”
    Gatty frowned.
    â€œD’où venez-vous? D’Espagne? D’Angleterre? English?”
    â€œEnglish,” said Gatty.
    â€œAhh!” said the monk, and he spread his arms. “This Vézelay! God’s own country! Home of la Madeleine. ”
    â€œWhat’s Madeleine?” asked Gatty.
    The monk looked at Gatty strangely. “ Sainte Marie, ” he exclaimed.
    â€œOh! Saint Mary Magdalen, you mean,” Gatty said.
    â€œ Enorme! ” said the monk. “Big in Europe.”
    â€œWhat’s Europe?” Gatty asked.
    The monk opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “Europe,” he repeated. “Europe! Nom de dieu! ” Then he showed the palms of his hands to heaven, and walked away.
    Inside the guesthouse reserved for pilgrims, women and men went two different ways—even those who were married, like Tilda and Emrys.
    In the refectory, Gatty found herself sitting at one of three long tables between Lady Gwyneth and Sister Hilda, a dumpling of a nun whose dewlaps rested on her breasts and breasts rested on the table.
    Opposite Gatty sat Aenor, a pale girl who was much the same age as she was, and still a novice.
    Both of them spoke English.
    â€œJerusalem, you say?” Sister Hilda demanded.
    â€œGod willing,” said Lady Gwyneth.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy?” exclaimed Lady Gwyneth. “Let me finish this excellent trout, and I’ll explain.”
    â€œFrom everything I’ve heard,” the stout nun announced, “it’s quite obvious you’re likely to fall by the wayside on pilgrimage. Reeling drunkards, swearing gamblers, whoremongers! Foul songs in the taverns!”
    â€œIt’s not like that at all,” said Nest. “You can’t imagine the hardship. Each day’s a penance.”
    â€œI should have liked to go on a pilgrimage,” said Aenor, the young novice.
    Sister Hilda snorted. “You wouldn’t get as far as Autun,” she said. “Not with your weakness. Your place is here, my girl.”
    The novice laid a white hand over her chest, and coughed