I thought thus to bring the matter to a head. If there was any suspicion in the man, the mention of the Abbot’s name ought to be enough to soften his fears.
For a moment there was no answer. Then his voice began again, this time in a low coaxing tone.
“—the Abbot of Chalonnes,” he repeated slowly as though he was turning the name over in his mind. “These are dangerous times, my son. Have you, by any chance, a proof that you are a friend of the Abbot of Chalonnes?”
I drew the dagger from my shirt and held it high in my hand.
“Here!” I called. “Can you see this?”
The voice creaked like a rusty hinge. “And what is that?” it asked.
“It’s a token,” I replied with some show of anger, for the caution of the man prodded me like a knife. “We were sent here. We were told that you would recognize this. It belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes.”
The man coughed to clear his throat. His voice changed to a hasty wheeze. A cracked smile curled around his mouth.
“I was only toying with you, my lad,” he said. “Of course I recognize it. Of course it belongs to the Abbot of Chalonnes. Bide a bit. Bide there and I’ll open the door to you and let you in.”
With that he shuffled off from the window wheezing and muttering to himself.