Chapter Text
Eltisley Priory, 869
There was something strange happening with the black cat at Eltisley Priory.
Sister Mary Helena knew all the cats. Most of them came and went as they pleased, but there were a few familiar faces. There was an old orange tabby that she called Goodwife, and a sleek grey one she called Lady, and a fat black tom with patches of white called Moneylender.
And then there was Hunter, green-eyed and black as sin. Some of the cats were of a friendly disposition and would allow Sister Mary to scratch them behind the ears when they came for the scraps and bones she left by the step, but never Hunter. He never bit or clawed the sisters, but if he sensed a hand approaching he’d dart off quick as a wink. Nevertheless, he was Sister Mary’s favorite. He seemed...clever, almost uncannily so, and always had a look on his face as if he knew something you didn’t.
Of all the litters of kittens that had appeared in the abbey grounds over the years, Sister Mary had yet to see any bearing tell-tale sharp green eyes or smooth dark fur. It was not for lack of options. She’d personally witnessed a valiant but ultimately fruitless effort by Lady last spring. In the fall, she delivered a litter of three orange tabbies and one small grey female, but no progeny of the priory’s finest. She eyed Hunter craftily throughout the nursing and raising of her kittens, plotting.
The cook had sworn death to the beast the next time she caught him in the larder, but Sister Mary knew it was all for show. Hunter alone could probably keep the entire abbey pest-free. He left proof of his skill at the kitchen door, two or three mice lined up neatly in front of the landing. They appeared regularly as the moon every morning when Sister Mary opened the door to sweep the step.
“Sweet thing,” Sister Mary said fondly, brushing them off to the side.
Lady, lurking in the bushes nearby, detected the opportunity for an easy meal. She stalked confidently forward, drove off a smaller cat with a spine-tingling hiss, snatched up the fattest, freshest mouse and trotted proudly away. In the garden nearby, Hunter was preoccupied with swatting at Moneylender. Moneylender retaliated with one or two lazy swipes before sauntering off. Furious, Hunter sprang into the bushes. Goodwife ignored the hubbub and curled up in a patch of sun to groom her paw.
Sister Mary smiled. “And the Lord said, ‘It is good,’” she said, and left to attend to her daily duties.
The next morning, there were no mice.
At first Mary thought perhaps the other cats had stolen them before she’d seen them, but Hunter wouldn’t stand for that. She’d seen him chase them off if they tried. Perhaps he was falling down on the job? But no, she’d seen him kill a mouse with one swift pounce and a bite just yesterday.
“Is it wicked, to dwell so on the doings of an animal?” she asked Father Gregory in confession. “I confess, thoughts of the cats have crossed my mind during prayers, and ever more often of late.”
“Not in the least,” Father Gregory assured her. “As it is written, His eye is on the sparrow. An act of kindness to one of God’s creatures brings Him joy always. If it will ease your mind and bring your attentions back to your prayers, follow the cat for a day.”
The next morning, Sister Mary arose early, donned her habit and crept down to the kitchen. She was just in time to catch Hunter leaping onto the window and into the garden, fat mouse clamped in his jaws. She followed him into the garden, down the path, and over to the shed that housed the wood stored for winter. She watched him go behind the shed with the mouse in his teeth and then emerge, moments later, empty-mouthed, to shoot Sister Mary a warning look and stalk back towards the abbey. Curious, she peeked behind the shed.
It was mostly dark still, but there was just enough light for her to make out the sight of a brown tom with long, thick fur biting into the mouse. When he turned to look at Sister Mary, she saw he had only one eye. The wound was not old, still pink and raw-looking.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she whispered, and held out a hand.
Cautiously, the tom swallowed his mouthful of mouse, craned his neck forward, and sniffed at Sister Mary’s hand.
“Ssssssss,” came a hiss from behind her.
She snatched her hand back and jumped to her feet. Hunter glared mistrustfully.
Sister Mary backed away. “ Never mind me, carry on with your business,” she told him.
Hunter arched his back and growled.
Something warm and furry pushed at Sister Mary’s leg. She looked down.
The brown tom rubbed his head against her ankle again.
“Mrrrrow,” he said.
Hunter slowly relaxed. Keeping his eyes fixed on Sister Mary, he sauntered past, brushing his long flank against the tom’s, and hopped unto a log in the woodshed.
Sister Mary crouched down and scratched the tom behind the ears. “I suppose everyone has a friend,” she said with a shrug.
Hunter glared distrustfully from his log.
---
Sister Mary named the brown tom Soldier, as he had the look of someone who’d seen some things in his time. He was friendly, but cautious, watchful.
Soldier took to following Hunter on his forays into the priory, settling comfortably into a relief role. If a mouse happened to escape Hunter’s clutches, Soldier would swat out a paw and catch it, quick as a wink, but he never made to steal a mouse that Hunter clearly had a handle on.
“Why, Hunter, you’ve been tamed,” Sister Mary said upon coming across the tomcats curled up next to each other in the sun.
Moneylender attempted to casually pass by the two of them. Hunter raised his head and hissed. Moneylender scampered. Soldier yawned, blinked his one good eye, and crossed his paws atop of Hunter’s.
“Never seen two cats but brothers behave so,” said Sister Constance, squinting out the window suspiciously. “Like a man and wife, they are.”
Sister Mary pursed her lips and said nothing.
Summer came, and with it, the parade of pilgrims. Soldier and Hunter steered well clear of the strange new humans, keeping to the darker corners and quiet back passages of the priory and hissing when disturbed. On the afternoon of a sudden summer storm, Sister Mary returned to her quarters to find Soldier and Hunter curled up face-to-face on her bed, their paws tangled together between them. Hunter raised his head at the sound of the door, blinked, and lowered it again as if he couldn’t be bothered to hiss. With a smile, Sister Mary let them be. She was sure there was something she could be doing. There were plenty of hours left in the day.
---
Hunter arose at sunset. He stretched his front legs languidly in front of him, got to his feet, arched his back, yawned, and hopped to the floor. Soldier blinked and mewed. Hunter did not wait for him. He had work to do, and his friend was sometimes lazy and bothersome. Dull.
With a twitch in his tail, he sauntered off down the hall. He could find his way to the kitchen easily; he’d walked it a hundred times before. He paused to inspect a hole in the wall, poking a cautious paw inside to investigate. He found nothing suspicious, and carried on.
His garden was awash with orange light. While not ideal for sleeping in, it was most excellent for hunting some of the rarer garden animals. He’d caught a snake once. It had bitten him on the paw, which hurt, but didn’t kill him, so it was all fine.
A twig snapped. Hunter snapped into a defensive posture, head whipping around and body crouching low to the ground.
There were men in his garden. Tall men with beards and naked steel. He hissed.
One of the men snarled back, and then lifted his boot and stomped. The thin black cat’s spine crunched.
Hunter yowled like a scream, and then the men screamed and ran, towards the priory, weapons raised.
Hunter crawled into the tall grass. His back legs would not move, but he had to get inside. His friend was inside, the round brown tom with the one eye. He had to find him, to run. They had to run and hide, go to a new place with new humans. Hunter could find them food and protect them. That was his duty. He would feed them. He would keep them safe.
---
In the end, all that survived of Eltisley Priory were stones and the cats. There were the numerous nameless cats who scattered when the ships came ashore, the fat black and white cat and the sleek grey one that hid in the privy, and the old orange tabby who just ran and ran and ran. They scattered from that ruined place to find new haunts, more fruitful hunting grounds.
And there was one other, a tomcat with one eye. He did not leave.
He waited.