By Sylvian Hamilton (19 page)

'No,'
Miles reassured her. 'It's nothing to do with that. We just want to
pass the night in the church porch.'

'That's
all right. You can put your horses in the byre if you want; it's out
back.'

They
settled the horses and the brute in the priest's byre, company for
his scrawny cow, and made themselves as comfortable as they could
among their packs in the porch. It was cold and the flagstones were
damp and slimy with moss, but it was out of the wind. Larktwist
mumbled as he rummaged in their packs for food.

'Think
yourself lucky, spy,' said Miles. 'You are sitting here a free man,
out of the rain about to eat your dinner, instead of being head down
in the turds back at Fenrick. Have a bit of pie.' He cut and passed a
slice.

'Lucky,
is it?' Larktwist scowled, chewing and spitting. 'Well, I'd as lief
not be dead, but it's no great good fortune to be sitting here eating
bat-shit pie!'

'Eh?'
Miles took a bite and spat it out. 'The swindling old besom! It's
green with mould inside!'

'Not
the only thing that's green,' muttered Larktwist, hurling the rest of
his portion out among the graves. 'Here, I've got a pasty somewhere
...' He burrowed in his layers of clothing and produced a flattened
object wrapped in dock leaves. He broke it in half and gave one piece
to Miles. 'This was baked this morning. I bought it hot from the
oven. Remember? I suggested you might do the same but would you
listen? It's not enough for two, really, but better than nothing.'

After
eating their meagre supper they slept the sleep of the just. Miles
was woken by a sharp poke in the ribs and Larktwist's hand over his
mouth to stop him crying out. He removed the hand, none too gently.
'What's the matter?'

'Something
funny's going on. Out there. Look!'

In
the graveyard among the hummocks and rampant weeds, knee-deep in
mist, were figures moving about, bending, standing up again, making
strange gestures. There was an occasional soft thud but otherwise
silence. Owls hooted. Miles felt the short hairs at the back of his
neck prickle as they rose.

'What
is it?' he whispered.

'Dunno.
Ghosts?'

Miles
crossed himself. 'Lord, protect us!' They pressed back into the deep
blackness of their shelter, watching. There were five figures, weird
shapes in the moonlit mist, and their eerie silence was unnerving.
'It might be witchcraft,' Miles hissed. 'Some evil rite. They must be
stopped! The priest--'

'The
priest's away,' Larktwist reminded him.

'Well,
we must do something\'

'Keep
our heads down?' Larktwist suggested hopefully.

Miles
swallowed. An enemy, a siege, a battle, a melee, these he could cope
with. The powers of evil were outside his experience. Then he had an
idea. Very quietly, praying it wouldn't screech, he eased the church
door open and slipped inside. He found the holy water stoup, made a
cup of his leather bonnet and scooped some water into it. Turning, he
almost fell over Larktwist who had crept in behind him.

'Get
out of the bloody way,' he snapped.

'I
was just making sure nothing happened to you. Besides, it's safer in
here. They wouldn't dare come inside the church. Where you going?
There's no need to be brave, is there? Oh, Christ, I hate heroes.'

Miles
moved stealthily out into the porch again where he lit their
hand-lantern, closing its sides to hide the flame and,
half-crouching, he began to creep across the mounds and hollows
towards the uncanny group. He was within a few feet of them when
there was a loud crack and one hooded ghostly shape said, 'Shit!'

'What's
up?'

The
sodding shovel's broken!'

'Use
your hands.'

'You
come here and use yours,' said the first phantom furiously.

'Why
should I do all the bloody work?'

Crossly,
because his legs were still shaking, Miles stood up, spilling his
capful of water. 'Oi,' he said. 'What are you lot up to?' The first
ghost squealed and fell prostrate at his feet. The others grabbed
hold of one another and stood, shaking and stammering.

'W-what
is it? Is it an angel? B-blessed Saint Joseph, is it you?'

'No
it's not,' snorted Miles. 'What's going on?' He stepped forward, and
just then the moonlight slanted into the shallow hole they'd been
infilling, and on a knobbly sack lying among their feet.

'Let's
have a look at you.' He uncovered the lantern and held it up. Monks!
White monks, probably. Their robes, drawn up and tucked into their
belts as if they were reaping, were so stained and torn it was
difficult to be sure. They had obviously had a hard time of it
recently. He had never seen a bunch of monks so tattered and
battered, to say nothing of shifty. They might as well carry a banner
with up to no good blazoned on it. But it was not for him to
interfere with what must be Church business, however peculiar it
seemed. Still, curiosity prodded him.

'What's
in the sack?'

'What
sack?' Brother Paul looked round wildly for inspiration.

'There.
By your foot.'

'Oh.
That sack. They are the ... the bones ... the bones of holy Saint
Joseph,' babbled Brother Paul desperately. A small gasp came from the
others who had stopped clutching one another and looked poised to run
at any moment. 'They were stolen from us," Brother Paul
continued. 'We have recovered them.'

'A
likely story!'

'I
swear, Sir, we were set upon, here, on the very bridge itself, just
yesterday. And abused! They called us a bunch of bare-arsed
sheep-shaggers, may they rot in hell! And we were beaten. And
robbed.'

'Who
robbed you?'

They
all spoke at once. 'Misbegotten black canons! Those Austin buggers!
Them with their beards!' That at least had the genuine ring of
indignant truth.

'What?'
Larktwist had silently appeared at Miles's side. 'You were robbed by
other monks?'

'It
isn't funny,' said Brother Paul angrily. 'God and Saint Joseph will
punish the ungodly!'

'Is
it true?' Miles asked. 'You swear it before God?'

Another
collective gasp, but Brother Paul –who would end his days,
greatly revered, as Abbot Paul –was equal to it. 'It's
perfectly true. They beat us; and we were robbed. I swear it before
God!'

'Oh
well, if that's your story and you're sticking to it,' said Miles
resignedly, 'you'd better be on your way before someone else decides
to have a go at you.'

'Yes,
Sir, thank you, Sir.' Three bags full, Sir, thought Brother Paul
resentfully. He picked up the sack and slung it over his shoulder. It
rattled. One of the others picked up a collecting box. Another slyly
kicked the broken shovel out of sight under a bush.

'Here.'
Miles rummaged in his pocket and dropped a halfpenny in the box.
'Now, Brothers. Have you seen a man and his servant on this road? He
rides a tall bay, the servant rides a grey.'

'Yesterday.
They passed us here just after the fight,' said Brother Udemar
helpfully.

'He
gave us a penny,' said Brother Paul.

'Well,
a halfpenny's all you'll get from me and lucky at that, seeing you
woke us up! Were they heading north?'

'He
asked if we knew a place to sleep. We told him there's a Templars'
hostel, a pilgrim station, twelve miles on.'

'Thank
you, Brothers.' And to Larktwist, 'Get the horses.' They spurred
across the bridge and were soon out of sight.

'Let's
get out of here quick,' said Brother Paul.

It
was early afternoon when they sighted two riders on the road ahead. A
bay horse and a grey. Miles gave a happy cheer and the riders halted,
looking back as he spurred towards them.

'Sir
Richard Straccan?'

'Yes.
Who are you?'

'I
am Miles Hoby. My uncle bade me follow and find you. He said you
might find me useful.'

Straccan
beamed. 'Did he? Good old William! Thank you and welcome, Sir Miles.'

Larktwist
grinned sheepishly at Bane. 'Hallo.'

'What
are you doing here? This chap's some sort of spy,' Bane said. 'I came
across him at Altarwell. Someone has paid him to follow us. What's he
doing with you, Sir?'

'It's
all right,' said Miles. 'I can explain but it's a bit of a story.
Have you had your dinner yet? I've come a long way on an empty
stomach, and if you're willing, we can stop a bit, have something to
eat and I'll tell you all about our friend here.'

Chapter
25

A
small boy sat on Janiva's table, dirty, tear-streaked and scared. His
mother, a tanned earth-coloured woman drab in muddy wadmal and
clutching a basket of eggs, stood watching impassively. Janiva coaxed
the boy to calm. When her cool fingers touched his brow his blue eyes
flickered and closed.

'Now,
Peter,' she said. 'Open wide!

He
gaped obediently.

'Put
your tongue out as far as you can.'

The
pink tongue, startlingly clean as it emerged from the filthy little
face, moved a little but not very much.

'Lift
it up for me, Peter. Stretch it as high as you can.'

The
boy was tongue-tied, and now she could see why: a taut membrane held
the tongue captive. She unclasped her scissors from the chain at her
belt and snipped quickly. There was a small spurt of blood which
stopped at once, and the boy blinked and grinned.

'There
you are, Peter.'

Janiva
lifted him off the table and gave him a mug of water. 'Go outside,
rinse your mouth and spit.'

'Well,'
said the boy's mother, 'if I'd knowed that's all it was, I coulda
done that.'

'Of
course you could, Madge. It's just a matter of knowing what to do.'

'Well,
thanks. Thanks, Mistress. Them other little sods won't tease im all
the time now. Ere ...' She placed the basket of eggs on the table.

'Thank
you,' said Janiva.

After
they left, she wiped away the muddy marks left on the table by her
small patient and stroked her little cream cat, which dabbed at the
ends of her braids with its tiny pink-padded paws. She set the kitten
down near the fire, where it patted at the moving shadows of leaves
outside the window, before settling down to serious washing in the
middle of which it fell asleep. Janiva swept the hearth and mended
the fire before turning to a row of small pots on the table, their
contents now cool enough for her to push in the rolled leather
stoppers and tie a thin skin disc over each top. This done, she put
them away in a cupboard and returned to the fire to stir the soup in
its hanging kettle. A testing sniff prompted her to add some dried
herbs and raise the kettle higher above the heat. Then she dipped
water from the tub behind the door and poured it into her scrying
bowl. She closed the door, setting its bar in place before seating
herself at the table with the bowl between her hands.

Since
she had seen Gilla in the scrying bowl the barrier was broken; now
she could call the child's image to the bowl every day, praying for
her safety and thanking God and his Blessed Mother that she still
lived. But she had no idea where.

She
was familiar now with the isolated tower and its surrounding bare
rocky hills. But it could be anywhere: England, Normandy, Brittany
... And she knew the woman now, the witch. Knew her for the one who
had glamoured Straccan; knew her by her taint, the first time her
image appeared in the bowl. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and
evenly for a few moments until her thoughts sank down into the quiet
place where they could stand aside and let the pictures come. She saw
the tower for a few seconds only, clouds above and the little lake
beyond, and then, fast, fast, the images rose to the surface, one
pushing through another. Gilla, asleep on a truckle bed in an
otherwise empty small room, its cold curved stone walls red in the
light that came through a high slit window. A group of ragged grimy
children in a subdued huddle outside a closed iron gate. A gaunt
young man, his clothes soiled and crumpled, kneeling in a chalked
circle, his lips moving in prayer. Sun-bright blue sky. A hawk
stooping to its prey, a flurry of feathers and the splash of the
lark's blood on the outstretched gloved hand of the rider below, the
beautiful woman whom Janiva knew was holding Gilla captive.