Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims (4 page)

Soon his stomach is like a stone for want of food and he needs to relieve himself. He is about to call out for help when he stops. He has heard something.

What is it? The wind? No. It is a distant and regular drumbeat, coming from the east. He can make nothing out in the mist, but the noise is constant now, and getting louder. It is solidifying into something like – like what? It is a confusion of scratching, shuffling, and grinding.

And then he sees it.

First comes the suggestion that the road is firming, becoming darker and more distinct, but then there comes one of those gaps in the mist as it hurries across the marshland. It slips over the road and with a start Thomas catches the fleeting glimpse of a man on horseback.

No sooner has he seen him than he is gone. He begins to doubt himself.

But no. There he is again. Less distinct, but surely there?

Then the rider emerges from the mist again. This time he is close enough so that Thomas can make him out. On a grey. His coat red. Behind him comes a huge man on a dray horse, then a cart loaded with hay, then another two men riding alongside one another and then more, in pairs, until Thomas cannot judge their numbers, for he cannot see the rear of the line where it vanishes into the mist. It might go on forever.

They all wear the same white livery coat; some carry long spears in their stirrups, others hammers and bills over their shoulders. One is carrying a banner that hangs in frozen swags.

Thomas tries to swallow but his mouth has gone dry. Then he is on his feet. He seizes the clapper of the bell and begins hammering it against the bell’s brass lip.

The Dean appears in the garth.

‘They are without!’ Thomas cries. ‘A host!’

‘How many?’

‘I cannot say. Many hundreds.’

The Dean seems to shrink. Thomas turns back. Had he not recognised the man in the red coat, he might entertain the hope that the soldiers will pass them by, that they might be bound elsewhere; but there he is, astride that grey horse, and behind him the giant, and now Thomas sees a man is lying on the straw-filled bed of the cart. His hands are pressed to his face and he twitches every time the cart jerks.

The man in the red coat spurs his horse ahead of the column and disappears from Thomas’s view behind the wall by the gatehouse. There is some shouting and then the lay brethren manning the gate turn and stare back over their shoulders, looking for an order from the Dean. Thomas cannot hear what is being said, but the Dean seems to have frozen. Then he motions that the gate should be opened and so the locking beam is removed.

What are they doing? The fools.

‘Stop!’ Thomas shouts. No one looks up. He is forgotten.

The gates swing open, admitting the man with the red coat and the giant. The lay brethren shrink back and the riders stop in the courtyard in front of the gatehouse. They sit there, apparently in silence. Then the Prior emerges and approaches, and the first horseman swings his leg over the saddle and dismounts. It is an awkward movement: perhaps he is carrying an injury? The horseman speaks to the Prior for a minute, gesturing and once touching his face. The Prior is listening hard and then turns and speaks to the Dean. The Dean shakes his head. Then he looks up at the belfry where Thomas is still kneeling. The giant walks out through the gate and a moment later returns, leading the carthorse by its bridle.

Then the infirmarian appears from his quarters. He approaches the back of the wagon and climbs up into it and crouches over the prostrate man for a moment. He tampers with the bandages and instantly the man in the hay gives a spasm. The infirmarian gestures and a lay brother runs for something from the infirmary.

Thomas continues watching, unable to understand.

Then the first horseman follows the Prior to the almonry and, after they have gone in, the door is closed. A moment later the Prior appears again and speaks to the Dean, who is waiting outside.

Then the Dean shouts up:

‘Brother Thomas! Come. Your testament is required.’

Thomas feels his way to the hatch, his cassock now smutted with bird shit, and begins the descent. His heart is pounding irregularly and he feels so faint he can barely cling to the ladder. His feet slip on the rungs.

The Dean is waiting for him in the cloister.

‘What have you got yourself into, Brother?’ he asks. ‘Sir Giles Riven is here, and that’s his boy in the cart. Says a canon attacked him on the road this morning. Can only be you.’

Thomas shakes his head.

‘As God is my judge I have done nothing wrong.’

The Dean says nothing and leads the way across the garth. As they walk, the other canons stare, and rumour flies fast in hand signals. Thomas can hardly place one foot in front of the other. Together they pass the giant, who watches them with vacant eyes. The Dean knocks on the door of the almonry, and they go in.

Sir Giles Riven is warming himself by a newly lit fire, a mug of something steaming in his hand. To a man used to tonsures and faded workaday cassocks, Riven appears exotic. His short, padded coat glows in the dark, the colour of rose petals in the summer sun, and his hose are made of finespun wool the colour of lapis. His leather riding boots are turned down to his knees and at his hip hangs his sword.

He stands as tall as the Prior, with his hair hacked short above his ears, but he is much bulkier and more powerful. He has horseman’s thighs and broad shoulders, and he stands on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

He turns to Thomas. His skin is rough and reddened from travel, and his teeth are ruined by the sweetmeats and the dried fruits that only the rich can afford, and there is a bruise on his cheek and one eye socket is puffed and dark. The other eye is dark, unreadable in the singular.

‘This is Brother Thomas, my lord,’ the Prior says. His hands flutter to his pectoral cross. ‘He was beyond the priory walls this morning.’

‘Hmmm,’ Riven says. ‘Doesn’t look very fierce, does he?’

‘No, my lord, he is an illuminator. His skill is a gift from God. He is creating the most wonderful psalter.’

Riven grunts and drains his cup and puts it on the table.

‘Ought to save time and kill him now, I suppose,’ he says.

The Prior looks startled.

‘Should we not get to the truth of the matter?’ he asks.

‘See no point,’ Riven replies. ‘I know what I saw.’

‘Well. Now, Brother Thomas,’ begins the Prior, gabbling almost, ‘Sir Giles Riven has avowed that he and his men were attacked this morning by a common robber on the road beyond our walls. He says that this robber was dressed as a canon of our order and that he and his associates – of which we will talk more later – gravely injured his son, Edmund.’

His son. His boy. That is it. That was why the threat had carried such weight. Thomas stands in silence, as must a canon of St Gilbert, and the Prior dares not look at him as he speaks. Riven claps his hands together over the fire as the flames begin to pick up around the logs.

‘Well?’ the Prior asks. ‘Is there anything you have to say?’

Thomas can hardly speak.

‘It is a lie,’ he manages.

Riven smiles.

‘You accuse me of falsehood?’ he asks.

Thomas can think of no answer that will not directly insult him and make the situation graver yet.

‘Yes,’ he says at last.

‘Well, well,’ Riven says. ‘Well, well.’

The Prior opens his mouth to say something but seems unable to think of anything worthy, so closes it. The room seems to darken. Riven helps himself to more wine.

‘Let me tell you what will happen now,’ he says. ‘If my boy dies tonight then I will have Morrant – the big fellow out there – pluck out your eyes and rip out your stones at dawn tomorrow, then I shall have you burned to death, starting with your feet, and I will have this done in the very centre of your cloister for all your monks to see and smell.’

‘But, sir! He is a cleric,’ the Prior bleats, the least he can do. ‘He is in cloister. He must at least be tried in an ecclesiastic court.’

Riven flicks his wrist.

‘I have no time for your ecclesiastic courts,’ he says. ‘I am riding to join the Queen in Coventry and I will see this done by Mass tomorrow and then be gone.’

‘And if your boy lives?’ the Dean asks, sensing hope.

Riven pauses.

‘If my boy lives, well then that will be a happy occasion, and to celebrate his delivery I will have the satisfaction of a trial by combat. What do you say to that, Brother Monk? This I do to accord you the honour of dying like a man, and to prove to you, Father, that God’s justice will be done.’

The Prior opens and closes his mouth, can think of nothing to say, and turns to look at Thomas for a fraction of a moment. Then nods his head.

‘So be it,’ he whispers.

And just then the bell in the church tower rings again, a slow reassuring clap to signal all is well, and that order has been restored, but Thomas knows that in the space of less than a hundred beats of the heart, the Prior has condemned him to certain death.

‘And of course’ – Riven smiles – ‘I must keep my promise to those two sisters, mustn’t I, Brother Monk?’

The Dean escorts Thomas from the building, across the yard to a stable, the nearest room they have to a cell, and he is locked in with a mug of ale and a sorry shake of the head. Thomas spends the rest of the day on his knees in prayer. He tries to pray for the life of the boy Edmund Riven, but every time he closes his eyes he sees the Prior’s face at the moment he decided in favour of the boy’s father. He can’t stop his fists balling. How could a man sell a soul so cheaply? Without protest? Without anything?

Some time after vespers, it starts to rain. It takes him a moment to recognise it for what it is, for he has not heard its sound on the tiles since the autumn, around Martinmas, when the snows first came. Now though, just as the bell rings for compline, rainwater comes seeping in and he is forced to spend the night standing in the wet straw.

By morning his stomach is cramped for want of food and his mouth thick with thirst. He shuffles through the dirty straw and pulls himself up so that he can peer through the close-barred aperture in the eaves above. There is nothing to see, only the dawn and the rain. After a moment he drops back and resumes his pacing. The stable is three strides wide, ten long.

A while later the Dean brings a clay bowl of bean and fish soup and a leather tankard of ale balanced on a trencher of four-day-old black bread.

‘Will he live?’ Thomas asks.

‘He’ll live. Lost an eye, but the infirmarian says he’ll live.’

‘Thank the Lord,’ Thomas says.

‘Yes,’ the Dean says. ‘Praise Jesus. Now, eat.’

Thomas begins scooping the soup into his mouth. The bell in the tower begins ringing again, calling the canons to chapel. He looks up. Strange to think of life carrying on as normal.

‘Some advice, Brother Thomas,’ the Dean begins, returning and squatting next to him. He is an old man, about thirty-five perhaps, and his knees crack.

‘Thank you, Brother Stephen,’ Thomas replies, swallowing a lump of bread. ‘I would welcome it.’

‘You must flee.’

‘Flee?’

‘Flee the Priory. This morning, during the chapter meeting when no one is about.’

‘Why?’

‘You can’t fight Sir Giles Riven. He’s a soldier. Fighting – it’s all he’s ever done. God knows the man cannot hold a reed as you can. He cannot burnish gold as you can. What he can do, though, is fight. As you cannot.’

Thomas swallows.

‘But if I do not face him,’ he says, ‘then God’s justice will not be done.’

The Dean stands.

‘God’s justice,’ he says. ‘What is God’s justice?’

Thomas looks about for an answer, but the Dean carries on.

‘I know this is hard for you, Brother Thomas. I know things have gone against you, and that none of this is your doing, but these are bad times. Justice is no longer worth the candle lit to see it done. Everything is in turmoil beyond these gates and the Prior needs the protection of a man like Riven if the priory is to remain safe. He cannot afford to deny him any wish.’

‘Whatsoever it may be?’

‘Whatsoever it may be.’

‘Then there is no justice within these gates either.’

The Dean sighs.

‘If I were the Prior, Brother,’ he says, ‘I would tell you that since the Lord is on your side then there is nothing you need fear, and that you will win through this, and that justice will be done. But I am not the Prior. I lack his certainty. I lack his faith. And I know men like Giles Riven.’

Thomas chews his bread. The Dean continues.

‘So you must take a staff and some clothes and as much food as you can carry and get away from here. Take your psalter of which everybody talks. Go back to wherever it is you come from. Your family.’

‘I have no family to speak of,’ Thomas says. He thinks of his father: dead. His mother: dead. His sisters: likewise. He thinks of his brother, eking out a life on the farm in the shadow of that great granite cliff. He’d always liked his brother, but his brother’s wife had come between them, and all three knew his future was not there.

‘Then see if you cannot join another order,’ the Dean continues. ‘Any abbot would be glad to have you.’

‘They would know that I am a religious. They would suppose I was apostate.’

‘Then all that remains to you is an appeal to the Prior of All,’ the Dean says. ‘Take him your psalter. Show him your art. State your case. He will give you justice.’

Thomas thinks.

‘Where would I find him?’ he asks.

‘Canterbury.’

Thomas has heard of Canterbury, but he has no idea of where it is.

And besides, why should he run? If God is with him?

‘But what then of God’s purpose?’ he asks.

The Dean loses patience. He strides across the stable, picks up the bread and the nearly empty soup bowl.

‘God’s blood, Brother Thomas,’ he says, ‘you are a stubborn young fool, and you eating this is a waste, for you’ll be dead before you’ve garnered its goodness.’

Thomas scrabbles to his feet.

‘Do not despair of me, Brother. Please.’

The Dean looks at Thomas. He pauses and thinks for a moment and then comes to some decision.