Copyright © 2014 Karen Maitland
The right of Karen Maitland to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This Ebook edition first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2014
All characters – apart from the obvious historical ones – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2289 3
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Karen Maitland
Praise
About the Book
Also By
LIARS AND THIEVES
Sampler of THE VANISHING WITCH
Footnote
About Karen Maitland
© John C. Gibson.
Karen Maitland travelled and worked in many parts of the United Kingdom before settling for many years in the beautiful medieval city of Lincoln, an inspiration for her writing. She is the author of The White Room, Company of Liars, The Owl Killers, The Gallows Curse and The Falcons of Fire and Ice. She has recently relocated to a life of rural bliss in Devon.
Praise for Karen Maitland
‘Combines the storytelling traditions of The Canterbury Tales with the supernatural suspense of Mosse’s Sepulchre in this atmospheric tale of treachery and magic’ Marie Claire on Company of Liars
‘Passion and peril. A compelling blend of historical grit and supernatural twists’ Daily Mail on The Falcons of Fire and Ice
‘Glorious . . . a thrillingly horrible vision of the Dark Ages’ Metro on The Owl Killers
‘Bawdy and brutal’ Simon Mayo on The Gallows Curse
‘Scarily good. Imagine The Wicker Man crossed with The Birds’ Marie Claire on The Owl Killers
About the Book
Camelot and Narigorm the rune reader return to delight fans of Karen Maitland’s classic novel as the company – in their desperate bid to outrun the plague – encounter a band of outlaws, who are making the most of the breakdown in law and order to steal from the weak . . . and kill at leisure.
But in the child Narigorm they might just have met their match – for plague is the lesser of those two evils.
By Karen Maitland
The White Room
Company of Liars
The Owl Killers
The Gallows Curse
The Falcons of Fire and Ice
Anno Domini 1348
Rockingham Forest, Northamptonshire
There are many tales told about the year the Great Pestilence first swept across our land, of rivers turned to blood, fire falling from the sky, earthquakes swallowing churches and dragons fighting in the clouds. But the tales I know were of a strange, ragged company of travellers who together wandered the desolate roads, trying to stay one pace ahead of death.
The townsfolk and villagers slammed their gates against strangers and huddled behind their doors, but we had no homes to hide in. For until the Great Mortality infected our shores we’d each earned our living on the road, coaxing a coin here or a loaf there from the crowds at markets and fairs the length and breadth of England. There was Zophiel, a magician who performed conjuring tricks; Rodrigo and his apprentice, Jofre, musicians from Venice; Cygnus, a storyteller, who’d been born with only one arm; Osmond, an artist travelling with his gentle wife, Adela; and Narigorm, a white-haired child who told fortunes with her runes. Then there was me, a camelot, a pedlar of relics and amulets, a seller of hope in a terrified world that was sorely in need of it.
I was the oldest of our company, ancient some might say, missing one eye and with a great scar covering half my face. I was the creature that mothers threatened would snatch naughty children from their cottages if they did not lie quietly in their beds. But there is much truth spoken in lies, for there was a monster that was coming for them, a monster without a face or form that crept silently through the streets, devouring animals in their byres, children in their cots and parents in the taverns, and no one, neither noble knight nor holy bishop, could vanquish that dragon which would lay waste to all England.
It was the winter of 1348, not that the season brought any great change in the weather for it had rained every day since the midsummer of that year. Xanthus, the mare who pulled Zophiel’s wagon, which carried all of our meagre possessions, had cast a shoe some time on the previous day; but the road had been so muddy, none of us had seen it fall. Missing a shoe, Xanthus couldn’t drag the wagon over the sodden ground without risking permanent lameness or worse, so there was no help for it but to hide the wagon under swathes of old bracken and branches while Zophiel led his horse through the forest to the next village in the hope of finding a blacksmith there.
Adela and I had elected to go with him to try to buy flour or dried beans if the villagers had any they could spare, while Rodrigo, Jofre, Osmond and Narigorm would make good use of the time gathering kindling to burn and hunting for whatever birds or animals they could catch for the pot, for our supplies of food were exhausted and we had eaten nothing that morning. Cygnus was to remain with the wagon to guard it, though Zophiel protested that allowing a one-armed man to guard anything was like putting a leash on a rabbit and expecting it to hunt boar.
A bitter wind howled its misery through the bare branches of the trees and the track that coiled between them was a stream of oozing mud. In several places, icy springs gushed across it, sweeping aside any stones that might have given purchase.
Xanthus was an ill-tempered mare at the best of times, biting anyone careless enough to get within range of her teeth. She’d learned that whenever she was unharnessed from the wagon, she’d be set loose to graze, and was expressing her fury at being dragged along the track by constantly jerking her head to wrest the leading rein from Zophiel’s hand. Zophiel, equally frustrated, kept jerking her forward. The battle between them was not improving the temper of either one.
Adela, who was heavily pregnant, waddled along on the other side of the mare. She was forced to cling to Xanthus’s mane to prevent herself slipping, which only added to the horse’s irritation. I had made Adela tie sacking over her hopelessly thin shoes, but the cloth was now so heavy and slippery with mud, she could scarcely lift her feet high enough to take a step. I could see she was exhausted, but was too afraid of Zophiel’s sharp tongue to admit it.
‘Wait, Zophiel. Adela needs to rest . . . and so do I,’ I added hastily, seeing his thin lips curling in contempt.
‘If she can’t even keep up with a lame horse, then she should rest here permanently. If we have to keep stopping for her, it’ll be dark long before we reach the next village, never mind get back to the wagon.’
‘We can’t leave her here alone in the forest. Besides, we all agreed if the villagers have any food left, they’re more likely to take pity on a woman heavy with child and sell it to her than to you or me,’ I told him.
As we caught our breath, I stared along the track ahead of us. It sloped downwards between trees and thick tangles of brambles. It wasn’t a steep incline, but a large pool of water had accumulated in the dip. I hoped it wasn’t too deep for we’d have to go through it. We’d never coax Xanthus through those thorns.
Zophiel jerked on Xanthus’s reins once more, but it took a whack from the switch to get her to move. She was plainly no more eager to wade through that icy water than we were. Though it was barely midday, under the trees and leaden winter sky the forest was as gloomy as twilight in a graveyard.
Without warning, Xanthus let out a shrill scream and one of her legs gave way beneath her. She jerked her head violently, tearing her reins from Zophiel’s hands, and kicked out. I twisted away from the flailing hoof and my feet slipped from under me. I must have shrieked louder than the poor horse as I hit the ground and felt an agonising pain shoot through my shoulder.
Winded by the fall, it was several moments before I could even think of trying to move. I eased myself into a sitting position and gingerly touched my left shoulder. It was so painful, I was convinced I’d smashed the bone, but my fingers closed over a sharp spike of metal embedded in the flesh. Gritting my teeth, I wrenched it out and felt the hot gush of blood down my back.
I stared uncomprehending at the lump of iron in my hand. My brain was fogged from the shock and pain, so it took several moments for me to register what I should have recognised instantly. It was a caltrop, a metal ball with four long sharp spikes pointing out from it at different angles, which meant that however it landed when thrown, three spikes would sit firmly on the ground while a fourth always pointed directly upwards, ready to sink deep into any hoof or foot that stepped on it.
Xanthus was standing with her front leg bent, resting the edge of the hoof on the ground. She was trembling and whinnying in distress as Zophiel tried to calm her, running his hand down her leg. Evidently one of these foul things had been driven into her hoof. Wincing at the pain in my shoulder, I tried to summon the energy to get to my feet, but I was dizzy from the blood loss and a wave of nausea engulfed me every time I moved my head. Adela waddled round and tried to squat beside me in the mud, pressing the hem of her own skirts over the wound. Her face blanched at the sight of the blood.
‘God’s teeth, what kind of man would leave those things . . .?’ I began.
Even as I said it, I realised that they had not been dropped on to the track by accident. I tried to scramble up, but it was already too late. Before I could prise myself up any further than my knees, a stinking sack had been thrown over my head and pulled down over my arms, pinning them to my sides. I heard both Adela and Zophiel cry out and guessed that they too had been caught.
A length of cord was rapidly twisted around my arms and shoulders. I yelped as it was pulled tight, biting into the wound on my shoulder. Hands hauled me to my feet and I found myself being pushed face-down over the back of an animal; not Xanthus, a smaller beast, a pony or donkey. More rope was lashed around me, binding me tightly over the beast’s back. There had to be at least three men, probably more. But they clearly had no need to speak to each other. This was a well-practised kidnapping.
Adela was yelling for her husband, Osmond, but he could have been anywhere in the forest and even if he heard his name above the howling wind, it would take some time for him to reach us. Adela’s cries were abruptly severed and a cold dread seized me. Had they knocked her unconscious or silenced her for ever?
I heard Xanthus’s shrill whinny and guessed someone had pulled the caltrop from her hoof. At least they’d not abandoned her to suffer. My head thumped and jolted against the pony’s side as it was pulled forward. My ribs were being crushed against its back, and I was struggling to draw breath inside the suffocating sack. Thin whipping branches slashed across my head and legs. They were dragging us through dense vegetation. My head was pounding so violently that I began to fear the caltrop spike had been tipped with poison. It was not unknown.
The pony stopped. Hands fumbled with the knots in the rope that tied me to its back. The rope gave way and I slid off. There was a moment of relief as the pressure on my ribs eased. But as my shoulder hit a rock, a shock of pain engulfed me and I passed out.
The roar of the wind in my head grew louder and the burning pain in my shoulder surged back with it. Every bone in my body felt as if it had been pounded with a hammer. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing except a dim light filtering through the weave of the sack. I’d been propped up in a sitting position against a tree. I could feel the rough bark pressing into my back. When I tried to lift my hands, I found that both my wrists and ankles were tightly bound.
‘Nothing in his pack worth having either,’ a man’s voice growled, ‘save for a few teeth and bones. And the bones are that old and dried, can’t even use them to flavour the pot.’
They’d found my saints’ relics. Pity they couldn’t feel holiness emanating from those bones, but that was hardly surprising considering they’d been purloined from a charnel house and might have belonged to any old sinner. Maybe I should’ve told them what I told the people in the marketplace – That scrap of cloth was cut from the very cloak of St Apollonia and is a certain cure for toothache. Wear that finger bone of St Hyacinth around your neck and you’ll never fear drowning. But there are some men even I cannot convince with my tales.
‘He must have the silver under his shirt.’
Footsteps came towards me. I heard the rasp of a man’s breathing as he bent over me. Instinctively I drew my legs up, trying to protect my chest, bracing myself for the dagger thrust which I was sure was coming. My fear was made worse by not being able to see where he would strike.
‘If I’d silver or gold on me,’ I said, ‘I’d not be tramping through mud, carrying a sack of bones. I’m a piss-poor pedlar, nothing more.’
A man grunted. ‘He’s awake then. What’s he saying?’
Hands seized the front of my shirt, jerking me forward.
‘You try anything and I’ll cut your throat quicker than a kestrel can pounce on a mouse.’ The man’s voice had a peculiar whistle to it.
I felt the sack being dragged upwards. The cold wet air hit my face like a slap. I greedily sucked it into my searing lungs. The world began to steady around me and I peered blearily upwards.
We were in a forest clearing, surrounded by birch scrub, spindly saplings and the rotting stumps of ancient trees. The ruins of an ancient rough-stone building stood nearby. Its corners were covered over with frames fashioned from branches and woven through with reeds and bracken, in an effort to provide some shelter from the rain. Several tiny bothies made from a ragbag of fallen stones and rough-hewn wood huddled against the half-tumbled walls.
Zophiel and Adela sat bound to the bases of trees a few yards away. Zophiel’s head and shoulders were covered with a sack, similar to the one that had been pulled from me. He was slumped forward against his bonds. It was impossible to see if he was merely unconscious or dead. There was no sack on Adela’s head, but a filthy rag had been tied tightly across her mouth as a gag. I could see her chest heaving in short, shallow breaths and her eyes were wide with fear.
Inside the ruins of the building, two men, their hoods pulled low over their faces, sat around a fire pit, and a woman, clad like the men in coarse leggings and tunic, was deftly plucking a woodcock which was bloody and half-mauled as if she had wrested it from the teeth of some predator.
The man who’d removed my sack was standing a couple of paces away from me. The long points of his hood were wound around his mouth and nose to disguise his face.
‘We found nowt in your scrip. So where’s the gold?’
‘I’ve nothing . . .’ My throat was so dry, I could hardly force the words out. ‘Told you, I’m a camelot. But between the pestilence and this rain, a one-legged tightrope walker could’ve earned more than I have on the roads these past months.’
‘Funny how they all tell us that, isn’t it, lads?’ the outlaw said. ‘Amazing how many men set out on a long journey and forget to bring so much as a bent penny with them.’ He looked round at his companions, who laughed mirthlessly.
‘But see, here’s the thing, I bet if I was to strip you, I’d find a purse you’d forgotten all about hidden away, just to keep it safe like. I know how it is. An old man like you can’t be too careful these days, so many wicked robbers about, isn’t that right, lads? Shocking it is. I don’t blame you for keeping your gold well out of sight. Thing is, though, Jack here does the searching and he’s not a patient man, isn’t our Jack. Can’t abide liars, can you, Jack? That comes from him having been in holy orders.’
‘There’s a place in hell specially made for roasting liars,’ the man by the fire said.
‘And if Holy Jack searches a man and finds he’s been lied to, he’s apt to send the sinner straight to that place himself, isn’t that right?’
‘“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,”’ Jack recited cheerfully, waving a dagger so long it could have pierced the heart of an ox.
‘So you see, it’d be best if you told us the truth now, afore we ask old Holy Jack to discover it, ’cause he looks so comfy by that fire, we wouldn’t want to have him move for no good reason, would we? Doesn’t improve his temper any.’
My tongue felt like a wad of dry wool in my mouth, but I tried to moisten my lips. I was desperate not to be searched.
‘I’ve a few coins sewn into the edge of my cloak, but there’s not much left in there.’
The man bent towards me and I tried to bring my bound hands up to cover my face as I glimpsed the flash of a knife. But the blade didn’t touch my skin. It sliced through the fastening of my cloak and he wrenched it off. I gasped as the movement jerked my injured shoulder.
‘Go easy, Pecker,’ the woman murmured. ‘He’s an old man, and by the looks of his face he’s suffered more than most. ’Sides, you only got to see his clothes to know he’s worth nowt. I don’t know why you bothered with them. They none of them look as if they’ve a farthing to bless themselves with.’
‘Couldn’t see who they were in this stinking weather,’ Pecker said sulkily.
He worked methodically over every inch of the cloak, cutting out coins whenever he felt them. But I think even he realised that I’d hardly be carrying anything of great value if I’d gone to such trouble to hide coins worth so little.
‘Dye’ll see to your wound,’ he muttered. ‘She’s a rare talent for healing . . . If we let you live long enough for her to work her magic.’
The woman threw the plucked woodcock into the cooking pot. Then she rose and ducked down into one of the bothies. She emerged with a wad of cloth and a clay jar. She dipped the cloth into the jar, coating it thickly with some green unguent. Dye tossed it to the third man in the group, a small, hunched wretch with weeping sores round his mouth and nose, and one scaly hand knotted into a useless claw, which looked as if it had been withered from birth.
‘Here, Weasel, get him to press on that. It’ll stop the bleeding.’
Weasel ambled over. He ripped the hole in my shirt wider over the wound and stuffed the wad of cloth through the hole. I felt the unguent growing hot against my skin, as if the tongue of an animal was probing into the wound.
‘Something’s not right here,’ Pecker said, frowning. ‘You got a horse, a fine-looking beast ’n’ all, compared to most we get in these parts. It’d be worth a fair bit. See, I’d have thought that if you was as poor as you claim, you’d have sold that horse or eaten it by now.’
Pecker crouched down and peered menacingly into my face. ‘That man and his woman, what’re they to you? She your daughter, is she? ’Cause he don’t look like any pedlar.’
Holy Jack squinted over at Zophiel. ‘Swear, I’ve seen him somewhere before and he wasn’t with any woman then. He wasn’t dressed like that neither.’ Jack scratched his head thoughtfully with the point of his dagger.
‘There, see,’ said Pecker. ‘You’d best give us the truth. Holy Jack here can sniff out a liar better than a dog can scent a rabbit.’
It took me a few moments to realise that he assumed Adela was Zophiel’s wife or mistress. In any other circumstances I’d have laughed, imagining the look of disgust on Zophiel’s face at the mere thought of touching Adela, never mind being the father of her baby. I glanced at Zophiel, but he still hadn’t moved.
All eyes were turned on me and none of them were friendly. It occurred to me that this might just be a trick. What if Adela had already told them that her husband and the others were out there in the forest somewhere, or if they’d realised the man she was shouting for was not the man they had tied to a tree? If they even suspected a lie, the dagger Jack was playing with would slice through my throat. And that’s if I was lucky. I’d heard that some outlaws amused themselves by torturing men before they killed them, thinking up novel ways to make their ends as drawn out and painful as possible, just to while away the hours. I stared at Adela, willing her to give me some sort of sign, but all I could see were fear and panic in her eyes.
‘I told you, Holy Jack isn’t a patient man,’ Pecker growled. ‘You don’t want to—’
He stiffened, staring into the trees, listening. My heart began to race. Our companions must have discovered we’d been taken. They were out there somewhere, creeping towards us, trying to rescue us. Desperate not to give them away, I stared fixedly at the ground as if I’d heard nothing, but I was straining to listen as intently as Pecker. There was a sudden flapping of wings, as if birds had been disturbed from a roost, maybe by our little band moving through the undergrowth. The outlaws scrambled to their feet.
‘More plump pigeons heading this way,’ Pecker announced.
Before I could even turn my head, the outlaws had vanished into the forest. Somewhere a horse screamed. The caltrops had claimed another victim.
We huddled close to the outlaws’ fire pit in the ruined building, digging into the common pot with spoons made of sheep’s bones to fish out pieces of hare and the flesh of several different birds, but I was gobbling so fast I barely had time to taste it. I hadn’t realised how ravenous I was. Zophiel had at last regained consciousness, though he seemed to have little appetite. There was a streak of blood on his forehead and he looked even paler and more gaunt than usual. Adela was picking listlessly at the leg of the woodcock Dye had shoved in her hand. Like Zophiel, she was barely eating.
The night was a dark one, without so much as the glimmer of a star, and the glow of the fire lit up the faces of the outlaws from below, the scarlet flames reflected in their eyes, dancing like imps from hell. Pecker had unwound the tail of his hood from his face to eat, and I saw the reason for the strange whistling when he breathed. His nose had been sliced in two straight down the middle so that he had a dark hole in the middle of his face, with two puckered lumps of flesh hanging on either side. Looking at his tight cap, I suspected his ears had been lopped off too. He’d been mutilated in the pillory. What for? Coin clipping? Sodomy? It was certainly not a question I was about to ask. I always took great care to conceal my own past. The present is all you can truly know of any man, and even of that you can glimpse only a fragment, however long you remain in his company.
The dead branches of the trees clattered in the cold, damp breeze. At least the rain had stopped, but judging by the thick clouds, it would not be for long. Were Rodrigo and Osmond and the others looking for us? They must surely have realised something was wrong by now. I only prayed they would not try to follow our steps along the track. In the dark it would be only too easy to stumble on to more of the caltrops. I had managed to warn Adela and Zophiel to say nothing about the rest of our company. Our only hope of escaping without any of us being killed was if the outlaws were unaware that someone was out there searching for us.
I shuffled closer to the warmth of the fire. The wound on my shoulder had stiffened, but Dye’s ointment had stopped the bleeding and the pain had eased a good deal. I shivered and Dye tossed another lump of wood on the fire.
I nodded gratefully, holding my hands out over the blaze.
‘Aren’t you afraid the fire’ll be seen?’
‘Not out here. Besides, who’d be travelling through the forest at night? They’d not dare. Be too afeared of outlaws cutting their throats,’ Dye said.
Pecker and Weasel chuckled. Adela flinched and, shuddering, glanced behind her. I knew only too well why she and Zophiel had lost their appetites. For just a few yards away, the bloodstained bodies of two monks lay heaped one on top of the other, their habits pulled up to their waists as if they’d been killed in the act of making love. It had amused Holy Jack to arrange them so.
Their throats had been sliced across just as soon as they’d been dragged into the camp. As Pecker casually explained, they never let monks go free. They’d be squealing robbery the moment they reached the nearest town. He had considered blinding them and cutting out their tongues, but everyone knew monks were used to signing to obtain whatever they wanted during their periods of silence, and, he said, it’d be plain cruel to cut off their hands as well. Kinder to dispatch them at once, like putting a wounded dog out of its misery.
Pecker dragged a snail out of the edge of the fire, where it had been roasting in the embers, and, digging the point of his blade into the shell, hooked out the body and popped it in his mouth.
‘Don’t you mind them monks. There’s a gullet1 over yonder. Deep it is, would swallow a church. Men dug it years back when they was mining the ironstone. Fair drop of water there is at the bottom now. Lads’ll throw the monks down there when they’ve had their supper. Gullet’s so big, you could drop a whole army of corpses down there and not fill it.’
‘Just as well, considering how many we’ve sent down there,’ Weasel chuckled. ‘Not all of them dead either. But sides are too steep, can’t clamber out, you see. Have to hand it to ’em, mind. Some give it a fair go, even though we’ve broken their arms and legs for ’em. Can hear ’em shrieking for days after, but death always quietens them down in the end. But ’cause of all this rain, they drown now. Don’t last an hour,’ he added glumly, as if the rain had spoiled all their fun.
I caught the grin on Pecker’s face and briefly wondered if this was just a tale to frighten us into submission. But it was plain from the casual swiftness of the murders that this was by no means the first time Jack and Pecker had killed. I glanced back at the naked buttocks of the monks, smeared with bloody streaks from Holy Jack’s fingers. Just how many bodies lay rotting in that quarry?
The night was growing colder, and Adela’s gown was soaked from the rain. In spite of the fire, her teeth began to chatter. Dye shrugged off the ancient sheepskin cloak in which she’d wrapped herself. She wandered over and crouched behind Adela, wrapping the skin tightly about Adela’s shoulders and rubbing her arms briskly with it.
‘You don’t want to be catching a chill, not with the bairn.’ She laid her hand on Adela’s swollen belly. ‘Carried one myself once, but that were a long time ago. Boy, it was.’
‘Did he grow into a fine man?’ Adela asked.
A spasm of pain creased Dye’s face. ‘Never drew breath, poor mite. My husband’s fist saw to that when it was still in my belly. At least the babe never learned what it means to be afeared.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Adela whispered.
‘Whatever for?’ Dye heaved herself to her feet. ‘Fine mam I’d have made. Probably woken up some morning to find I was trying to feed its arse ’stead of its face.’ She laughed and the outlaws chuckled with her.
But I saw tears in Adela’s eyes as she watched Dye walk back to the fire.
Now that everyone had either eaten their fill or given up trying, Dye added water to the cooking pot and covered it with a broken plank of wood weighted down with stones. The pottage would doubtless be our breakfast in the morning, assuming we survived the night.
Wrinkling her nose she glanced over at the dead monks. ‘You going to get off your backsides and get those bodies shifted? Stench of blood ’ll draw every beast in the forest and I don’t want to be kept awake all night by foxes and badgers fighting over the corpses.’
‘Get more peace if we put you down the gullet,’ Pecker said sourly.
Dye flashed him a disdainful look. ‘You fancy spending the night driving off packs of stray dogs, do you?’
Pecker gave the resigned sigh of a man who knows he can’t win. ‘Come on, lads, may as well get them stripped. See what prizes they brought us. Then we’ll swim them, see if they float or sink. Guilty or innocent, what do you reckon?’
Pecker and Weasel dragged the corpses apart and, while the two of them worked on stripping one, Holy Jack searched the other. It isn’t easy undressing a dead man, but the outlaws were not concerned with preserving the monk’s robes, quite the reverse. Using their knives, they cut away the salvageable cloth into lengths, tossing them to Dye who neatly folded them. The bloodstained cloth they threw onto the fire where it hissed and smouldered for a long time before burning to ashes.
The men made a small pile of the treasures they found – leather drinking flasks, a couple of weighty money bags, rings wrenched from fat fingers, two wooden crosses and finally scrips containing sealed letters written on rolls of parchment together with some smoked fish and dried mutton which they were evidently carrying to stave off hunger on the journey. Dye immediately added the fish and meat to the pottage in the cooking pot, while the letters crackled on the fire. Their scarlet wax seals melted, running down like blood, until they turned black and vanished in a plume of smoke.
Weasel, using his good hand, turned the scrips upside-down, shaking out the last of the contents, obviously hopeful that some object of value might still be concealed in them. But the only things to tumble out were a stray coin of little worth, a packet of fern seeds, doubtless to protect the monks from the attention of evil spirits, and a heavy object wrapped in woollen cloth which thudded onto the ground. Weasel pounced on it and deftly unwrapped it with one hand, his eyes gleaming with anticipation in the firelight. His groan of disappointment was audible across the camp.
‘Poxy stone! As if we needed any more of those.’ He petulantly kicked the nearest pile of rubble. ‘What’s he want to carry a stone about for?’
Zophiel raised his head.
‘Penance,’ he said coldly. ‘He may have knelt on it to pray or slept on it. You’ve probably murdered a saint.’
Holy Jack snorted. ‘So when I throw him in the gullet, he’ll walk on water and raise all the other corpses into the bargain. If he does, I’ll be the first to beg his holiness’s pardon.’
Weasel sniggered.
‘Anyway, that’s no penance stone. Not sharp enough,’ Jack said, peering over at the object in Weasel’s hand. ‘I reckon he was carrying some treasure or other to an abbey, only some bastard got there before we did, switched the packages while our saint was sleeping or stuffing his gorpe-belly at an inn. Seen it done many a time.’
‘Doubtless because you were the one doing it,’ Zophiel retorted.
Holy Jack’s fist clenched around the handle of his knife, and his jaw tightened. I would have kicked Zophiel hard had I been closer. Didn’t he realise if Jack lost his temper we could yet be joining the monks in that pottage of human corpses.
But thankfully the tension was broken by a roar of laughter from Pecker.
‘Not Jack it wasn’t. If you want to summon the Holy Spirit, Jack’s your man all right, but if you want something spiriting away, it’s our Weasel you need. That’s what landed you in the dung heap, wasn’t it, Weasel? Spiriting away a sweet little jewel while an old lady slept. Only he hadn’t spotted, she’d a lapdog beneath her skirts. Had to run for it. Claimed sanctuary at Beverley and they sent him in sackcloth to the nearest port, but he couldn’t find a ship to take him on, could you, Weasel? Ships’ captains reckoned he’d never be able to work his passage with only one hand. But he can do with one hand what most can’t do with two. Can slide a man’s ring off his finger or take a purse from inside his shirt and he won’t even know it’s gone.’
Weasel gave a sly grin, showing sharp yellow teeth. He flashed the stone he was holding and it had vanished into air before we could blink. A moment later, he was pulling it out of the front of his shirt. I saw Zophiel lean forward, his eyes narrowed. Here was a magician who was almost as skilled as he was, not that Weasel would ever have given himself that exalted title.
From far away in the darkness came a long, drawn-out howl. Adela, Zophiel and I all stiffened, glancing anxiously at each other. We’d heard that cry before.
‘Are you done with those corpses yet?’ Dye snapped. ‘I told you, the wild dogs ’ll latch on to the smell of blood afore you can fart.’
Weasel sprang up.
‘Mangy curs! I hate ’em. They’d eat us alive given half a chance.’
As the howl came again, he hurled a stone out into the darkness, but it thudded against what sounded more like wood than living flesh. Scooping up more stones from the ground, he flung them after the first. We heard a yelp and a whimper. One at least had hit its mark.
‘Leave ’em be. It’ll take more than stones to drive them off,’ Pecker said. ‘Dye’s right, it’s the blood they can smell.’ He sighed. ‘Come on, you take the feet of this ’un, I’ll take the head. Dye, you mind the spoils. We’ll divide them later.’
He craned round, staring at the three of us sitting round the fire, wisely dismissing both Adela and me as being useless for the task of disposing of the bodies.
‘You, what’s your name?’
‘Zophiel.’
Pecker laughed. ‘You could sprain your tongue saying that. Your mam think you a little prince, did she? Well, your Highness, be so good as to shift your arse over here and help Jack carry the other lump of crow-bait.’
‘I’ll do no such thing. I won’t help you cover up a murder.’
Dye sprang at Zophiel, knocking him flat on his back. Before he could recover his senses, she was straddling his chest, pinning down his forearms by grinding her knees into them. She pressed the edge of her knife to his throat.
‘Listen, your Highness, you can help us get rid of the body or you can be the body we get rid of. It’s all the same to me. Of course, we could save you the bother of carrying the monk to the gullet. Just tie you to his corpse and leave you both out in the forest for the wild dogs to play with. So what’s it to be?’
Zophiel glowered unblinking into her face, but if he thought that was going to unnerve her, he was mistaken, for she merely glared back, pressing the flat of the blade hard against his throat until he began to choke.
Finally he gasped something which Dye seemed to take for surrender. Still holding the sharp point of the dagger towards Zophiel, she shuffled off him and jerked the blade silently towards the corpse. Zophiel, his jaw clenched, rose with what little dignity he could muster and limped towards the second corpse. He bent to grab the man under his armpits, then froze, peering at the man’s arm.
He pulled a branch from the fire pit and held the burning end over the body.
‘She told you to pick it up,’ Pecker growled.
‘Wait!’ Holy Jack said, snatching the branch from Zophiel and holding the flame close to the monk’s arm. ‘He’s a mark on his skin here.’
He glanced sharply up at Zophiel.
‘What’s it mean?’
Zophiel shrugged.
‘How should I know? I thought you were in a hurry to dispose of these corpses.’
‘It means something all right,’ Jack persisted. ‘I saw the way you looked it at.’
‘It’s a . . . curious mark. I haven’t seen anything like it before.’
‘Ahh, but I reckon you have.’
Pecker took several stumbling paces back from the bodies.
‘Here, it’s not the pestilence is it? I heard some of ’em gets blue marks on their skin. If he’s brought—’
Jack stared intently at the corpse’s arm. ‘It’s red. Someone’s marked his skin with a brand or some such, but it’s no felon’s mark. It looks a snake . . . with legs. But what I want to know is, what it means.’
Both Jack and Dye moved so swiftly, Zophiel had no time to step aside. In one fluid movement Jack pressed his dagger against the side of Zophiel’s throat, while Dye pressed hers between his shoulder blades, all but skewering Zophiel between them.
‘What’s it mean?’ Jack repeated.
Zophiel hesitated, then gave a convulsive jerk as Dye pressed her blade harder.
‘It is a salamander . . . a fire-lizard. The creature’s born of fire, yet it’s cold and it can extinguish the fire with the milk from its skin. It’s venomous. If it wraps itself around a tree, all the fruit on that tree will become deadly poisonous, and if it falls into water, anyone who drinks from the water will die.’
Pecker frowned. ‘The mark’s some kind of talisman, is it? For protection?’
Weasel sniggered. ‘Didn’t protect him any, did it? He’s worm meat, same as the other one.’
Jack looked hard at Zophiel.
‘Nay, there’s more to this mark than that, else you wouldn’t be so interested. It’s a sign of some kind. What?’
Zophiel flinched again, as the dagger pricked.
‘If you must know, it’s a sign the bearer carries the stone. It’s said that as the salamander lives in fire, so does the stone. The art of drawing the stone from the fire is known only to a few. It’s passed down in secret. Men who’ve mastered the art are branded with the salamander’s mark as a sign of their initiation.’
‘Stone?’ Pecker repeated. ‘What is this stone? What do they want with it?’
Zophiel gave a mirthless laugh.
‘You said it yourself – protection. But it’s not the mark of the salamander that protects, it’s the possession of the stone, for that, my friends, is said to cure any sickness that can befall a man, even if he be within death’s touch. A man who possesses that stone need never fear the Great Pestilence.’
Dye lowered her dagger.
‘It can cure anyone?’ she asked, in an awed tone.
‘Anyone who has the money to pay for the cure,’ Pecker said, a grin spreading across his face. ‘And I reckon there’s not a man or woman in this land wouldn’t give all they owned and more for a touch of it if they was mortally sick. For gold’s no use if you’re dead . . . And if that monk was carrying the stone, it must be . . .’
Pecker dropped to his knees, feverishly rummaging through the possessions they’d taken from the two bodies. He stopped as his fingers encountered the empty woollen cloth. He held it up. All eyes slowly turned to Weasel.
‘Those stones you threw at the dogs, tell me one of them wasn’t the stone that was wrapped in this.’
‘Might have been,’ Weasel said, backing away. His frightened gaze darted from one face to another. ‘How was I to know? He said it was penance and Holy Jack said someone switched it for a treasure. Said it was worthless. You all did. It’s not my fault.’
Pecker made a lunge for him, grabbing him by his scrawny neck and shaking him.
‘We didn’t tell you to chuck it away. Where did you throw it? What did it look like?’
‘A stone . . . a stone, that’s what it looked like. You all saw it.’ Weasel flapped his withered hand, sweeping it across the vast darkness of the forest. ‘Out there . . . somewhere.’
Pecker dropped Weasel, who scuttled back behind the wall, and returned to Zophiel, peering up at him. Zophiel turned away from Pecker’s foul breath, his long nose wrinkled in disgust.
‘Salamander’s stone – what’s it look like?’
‘I don’t recall,’ Zophiel said.
Pecker thrust his face closer into Zophiel’s.
‘You’d better start recalling or I’ll let Holy Jack here cut you into so many pieces, a whole mountain of stones won’t be able to cure you.’
Zophiel treated Pecker to one of his most contemptuous looks.
‘I’ve never seen one, but I’m told that when it’s in the fire it glows red. Out of the fire, it’s dull, almost black. As your friend so rightly says, it appears worthless. That’s how the masters describe it. Something no one would look at twice. But what does it matter now? It’s gone. Look, you told us this was a quarry. How many stones do you imagine lie out there? Probably more than the stars in the sky and you have as much chance of seeing one of those under these clouds as you have of finding that stone your friend so carelessly cast away.’
‘We’ll find it,’ Pecker said grimly. ‘And you’re going to help us. But first we’d best make sure you can’t go wandering off in that big, bad forest.’
Weasel, anxious to redeem himself in Pecker’s eyes, tied Zophiel’s hands behind him, winding the rope round and round his chest until he resembled a fly wrapped by a spider. He left a short length of rope by which Zophiel could be led.
‘How’ll you know when you’ve found it?’ Dye asked. ‘There’s none of us who’s fallen sick to try it on.’
Jack grunted. ‘We’ll just have to saw off his Highness’s hand and see which stone makes it grow back.’
Weasel and Pecker chuckled.
‘And you know how to use this stone if you find it, do you?’ Zophiel asked, his jaw clenched.
‘I reckon you’ll tell us fast enough, when you’re lying there bleeding to death,’ Jack said. He bent to light a crude torch in the flames of the fire, then tugged on Zophiel’s rope. ‘Start over here, shall we?’
They tied Adela and me up again, pulling the stinking sacks back over our heads and leaving us sitting with our backs to the ruined wall close to the fire. I could hear Adela’s breathing coming in short shallow gasps and was afraid that her birth pains had started. The child was not yet due, but women can be frightened into labour before their time.
I could just make out the glow of the fire through the weave and it occurred to me that if we were left for long enough, I might be able to twist myself round and burn through the rope, if I could steel myself against both the pain of moving my injured shoulder and the heat of the fire. But as if she could hear my thoughts, Dye leaned down and growled that if either of us attempted to escape, they would cut Zophiel’s throat. And I was certain she meant it.
Although there’d been times on the journey when I would gladly have cut Zophiel’s throat myself, I couldn’t bring myself to leave him to their mercy. Besides, how far would a pregnant woman and wounded old camelot get, especially when the outlaws probably knew the forest better than the owls calling from the trees? Our best hope was that the rest of our company would find us.
We could hear the voices of the outlaws, the clatter of stones being picked up and tossed impatiently aside. Then the howling began again, closer this time.
Adela whimpered. ‘Those poor monks . . . their bodies . . . Can the dogs smell them?’
The corpses lay abandoned just yards from us. The stench of their blood would carry far on this wind.
‘The dogs will only be interested in the dead,’ I assured her. ‘They won’t harm us.’
It wasn’t true. I’d once seen a pack of feral dogs snarling and fighting over the fresh carcass of a sheep. In their blood frenzy they’d turned on a passing woman and child, and mauled them as savagely as the dead sheep. And if the howls were coming not from dogs, but wolves . . .
I stiffened. Something was creeping towards us. I could hear the soft squelch in the mud, the faint rattle as it crept over the rubble, the hard breathing of a beast panting. My throat tightened as I realised it was not just the bodies of the dead monks that smelled of blood. My own cloak and shirt were soaked in the blood from the wound in my shoulder.
‘Adela,’ I whispered urgently, ‘draw your knees up and turn to the wall, press your face and belly hard against it, if you can.’
She was still wrapped in Dye’s sheepskin cloak, which I hoped might protect her back a little. I heard her struggling as she tried to move her swollen belly, but with her arms bound behind her, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I too tried to turn my head towards the stones, wincing against the pain in my shoulder, anything to protect my face and throat, not that it would save me for long. My heart pounding, I braced myself against the first savage bite that I knew was coming.
I drew a deep breath and yelled, ‘Pecker, Dye—’
Something clamped itself to the outside of the sack, pressing against my mouth and nose so hard I couldn’t draw breath. I’d been so sure that I was about to feel teeth tearing at my flesh, it took me a moment to register that a human voice was whispering urgently close to my ear.
‘Make no sound, Camelot.’
The next moment, the sack was pulled off. I was staring up into the anxious face of the musician, Rodrigo.
Crouching down, he gripped my shoulder, trying to help me turn. I yelped and he snatched his hand away in surprise, then looked down at his wet fingers glistening in the firelight.
‘Sangue! You are hurt, Camelot.’
‘It’s nothing. But Adela—’
‘Osmond helps her. Where . . .’
Rodrigo broke off with a gasp of horror as he caught sight of the two bloody corpses on the ground, the shadows and firelight running over their naked flesh like an army of mice.
With a frightened glance around him, he knelt clumsily and began to saw through the rope that bound my wrists with his knife.
‘Zophiel, he is dead?’ he whispered.
‘Not yet. But we were taken by some outlaws. Four of them. He’s with them and they have him bound. They’re searching for something out there among the trees.’
Osmond was untying his wife, a process which was hampered by him repeatedly kissing and hugging her and by her trying to press against his shoulder. He helped her up and they stumbled towards us.
‘Hurry,’ Osmond whispered urgently. ‘We have to get out of here before the outlaws return.’
‘We can’t leave without Zophiel,’ I said. ‘They’ll kill him.’
‘That won’t be any great loss,’ Osmond said, sourly. ‘Anyway, he can take care of himself. I have to get Adela away now!’
Adela shook her head. ‘You don’t know what they could do to him. They said . . . said there was a quarry filled with rotting corpses. Some aren’t even dead when they throw them in. We must help him.’
‘This one of yours too, is it?’ a voice sang out in the darkness behind us.
We all whipped round. The four outlaws stood on the other side of the clearing, Zophiel still bound between them. They had extinguished their torches, but the wind gusted the flames in the fire, so that their faces were for a moment illuminated like ghostly skulls and then they vanished back into the darkness. As the red glow lit them up once more, I saw there was another figure with them. Rodrigo recognised him at the same instant I did and gave a cry as he saw his young apprentice, Jofre, held fast in the grip of Dye and Weasel, Dye’s knife at his throat.
‘Let them go!’ The child’s voice was shrill enough to pierce even the shrieking wind.
The outlaws stared around, as did we all, for it was impossible to say where it had come from.
‘That’s Narigorm,’ I whispered to Rodrigo. ‘Where is she?’
‘She should be hidden with the wagon,’ Rodrigo muttered angrily. ‘I told Cygnus to keep her there.’
‘If you don’t let them go, I’ll throw the stone in the water with all those dead bodies,’ Narigorm sang out.
We were all peering into the thick darkness, but we couldn’t even glimpse her. Pecker and Weasel were beginning to look unnerved, as if they feared the voice might be that of a wood sprite or wraith.
‘What stone?’ Pecker called, turning his head this way and that, like an agitated squirrel.
‘The one you’ve been looking for. I found it.’
The outlaws glanced uneasily at each other. Jack muttered something to Pecker, who shook his head vehemently.
With a cry, Dye pointed upwards and fear spread across the faces of the outlaws as they saw what she was staring it. On top of the tallest part of the ruined wall was the disembodied head of a girl. The long hair writhing around her face was ghost-white against the black sky. Weasel gave a shriek, let go of Jofre and fled into the trees. Holy Jack dropped to his knees, crossing himself repeatedly. Dye and Pecker simply stared.
Rodrigo didn’t hesitate. With a bull’s roar, he charged across towards the little group, his knife upraised like a sword. He was a weighty man, and as he hurtled into Pecker, they both crashed to the ground. Dye leaped onto Rodrigo’s back. I saw the flash of a blade in her hand, and yelled a warning, cringing as I saw her strike down, for I could do nothing. But Jofre had seen it too. He caught Dye by her hair, jerking her backwards, and dragged her, shrieking, off his master. Osmond had also reached the outlaws and was wrestling on the ground with Holy Jack, both of them cursing and swearing at each other. Zophiel, still trussed up like stuffed meat, was knocked to the ground, but managed to roll away and vanish into the night.
They fought themselves into exhaustion, while Adela cried out in alarm, terrified that one of the blades would find its mark in Osmond. Eventually her pleas must have penetrated his ears, for he called a halt and Dye wisely backed him.
Osmond and Rodrigo, his arm clapped around Jofre’s shoulder, limped back towards us. All three were smeared with mud and blood from grazes and cuts, but mercifully none seemed to be seriously wounded. Dye, Holy Jack and Pecker had clambered to their feet and were staring up again at the top of the wall, but there was nothing to be seen. They too edged back towards the fire, but halfway across the clearing they jerked to a stop.
Narigorm was crouching by the fire pit. Her wind-blown hair had turned from white to scarlet, as if flames were leaping from her head. She had lifted the iron pot of pottage back onto the tripod over the fire and was digging into it with her knife, spearing pieces of meat which she devoured as rapidly as a dog stealing from his master’s dish. I felt a shiver of unease as I always did when I saw her. She appeared completely indifferent to the outcome of the fight, and yet she had tried to save Jofre and Zophiel. Why?
As if she could sense what I was thinking, she lifted her head and met my gaze. As the wind twisted the firelight and shadows on her skin, her face suddenly looked a thousand years old.
Jack glanced at us and back at her. Then, evidently deciding that if we were not afraid of her she must be human, he gestured towards her.
‘That child with you?’
I nodded reluctantly. I knew we had reason to be grateful to her for what she’d just done, but somehow that only made me more wary of her.
Jack edged round the clearing towards one of the small bothies and squatted in front of it, picking the mud from under his nails with the point of his knife, never once taking his eyes off Narigorm.
Pecker sidled closer, taking care to keep the fire between himself and the child.
‘Said you had the stone. That true?’
Narigorm bestowed one of her innocent, wide-eyed expressions on him. ‘I always tell the truth.’
‘Let’s see it.’
The child reached down the front of the white shift she always wore and pulled something out. She held it up. It was a dull black, about the same size and shape as a hen’s egg. It looked to be the same stone I’d seen Weasel playing with earlier, but I couldn’t be sure and evidently neither could Pecker.
‘How do I know it’s the right one?’ He squatted down, his body tense as if he was ready to spring away at the first sign of danger.
Dye peered over his shoulder.
‘Could be. His Highness said it was black and there’s not many stones like that in these parts. Weasel would know.’
‘He’s legged it and so’s his Highness.’
‘He said stone turns red in fire,’ Jack growled.
‘Aye, he did right enough,’ Pecker said.
‘This stone, it is valuable?’ Rodrigo asked.
‘One of the dead monks was carrying it,’ I told him. ‘Zophiel says it’s a salamander stone. It cures anything . . . if you know how to use it.’
I didn’t know if Zophiel really believed what he’d told the outlaws. He was as sharp as death’s scythe. As a magician, he was used to thinking quickly and silencing any sceptics in a crowd. He could easily have invented the whole tale to distract the outlaws, in the hope of getting away. But now was not the time to mention that.
Pecker seemed to make up his mind. He sprang up and bounded round the fire towards Narigorm. Osmond saw what was about to happen. He stepped swiftly between the outlaw and the child.
‘It’s mine,’ Pecker said. ‘Spoils it is, taken fair and square. I earned it.’
‘Stole it,’ Osmond said, glancing across at the monks’ corpses.
‘“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart,”’ Holy Jack intoned.
‘Hear that?’ Pecker said, triumphantly. ‘The dead own nothing. So it’s not thieving to take what they don’t own.’
‘But you murdered them to get it,’ Osmond said, indignantly.
‘That’s as maybe,’ Pecker said. ‘But that’s killing, not thieving. Isn’t that right, Jack?’
Narigorm stood up, slipped around Osmond and before anyone realised what she intended, she had tossed the black stone into the centre of the fire.
Pecker howled. He tried to snatch it out with his bare hand, but the fire burned too fiercely.
‘I’ll kill you, you filthy little brat,’ he yelled, making a grab for Narigorm.
If Osmond hadn’t pulled her away, I am sure Pecker would have thrown her onto the fire.
‘But you said you wanted to know if it was the real stone,’ Narigorm said, sweetly. ‘Now you’ll be able to see if it turns red.’
Pecker peered into the pit. ‘Can’t see it at all in those hot embers.
‘Then it must have gone red, mustn’t it?’ Narigorm said.
Pecker frowned suspiciously, staring down into the fire, his eyes watering from the smoke.
Narigorm turned back to me. ‘We must leave now,’ she said firmly, as if it was her decision to make.
Pecker glanced up sharply.
‘Is this a trick? Maybe she didn’t throw it in the fire at all. She’s got a cutpurse’s fingers, like Weasel, can make things vanish. No, brat, you’re staying right here till that stone’s in my hand. ’Sides, we need his Highness to tell us how it works. So we’ll just keep all of you here, nice and safe, till he gets bored of hiding in the forest and comes to find you.’
Rodrigo’s knife was in his hand again. ‘You are fools if you think you can keep us here. Maybe you could hold an old man and a pregnant woman, but not all of us together.’
Dye held up her hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Take no notice of Pecker. Manners of a charging boar, he has. He’s not used to fine company. What he means is, why don’t you stay here for the night, keep warm by the fire? Lass in her condition can’t go traipsing through the forest in the dark. If she falls, she could lose the bairn. ’Sides, that horse of yours is lame. It won’t be going anywhere in a hurry. And I’ve seen the way you was eyeing the pot. I reckon you’ve not had a bite all day. Strapping man like you needs his meats.’
Narigorm glared at Dye.
‘We are going now!’ She pointed to the corpses. ‘If Adela sleeps with death, her baby will die.’
Adela clutched at Osmond in alarm.
‘Never you mind about them,’ Dye said. ‘Pecker and Jack’ll shift them, right now, won’t you? You’ve eaten a bellyful, lass. Give your elders a chance to get something hot inside them.’
‘Let them go,’ Holy Jack growled from across the clearing. ‘Cut our throats while we sleep, they will.’
But I noticed he was not looking at Rodrigo’s knife, but at Narigorm. He was afraid of her and it wasn’t just her white hair. He saw something malevolent in that child, something that up to then I thought only I could see.
The temptation of a hot meal proved too much for Osmond, Rodrigo and Jofre. Once the corpses had been removed by Pecker and Jack, they dug into the common pot with nearly as much gusto as Narigorm had done.
Pecker was painstakingly raking through the fire with part of an old pickaxe blade. The metal hit something solid among the wood ash. He flicked it out. The egg-shaped stone momentarily glowed red, but as he rolled it away from the flame it turned black again, though unlike its namesake, the salamander, it was still far too hot to touch. Pecker sat there watching it intently as it cooled, as if he expected it to hatch, but it lay as dead as any one of the thousands of rocks and pebbles that were scattered around us. As soon as he could handle it, Pecker rolled it in the woollen cloth he’d taken from the monk and slipped it inside his tunic.
Neither Zophiel nor Weasel returned to the camp. I thought Weasel might sidle back, but I did not expect Zophiel to put himself into the hands of the outlaws again. I had no idea whether he was hiding in the forest, was wandering lost, or had managed to make his way back to Cygnus and the wagon. In any case, it would be pointless to search for him in the dark and I suspected Jofre, at least, would be relieved to be spending a night free from his constant jibes, for along with Cygnus he was usually the butt of Zophiel’s stinging sarcasm.
‘What’s the lass doing?’ Dye asked.
I glanced over to where Narigorm was sitting cross-legged, staring at something on the ground. My heart sank as I caught sight of the three concentric circles she had drawn in the mud.
‘She is a rune reader by trade,’ Osmond said. ‘Tells fortunes at fairs and markets, don’t you?’
Narigorm said nothing. All her attention was focused on the three circles. I felt my gorge rise. The last time Narigorm had read the runes, she had predicted the death of one of our company, and the next morning we had found the body. I kept trying to convince myself that she had somehow witnessed the death or merely guessed at it, but there was such a malicious delight in her voice and eyes when she’d uttered the words that I almost felt as if she had caused it with those runes of hers.
‘No, Narigorm, not tonight,’ I protested. ‘We’re too tired for such games.’
As soon as the words fell from my mouth, I knew that I had made a foolish mistake. Narigorm turned her ice-blue gaze to me, her eyes glittering.
‘It’s not a game, Camelot. It’s never a game.’
‘She found the stone, didn’t she?’ Pecker said stoutly. ‘I reckon she’s got the gift. Here, girl, you tell my fortune. Go on.’
Narigorm smiled. ‘I need something of yours. That amulet you always wear.’
Pecker’s jaw dropped. ‘How did you know . . .? See, I told you she had the gift.’
He hauled on a cord round his neck and dragged out an object from beneath his tunic. Narigorm was clever. She must have glimpsed the cord and guessed that a man like Pecker would wear some kind of hidden amulet to keep him from harm. In truth, I used that trick myself in the taverns and markets when I was looking out for those who’d be most easily persuaded to buy my charms or relics.
Pecker handed Narigorm a greasy linen pouch. ‘Moonwort, that is. That herb’ll open any lock. And the heart of a toad. No man can catch you when you carry its heart,’ he added proudly.
Narigorm took the bag and laid it carefully in the centre of the circles.
Then she held her bag of runes above the amulet and, dipping her hand in, she pulled out three of the rune stones and flung them across the circles.
Holy Jack shrank back, raising his arms so that they were crossed over his face as if he was warding off great evil and shrieking ‘“Sanguis eorum sit super illos!” “Their blood is upon them.” “They shall stone the diviner with stones.”’
‘It’s you that wants stoning,’ Pecker snapped. ‘Let her work.’
‘“You shall not suffer a witch to live,”’ Jack muttered sullenly, like a hound which must get in one last yap after it’s been commanded to be silent.
Narigorm ignored both of them. She pointed to one of the runes.
‘Kanaz, the rune of fire and sickness.’
Far from seeming dismayed, Pecker appeared delighted.
‘That means the salamander’s stone, that does.’ He moved closer, bending over the circles to peer at the other runes. ‘What does that one mean? Wealth? Heaps of gold and rubies? A fine house? You’ll see, the whole world’ll be crawling on their bellies to my door, knowing I have the certain cure. And I’ll make ’em pay through their pizzles for it.’
Narigorm’s pale hand fluttered like a moth across the second rune.
‘Beorc, that’s the woman’s rune, the hearth rune.’
‘See that, Dye.’ Pecker lifted his head and beamed at her. ‘Runes are saying you’ll be the mistress of this grand house. Told you I’d make us rich one day, didn’t I?’
A fine mist of rain had begun to fall again. Water dripped from the two puckered lumps of flesh either side of Pecker’s split nose, but in his excitement he seemed as unconcerned as Narigorm by the cold or wet. Above the ruins, the wind rattled the branches of the trees as if they were old bones. The firelight danced across the three circles on the ground, as Narigorm’s small fingers moved to the final rune. Pecker’s voracious eyes followed.
‘But Beorc isn’t alone. See, Is lies next to her, that means the woman is treacherous. She has betrayed you.’
Pecker snapped upright, spinning round to face Dye.
‘What does she mean? Have you turned king’s approver for a pardon? Our lives for your freedom, that it?’
Dye shot him a venomous look. ‘How long have you known me, Pecker? Do you really think I’m a snake? If they catch you, they’ll catch me and we’ll dangle side by side from the gallows.’
‘Then what does she mean – betrayed?’
Dye’s gaze flicked to Holy Jack, and just as swiftly back again. But not swiftly enough, for Pecker had caught the glance.
‘Have you been swiving him, you whore? Have you?’
Pecker kicked the runes savagely aside. He bounded over the rubble towards the bothy. Jack scrambled to his feet. Pecker raised his fist, but Jack’s knife was already in his hand.
‘Share everything,’ Holy Jack growled. ‘That’s the bargain we made. Dye’s willing, so why should you care?’
Dye ran up and pulled on Pecker’s arm, but he smashed her aside, knocking her to the ground, and pulled his own knife. The two men circled each other, tossing their daggers from hand to hand.
Dye stared wildly round at us. ‘Stop them. They’ll kill each other.’
I glanced down at Narigorm. It may have been just the flicker of the shadows cast by firelight, but I was sure she was grinning.
Dye finally persuaded her two lovers to call a grudging truce and all three of the outlaws retreated to their own bothies in sullen silence. We bedded down as best we could among the ruins of the old building, trying to squeeze under the bits of makeshift roofs or up into corners, anything that would keep the rain from falling on our faces. It was cold and the ground was hard, but I’ve tramped the roads for so many years I could sleep in a bear pit, and even the ache in my shoulder couldn’t keep me awake after the day we’d endured.
By the time I woke the next morning, a heavy grey light already filled the forest, but I might not have woken even then had it not been for the shriek of rage which brought us all staggering out from our holes to see Pecker stomping round and howling incoherently. It took a few moments to make out what he was saying.
‘Stone’s gone.’ He shook the woollen cloth in his fist at us. ‘Some thieving bastard’s stolen it.’
‘Are you blind?’ Jofre said. ‘The stone’s still in the cloth.’
‘This isn’t the salamander stone. Some arse-wipe’s swapped it. Thought I wouldn’t notice.’
Pecker peeled back the cloth, thrusting it under our noses. The stone inside was roughly the size of the one I’d seen the night before, but paler and much more angular.
Pecker grabbed Jofre by the front of his jerkin, his eyes narrowing.
‘How did you know there was a stone in the cloth, boy? Did you put it there when you stole mine?’
Rodrigo seized Pecker’s wrist and forced him to let the lad go. Rodrigo held his pupil by the shoulders and searched his face.
‘Ragazzo, on your honour you will tell me, did you take the stone?’
Jofre glared at Rodrigo and for a moment I feared he would stubbornly refuse to answer. But finally he shook his head.
‘I didn’t touch his wretched stone, I swear.’
‘What’s that supposed to prove?’ Pecker demanded. ‘You’re his master, you probably told him to do it. Fecking foreigners. Thieves, the whole lot of you!’
Rodrigo took a furious step towards Pecker and might well have punched him had Dye not pushed her way between them.
‘Pecker . . . Pecker! It’s Holy Jack, he’s gone.’
Pecker ran towards the little bothy and peered inside, then crawled in on his hands and knees, as if to satisfy himself that Jack wasn’t hiding somewhere.
Dye stood watching, her hands on her hips.
‘Jack never gets out of his pit this early. Says it’s not worth stirring till there’s fresh meat to be hunted on the road, and nobody comes this way much afore noon in winter. He must have taken off last night, ’cause I’ve been up since afore cockcrow and I never saw him go.’
‘So, Signora,’ Rodrigo said, ‘it seems the thief is your missing friend and not a foreigner after all. Perhaps your husband wishes to apologise.’
Dye laughed, but whether it was at the idea that Pecker was her husband or that he would ever apologise was hard to say, for at that moment Pecker crawled back out of the bothy, and the look of fury on his face was enough to strangle any laughter at birth.
Rage and rail as Pecker might and did, it was not going make the thief return. He insisted we cast around to see if there was a trail of footprints which might show the direction Jack had taken. None of us were inclined to help Pecker but, given his foul mood, he might easily have knifed one of us if we didn’t at least appear to be searching. Besides, if we could send him off in pursuit of Jack, we could recover our property and slip away, maybe with a few additional supplies into the bargain. Is it stealing to take what a thief has stolen? The plunder could hardly be returned to its dead owners.
But the ground immediately around the camp had been well trodden and beyond it the earth was so sodden after months of rain that water simply lay in great pools on top of the ground which, like an over-fed baby, had refused to swallow another drop and was burping up what it had already drunk.
I thought we might have more luck looking for signs that someone had brushed against trees, breaking twigs or snagging clothing on them in the dark. I was scanning the undergrowth and not paying much attention to where I was walking. I took a step forward and had to fling myself backwards as the ground vanished beneath my foot. I sprawled in the mud, clenching my jaw against the searing pain in my shoulder.
I was lying on the edge of a deep pit, about five yards broad and long, half-filled with muddy water as thick and stinking as mouldering soup. I dragged myself painfully back from the edge, not daring to stand up until I was away from the lip, for fear the sodden ground would collapse beneath me. As I clambered to my feet, I saw that something was floating below me in the near corner which had been hidden from my view.
A naked human corpse lay just beneath the surface, the opaque eyes staring sightlessly up from its swollen features, the boated belly protruding just above the grey-green water. But there was something else, something caught on the floating corpse. It was a second body, this one clothed in a ragged brown cloak which fanned out over him, like the hair of a grotesque mermaid. It was floating face-down, a dagger protruding from between its shoulder blades.
There was no way to remove Holy Jack’s corpse from the gullet, for the pit was so deep that in spite of the rain, the water level was still twice a man’s height below the edge. If Jack’s body had not been caught on one of the gas-bloated corpses, it would have sunk in the suppurating liquid and we would never have known he was dead. Not even Pecker could remember how many corpses lay rotting down there. Pecker and Dye were certain it was Jack’s own dagger protruding from his back. The question was – who had plunged it in there?
As soon as she saw the body floating in the pit, Dye flew at Pecker, pounding him with her fists and scratching at his face.
‘What did you have to kill him for? He’s been a good friend to us, the best!’
Pecker caught her wrists, shoving her away. ‘I never touched him. Been looking for him, haven’t I? Why would I do that if I’d known he was in there?’
Dye glared at him sullenly. It was plain she didn’t believe him, nor, judging by their baleful looks, did the rest of our little company. But I wondered. Pecker had seemed as genuinely shocked as the rest of us when he saw Holy Jack’s body in the water. He had killed a great many men, but perhaps this was one murder of which he was innocent.
But if Pecker hadn’t killed him in a fit of jealously, who had? No one else had a reason to, unless Jack had stolen the stone and now someone had stolen it from him. Weasel? He was still out there in the forest, as was Zophiel, and it was Zophiel who’d known about the power of the stone. But would he really kill for it?
What about the rest of us? Jofre believed his mother had died of the pestilence in Venice. Was the boy so terrified of the fever that he’d kill for the cure that might save him? I found my gaze straying to Osmond. He’d fight a dragon with his bare hands to defend his beloved Adela from harm. Would he commit murder for her?
The same thoughts had evidently been occupying Pecker as we trailed silently back to the camp. He crouched down over the fire pit, rubbing his hands over the blaze.
‘One of yous must have seen Jack take the stone and reckoned to have it for yourself. Only thing that makes sense. Unless his Highness took it. He’s not shown himself.’
‘You also have a man who is missing,’ Rodrigo growled. ‘His trade is robbery and murder. Why do you not go after him?’
‘Weasel could steal the grunt from a pig,’ Dye said, scowling. ‘But he don’t kill, never has. Can’t bring himself to do it. ’Sides, he wouldn’t have to. If he’d wanted to get the stone, he could have taken it without Jack even knowing he’d been touched.’
Pecker nodded towards Narigorm, who alone still seemed to have an appetite and was digging into the cooking pot, hunting for fragments of flesh.
‘She can tell us who stole it. She can read it in her runes. If it was one of you . . .’ He left the threat hanging in the air, but I knew he was thinking that the gullet would soon be swallowing another victim.
Narigorm did not look up, but I caught the faint ghost of a smile on her face. I knew she must not be allowed to do this. She would make worse mischief, and she had already done enough harm last night.
‘But if the child said it was Weasel, you wouldn’t believe her,’ I said. ‘She’s one of us. How would you know she’s not lying?’
I could feel Narigorm’s fury burning into me like a wasp’s sting. I’d been right. She was planning something. I felt a tiny surge of triumph that I had thwarted her.
Dye nodded, scowling.
‘Can’t trust the brat. Look at that white hair of hers. It’s not natural. Looks like a ghost-child. I reckon she’s a changeling.’
Dye had evidently not forgotten, or forgiven, Narigorm’s performance the night before. ‘In the village where I was raised,’ she continued, ‘if something went missing, they put a black cockerel under a pail and every person who was suspected took turns to lay their hand on the pail. Cock crowed when the thief touched the pail.’
‘You got a black cock hidden somewhere, have you?’ Pecker said acidly, making a show of staring round the ruins. ’Cause last cock I seen ended up in that cooking pot and that were three moons since. But maybe if the thief puts his hand to that pot it’ll spring out alive and start crowing.’
Adela glanced at Osmond.
‘I heard . . .’ she began, then trailed away, staring down at her hands.
‘What?’ Pecker demanded. ‘Cough it up.’
‘Someone . . . told me that if you draw an eye on a wall and everyone turns their backs while a nail is driven into it, then the guilty one will feel a sharp pain in their eye and cry out . . . Osmond could draw . . . He’s a fine artist.’
‘What colour eye?’ Pecker asked suspiciously. ‘’Cause if it were blue and the thief’s eyes were brown, he’d not cry out.’
‘If he draws it in charcoal,’ I said, ‘it would work on anyone.’
A grin spread across Pecker’s face.
‘Best make sure it’s a right eye he draws then. You don’t have a left ’un, old man, and if you’re the thief I don’t want you cheating your way out ’cause you can’t feel the nail.’
I returned the grin, knowing there was neither mockery nor pity in his words, for I guessed we’d both suffered under the scourge of those twins.
I had no fear of this test. I was certain that even if one among us had taken the stone, not even guilt would cause them to cry out. But it would at least ensure Narigorm could do no more harm.
Osmond spent a long time selecting exactly the right piece of charred wood from the fire and even longer drawing an eye on the grey-white stones of the ruined wall, taking as much care as if he was drawing the eye of God on a church wall. His face took on a faraway look and I sensed it had been so many moons since he’d had the joy of drawing anything that he couldn’t bear to stop. Pecker hunted for an iron horseshoe nail among his stolen treasures and a rock with which to hammer it in.
When Osmond was finally satisfied his honour as an artist had been upheld, he turned back to us, holding his hand out for the nail, but Pecker grasped it tightly.
‘You’re as likely to be the thief as any here.’ He jerked the nail towards Adela. ‘You get back there with your wife and all of you turn about.’
Adela clutched Osmond’s hand. She looked terrified and the awful thought struck me that perhaps Osmond was guilty and she knew it. I was afraid Adela was so tense and scared she’d cry out herself. I glanced at the others. Rodrigo’s expression gave nothing away, but Jofre too looked anxious and his hand kept straying to his eyes, as if he was trying to defend himself from a blow. Silence descended on the group. We listened, hearing only the wind in the branches and the drip, drip of water falling from twigs into the puddles below.
The ring of iron hitting stone shattered the silence, but at the same instant there was a sharp cry. We all turned. Dye was bending over, her hand pressed to the right side of her face, covering her eye. The nail and rock fell from Pecker’s hand with a clatter onto the stones. In one bound he was behind her, twisting her arm up her back and grabbing her around the throat with the other hand.
‘The brat said treachery,’ he growled. ‘I thought she was telling me what you’d done, but she was warning me what you would do.’
Dye was choking, scarlet in the face as his fingers tightened about her slender neck. She was struggling to speak, but no one could make out her words. All of us were too stunned to move. Pecker began pushing her away from the camp. Our little band gaped at one another.
‘We have to go after them,’ I urged. ‘He’ll kill her!’
My words surprised even me. Why should I care what became of an outlaw? But I’d seen the pain in Dye’s eyes when she’d spoken of her lost child and knew she was only what others had made her, as were we all.
‘It’s between them,’ Osmond said. He had his arm around Adela, holding her close and trying to stop her shaking. ‘They’re thieves, leave them to it. If they’re busy killing each other, it gives us a chance to get away from them, find the wagon and the others.’
‘You go,’ Rodrigo said. ‘Get Adela to the wagon. I will go after Dye. Camelot is right. She is a woman. She cannot fight him.’
‘From what I’ve seen,’ a voice said coldly, ‘that woman can fight better than most men and kill too. If he murders her, it will be nothing less than she deserves.’
Zophiel emerged from behind the wall, dirty and dishevelled, but he had managed to free himself from his bonds.
‘Where have you been hiding?’ Osmond demanded.
‘Not hiding,’ Zophiel spat. ‘Merely keeping out of sight until the opportunity presented itself to rescue you. Though why I should bother, I don’t know, since you could all have easily slipped away last night.’
‘If Adela had fallen in the dark—’
‘Ah yes, once again we must all risk our lives for that woman and her unborn brat. If you ask me, it would be as well for the child if it did die in the womb. At least then it would be spared the tender mercies of its half-witted parents.’
‘No one is asking you,’ Osmond said, taking a step towards him, scarlet with rage, but Adela, hanging on his arm, held him back.
A shriek of fear rang out somewhere beyond the camp.
‘Dye! You must help her, Osmond. You must,’ Adela begged.
Rodrigo lumbered off in the direction of the sound, Jofre sprinting after him. Osmond, still scowling, followed. I was hurrying after them when a flash of white made me glance down. I had forgotten about our little mouse, or should I say cat? Narigorm was squatting on the ground, bouncing two small sharp pebbles in her hand.
I followed the sounds of the running feet ahead. When I emerged through the trees, I found myself staring at the backs of Rodrigo, Jofre and Osmond. They had stopped a few yards away from Pecker, and I could see why. Pecker still had Dye in his grip, but they were standing on the very edge of the gullet. He was facing her, gripping her by the upper arms and bending her backwards over the stinking water where Holy Jack’s body still floated.
‘Tell me! Tell me!’ he yelled. ‘Where’s that fecking stone? If you don’t give it to me, I swear you’ll be joining your lover down there.’
Dye was wide-eyed with fear, but plainly afraid to struggle in case she slipped from his fingers and fell. ‘I didn’t take it! I told you, something flew at me, hit me in the face. That’s what made me cry out. I can still feel the mark. See!’
‘Yes, the mark of the nail!’ Pecker spat. ‘But I’m a fair man, not like those justices who marked me. I’m going to give you another chance to prove your innocence. I’m going to swim you. If you sink, I’ll believe you’re as innocent as the dew from the moon. Can’t be fairer than that, can I? Go on, jump in with your dead lover. Prove to me how innocent you really are.’
Suddenly, I understood what Narigorm had done.
‘Let her go, Pecker,’ I shouted. ‘She’s speaking the truth. Narigorm threw a stone at her as you drove the nail in, that’s why she cried out.’
Pecker briefly turned his head. ‘And why should the brat do that, old man? She told the truth about Dye last night, right enough. The woman’s a whore and a murderer. She stabbed her own husband while he slept, did you know that?’
He had relaxed his grip slightly on Dye, who managed to pull herself upright, though he was still holding her right on the edge of the pit.
‘I told you about that myself, you bastard. Told you he beat me, till I couldn’t take no more. I stabbed him when he’d fallen into a drunken stupor ’cause I knew he’d never let me go. He’d have killed me if I hadn’t.’
‘So you say,’ Pecker growled. ‘For all I know, he was some meek little worm that was stupid enough to trust you, same as I did, and poor old Jack there. I should have beaten you myself. Maybe then you’d have learned—’
He broke off, staring at something among the trees on the other side of the gullet, his eyes widening in fear. A man was walking towards us, out of the grey mist of rain, and that man was unmistakably Holy Jack.
Pecker stared at him and then down into the gullet. He lifted his hands as if he was warding off an avenging ghost. As he let go of Dye, she teetered backwards on the very edge of the pit. We stared at her, certain she was going to fall, but in one desperate effort she flung herself forward, knocking against Pecker as she sprawled face down on the grass. Pecker tried in vain to right himself, but his foot slipped over the edge of the gullet. The ground was too muddy for him to get a purchase and with a howl he plunged down into the pit. We heard the great splash. All three of us rushed forward, as Dye crawled on her hands and knees away from the edge and collapsed into the mud.
Pecker was shrieking for help and flailing wildly in the water. It was evident he couldn’t swim and even if he could have struck out for the side, nothing save a lizard could have crawled up those sheer rocks. Someone pushed me aside. It was Dye. She had snatched up a fallen branch. She flopped down on her belly and, lying flat on the ground, she thrust the branch down towards Pecker as far as she could reach.
‘Grab it, Pecker!’ she urged. ‘Reach for it! I’ll get you out. I won’t let you drown, I won’t!’
She was stretching as far down as she could, holding the unwieldy branch out with every grain of strength she had, but it was futile. Even if the branch had been twice as long, she could not have reached him, for he was so far below her.
Pecker splashed frantically, trying to bob upwards and grasp the branch, but each effort only sent him down under the filthy water. He’d rise again, choking, only to sink once more.
‘Hold on, Pecker,’ Dye begged. ‘Here, wait, I’ll take off my hose . . . tie them to the branch.’
She pulled the branch back and made to wrench off her boots, but I grabbed her.
‘It’s no use, Dye. You’ll never reach him that way, not without a long rope and—’
‘I’ll get one. I’ll be back, Pecker. Hold on. Hold on!’
She tore herself from my grip and raced off in the direction of the camp. I heard her crashing through the bushes.
Pecker’s strength was failing fast. He made a wild grab for the only solid thing he could feel, the corpse of what we’d thought was Holy Jack. As Pecker seized a handful of his rags, the body slowly rolled over in the water, and we saw the sightless eyes of Weasel staring up at us.
As Weasel’s body turned in the water, the peeling arm of the naked corpse beneath him drifted across Pecker’s face, the cold white fingers caressing him like a lover. Pecker gave a shriek of horror and, throwing both hands up to fight it off, he sank beneath the grey-green water. Weasel’s corpse, freed now from the bloated body beneath it, sank down on top of Pecker and both men vanished from our sight.
We left Dye sitting in the ruins, Holy Jack beside her, his arm about her shoulders. This time, they did not try to stop us leaving. Dye was staring fixedly into the flames of the fire. She’d shed not one tear and, in truth, I wouldn’t have expected any woman to weep over a man like Pecker, but I’d seen her frantic attempts to save him, and I knew in her own way she’d loved him.
Then again, perhaps she was right not to judge him as harshly as some might have done. He’d been shown no mercy by men, and they’d taught him to give none. I touched my own puckered scar. A blade only cuts the flesh, but words that wound the mind leave a far more twisted scar. I hoped that Holy Jack would be kinder to Dye, though I had little conviction such kindness would extend to any travellers unfortunate enough pass their way. I had the feeling that the water in the gullet might rise still further and not just because of the rain.
Jack was adamant Weasel had stolen the salamander stone. Afraid that Pecker might attempt to kill him while he slept, Jack had kept himself awake and he’d seen Weasel sneak back to the camp. Weasel had wrapped himself in Jack’s own cloak, doubtless to disguise himself in case anyone stirred, then crept across to Pecker’s bothy. If anyone could have removed a stone without waking a man, it was Weasel, and Jack was certain he’d done just that.
‘You don’t steal from your own, that’s the rules,’ Holy Jack said. ‘We made a bargain and Weasel broke it. “He who breaks the covenant shall be put to death.”’
Jack had followed Weasel as he slipped back into the forest and stabbed him. But when he searched Weasel’s body he could find no trace of the stone. He was certain Weasel must have dropped it when he was stabbed or as he ran from the camp. Jack had spent the rest of the night and morning hunting for it, finally returning to the gullet, thinking it might have fallen out as he’d carried the body to the pit. But he hadn’t given up hope. He was determined to keep searching until he found it.
I felt Zophiel’s eyes upon me as we led Xanthus limping back through the forest to where we’d hidden the wagon.
‘You see, Camelot,’ he said. ‘That is what hope does to you. Jack and that woman will spend the rest of their pathetic lives hunting for one stone among thousands, certain it will make their fortune. Sooner or later, one of the victims they attack will be carrying the Great Pestilence and they will die in agony, on their hands and knees, still searching for the cure. Hope, Camelot, is a floating corpse. Cling to it and it will pull you down to hell.’
I glanced at him.
‘Was there ever really a salamander stone?’ I asked.
He raised his eyebrows, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘Surely not even you believe that tale. Offer any man a way of cheating death and he will kill for it. That is one of the few certainties of life, my friend.’
But even as he spoke, I saw Zophiel’s hand stray to his leather scrip as if he was reassuring himself that something of great value still lay safe inside.
If you enjoyed this tale from the critically acclaimed Queen of the Dark Ages, read on for a preview of her new novel, THE VANISHING WITCH, published by Headline Review on 14th August 2014.
Prologue
A killing ointment made of arsenic, vitriol, baby’s fat, bat’s blood and hemlock may be spread on the latches, gates and doorposts of houses in the dark of night. Thus can death run swiftly through a town.
River Witham, Lincolnshire
‘Help me! I beg you, help me!’
The cry was muffled in the dense, freezing mist that swirled over the black river. As his punt edged upstream, Gunter caught the distant wail and dug his pole into the river bottom trying to hold his boat steady against the swift current. The shout seemed to have come from the bank somewhere ahead, but Gunter could barely see the flame of his lantern in the bow, much less who might be calling.
The cry came again. ‘In your mercy, for the sake of Jesus Christ, help me!’
The mist distorted the sound so Gunter couldn’t be sure if it was coming from right or left. He struggled to hold the punt in the centre of the river and cursed himself. He should have hauled up somewhere for the night long before this, but it had taken four days to move the cargo downriver to Boston and return this far. He was desperate to reach home and reassure himself that his wife and children were safe.
Yesterday he’d seen the body of a boatman fished out of the river. The poor bastard had been beaten bloody, robbed and stabbed. Whoever had murdered him had not even left him the dignity of his breeches. And he wasn’t the first boatman in past weeks to be found floating face down with stab wounds in his back.
‘Is anyone there?’ the man called again, uncertainly this time, as if he feared he might be speaking to a ghost or water sprite.
Such a thought had also crossed Gunter’s mind. Two children had drowned not far from here and it was said their ghosts prowled the bank luring others to their deaths in the icy river.
‘What are you?’ Gunter yelled back. ‘Name yourself.’
‘A humble Friar of the Sack, a Brother of Penitence.’ The voice was deep and rasping, as if it had rusted over the years from lack of use. ‘The mist . . . I stumbled into the bog and almost drowned in the mud. I’m afraid to move, in case I sink into the mire or fall into the river.’
Now Gunter could make out dark shapes through the billows of mist, but the glimpses were so fleeting he couldn’t tell if they were men or trees. Every instinct told him to ignore the stranger and push on up the river. This was exactly the kind of trick the river-rats used to lure craft to the bank so that they could rob the boatmen. The man they’d found in the water had been a strapping lad, with two sound legs. Gunter had only one . . . His left leg had been severed at the knee and replaced by a wooden stump with a foot in the form of an upturned mushroom, not unlike the end of one of his own punt poles. Although he could walk as fast as any man, if it came to a fight, he could easily be knocked off balance.
But the stranger on the bank would not give up. ‘I beg you, in God’s mercy, help me. I’m wet and starving. I fear dawn will see me a frozen corpse if I stay out here all night.’
The rasping tone of the man’s voice made it sound more like a threat than a plea, but Gunter had been cold and hungry often enough in his life to know the misery those twin demons could inflict and the night was turning bitter. There’d be a hard frost come morning. He knew he’d never forgive himself if he left a man out here to die. ‘Call again, and keep calling till I can see you,’ he instructed.
He listened to the voice and propelled his punt towards the left bank, eventually drawing close enough to make out the shape of a hooded figure in a long robe standing close by the water’s edge. Gunter tightened his hold on the quant: with its metal foot, the long pole could be turned into a useful weapon if the man tried to seize the boat.
The friar’s breath hung white in the chill air, mingling with the icy vapour of the river. As soon as the prow of the punt came close, he bent as if he meant to grab it. But Gunter was ready for that. He whisked the quant over to the other side of the punt and pushed away from the bank, calculating that the man would not risk jumping in that robe.
‘By the blood of Christ, I swear I mean you no harm.’ But the man’s voice sounded even more menacing now that Gunter was close. The friar stretched out his right arm into the pool of light cast by the lantern. The folds of his sleeve hung down, thick and heavy with mud. Slowly, with the other hand, he peeled back the sodden sleeve to reveal an arm that ended at the wrist. ‘I am hardly a threat to any man.’
Gunter felt an instant flush of shame. He resented any man’s pity for his own missing limb and was offering none to the friar, but he despised himself for his distrust and cowardice. It couldn’t have been easy for the friar to pull himself free of the mire that had swallowed many an unwary traveller.
Gunter had always believed that priests and friars were weaklings who’d chosen the Church to avoid blistering their hands in honest toil and sweat. But this man was no minnow and he was plainly determined not to meet his Creator yet, for all that he was in Holy Orders.
Gunter brought the punt close to the bank, and held it steady in the current for the friar to climb in and settle himself on one of the cross planks. His coarse, shapeless robe clung wetly to his body, plastered with mud and slime. He sat shivering, his hood pulled so low over his head that Gunter could see nothing of his face.
‘I’ll take you as far as High Bridge in Lincoln,’ Gunter said. ‘There are several priories just outside the city, south of the river. You’ll find a bed and a warm meal in one, especially with you being in Holy Orders.’
‘It’s close then, the city?’ the friar rasped. ‘I’ve been walking for days to reach it.’
‘If it weren’t for this fret, you’d be able to see the torches blazing on the city walls and even the candles in the windows of the cathedral.’
Gunter pushed the punt steadily upstream trying to peer through the mist at the water in front. He knew every twist and turn of the river as well as he knew the face of his own beloved wife. He didn’t expect other craft to be abroad at this late hour, but there was always the danger of branches or barrels being swept downstream and crashing into his craft.
‘So what brings you to Lincoln?’ he asked, without taking his gaze from the water. ‘You’ll not find any of your order here. I heard tell there was once a house belonging to Friars of the Sack in Lincoln, but that was before the Great Pestilence. House is still there, but none of your brothers has lived in it for years.’
‘It not my brethren I seek,’ the friar said.
They were passing between the miserable hovels that lined the banks on the far outskirts of the city and the mist was less dense. Gunter was anxious to drop off his passenger as soon as he could: he was impatient to get home, but there was something in the man’s voice that unnerved him. There was a bitter edge to it that made everything he said sound like a challenge, however innocuous the words. Still, that was friars for you, whatever order they came from. When they weren’t shrieking about the torments of Hell, they were demanding alms and threatening you with eternal damnation if you didn’t pay up.
‘So,’ Gunter said, ‘why have you come? I warn you, Lincoln’s going through hard times. You’ll not find many with money to spare for beggars, even holy ones. You’d have done better to make for Boston. That’s where all the money’s gone since we lost the wool staple to it.’
The friar gave a low, mirthless laugh. ‘Do you think I walked all these miles for a handful of pennies? Do you see this?’
Using his teeth and left hand, he unlaced the neck of his robe and pulled it down. Then he lifted the lantern from the prow of the punt, letting the light from the candle shine full upon his chest. What Gunter saw caused him to jerk so violently that he missed his stroke and almost fell into the river. He could only stare in horror, until the man dragged his robe into place again.
‘You ask what I seek, my friend,’ the friar growled. ‘I seek justice. I seek retribution. I seek vengeance.’
Chapter 1
To guard against witches, draw the guts and organs from a dove while it still lives and hang them over the door of your house. Then neither witch nor spell can enter.
Lincoln
While I lived I was never one of those who could see ghosts. I thought those who claimed they did were either moon-touched or liars. But when you’re dead, my darlings, you find yourself amazed at what you didn’t see when you were alive. I exist now in a strange half-light. I see the trees and cottages, byres and windmills, but not as they once were to me. They’re pale, with only hints of colour, like unripe fruit. They’re new to this world. But I see other cottages too, those that had crumbled to dust long before I was born. They’re still there, crowded into the villages, snuggled tight between the hills, old and ripe, rich with hues of yellow and brown, red clay and white limewash. They’re brighter, but less solid than the new ones, like reflections in the still waters of a lake, seeming so vibrant, yet the first breeze will riffle them into nothing.
And so it is with people. The living are there, not yet ripe enough to fall from the bough of life into death. But they are not the only ones who pass along the streets and alleys or roam the forests and moors. There are others, like me, who have left life, but cannot enter death. Some stay where they lived, repeating a walk or a task, believing that if only they could complete it they might depart. They never will. Others wander the highways looking for a cave, a track or a door that will lead from this world to the one beyond, full of such wonders as they have only dreamed of.
Many, the saddest of all, try to rejoin the living. Sweethearts run in vain after their lovers, begging them turn and look at them. Children scrabble nightly at the doors of cottages, crying for a mother, any mother, to take them in and love them. Babies lurk down wells or lie under sods, awaiting their chance to creep inside a living woman’s womb and be born again as her child.
And me? I cannot depart, not yet. I was wrenched out of life before my time, hurled into death without warning, so I must tarry until I have seen my tale to its proper conclusion for there is someone I watch and someone I watch over. I will not leave them until I’ve brought their stories to an end.
Robert of Bassingham gazed at the eleven other members of the Common Council, slouching in their chairs, and sighed. It had been a long afternoon. The old guildhall chamber was built across the main thoroughfare of Lincoln city, and the bellows of pedlars, the rumble of carts and ox wagons, the chatter of people clacking over the stones in wooden pattens meant that the small windows of the chamber had to be kept shut, if the aged members were to hear the man next to them.
As a consequence, the air was stale with the sour breath of old men and the lingering odour of the mutton olives, goat chops and pork meatballs on which the councillors had been grazing. It being a warm day, they’d been compelled to wash down these morsels with flagons of costly hippocras, a spiced wine, which had already had worked its soporific magic on several. Three of the sleepers had carefully positioned a hand over their eyes so that they could pretend to be concentrating, while a fourth was lolling with his mouth open, snoring and farting almost as loudly as the hound at his feet.
Robert was inordinately fond of hippocras but had deliberately refrained from imbibing, knowing he, too, would doze off. He was painfully conscious of the heavy responsibilities he had now assumed as the newly elected master of the Guild of Merchants, the most powerful guild in Lincolnshire and still the wealthiest, even though it was not as prosperous as once it had been.
Robert was a cloth merchant of the city of Lincoln, well respected – at least, by those who measure a man’s worth by the size of his purse and influence. He made a good living selling wool and the red and green cloth for which Lincoln was justly famed. Having only recently been appointed to serve on the Common Council, he was one of its younger members, still in his early fifties.
He had acquired his wealth painstakingly over the years, for though he was a numbskull in matters of love, he was shrewd in business. He’d bought a stretch of the land on the bank of the river Witham from a widow after her husband’s death, having persuaded her it was worth little, which you could argue was the truth: the ground was too marshy even for sheep to thrive on it. But a Lincoln merchant must have boats to send his goods to the great port at Boston and boatmen must have somewhere to live close to the river: Robert had built a few cottages on the wasteland and earned a good sum renting them to those who carried his cargoes. If ‘earn’ is the right word for money that a man demands from others but never collects in person. And, believe me, there were many men in England that year who had cause to resent all such landlords . . .
Robert banged his pewter beaker of small ale on the long table. The slumbering members jerked upright, glowering at him. Had not the newcomer the common courtesy to let a man sleep in peace?
‘I say again,’ Robert announced, ‘we must petition King Richard to give us leave to raise an additional tax in Lincoln to rebuild the guildhall.’ He gestured to the ominous cracks in the stone wall, which were almost wide enough to insert a finger in. ‘If another wagon should crash into the pillar below, it will bring us all tumbling down into the street.’
‘But the townspeople will never stand for it,’ Hugh de Garwell protested. ‘Thanks to John of Gaunt whispering in the young King’s ear, the commonality have already been bled dry to raise money for these pointless wars in France and Scotland.’
Several council members glanced uneasily at one another. It was hard to determine how far you could criticise the boy-king in public without being accused of treason, and while King Richard might yet forgive much, his uncle, John of Gaunt, had spies everywhere and was known to deal ruthlessly with any man who so much as muttered a complaint in his sleep. And since Gaunt was constable of Lincoln Castle, no one in that chamber could be certain that one of his fellow council members was not in that devil’s pay.
Robert regarded Hugh sourly. They were, for the most part, good friends, but it irritated him that Hugh seemed convinced a city could be run on pennies and pig-swill. He heaved himself from the chair and paced to the small window, trying to ease the cramp in his legs, as he stared down at the crowds milling below.
‘See there! Three carts trying to barge through the arch at the same time and none of them willing to give way to another. The people may not want to pay, but if this building collapses on top of them, dozens will be crushed in the rubble. Then they’ll be demanding to know why we didn’t do something sooner.’
‘So tax the guilds to pay for it, not the poor alewives and labourers,’ Hugh said. ‘The Guild of Merchants alone is wealthy enough to build a dozen new halls, if they were to sell some of the gold and silver they have locked away. They’ve grown as fat as maggots on the carcass of this city, so they . . .’
But Robert wasn’t listening. His attention had been caught by a woman standing quite still among the bustle of the crowd, staring up at the window. She was clad in a dark blue gown, over which she wore a sleeveless surcoat of scarlet, embroidered with silver threads. Even at that distance, Robert could tell from the way the cloth hung, accentuating her slender figure, and from the vivid, even quality of the dye that it was of the best. His thumb and fingers twitched as if they itched to feel the weave.
Ever the merchant, Robert always took more notice of the cloth a woman wore than her face and he probably wouldn’t have taken another glance at her, except that she was gazing up at him intently. He stared back. He couldn’t distinguish her features clearly enough to determine her age, though the gleaming black hair beneath her silver fret suggested youth.
She seemed to make up her mind about something and, with a nod towards him, she threaded her way through the jostling pedlars to the door that led up to the council chamber and disappeared.
A merchant who prides himself on his calm and calculated reasoning is not a man to act on impulse but, to his surprise, Robert found himself striding rapidly to the door and out onto the staircase, leaving Hugh staring after him open-mouthed.
Robert, descending the steep spiral stairs with care, fully expected to encounter the woman on her way up, but he reached the bottom without passing anyone and found only the watchman squatting in the doorway, picking his teeth with the tip of his knife blade. On sensing Robert behind him, he hauled himself upwards against the wall, and made a clumsy half-bow.
Robert eyed him with disgust. His tunic was open and covered with the stains of ancient meals and his hairy belly was so large that it hung over his breeches. Robert was portly, but a wealthy man was expected to look sleek and well-fed. A watchman, on the other hand, was supposed to be as fit as a battle-hardened soldier, ready to defend his betters against danger. This blubber-arse looked as if he’d collapse if he was obliged even to lift his pike, never mind fight with it.
‘Did a woman come to the door a few moments ago?’ Robert demanded.
‘A woman, you say?’ The watchman scratched his navel, gazing absently at the passing crowd. ‘Aye, there was a woman. Matter of fact, she were asking for you, Master Robert. But I told her, I says, Master Robert’s an important man. He’s in council, and he’ll not thank you for disturbing him and the other gentlemen.’
Robert frowned. It was not unheard of for women to buy or sell in the cloth trade, especially if their husbands were absent, but why should she come to the guildhall, rather than his place of business? Robert’s son, Jan, who was also his steward, would still be hard at work in the warehouse at this hour, which was why Robert could afford to waste an afternoon on the city’s affairs.
‘Did this woman leave a message, her name? Where am I to find her?’
He had asked the man three questions at once, which was like throwing three sticks for a dog: it wouldn’t know which to chase first. The watchman pondered for an age, then admitted he couldn’t answer any.
‘You should have asked her business,’ Robert snapped.
The watchman gave Robert a resentful look. ‘They pay me to keep people out as shouldn’t be in there, not to ask their business, which is their own affair.’
Frustrated, Robert lumbered back up the stairs, steeling himself to re-enter the stuffy chamber.
The debate had not moved on by a jot or tittle since he’d left. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the Common Council ever managed to reach agreement about anything. He pictured them still sitting round that table in a hundred years, their beards grown to the floor, cobwebs hanging from their ears, wagging their gnarled fingers and repeating for the thousandth time what someone else had said not five minutes before.
Robert had never been accustomed to consulting others. Once he had made up his mind to do something, he began it at once. He’d no more patience for these endless discussions than he would have to stitch a tapestry. Perhaps that was why he found his thoughts constantly wandering to the still figure who’d stared up at him so intently. He couldn’t drive her image from his head.
Chapter 2
If you fear that you are in the presence of a witch, clench both your hands into fists with the thumbs tucked under your fingers. Then she cannot enchant your mind.
Mistress Catlin
I did not intend to fall in love. In truth, I had not set eyes on Master Robert before that hour when I stood outside the guildhall. I didn’t know then that he was the man looking down from the window. But on that sultry September afternoon, Robert of Bassingham and I were about to find ourselves both pieces and players in a game of romance, both slayer and sacrifice. But of all the players who were to be drawn with us into that dangerous game, none could have guessed who would finally call checkmate.
Although I did not know Master Robert, I knew well his reputation and had come to the guildhall that day for the sole purpose of speaking with him. My children and I were newly arrived in Lincoln and I had no kin in the city to whom I could turn. Many men, and women too, delight in seeking out the vulnerable to gain their trust, only to rob them of all they have. I was determined not to become their prey.
But if I had believed the gossip of my neighbours, as they waited for the butcher to slice a piece of cow’s tongue or the fishmonger to knock a live carp on the head, I would have concluded there was not a single man of sound character left within the city walls. A woman called Maud, who lived in the same street as I, was the worst of the tale-bearers, with a tongue as sharp and malicious as the devil’s pitchfork. Before long I knew which men drank, who beat their wives and who had a string of whores. I learned the name of every feckless husband who’d lost his money in wagers on the fighting cocks, and all the miserly fathers who made their children wear splintered barrel-staves on their feet to save on shoe-leather.
But I knew how to sift the words of others and so it was that, in spite of what the witch, Maud, had said about him and his little weaknesses, or perhaps because of what she had said, I came to believe that of all the men in Lincoln the one I should seek out was Robert of Bassingham.
I thought carefully about how I should approach him. A merchant like Master Robert would be pestered by all manner of people begging for his precious time and I feared I might be brushed aside. But if you want to capture the attention of a thief you flash a gold coin, if a scholar a rare book, so I had taken care to dress in a gown that would gladden the heart of any cloth merchant.
I’d meant to wait patiently outside until the meeting of the Common Council ended and ask someone to conduct me to him, so we might speak in the privacy of the empty chamber, but as I waited a man came to the window and stared down at me so fixedly that I was ashamed to be seen loitering and approached the watchman to ask if Robert was within. I was dismissed as though I were a stew-house whore.
A weaker woman might have given up. Not I. I’d already discovered that Robert of Bassingham had a warehouse on the Braytheforde harbour so I made my way there, hoping he might return.
The banks of the Braytheforde were crowded with warehouses and taverns, chandlers and boatyards. The screams of the gulls mingled with the shouts of the workers, the hammering and sawing of the boat builders. Men strode past, carrying long planks on their shoulders, and women hurried by, with panniers of fish on their backs. Everyone was scurrying about, so it was hard to find anyone who would stop long enough to point out Robert’s warehouse. Finally a boatman gestured towards the largest and busiest building on the quayside, a great wooden structure facing the jetty where little boats were moored.
A man with red-gold hair was standing with his back to me in the doorway, directing the men who were offloading bales from a nearby boat and hefting them into the warehouse. He turned as I approached and his mouth stretched into an easy smile, as if he was always ready to call any stranger ‘friend’. I realised he was far too young to be the man I sought.
‘Forgive me for disturbing your work,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Master Robert of Bassingham. Is he within?’
‘My father? No, mistress. He’s one of the Common Council and they’re sitting this afternoon, but he’ll probably call here before returning home. He usually does, to be sure I haven’t burned the place down or struck some ruinous deal.’ The young man grimaced. ‘I may be his son and his steward, but he watches me closely.’
I couldn’t help smiling. ‘I’m sure he trusts you, but a good merchant keeps his eye on every detail. No doubt that was how he became successful.’
The young man laughed, showing fine white teeth. ‘You know my father well, mistress. That is exactly what he says.’
‘I know him not at all, but that was what my own late husband used to tell me.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you think your father would spare me a few words on his return? I seek his advice in matter of some investments. I’m told there is none better, unless, of course, you can assist me.’ I touched his sleeve. ‘I’m sure you must know as much as your father. ’
He flushed with pleasure. I had no intention of taking counsel from such a callow youth, but men are always flattered to be trusted. Compliment them on their handsome appearance – as I might have done now without a word of a lie – and they grow suspicious. Ask a man for his advice and he purrs and preens like a tom-cat.
Robert’s son gave a modest shrug. ‘I’ve worked with him since I was a boy and have run his business for some time now. And I do know—’
‘And what is it you know, Jan?’ a voice boomed.
Jan’s chin jerked up and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.
I turned to look at the man standing behind me and saw the expression of surprise on his face that was undoubtedly on my own, for he was the man who had stared down at me from the guildhall window.
There was no mistaking that he was Jan’s father. Master Robert’s hair, though greying, showed the same red-gold threads as his son’s. Both were tall and broad-shouldered, but while Jan had the trimness of youth, his father’s waist had thickened. Maturity enhances the features of some men’s faces, though, and it had done so for Master Robert. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who knows he has achieved more than most in his life.
He inspected me as if I were a bale of cloth or a fleece to be graded and priced. ‘Mistress, I believe you came earlier to the Common Council and were refused admission.’
‘Please forgive me,’ I said, ‘I’d no wish to interrupt. I merely hoped to speak to you once your discussions were ended, but your loyal watchman—’
‘An idle cod-wit and an oaf. He’ll not be watchman by tomorrow. That I can promise you.’
Several of the men carrying loads quickened their pace as if they feared the same fate.
I clutched at his arm. ‘I would not have any man lose his post because of me. It’s his duty to see the council is not interrupted. You’ve many important matters to discuss. ’
Robert gazed down at my hand. I withdrew it at once, but not before I saw a movement of his own hand towards mine as if he had meant to touch it.
Jan must have noticed it, too, and frowned. ‘Mistress . . . I don’t believe I know your name.’
‘Catlin. Widow Catlin.’
Jan nodded. ‘You mentioned your late husband.’ He turned back to his father. ‘Widow Catlin came seeking advice on investments. I was telling her I can certainly advise—’
‘Mistress Catlin was seeking me,’ Robert said firmly. ‘Where investments are concerned, it’s the mature, sober mind that’s needed, not the hot head of youth. You’ve a lot to learn yet, my boy, before you may advise others, except on where to buy the best ale or find the prettiest girls. That’s what you’re expert in, lad.’ He gave his son a playful thump on the back and winked at me.
Jan clearly didn’t appreciate the joke and seemed on the verge of snapping at his father, when his gaze was arrested by something behind me. ‘Fulk!’ he called.
A short, stocky man scuttled across, his legs as bowed as if they were straddling a barrel. He pulled his cap from his greasy hair and bobbed obsequiously several times to me and to Robert.
Jan clapped a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face the side of the warehouse. A man in a long robe was waiting, motionless, in the shadows. ‘How long has that friar been standing there? We don’t want him preaching and distracting the men, or begging alms from them. Tell him to try his luck with the rest of the beggars in the markets.’
‘He’s not been begging, Master Jan, leastways not since I noticed him. I’d have sent him off with a boot up his backside if he had. He’s staring at you, Master Robert. I thought you must know him.’
‘What business would I have with a friar?’ Robert said indignantly. ‘If you saw him loitering here, why didn’t you send him packing straight away? He might be a spy for one of the robber gangs on the river, watching for likely cargoes to steal. God’s blood, must I do your job, man, as well as my own? Here, you!’ he shouted, taking a pace towards the friar.
Then he stopped, confused: the place where the friar had been standing was empty, leaving only the long, dark shadows cast by the sinking sun. We all scanned the bustling crowd, but there was no sign of the man anywhere.
Robert drew a deep breath. ‘Too late. We’ll not get hold of him now. If either of you see him here again, tell the men to seize him and ask him what he’s doing. Shake it out of him, if you must. And the watch is to be doubled on the warehouse tonight. See to it, Jan, a man within and two to patrol outside. ’
Jan nodded, but I could see he was irritated. Clearly, he had not exaggerated when he said his father didn’t trust him.
Robert, seeming oblivious to his son’s scowls, looked down at me, his expression softening. ‘Now, Mistress Catlin, these matters you wish to discuss with me. Shall we go somewhere we can speak in private?’
‘It’s growing late, Father,’ Jan protested. ‘I can help Widow Catlin. Mother’s expecting you early tonight. Sheriff Thomas is coming to dine.’
‘I’m not in my dotage yet, Jan!’ Robert snapped. ‘Instead of telling me things I know perfectly well, you’d be better occupied making sure that thieves don’t empty the warehouse while you stand around picking your nose.’
So saying, he offered me his arm and led me past the warehouse, but as I glanced round, I was certain I saw someone moving in the shadows and had the uneasy feeling that Master Robert was still being watched.
Footnote
1 The distinctive pits created by early ironstone mining in Rockingham Forest are known as ‘gullets’.
Fueled by Johannes Gensfleisch zur Laden zum Gutenberg
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