My legs were trembling and vicious pains were shooting through my hips and knees, but I knew I’d have to stir myself soon. My bag was empty, and though I could hardly bear to think of the prospect, a fish in the pot was better than an empty snare. I hoped there’d still be some fish unclaimed at the weir.
I was just about to roll over and heave myself to my feet, when I glimpsed a woman picking her way between the houses below me. There was something about the way she moved, her clothes . . . It took me several moments to realise why she seemed so familiar yet so strange at the same time. But it couldn’t be her, not here! What would she be doing in Porlock Weir?
I found myself on my feet without even being aware that I was standing and scuttled down the rise towards the place where she’d disappeared, but I couldn’t see anyone ahead of me. I shook myself. I’d imagined it. Comes of eating too much fish: like toasted cheese, it gives you bad dreams.
Then, just as I turned around the bend in the track, I saw her again, shuffling along on the path below me that ran by the shore. It was her. There was no mistaking it. Eda! I’d know her nasty, wizened rat face anywhere. Always so loyal – I thought you ought to know, m’lady – always so venomous. How many times had I dreamed of squeezing the breath from that scraggy throat, but she’d probably have changed into a snake and wriggled out of my hand.
But where had she sprung from? It could only be the manor. And if that poisonous creature was staying there she wouldn’t have come alone. Her mistress and her daughter must be with her. Eda would never have abandoned them. A prickle ran up the length of my twisted spine. They were here! Lady Aliena and Lady Christina were in Porlock. I was certain of it. I had to get word to her – I must. The manor might be sealed off, but surely if Eda could get out, then I could get in. But one thing I knew for certain: if Eda discovered I was close by, I’d never get near her mistress. She must not see me.
Chapter 46
Porlock Manor
He that has a guilty conscience thinks every whisper is about him.
Medieval Proverb
Father Cuthbert heard the shrieks and wails coming from inside the manor while he was still crossing the courtyard. Before he reached the door, it was dragged open and a pageboy hurtled down the manor stairs so fast that he staggered and almost fell as he leaped from the last step. He stared around, and a look of profound relief crossed his face as his gaze fell upon the priest.
‘Father! Father, I was sent to find you. Come at once . . . It’s Sir Harry . . . You’re needed.’
But, much to the boy’s consternation, instead of hurrying up the steps, Father Cuthbert stopped mid-stride. ‘What . . . does Sir Harry want with me?’
The lad glanced fearfully up at the open door. ‘Your services, Father. Please hurry!’ he squeaked in desperation, reaching out his hand to seize the sleeve of the priest’s gypon. ‘You’re wet, Father.’
Father Cuthbert glanced down, fearful that the sleeve and front of his gypon might still bear traces of the splashed blood, but the cold water had done its work well and, apart from the dark wet patches, there was nothing to betray him. Equally there was nothing to stop Sir Harry telling his version of the story, except for the fear of looking foolish. Maybe he was even now recounting some exaggerated tale to Lady Pavia.
‘Please, Father!’ the boy said, tugging at him.
Father Cuthbert was sorely tempted to take to his heels and run, but where could he run to? The pestilence was raging beyond these walls. Even if he could have escaped through the gates, he dared not risk going out into that deadly contagion. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his thoughts. It was a slight flesh wound, a mere scratch. He hadn’t murdered the man, more was the pity. Even if Sir Harry claimed he had been attacked while unarmed, no priest could be punished or even brought to trial except in the ecclesiastical courts and those would not sit again until after the pestilence had burned itself out. It could be months, years even, before any charges were laid against him, if indeed anyone bothered. Surely once they were away from here, Sir Harry would have more important things to occupy him than taking revenge for a trifling nick on his arm.
His composure recovered, Father Cuthbert took a deep breath. ‘Lead on, boy.’
Now that his panic had subsided, he was aware once more of the wails drifting through the open door.
‘What is that commotion?’ he demanded.
But the lad had already bounded up the steps, and glanced back only briefly to assure himself that Father Cuthbert was following, before disappearing through the doorway.
The hall was crowded with servants huddled in little knots. Sir Nigel’s three wards were clinging to each other, outdoing each other with cries and sobs as if they were paid mourners at some wealthy merchant’s funeral. The elderly Lady Margery was attempting to soothe them, her efforts rendered useless by her own sniffling. Lady Christina and Lady Pavia were standing by one of the long tables, deep in discussion with the steward, Master Wallace.
It was taking a while for Father Cuthbert’s eyes to adjust to the dimness of the great hall after the blinding sunlight outside. He blinked foolishly at the scene, while the page ran across the thick mat of rushes and hovered at Lady Pavia’s elbow, trying in vain to attract her attention. Young though he was, even he realised he couldn’t tug on her sleeve. Wallace looked to where the boy was frantically gesturing and came hurrying across.
‘God’s arse, but this is a terrible business. Lad told you, then?’
As Lady Pavia sailed across the hall towards him, Father Cuthbert finally began to register that something large was lying on the long table behind her, and it wasn’t dinner. Bundles of washing, a roll of tapestry? He couldn’t think what it might be. He edged towards it. Whatever it was had been covered by a long tablecloth. Then the form beneath the cloth suddenly took shape in his mind. It was a body.
He crossed himself. ‘Blessed Virgin, defend us! Has the pestilence struck?’
The steward glanced at the table. ‘Nay, not that. But there’s been a death, all right. You’re too late to hear his confession, Father, but you’d best pray for him, for he was taken so sudden I doubt he’d time to prepare hisself.’
Two maids came hurrying up with four candles on spikes, which they placed at each corner of the table. Another, shielding the flame carefully, lit them with a taper from the fire. The servants fell silent and parted, leaving a respectful space around the long table. Lady Pavia swept out a plump arm and ushered the weeping girls back. All around him, servants and Sir Nigel’s guests knelt on the rushes, looking up at the priest expectantly.
Father Cuthbert approached the head of the corpse lying on the table. He stared at the white linen that covered the face. If this was merely a servant who’d met with some accident, there would never have been such a gathering in the great hall. His fingers trembled as he plucked at the cloth, then slowly peeled it back. The face was pale, the eyes closed, the black beard neat. One might almost think that Sir Harry merely lay sleeping. He was unmarked, except for a scarlet stain, no bigger than a butterfly’s wing, on the white cloth that covered his arm. Father Cuthbert sank to his knees, but it was not piety that drove him down.
Chapter 47
Whoever has a woman grasps a serpent by the tail.
Medieval Proverb
Rosa hears the door of the stillroom open and close. Baby Oswin is almost asleep, a dribble of milk running between his soft petal lips. His eyes flicker open again in the sudden draught from the door, but Rosa continues her steady, gentle rocking of the cradle. Putting her finger to her lips, she gestures to her visitor not to disturb the child. But Father Cuthbert is in no mood to be silenced, as well she knows.
‘You told me it was nothing but a flesh wound!’ he explodes.
Rosa stands. ‘Softly, Father. The child is sleeping. Besides, many servants cross the courtyard at this hour and they may hear you.’
He glances towards the shuttered window and takes a pace closer, lowering his voice to a savage
whisper. ‘You assured me you would tend him.’
‘And I did,’ she says, wandering over to the table. ‘You should be grateful. You need not fear now that he will take revenge.’
‘But his spirit will!’ Father Cuthbert’s eyes are wide with fear. ‘A man who has been slain, a man who departs this life weighed down with all his sins, will never rest until he has dragged his killer into the grave with him.’
‘Then you must ensure his corpse cannot walk when he is buried tomorrow,’ she says calmly. ‘If your Christian signs and holy water will not hold him in the earth, I have an amulet that will.’
‘I will have no part of your dark magic,’ the priest growls. ‘I do not take help from witches and sorcerers.’
She shrugs. ‘As you please. But the creatures that stalk the night are masters of the dark. You cannot fight a raging storm armed only with a candle flame.’
‘Was that what you used to kill him? Magic?’ Father Cuthbert whispers fiercely. ‘I will see you hanged.’
‘But he died from the wound in his arm. Have you forgotten, Father Cuthbert? It must have been deeper than you thought. It was a wound you inflicted with your knife. And I have that knife, Father, marked with your sign and coated with his blood. You should always clean your own blade.’
Father Cuthbert glances wildly about him, but she holds up her hand. ‘Do not trouble to search. Do you really think I am so foolish as to have hidden it here? I know full well that a priest may not be condemned to death by a church court, but for certain kinds of murder, he can first be stripped of Holy Orders, then tried in a lay court. A common man attacking and murdering a noble, and one who has been in service to the Black Prince? Such an act might be regarded as treason. Execution would not be swift.’
Even in the dimness of the chamber, she can see he is trembling. He grips the table to stop himself falling. ‘I will see you dragged down to Hell!’ His voice is quavering. ‘You are the daughter of Satan himself and you will suffer the worst agonies that the demons can devise. I will pray day and night that you are shown no mercy.’
Rosa laughs. ‘If Satan is my father, then surely I will be treated with honour in his kingdom.’
Father Cuthbert sinks on to the stool, his head in his hands. Rosa watches him and waits. That is her weapon. She can see by the clenching of his fingers that he longs to put his hands around her throat and choke the life from her, but he doesn’t dare, not yet anyway.
When she knows that he is ready to grasp at any rope she tosses, she says softly, ‘I will return the knife to you.’
His head jerks up. ‘When? Now? Tonight?’
It amuses her to watch the hope flare up in his eyes. ‘When you return to me what you have taken from me. An exchange. That is fair, is it not?’
‘I – I have nothing of yours.’ He spits this last as if the very word is putrid meat in his mouth.
‘The relic of Cadeyrn. You have that.’
‘The reliquary? So, it’s gold you want. I thought as much. Like all women, you lust after money and jewels. But I will not permit a witch to steal a sacred reliquary from the sanctuary of the Holy Church.’
‘But it is not in the sanctuary of the Church,’ she tells him. ‘You have it. And you may keep it. I have no interest in a Christian’s gaudy trinket. It is the hand inside it that I seek. Cadeyrn was my forefather, slain here by treachery. The spirits of my ancestors charged me with bringing his bones back to the land that drank his birth blood, and the river into which his mother’s birth water flowed. But your reliquary is empty. The hand is gone. Only tell me where I may find it. That is all I ask.’
She reaches into the little purse at her belt and pulls out the bear’s tooth, which had hung from the blue beads. She clasps it in her fist and presses her lips to it. ‘I swear by the Great Bear that guards my life and guides my spirit, your knife shall be returned to you, the very hour I hold Cadeyrn’s hand in mine.’
Chapter 48
Will
Riddle me this: What is the widest stretch of water, yet the safest to cross?
I crept along the narrow track that slithered around the base of the steep rocky cliff. In the moonlight the wind-blown tangle of trees far above me looked like the fur on the back of a great slumbering beast. I stopped, listening for voices or any sound of movement that would warn me that the road which led from Porlock Weir to Porlock was guarded. But the only sounds were the lapping of distant waves and the whisper of last year’s dry rushes. The moon was bright enough to pick out the stones on the path, for which I was thankful: one false step would have seen me plunge off the winding track into the great tidal salt marsh that stretched across the bay in front of Porlock.
Why had it taken me so long to understand? I was supposed to be the master of riddles. The briar garland, the dead bird, the cherry stone – someone had left a message in my cave, warning me that she was in Porlock. She sent me a briar without any rind. She sent me a bird without any bone. She sent me a cherry without any stone. Had Christina sent me those signs weeks ago, begging me to come to her?
I’d sat half the day in the mouth of my cave, watching the gulls rocking on the waves and trying to work out how to get into the manor. The cart track between Porlock Weir and Porlock had been blocked: tree-trunks and huge rocks had been dragged across it to stop horses, stray livestock and wagons passing in either direction. They had set up the barricade at a place where the track was squeezed between the base of the sheer face of the cliff on one side and the treacherous marsh on the other so that no cattle or corpse-bearers could pass around it. But after months of clambering up rocks to my cave, I was sure I could scramble over it, so long as they’d left no one on watch.
But, as any gallant knight will tell you, walking up to a castle is one thing, storming inside is not so easy. I might be able to reach the manor unseen, but the gates would be firmly locked and Master Wallace would have posted men to watch the walls. Those walls had been built to fend off any attack. Even a longshanks with a ladder would have had a hard time scaling them, never mind a short-arse like me. And, unlike a siege army, I had to get in without being seen.
Master Wallace was never told why Sir Nigel had banished me to Porlock, only that I had become too bold and impudent, and he thought a few months in Porlock might mend my manners. But that was enough to damn any servant in Wallace’s eyes. He’d loathed me from the first; a sentiment I freely admit was mutual. I vented my anger and resentment at being sent away by making Wallace the butt of my wit at table to the delight of the servants who’d felt the lash of his tongue. It was a foolish thing to do, I know, but I was so miserable, I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
Wallace was itching to have me dismissed, and when the butler and cook both complained that stores were missing, he accused me of stealing them and selling them on, though he and I both knew who the real thief was. When he had me whipped out of the gates he told me I was lucky to escape with my life, but my luck, he warned me, would not hold a second time and I’d known he meant it.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Porlock, the sun’s first light was already gilding the distant sea with flakes of gold. Smoke was starting to rise into the grey-pink dawn from cottages dotted up the valley. I’d no idea what orders Master Wallace might have given to its inhabitants, but anyone entering the village brought the threat of pestilence and I’d no wish to be shot full of arrows before I got close enough to explain.
I slid down a sticky bank of mud at the side of the track and dropped into one of the river channels that cut through the salt marsh in front of the village. The incoming tide was beginning to inch back up the channel, but very little river water was coming downstream to swell it.
Voices! Women. I couldn’t see where they were, but I flung myself down below the level of the bank, praying they would pass by quickly. Although which deity was likely to hear my prayers down there, I didn’t know – Beelzebub probably, lord of the flyblown swamps. The voices died away and I peered over the edge of the bank
. The place I was looking for must be somewhere to my right and above me.
Back in the cave, I’d suddenly recalled that when I’d lived at the manor I’d stumbled across a stream that ran from its fishponds through a low arch in the wall and emptied into the river outside. There was a grid over the hole, mainly to stop the larger fish escaping if the ponds flooded, but the iron bars were rusty. I couldn’t imagine that Master Wallace had troubled to replace it, for it was in a neglected corner of the grounds and no army would attack by that route.
It took me a while, creeping around the manor walls, to find the low archway, for it was well hidden behind a mass of overgrown weeds. The water trickling out beneath was thick with brown-green slime and swarming with flies. From the outside the hole looked even smaller than I remembered.
I crouched in stagnant water, and peered through the grating. I could see the base of a tree some feet away but no people. They clearly didn’t think this corner worth guarding. Unless – a cold hand gripped my guts – unless the pestilence had struck the manor. Suppose, instead of shutting it out, Wallace had shut it in with them. It had happened before: beggars creeping to the doors of great castles had found the bodies of lords and servants alike rotting in the hall and the kitchens. I sniffed hard. The stench from the grave pit at Porlock Weir carried all through the village, so if pestilence had reached here, I’d smell it.
I heaved at the iron grid. It was so rusty, I thought one sharp tug might snap it, but the metal was stronger than it looked. I searched around for a stone and, wrapping it in my mud-caked jerkin to muffle the sound, pounded it against the bars until they were bent enough for me to wriggle them out of the holes in the stone into which they’d been set. Clouds of flies crawled over my face and hands. I pressed my lips hard together to stop them creeping into my mouth, but gave up trying to bat them away.