Though my hands had grown as horny as the soles of my feet since that bastard Wallace had thrown me out, they were still ripped and bleeding before I wrested the final bar from its socket. I paused, listening again. Far off, towards the manor house, I could hear clanging and banging, distant voices – the reassuring sounds of daily life as the servants busied themselves. At least I knew they were alive.
Even with the bars gone, fitting through the hole was not going to be easy. I lay flat on the rough stones of the stream bed and wriggled forward through the stinking green water. I tried not to think about what might be in it, though I could hardly ignore the turd that floated an inch from my mouth. What would old Dung Beetle, the hermit, predict from that? Good fortune, I hoped.
When I was far enough in to get my fingers round the lip of the arch on the other side, I dragged myself through. For a moment or two, I continued to lie flat in the stinking water in case the movement had been spotted. I was just about to raise my head when something splashed into the stream beside me. I heard panting, then a soft wet nose pressed into the back of my neck. The manor hounds!
‘Go away. Get!’ I whispered fiercely. The creature continued to sniff at me, apparently finding the aroma of stagnant water and excrement as alluring as the flies did. I sat up, and tried to push the hound away, but that was a mistake: it gave a great bark, then bared its teeth and growled. Snatching up a stone, I threw it at its flank, in the hope of driving it off. I leaped to my feet and ran the yard or so to the nearest tree. With a howl it bounded after me. I swung on to a low branch and hauled myself up, for once blessing my master for making us swing from pillars and galleries.
The hound jumped up, and I had to kick out to stop it sinking its teeth into my calf. I climbed higher still as it repeatedly leaped up at me, until I was out of reach of its snapping jaws. The hound fell back exhausted. It circled the tree, staring up, mouth open, pink tongue lolling over sharp white fangs. Then it sat on its haunches, threw back its head and began to bark loudly enough to bring every man in the manor running.
Chapter 49
And in her was found the blood of prophets and of saints and of all that were slain upon the earth.
The Apocalypse of St John
Luke sat cross-legged at the Prophet’s feet on the labyrinth of cold, sharp pebbles. The other disciples squatted on the piles of skins and heaps of bracken, wiping the last of their supper from their mouths and draining the icy water from their beakers. Brother Praeco’s first two wives sat on either side of him, handing him food and drink as he required. Uriel’s eyes constantly scanned the cave, searching for any sign of trouble, like a watchman on a castle wall. Phanuel stared fixedly at the floor, darting only fleeting sideways glances at her husband in case he should be in need of anything she must supply.
That evening Luke, though usually ravenous, had little appetite. He tried not to look at Hob, leaning against the wall across the far side of the cave, though his gaze kept being drawn back to him. The Prophet had told Luke what must be done. He said it would be his reward, but he knew it was a test. In spite of the suffocating heat and fug of the cave, Luke shivered. He’d not been able to get near to Hob to warn him.
You need only have faith, Luke. That was what the Prophet had said. But what if he didn’t have faith enough, if he couldn’t make it happen? What if he failed in front of all the Chosen? Would they take him back down that tunnel again, force him on to the ledge in the darkness? Maybe there were even worse things in other chambers, though he couldn’t imagine what might be worse than that howling darkness and the demons that slithered over those wet, icy walls.
Above their heads the stone trapdoor grated open, swirling smoke from the fire around the room. Little Hob was seized by a spasm of coughing, his thin chest heaving with the effort to draw breath. Luke peered upwards, trying to see if it was daylight or dark outside. But it was always dark, always night. The Prophet had warned them that all was desolation up there. The sun had turned black just as it had that day, before the pestilence had come. Luke would never have believed that such things could happen had he not seen it for himself that day on the shore. But this time the sun had not returned, would never return until the world had been cleansed of all its iniquity. The stars and moon had fallen from the sky, just as the Prophet had foretold. Luke knew that too, for there was never a glimmer of moonlight in the darkness above that hole.
Noll, shovelling the last spoonful of stewed goat down his throat, dragged a ragged cloak around his shoulders over his torn shirt and climbed laboriously up the pole ladder to take his turn on watch. The Prophet constantly reminded the Chosen that Brother Noll and Brother David were true warriors of God, who would be rewarded through all eternity for venturing out into the terrible desolation of the over-world, to stand guard over His Chosen Ones.
As soon as Noll had reached the top and clambered out, the stone was pushed back into place from above. The swirling flames of the fire settled once more to a steady blaze.
The Prophet held up his hands and at once silence descended in the chamber. ‘“And ancients said to me – Hii qui amicti sunt stolis albis qui sunt et unde venerunt. These that are clothed in white robes, who are they? And whence came they?”’
Brother Praeco clapped his hand on Luke’s shoulder. ‘And what answer was given to the ancients, boy? Tell us?’
All eyes turned to Luke. Most of the faces were friendly, nodding and smiling encouragement, but Luke’s gaze kept being drawn back to Uriel. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth wrinkled and pinched, like a pig’s arsehole. He knew she was waiting for him to fail.
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. ‘“These are they who are come out of great . . . of great . . . tribulation and have washed their robes and have made them white in the blood of the Lamb,”’ he finished in a rush.
He felt a squeeze of the fingers on his shoulder and glanced up to see the Prophet nodding approvingly at him. Luke beamed up at him. A warm glow of pride and belonging seeped through him. He was at last one of the Chosen Ones and he was sitting in the honoured place right next to the Prophet, just where the two warriors sat when they were whispering to him. He was almost a warrior himself.
Luke realised with a start that Brother Praeco was addressing the disciples again, and he tried to look attentive. ‘“. . . wash in the blood and he shall not feel the heat of the sun, nor the thirst of the day, nor shall he suffer any pain or sickness.” Faith is our shield and our test, brothers and sisters. Faith will save us.’
He paused and nodded towards Raguel, crouching by the fire. ‘Bring the boy to me.’
Raguel rose gracefully. Stepping over legs and blankets, she crossed to the wall, took Hob’s hands in both of hers and pulled him to his feet. For the first few paces, Hob followed her docilely enough. He liked her. She was always kind to him. But then he suddenly seemed to realise where he was being taken and tried to pull his hand from hers.
She bent, murmuring something and pointing to Luke, who tried to smile encouragingly, but his face felt stiff and he knew he was probably grimacing.
Raguel tugged the little boy to the open space in front of the Prophet and pushed him down so that he was kneeling on the floor. He tried to struggle up again. Seeing Uriel reaching out her claws to grab him, Raguel hastily pushed Hob back to the floor, crouching beside him with her arm firmly round his shoulders, so that he could not wriggle away.
Phanuel emerged from the tunnel, though Luke had not even noticed her leave. She was carrying a small stone basin, holding it in both hands, and treading carefully, plainly terrified of spilling the contents. The bowl looked ancient, the carvings almost worn away, so that Luke could see little of what they had once been except for some lines that looked to him like the waves of the sea and a circle with a cross cutting through it. Phanuel set the basin in front of Hob. The dark red liquid in the bowl swirled from the jolt, like the water in the Devil’s Cauldron, and the metallic stench of blood rose up from it. The child’s eyes flashed
wide in alarm and he tried once more to struggle away, but Raguel held him firmly.
Once more the Prophet’s hand descended on Luke’s shoulder, this time pulling him to his feet, as he himself rose. Hob shrank back from them both, trying to hide his face in Raguel’s arms.
Brother Praeco lifted his hands, gazing around the silent disciples, fixing each in turn with his stare. ‘This boy is afflicted with a coughing sickness, but he shall be healed. His brother will wash him in blood to cleanse him and he will pray for his brother’s healing, and through Luke’s faith, Hob will be cured. This innocent child was saved from the murderer’s knife and given into our hands. He is our lamb. He shall be healed. He shall be perfected. He shall be presented spotless before God. We, the Chosen, shall pray with his brother Luke and God will hear us and he will heal the boy.’
He squeezed Luke’s shoulder again. ‘Only believe, Luke. If your faith is strong enough, if you are worthy to be counted among the Chosen, your brother shall be healed.’
Chapter 50
Will
Riddle me this: Little man clad all in red, with a stick up his backside and a stone in his belly.
‘It’s the dwarf! What you doing up there?’ The young stable lad grinned at me, his eyes bright in his dung-streaked face. ‘We all thought you was dead.’
‘I will be if you don’t stop that hound barking.’
The lad snapped his fingers close to the dog’s ear. ‘Quiet, Holdfast. Lay down!’
The hound, accustomed to keeping quarry at harbour, flopped on his belly under the tree and stared up at me fixedly, as if daring me to try to escape.
‘Master Wallace’ll have you flogged to death if he catches you,’ the boy announced cheerfully, as if he’d been promised a great treat. ‘Said if anyone spotted you hanging round the manor, we was to tell him straight away. He said you was a thief.’
The skin on my back smarted at the mere thought of what Master Wallace could do.
‘Never mind my flogging, lad,’ I said. ‘Just you remember it was me who saw you put that weasel in the cook’s basket, and if I were to tell the cook you’d done it, he’d beat you till you were nothing but a mash of beans.’
The boy giggled. ‘He didn’t half squeal when he put his hand in and thought he was going to pull out a dead rabbit and that weasel sank his teeth into his thumb instead. He was running round the kitchen, as mad as a wasp, with the weasel dangling from him. Couldn’t shake it loose.’ The lad cavorted round the tree, flinging his hand up and down in imitation.
‘So you won’t give me away, lad?’
‘Course not, wouldn’t anyway. Hate old Wallace. Never do him any favours.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘But why you back? You come to rob from the manor again?’
I ignored this last. ‘Have any guests been staying here, besides the wards and their companion?’
‘That fat one, Lady Pavia. And Sir Harry, but he’s dead. Old Wallace says he had a fall, cut his arm and bled to death. But Robert, the groom, says he reckons it wasn’t a cut that killed him ’cause he helped carry Sir Harry into the hall and there weren’t hardly any blood. But he said if he were to tell old Wallace that, he’d more than likely get the blame for it himself. Wallace’d say Robert killed him out of revenge for Sir Harry laying into him with a whip. But he—’
‘Never mind that, lad,’ I said. ‘Have any other noblewomen come to the manor recently? The Lady Aliena and her daughter?’
The boy looked sulky at having his story interrupted, but he shook his head. ‘No . . . ’cept a girl, if you count her, but she came earlier with that sour-faced maid of hers, before Lady Pavia. None of us saw her at first ’cause she was sick, but she must be well enough now for I’ve seen her crossing the courtyard a fair few times. Lady . . . Lady Christina, they call her.’
My stomach lurched. ‘And she’s here now?’
He nodded.
‘Do you think you could bring her to me without anyone else knowing?’
The lad frowned. ‘Why? What’s a dwarf want with her?’
‘I need to speak with her.’ I tried to think of some excuse that would intrigue him. ‘I have a message . . . a secret message.’
His eyes danced in excitement. Then he grimaced. ‘Can’t fetch her from the manor house – they’d want to know why I was in there. But most days I see her in the courtyard when there’s no one much about. I could catch her then.’ He chewed his lip and squinted up through the branches at me. ‘Might have to wait a bit, though.’
‘I’ll wait as long as it takes.’ But seeing he was about to dash off, I added quickly, ‘Take that hound with you, before he leads someone else here.’
The boy grinned, slipped his fingers through the hound’s spiked collar and hauled him off, growling, in the direction of the stables.
I was pretty sure I could trust the lad not to tell Wallace, but whether luck would bless us both, I had no means of knowing. I waited until boy and dog were out of sight, then climbed down, retreating towards the hole in the wall, ready to duck down in the stream among the reeds if I spotted anyone wandering in my direction. It was going to be a long, hot morning.
Flies settled in a dense black crust on the stinking river mud, and a ball of gnats hovered in the air above. In the shimmering blue skies, gulls were mobbing a rust-coloured kite, shrieking and diving on the bird. It wheeled and dipped, trying to evade them.
I caught a flash of movement and leaped down into the stream, peering up through the reeds. My heart almost exploded in my chest. It was her, Christina, hurrying across the grass towards me, looking behind her anxiously as if she feared she might be observed. I had dreamed and daydreamed so often of seeing her again that now I couldn’t believe she was here in the flesh and not in my fantasy. I shook my head, trying to wake myself if I was asleep.
I heaved myself out of the reeds and slid into the shadows behind the tree, suddenly all too aware of how I must look, not to mention smell. I’d been so desperate to get into the manor grounds, I hadn’t given a thought to my appearance. The last time she’d seen me, I’d been dressed in a red-and-green gypon with gold trim, an exact replica of Sir Nigel’s, hair curled, beard trimmed. Now I was clad in patched homespun, trimmed with mud, embroidered with green slime, and perfumed with shit and fish guts.
She looked more beautiful even than when I dreamed of her, her hair turned from tawny to burnished copper in the sunlight, her cheeks flushed, her breasts rising like soft dough over the top of her gown. I didn’t remember them being so full, so perfect. She peered up at the tree. The boy must have told her I was there.
‘Josse!’ she called softly.
Josse, our private, intimate name. She told me once it meant lord. She wouldn’t use the name my master gave me, for she said when she looked at me she saw a man not a dwarf.
‘Josse!’
I had come all this way to find her, but now that I was there, I couldn’t bring myself to face her. She was turning away! If I didn’t show myself now, I might never get another chance.
I stepped from behind the trunk. Her expression turned to one of shock, and I almost fled. But then she smiled, though her eyes were brimming with tears.
‘Christina, I . . .’ I was desperate to tell her how much I had missed her. How long and lonely the nights had been without her words to fill them. But for once the jester had no words to juggle with.
‘My house is not quiet,’ she whispered. ‘But I am not loud. I am the swifter, but my house endures longer. Even when I am still, my house still runs. Should we two be parted, my death is certain.’
‘The fish and the river,’ I answered softly. I gestured towards the stagnant stream. ‘And when the fish was taken from the stream, the stream died too.’
‘I didn’t know where you’d gone!’ she burst out. ‘I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. Or if you had chosen to leave . . . I couldn’t bear it. I was so lonely. There was no one I could talk to, not like I could talk to you. Why didn’t you send me word, just one word t
hat I could have held on to?’
‘Did Sir Nigel tell you nothing?’ I asked her.
She shook her head, and one of the tears spilled over to run silently down her cheek. I wanted to kiss it away, as I had on the night she sobbed in fear in my arms when her betrothal to Randel was announced. But I sensed a barricade between us now that felt higher and wider even than the one on the road to Porlock, and I could find no way to cross it.
‘I don’t believe Sir Nigel knew anything for certain,’ I said. ‘He didn’t even speak your name when he sent for me. But he’s a shrewd man. He must have noticed a look or a gesture that made him smell danger. He said only that when a knight notices a beggar taking too much interest in his horse, he takes care to ensure the beggar is sent from the town before the sin of covetousness leads to a crime for which he would hang. That’s why he sent me away from Chalgrave within the hour. I couldn’t . . . I daren’t get word to you.’
Crossing the gap between us, she took a few paces towards me. Horribly conscious of my wet, stinking carcass, I drew away, afraid of befouling her. She reached out a soft, pale hand, as if she would touch my face. But I turned my grotesque mask from her and she let her hand fall.
‘I was so afraid they’d hurt you,’ she whispered.
‘Me? Never,’ I lied. ‘Us dwarfs are far too valuable.’ I pranced around, pulling a face.
But she flinched. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t perform for me.’
I could see I’d hurt her. I swallowed. ‘And you, how came you to Porlock? Did you discover I’d been sent here? Was that why you came?’