Retching and gagging, I tried to turn the iron ring set in the chapel door, but it was locked, and the stout oak too thick even to attempt to smash it. I’d half expected that, and had brought a length of rope with me, thinking I could climb through one of the windows. But now that I examined them with a thief’s eyes, I realised even a cat would be hard put to squeeze through that tracery, much less my crooked frame. I walked round and round, searching for a way in, finally sinking down in the shade of an overgrown yew tree to escape the heat while I tried to think.
Janiveer had fetched my son and laid him in my arms. I’d held him only a moment or two before she had taken him back and bustled Christina away for fear someone might see us. That witch could measure the torture she was inflicting better than the king’s inquisitor. If I’d never seen Oswin, I might have convinced myself that he didn’t exist, that he was nothing more than a whisper on the breeze or a snatch of a half-remembered dream. But, just as Janiveer had planned, once I’d seen him, felt the warm weight of him in my arms, I would have stolen the devil’s own crown from the very depths of Hell if that had been the price she’d demanded to keep him safe.
I was so lost in reliving the precious moment when I had held my son – my own son – that had it not been for her coughing and muttering, I might not even have noticed the Holy Hag staggering up towards the chapel until she was at the door. She peered around her, wary as an old hen, the hem of her cloak clamped to her nose and mouth. Reaching into the leather bag at her waist, she extracted a large iron key. Why hadn’t I thought of that? If anyone possessed a key to that chapel it was bound to be her! Gripping it in both hands, she wrestled to turn it in the salt-rusted lock. Finally, the door yielded and she shuffled inside.
I sidled forwards. She clearly didn’t expect anyone to be around, for though she’d closed the door, she’d not locked it. I quietly lifted the latch, then crouched, pushing at the bottom of the door to open it just wide enough to scuttle through. Keeping as low as I could, I scurried to the far corner of the chapel. The Holy Hag was up by the altar, lighting a candle. She turned as the draught made the flame gutter but, as I’d wagered, her gaze was drawn towards the open door and away from the dark corner where I had rolled myself as tight as a prickly urchin.
‘The wind brings only draughts, no rain,’ she muttered to herself. ‘“And the Lord shall shut up the heavens against you and you shall perish from the good land that the Lord has given you!”’
She knelt and raised her head towards the light. ‘Blessed St Sebastian and all you holy saints, hear my plea for justice. Let pestilence devour her and the dogs lick her blood as they licked the blood of Jezebel. Wipe the harlot from the face of the earth.’
As if she had been quietly reciting a Pater Noster, she humbly crossed herself and staggered to her feet. Bowing lower than any priest, she retreated, shuffling towards the door. It closed behind her with a great hollow bang, extinguishing the candle she had left burning on the altar. I climbed stiffly to my feet, staring dumbfounded at the closed door. I’d always known she was a spiteful and bitter old woman, but the vehemence of her curse had shaken even me. There was evidently someone she hated, even more than me, which I suppose should have given me some comfort, but at that moment Janiveer’s threat concerned me more.
The chapel wasn’t large, and although little light filtered through the high narrow casements, it was plain there were only two chests in the building. The small alms chest lay open and empty. Evidently Father Cuthbert had emptied that of any coins before he’d left, though I’d have wagered it had never contained much worth the stealing, for the villagers rarely had any coins, much less any to spare for charity. The other was a long, deep box that stood in a dark corner at the back.
I feared that, like the door, it would be locked. But the lid fell off as soon as I heaved at it for the wood around the hinges was splintered. The moment I saw the damage, I realised the chest had been ransacked, but even so, whoever had stolen the valuables from it would surely not bother to take the hand of a long-dead corpse.
It was so dark in the corner of the chapel that even a white dove could have hidden in the shadows of the deep chest undetected. I clambered inside and cautiously ran my hands over the bottom. Although I was desperate to find the hand, I still recoiled at the thought of touching dead flesh without warning. But eventually even I was forced to accept there was not so much as a mouldering fly inside that chest, much less a saint’s bones.
I hauled myself out and wandered around the chapel, searching every nook and corner, hoping that the hand might have been cast aside or concealed somewhere. But the reliquary niche was empty and nothing had been hidden behind the stone altar. I stared around in the gloom trying to see if there was anywhere else a small object might be concealed, but it was a piss-poor place.
There was a crude and ugly wooden statue of the Virgin Mary, her garishly painted face cracked and flaking so that she more resembled an ancient stew-house whore than the holy maid. A crumbling wreath dangled like a noose about her neck. I groped under the Virgin’s skirts, but nothing lay there, except dust and mouse droppings.
The only other decoration was the painted walls. Behind the altar, God sat in judgment while the sickly-looking righteous were hauled from their tombs, still trailing grave clothes, to be carried up to Heaven by tall, slender angels, while the sinners were pitchforked into the cauldrons of Hell by squat, crooked demons who, from their grins, evidently relished their work.
The two side walls were painted with scenes from the life of St Olaf to whom the chapel was dedicated – the saint brandishing a pollax in the prow of a ship, that same pollax chopping the head off an enemy in battle, then being used to smash an idol while fat birds and corpulent rats fled from the mounds of food left by worshippers. The opposite wall showed St Olaf baptising men who looked terrified, as well they might, since he still clutched the menacing axe, and the last depicted him dying, with another bird hovering above him, presumably a white dove, though it looked more like an overfed goose.
I imagine the itinerant artist had been paid little for his work in such a remote village, which was only fair since he’d had little talent.
In one corner I discovered some gnawed straw-filled sacks, which I guessed Harold must have used for a bed. In desperation, I shook those out, but even the mice had vacated them. Harold! I should have thought of him at once. He must have taken the hand, thinking it would be eaten by vermin now that it no longer had a reliquary to protect it. As acolyte, he’d certainly get the blame if the relic was damaged, so he’d probably found another box to keep it in and another hiding place. I felt almost cheerful. He was a timid but kindly lad and I was certain I could make him give it to me if I could convince him it would save the life of a woman and her baby, though naturally I wouldn’t tell him the whole truth.
I hurried towards the door, and reached up to twist the iron ring. The latch lifted, but when I pulled the door it didn’t budge. I tried again. Nothing. I braced my foot against the wall and hauled. It didn’t move. The Holy Hag had locked it behind her. Satan’s arse! Why? It wasn’t as if there was anything left in the chapel worth stealing, I could vouch for that. I pounded on the door, kicking and yelling, but I knew there wasn’t a chance that she or anyone else would be hanging around that stinking graveyard.
As I ranged around the four walls looking for a way out, I realised it was hopeless. Even if I’d managed to swing myself up from the altar to the window behind it, I’d never be able to squeeze through the stone tracery. If I’d had a ladder I could have tried to break out through the thatch, but I didn’t. Even the bell rope hung outside the chapel. I was trapped until either Matilda or Harold returned, but when would that be? I tried to convince myself that Harold must come at least once a day. It was his duty . . . Duty! I was beginning to sound like the Holy Hag. Why would the lad bother to come at all?
I kicked the door again and yelled till my throat was raw, but it was more out of frustration and fear
than from any hope I’d be heard. Daylight was fading fast. There’d be no one passing the chapel that night. Maybe in the morning I could try to attract attention. In the meantime, there was nothing else to do but resign myself to spending the night there. I told myself it couldn’t be any worse than the weeks I’d spent imprisoned in the watchtower, though at least there I’d had bread and water, and as that thought struck me I realised just how thirsty and hungry I was. I cursed the Holy Hag with every foul oath I knew and a few I invented just for her.
But it was no use wasting breath on her. There was nothing for it but to try to make myself as comfortable as I could. I retrieved the mouldy sacks and stuffed the straw back in them. Then as darkness crept upwards from the corners, like a cold tide, filling the church, I curled myself up on the straw bed and, pulling another sack over me for warmth, tried to sleep. But that isn’t easy when your stomach is growling like a pack of hounds.
Riddle me this, m’lord, why do dogs come to church?
Because when they see the altar covered with a cloth they think their masters are about to dine.
I could hear the patter of mice feet as they fattened themselves on candle stubs. Fried mice . . . could spit roast them over a candle . . . trick is catching the little beasts . . .
Riddle me this, my fat lord, what has never happened and never will?
A mouse making a nest in a cat’s ear.
You never guessed that one, Randel . . . not in all those months . . . Never guessed I was the sly little mouse in your ear . . .
I jerked awake. A strange odour filled my nostrils, not the stink of the grave pit, something that overpowered even that stench. It was as sweet as rotting fruit, but I could also smell blood, fresh blood. I sat up and stared around. The chapel was as dark as the devil’s armpit, yet something even darker was moving towards me. I could see its huge bulk against the starlight in the window, hear the deep rasp of its breathing, the click of great claws on the stone flags. I shrank back against the solid wall. Two burning eyes turned in my direction, glowing like embers. Then came a deep rumbling growl.
The beast leaped forward and I rolled aside, curling up with my arms covering my head, expecting at any moment to feel the stab of teeth or talons. Its scalding breath scorched my neck. I daren’t move even to reach for my knife. Its great paw smashed down beside my head. Its jaws snapped inches from my ear. Then I sensed it turn, charging back up the chapel towards the altar. It suddenly reared up, and as it stood there, silhouetted against the faint light from the casement, I realised it was a monstrous bear, bigger than I had ever seen in my life.
Its front paws crashed down on the altar, with such power that the whole building shook. Then it lumbered towards the wall and walked straight through it, as if it was made of water not stone. And it was gone.
For a long time I remained curled up on the floor, not daring to move or even breathe for fear that the beast might be waiting just outside the church. Finally, I slowly uncoiled, pulled out my knife and crept as noiselessly as I could towards the wall that the bear had barged through. At least I could escape and, once outside, I reckoned I’d have a better chance of hiding from the beast than if I was trapped in the chapel with it.
I groped along the stones in the darkness, trying to find the hole the bear must have made, but the wall was solid. I ran my hand over every inch I could reach, but there was no hole, no hidden door, nothing even a cat could have passed through, let alone a creature of that size. I stumbled back to the door through which I’d entered, but that remained as firmly locked as before. There was no breeze coming from anywhere to show how the bear had got in or out. And how could a beast of that size have forced its way into the chapel without me hearing? Even the roof had shaken when it had struck the altar.
I edged back towards the straw sacks, dragged them into the far corner and squashed myself into the space between the chest and the wall. I was trembling violently. I lay there in the darkness listening to every creak and rustle of the night. Even if I’d swallowed the juice from a whole field of poppies I wouldn’t have fallen asleep. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to sleep again.
Chapter 54
And on her forehead a name was written.
The Apocalypse of St John
Hob lay trussed up on the floor of the cave in front of the pelt-covered stone that was the Prophet’s throne. His ankles had been tightly tied by Uriel on Brother Praeco’s orders and his arms bound to his sides by a coil of rope, for demons do not leave easily.
‘The demon of sickness will fight,’ the Prophet warned. ‘She will make Hob thrash around to injure himself and others, even try to fling the boy into the fire.’
The more timid of the Chosen, still trying to stifle yawns, having been dragged from their sleep, shuffled even further back, pressing against the walls and staring anxiously at Hob, as if they expected him to start vomiting flames.
Hob lay rigid but for his eyes, which darted fearfully from the Prophet to Uriel, trying to see where the danger might strike from first. The Prophet took a burning stick from the fire and advanced on the boy. Seeing the flames coming closer and closer to him, the child cried out and, as Brother Praeco had predicted, tried to flail and writhe against his bonds, but Uriel pressed his bony shoulders down hard against the pebbles stuck into the floor.
The Chosen held their breath. Hob, still shrieking, screwed his eyes shut against the burning brand. Luke’s fists clenched and he pressed them hard against his mouth, trying to keep himself from yelling at the Prophet to stop. The flames guttered a few inches above Hob’s chest. Great beads of sweat popped from the child’s face as he tried to twist himself away from the heat scorching his bare skin, but Uriel pinned him to the floor.
‘In the name of God, and by the might of His cleansing fire, I command you, demon, reveal your name. Speak!’
The brand swept lower and Hob screamed.
‘Release the boy, wife,’ Brother Praeco ordered, flicking his hand at Uriel. ‘Else the demon may enter you when she leaves him.’
Uriel immediately sprang up and shuffled back, looking both alarmed and sulky.
The Prophet swept the burning brand through the air above Hob, ordering the demon to speak, but Hob was coughing and wheezing from the smoke. Lying flat on the ground, he was struggling even to breathe.
‘See how the demon torments the child. Speak, demon. In the name of the Lamb, I command you to speak. Tell me your name,’ Brother Praeco’s voice boomed out.
Twice more he ordered the demon to reveal her name, sweeping the burning brand above Hob’s writhing body, leaving great arcs of light and smoke suspended in the air. Closer and closer he whirled the stick, till Luke, certain that with the next pass the flames would touch Hob’s skin, buried his face in his knees, unable to watch.
Then a woman’s voice answered, rasping, as if it emanated from a throat that was burning with fire. ‘I am Frica!’ The voice echoed from the depths of the earth. ‘I possess the boy. He is mine!’
Chapter 55
Will
Riddle me this: Put me in a bucket and I shall make your burden lighter.
Dawn, when it finally deigned to break, found me sitting stiff and cold in the far corner of the chapel, from which I had not moved all night, though I badly needed to piss. For there is only one thing more unnerving than a bear suddenly appearing beside you, and that’s a bear looming over you when your naked cock is waving about in the dark. But now that it was light, I could contain myself not a minute longer. I turned my back on the altar and prayed that the Holy Hag would not choose that moment to unlock the door. Even I felt a slight twinge of guilt about pissing in a chapel.
A shaft of bright sunlight pierced the window, making the dust dance in the air, and although the rest of the chapel was still cold and gloomy, that ray of light was like a wand, transforming everything. Day and night are two different worlds and what is real in one is a phantasm in the other. By the time the rooks were cawing on the roof, I knew that what
I had seen in the dark was nothing more than a nightmare, brought on by hunger and fear for Christina and my son. My son! Those words still felt strange on my tongue.
I wandered back to the wall again and thumped the massive stones, mocking myself for believing, even for a moment, that any creature could have passed through them. I was crossing back to the door to see if there was any way of loosening the lock from the inside when something on the altar caught my eye.
The body of a viper was lying on the edge of the stone table. The black zigzag that ran down the length of its back gleamed in the narrow strip of sunlight. I say the body but the head had been bitten off, leaving a ragged bloody stump and a long red smear of blood on the side of the pale stone. I saw something else too, now that I was up close. The thick granite slab had a crack running right through it, as if something heavy had crashed down upon it from above.
I stared back at the wall again. It was solid. Any fool could see that. I hurried back to the spot on the floor where I’d been sleeping before the dream had woken me. Just a foot away from where I’d lain, I saw another splash of blood and then the head of the viper, its mouth wide, its two poisonous fangs curving down, sharp as needles, as if it had been about to strike.
I was so stunned I didn’t even hear the key turning in the lock, and it wasn’t until I felt the breeze and heard my name called that I spun round.
‘How did you get in here, Will?’ Harold said, his voice muffled through the cloth he was holding over his face. He pushed the door shut and tentatively lowered the cloth.
‘The Holy H—’ My voice sounded shaky even to me. ‘Matilda locked me in yesterday. Didn’t realise I was in here . . . Did you know she has a key?’
Harold nodded glumly. ‘She didn’t have a key to the linen chest, though, not that it stopped her. Prised it open, she did. Expect she’d have done the same to the chapel door if it had been locked against her. She’s stronger than she looks,’ he added, gazing across at the shattered lid.