Will laughed. ‘You’d best not let the Holy Hag hear you call her precious relic a glory hand.’ He pursed his lips and flared his nostrils, looking so like Matilda when she was affronted that I laughed too.
Then, pulling his cloak tighter around him, he began pushing his way through the bushes again and I followed. We walked on in silence. Trees whipped round us in the darkness, and the wind dashed leaves and twigs against our skin, making it sting. I glanced behind me, remembering the huge creature that had lumbered out of the night. Where were my sons tonight? Will might fear for his son’s life in the manor, but there was more to fear for a little boy lost out here and alone.
Chapter 58
The sea is a woman and her other name is Fate.
Medieval Proverb
Janiveer lifts the candle, moving the soft yellow flame towards baby Oswin to ensure that he sleeps, but she is careful to keep the light from falling full on his face and waking him. She watches his eyes flutter beneath the almost transparent lids. He is dreaming, an ancient dream, wandering the labyrinth of his ancestors, where water runs through fire, and fish swim in the red veins of the earth. It is a dream she could enter if she wished, but she has her own shadow lands to explore.
She settles herself in front of the fire, leaning forward and blowing the flames gently so that they flicker over the logs. She lights twigs of rowan, ash and flying thorn, letting the smoke wash over her, like running water, as her mother and aunts taught her.
She stares into the embers, marking the progress of the dwarf and the woman approaching ever closer through the forest of scarlet flame, blackened wood and white ash. She watches the other dark creatures of the forest too, beings that no dull-witted woodsman would ever see, but for once these spirits and phantasms do not interest her. Reluctantly, she pulls herself away from the fire, checking the child one last time, but she knows he will sleep for hours. She added dwale to his milk, not too much lest he sink into a sleep from which he would never wake, but enough to keep him silent until morning. The veil between sleep and death is thin and fragile, but Janiveer is mistress of it.
She steps outside, pulling the door closed behind her. The moonlight, as if by alchemy, has transmuted the dull stone of the high walls to quicksilver. But as soon as she moves from the shelter of the stillroom, the wind pounces, shrieking like a trapped animal, hurling itself around the courtyard, rolling and clattering the well buckets and a carelessly abandoned broom. But even above the din, the hounds hear the soft slap of Janiveer’s bare feet. They smell her skin and raise their heads. With a gesture and an ancient word she bids them lie down and they do, without protest.
The watchman at the inner gate does not hear her. He was greedy for the flagon of strong cider she left for him and now his snores reverberate deep inside his hut. She slips through the wicket gate in the great door, gripping it tightly so it is not snatched from her hand.
Outside the shelter of the inner walls, the wind is even stronger. Every tree and blade of dry grass bends in obeisance before it. It tears at her gown, like an importunate lover, but she wraps her cloak tighter and barges against it, following the line of the stinking brook until she comes to the iron grating.
She hears the low voices almost at once, Will urging Sara to stay outside and not try to wriggle through the filth of the sewer. He emerges, kicking and wriggling, then turns to reach for something the woman hands to him through the arch. Janiveer motions him to sit close to the grating and she crouches on the opposite bank. She knows Sara is straining to hear every word that passes between her and the dwarf, just as she knows what Sara’s heart is aching for, but she is not ready to give it to her, not yet. Sara must learn to wait, just as she has waited. Even time must be avenged.
‘Have you brought the hand of Cadeyrn?’
Will holds up the small package but does not pass it across the filthy stream and Janiveer makes no attempt to snatch it.
The dwarf peers around in the darkness, staring over Janiveer’s shoulder at the trees bending in the wind. ‘Have you brought them, Christina and my son?’
‘Out here, in the cold and the dark? Would you have them fall sick? She is not a packman’s wife. I will bring them to you when it is time. Be patient.’
‘But there is no more time,’ the dwarf says urgently. ‘They must leave the manor tonight. That evil old besom, Eda, saw me in the forest as we were coming here. I would have killed her, but she got away. She knows everything and she means to tell it. As soon as news reaches Lady Aliena or that fiend Randel, Christina’s death warrant will be signed, and my son’s too. I must get them away, far away from here.’
‘And you shall, Will, but nothing has changed as yet. The pestilence still rages. You must wait.’
‘Will,’ Sara calls through the archway. ‘Tell Janiveer . . . tell her I’m ready . . . I will pay the price she asks, if she’ll only lift the curse and bring my lads back to me. Even if they’re dead, I must know . . . I must look at them, one last time. See they’re buried right.’
In the darkness, Janiveer smiles. And when a sea-witch smiles, men should tremble.
‘Give me the hand of Cadeyrn,’ she says quietly.
‘You swear you will save Christina and my son?’
‘And you’ll come back to the village,’ Sara adds swiftly.
‘On the bones of my forefathers and -mothers, I swear it.’
Will stretches out his arm across the gurgling dark hole in the great wall. As he does so, a gust of wind finding the narrow gap, bursts through it with a great shriek, like the cry of a monstrous eagle.
Janiveer’s fingers eagerly grasp the bundle that the dwarf holds out to her. She expects to feel the fire of Cadeyrn’s bones run through her own, the power of that hand tingle in hers. When she touches his other bones, she can taste the blood, hear the screams of men and horses, feel her pulse throb with the weight of the pollax in her hand as it chops through living flesh and crushes skulls like birds’ eggs. But now, holding this, she sees nothing, feels nothing.
Janiveer lays the small bundle in her lap, unwrapping it more by touch than sight, for clouds are racing across the moon. Her fingers explore the naked leathery skin, the cold dead nails, the smashed bone of severed wrist. She rises, towering above the dwarf.
She points the dead hand at him. ‘You want me to save the woman you love yet you lie to me? Did you think me so easily deceived? You do not know me, dwarf.’
Will scrambles to his feet. ‘But that’s what you asked for, Cadeyrn’s hand. Harold said the hand was hidden in the linen chest in the chapel, just where you told me the priest had left it. Matilda took it home and hid it. We went to her house and forced her to give it to us. I swear it’s the saint’s hand, the very one that was in the reliquary.’
‘But it is not Cadeyrn’s hand. The hand that was struck from him, the hand from which the spring flowed, was his right hand. His axe hand. This is a left hand.’
‘But where would the old hag have got another hand?’ the dwarf pleads. ‘If this isn’t Cadeyrn’s hand, then it must have been substituted for the real one years ago . . . or maybe,’ he adds desperately, ‘your forefather was left-handed and fought with the other hand to fool the enemy.’
‘I have his body, dwarf,’ Janiveer says, her voice crackling with ice. ‘A man, even a great man like the warrior king, does not possess two left hands. I ask you once more, where is the hand of Cadeyrn? Where is the hand of my bone and my blood?’
‘I swear to you,’ the dwarf says, ‘this is the hand that was in that chapel.’
‘And I know it is not!’ Janiveer paces closer to the wall so that, even over the wind, Sara will hear her plainly. ‘I asked the villagers to choose which life they would give me and you have offered me your life, Sara, your life to save the village. But you have both tried to deceive me. I will take a life, but now I will choose whose life it shall be.’
Chapter 59
Babylon the great is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of
every unclean spirit.
The Apocalypse of St John
Uriel cast another log on to the fire, though it was already hotter than Hades. Firelight flickered and twisted across the cave walls, undulating through the shadows. All the disciples were exhausted. Some flopped limply against the walls, heads drooping. Others dug their nails into their palms to keep themselves awake or shuffled on aching knees to find sharper pebbles to kneel on. They dared not rest. Uriel, though her own eyes were red-rimmed, stared down at them from her niche in the wall, like a buzzard searching for prey.
Only Hob was permitted to sleep. He lay curled on the ground while the Prophet prayed for guidance. The boy’s naked body was covered with smudged signs, some black, inscribed with an end of a burned stick, others dark red, drawn in blood. All had been made to drive the succubus Frica, demon of sickness, from his small frame. But she would not depart.
The Prophet had commanded her, prayed over her, argued with her, but the boy was his, she said, and she would not come out of him. She had jeered and laughed. Her rasping cries had echoed up and down the tunnel, till the Chosen couldn’t tell if she was mocking them from out of the boy’s mouth or from the depths of Hell beneath. Sometimes one of her six demonic sisters, Restilia or Ignea, would taunt Brother Praeco from the rocks, threatening to enter the boy and lie with Frica, so he would be forced to drive them out too.
The Prophet had prayed at them in Latin and in a language that sounded to Luke like the drunken babbling of a madman, but which Friar Tom had whispered was the tongue of angels. But though sweat had poured down his face and soaked his shirt, neither earthly nor heavenly words would make Frica depart. Once, the Prophet had seized Hob and held him high above his head, threatening to dash him against the rocks if the demon would not leave him. Hob had screamed until he was rigid and blue. Luke heard himself screaming too, though neither could be heard over the shouts and exultations of the Chosen. But when Hob was set down again, the coughing returned so badly that he vomited, almost choking as he fought for breath.
When the Prophet rose from his knees and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel behind, Luke had felt the tension in his body ease just a little. Maybe Brother Praeco had given up and gone back to his own chamber to sleep. The disciples glanced furtively at one another – could they, too, rest now? Friar Tom’s head sank back against the wall. David dipped a ladle several times into a bucket of water, pouring some over his own sweating face and slurping the rest. The Chosen watched enviously, licking dried lips. Only the Prophet’s most trusted disciples would dare to take such licence.
‘God has told me what must be done,’ a deep voice announced.
Luke started violently, almost knocking himself out as his head banged against the rock. Brother Praeco was standing in front of the tunnel entrance. No one had heard him return. His tangled beard dragged over the mat of hair on his chest as he gazed slowly around the cave.
‘A demon will remain in a human body only so long as it is in comfort there. If the body in which it resides feels pain, then the demon shall feel it also. We must drive this succubus from the child, punish her till she weeps and begs for mercy.’
He gazed down at the naked boy lying on the floor. Hob had fallen into a sleep of complete exhaustion, from which not even the Prophet’s booming tones could wake him.
Brother Praeco raised his arm and pointed at Luke. ‘Come!’
Shakily, Luke clambered to his feet. He was too numb, too scared to do anything but obey. He couldn’t even seem to remember where he was any more. He was grateful to be told what to do. He stumbled forward, staring down at the body of his brother lying on the cave floor. The boy’s ribs, like the spars of a wrecked ship, jutted out beneath the skin. Luke gazed uncomprehendingly at him as if he was an animal that had no connection to him at all.
Brother Praeco lifted Luke’s hand and he felt something hard and smooth pressed against his palm. The Prophet closed Luke’s fingers around a long springy stick.
‘Now, Luke, God has given you another chance to prove your faith. You will thrash that demon who has been tormenting your brother. You will beat her without mercy. When Frica screams and cries, you will beat her all the harder. You will flog her, Luke, with all the strength in your arm. Beat her, Luke. Drive her out.’
‘Beat her, Luke. Drive her out,’ the chorus of the Chosen screamed. ‘Beat out the devil! Beat out the devil!’
Luke was aware that his arm was rising. He heard the whistle as the stick rushed through the air and the thwack as it hit bare flesh. He heard the scream, a demon from Hell screaming in agony, and he was exalted.
Chapter 60
Matilda
St Laurence of Rome is the patron saint of cooks for it is said he was martyred on a gridiron. He took the Holy Grail from the Last Supper and sent it to be hidden in the monastery at Huesca, that it might give sustenance to the Kingdom of Aragon.
When I woke, it was the silence I noticed. There were no more cocks or hens to be heard in the village, for they’d long since been eaten, but the gulls always started to cry as soon as the thinnest rind of light showed itself over the hill. But that morning a pearly white light was already glowing through the fish skins that covered the narrow casement and yet there was still no sound from the gulls.
Goda was lying curled up around her baby in front of the hearth. I was tempted to kick her awake as I passed, for she should have been up mending the fire and heating what little we had in the pot. But I was glad of a moment or two of peace before her brat began bawling again.
I opened the door and stepped out into a white blanket of mist, the first sea fret of the closing year. I could just make out the posts of the pigsty appearing and vanishing again as the mist swirled around. Tiny beads of water clung to the spiders’ webs, making them suddenly visible. There were webs all over the roof, more strung between the walls and the edge of the thatch, enveloping the shutters. The whole house seemed to be wrapped in these silvery-grey nets, each with a dark spider clinging to it, motionless, waiting in vain for its prey.
The damp air made my lungs and bones ache and there was nothing more likely to bring on the ague. I hurried back inside. Goda, woken by the draught from the door, was sitting cross-legged in front of the embers of the fire, trying to coax them into life with handfuls of dry grass and twigs. With her other hand she pressed her baby to her chest. Her shift was open and the child was pulling at her teat, grizzling. Goda’s dugs were flat, just flaps of skin, like an old crone’s. But she still insisted on trying to feed the baby.
‘Put the child down and attend to that fire properly,’ I snapped. ‘You’re just wasting what little strength she has. You can spoon a little from your bowl of pottage into her, when you can stir yourself to make it.’
‘Naught to make pottage from, unless . . .’ Her gaze flicked towards the barrel, where my last few pieces of pork swam in brine.
‘Then you’d better take yourself down to the shore. See what you can gather.’
‘There’s a bad sea fret. ’Tisn’t safe.’
‘Nonsense, the tide will be out, and the mist can’t harm you.’ I hauled her to her feet. ‘Winter’s coming, so you’d better start doing something to earn your keep. Do you want to find yourself sleeping in the pigsty? How long do you think the child will survive that?’
Goda glanced down at the whimpering baby, gnawing her lip. Then, with ill grace, she laid her back on the pile of skins, pressing an old pig’s bone into her fist for her to suck. She hoisted the woven fish basket on to her back and, shivering, padded out into the mist, her broad bare feet pounding against the hard earth.
The baby was still whining, but I ignored her. I lifted down each of my saints and dusted them, running my fingers over the cold carved flesh and pressing my nails deep into the painted scarlet wounds – St Amphibalus bound to the tree by his intestines; St Laurence roasting on a gridiron; St Edmund with his severed head; and St Sebastian pierced with arrows. I dared not light candles to them, for I
had precious little wax left and the winter nights were long and dark. But I took the skull goblet from its pouch and poured into it a few drops of the holy oil I had removed from the chapel. Dipping my fingers into it, I anointed each of the saints, touching heads, ears, eyes, lips, breast, hands, feet and the place where their private parts would be beneath their carved loincloths.
‘Blessed and holy St Sebastian, hear me and watch over this your faithful servant, as angels cleanse the world with their scourges and scythes. May the sinners be cut down and perish and the righteous be exalted.’
The baby was wailing loudly now, her face scarlet, fists flailing. Her mother should have returned long before this. I opened the door, peering out, but the mist was too dense to see even to the far side of my herb patch. I edged forward along the track. I would have to go down and chivvy the girl. She’d probably forgotten what she’d been sent for and was idling her time in chatter, oblivious to my needs and her own daughter’s.
It was hard to breathe in the chill air and before I had gone more than a few yards, my skin and clothes were soaked by the tiny droplets of water. The mist hung a few inches above the ground, so that I was able to see the path immediately beneath me, though nothing ahead or around me. Occasionally a post or a tree-trunk reared up out of the mist, looming so close that my heart pounded from the jolt until I could distinguish what they were. I kept thinking I had lost my way, for I was certain I’d walked long enough to have reached the shore, but then I’d glimpse the wall of a certain cottage or a marker stone, which made me realise I had not come nearly as far as I’d thought.
But as I descended, I became aware of a growing stench that was far stronger than the seaweed and rotting fish on the shore. It smelt like the grave pit up at the chapel. But I was walking away from that, not towards it, so it should have been growing weaker. The mist must be dragging down the foul humours.