By Sylvian Hamilton (14 page)

'Got
any new ones lately?' The king was peeling an orange, on his face a
look of innocent unconcern which didn't deceive his sister for a
moment. Something was up.

'No,
I haven't. What are you on about?'

'Oh?
I heard –just heard, you know, can't recall who mentioned it
–that you'd hired some relic-merchant to find you something
choice.'

'Well,
you heard wrong,' she said, annoyed that his spies had been, well,
spying, but aware that all his friends, lovers, relatives and of
course enemies, as well as anyone who caught his interest, were under
constant surveillance. 'I haven't hired anyone. Sir Richard Straccan
very courteously did an errand for the priory, that's all.'

'Straccan!
That's the fellow! One of the best in the business, I'm told. Turned
dealer when he came back from the Holy Land. Funny thing for a knight
to do, but then, live and let live, that's what I always say. It was
him went to Naples to get that tooth, what a coincidence! A busy man.
A man whose time costs money. How very kind of him to be your errand
boy.' He was still smiling but the gooseberry-coloured eyes were
hard.

The
prioress kept her hands relaxed on the cushion. She wanted to say,
testily, What's worrying you, John? But dared not. She said nothing
and stared at him.

He
let the silence go on, stopped smiling and began to clean his
fingernails with a small jewelled pick. She noticed he was getting
long-sighted, holding his hand away to inspect it. After a while he
said, 'We have reason to distrust this Straccan of yours.'

'We'
was a bad sign. She arched her brows enquiringly at him and waited.

'Damn
it, Madam! He consorts with the usurper Langton! Don't deny it!'

'How
can I deny it? I don't know anything about it. It's no business of
mine.'

'Right,'
said the king, 'but it's very much my business. I'm keeping an eye on
Straccan: where he goes, who he meets.' His expression softened.
'Rosy, can't you see how it looks? The man visits Stephen Langton, is
privately entertained. Visits you. Visits the Countess of Arlen, who
then makes over some of her revenues to you!'

So
that's what's got him going, she thought. Julitta. Him and his spies!
Spying on his half-sister; spying, of course, on his mistress. Spies
everywhere. 'My Lord King,' she said, 'I know nothing about Langton.
I know Straccan because his young daughter has been lodged with us
since her mother died. His errand to the Lady Julitta was a priory
matter. We did her a service, she thanked us appropriately. It's
nothing to worry about. I promise.'

'You
always kept your promises,' he muttered, nibbling at a hangnail.
Then, jumping up, again the jovial beaming brother, 'Well, well,
let's forget all that, shall we? Have an orange. I'll peel one for
you.'

She
stood up and laid a hand on the silky velvet of his sleeve. 'My
Lord,' she said, 'let me tell you about Straccan's errand. It's a
strange story. I think you'll be interested.'

Chapter
17

Saint
Felicity's holy spring at Altarwell had brought prosperity to the
monks, their abbey and the neighbouring town. Pilgrims came in a
never-ending stream, gifts and legacies with them, and twice a week
the well chamber in the crypt was opened to give the faithful, sick
and supplicant, access to the blessed water. Evidence of its healing
power was there for all to see. The walls of the crypt were festooned
with discarded crutches, hand-trestles, soiled dressings and
bandages, and hung with wax models—some lifesize—of
legs, feet, hands, arms, hearts, ears and eyes, all representing the
once-diseased but now cured, bodily parts of the grateful and
fortunate. Rank upon rank of candles burned in the low arched
chamber, giving a queer flickering realism to the wall paintings
scenes from the life of the blessed martyr, Saint Felicity, whose
holy power had caused the spring to burst forth from a rock five
hundred years ago.

The
main door stood wide open to admit the crowds, but not much daylight
reached the far end of the crypt where a low stone basin caught the
steady flow channelled through three lead pipes. The basin was on a
stepped stone dais, and on the Watering Days, relays of sturdy monks
in pairs dealt with the sick and infirm, helping them up the steps,
sitting them on the parapet or leaning them over the edge in a proper
and respectful manner—no spitting or splashing or acting the
fool—and baling the water over them with wooden dippers.

Bane
waited for Straccan as he'd been told, while watching for the unknown
fair man. He wandered the streets, visited the alehouses, patronised
the bear-baiting and the dog fights, and stared hard at every fair
head and every black horse, with no luck at all. Nor could he learn
anything of the man Gregory. Today, Saturday, Watering Day, along
with half a hundred other idlers he had come to the well chamber to
watch the show, and now stood below the steps of the well in a sweaty
smelly press of hymn-singing hopefuls. He was not at all surprised to
see Brother Celestius and his charges in the crowd a little way off.
There was no need to worry about William or Alice, Bane thought. The
crush of bodies was too tight for them to do anything but shuffle
slowly forward waiting their turn.

Hung
about with filthy rags, a shivering beggar crouched on the lowest
step beneath the well, as offensive an object as could be. The skin
showing through his rags was covered with sores, great pustules, raw
wet lesions, maggoty ulcers and broken scabs. The stench was so
powerful that people pressed away from him and he sat in a small
space all his own, a mute huddle of misery. Bane noticed he was
quietly secreting coins among his tatters, ragged quarters and halves
of silver pennies, and even the occasional whole coin, dropped beside
him in charity.

Brother
Celestius and his people had reached the bottom step, where they fell
to their knees, faces rapt; all but Walter's, who was staring at the
basin and watching the steady flow from the pipes. The hymn rose to a
crescendo, a huge volume of sound which echoed back and forth from
the curves of walls and roof. It was followed by a moment of intense
silence, before the cries and pleas of the imploring sick rose in a
great clamour and the packed bodies surged forward. The two strong
young attendant monks rolled up their sleeves and began bawling.
'Wait!' and 'Stoppit!' and 'Shut up there! Two at a time,' shoving
back against the pilgrims with considerable force.

In
pairs the pilgrims ascended the steps, sat on the parapet, or leaned
over the basin shouting their prayers, battering at the ears of the
Blessed Saint with their grievances, illnesses and troubles, while
the monks dipped and poured, dipped and poured. Two by two by two,
men and women, children, babies in arms, all dipped in the water as
if in a second baptism. There was a brief disturbance when one of the
babies was found to be already dead. Its mother would not let it go,
and was dragged away screaming.

In
a sudden flurry of movement Walter eeled through the crowd, rising
suddenly on the bottom step. He reached for the neck of the smelly
beggar, hauling him from his seat and plunging his head and upper
body into the well. Water surged up and overflowed, deluging the legs
and feet of those nearest. The unfortunate victim struggled and
plunged, breaking the surface with a yell of 'Leggo!' but was thrust
under again in Walter's iron grip. 'I baptise thee, I baptise thee,'
Walter cried, 'all clean from sin!' Both monks had hold of him,
trying to pull him back without success. Bane pushed forward and
snatched Brother Celestius' staff, thrusting it between Walter's
ankles and jerking him off balance so that he toppled down the steps,
dragging monks and half-drowned beggar all in one splashing yelling
heap. As they separated and began to scramble up again, there was a
sudden silence, then gasps, murmurs and rising cries.

'Look!'
'Praise God!' 'Praise Saint Felicity!' and 'What?'

'What's
appened?' 'Soddit, get your great ed out o me way and lemme see!'

The
beggar's body was clean of sores! Some scabs, drowned maggots and
other repellent debris floated in the basin. The beggar coughed and
spat up water, then, realising everyone was staring at him, looked
down at his breast and arms, and ran a wet hand over his face and
scalp. 'Shit,' he said, and launched himself at Walter, ramming his
head into the madman's belly. Walter, still held between the two
monks, doubled up and began to cry.

'E
tried to drown me,' the beggar said, furious.

'E
can't elp it, don't urt im, e's a loony,' cried Brother Celestius.

'I'll
give im loony,' shouted the beggar, and swung his fist at Walter's
eye.

Bane
caught his hand before connection. 'Reckon he did you a service,' he
said with a wink. 'Came here to be cured, didn't you?' 'Cured? Oh!
Yes, of course! Cured! That's right! It's a miracle,' said the beggar
fervently.

The
magic word echoed and re-echoed and leapt from tongue to tongue.
–Miracle ... Miracle ... The beggar smirked at the monks. The
monks looked at each other, a spark of intelligence jumped from eye
to eye; one raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips interrogatively, the
other nodded and they made the best of the opportunity.

'A
miracle,' shouted one brother in a great bass bellow. 'Praise be to
God and Saint Felicity.' While the crowd sank to its collective knees
the other monk hustled the beggar away behind screens and out through
a back door into the abbey garden, where he administered a swift kick
and several slaps. Sounds of protest drifted back before the door was
firmly heeled shut.

In
the crypt, the prayers and howls and praises were deafening, a solid
battering of animal noise, its purpose to grab and hold the saint's
attention. Women swooned. Men wept, tearing at their hair and
clothes. On their knees the sick, the penitent, the lame and blind
and wronged, lurched and shuffled forward, dabbling hands and faces
and torn bits of cloth in the water puddled on the floor.

'How'd
he get loose?' Bane asked Brother Celestius, seeing him reattaching
Walter on a shortened rope.

'Cunning
old git, ain't e?' The monk sighed. 'E asked the man standing next to
im to lend is knife. Cut the rope. Gave the knife back. In all that
squash, I never noticed.'

Bane
made his way to the door, shoving through the kneeling pilgrims, and
as he went out he met Straccan coming in. Together they walked out
into the courtyard.

'What's
going on in there?' Straccan asked.

'Signs
and wonders,' said Bane. 'You all right now?'

'Yes.
Any sign of that fair bastard, or news of Gregory?'

'No.
What happens now?'

'I
want you to stay here a bit longer in case the fair man turns up. I'm
going to the Temple commanderie at Durham, to find out about that man
you saw in Alnwick, Soulis. Wait for me at Burnhope if you get there
first.'

'You
reckon he's got something to do with this?'

'I
think he's the man we know as Gregory. Those children said the fair
man was riding with Saracens, and you saw Soulis with them too. He
may have been a crusader, and if he was, or if he was a pilgrim to
the Holy Land, the Templars will know.'

Chapter
18

When
Straccan had gone, Bane bought some bread and bacon and leaned back
against the abbey wall, munching and waiting. Presently the
miraculously cured beggar was flung out, bruised, dusty and cursing.
Picking himself up, he shook a fist at the brawny gate-porter and
limped off along the street, not noticing that Bane followed. A
Saturday market was in full swing outside the Westgate, and the
beggar pushed through the crowd, past the stalls and in through the
gate, making for the brothel district, and nipping swiftly in at the
front door of one whose signboard proclaimed it to be the Bishop's
Mitre.

Bane
tucked himself inconspicuously in a doorway at some distance, and
waited again. An hour or so passed before the man emerged, washed,
decently dressed and carrying a bundle. In ordinary trews and tunic
he was not readily recognisable as the disgusting vagabond from the
crypt. Bane followed him back to the abbey, where streams of pilgrims
were passing through the gate and in and out of the wellchamber, from
which a sustained roar of praise and pleading continued. The beggar
pulled up his hood and pushed his way into the chamber. Bane waited
and after a while the man came out again, gazing around anxiously
now, peering at people and faces, looking for someone. Bane followed
him back to the market, where he waylaid the beggar by the simple
means of ducking around a stall and colliding forcefully with the
startled man. Allowing his bread and bacon to be knocked from his
hand, he grabbed the fellow to steady himself and said cheerfully,
'Oh, it's you!"