By Sylvian Hamilton (16 page)

Her
steward trotted towards her. 'My Lady, the floor is still wet
upstairs.'

'Have
it flogged dry, then,' she snapped. 'I want all the stuff inside
before it rains.'

The
steward cast a wary eye at the pure blue sky, not a cloud in sight,
and kept his thoughts to himself. Men began shouldering bundles of
bedding and the dismantled parts of beds.

'Has
the kitchen been scoured?'

'Yes,
My Lady.'

'And
the cook?'

'Doused
in the horse trough, My Lady, and scrubbed.'

'Then
let him get his fires going and get to work. What about my brother?'

'Not
a cheep, My Lady. Door still barred. Lord Robert doesn't answer.'

'He
will when he gets hungry.' She looked up at the tower where two
men-at-arms, keeping watch, leaned on the rampart overlooking the
approaches. 'Get the ale and wine unloaded. And don't forget to take
some ale up to those two.'

She
went back inside and climbed the uneven spiral steps to the
bedchamber. There the beds had been set up, some with slatted bases
and some with lacings, and mattresses and covers were being shaken
and laid on. Two women with long mops were beating the floor to dry
it. Light and a little breeze came in at the windows on the western
side. On the recessed stone seat by one of the windows a child sat
looking out over the empty hills. A little girl. Julitta went and
stood beside her. She laid one hand gently on the child's shoulder
but the girl took no notice. On the horizon, a line of clouds had
appeared. Julitta put two fingers against the child's face and turned
it towards herself. The dark blue eyes met hers without expression,
but a shiver shook the small body. 'Are you cold?' Julitta asked. The
child shook her head.

'Hungry?'
Another shake. 'Well, you will eat something soon, and then go to
bed. You are very tired, aren't you? The blue eyes closed and opened,
and the girl nodded. 'Yes,' said the lady, satisfied. 'Very tired.'

Gilla
yawned.

The
clouds were nearer now, and darkening.

Chapter
21

Sir
Miles Hoby lowered his head and muttered, 'Thanks so much,' as a
deluge of rainwater escaped from a market-stall canopy and descended
upon him. It hardly mattered. He was soaked to the skin already, and
the blue dye of his cheap padded jerkin had run, staining his wrists
and hands and even his fingernails pale blue. It had been one of
those days, one of those weeks, really. In fact, looking back from
this sodden standpoint it had been one of those years, culminating in
the series of accidents, incidents and misadventures of the past
seven days. Nothing had gone as planned since he left Durham. First
his servant had come to grief, drunk; toppled off his mule on to a
pile of bricks, broke his collarbone and had to be left behind. Then
the packhorse had gone lame and Miles had exchanged it for a mule,
all he could get, and that proved a wilful, peevish, ill-conditioned,
lazy, cunning brute, given to biting, jibbing, kicking and bolting.
Miles's hand was bandaged, there was a piece out of the flesh of his
shoulder, his shins and one hip were blackly bruised and he hadn't
run so far so often since he was a small boy. Still, he was young,
healthy and delighted to have a job at last. Full of righteous
goodwill he had stopped to render thanks and praise to his favourite
saint at Nettleham and discovered his purse missing when he got out
of the crowded church, the cut ends of its strings flapping
forlornly. He could and would, of course, indent for expenses at the
next commanderie or preceptory, but it cast a certain blight over the
whole business.

Then,
only this morning, this exceptionally warm sunny morning, riding
through the small town of Dale, he had encountered an abjurer being
led through the town by soldiers and a priest. Pelted with filth and
stones and buffeted in the face and body by any man's fists that
could reach him, the poor devil's few remaining tatters of clothing
had been torn from his body, and even the town's stray dogs were
baying and snapping at his bleeding heels. Limping along behind him,
almost as ragged, thin and runny-nosed was a young woman, massively
pregnant. His wife, the priest told Miles, who would not stay behind
in their home town, who insisted on following her man into exile and
almost certainly to death; and there was nothing they could do about
it.

Miles
unbuckled his cloak from the saddle behind him, leaned down and
draped it over the woman's shoulders. She flinched as if from a blow,
then stood still clutching the cloak to her, staring open-mouthed
with astonishment at the young knight. Before he could snatch his
hand away she seized and kissed it, plastering it with snot.

Such
a fine morning! And now look at it! He was cloakless, drenched and
dripping, and if he wasn't sneezing and snuffling by morning that
would be a miracle of some sort! But at least he wouldn't have to
tether the beasts and sleep saturated under a hedge. Here at Fenrick
was a pilgrim hall, built by the bounty of a local nobleman now dead,
where travellers could dry out, be fed and bedded, and enjoy some
company and conversation. He might, though he doubted it, be able to
pick up another servant, perhaps even find a man who could manage the
brute; now that really would be a miracle. Miles's hopes, damp and
deflated, began to fluff up and dry.

When
he opened the door of the hall an overpowering smell of wet people,
mingled with that of fried onions and burnt sausages, rolled out to
greet him. Miles still had most of his strong young teeth, and there
was little he loved more than a crusty blackened sausage. His spirits
revived so much that he began to hum a cheery tune.

There
was no reason at all why a knight should not use the pilgrim hall,
but very few did, preferring to keep among their own kind, camping
off the road, or seeking hospitality at a house of religion, or a
manor, or the castle of a relative, friend, or friend of a friend.
Miles stood out in the crowd like a grape among currants, his tall
figure drawing all eyes; nudges, whispers and admiring looks among
the females, and resentful glances from the men. He sat at the long
board set on trestles in the centre of the hall. Many pilgrims had
brought their own food and shared it with those nearest them; but the
hospitality of the hall tonight ran to sausages and onions. Along
came a warty little man in a grubby apron who slapped a bread
trencher down in front of each guest and was followed by another as
like himself as to be a brother, doling out the food with a generous
hand. Smoke and cooking fumes hung in visible blue veils and the
atmosphere was eye-watering, but Miles was glad to be warm; and his
jerkin, which he'd hung on the rack by the fire, was steaming
heavily.

There
were several piles of straw pallets at one end of the hall, ready to
be laid down for the night. They looked third-or fourth-hand, Miles
thought, but never mind, what were a few fleas set against the
relentless deluge outside? A great flash of lightning cast a blue and
sinister light on the upturned startled faces at table, and thunder
bowled around the edges of the sky. Folk crossed themselves and
muttered the names of saints. Miles picked his teeth, sat back,
surveyed the company and thought about the job. 'You can make
yourself useful at last,' his uncle William had said. 'And if you
don't cock this up, my boy, well, perhaps we can think about you
joining the Order. If you still want to, that is." 'Of course he
still wanted to! Had wanted to be a Templar since he was seven years
old. Wanted nothing so much, especially as a certain young woman,
Hilda daughter of Sir Brian Jourdaine, remained stubbornly
unimpressed by his efforts to attach her interest. But once he wore
the coveted Templars' white mantle with its crimson cross, she'd look
at him with different eyes. Too late then, of course! Warrior monks
were celibate, and she'd have lost her chance, but the fantasy was
tempting, and he half-dozed over it for a while in the increasing
fug.

Outside,
the wind changed, and rain began to blow in through the windows.
Someone fetched the hide shutters and hooked them up. Talk and
laughter began--jokes, travellers' tales. Someone sang an old love
song which was very well received, and a little wiry chap leapt on to
the board itself and walked along it, back and forth, on his hands,
somersaulting neatly down again and pretending to stumble into a
plump and jolly woman's lap; cheers and helpful suggestions were not
wanting.

Miles
listened and laughed, got up and turned his jerkin over to steam the
other side, and with a fine bow accepted a honey cake offered by a
blushing young matron. Thanking her, he admired the swaddled baby she
carried –a pallid pungent larva-like bundle.

'Fine
little lad,' he said cheerfully.

'It's
a girl,' said the mother irritably.

He'd
taken off his wet boots and hung them round his neck, and now he sat
with his feet in their damp darned hose near the fire. He'd sleep dry
if itchy tonight. Tomorrow he'd make an early start, and if he could
coax the brute into anything like a decent pace, he hoped to catch up
with Sir Richard Straccan in two or three more days.

'A
good man,' his uncle had said. 'Dependable, honest. Having a rather
worrying spot of bother. Catch up with him and lend a hand. I've a
feeling he'll need it.'

'How
shall I know him?'

'Some
thirty years old or so, about my height. Rides a big bay with one
white fore. Wears a blue cloak, carries his hauberk rolled behind him
strapped to the saddle. Old saddle, patched, with worn red leather
trimmings. Axe at the saddlebow and an old-fashioned sword worn at
his back. One manservant, I've not seen him.

Making
for the border turning west for Liddesdale. Soulis's hold Crawgard is
there. My information had Soulis there at Christmas, though he may be
elsewhere by now.'

'What
is Soulis like?' Miles had asked.

'I
haven't seen him for twenty years. He was a black-haired,
white-faced, lipless creature, proud as Lucifer. About thirty years
old then, fifty or more now. Miles ..."

'Sir?'

'There
may be something else behind it all. Soulis is an evil man. Wear
this.' He produced a small flat silk packet stitched all round, with
a cross embroidered on it and suspended from a silken cord.

'It
is the Blessed Host,' said Sir William. 'I got it from Father
Alphege. It will protect you from all evil. Keep it close.' Miles
hung it round his neck and tucked the little packet under his shirt.

His
uncle took a chain and locket from his own neck and put it on his
nephew's, saying, 'Wear this also. It is a relic of Saint Cuthbert.
Don't lose it, I want it back!'

Miles
knelt to receive his uncle's blessing, quite touched at the old man's
concern and absolutely thrilled to have a job, an errand --by
stretching the imagination only a very little he might even be able
to call it a quest. He'd kicked his heels at York and then Durham,
hoping to be taken on in some capacity by the Order, ever since his
father's death last summer had left him penniless and landless with
only his youth, strength and skill at arms to recommend him.

The
little chap who had danced on his hands was an entertaining fellow.
During the evening he told a long and robust tale concerning a monk,
a goodwife, her spouse and an ale barrel, which made all but a few
sour folk laugh long and loud; and he made astonishing
shadow-pictures with his hands--animals, birds, an old woman nagging
–which drew cries of delight. Not a few fourthings and ha'pence
were tossed his way. He didn't look like a pilgrim –no staff or
hat or badges –just a mountebank, making his living from the
others. But a merry fellow. Or so Miles thought until he was leaving
the backyard privy on his way back to fug, fleas and bed, and found
the merry fellow's knife at his neck.

'I
never took you for a robber,' he said indignantly, 'and anyway,
you're out of luck, I had my purse cut two days gone.' 'I'm no
robber,' the merry man hissed, 'but I heard you, when you arrived,
asking the porter at the door about a friend of mine. What do you
want with him?'

'Do
you mean Straccan?'

'That's
the name.'

'Funny
way to enquire about a friend,' said Miles. 'Why not come over to me
in hall and say, Here, I think we have a mutual acquaintance?'

'Never
mind that. Why are you after him?'

'Oh,
I've had enough of this,' said Miles, smashing his elbow into the
mountebank's windpipe, catching the dagger as it dropped and raising
one knee to propel the collapsing body back inside the privy. Before
the man could recover his breath, Miles had him suspended by the
ankles, head down inside the noisome hole, wheezing, squeaking and
trying to pray.