Winter Siege (24 page)

‘ “Fulbert,” ’ he read, ‘ “by the grace of God Archdeacon of the great Abbey of St Albans …” ’ He looked up at Gwil. ‘You
knew
Archdeacon Fulbert?’ Gwil shook his head. Father Nimbus looked relieved. ‘Then you are fortunate, my son. This was a man who brought disgrace on the name of Christendom. Dead now, though … Poisoned, or so they say.’

‘Go on, Father.’

Father Nimbus cleared his throat again and continued with the translation: ‘ “I, Fulbert of Caen, Archdeacon of St Albans, send greetings to Brother Thancmar, monk of Ely Abbey, and instruct that by full right and any means necessary you procure from Ely the bones of St Alban that were most wickedly and with sacrilege withheld from St Albans, their rightful home …” ’

Thancmar, Gwil thought, so
that’s
his name.

‘But the bones have been returned to St Albans, have they not?’ Father Nimbus asked. ‘There was a massacre at Ely to get them.’

Gwil nodded. ‘After the battle of Lincoln. Mercenaries led by this Thancmar. Nine monks killed.’ He clamped his teeth together and then, because he was going to tell this priest the whole truth, he said: ‘I was there.’

Not a quiver of shock from Father Nimbus; more a look of compassion. ‘With blood on your sword, my son?’

‘No. But I was there.’ And so Gwil embarked on the tale he had to tell, omitting only the part which included Penda. The priest was kindly and good, he could see that, but the girl must be protected at all costs and her tragedy was not his to confide.

As the words tumbled out of his mouth so the memories came back and he encountered waves of distress which threatened to drown him. I’ve gone soft, he thought to himself. He was tossed by the guilt of Ely where, even if there had been no blood on his sword, he had ridden with men from whose weapons it dripped.

Again, as in his every nightmare, the unbidden image of the little girl with the red hair lying bloodied in the ruined church tormented him. He stopped, gasping for breath, and raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. When he had collected himself he wiped them roughly with the back of his sleeve and looked at the priest.

He saw the effect of his emotion reflected in the ravaged expression on Father Nimbus’s face and wondered if this effeminate little man could withstand the onslaught of what he was hearing. However, though the priest’s eyes shed tears, they remained steadily on his. Only when Gwil reached Waterlily’s death was there an outburst of pain, a
de profundis
of the soul at man’s capacity for atrocity.

‘That poor child,’ Father Nimbus said quietly. Then he bowed his head and stood in silence for a while, until, with a deep breath, he returned reluctantly to the parchment. ‘ “And if this should be done to the satisfaction of this abbey and I, Fulbert, be made its bishop, Brother Thancmar shall be raised to the post of Archdeacon of St Albans which will be in my gift …” Dear Lord.’ He turned to Gwil, suddenly pale and shaking. ‘You know the story of St Albans?’ he asked. Gwil shook his head.

‘No, I presumed not,’ Father Nimbus continued. ‘It is well known among the clergy but there is no reason its contagion should have spread further afield. This Fulbert of Caen’ – he rapped the parchment angrily with his finger and shook his head – ‘was indeed Archdeacon of St Albans and had ruled that particular roost, showing himself a slave to avarice and ambition, ever since the old bishop died; extorting money from his churches to put into his own money bags. His robes were gorgeous, his plate of silver and gold, and he travelled with a retinue of brutal mercenaries whose doings were a scandal, as, indeed, were those of the women who shared his bed. And yet …’ Father Nimbus paused and put his hand over his mouth. ‘And yet,’ he said again with emphasis, ‘King Stephen would anoint him bishop! Fulbert supported him, you see, against the Empress, advancing a fortune to the Royal Treasury, putting his mercenaries at his disposal while wriggling among his courtiers like an eel in salt water.’

The exertion of such an impassioned speech had begun to take its toll on the little priest and he sank down on the pew behind them breathing hard. Gwil sat beside him and for a while a hush descended on the chapel until Father Nimbus spoke again.

‘But good will out,’ he suddenly exclaimed as if to reassure them both. ‘Even in these desperate times. The virtuous people of the chapter of St Albans sent to the Pope, warning the Holy Father that this candidate for a bishopric, this Fulbert, is worthy only of the fire. And meanwhile the fortunes of the abbey are dwindling and with them Fulbert’s power.

‘You should know, though you may not, that many, many years ago when Christian England was still being torn to pieces by the pagan Danes, St Albans sent its finest relics to Ely Cathedral – yes, including the bones of St Alban himself – asking them to safeguard them until the danger of the invasion had passed. This they did and returned them too, though reluctantly, when it was eventually deemed safe enough. However, all this time later, provoked perhaps by Fulbert’s wicked and extravagant ways, Ely suddenly announced to the world that they had not, after all, returned the relics but had kept them and that what had been returned were fakes. All of a sudden St Albans’ profits diminished, as did its reputation along with Fulbert’s own; pilgrims were no longer willing to pay, you see, for the privilege of touching the tomb of England’s first martyr if it did not actually contain the bones of that brave Christian and could therefore no more grant them the miracles they asked for than some common skeleton dug out of a charnel house.’ Father Nimbus stopped speaking and turned to look directly at Gwil.

‘This parchment’, he said, ‘is Fulbert’s pact with the Devil … this … this Thancmar. The return of the relics would restore riches to St Albans and silence Fulbert’s critics. Why, even the Pope could not gainsay the man who returned the bones of St Alban to their rightful place.’ He paused again, raised his eyes to the heavens and rapped the parchment on the front of the pew. ‘This is a licence to rapine and murder.’

‘I know.’ Gwil spoke for the first time in a long while, although he could not look at the man beside him. ‘I was there, remember? I witnessed the slaughter at Ely.’

Father Nimbus made the sign of the cross; then he turned to Gwil and took both his hands in his. ‘Then you are in grave danger, my child,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper now. ‘Fulbert is dead, murdered, like all the other witnesses to this crime. Thancmar is archdeacon now and King Stephen has applied to make him bishop. You and this parchment are all that stand between him and great power. And he will stop at nothing to get it back.’ Gwil felt the priest’s small, cold hands tremble as they held his between them.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I knew Thancmar.’

‘But you don’t know everything,’ Father Nimbus said in a whisper, clutching his hands between his own so tightly that Gwil felt the blood freeze in them. ‘He is close. He was here today. I saw him! Outside the castle. It was
he
who attended the parley with the King!’

IT WAS TO
be a busy night for Maud. After Compline, instead of retiring to the solar, she and Milburga accompanied Sir Rollo and Alan to the castle’s labyrinthine basement to inspect the work being done on the postern.

The improvements were considerable. A metal grille like a small portcullis, operated by a simple windlass, had been added to the entrance and the tunnel, wide and tall enough now to accommodate both horse and rider, had been shored up against collapse by timbers from the cherry orchard. The felling of it had been a bitter blow to Maud, for whom the pink and white blossoms of the trees were one of the great pleasures of spring, never mind the deliciously plump cherries she had gorged herself on every summer as a child. Ah well, another sacrifice to the Empress. It had better be worth it.

‘Where does it come out?’ Alan asked Ernulf, the guard.

‘Other side of the ditch,’ he replied. ‘Middle of a copse of rowan trees. There’s good cover there, won’t nobody see you.’ He pulled proudly on the ropes which operated the winch and the grille lifted smoothly.

‘Shall we?’ Alan turned to Maud, his arm sweeping theatrically in the direction of the entrance. She nodded, although she refused to return his smile, took the lantern Milburga proffered and stepped, business-like, into the tunnel.

Once inside, the darkness was visceral, but as her eyes grew accustomed to it, she saw that though it was long it was at least straight; the contour of its exit was just about visible in the distance, illuminated as it was by the pale light of the moon. She began gingerly stepping towards it, instinctively moving closer to the warmth of the body beside her.

‘Not afraid of the dark, are you, madam?’ In this light she couldn’t see his expression – could barely see her hand in front of her face, come to that – but knew somehow that he was amused by her sudden tentativeness. ‘Wouldn’t like me to take your hand, I suppose?’

‘No, I would not!’ she snapped, recoiling from him and stepping up her pace to prove a courage she didn’t feel.

He was, she thought, without a single shadow of a doubt the most impertinent man she had ever met, and nothing he had said or done since the first time she had clapped eyes on him could persuade her otherwise. And so damned
pleased
with himself! The confidence of the man! Didn’t he realize that he was just another blasted mercenary? That she loathed him and all he stood for? Did he not know his place at all?

The courage she had up until that moment been feigning began to rise in direct proportion to her indignation and, eschewing the hand he offered, she pressed on brusquely into the damp dark void, vowing as she did so that she would never again appear vulnerable to him, even if she were forced to follow him into the bowels of Hell itself.

He watched her stride off into the darkness, muttering under her breath as she went, which made him smile all the more.

They were halfway along the passage when her lantern’s candle sputtered and died. The cloying blackness closed around her like a shroud and she was forced to stop.

She hadn’t admitted it to
him
, of course, but from a child she had been terrified of the dark, which was why the ever-vigilant Milburga kept a candle burning in her room at all times, even waking in the night to replace it if necessary.
He
had a candle; she could hear his footsteps behind her, but to wait for him would be an admission of weakness. No, there was nothing for it: she must swallow her fear and press on. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes against the panic swelling inside her. When eventually she opened them again her sight had adjusted to the engulfing blackness and she was comforted by the promise of moonlight in the distance. Phew! She walked on, staring fixedly at the halo of milky light ahead, until her boot suddenly caught on something, tripping her up and sending her stumbling headlong towards the cold dank earth of the tunnel’s floor.

But just as she had braced herself for the inevitable fall and the painful impact with the ground, she found herself unexpectedly upright again, Alan’s arms around her waist, holding her tight. For a moment or two neither spoke and then:

‘I hope you’re not laughing,’ she mumbled, relieved that he wouldn’t be able see her blushing, which she undoubtedly was.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, madam,’ he replied softly, with only the merest suspicion of a smile.

‘Good,’ she was about to say, but couldn’t because a peculiar feeling had gripped her, like a ligature around her throat.

He was so close, so terribly, terribly close. His face was just inches from her face, his chest so tight against hers that she could feel every breath, every beat of his heart as though they were her own. And not only was she rendered speechless, she was no longer able to think or move independently … But worst of all was that neither did she want to.

She shook her head. Enough now! She must separate from him, push him away, move on, and yet the delicious warmth of his hand on her back was so horribly thrilling that her body refused to budge.

What was happening to her?

She thought about Sir John, the only other man she had been physically close to, and the equally powerful feelings he had invoked, but the gulf between the two experiences was overwhelming, like Heaven and Hell. Oh help! She must
do
something … before it was too late …

And yet it was
he
who released
her
… eventually.

‘Shall we proceed, madam?’ he asked gently.

Did she imagine it or was there the merest hint of a caress as he withdrew his hand from her waist? She stepped away from him, and although she dared not look at him directly, she could nevertheless feel his gaze on her face like the warmth from a fire.

‘Madam?’ he repeated.

Still unable to trust her voice, she simply nodded and allowed him to take her hand and lead her the rest of the way along the passage.

When they emerged into the moonlit rowan copse, he separated from her and she watched him walk to the outer rim of the trees, where he stood, hands on hips, staring intently in the direction of the enemy camp. She could hear him muttering to himself as he plotted the Empress’s escape, calculating time and distance and the likelihood of a safe passage through the trees; and Maud, who had previously only felt resentment for Matilda, felt a sudden, unwelcome stab of jealousy towards her.

When he had finished his calculations, he turned back to Maud and stood looking at her for what seemed an uncomfortably long time.

‘Perhaps we should go back?’ she said, her voice still tremulous.

He smiled. ‘Good idea,’ he said after a moment, and then took her hand as though it were his to take and led her back through the trees towards the postern.

Once inside the tunnel they walked in silence, until halfway along a lantern came swinging towards them.

‘There you are!’ Milburga squinted out at them from the other side of the light. ‘Getting worried about you, I was,’ she said, wagging an admonishing finger at Maud. ‘You been such a long time down there I was beginning to fret that you’d been captured or summat.’