By Sylvian Hamilton (20 page)

'It's
you again, is it,' she said with contempt. 'Mother of maggots!'

The
pictures tumbled up, one through another to the surface, and broke
there. For a moment she saw Straccan, riding along a narrow stony
riverside path. Then the woman again, this time indoors, standing
over the sleeping child with a candle. On the little bed Gilla turned
over uneasy in restless sleep. Now the woman was standing outside a
closed door on the spiral stair of the tower, her pale hands pressed
to the planks of the door, her face alight with triumph, eyes full of
hate. Janiva tried to hold on to the picture but it was gone. There
was just the still surface of the water.

A
lark was singing, soaring high and joyously over Skelrig tower, its
pure fluting outdoing all other birdsong. On the slope of the hill, a
woman flew her falcon and the lark's song stopped.

Presently,
with blood staining her glove, the woman rode back to the tower.

Attracted
by the novelty of new arrivals, a few children from the smoky cluster
of thatched hovels half a mile away had come to gawp and beg.

'Shall
I see them off?' her sergeant asked.

'No.
Give them some bread, then send them away. They may come again
tomorrow, if they choose.'

When
the master came he might have use for a brat or two. Their mothers
were always pleased to see them taken into service. For the children
it meant an end of bare backs and empty bellies, and if they were
never seen again, well, that was only to be expected, living now
among the fine folk, going with them when they moved on, the
shivering poverty of home never missed, gladly forgotten.

Later
in the morning she climbed to the top floor, to her brother's door.

He
couldn't stop her. He didn't even try.

'Be
still,' she said. Just that, and he had frozen where he was,
helplessly staring as she dismantled his defences.

'Juli,'
he said, 'he will destroy us all!'

'You
are mad,' she said, and madness gave a lunatic caper, a gargoyle
grin, as it sprang to life somewhere in his mind.

'They're
coming, the Master and the Arab,' she said. 'They will deal with
you!' And terror made him shake. 'What's this?' She laid her hand on
the coin chest.

'Money,
he said. 'Julitta--'

'Be
silent!' His mouth worked desperately but no sound came from it. 'You
fool,' she said. 'You selfish grasping worm. You'd give me nothing in
my need but for your own sake, to save your paltry soul, you'd give
Skelrig to the Church!' She laughed, and he wondered how it was that
she could still appear so beautiful.

'The
Church shan't have it, Brother. Our master wants it, because of the
Nine Stane Rig.'

It
was an ancient stone circle, cresting a low hill about a mile north
of the tower; a faery ring, shunned for fear of elvenfolk. And surely
it was an uncanny place. Within the circle, it seemed always colder
than outside. At certain times of the year folk claimed to see
strange lights moving within the ring. They gave it a wide berth.
Wild creatures, too, avoided it.

'It
is a special place.' Her voice was gloating. 'Sacred, and so old,
Brother. Much blood was shed there in olden times, to please gods
that are forgotten now. The Arab says that power lingers in such
places, power the master can use to become stronger. And don't think
that pocky little priest of yours can help you now, for I've sent him
off.' At the door she turned. 'The master has the icon. I sent it to
him. He knows you tried to betray him.'

The
door slammed behind her. Released as abruptly as if he'd been pushed,
he fell on both knees and a howl of despair burst from him. He knelt
on the floor looking at the damage she had done.

The
chalk circle, so carefully and accurately drawn, was broken, wiped
away by her feet. Two bowls lay on the floor, one inverted the other
still rolling back and forth on its side, the holy water they'd
contained soaking away into the broad dry planks. Protective charms
and precious relics which had ringed him in security had been scooped
up and flung on the brazier where they flared, stank and smoked.
Frills of ash lay on the charcoals. She had betrayed him. There would
be no help. All these weeks he'd waited, praying, living and sleeping
in his pitiful circle, sure that help would come. But now there was
no hope.

Chapter
26

Robert
shared his lord and patron's interest in the black arts for as long
as it only involved the sacrifice of beasts. But children, baptised
souls, were another thing entirely, and horror had overwhelmed him.
He had panicked and fled to the isolated safety of Skelrig. From
there he wrote to his sister, bidding her have no more to do with the
murderer, de Soulis. He, Robert, was surely damned, he wrote, for his
part in such evil, unless God could be persuaded to forgive him.

Priests
could persuade God, and money could persuade priests. He must confess
and be absolved of his sins, but before he even dared to confess he
must be sure of eventual forgiveness. For that, naturally, he was
prepared to pay. God had his price like anyone else. Robert would
make a gift of his Hoplaw estate to the abbey at Mailros. That should
smooth the way, and then, when they agreed to accept him as a novice,
he would give them Skelrig as well. After all, he'd have no use for
it any more once he was safely in the cloister.

Then
he'd remembered Martin. Martin Brus.

They'd
been boys together: friends, quarrelling and making up, brawling and
being punished, enduring together the years of brutal training,
gashes, bruises, broken limbs and physical exhaustion. They'd shared
boyhood illnesses, boyish crimes and the aspirations of idealistic
youth. For nine years they had been as close as brothers; first
pages, then squires, until the culmination of all those years of
discipline, violence and endurance--knighthood. Robert had been
exalted. They would be perfect knights without sin or stain,
chivalrous, brave, undefeated. Minstrels would make songs about them,
ladies beg to give their favours, princesses would pine, infidels and
heretics fall like bulrushes to their swords.

And,
just a few days after their dubbing, Martin packed his few
possessions in his saddlebags and rode away.

'I
have to go,' he said. 'There's something else I have to do. It is
more important.'

'What?
In God's name, what's more important than being a knight?' Robert
shouted.

Martin
clenched his fists, and tears ran down his cheeks, but he just kept
saying he had to go; there was something he must do. Over and over.

'You're
throwing away all you've worked for. Your uncle will never forgive
you!' Martin was his uncle's ward, his parents being dead.

'It's
all right. Uncle Blaise knows all about it.'

Robert
had an idea. 'It's not the Church, is it? God's Blood, Martin, tell
me you haven't decided to be a bloody monk!'

To
his astonishment, Martin began to laugh. 'No, no! You're wrong, Rob.
That's not it at all.'

'Then
what? Are you ill? Is that it? Something's wrong with you!'

Martin
sighed. 'I can't explain. Forgive me, but I gave my word. Believe me,
Rob, there is another task for me. I am going to serve my uncle, and
he will teach me.'

'Teach
you what?'

'I
can't say. But it's very important, more than being a monk or a
priest, and much more than joining the troop of some lord, no matter
how great he may be.'

'If
you say so.' Robert scowled. 'I can't stop you. God's Bones, Martin,
I thought we would stay together, take service together, be friends
for ever!'

'I
hope you will always be my friend, Rob. I will surely be yours. But
this I have to do.'

He
rode off alone just after dawn with only Robert to see him off. He
was going, he said, to Sauchiehill, to his uncle's holding. Soon
after Robert took service with Lord de Soulis, he asked leave to go
home and see to his affairs and decided to ride to Sauchiehill.
Martin might be having second thoughts. Besides, Robert wanted to
show off the fine gear and garments his patron provided.

He
found his friend in the tiltyard, sparring, both of them shirtless,
with his uncle, a tall old man still very strong and quick. They were
at it hammer and tongs, the old man wielding a gaveloc, Martin an
axe. Robert, unnoticed, sat on a bench and watched. The sweating
grunting combat ended abruptly with Martin's axe flying through the
air and Sir Blaise thrusting the gaveloc between his nephew's ankles
to bring him down. Robert clapped enthusiastically. Before the
antagonists put on their shirts, Robert noticed that Sir Blaise wore
a curious amulet round his neck of some greenish-grey stone. It was
quite large and looked something like a star. He only saw it for a
moment, and then it was hidden under the shirt and he forgot all
about it.

They
made him very welcome; his friend was delighted to see him again but
there was no hope of Martin changing his mind. Whatever it was he had
to do, he was committed to it.

When
Martin saw him off next morning, Robert said, Til come again, when I
can.'

'Not
for a while,' Martin said. 'We're for England next week.' 'England?
Will you be long away?'

'Quite
some time I think. An old friend of my uncle has died at Salisbury
and left him some property in bequest, so we are going there. But
I'll send word when we're back. It was good of you to come, Rob.'

'God
be with you, Martin.'

'And
you. And Rob--' His plain kindly face was suddenly creased with
concern.

'What?'

'If
you're ever in trouble, need a hand, you know? Send to me." 'Why
should I have trouble?' He laughed. Fame and fortune beckoned, and
the world was his.

'No
reason,' said his friend. 'But remember, if you need my help, if the
day comes, I'm your man.'

Again
Robert had written to Julitta, telling her he was sending, by a sure
hand, the old icon that had belonged to their grandfather. She was to
find Sir Martin Brus, companion and nephew of Sir Blaise d'Etranger,
perhaps at Salisbury. When the icon arrived, she must give it to
Martin saying to him, 'The day has come.' Just that. It was not the
icon that mattered, of course, precious though it was; it was the
case but to send just the empty cylinder would seem most strange.

He
knew Martin would come. He would see the star symbol on the case
which Robert had stolen from the Arab's reeking room the same device
as on the talisman Sir Blaise wore round his neck. Robert knew now
what it was Martin had to do, and what his uncle was. Blaise
d'Etranger was one of the few who could stand against such as
Al-Hazred and his master.

He
could trust Julitta. Of course he could. She was his sister, after
all, and would do as he told her.

When
Abbot Renwal of Mailros refused to admit him as a novice, Robert was
first incredulous and then, when he realised the old man meant it,
mad with terror. How, outside the holy abbey, could he hope for
protection? Worse still, when the abbot heard his confession he
denied him absolution and ordered him on pilgrimage to Jerusalem!

'Did
you think that the slaughter of God's innocents and dabbling with
devil-worship could be wiped out with ten Paters and an Ave? Pray,
fast and wear a hair shirt day and night until you return,' he said,
nevertheless pocketing Hoplaw without so much as a thank-you. 'When
you get back, you will walk here from Skelrig, barefoot, in just a
shirt with a rope round your neck, to show penitence. Then we'll see
whether there's any possibility of absolution. And understand that's
not a promise! Now get out of here! You defile this holy ground.'

Of
course, he didn't need to go to Jerusalem himself; wealthy penitents
seldom hazarded themselves on such a journey. He asked around for a
reliable substitute and paid him handsomely to undertake the
pilgrimage, promising to care generously for the man's family
meanwhile. Crimmon he despatched south to Julitta, with the icon in
its tell-tale case.

Then
he waited until the man Bane turned up and Robert learned how all had
nearly been lost. But God was merciful, it could still be put right.
Thanks to Hawkan Bane's master, Straccan –Robert blessed him
fervently–Julitta would get the icon, find Martin and give it
to him.

All
he had to do was wait: praying, fasting, itching unbearably in his
hair shirt, drinking only water and eating just enough to stay alive.
Above all, he must keep his nerve. In the circle the Arab's spells
could not reach him. The dumb boy, Hob, was a good lad and cared for
him well enough. Martin would come soon. But, before the end of May,
Julitta came.