Changeling (5 page)

‘Yes, thank God, and you can get used to that too.’

He came towards her, shrugging his jacket off his fleshy shoulders. She shrank back until she felt the tall wooden pole of the four-poster bed behind her, blocking her retreat. She put her hands behind her back so that he could not grab them, and felt the velvet of the counterpane, and beneath it the handle of the brass warming pan filled with hot embers that had been pushed between the cold sheets.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘This is ridiculous. It is an offence against hospitality. You are our guest, my father’s body lies in the chapel. I am without defence, and you are drunk on our wine. Please go to your room and I will speak kindly to you in the morning.’

‘No,’ he leered. ‘I don’t think so. I think I shall spend the night here in your bed and I am very sure you will speak kindly to me in the morning.’

Behind her back, Isolde’s fingers closed on the handle of the warming pan. As Roberto paused to untie the laces on the front of his breeches, she got a sickening glimpse of grey linen poking out. He reached for her arm. ‘This need not hurt you,’ he said. ‘You might even enjoy it . . .’

With a great swing she brought the warming pan round to clap him on the side of his head. Red-hot embers and ash dashed against his face and tumbled to the floor. He let out of a howl of pain as she drew back and hit him once again, hard, and he dropped down like a fat stunned ox before the slaughter.

She picked up a jug and flung water over the coals smouldering on the rug beneath him and then, cautiously, she kicked him gently with her slippered foot. He did not stir, he was knocked out cold. Isolde went to an inner room and unlocked the door, whispering ‘Ishraq!’ When the girl came, rubbing sleep from her eyes, Isolde showed her the man crumpled on the ground.

‘Is he dead?’ the girl asked calmly.

‘No. I don’t think so. Help me get him out of here.’

The two young women pulled the rug and the limp body of Prince Roberto slid along the floor, leaving a slimy trail of water and ashes. They got him into the gallery outside her room and paused.

‘I take it your brother allowed him to come to you?’

Isolde nodded, and Ishraq turned her head and spat contemptuously on the prince’s white face. ‘Why ever did you open the door?’

‘I thought he would help me. He said he had an idea to help me then he pushed his way in.’

‘Did he hurt you?’ The girl’s dark eyes scanned her friend’s face. ‘Your forehead?’

‘He knocked me when he pushed the door.’

‘Was he going to rape you?’

Isolde nodded.

‘Then let’s leave him here,’ Ishraq decided. ‘He can come to on the floor like the dog that he is, and crawl to his room. If he’s still here in the morning then the servants can find him and make him a laughing-stock.’ She bent down and felt for his pulses at his throat, his wrists and under the bulging waistband of his breeches. ‘He’ll live,’ she said certainly. ‘Though he wouldn’t be missed if we quietly cut his throat.’

‘Of course we can’t do that,’ Isolde said shakily.

They left him there, laid out like a beached whale on his back, with his breeches still unlaced.

‘Wait here,’ Ishraq said and went back to her room.

She returned swiftly, with a small box in her hand. Delicately, using the tips of her fingers and scowling with distaste, she pulled at the prince’s breeches so that they were gaping wide open. She lifted his linen shirt so that his limp nakedness was clearly visible. She took the lid from the box and shook the spice onto his bare skin.

‘What are you doing?’ Isolde whispered.

‘It’s a dried pepper, very strong. He is going to itch like he has the pox, and his skin is going to blister like he has a rash. He is going to regret this night’s work very much. He is going to be itching and scratching and bleeding for a month, and he won’t trouble another woman for a while.’

Isolde laughed and put out her hand, as her father would have done, and the two young women clasped forearms, hand to elbow, like knights. Ishraq grinned, and they turned and went back into the bedroom, closing the door on the humbled prince and locking it firmly against him.

In the morning, when Isolde went to chapel, her father’s coffin was closed and ready for burial in the deep family vault – and the prince was gone.

‘He has withdrawn his offer for your hand,’ her brother said coldly as he took his place, kneeling beside her on the chancel steps. ‘I take it that something passed between the two of you?’

‘He’s a villain,’ Isolde said simply. ‘And if you sent him to my door, as he claimed, then you are a traitor to me.’

He bowed his head. ‘Of course I did no such thing. I am sorry, I got drunk like a fool and said that he could plead his case with you. Why ever did you open your door?’

‘Because I believed your friend was an honourable man, as you did.’

‘You were very wrong to unlock your door,’ her brother reproached her. ‘Opening your bedroom door to a man, to a drunk man! You don’t know how to take care of yourself. Father was right, we have to place you somewhere safe.’

‘I was safe! I was in my own room, in my own castle, speaking to my brother’s friend. I should not have been at risk,’ she said angrily. ‘You should not have brought such a man to our dinner table. Father should never have been advised that he would make a good husband for me.’

She rose to her feet and went down the aisle, her brother following after her. ‘Well anyway, what did you say to upset him?’

Isolde hid a smile at the thought of the warming pan crashing against the prince’s fat head. ‘I made my feelings clear. And I will never meet with him again.’

‘Well, that’s easily achieved,’ Giorgio said bluntly. ‘Because you will never be able to meet with any man again. If you will not marry Prince Roberto, then you will have to go to the abbey. Our father’s will leaves you with no other choice.’

Isolde paused as his words sank in, and put a hesitant hand on his arm, wondering how she could persuade him to let her go free.

‘There’s no need to look like that,’ he said roughly. ‘The terms of the will are clear, I told you last night. It was the prince or the nunnery. Now it is just the nunnery.’

‘I will go on a pilgrimage,’ she offered. ‘Away from here.’

‘You will not. How would you survive for one moment? You can’t keep yourself safe even at home.’

‘I will go and stay with some friends of Father’s – anyone. I could go to my godfather’s son, the Count of Wallachia, I could go to the Duke of Bradour . . .’

His face was grim. ‘You can’t. You know you can’t. You have to do as Father commanded you. I have no choice, Isolde. God knows I would do anything for you, but his will is clear, and I have to obey my father – just as you do.’

‘Brother – don’t force me to do this.’

He turned to the arched wall of the chapel doorway, and put his forehead to the cold stone, as if she was making his head ache. ‘Sister, I can do nothing. Prince Roberto was your only chance to escape the abbey. It is our father’s will. I am sworn on his sword, on his own broadsword, to see that his will is done. My sister – I am powerless, as you are.’

‘He promised he would leave his broadsword to me.’

‘It is mine now. As is everything else.’

Gently she put her hand on his shoulder. ‘If I take an oath of celibacy, may I not stay here with you? I will marry no-one. The castle is yours, I see that. In the end he did what every man does and favoured his son over his daughter. In the end he did what all great men do and excluded a woman from wealth and power. But if I will live here, poor and powerless, never seeing a man, obedient to you, can I not stay here?’

He shook his head. ‘It is not my will, but his. And it is – as you admit – the way of the world. He brought you up almost as if you had been born a boy, with too much wealth and freedom. But now you must live the life of a noblewoman. You should be glad at least that the abbey is nearby, and so you don’t have to go far from these lands that I know you love. You’ve not been sent into exile – he could have ordered that you go anywhere. But instead you will be in our own property: the abbey. I will come and see you now and then. I will bring you news. Perhaps later you will be able to ride out with me.’

‘Can Ishraq come with me?’

‘You can take Ishraq, you can take all your ladies if you wish, and if they are willing to go. But they are expecting you at the abbey tomorrow. You will have to go, Isolde. You will have to take your vows as a nun and become their abbess. You have no choice.’

He turned back to her and saw she was trembling like a young mare will tremble when she is being forced into harness for the first time. ‘It is like being imprisoned,’ she whispered. ‘And I have done nothing wrong.’

He had tears in his own eyes. ‘It is like losing a sister,’ he said. ‘I am burying a father and losing a sister. I don’t know how it will be without you here.’

A few months later, Luca was on the road from Rome, riding east, wearing a plain working robe and cape of ruddy brown, and newly equipped with a horse of his own.

He was accompanied by his servant Freize, a broad-shouldered, square-faced youth, just out of his teens, who had plucked up his courage when Luca left their monastery, and volunteered to work for the young man, and follow him wherever the quest might take him. The abbot had been doubtful, but Freize had convinced him that his skills as a kitchen lad were so poor, and his love of adventure so strong, that he would serve God better by following a remarkable master on a secret quest ordained by the Pope himself, than by burning the bacon for the long-suffering monks. The abbot, secretly glad to lose the challenging young novice priest, thought the loss of an accident-prone spit lad was a small price to pay.

Freize rode a strong cob and led a donkey laden with their belongings. At the rear of the little procession was a surprise addition to their partnership: a clerk, Brother Peter, who had been ordered to travel with them at the last moment, to keep a record of their work.

‘A spy,’ Freize muttered out of the side of his mouth to his new master. ‘A spy if ever I saw one. Pale-faced, soft hands, trusting brown eyes: the shaved head of a monk and yet the clothes of a gentleman. A spy without a doubt.

‘Is he spying on me? No, for I don’t do anything and know nothing. Who is he spying on, then? Must be the young master, my little sparrow. For there is no-one else but the horses and they’re not heretics, nor pagans. They are the only honest beasts here.’