Needle in the Blood (49 page)

“Yes, my lord.”

“Go now. Tell Osbern to bring a scribe to me on your way out. Come back for my orders as soon as you have all you need for your journey. And Fulk…”

“My lord?”

“Never fear, I shall get her back. I shall turn this country upside down until I do.”

“Yes, my lord.”

When Fulk has gone, Odo’s knees give way and he has to hold onto the table he has been working at for support. Gone. The word seems to toll like a bell inside his head. Gone where? How? Why? No, he knows why. He looks around the room he is in, at the tapestries on the walls, the fire in the brazier, the candles in silver stands on his worktable. He looks at his hands clutching the table edge, the rings and bracelets, the clean, square-tipped fingers against the dark, polished wood. He runs his tongue around his dry mouth, feels the smooth backs of his teeth and the arch of his palate she says makes her think of a tiny cathedral nave. He looks at the camel in its gold frame studded with topaz and yellow sapphires to represent the colours of the desert. He has given her everything. How is he going to get her back again?

***

The rat-faced man puts down his mug on the counter and approaches Margaret. Nobody notices him; inconspicuousness is a skill he cultivates, it is the talent God gave him, and then God gave him Sebastian, into whose service he has put his talent. He sidles up to the girl and touches her sleeve.

“You are enquiring about Sebastian,” he says. Margaret looks down at him. Her candid gaze seems to burn into the shadows of his own shuttered, suspicious features.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Do you wish to join his congregation?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

She has one of those voices that cannot help but carry and he does not want to be overheard. “Step aside with me a moment,” he says, nodding to the ale wife, then leads Margaret around the back of the bar and into the cottage. The room is lit by a single lamp, its flame shielded by a sooty horn shade.

When Margaret’s eyes adjust to the gloom after the blue spring twilight outside, she sees a beaten earth floor and an untidily thatched roof from whose beams hang cured meats and sausages in greasy nets. A man sits at the table in the center of the room, knife in hand, food and drink before him.

“This is Martin,” says Margaret’s escort and disappears.

Martin waves his knife at Margaret, which she takes as an invitation to come closer. She is not afraid, she tells herself; the rapid beating of her heart, the lightheaded feeling, are caused by hunger and tiredness, not fear. She has travelled non-stop since she left Hawise and her party to get here before nightfall. Her mouth floods with saliva at the sight of the food on the table, though it is not much, a hunk of coarse grey bread and some hard-boiled eggs.

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions,” says Martin, looking at her critically, “not something to be encouraged in a woman.” He has startlingly pale hair, still showing the remains of a tonsure, and almost colourless, pink rimmed eyes. His voice is soft and sibilant. “Tell me what your interest is in Sebastian.”

“I want to join him.”

“I see. And why would that be?”

“Because…” She struggles frantically to remember some of Tom’s ravings in the Christ Church infirmary. “Because the Tyrant of the Last Days is at hand and men must be ready for his signs and lying wonder. He will make war with the saints…”

“Enough. I am satisfied you know your Bible, but what do you know of Sebastian?”

She had expected this meeting to be a mere formality, not unlike her first meeting with Sister Jean when she and Alwys had answered a few practical questions, shown a piece of needlework each, and been told to fetch their travelling clothes and be ready to leave within the hour. If all else fails, tell the truth.

“I have seen him, and I love him.”

At this, Martin smiles, a smile of disconcerting, almost frightening, sweetness. “Well, woman, I think we must trust each other. There aren’t many young women who would take to the road all alone as you say you have done. Sebastian will be impressed by your dedication. Wait here with me, and I will take you to him once darkness has fallen. My people tell me they have seen military patrols on the road since Sext. Kent’s men. I don’t suppose you know anything about that? Do you?” He slices an egg in half, sliding his knife blade with slow precision through slippery white and crumbling yoke so they do not separate.

Sweet Mary, Mother of God, her escort must have found their way out of the woods and back to Canterbury. She will be discovered. She will end by leading poor Tom straight into a trap. But what can she do? If she admits to knowing the reason for Lord Odo having turned out his soldiers, Martin will never take her to Tom. He might even kill her. On the other hand, he must be well used to evading detection by the authorities. If she pretends ignorance, they both stand a better chance. She shakes her head and shrugs.

Martin smiles again, mashed egg yolk cementing the gaps between his front teeth. “You look hungry,” he says. “Sit down.”

***

The sacristan closes the chapel door softly behind him, and at last, Odo is alone. He kneels at the foot of the altar steps, raising his eyes to the Crucifix but letting them slip out of focus so that all he sees is a cross-shaped blur, shimmering dark gold in the glow of the two remaining candles either side of the altar. He prays that his mind might be emptied of its troubles and become a space fit for God to enter, that God will guide and fortify him and grant his soul peace. Then he places his palms flat on the floor and lowers himself until his body is prostrated, knees, hips, ribs, forehead pressed against the stone, and stretches his arms out to his sides in imitation of Christ on the Cross.

To begin with, he is afraid it is not going to work. His body clamours for his attention. The cold makes his head ache, as though the stone had entered his skull. His ribs hurt when he breathes. The muscles in his neck and chest begin to burn in protest at their enforced immobility. Far from emptying, his mind seethes, going over and over the litany of his preparations the way Osbern checks off items on his fingers when they are planning a complicated journey.

His orders have gone out to every soldier under his command in the east of England. His officers must stop at nothing to find her; those who do will be well rewarded, any who shirk their duty will quickly know what it means to disobey, or even misunderstand him. She is to be taken to Dover, the strongest of his castles, and held there until he arrives. He has explained to the king that an urgent matter of internal security has arisen on his Essex border, necessitating his immediate departure from the conference. He hopes the matter will be resolved quickly. In the meantime, Thomas of York has his proxy. Lanfranc was also present at their meeting, tugging his beard, his black eyes darting from Odo to William and back again. Lanfranc’s face was a mirror in which theirs appeared superimposed, William’s wary and puzzled, his own haggard, pulled out of shape by his lies. William believed him, he is certain of it, because he wanted to, and because he could never understand what Gytha means to him. William does not have those kinds of dreams.

Images come to him. As night settles on the castle and the cold of air and stone slows his blood, they float into the empty spaces in his mind. William and his father, facing one another across the corner of the high table in the hall at Conteville. His father’s stricken expression. William is talking. He cannot hear what William is saying, but he knows it is something terrible and unexpected, and about him. A phrase: he’s the clever one, the Church is the best place for the clever ones. Agatha, crying, but her clothes are wet so perhaps it’s just rain, or river water. His mother, so small in the great bed. He prays, but his sisters place the pennies on her eyes. His tears are purple, no, blood red. Unstoppable. They will all drown in his tears. He gulps down air, his ribs grinding against the chapel floor. A dark woman stands beneath the apple tree, a small, still, dark woman. Watching him.

Peace. His breathing steadies, slows, deepens until the stone feels like waves rocking him. The door to the chapel opens, and he feels the draught stirring the hairs on the back of his neck. Footsteps are coming toward him, the muted thud of soft leather on stone, familiar footsteps, a long stride, heavy, not quite as long as his own. Rising stiffly to his knees, he smells fresh wax like the scent of morning; they are preparing for Matins, then, screwing fresh candles into the tall, gilt iron stands flanking the altar. He rubs his forehead, flexes fingers and toes. His arms, released from their discipline, feel as light and tremulous as wings.

“Damnably uncomfortable way of spending a night,” comments William, genuflecting awkwardly beside his brother, knee joints cracking, his bulky torso appearing to topple forward from the hips. Odo stands up, then helps William to his feet, a hand beneath the older man’s elbow.

“I find it…consoling, from time to time.”

“All the same, I expected you to be away by now, seeing this border security matter is so urgent.”

Odo shrugs. He wants to keep the tone light, light enough to blind William to the heart of the matter. “Travelling in the dead of night seemed more likely to exacerbate the risk than curtail it. I will be gone before Lauds.”

“And back when?”

“As soon as I can. Thomas of York knows my mind. I am satisfied my absence need not hold you up, God willing.”

“God? Something in my water tells me God’s will has little to do with it.”

“God’s will, Your Grace, is expressed in everything. But for His will there would be no Earth nor men put upon it.”

“Don’t you go playing the bishop with me, Odo. Best you remember by whose will you hold that holy office. Besides, it’s not men that concern me but the other half of creation.”

The two deacons have completed their preparation of the chapel and retreated to the sacristy. Any moment now the bell will start to toll, summoning the faithful and the sleepless to prayer. He is wasting time; as the night thins and the stars grow pale, she is slipping away from him. He must go, but William must not learn the extent of his desperation. “Animals?” he enquires, injecting a note of humorous surprise into his voice, smiling his downturned smile.

William pushes himself away from the pillar against which he has been leaning. By the light of the newly lit candles, Odo observes an unhealthy flush creep up the bolster of flesh between William’s collar and his hairline. Better not overdo it; he feels William’s health is not all it used to be. “Sorry,” he says, ducking his head so William can look down to meet his gaze.

“It’s the woman, isn’t it?”

Odo fights the impulse to look away.

“I thought as much. Why did she not come here with you?”

“She was reluctant to set herself up as mistress in the house where she once served. She’s…sensitive that way.”

William gives him a shrewd look. “Nonsense. The place is hardly recognisable. You’ve had masons and carpenters crawling all over it ever since it fell into your possession.”

“All right,” Odo concedes. “She refused. She wouldn’t accept your terms.”

“It’s not up to her.” William’s sandy brows knit in an uncomprehending frown. “She’s yours; she must do as you require.”

Odo shrugs but says nothing. He will never make William understand, and he has no time to waste trying.

“Beware, brother,” William continues, “she has completely turned your head. How many times did I beat you at chess at Christmas? I swear Mortain would have made a stronger opponent. But chess is one thing, this…I should forbid you to go. For your own good.”

Now he stands up straight, arms folded, balanced on the balls of his feet like a prize fighter. “It is your prerogative to do so.”

William makes himself comfortable against the pillar once more, flexing his back against the pitted stone as though using it as a scratching post. “Tell me about her.”

Keep it brief. Thank God for Matins; the chapel will fill up soon and the service begin, preventing William from detaining him longer. “What do you want to know?”

William spreads his hands. “Is she pretty?”

“Not especially. Small. Like Matilda, and Maman.”

“And willful, it seems. Must be good in bed then. Can’t imagine what else a man would want with a bloody minded woman unless she was pleasing on the eye.”

“Presumably you don’t expect an answer to that.”

“I’m your king, Odo; I always expect answers.”

The clergy are assembling, William’s chaplain, assorted priests and deacons attached to the Papal legacy, gliding along the nave and side aisles to converge on the door to the sacristy where they jostle briefly for precedence; everyone feigns ignorance of the king and his brother.

“Very well, this is my answer. I love her. That’s the best I can do.”

William makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Oh, if I had a penny for every time I’ve heard you say that…”

“You’d be a poor man.”

William’s pale eyes, their whites bloodshot in the candlelight, remain fixed on him for a long moment while he wonders desperately if his brother has any more to say or if he can simply leave. His feet tingle, yet he feels bound by William’s look, as though it is boring into his heart, searching for what is written there. “Go on,” says William finally, “go.”