Something seizes his ankles, but in his panicked state that only makes him more frightened. He thinks they are trying to push him further inside, shut him in. He is kicking, thrashing, sobbing. He feels himself being hauled painfully backwards over the rough stone, until at last he is lying on the floor beneath the great vaulted ceiling, coughing and choking. The tears mingle with the sweat on his face, the warm blood from his scraped and stinging elbows and knees trickles over the soot-blackened skin.
Felix and Peter stare down at him, their faces wrinkled in concern. Felix swiftly presses his dung-grimed hand over Regulus’s mouth.
‘Stop bawling,’ he orders. ‘Madron’ll hear you. He’s just stepped out, but he’s bound to be back soon. Here, give me the scraper.’ He prises it from Regulus’s hand. The boy stares in surprise for he didn’t even realise he was still gripping it.
‘If I scrape off what I can reach from outside that will do. Madron can’t get his head in there, never mind his fat hairy arse, so if the bit just inside the tunnel looks clean, they’ll think the rest’s been done. Peter, go and keep cave by the door – listen out for him coming back. And, Regulus, you wipe that snot off your face, so he doesn’t see anything’s amiss.’
Both boys obey instantly and Felix works hard, so that when Peter comes scampering back to warn of approaching footsteps, a sizeable pile of ash, soot and fragments of some hard black substance lie outside the stoking hole. Just in time, Felix pushes the brush into Regulus’s hand and clambers up onto a stool to heave a bucket of clean water into the vat. As he predicted, Father Madron kneels down to peer into the entrance of the stoking tunnel, but the pile of debris appears to convince him that the job has been completed.
Once the boys have swept up, Father Madron releases them, sending them to the lavatorium to wash away the soot – ‘Thoroughly, mind. Ears too.’
He hands Felix three worn linen towels and a clay pot of soft soap, which stinks of rancid fat. Peter and Regulus are instructed to walk naked while Felix carries their clothes so that they do not soil them. Not that his clothes look much cleaner than their skin.
The wind is even sharper now. A fine misty rain is falling and both the little boys shiver, but Regulus doesn’t care. He feels almost elated at having escaped the chamber. Although he was terrified in the furnace, the vaulted room itself has lost some of its nightmare horrors. Without the glowing fires and the boiling, bubbling vessels, without Father John and Father Arthmael with the burning eyes, the cellar now seems little more than a big store room. Even the magpie stayed on its shelf, emitting only the occasional chacker of irritation. Regulus begins to wonder if the room was ever quite as frightening as he remembers, or if it has somehow got mixed up with a bad dream.
The boys’ teeth chatter uncontrollably as they rub the soft soap over themselves and splash icy water on their goose-pimpled skin. They quickly rub themselves dry, leaving more grime on the towels than in the tub of black scummy water, and try to pull clothes over damp skin.
‘Do we have to go back yet?’ Peter asks, plainly thinking that staying outside, even in this freezing rain, is preferable to returning to one of Father John’s Latin lessons.
Felix screws up his eyes as if he’s considering the matter, then gestures towards a dark corner where the branches of a tree will shield them should anyone happen to glance out of the upper windows. They scuttle across, and hunker down, wrapping their arms about their legs for warmth.
‘You know that big vat I had to empty and clean,’ Felix says. ‘Well, it wasn’t just water in there. It stank of shit and I reckon someone had been sick in it too.’
Regulus wrinkles his nose, but he’s come across far worse things left to fester in tubs. He is a son of a forester, after all.
‘That’s why I didn’t see it at first,’ Felix continues, ‘with the water being all cloudy, and I reckon they didn’t either. I only saw it ’cause it got caught on a jag round the edge of the drain hole. Saw the glint of it after the water was gone.’
He pauses dramatically, waiting for the question from his audience and they do not disappoint him. They know what storytellers expect of their listeners.
‘What was there, Felix?’
‘Did you find something?’
Felix lifts his foot and fumbles around inside his shoe. He is holding something in his clenched fist. Slowly, like a magician at a fair, he uncurls his fingers. Lying on his palm is a small amulet, hanging from a broken leather strap. He turns it over and the heads of the two little boys bump together as they lean in to peer at it.
‘Emblem of St Michael, that is,’ Felix says triumphantly. ‘See, there’s the dragon under his feet and the hand of God stopping him killing the monster.’
Peter thrusts his knuckles into his mouth. Felix is watching him closely. ‘You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?’
Peter nods solemnly, without taking his fist from his mouth.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ Felix says. ‘It’s Mighel’s, isn’t it? He told me his father gave it him before he went off to sea. Right proud of it, he was. Said his father promised him it would keep him safe.’
Regulus jerks away as if he has been stung. The little tin emblem hasn’t kept Mighel from harm, like his father had promised, because he’s been taken by the wizard who turns boys into birds, else he’s dead. But he’s not safe. His father lied. All fathers lie. They say they are going to come to see you, but they don’t. It’s all a trick to make you behave, but even when you try to be good, they never, ever come. Anger boils up in Regulus and he almost blurts out his indignation, but he stops himself in time. Peter doesn’t know about Mighel, and Regulus can tell from his face he hasn’t guessed.
‘What’s St Michael doing in the vat?’ Peter asks. ‘Why didn’t Mig take it home with him?’
Felix glances sharply at Regulus. Regulus nods and lowers his eyes. Their secret pact holds.
‘I expect his mother hugged him when she came to get him,’ Felix says to Peter. ‘Probably hugged him so tight, the strap broke and it fell into the water. That’s what mothers do, don’t they, hug you till you can’t breathe?’
There is a look of aching hunger on the older boy’s face as if he is thinking of something sweet he knows he will not taste again.
‘’Sides,’ he adds, with forced cheerfulness, ‘he doesn’t need old St Michael and his sword to protect him now ’cause he’s safe at home, isn’t he? His mother’ll look after him now.’
Chapter 31
For the womb of that woman is full of poison. So let there be dug a grave for the dragon and let the woman be buried therein with him.
‘What is it you want, disturbing me at this hour,’ Robert de Drayton demanded, ‘and in my own home too? You told my servant you’d important information for me. Come on then, cough it up. But I warn you, if this is some frivolous request for me to settle a dispute in your favour, you’ll find your back smarting at the whipping post for wasting the time of the bishop’s prepositus.’
I suppose Drayton imagined using the Latin title of prepositus instead of plain bailiff would make him sound more important, especially if he thought he was addressing an unlettered pot-boy. I was sorely tempted to answer him in a stream of fluent Latin, which, thanks to old Gaspard’s tutelage, I could easily have done. But I’d learned long ago in Philippe’s employ that it doesn’t sweeten the temper of these little puff-toads if they think you know more than them.
He was only lording it over me because he’d recognised me from the tavern. But even if he hadn’t known where I worked, a blind man in fog could have told him, for the clothes I’d selected so carefully when I’d first tried to sell the raven’s head were now stained with spilled food, pitted with holes from burning sparks and reeked of hot fat and sour ale. But if this evening’s work went well I would soon be dressed as a man of substance.
To flatter him, I bobbed my head as respectfully as any lowly servant. ‘I thought you’d want to know at once, Master Robert, that there are some dist
urbing rumours circulating in the taverns about you. Not that I eavesdrop, of course, but when men are merry and the tavern’s crowded, voices become raised, and you can’t help but hear things.’
‘Rumours? What rumours?’ the bailiff blustered. But it was plain from the flushing of his face and the alarm in his eyes that he had a pretty good idea of what was being whispered, and not just whispered – shouted.
‘Of course, I don’t believe a word of it myself,’ I assured him. ‘And neither, I’m sure, does the bishop for he’d have never appointed a man to such high office in Lynn if there was even a hint of something untoward in his past.’
Drayton’s neck was now as red as a cock’s wattle. ‘I’ve done nothing, nothing to give my lord the bishop any cause to doubt my honourable stewardship of his town.’
‘The rumours are no more than a wicked slander,’ I told him soothingly. ‘What they’re saying is ridiculous.’ I laughed. ‘You’ll never believe this, but they are actually claiming that three years ago you murdered a girl in Wiggenhall. I ask you, how do these outrageous tales ever get started?’
‘That is a foul lie!’ The bailiff leaped from his chair and paced around his chamber in great agitation. His fists were clenched, but that didn’t disguise their trembling. ‘If they had a single grain of evidence why didn’t they arrest me three years ago?’
I shrugged. ‘From what I heard, the girl’s body has only just been found. Apparently her brother was away at sea when she disappeared. The neighbours thought she’d simply moved away. It was common knowledge she was walking out with a man and several neighbours saw her go off with him the day she disappeared. Later the man returned alone with a cart and loaded her few possessions into it. He told one of the neighbours that they were going to be wed in his own town. The villagers had no reason to doubt him, at least until her brother came home. He was adamant his sister would have left word for him about where she was living, and when he searched the cottage he discovered necklaces and other precious things her mother had left to her, still concealed in the hiding place they used. He was certain she would never have left them behind if she had gone to be wed.’
Drayton snorted. ‘Hardly proof that the girl was dead. I dare say she hid the jewels to prevent them becoming her husband’s property on their marriage. Knew her brother would find them and intended him to look after them for her. Plenty of women try to keep a little money or some trinkets concealed from their husbands, so as to have some means to support themselves if he turns out be a drunkard or abandons them.’
‘That must be how it was, Master Robert,’ I said. ‘Pity the brother didn’t think of that, but apparently he wouldn’t let it rest. Said he kept waking in the middle of the night to find the ghost of his sister standing at the foot of his bed, water streaming from her. He was sure she’d been murdered and her spirit was trying to show him where the corpse was so that it could be given a Christian burial. He did what most men do when they want to find the drowned. He hollowed out a loaf of bread, filled it with quicksilver and floated it on the river. It led him straight to the spot where her corpse lay. It had been dismembered, put in a basket, weighted down with stones and dropped to the riverbed. Course, by the time they’d fished her out, the flesh had gone, but he knew her by her bones for she’d an extra finger on her right hand, as her mother had before her.’
Beads of sweat were standing out on the bailiff’s forehead, and he kept plucking at the skin on his throat as if it was closing up. ‘What’s this got to do with me? I know nothing of any girl.’
‘When her brother came to the Moot House to report the murder, he saw you there and recognised you as the man who was courting his sister. That’s what they’re saying in the tavern, that it was you who murdered the girl, Master Robert. I was sure you’d want to know straight away,’ I added, giving him my most innocent look. ‘I knew you wouldn’t want to let such rumours go unchallenged. They could be most damaging to a man in your position.’
‘It’s bilge-water!’ Drayton said furiously. ‘I’ve passed through Wiggenhall, like hundreds of other men, but I’ve not paid court to any women there, much less murdered one.’
‘After three years it is all too easy for a man to mistake why he recognises a face,’ I said soothingly. ‘You probably look familiar to the brother if he’s seen you pass through the village on some occasion. A man may think he’s met a woman in a tavern, while the truth is she looks familiar because he’s seen her at the fair. But the trouble is, if the idea is put to him that they met in a tavern, that is what he will swear to and therein lies the danger for you. If the rumour reaches the bishop he’ll summon the girl’s neighbours to testify. And since they have already heard the brother’s tale, they may easily make the same mistake about believing they saw you with the girl.’
The bailiff seemed to deflate like a pricked bladder and crumpled down into a chair, his head buried in his hands. Even his skin sagged. I could feel the waves of misery and despair emanating from him. I let him stew for a few minutes, to allow the full horror of his situation to sink in, knowing he’d be all the more grateful when I dangled the key in front of him that would help him escape from his hell.
‘So what have you come for?’ he muttered. ‘You want money, I suppose, a bribe to keep silent and not to report this to the bishop.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘You’ve not got the brains of a cockle if that’s why you’re here. You said yourself, rumours are spreading all over town. If the bishop hasn’t already heard, he surely will before the week is out.’
‘Which is why you need to have a story prepared that will save you from the gallows,’ I said quietly.
‘A story that proves I didn’t kill the girl?’ he asked bitterly. ‘After three years, how can any man be certain where he was on a particular day? I doubt even the neighbours will be able to agree what day she went missing.’
‘So that’s why you don’t deny you killed her. You admit it with tears and sobs, if you can manage it.’
His head jerked up and he glowered furiously at me. ‘That’s your answer, is it – confess to murder? Why don’t you just fetch me the noose now and save the town the cost of a hangman’s purse?’
‘You admit to killing her,’ I said, ‘but you make them bless you for it.’
‘What?’ he demanded. ‘What on earth are you drivelling about? Explain yourself.’
But I’d learned from my mistake with the miller – demand the money first, a good deal of it, and only then part with the story.
We engaged in a lively bout of haggling, as you can imagine, but he was desperate, and when a man has seen the cold shadow of the gallows dangling over him, he’d sell his own wife in the marketplace to save himself. Only when I had his money safely tucked into my purse did I begin.
‘You frequently have cause to travel between Lynn and Downham as part of your duties and, as you passed through Wiggenhall on one of those journeys, your horse stumbled outside the door of one of the cottages and you were thrown heavily to the ground. A girl came running out and helped you inside to recover.
‘She had a strange beauty about her.’ I waved my hand vaguely at Robert. ‘You’ll have to describe her, but make sure you mention an unusual quality in her eyes – wild, unblinking, couldn’t tear your gaze from them, that kind of thing. And teeth, emphasise the sharp white teeth . . . She did have teeth, I trust?’
He nodded glumly. I could see that so far I had not helped to reassure him. In fact he appeared on the verge of asking for his money back. I hastened on with the tale.
‘She was all gentleness, caring for you with such tenderness you might have been her husband instead of a stranger, plying you with mead and meat, so that before long you began to doze off by the hearth. When you woke it was dark. The girl was standing in the open doorway in the light of the new moon, clad only in a thin shift, her feet bare on the cold earth floor. Her hair hung around her in a silver mane and the light from the fire caught her eyes, which glowed bright green. You thought her the most
beautiful woman you had ever seen, but for reasons you couldn’t understand you were deathly afraid of that beauty.
‘When daylight came, some of the enchantment of the night had faded. In the sunlight, she was a comely enough woman, but her charms were no greater than those of a dozen young girls of your acquaintance. Nevertheless, you were grateful to her for all her kindness, though you had no reason to call on her again.
‘Yet somehow over the next few weeks you found yourself returning several times to that cottage, inventing excuses to ride through Wiggenhall, even though it took you miles out of your way. And every time, the same thing happened – however hard you tried to keep awake you’d fall asleep in the heat of that soporific fire, waking to find hours had passed and the girl standing barefoot in the doorway, staring out at the moonlight.
‘But one night, when once more you had fallen asleep by her hearth, the resin in a burning log exploded from the wood with a loud bang. The sound woke you. As you turned in your chair, you saw that you were alone and the door to the cottage was flung wide open. You heard a shrieking and howling outside as if a dozen wild beasts were bounding through the forest in pursuit of their prey. Fearing for the safety of the girl, you dashed out of the cottage towards the marshes.
‘The moon was three-quarters full and shadows of birch trees writhed in the silver pool of its light. All around you the deep bog sucked and gurgled. The shrieking and howling grew louder, but you were so terrified for the girl you pushed aside your own fear and plunged onwards. You burst out from the trees and almost fell into the waters of a black lake.
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