‘Keep it going,’ he tells Katherine, passing her the book. The others huddle forward, spread their shaking hands over the tremulous heat. Thomas brings Margaret’s pattens, then his bow, useless without arrows, then he tears up some thick-rooted snarls of heather, beating them on the ground to knock the snow off. There is a small twisted tree he hacks at with his sword and brings back to feed into the flames. It will not last the night but it will have to do.
They huddle together under a tent of their clothes until one by one they fall asleep, last of all Thomas, his back against the stone, his legs stretched to the fire in front of him, Katherine’s back against his chest, her head against his shoulder. He presses his nose into the top of her cap, breathing in the mix of smoke, wool, dirt and that other distinguishable trace that is uniquely hers.
He shifts, so that she rests more fully against him, and he places an arm around her that, after a moment, she grips across her chest. He can feel her breathing and is conscious that his fingertips rest on her inner thigh. He cannot resist and he slowly strokes the worn wool of her hose, not intending anything other than intimacy, or perhaps, from somewhere deep within himself, to test how far he may presume on her. It is what he needs, he tells himself, after leaving Walter to die.
It is a moment before he realises that her breathing has changed and that she is holding her breath. Then she says something, perhaps in her sleep, and she shifts her legs so that his hand falls away, but she rests her head against his chest, and after a moment his own heartbeat slows and soon he too is asleep.
He wakes in the night to silence and registers that the fire is dead and that the wind has dropped and there are stars scattered thick above them. He can’t hear the stream any more and it takes a moment before he realises it has frozen.
It is only later, near dawn, that he misses Margaret coughing.
For a moment he is glad, imagines she must be over it, but then in the pale light of dawn, when they come to wake her, she will not move and she is stiff and her face is blue. Snowflakes have melted on her eyelids and then frozen again.
Katherine bends over the girl’s bent body and after a moment she looks up at him. He sees tears in her eyes and down her grubby cheeks. Thomas feels sick with guilt. In the night he had been thinking only of himself and Katherine, of himself with Katherine, and he had let the fire die. He had not checked on her. He had heard her silence and was himself comfortable and warm and had done nothing and all the while . . .
‘I am so sorry,’ he says. ‘It is my fault. I should have . . . I don’t know.’
‘No,’ Katherine tells him. ‘I did it. You said we should stay in the valley down there. I said let us ride. Oh God, forgive me.’
She begins gathering all their clothes, shaking the snow off them, and he hears her sob. Little Dafydd looks on with no expression.
‘There is a pit down there,’ Thomas says, nodding towards the river. ‘We can bury her there.’
He leaves Katherine to strip Margaret’s body. She leaves her in her linen shift and they carry her, sublimely beautiful now she is released from the coughing, down to some workings which Little Dafydd has cleared of snow. They lay her down and after a moment the stiffness seems to leave her body, and she subsides, and even looks at peace. While Katherine and Little Dafydd fetch bracken, more heather, grasses, anything they can pull up, Thomas takes the first page of the pardoner’s ledger, and his ink, and he cuts a frozen reed from the frozen river’s bed, and he fashions a pen. Then he writes: Here lie the mortal remains of Lady Margaret Cornford, only issue of the late Lord Cornford, who died on this day, right beloved of God and of all those who knew her. May she rest in peace.
Then he places the piece of paper on a stone and then places another stone on top to make a simple marker. They cover her body as best they can and they kneel by her graveside and Thomas says a prayer, asking the Lord to look down favourably upon his handmaid Margaret, to forgive her any sins she may have committed, and for the saints and martyrs to receive her in heaven and guide her to Jerusalem. Tears shimmer on Katherine’s cheeks, and she wipes her nose with her sleeve. She is shaking and Thomas has to help her stand and come away from the graveside.
Afterwards Katherine offers Margaret’s cloak to Little Dafydd, but he will not take it. They load the horses in silence and then turn their backs on the stone and walk back to the track. There is almost no wind now, and the sky above is very pale. The snow has obscured all trace of their arrival, and ahead the road rises to the two peaks.
When they reach the track Little Dafydd says something.
‘I think he wants to leave us here,’ Katherine says.
‘You can hardly blame him,’ Thomas agrees.
They try to give him Margaret’s horse but he will not take it, not with the side-saddle, so they give him Katherine’s horse, which is the one he wants anyway. Then they say goodbye as best they can and they watch him retrace their steps down the track, hurrying away from the great slab of stone and down over the snowfields, back towards the town he’d called Castel Nedd.
‘Whatever will he tell Dwnn?’ Thomas wonders.
They are left just the two of them, with two hungry horses, but no bow, no companions and no idea what to do next except follow the road over the hills towards England.
They turn and walk north, up the slope to the crest, where the wind picks up. On the other side the land drops steeply into a valley. The path follows it down, bent like scissor handles, until it straightens out to run alongside a dark line in the snow that must be a river.
‘Come on,’ Thomas says and they set off down through the snow, still walking as the horses pick their way down behind them. They reach the river, frozen over in parts, rushing in others, and they follow it eastwards, travelling all that day. Katherine rides side-saddle on Margaret’s horse, and finds she likes it.
‘You look proper, up there,’ Thomas observes. ‘Well, you would if you were in a dress.’
Katherine does not say anything. She has not said a word since the morning. All around, the land is deserted. They do not even see a sheep until towards late afternoon when it is getting dark and they make out a smudge of smoke above a pair of cottages in the distance. Then there are more houses, and next a small town. They stop at the first cottage and an old man agrees to sell them bread and when Thomas makes the mistake of letting him see the weight of Margaret’s purse, his old eyes deepen in his head. He invites them to sit by his fire and they tear at the bread with filthy hands while the man’s wife fetches ale.
While they sit, another man joins them, and then another. Neither speaks. They just stare. The atmosphere deepens. Thomas can imagine how this will end.
‘Ought to see to the horses, Kit,’ he says, standing suddenly, hauling her to her feet before the three men can gather themselves. They hurry outside and haul themselves up into their saddles just as two more men come running.
They ride hard, following the path alongside a river brimming in its banks until they join a proper road. It takes them through some roughly marked furlongs and stone pens where sheep bleat in the settling gloom. The horses are tired though, and cannot run for long. When the road fords the river, Thomas reins in.
‘Christ,’ he says.
They stare at the river’s roiling black surface. Across it they can hear the bells in the town ringing for compline. Thomas turns. Along the road are five Welshmen.
‘If I had my bow,’ Thomas says, ‘even with just those five arrows I could stop this.’
He sees another man join them with a bow and an arrow already nocked. He watches him draw and for a moment cannot believe it. The arrow hums past, its fletch buzzing where it has not been properly set. It disappears into the water beyond with a loud plock.
‘Quick,’ he says, and he hauls the reins of his horse around and down the cobbles into the river. The water is numbingly cold, deep and fast-flowing. He feels his horse lose purchase on the stones of the riverbed before it starts to swim.
‘Come!’ he calls to Katherine. Katherine kicks her pony down the bank into the icy current.
Thomas is across quickly, his boots full and his hose wet. The horse exhales loudly, shuddering. He looks back for Katherine. Her pony is struggling to swim, but makes it to the other side, only to stumble as it climbs the riverbank.
‘Katherine!’
She falls and is under the water and he thinks she has been hit by an arrow. But no, she clings with both hands to the reins and the pony ploughs on and she is dragged out. Water pours from her and she loses her hat. Her pony scrabbles up the bank on slipping hooves. Thomas leaps down to help her. Over the other side of the river the Welshmen are still coming.
‘Quick,’ Thomas breathes. He bundles her upright and they turn and run, ducking through the trees towards the town, leading the horses behind them. An arrow skips in the mud behind them, but it is a parting shot, and soon they are weaving their way among the hurdles and pens where geese hiss at them in the gloom. If they can only now find an inn in the town, they’ll be safe.
They find one below the castle motte, with a stable lad the innkeeper has to wake with a kick, and the promise of ale to go with a stew of pork and beans and more roasted cheese. The innkeeper speaks English and they tell him how they’ve been attacked on the road.
‘Like that everywhere these days, isn’t it,’ he says without much concern. ‘Everyone’s taking advantage of it.’
‘Taking advantage of what?’ Katherine asks. Her voice is oddly slurred.
‘Tudor’s coming, did you know? Coming this way with an army of French and Irishmen, and the men of Pembroke of course. Strong arms they’ve got on them. They’re on their way to meet the Queen’s army somewhere up north, aren’t they? Ha! I fancy they’ll knock old Warwick and March and whatever’s left of the rest of them back into the sea for good this time.’
He is about to say more, but notices Katherine shivering.
‘Like a greyhound, aren’t you, hey? You want to get out of those clothes, you do, lad.’
Katherine sits on Margaret’s bag, holding her hands over the slowly resuscitating coal fire in the middle of the hall. The innkeeper steps behind the screen and begins shouting at someone in his own language. Thomas meanwhile begins rummaging through Katherine’s bag. There is a stained white shirt, a pair of braies, a length of cloth, two old-fashioned woollen hoods and a leather strap, but it has been so cold she’s been wearing everything else she owns, and now all that is sodden, clinging to her.
Thomas’s eye falls on Margaret’s bag. In it are the blue cloak, those dresses, the linen underthings, the fine-gauge hose. A thought strikes him.
‘Kit,’ he says, half from habit now, even though they are alone. ‘You’ll have to become a girl again.’
She looks at him and he sees her eyes are bright and feverish.
Dear God, he thinks, she cannot die on me too. Not Katherine. Not her.
‘Come on,’ he says, and he takes her by the hand and leads her to a corner of the hall where the fire is yet to cast much light, and he begins taking off her clothes. She starts to struggle, pulling away from him, but he is too strong, she too weak.
‘Come on, Kit,’ he murmurs. ‘Come on. It’s all right. It is just me. It’s Thomas. I’m helping you. You have to get out of these wet clothes. We have to get you dry. Come on.’
He coaxes her out of her wet jack, her woollen pilch, her rosary, Alice’s rosary, her linen shirt. Her breasts are no bigger than kneecaps, and she is so thin he could have played a tune on her ribs, but dear God! What is this?
All over her back is a fretwork of tiny scars from her shoulder to the hollows above her waist. He stares at it, horrified, then rubs the thickened skin gently with the dry cloth, trying to work some life back into flesh as pallid as goose fat. Next he rummages in Margaret’s bags and finds a shift of thick linen. He spreads it out and pulls it over her head. It falls to her knees. Then he bends and yanks off her hose and her braies, which gather in rolls around her sodden boots. He lifts one skinny shank and hoicks the roll of cloth down around her ankle, removing the boot with a sucking sound and the smell of river water. Then the other boot.
Katherine stands half comprehending, half helpful, mute. He finds a pair of braies in Margaret’s bag and lays them on the floor for Katherine to step into. When she’s done so, he pulls them up and ties them as best he can under the linen shift.
He rubs his chin. What next? He rummages in the bag, his blunt fingers among the fine-spun wool. A coif. He places it over her head, then rolls back the seams in imitation of women he’s seen. He finds a heavy linen kirtle, dull brown, that he drops over her head and laces up at the front. He ties off the strings just above her breast and then steps back. The effect is eerie, but not yet right. She still looks half dressed. What is missing? A proper dress. He finds the pale blue one Margaret had been wearing the day they first saw her, slips it over Katherine’s head, pulls it down and then thrusts her arms into the narrow sleeves.
All the while he talks to her, his voice low and reassuring. She sways when he is not holding her, but otherwise cooperates willingly enough. He wonders if it is the effect of the cold. He’s never known her so biddable.
He finds a long leather belt in Margaret’s bag and wraps it twice around Katherine’s waist. Then he finds a hood with a long tail that he places over her head and tucks into the belt. All that remains are the hose and the shoes, which have never been worn outside, let alone seen mud. He bends and picks up Katherine’s foot and slips a leg of hose up over her calf. It reaches mid-thigh and hangs loose and there does not seem any way to stop it falling straight back down around her ankle again. It will have to do. He does the same with the other one, and then slips her bony feet into the leather shoes, fastening the buckle just as the innkeeper returns.
The man stops still, a ewer of ale in his hand.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well I never. I took you for a boy, mistress.’
She is – there is no other word for it – striking.
Still Katherine says nothing. She looks at the way the cloth grips her forearms and then she pulls at the coif against her neck. She runs fingers down to the front of her dress, feeling the lacings, which he now sees he’s tied poorly, and then she runs both hands down her hips and Thomas can feel his face flush. He does not know where to look and is reminded in a flash of what he had felt the previous night, before Margaret had died.
‘So strange,’ Katherine says at last. ‘So strange.’
The innkeeper pours them ale and leaves the stew on the board by the fire and Thomas watches as Katherine sits and drinks some warm ale and pushes the food away. Now she is dressed as a girl, she drinks more delicately, so whereas Kit made a conscious effort to guzzle ale and then wipe her mouth on her sleeve, here she is, sipping at the cup as might a female. He feels suddenly very anxious in her company, as if she is a stranger, and he does not know what to do when she puts the cup down and leans against the table, holding her head.
‘We are the only people staying?’ Thomas asks the innkeeper when he brings the straw for their beds.
‘No one’s about this time of year generally, and with Tudor coming, well . . . Are you quite well, mistress?’
Katherine’s eyes are glassy and she sways where she sits at the board.
‘Tudor is coming here?’ she asks.
‘So they say. Coming up from Pembroke around the hills, he is, with six thousand men. Soon set that Earl of Warwick back on his heels, won’t he, eh?’
Neither Thomas nor Katherine say a word while the innkeeper takes their bowls and puts them on the floor for a short-legged dog to lick.
‘And where are you from?’ he asks, turning to Thomas. ‘You don’t sound to be from these parts.’
‘We are from Lincoln,’ Thomas stammers. Is it bad to admit they are from Lincoln? He has no idea. The innkeeper brightens.
‘Then you’ll have further news of the battle?’ he asks.
‘Battle?’ Thomas a
sks.
‘A friar brought news only yesterday,’ the innkeeper says. ‘There has been a great battle outside the castle of Sandal, somewhere up, you know, north? Near York. It was fought on the eve of the New Year, and Richard of York is killed! Aye, and the Earl of Salisbury too! Have you not heard? The whole of the Duke’s army were cut down, to a man, and now the north country lies in the Queen’s hands, and all of England soon, too, so they say.’
29
SHE IS WOKEN by the sound of horses on the road outside. It is still dark and though she recognises the noise of men in harness she cannot stop herself slipping back into sleep. When she wakes again her body is heavy, and she peers through her half-opened eyelids to see Thomas in his linen shirt feeding slips of wood into the flames of the fire.
He glances over, sensing a change in her, and opens his mouth and says something, but she cannot understand him, and she drifts back to sleep. She has been dreaming curious swirling dreams, intensely vivid yet bewilderingly vague, and through them all flicker the shadows of the dead: Walter, Dafydd, Owen and especially Margaret. Margaret is there often. At times she is no more substantial than a wisp of river mist at dawn, at others she acquires flesh and becomes all too real.
‘She is unwell?’ she hears the innkeeper ask Thomas.
‘A fever,’ Thomas says. ‘Nothing more. She was caught in the cold on the hills.’
The innkeeper grunts something about a nunnery being more suitable than his hall and Katherine stares past Thomas up into the roof, at the tiles and the soot-blackened rafters. She tries to stay awake, but drifts back into sleep where the shades of the dead gather about her once more.
How long she is like this she cannot say. When she is awake it is as if everything is at a remove. She sees Thomas, his face swimming towards her, sometimes obscenely large, sometimes in miniature; and she hears his voice, sometimes loud in her ears and then sometimes as a distant rattle. She knows he is asking a question, or offering help, but nothing she hears or sees has anything to do with her. It feels as if someone else is lying there drifting through consciousness.
Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims Page 37
