“Where did you find it?”
He smiles again and does not answer, effortlessly striding up the slope to his conveyance. He tips his hat and climbs in. He leans out the window and says, “I shall return in the spring, Mistress Gytha, to claim my book. I trust you’ll not disappoint me.”
I stand shivering for some time after he is gone.
St Simeon-in-the-Grove is a small monastery, all things considered.
A mere twenty monks, aged from twelve (two boys left on the doorstep some years before) to ninety-five (the librarian).
Edda has let me take our oldest horse, a tall beastie, with feathered feet and a mane like a blanket. Hengroen moves slowly and surely—it’s a bit like being on a very sturdy boat, his gait is almost floating, which makes me feel both safe and seasick after an hour on his broad back. My rear protests as I dismount and I groan loudly. The young monk who comes forward to take Hengroen looks astounded as I tip back the hood of my thick travelling cloak—obviously he has been brought up to believe women are crafty creatures, both fragrant and evil, but not given to terrible bodily noises. He should hear Edda after a meal of beans.
“Larcwide will see me,” I say, before he begins the speech about how my kind are not allowed in the monastery. A rule instituted since—in fact because of—my father’s tenure. “I’m bringing a book.”
Of course, I’m assuming he will see me as he has done before—that he will not remember that little fracas a few years back. This young man knows the librarian collects tomes, is consulted on them regularly, is an authority on things that hold words in one place. I’m banking on the very good chance that he has been terrified by at least one of the old man’s tirades, and will be too afraid to refuse me.
“Don’t worry,” I say, and pat his hand. He shivers the way a horse does when a fly lands on its hide. “I’ll take the side entrance so as not to cause a fuss.”
I’m rewarded with a flash of relief and he nods, leading my great mount to the stables for a rest. I dart across the rectangle of snow that in summer is a patch of green, keeping my head down, but I needn’t bother—most of the brothers are at prayer this time of day. At the base of a tall tower—not the one with the bell in it, the one opposite—there is a small slender door, overgrown with winter ivy (which in this season looks deceased, as if the wall is shedding its skin), but a sharp eye will note the dry grey handle twisted about with dead vines, almost invisible. I get splinters, but the ingress opens with relative ease. Inside there is a set of black stone steps curving around and up. The air is dry and cold, but warmer as I rise. I can smell ink and paper, and old man.
The librarian is shuffling back and forth between cases, twitching folios from the shelves which line the walls, muttering, sliding them back into place or shifting them to another spot. In the centre of the tower is a series of platforms, weighted down with even more tomes, reached by a sort of elevator and pulley system, that creaks above. As I watch a thin monk steps onto the third platform, nimbly balancing an armful of volumes. Larcwide glares upward as dust particles drift down.
“I told you,” he yells, “to clean your shoes! And did you? Did you?”
There is a muffled and indecipherable reply from aloft, and the old man swears softly.
“Father Larcwide?”
He swings around in surprise and squints at me. He won’t rant about me being a woman, although he may well rant about my incursion. He shared in many of my father’s adventures, but his continued presence at St Simeon is testament to both his inability to produce offspring and to his unassailed position as bibliognost. By virtue of his irreplaceable knowledge, his transgressions could be overlooked. Unfortunately for Adelbert’s career, anyone can be an under-enthused abbot and mediocre copyist.
“Father Larcwide, I need to talk to you,” I say and hold up the satchel hanging at my side. His eyes sparkle and he gestures for me to come closer.
He peers at my face and recognition dawns. “Adelbert’s girl? The clever one.”
I grin and nod. “Gytha. I need you to look at something.”
“Why me?” he grumps, contrary for the sake of it.
“Because there’s none like you.” His ego, duly stroked, allows him to lead me along a maze of shelves to an alcove just big enough for a writing desk and two chairs. He sits and invites me to do the same. I draw the thing out of the bag, and unwrap it from the layers of shawl, then place it on the table between us. Larcwide leans forward to read the now-visible title. I have been working at it, testing out a variety of oils and soft cloths, trying to wear away at the black mess. It was slow toil: if I used too much of the lubricant, too much pressure as I rubbed, the stuff would have simply eaten its way through the cover. It is a capricious mix, with a peculiar personality all of its own, bought from the strange little man who travels in spring and summer and brings me supplies of the things that are hardest to find. One letter at a time. So carefully. So very carefully, until:
Murcianus. A Book of Craft.
Larcwide’s hands shake as he reaches out but does not touch the tome. His fingers are blue and brittle, stained with age spots. They hover over what I have so painstakingly cleaned.
“Do you know what this is? Of course you don’t,” his voice quivers. Then, “Where did you get this?”
No, I don’t know, although, I have a suspicion, have had since I reached a page I recognised: a drawing of a hand with candles set in the tops of all the fingers and the thumb. A hand of glory. But I choose to act the innocent and answer only his second question. “A client. A commission my father took on.”
He shakes his head. “Oh, Adelbert. Will you never learn?” He closes his eyes, no more than a blink, but he looks exhausted when he opens them again.
“What is it?” I ask.
He nods. “A grimoire. A book of craft. And this one . . . ” He finally picks the thing up and rubs his fingers on the back cover, in the right-hand bottom corner, finding what I already know is there: the subtle relief of an embossment, M. He almost drops the book, so great is his surprise. “Belonged to him!”
I want to poke and prod, extract the information swiftly, but I wait. He looks at me dubiously, then with judgment. I don’t know who he is.
“Murcianus. This is the Bitterwood Bible.”
And I stare blankly at him and Larcwide’s expression rolls into utter despair.
“Murcianus, one of the greatest encyclopaedists ever known. Well, of the arcane and the eldritch specifically. He wandered the world, recording and compiling every strange ritual, every bizarre being, every spell, curse, myth, legend, enchantment, magical locations . . . ” the monk seems to run out of words. “Everything!”
I remain silent.
“Those books, nowadays, are so rare you barely find one outside of a private collection—or with those bloody women at Cwen’s Reach,” he mutters. “They are wonderfully illustrated, most erudite and informative, filled with wisdom and wit and scholarship.” He turns my tome over in his hands. “But there are other volumes, Gytha, like this one, written in the language of witches, comprehensible to only a few, this one is a rarity. Full of knowledge best left unknown, things too dangerous to be writ down. There are places, Gytha, where his works are banned; where those who carry them are burned, their ashes scattered.”
His face reddens and he looks away, remembering to whom he speaks; remembering at last our argument when I asked him for information my father refused. The one occasion I managed to extract the name of my mother from Adelbert, he was in his cups. He’d called her Hafwen and told me she had been so briefly beautiful, then burned. She was his final indiscretion, the one that sent him from the monastery, lucky to leave with his life. That is all I was able to get from him before he passed out; he woke the next day with a sore head and foul temper, and would tell me nothing more. When I asked Larcwide about it, tried to get an answer, he banned me from coming to see him. I’d hoped the intervening years and his age had dimmed the memory.
“And
the book. Where would this have come from?”
He shrugged. “Lost? Left behind? Stolen? Who knows. All I know is this isn’t some harmless thing you’re working on, Gytha.” He pauses, suddenly suspicious. “You haven’t read from it?”
I would like to deny it, but my blush makes a liar of me. Larcwide goes pales and pushes the book at me, insistent. “What did you read?”
Flicking carefully through the pages I find the relevant one, with the drawings of wheat sheaves and other plants. The old man’s dark eyes skim the words and they seem to make sense to him as he sits back and puffs out a sigh of relief. “Transformation, but it’s just a season spell. Not much harm in it.”
“What’s that?”
“To work change for a few months only, to make an animal change its shape.”
“Not a person?” I worry at the bandaged finger, which has not healed these past weeks, but itches still.
“Oh no,” he flicks through the pages and points to a couplet. “Here: this one will work on a person, but only one who is willing. A resistant subject requires far more effort, instruments and ingredients.” He rubs his hands together. Larcwide seems to know rather more about magic than he should, I think, but do not say. “But you have no ability, so I shouldn’t worry about it. Just don’t do it again—some spells are so powerful they need only be spoken, without intent, for them to effect a metamorphosis, unwanted or otherwise. You should know, though, that every bit of magic leaves a trace, Gytha, no matter how small. Even the tiniest skerrick may rub off, leaving the potential for alteration in its wake.”
“Thank you, Father.” I take the book from him and begin to wrap it up once more. He leans across the table, grasps my wrist and says, “What will you do with this?”
“This is a commission, I cannot simply make it disappear.” I lower my voice. “And I fear this client, Father, I fear him greatly. I will not risk my life nor that of my family by refusing to give him what he has demanded.”
“But, child, it’s too dangerous. If you will not listen to sense, I shall have to tell the Abbot.”
“And if you do so, there’s every good chance I will be burned—it won’t matter that this book is not mine, it will simply matter that it is in my possession.” I hold his gaze for a long moment. I do not think he would like to see me as ashes.
“What will you do?” he asks quietly once more, defeated.
I shake my head. “I’ll think of something.”
I wipe my hands on a rag, then wash them with hot water and Edda’s whortleberry soap, massaging the cramps and the smell of ink and oil out of them. Passing my desk I survey the work: the replica is almost done. I am exhausted and my eyes ache; I have been copying by the light of the fire and as many lanterns and candles as I could find without leaving my family in darkness. Outside the black mirror of the window, the air smells of spring. The days have grown longer, warmer, but I have spent an eternity inside, slaving over this damnable book. The time is fast approaching and although I have not slept well since the client’s last visit, it is not the sole reason for my sleeplessness.
The doors to the bed cupboard are open, just a little, and inside I can make out blankets and coverlets heaped up, mounded over the form of a slumbering young man with the thickest, blackest hair relieved only by a streak of white down the middle. He snuffles and snores, his hands curled like paws, batting at the pillows as he stirs, then stilling as he settles once again.
I struggle with the buttons of my dress, then drop it to the rug, half-undone. Crawling in beside him, I fit myself into the half-moon of his body and breathe deeply. He smells musky, slightly sweet. I close my eyes, nestling as his arms come around me.
“I want peaches,” he mumbles, breath warm in my ear.
“You ate them all, remember?” That was how I found him, in his night-time shape, late on the evening I returned from St Simeon-in-the-Grove, crouched on the floor of the cellar, struggling with a bottle of preserved peaches. His hands seemed not to know quite what to do, and he dropped the bottle, which smashed impressively. He merely gave a grunt and neatly picked slices of the preserved fruit from the glass, carefully examining it for shards, then elegantly chewed it in tiny bites.
“It doesn’t stop me wanting them,” he points out, in a reasonable tone.
“Ordinary badgers don’t eat peaches.”
“Well, I’m no ordinary badger, obviously,” he says, and shrugs, a movement that takes his whole body, not just his shoulders.
Badgerish.
“You ate plenty this evening. I cannot believe how much food you put away—and Aelfrith insists upon feeding you twice a day. You won’t fit in my bed soon.”
“Get a bigger bed.” As he cuddles comfortably into my back. I take hold of one of his hands, weave our fingers together.
“At least there’s no cheese left.”
“Oh, that cheese! Terrible cheese. Awful constipation.”
“An ordinary badger doesn’t eat cheese. Or indeed, spend his winter in a girl’s bed.”
“An ordinary badger doesn’t get hit by stray magic.” He nuzzles my neck, pauses. “How long will this last, do you think?”
I shake my head, feeling dizzy as if I am dangling over a terrible pit where all the loss in the world resides. “I don’t know.” I squeeze his hands. “What do you think about, in the day? When you’re . . . ”
“Four-legged and furred? Badgerish things: about food and warmth, staying safe, about spring and blackberries and wild cherries and windfall apples.” He wiggles against me to suggest the time for talking is done and other activities should be considered.
Here is the problem with raising daughters so far from suitable mates: it makes them prey to roaming, transformed badgers. It makes their hearts easy pickings, like windfall apples.
I keep my eyes downcast, but watch through lowered lashes. Adelbert is trying to hide his surprise at my seeming modesty. He is also trying to hide his look of mistrust. We sit in his study, all three of us on separate over-stuffed armchairs.
The client has my work in his hands. He is appreciating the fine red leather cover I’ve added. It is different to the old one, but I see that I was right: this pleases him, this newness. There is neither title nor author on the front.
“Your workmanship is exquisite, Mistress Gytha. I commend you.” He tosses my father a heavy bag of coins, and Adelbert’s eyes go soft, like a drunk seeing his first drink of the day. “And the original?”
“I burned it,” I pipe up and two pairs of eyes turn on me. I hold up a small box and shake it gently. “The ashes. The book—the ink was almost unreadable by the time I finished and I did not think you would care, sir. It was old and not new.”
The man stares at me for long moments, then nods and brings out a smile. “Yes, you’re right, Mistress Gytha. Although, such a decision I would have liked to make myself.”
He does not care the original is gone, he merely cares about my high-handedness. I offer the box and manage to sound sincere, “I apologise, sir. Would you like . . . ”
He shakes his head dismissively and I nod. “I am very sorry, sir.”
“No matter, no matter,” he smiles and waves his hand. He places the book into a leather case he has brought specifically for the purpose. “I shall take my leave.”
Father sees him to the door, then returns to the study. Through the open windows comes the warm air of the first day of spring. I watch, just as I watched him that first occasion, as the client appears around the side of the house, then disappears into the green of the woods. I do not pursue him this time. I watch until the trees swallow him, until I am sure he is nearing his carriage waiting up on the road, waiting far from us so no one will know he has been here, has brought something here, so no one will question and perhaps hunt here, or suspect him of whatever he is doing.
“Well done, Gytha,” says my father. His good mood cannot be contained, despite the loss of part of our fee, and it makes me wonder if all this has been about more th
an mere money. He moves around the room, laughing and joking, pouring us both a glass from the last bottle of the summer-berry wine. He counts out my coin into a smaller purse and gives it to me. I sit opposite and stare at him until he becomes uncomfortable. “What is it?”
“Who is he, Father? How did he come to us?” I ask now because it has occurred to me at last that Adelbert did not tell me how this client found us. It is his usual habit to go into great detail about who they are and what drew them here, who referred them on. That I’ve only just thought of this is a sign of my distraction.
Adelbert gives a kind of half-hearted shrug. “I knew him long ago, in my days at university. Before the seminary, before St Simeon’s.”
“He looks too young,” I point out and he shrugs again.
“Some age better than others. Perhaps his life has been easier.” He scratches at his chin. “As I said, I knew him before.”
“Before Hafwen?” I do not say “my mother” for she has never been that, only ever an absence to whom I was able to put a name a few years ago. He makes a sharp sound and jerks his head to one side before bringing his gaze back to me.
“Yes,” he says.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Who was she?”
“A girl. Just a girl.”
“Was she a witch?”
I have never seen such grief in my father, such a terrible thing clawing its way up from inside and painting itself across his face. He lowers his head so I cannot see, then slowly raises it once more. Everything is gone but an awful blankness. I will get nothing from him.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 21
