Unicorn's Blood

by Patricia Finney

  “Father,” she mumbled when she saw him and she swayed on the bench. “Father, I am . . . I am evil . . .”

  Tears glittered on her cheeks like glass beads.

  “Have you got . . .” Becket began and stopped when Hart trod on his foot.

  “Sister,” said Tom Hart, went to her and embraced her. Mary shook her head and tried to pull away, but he held her firm while she muttered and the tears fell.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

  “Do you want to make your confession again, Sister?”

  She nodded. Hart looked over his shoulder at Becket.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” he said.

  Becket’s face worked with irritation and impatience. “For Christ’s sake,” he protested, “she’s drunk. For all we know the pursuivants are on their way, can it not wait –”

  “For Christ’s sake,” said Hart. “Out.”

  Becket sighed through his teeth, took his rush-light and stamped out the door, where he stood on the narrow landing and stared at the moonlight slanting through a tiny window high under the eaves. By standing on tiptoe he could look through, though it was too high for him to see anything useful, such as the pursuivants. Instead he stared beyond the Falcon water-steps that poured silver, carved and chased by feet and fire, flowing unmovingly through the litter of London, the Thames turned to metaphor by frost. As he watched, clouds came walking from the west, hunting the moons and outing the stars one by one.

  Within the upper room, unconfused by his multiple reflections, Tom Hart listened with his head bowed to the witch’s new litany of sins, great and less, of theft and greed and the ugly killing of Bethany’s babe and the incidental killing of Bethany herself.

  At the end of it he sighed and closed his eyes in prayer. Anxiously Mary awaited the Ego te absolvo. “I do not know what penance to give you, Sister,” said Hart at last. “I believed you had truly repented before, but . . .”

  She clasped her hands until the arthritis burnt. “I did. Only, I am weak . . .”

  “Do you think so? I think not. Most women would have been killed many times over by all that has befallen you, Sister; most men would hardly have survived. I think you are not weak at all, but very, very strong. So strong, your greatest sin is pride.”

  That cut through the aqua vitae. “Pride?” Mary demanded, cold and furious. “How could I be more humbled that I am? Look at me, Father, how could I be proud . . .”

  “Nevertheless. We recognise our own worst sins in others, I think. Now you gave me a great gift last summer.”

  “I?”

  “Yes. In my pride, when I was being hunted, I thought it was mine own effort and intelligence that would bring me safely away, and I was desperate, for I knew myself inadequate. And then you helped me, poor as you are, you led me away from capture and you told me that if it was God’s will I should be taken, I would be; and if not, then the Blessed Virgin would protect me. I was shocked at such a truth coming from so . . .”

  “Old and ugly a mouth?”

  Hart nodded. “Yes,” he admitted simply. “And then you demanded that I hear your confession, that I perform what I was ordained to do, in the teeth of all Walsingham’s pursuit. It was . . . it was salutary. I have been near death many times since then, but I have never been so afraid nor desperate, because of your teaching.”

  She nodded, pleased at this.

  “Perhaps I do have some wisdom,” she said complacently.

  “Then it is a pity you do not use it for yourself,” said Hart, his voice like a whip. “You bade me trust myself to God, to hear His Voice. Why can you not do the like yourself?”

  Her face folded into shadow again. “I try . . .”

  “Sister, I believe that with the power of will you have, if you had ever truly attempted it, you would have succeeded. There were things you could have done to help the poor maiden you killed, but for greed and for pride you did not so much as think of them. Do you think God has no plan in this matter of the Book of the Unicorn? Do you think He has no interest in you?”

  After a moment she lifted her head again and was much changed. “Why, yes,” she said, the ice in her voice grating the air. “I do think that. What interest has He ever shown in me? His Son was my bridegroom and He threw me out of the house where I was happy and made me what I am now, and all the comfort I have is the booze and my little girl Pentecost . . .”

  “Enough!” snapped Hart. “Lord above, Sister, listen to yourself. Do you think like the Puritans that a man beloved of God shall be happy and rich in this life? Was that our Saviour’s life? Do you think that because you were a good nun, which I do not doubt, then God would hold you harmless from all travail and hardship? Think again. The harder your life, the more greatly God favoured you.”

  Mouth open with shock, Mary said nothing.

  “I would like to absolve you, but I dare not. I do not know what penance to prescribe except to ask that you run counter to your pride, that you trust in God as you told me to do.”

  “B . . . but you must shrive me, I may die at any . . .”

  “So may we all. Do you think this sacrament of confession is a spiritual wash-house, Madam? Do you think Ego te absolvo is soap for your soul? Think again. God forgives, not I. The power to bind and release sins was given to Saint Peter by Christ, and Christ knows your heart and your pride. Christ is not fooled by boozy tears, Madam, nor is He unmerciful to true repentance. I will pray with you for grave to leave your sins behind, but absolve you, I will not.”

  “Our Lady forgives me. The Queen of Heaven loves me.”

  Hart rubbed his eyes, which were growing sandy with weariness. “So she does, Sister. Ask her for help.”

  “She is more faithful than her Son.”

  The priest shook his head. “I pray that you will soon understand that all faithfulness comes from Christ.”

  Mary spat in fury. “You are no priest, you proud pompous little man. I hope Walsingham catches you and racks you until your joints burst . . .”

  “Maybe he will, Sister . . .”

  Becket’s head poked round the door. “Have you finished?” he demanded pointedly. “I have been waiting above an hour.”

  “Yes,” said Tom Hart. “Come in.”

  I watched them from my mirrors, seeing the rage burning in Mary’s soul, all the hotter because she knew that from Tom Hart she had heard the truth spoken to her for the first time in many years; seeing the fear and doubt of himself writhing like Leviathan in the depths within Becket, which he strove so hard and successfully to hide; seeing the priest, heavy with sorrow and doubt at what he had done.

  To see clearly is not always a blessing. I would have spoken to them, warned them, if I could. Do not mothers always wish to preserve their children from pain?

  Becket sat beside the priest and Hart unbuttoned his doublet and took off the heavy money belt he had been carrying. Mary brought out her book with trembling fingers and gave it to them and each opened it, leafed through it to the right place and read quickly what was written there in a firm childish italic.

  Then Mary snatched it back from them and clutched it amongst her skirts.

  “Count the money for me.”

  Singing filtered up from the common room below, singing and the music of lutes and tambours and rebecs, much cheering and laughter. Exchanging glances with Becket, Hart poured the gold on the table and he and Becket counted through it carefully. As Mary had demanded earlier, there was silver among it, to be spent more easily.

  It clinked and shone as the two men counted through it, too impatient to pay it the proper worship that Mammon prefers.

  Mary’s eyes watched them, blinking and hard as onyx, and every mirror showed a different view of her stealthy duplicity, if the men had raised their eyes from counting to see it.

  At last they finished. They put it back carefully into the money belt and Becket pushed it over the table to the witch. She took it, her hands still shaking, pulled up her skirts uncarin
g of any modesty, and strapped it on about her bony hips.

  “The book, Sister,” Hart reminded her.

  She was already at the door. She turned and tossed it to Becket, and then was out on the landing and scuttling down the stairs. Hart strode after her, called her softly.

  “I will hear you at any time, Sister, only consider my words . . .”

  She paused a second and looked up at him briefly, then she shook her head and laughed, trotted to the ground floor and slid into the noise and light of the common room.

  Becket was behind Hart. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Where has she gone?”

  Hart shrugged, weary again with sadness and an inevitable gnawing fear of what he had done. “Will you give me the book?” he asked.

  Becket paused fractionally and in that shard of time came a number of possibilities that Hart could see very clearly, perhaps even the necessity of fighting Becket. A little to his surprise, Becket only handed the book over in its leather covering. Hart checked the front to see the battered horned horse and put it inside his doublet.

  “Let’s go,” he said, his voice harsh.

  Their boots thundered on the stairs, but Becket paused again by the door to the common room.

  “Wait for me for five minutes,” he said. “I must go to the jakes.”

  Moments later, Thomasina saw him plunge into the Falcon’s yard, check the woodpile, open the door of the goat-shed, the jakes, the wash-house, where he checked the bucks, and even opened a cupboard used for storing soap, then came hurrying back through the revelry to where Hart was tapping his fingers by the door to the water-steps. Thomasina would have called from her perch on the wash-house roof to warn him, but dared not reveal herself to the men waiting by the yard’s back gate.

  LXVI

  AMES HEARD A MUTTER of men’s voices, the bang of a door. Boots sounded on the gravel of the road.

  “Halt in the name of the Queen!” boomed Ramme’s voice, sharp with triumph. Gravel scraped and spurted under the boots of the men-at-arms, dark lanterns spilled light. Ames could see Becket and Hart in the midst of a crowd of men, all armed with cudgels and halberds. The whites of Becket’s eyes were showing as he looked about, searching for an escape; Father Hart seemed relaxed, unsurprised.

  Ames froze there, sabotaged by indecision. Becket believed him to be a traitor, whispered an ugly voice within his breast, Becket had gagged him and tied him to a bed all day, Becket had nearly throttled him a few hours before – why should Ames risk his life to help?

  Ramme was grinning as he came up to Becket to take his sword and Becket flinched back from him. There was something creepy in so large a man being so instantly cowed. Ames could read the torment on Becket’s square ugly face and briefly his heart was wrung with pity for the man, that he had been thus reduced.

  Ames stood up and marched forwards between the men-at-arms. Ramme was prodding Becket’s jerkin, feeling for the book that had cost everyone so much blood.

  “Mr James Ramme,” said Ames as he came close, putting every ounce he could find of frosty command into his voice. “You are relieved of your office.”

  It was astonishing enough for Becket, who simply stood for a few seconds and goggled at him. Ames did not deign to acknowledge him, entirely focussed on the pursuivants.

  Ramme knew Ames, of course, but thought him dead. He stared, blinking as his mind struggled to put a name to the face he knew but could not place. Anthony Munday, whom Ames had never met, stepped busily between them.

  “How may we help you, sir?” he asked with a threatening courtesy.

  Ames took out the warrant and flourished it. “This is from the Queen,” he said. “It gives me full authority to take charge here. Read it, by all means.”

  Munday nipped the paper from his fingers, squinted at it in the lantern-light, held it up to look at the watermark, fingered the seals.

  “B . . . but you are . . . you are dead,” Ramme stuttered.

  Munday was scratching his head. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Our authority comes from Mr Secretary Davison.”

  “Mine comes from Her Majesty the Queen,” said Ames. “You will please to bring Mr Becket and Mr Hart with me to . . . to my lord Earl of Leicester’s residence.”

  Ramme’s face twisted with rage. “No,” he said. “No! This is a forgery.”

  “It looks straight enough,” said Munday cautiously.

  “It’s a forgery. And you, sir, whoever you are, you are not Simon Ames. Sergeant-at-arms, arrest this imposter; we will take them all to the Tower.”

  When all was said and done, it was only a piece of paper. Ramme put his cudgel under his arm, snatched the warrant from Munday. “A forgery!” he sneered, tearing it in half and then in quarters. “It’s treason to take the Queen’s name in vain.”

  “Mr Ramme,” Ames said between his teeth, “I will not argue with you and we can settle this in the Queen’s own presence if you wish, but in the meantime I will take the prisoners to the Strand.”

  At first he could not understand what happened next. Ramme had swung his cudgel out from under his arm and prodded him with it; the end poked into Ames’s stomach, accurately under his breast-bone, where Becket’s fist had left a large bruise, and suddenly his ability to breathe was absent again. He was hunched over, tears in his eyes, struggling and straining with the air around him, which had somehow become as solid as the Thames. All the men-at-arms were watching him and Ramme, Munday as well.

  That was when Father Hart moved decisively. Not Becket, who was still staring at Ramme like a rabbit at a fox. Soft-footed, almost daintily, the priest drove his elbow into the ribs of the man-at-arms standing gawping beside him, snatched the man’s sword from its scabbard and slashed thrice before anyone had turned their attention back to him. There was pandemonium. Two men-at-arms were felled by the blows, a third flinched back, Becket woke from his trance of fear and charged through the crowd like a bull through mastiffs, the lanterns fell to the ground, one went out, the other flickered and cast confusing shadow monsters all about. Becket was grappling with Ramme. Another man-at-arms swung a halberd at his head, missed and looked down in astonishment to where Simon Ames, still crowing and weeping, had managed to stab him with his dagger.

  The second lantern was doused, there were shouts, the sounds of window shutters being flung open. Ames hauled his dagger out of the man-at-arms’s ribs, punched wildly around him.

  “Run, Becket!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, run! I can hold them!” Please let him do it, he thought desperately, remembering that for Becket it was always easier to fight, wondering even then at Hart’s actions.

  Fists, halberds, boots, deep-voiced grunts and shouts of command; Ames tripped and fell on his face, there was the bellowing boom of a pistol, something punched him on the shoulder, he rolled, got his feet under him, felt cloth and hit out. Somebody gripped the collar of his doublet.

  “This way,” hissed Becket’s voice, and Ames found himself being pulled almost off his feet, running with his legs all astray, gravel under his boots, something horrible and sour at the back of his throat, his shoulder freezing cold.

  He rammed against a low wall, jumped over it and they were among trees. Brambles and dead bracken snatched at his legs, ripped his skin, he mewed because he still could not breathe properly and Becket was dragging him on, bearing right, somehow knowing where he was and where he was going.

  They broke from the trees, heard shouts behind them; Becket pulled him, half-sitting, down the bank of a stream. Their feet crunched through the ice into the water, they stepped hugely, ice blades cutting them, up on the other bank, running again. Another stream, another icy bank, through a hedge and then more trees. Something was wrong with Ames’s back, he had got icy water on it, there was ice dripping down his arm.

  Another stream, also frozen but this time the ice held; another bank, more tussocks of razor grass to cut Ames’s hands, and all the time he was wondering where the water on his back was coming from.
r />   And then Becket thrust him down through a tangle of thorns and old convolvulus, crawled in afterwards and they lay side by side, panting in the musty smell of animals and the mushroom scent of damp frozen earth, the gust of aqua vitae and bad teeth on Becket’s breath coming and going.

  Darkness reached out of the trees for Simon’s head. Why am I cold? He wondered. I should be hot from running.

  Becket rustled in the leaves and laughed softly, without any trace of humour.

  “By God, Simon,” he rumbled. “That was some pretty piece of work.”

  “I . . . I think I remembered s . . . some of your l . . . lessons,” Ames croaked, his teeth chattering, sickened with the cold. Why was he so cold? “B . . . but y . . . you should have run at once,” he muttered. “Saved yourself.”

  “What?” Becket’s voice was now rich with amusement. “And die of curiosity? Last time I saw you, you were trussed to a bed. How did you get free? Why are you not working with Ramme and Munday? Whence came the warrant?”

  Where is Thomasina? Simon wondered muzzily. Why is my shoulder so cold?

  “I . . . I am not your enemy,” he managed to say. “I wish you had . . . run and left me.”

  “Well, read me the riddle then. Explain yourself.”

  “N . . . now?”

  “Certainly now. They will look for us for a little, but then they will go to fetch dogs, and by that time I must know what in Christ’s name is going on here.”

  Ames was shaking so badly he could hardly think and he could not move his lips properly, they suddenly felt swollen again.

  “C . . . can’t,” he managed to whisper. “T . . . too cold.”

  “What?” Leaves rustled again, something ripped, Becket was sitting up on his elbow, passing one hand lightly over Simon’s body. When he came to the cold place in Simon’s shoulder, his finger snagged on something and the sickness turned suddenly to fire.

  “Oh, Lord,” Becket said wearily. “Why did you not say you were hit?”

  “D . . . didn’t know,” Simon said, shutting his eyes. That was it, that was what the cold was. A claw was ripping into his shoulder, of course there was; why had he not noticed before?