By Sylvian Hamilton

by Max Gilbert

  'He asked if we knew a place to sleep. We told him there's a Templars' hostel, a pilgrim station, twelve miles on.'

  'Thank you, Brothers.' And to Larktwist, 'Get the horses.' They spurred across the bridge and were soon out of sight.

  'Let's get out of here quick,' said Brother Paul.

  It was early afternoon when they sighted two riders on the road ahead. A bay horse and a grey. Miles gave a happy cheer and the riders halted, looking back as he spurred towards them.

  'Sir Richard Straccan?'

  'Yes. Who are you?'

  'I am Miles Hoby. My uncle bade me follow and find you. He said you might find me useful.'

  Straccan beamed. 'Did he? Good old William! Thank you and welcome, Sir Miles.'

  Larktwist grinned sheepishly at Bane. 'Hallo.'

  'What are you doing here? This chap's some sort of spy,' Bane said. 'I came across him at Altarwell. Someone has paid him to follow us. What's he doing with you, Sir?'

  'It's all right,' said Miles. 'I can explain but it's a bit of a story. Have you had your dinner yet? I've come a long way on an empty stomach, and if you're willing, we can stop a bit, have something to eat and I'll tell you all about our friend here.'

  Chapter 25

  A small boy sat on Janiva's table, dirty, tear-streaked and scared. His mother, a tanned earth-coloured woman drab in muddy wadmal and clutching a basket of eggs, stood watching impassively. Janiva coaxed the boy to calm. When her cool fingers touched his brow his blue eyes flickered and closed.

  'Now, Peter,' she said. 'Open wide!

  He gaped obediently.

  'Put your tongue out as far as you can.'

  The pink tongue, startlingly clean as it emerged from the filthy little face, moved a little but not very much.

  'Lift it up for me, Peter. Stretch it as high as you can.'

  The boy was tongue-tied, and now she could see why: a taut membrane held the tongue captive. She unclasped her scissors from the chain at her belt and snipped quickly. There was a small spurt of blood which stopped at once, and the boy blinked and grinned.

  'There you are, Peter.'

  Janiva lifted him off the table and gave him a mug of water. 'Go outside, rinse your mouth and spit.'

  'Well,' said the boy's mother, 'if I'd knowed that's all it was, I coulda done that.'

  'Of course you could, Madge. It's just a matter of knowing what to do.'

  'Well, thanks. Thanks, Mistress. Them other little sods won't tease im all the time now. Ere ...' She placed the basket of eggs on the table.

  'Thank you,' said Janiva.

  After they left, she wiped away the muddy marks left on the table by her small patient and stroked her little cream cat, which dabbed at the ends of her braids with its tiny pink-padded paws. She set the kitten down near the fire, where it patted at the moving shadows of leaves outside the window, before settling down to serious washing in the middle of which it fell asleep. Janiva swept the hearth and mended the fire before turning to a row of small pots on the table, their contents now cool enough for her to push in the rolled leather stoppers and tie a thin skin disc over each top. This done, she put them away in a cupboard and returned to the fire to stir the soup in its hanging kettle. A testing sniff prompted her to add some dried herbs and raise the kettle higher above the heat. Then she dipped water from the tub behind the door and poured it into her scrying bowl. She closed the door, setting its bar in place before seating herself at the table with the bowl between her hands.

  Since she had seen Gilla in the scrying bowl the barrier was broken; now she could call the child's image to the bowl every day, praying for her safety and thanking God and his Blessed Mother that she still lived. But she had no idea where.

  She was familiar now with the isolated tower and its surrounding bare rocky hills. But it could be anywhere: England, Normandy, Brittany ... And she knew the woman now, the witch. Knew her for the one who had glamoured Straccan; knew her by her taint, the first time her image appeared in the bowl. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and evenly for a few moments until her thoughts sank down into the quiet place where they could stand aside and let the pictures come. She saw the tower for a few seconds only, clouds above and the little lake beyond, and then, fast, fast, the images rose to the surface, one pushing through another. Gilla, asleep on a truckle bed in an otherwise empty small room, its cold curved stone walls red in the light that came through a high slit window. A group of ragged grimy children in a subdued huddle outside a closed iron gate. A gaunt young man, his clothes soiled and crumpled, kneeling in a chalked circle, his lips moving in prayer. Sun-bright blue sky. A hawk stooping to its prey, a flurry of feathers and the splash of the lark's blood on the outstretched gloved hand of the rider below, the beautiful woman whom Janiva knew was holding Gilla captive.

  'It's you again, is it,' she said with contempt. 'Mother of maggots!'

  The pictures tumbled up, one through another to the surface, and broke there. For a moment she saw Straccan, riding along a narrow stony riverside path. Then the woman again, this time indoors, standing over the sleeping child with a candle. On the little bed Gilla turned over uneasy in restless sleep. Now the woman was standing outside a closed door on the spiral stair of the tower, her pale hands pressed to the planks of the door, her face alight with triumph, eyes full of hate. Janiva tried to hold on to the picture but it was gone. There was just the still surface of the water.

  A lark was singing, soaring high and joyously over Skelrig tower, its pure fluting outdoing all other birdsong. On the slope of the hill, a woman flew her falcon and the lark's song stopped.

  Presently, with blood staining her glove, the woman rode back to the tower.

  Attracted by the novelty of new arrivals, a few children from the smoky cluster of thatched hovels half a mile away had come to gawp and beg.

  'Shall I see them off?' her sergeant asked.

  'No. Give them some bread, then send them away. They may come again tomorrow, if they choose.'

  When the master came he might have use for a brat or two. Their mothers were always pleased to see them taken into service. For the children it meant an end of bare backs and empty bellies, and if they were never seen again, well, that was only to be expected, living now among the fine folk, going with them when they moved on, the shivering poverty of home never missed, gladly forgotten.

  Later in the morning she climbed to the top floor, to her brother's door.

  He couldn't stop her. He didn't even try.

  'Be still,' she said. Just that, and he had frozen where he was, helplessly staring as she dismantled his defences.

  'Juli,' he said, 'he will destroy us all!'

  'You are mad,' she said, and madness gave a lunatic caper, a gargoyle grin, as it sprang to life somewhere in his mind.

  'They're coming, the Master and the Arab,' she said. 'They will deal with you!' And terror made him shake. 'What's this?' She laid her hand on the coin chest.

  'Money, he said. 'Julitta--'

  'Be silent!' His mouth worked desperately but no sound came from it. 'You fool,' she said. 'You selfish grasping worm. You'd give me nothing in my need but for your own sake, to save your paltry soul, you'd give Skelrig to the Church!' She laughed, and he wondered how it was that she could still appear so beautiful.

  'The Church shan't have it, Brother. Our master wants it, because of the Nine Stane Rig.'

  It was an ancient stone circle, cresting a low hill about a mile north of the tower; a faery ring, shunned for fear of elvenfolk. And surely it was an uncanny place. Within the circle, it seemed always colder than outside. At certain times of the year folk claimed to see strange lights moving within the ring. They gave it a wide berth. Wild creatures, too, avoided it.

  'It is a special place.' Her voice was gloating. 'Sacred, and so old, Brother. Much blood was shed there in olden times, to please gods that are forgotten now. The Arab says that power lingers in such places, power the master can use to become stronger. And don't think
that pocky little priest of yours can help you now, for I've sent him off.' At the door she turned. 'The master has the icon. I sent it to him. He knows you tried to betray him.'

  The door slammed behind her. Released as abruptly as if he'd been pushed, he fell on both knees and a howl of despair burst from him. He knelt on the floor looking at the damage she had done.

  The chalk circle, so carefully and accurately drawn, was broken, wiped away by her feet. Two bowls lay on the floor, one inverted the other still rolling back and forth on its side, the holy water they'd contained soaking away into the broad dry planks. Protective charms and precious relics which had ringed him in security had been scooped up and flung on the brazier where they flared, stank and smoked. Frills of ash lay on the charcoals. She had betrayed him. There would be no help. All these weeks he'd waited, praying, living and sleeping in his pitiful circle, sure that help would come. But now there was no hope.

  Chapter 26

  Robert shared his lord and patron's interest in the black arts for as long as it only involved the sacrifice of beasts. But children, baptised souls, were another thing entirely, and horror had overwhelmed him. He had panicked and fled to the isolated safety of Skelrig. From there he wrote to his sister, bidding her have no more to do with the murderer, de Soulis. He, Robert, was surely damned, he wrote, for his part in such evil, unless God could be persuaded to forgive him.

  Priests could persuade God, and money could persuade priests. He must confess and be absolved of his sins, but before he even dared to confess he must be sure of eventual forgiveness. For that, naturally, he was prepared to pay. God had his price like anyone else. Robert would make a gift of his Hoplaw estate to the abbey at Mailros. That should smooth the way, and then, when they agreed to accept him as a novice, he would give them Skelrig as well. After all, he'd have no use for it any more once he was safely in the cloister.

  Then he'd remembered Martin. Martin Brus.

  They'd been boys together: friends, quarrelling and making up, brawling and being punished, enduring together the years of brutal training, gashes, bruises, broken limbs and physical exhaustion. They'd shared boyhood illnesses, boyish crimes and the aspirations of idealistic youth. For nine years they had been as close as brothers; first pages, then squires, until the culmination of all those years of discipline, violence and endurance--knighthood. Robert had been exalted. They would be perfect knights without sin or stain, chivalrous, brave, undefeated. Minstrels would make songs about them, ladies beg to give their favours, princesses would pine, infidels and heretics fall like bulrushes to their swords.

  And, just a few days after their dubbing, Martin packed his few possessions in his saddlebags and rode away.

  'I have to go,' he said. 'There's something else I have to do. It is more important.'

  'What? In God's name, what's more important than being a knight?' Robert shouted.

  Martin clenched his fists, and tears ran down his cheeks, but he just kept saying he had to go; there was something he must do. Over and over.

  'You're throwing away all you've worked for. Your uncle will never forgive you!' Martin was his uncle's ward, his parents being dead.

  'It's all right. Uncle Blaise knows all about it.'

  Robert had an idea. 'It's not the Church, is it? God's Blood, Martin, tell me you haven't decided to be a bloody monk!'

  To his astonishment, Martin began to laugh. 'No, no! You're wrong, Rob. That's not it at all.'

  'Then what? Are you ill? Is that it? Something's wrong with you!'

  Martin sighed. 'I can't explain. Forgive me, but I gave my word. Believe me, Rob, there is another task for me. I am going to serve my uncle, and he will teach me.'

  'Teach you what?'

  'I can't say. But it's very important, more than being a monk or a priest, and much more than joining the troop of some lord, no matter how great he may be.'

  'If you say so.' Robert scowled. 'I can't stop you. God's Bones, Martin, I thought we would stay together, take service together, be friends for ever!'

  'I hope you will always be my friend, Rob. I will surely be yours. But this I have to do.'

  He rode off alone just after dawn with only Robert to see him off. He was going, he said, to Sauchiehill, to his uncle's holding. Soon after Robert took service with Lord de Soulis, he asked leave to go home and see to his affairs and decided to ride to Sauchiehill. Martin might be having second thoughts. Besides, Robert wanted to show off the fine gear and garments his patron provided.

  He found his friend in the tiltyard, sparring, both of them shirtless, with his uncle, a tall old man still very strong and quick. They were at it hammer and tongs, the old man wielding a gaveloc, Martin an axe. Robert, unnoticed, sat on a bench and watched. The sweating grunting combat ended abruptly with Martin's axe flying through the air and Sir Blaise thrusting the gaveloc between his nephew's ankles to bring him down. Robert clapped enthusiastically. Before the antagonists put on their shirts, Robert noticed that Sir Blaise wore a curious amulet round his neck of some greenish-grey stone. It was quite large and looked something like a star. He only saw it for a moment, and then it was hidden under the shirt and he forgot all about it.

  They made him very welcome; his friend was delighted to see him again but there was no hope of Martin changing his mind. Whatever it was he had to do, he was committed to it.

  When Martin saw him off next morning, Robert said, Til come again, when I can.'

  'Not for a while,' Martin said. 'We're for England next week.' 'England? Will you be long away?'

  'Quite some time I think. An old friend of my uncle has died at Salisbury and left him some property in bequest, so we are going there. But I'll send word when we're back. It was good of you to come, Rob.'

  'God be with you, Martin.'

  'And you. And Rob--' His plain kindly face was suddenly creased with concern.

  'What?'

  'If you're ever in trouble, need a hand, you know? Send to me." 'Why should I have trouble?' He laughed. Fame and fortune beckoned, and the world was his.

  'No reason,' said his friend. 'But remember, if you need my help, if the day comes, I'm your man.'

  Again Robert had written to Julitta, telling her he was sending, by a sure hand, the old icon that had belonged to their grandfather. She was to find Sir Martin Brus, companion and nephew of Sir Blaise d'Etranger, perhaps at Salisbury. When the icon arrived, she must give it to Martin saying to him, 'The day has come.' Just that. It was not the icon that mattered, of course, precious though it was; it was the case but to send just the empty cylinder would seem most strange.

  He knew Martin would come. He would see the star symbol on the case which Robert had stolen from the Arab's reeking room the same device as on the talisman Sir Blaise wore round his neck. Robert knew now what it was Martin had to do, and what his uncle was. Blaise d'Etranger was one of the few who could stand against such as Al-Hazred and his master.

  He could trust Julitta. Of course he could. She was his sister, after all, and would do as he told her.

  When Abbot Renwal of Mailros refused to admit him as a novice, Robert was first incredulous and then, when he realised the old man meant it, mad with terror. How, outside the holy abbey, could he hope for protection? Worse still, when the abbot heard his confession he denied him absolution and ordered him on pilgrimage to Jerusalem!

  'Did you think that the slaughter of God's innocents and dabbling with devil-worship could be wiped out with ten Paters and an Ave? Pray, fast and wear a hair shirt day and night until you return,' he said, nevertheless pocketing Hoplaw without so much as a thank-you. 'When you get back, you will walk here from Skelrig, barefoot, in just a shirt with a rope round your neck, to show penitence. Then we'll see whether there's any possibility of absolution. And understand that's not a promise! Now get out of here! You defile this holy ground.'