by Max Gilbert
Of course, he didn't need to go to Jerusalem himself; wealthy penitents seldom hazarded themselves on such a journey. He asked around for a reliable substitute and paid him handsomely to undertake the pilgrimage, promising to care generously for the man's family meanwhile. Crimmon he despatched south to Julitta, with the icon in its tell-tale case.
Then he waited until the man Bane turned up and Robert learned how all had nearly been lost. But God was merciful, it could still be put right. Thanks to Hawkan Bane's master, Straccan –Robert blessed him fervently–Julitta would get the icon, find Martin and give it to him.
All he had to do was wait: praying, fasting, itching unbearably in his hair shirt, drinking only water and eating just enough to stay alive. Above all, he must keep his nerve. In the circle the Arab's spells could not reach him. The dumb boy, Hob, was a good lad and cared for him well enough. Martin would come soon. But, before the end of May, Julitta came.
She was older than he by four years, the first-born. He remembered trotting after her when he was small, clutching at her dress when they walked down the stairs, holding her hand when they crossed the yard to see the hawks or the horses, calling to her when their father set him on his first pony, 'Look, Shuli, look! Shuli, look at mel'
When he was sent away at seven, raw material to be turned first into page, then squire, then knight, she ran after the horses waving, but he knew he must not look back nor wave, because he was a man and she was only a girl; so he sat very straight and stared ahead. It was ten years before he saw her again. He didn't recognise the beautiful woman at all, just stared, feeling clumsy and tongue-tied as most men did when they first saw Julitta. Their father was ill. Grey-faced and gaunt with a sickroom smell of liniment and drugs, he shuffled about the place sour with illness, fierce eyes glaring under overgrown eyebrows. He was certain no one could manage as he had and that all would be wasted and ruined when he died.
'There's just enough for equipage,' the old man said without preamble, cornering Robert in the mews. 'The land's mortgaged; I owe the Jews forty marks. There's nothing for your sister's dot if you're to be fitted up properly, so don't expect money to fling about when I'm gone! There's a man at court says he'll take you on. He has to provide four knights in the king's service, and one of em died at Yuletide. He'll pay my debt, you'll have your keep, and whatever you can win at tourneys will be yours.'
'Who is he?'
'Rainard de Soulis.'
'I've heard of him.' So he had. Very rich. Favoured by the king. An old crusader.
'See that you please him, and you'll do well enough. He's generous to those who serve him well.'
Julitta found him in the chapel. 'Robbie,' she said, straight to the point like their father, 'he'll not give me a dowry. Will you?'
'I've no money,' he said, embarrassed because he couldn't help noticing the swell of her breasts and the fragrance of her, so close to him.
'I know. But when he dies, Robbie?'
'He's told me there's nothing but debts.'
'Is it true?'
'Why should he lie? He can't take anything with him.'
'Robbie, will you help me?'
'When he's dead,' he said, 'we'll see what there is.' And there was nothing, just as the old lord had said. Robert entered the service of Lord Rainard de Soulis. A great man. In the king's favour and himself of royal blood of the old Celtic line. Proud, distant, splendidly dressed. Anyone seeing him with the ageing shabby king would mistake man for monarch, monarch for servant. Although in his youth King William had been a brave fighter, in sick and disappointed old age, debt-ridden and in thrall to the King of the English, he spent his days recalling past victories, dreaming and scheming to regain the lands south of the Tweed, once Scottish but now firmly, intolerably, in the grasp of England.
Soulis was always with the king: leaning on his chair, passing his cup, whispering in his ear, offering an arm to help the feeble old man rise and walk, closeted with him alone for hours on end. He seemed to have no interest in reward and God knows he was rich enough, if rumour and appearance marched with truth. His household and knights kept to themselves. The knights were renowned for their uncommon success in tourneys, and whenever serious fighting was required they were a byword for ferocity. Robert found them polite but, like their master, aloof. In the first few months of his service he was more than once surprised by their viciousness, far removed from the casual brutality he was used to.
But after a while and little by little, they accepted him. A clap on the back from one, a comradely grin from another, then the invitations began –to come hunting, come hawking, come drinking, come wenching –little by little, drop by drop. Like the potion in his drink of which he was unaware, and the drugged smoke of the candle in his small chamber which brought strange dreams –often delicious, but sometimes terrifying--steadily his easy comfortable morals and flimsy principles were eroded ... week by week, little by little, drop by drop.
They were at Lord Rainard's domain of Soulistoun when, one morning, returning from the mews, he saw a woman on the steps ahead of him. The early sun was in his eyes as he looked up to greet her.
'Good day to you, Lady.'
She turned and looked down at him. To his astonishment, it was his sister.
'Juli! What are you doing here?'
'The same as you. Brother. Seeking my fortune.'
He took her hand and led her back down the steps, across the yard and through the little gate that led to the pleasance. But the benches were wet with dew, so they must walk.
“I didn't know you knew My Lord de Soulis,' he said.
'Did you not? He has been good lord to us both, Robbie, since our father died. You he took into his service and I hear you have had good fortune in the tourneys.'
At Easter he'd unhorsed two knights; one whose stallion, armour and weapons he had sold back to him for a helmet full of silver. The other, a poor knight, could not afford to redeem his horse and armour nor replace them, but in desperation offered instead to wager property he owned near Stirling--Hoplaw, a small fortified house, farm and woodland--against his ransom price. It was unethical, against the rules which would have the loser forfeit cheerfully or pay up and look pleasant, but after a moment's surprise, Robert agreed. He won.
'Robbie,' his sister said, and he knew what was coming, of course he did. 'You've been lucky. You have two demesnes now, Skelrig and this Hoplaw. It is only a small place, I'm told. Will you not let me have it? You are in the way of making your fortune. If I had Hoplaw, I could be wed.'
But he had plans for Hoplaw. He had discovered in himself a managing mind and an eye for potential. It was a small place, as she said, and run down, with neglected woodland and a mismanaged farm. The bailiff was too old, half-blind and cheated left right and centre by the estate's people. But it was more valuable than it appeared and could be greatly improved. He had some money now, would certainly get more and could afford to put the place in order. He intended to do something for Julitta, of course, one day. It wasn't all that important. There was plenty of time. She was young, beautiful. Time enough to think about her dowry when he could arrange a marriage for her which would bring him some advantage.
'I won't part with Hoplaw,' he said. 'I'm having it put to rights, a lot of work's being done--'
'Then borrow on it, Rob!'
'I'll not go into debt for--'
‘The?'
'For anything, I was going to say. It's foolish and ruinous, and something I'll not consider. Be patient, Julitta. And tell me, why are you here?'
'I came to say goodbye, Rob. I'm for England. Lord Rainard spoke of me to people he knows there, and one of them found me a place in the service of Queen Isabelle.'
A glorified chambermaid and body servant, but nevertheless a place of some honour with plenty of other ladies pushing to get in if there should be a vacancy. 'Though you might wonder,' she said discontentedly, 'why any noblewoman would jostle for the privilege of emptying the royal stool-pot, or combing lice fr
om the royal hair, or kneeling to latch the royal shoes.'
'Why do it, then?' he asked. 'You can always go home.'
To Skelrig? The back of beyond? She'd had enough of it. What chance of finding a husband there? She'd be better placed at the English court, even if she had no dowry. She smiled at her brother, a smile as false as the cheap pearl trimming on her mantle. From that moment she hated him entirely.
Linking her arm through his she said gaily, 'It doesn't matter, Brother. Don't worry about me. I may surprise you.'
And surprise him she did, and a good many others, when a few months later the Earl of Arlen, one of King John's close circle of trusted lords, demanded to marry her.
'She has no dowry, you know,' said Robert, when Arlen made his formal approaches.
'Oh, that,' said the Earl. 'I know. It doesn't matter.'
He could hear her two great bandogs howling outside in the bailey as if they sensed the approach of something detestable.
The birdsong faltered and died, and the birds flew off in sudden startled flight. Ducks and coots on the lake panicked across the water and out of the reeds, labouring into the air. A vixen and her cubs ran, heedless of cover. The dogs had stopped howling and after a few minutes of soft whining were quiet.
The master had come.
Chapter 27
He had bolted the door from the inside, and Julitta called for help: two of her own men and Robert's dirty dumb serving boy. But when they broke the door down it was too late. He had looped his girdle over the shutter and kicked away the stool beneath him. His body hung against the wall, the bare blue feet scarcely clear of the floor.
Julitta entered the foul-smelling room, holding her skirts up away from the clotted rushes. 'Get him down.'
They laid him on his soiled pallet in the broken circle.
'Carry that chest to my chamber.' She pointed to the money box. One of the men picked it up and stumped off down the steps. Take those things off him,' she said, pointing at the string of crosses and relics round his neck. The other man looked uneasy and shuffled his feet but did not move, and the boy, Hob, began to cry.
'Get out of here!' She bent over the body and tugged at the string. It broke and the amulets fell with a clatter to the floor. She heard a gasp and, looking up, saw the dumb boy cross himself, his shocked gaze fixed on the dead man's engorged face. Blood trickled from the corpse's nose and mouth. Blood crying for justice, the infallible sign of murder.
The girl was proving difficult. Her food was drugged but now she refused to eat, refused to talk, refused to obey in any way. Faced with the mutinous child, Julitta's anger surged.
'You sullen brat,' she said, and gave the little face a stinging slap. The dumb boy, bringing in peats, jumped at the sound and dropped them. 'Clear that up,' the lady snarled. 'Get out and take the peats with you. The child needs no fire.'
Gilla's hands and bare feet were cold; she had only her shift and an old blanket. The lady had taken her shoes and clothes when she shut her in this cold bare little chamber.
'You'll do as you're bid, or I'll let Red Cap get you!' Julitta said.
'You don't know about Red Cap. He lives beneath the tower, down there in the rocks, in tunnels. He comes up at night, for he can't abide the daylight. He is old, so old! A filthy creature, teeth like a boar and long twisted claws on his hands and feet. The claws have grown right through his shoes! He wears rags stolen from the dead in their graves. You will do as you're told, or I'll let him in to you this night.'
The mark of her fingers was scarlet on Gilla's pale cheek. The boy swept up the broken peats, packed them back in the basket and scuttled out of the room trembling, not daring to look back at the little girl.
As the late evening light shone through the slit window of the garderobe chamber, Gilla watched the shadow on the wall cast by an iron boss in the middle of the window bars. She had looked at it for a long time and now, she thought, it began to seem like a tunnel. After a while she got up out of her body and went into the tunnel. It felt warm and familiar as if she had done this many times before. It was dark in there, but the walls and floor shone faintly and she could see quite well. She walked steadily down the tunnel, knowing it would lead to daylight.
It opened on to a small garden, green and fragrant with meadowsweet and roses. Birds sang there. A stone bench was set on a little rise amid beds of herbs. The bench had carved arms: one a dragon the other a unicorn. A lady was sitting there. She held out her arms and Gilla went into them. The lady smelled of flowers.
'There now, sweeting,' she said. 'It's all right now. This is your safe place.' She took the child on her lap and Gilla rested her head against the lady's breast. 'Sleep, little one,' the lady said. In the morning, Lord Rainard stood on the donjon roof beside the iron beacon-basket which was always kept full and ready to fire. He looked north, south, east and west, and for as far as he could see there was no habitation, though faint smoke from the village half a mile away hung over the hill. Below, at the gate, half a dozen ragged barefoot children waited hopefully for bread. Lord Rainard sniffed at his gold pomander. His pale lipless face was severe and would not have looked out of place under a cowl or mitre. His clothes were of the costliest fabrics, but dark and plain.
The watchman kept as far away as he could. Never at ease near great folk, he was more than usually uncomfortable in the proximity of this lot. The self-murder of poor Lord Robert had set any number of nasty rumours afloat, and the watchman, conscious of the contemptuous stares of the two infidel archers, was seriously thinking of taking to his heels as soon as he got the chance.
The Lady Julitta was talking about the child.
'She must have some sort of protection,' she said, her perfect brow creased by an angry frown. 'Something happened when she was scrying. I could do no more with her. I keep her quiet with valerian, but to be useful her mind must be free. Even drugged, she resists me. She resists me! A child! Beating has no effect, nor hunger. Where does she get such strength?'
'Fetch her,' said Soulis.
When Julitta returned with the child, he picked her up and set her on the waist-high wall with the sheer drop below. She sat with her hands in her lap, her expression calm and dreamy.
'What is this?' Julitta demanded. 'She doesn't seem to see or hear.' She waved a hand in front of the child's eyes. Gilla did not blink.
Lord Rainard put a finger under the small chin, tilting her face up and turning it towards the morning sun. The pupils did not contract. The faraway look never wavered. She simply did not see him.
‘I've seen this before,' he said. 'You overplayed your hand, my Julitta. You terrified her so badly that, somehow, she found a place to hide. Remarkable! I could bring her out but there is no time; we have much to do. It's a pity. She is rarely gifted. But there it is, if we can't use her one way, we can in another.'
He stared at the rapt face. Bending close, he whispered, 'If you do hear me, maid, listen well and think on this. Whether you will or no, you shall serve me. I will write my spells on your body with sharp pens and bloody ink. It would be better to obey me and live.' And, to Julitta, 'Lock her up again. We've work to do.'
Chapter 28
Now they were a company of four; and with four to talk, joke and share the chores of the journey, to argue and to laugh, the journey seemed less slow. But they could not ride fast enough for Straccan who fretted with impatience over every mile of the road, such as it was. It got rougher and rockier, with mud holes that could swallow a donkey, until eventually it was no more than a track which they followed from hint to hint—a dislodged stone, the scrape of a cartwheel, the blackened remains of someone's cookfire --all there was to show that other travellers had come this way. They passed through clumps of birch and alder, bright hazel woods and denser tracts of oak and ash. They crossed deep quarrelsome streams in sinister gorges. The travellers' way led up, day after day, into hills where storms and mists closed in, soaking and chilling them, only to speed away to the south and east to let the hot
sun dry and warm them all too briefly. They camped by small streams full of trout, and slept uneasily with the crashing roar of waterfalls never far.
