By Sylvian Hamilton

by Max Gilbert

  'Come on,' Gilla said, tugging at Hob's ragged tunic.

  Hob couldn't see anybody, but there was something--a shimmer, glints of brightness—over the water where Gilla stood. She put her hand up as if to take the hand of someone Hob couldn't see.

  She turned her radiant face to Hob. 'We can go back now. The lady says it's all right. My father has come.'

  No! No! Not back there, she couldn't mean that! Not to the bad people! The bad lord had fallen to an arrow but he'd still been moving, calling; he was alive. As for the cruel lady, the witch, she might be dead. He had given her a grand crack with his iron bar.

  He regretted its loss; a worthy weapon, as good as any magic sword in a story. She'd gone down like a stone but he wouldn't believe her safely dead unless he saw her corpse.

  Hob shook his head violently and seized Gilla's arm, grunting and crying in distress.

  'It's all right, truly! I know! She told me.'

  Who did she mean? Hob clutched his string of charms and prayed urgently. He had his own concept of God, nothing Father Kenneth would have recognised. Skelrig's old priest would have been very disturbed if he'd realised the unorthodoxy of Hob's beliefs.

  There were paintings on the chapel wall at Skelrig's—old, peeling, damp-stained—but enough remained to show that God-and-Mary wore golden hats like platters and walked about on clouds. The clouds looked soft and woolly, and Hob thought they kept the holy people's feet nice and warm. They were one being in Hob's mind, God male and female, though sometimes God was a baby, and sometimes he was a man nailed to a cross. That had troubled Hob when he was younger, but he had decided that it couldn't have hurt because God's face was so calm, not screwed up in pain. Hob no longer worried about it.

  He prayed now to God-and-Mary and saw them standing on their little fleecy cloud between him and Gilla, nodding and smiling at him. Make her stay, he pleaded, but they shook their heads and moved along the burn on their cloud. After a few steps they turned and gestured to him to follow. Gilla was slipping and splashing among the stones. Hob gave a great humphing grunt, which meant wait for me, and floundered after her.

  Straccan and his party had ridden for hours, first searching the village, then fanning out around it. They examined bields, bushes and reed-beds, dovecotes, shepherds' bothies and clumps of trees, finding nothing. As time passed, Straccan felt hope leaching out of him and rode hunched in his saddle, as if to ease a wound. Aching, wretched, he stopped to let his horse drink where a small burn fell from a rocky lip into a deep brown pool. The sound of the waterfall was clear and musical. It almost sounded like laughter.

  It was laughter! He looked up. A boy was peering down from the rocks above, a ginger-haired local lad, scrawny and in rags like dozens Straccan had seen in the Border villages. Before he could call out, the boy drew back to let another child take his place. Straccan held his breath and, for a moment, was perfectly still. Then he gave a great cracked shout.

  'Gilla! My Gilla!'

  His echoing cry brought the others spurring back. He hurled himself from his saddle into the pool, reaching desperately for holds among the slimy stones behind the falling water, unaware of his throbbing ankle or the rocks tearing at his flesh. He called her name over and over as he strained upwards to reach her, and she dropped safely into his arms at last.

  Chapter 36

  While Gilla and Hob slept safely on mattresses by the wall where Straccan could see his daughter whenever he raised his eyes, Sir Blaise laid out Soulis's letters on the table in some sort of order and rested a finger on two which bore King Philip's seal.

  'These are all the proof we need of his treason,' he said. 'King Philip promises men to back a rebellion, once King William and his son have been killed. William himself believes the French will support him in an armed sweep to retake the lands south of the Border that were once part of Scotland. But Soulis has some claim to royal blood, descended as he is from the quondam Kings of Scots, and he covets the crown. His plan was to kill the king in the first skirmish and make it seem that the English did it. Then he and de Brasy would murder young Lord Alexander with poison.'

  'Where is the prince?' Miles asked. 'Is he in safe hands?'

  'Safe enough at Dryburgh, with the queen his mother. With King William out of the way, Soulis planned to take Lord Alexander to Stirling Castle and appoint de Brasy as his bodyguard. He would use a subtle poison that would take weeks to kill him, and all the while the new young king would be comforted and advised by his father's good friend and counsellor, Rainard de Soulis. When the boy died he would step over his corpse to the throne.'

  He picked up a roll with the seal of Eustace de Vesci. 'Here is treason against the King of the English too. The Lord of Alnwick gives the names of other barons who may be bribed or persuaded to turn traitor, Mowbray and de Cressi among them.'

  'De Vesci,' Straccan thought aloud. 'Bane saw him with Soulis at Alnwick.' He touched a letter with the seal of Arlen. He'd carried one just like it from Julitta to the Prioress Rohese. It seemed years ago, instead of just a few months. 'What is Arlen's part in it?'

  'Murder,' said Sir Blaise. 'Like Judas, he has sold his lord. King John's price is higher than Our Saviour's: Arlen demands three thousand marks.'

  'How were they going to do it?'

  'He loves the chase above all things, your king. Arlen plans to invite him to a great hunt, using false news of a magnificent stag. It wouldn't be the first time one of your kings died in a forest, by chance or misfortune.'

  'But Arlen is one of the king's favourites, high in the royal household.' Straccan paused, considering. 'Julitta is the king's mistress. Is that why Arlen wants him dead?'

  'They're in it together. They'll have Soulis's blood money, and favour and reward from the French king too. Arlen's plan is simple. Once the chase is under way, Julitta will entice the king into some romantic greenwood glade, out of sight of the others. And then Arlen will kill him, saying he heard his wife crying for help and thought she was being raped; he didn't know it was the king until too late. He'd be believed. With John dead, the French king's son Louis will have England.'

  'Never!' Miles banged one fist into the other palm. 'He has no right to the crown of England.'

  'Neither did the Conqueror,' said Blaise. 'But Louis has the pope on his side, just as the Bastard of Normandy did. The French have papal blessing for their enterprise against your king, because, so these letters say, he murdered his brother's son, Arthur of Brittany, and has never confessed nor done penance. It is King Philip's sacred duty to depose an excommunicated ruler and lift the Interdict from his sorely tried people.'

  Straccan gave a derisive snort. 'No one knows what happened to Arthur; and he was a traitor too. God's grace, he was taken in armed rebellion, besieging King John's own mother at Mirabeau.' 'Well, Prince Louis is married to John's niece, Blanche of Castile,' Blaise said, tapping one of the letters with his finger. 'It is intended he shall rule England in right of his wife.'

  'It's a mongrel claim,' Straccan said hotly. 'And there's the little Lord Henry who is rightwise king when his father dies. What do they plan to do with John's children? Are they to be slaughtered, like the young Scottish heir? King John must be told of this!'

  'King William also,' said Blaise, returning the letters to the casket. 'He believes Soulis his friend.'

  'We should divide the letters,' Straccan suggested. 'You take those that concern your king, and I'll take those that concern mine. It will save time. I don't want to be kept dangling about the Scottish court. I just want to take Gilla home.'

  Larktwist came in. 'The guard says Soulis is asking for you, Sir Blaise,' he said.

  'Come to his senses, has he? Well, I suppose I must hear what he has to say.' Blaise got up stiffly, swaying.

  'Are you all right?' Miles asked. 'You've gone a funny colour.' I’m all right, just weary. What about you, boy? You took a bad fall.'

  'Just bruises. May I come with you?' 'Curious to see the great warlock? Come on, then.' Straccan
yawned hugely, 'I can hardly keep my eyes open,' he said. 'Lie beside your little lass,' said Blaise gently. 'You can surely rest awhile, now all is well with her. The boy and I will see what our captive warlock wants.' The vault under Skelrig was like any other, dark, damp and smelly. 'Get lights,' said Blaise. The guard brought two crusies and hung them on hooks in the wall. They cast a wan and spluttery light over the soiled bloodstained prisoner, who sat cross-legged on the wet stone floor and scowled at them. Miles looked curiously at him. There were dark blotches in his cheeks and his face looked oddly lopsided, one eyelid drooping, one corner of his mouth pulled downward. There was plentiful 218 219 grey, even some white, in his rumpled hair. He looked, Miles thought, thoroughly nasty but not dangerous. 'You have no right to hold me,' Soulis said. He spoke with slight hesitation as if he had trouble managing his tongue, but his words were clear enough. 'What authority have you here? I have done you no wrong and I am not your enemy.' 'As to that,' Blaise said, looking hard at him, 'a traitor is every true subject's enemy, and a warlock is the enemy of God and all mankind.' 'Traitor, warlock? What nonsense is this? You're mad! I am a friend of King William and, believe me, you will pay for this outrage, whoever you are!' 'I am Blaise d'Etranger." 'Ha,' sneered Soulis with vast contempt. 'That old heretic! I thought you were dead long since.' 'Not yet, Lord Rainard. Do you want food or drink?' 'No.' 'There is no leech here to tend you, but I will take the arrowhead out if you wish.' 'Don't touch me!' Spittle ran from the sagging corner of his mouth, but he seemed unaware of it. What do you mean to do with me?' 'We will take you to your friend, King William, with the proofs of your treason and sorcery.' 'There are no such proofs.' 'We have your letters,' said Blaise calmly. 'And the statements of the Lady of Arlen, and your man de Brasy.' 'Forgeries! Lies! I give you one last chance. Release me, or, I swear, you will wish you had never meddled with me.' 'We'll waste no more time down here,' said Blaise to Miles. 'It's a bit chilly and does my rheumatism no good. He has nothing to say worth hearing.' They unhooked the lamps and opened the vault door. 'Wait,' de Soulis cried. 'Is it day or night?' 'It's all the same down here,' said Blaise. 'But you'll see the sun again, My Lord, I promise you, from the scaffold.' 'I shall be laughing when you cry mercy,' said Soulis viciously. 'This coming night my demon will rock your reason from its pedestal!' 'What did he mean, about his demon? And what's happened to his face?' Miles asked, when they had bolted the vault door and were climbing the steps. T think he's had a stroke. It smites upon one side only; folk call it the half-dead disease. It has damaged him and he is weaker than he knows. If he has some evil in mind or hope of escape, he'll be helpless alone. Lucky for us his bowmen turned against him. As for his demon ... I wonder ...' Frowning, Blaise leaned against the stone sill of an arrow loop and looked out at the clouds and bare hills. 'I think I'll just ride out to the stones again now, and have a look round.' 'You can't,' Miles protested. 'You've not had the clothes off your back, nor any rest since we got here.' 'It's not far, boy, and I can ride well enough. I'll not be long.' 'I'll go with you.' 'You won't. There's nothing you can usefully do. I just want a good look at the place in daylight, to see what's lying around. You'd get in the way.' 'I won't. I'll stay wherever you tell me while you get on with whatever you want to do. But, I mean no offence Sir Blaise, you are tired and, well, not as young as you were. I'm going with you. That's it, and all about it!' 'Damn your impudence!' The stubborn old man glowered at the stubborn young one. Miles shrugged and looked belligerent. After a moment, Blaise laughed. 'Very well! But you will do exactly as I tell you. If I say silence, you won't utter. If I say stay, you won't budge. But if I say go, then, boy, promise me, you will obey me.' 'I promise.' 'Well, if you're coming anyway, go and find the biggest hammer in this place.' 'Hammer?' 'Just bring it along.' 220 221 'Where is Sir Richard?' Miles asked, as Larktwist helped him on with his boots. 'Sleeping like a baby. Got the little girl in his arms, both of them in dreamland, and that dumb lad has curled up in the straw alongside.' 'He's a good boy,' said Miles. 'Give me my leather hood, and here, can you get that buckle round the back? Thanks.' He stamped his feet comfortably into his boots and settled his sword belt. 'Where you off to?' 'Sir Blaise wants another look at the stones.' 'Rather you than me.' 'Bring the hammer,' said Blaise. They left the horses hobbled at the foot of the low hill and climbed, batting at flies and thrips, to the Nine Stane Rig. Just before they reached it wan sunlight escaped through a split in the clouds, and Miles's spirits, depressed by the dismal place and memories of last night, lifted a bit. In sunlight, the stones lost much of their brooding menace. They had seemed vastly tall in the mist and darkness but were now seen as grey-blue granite flecked with quartz, nothing like the reddish local stone and not much taller than a man and a half high. Eight were roughly similar in height, depth and breadth. The ninth, the King Stane, taller and tapering, had fallen long ago into the circle and lay pointing to the west. The grass inside was trampled and in one place dark with blood. The brazier, toppled by the bowmen in their flight, lay on its side, coals spread across the charred turf. Fragments of glass phials lay in an oily stain. Bending to sniff cautiously at it, Blaise saw something else lying in the grass: a broken neck-chain from which hung several small reliquaries. Each bore the incised name of a different saint. Twisting the lid off one, he emptied a scrap of bone into his palm. Was this Soulis's armour against whatever demons he hoped to summon? Stowing the necklace in his belt pouch, Blaise stooped to the crushed cage and ran his hands over it. I I The headless carcasses lay in a sodden heap, just as they had last night.

  'That's odd,' said Miles, squatting by the remains.

  'What?' Blaise was walking from stone to stone, pressing the palm of his hand to each one.

  'No foxes. You'd think they'd've been at this lot by now. No flies, even. Come to think of it, there's none here in the ring at all, though there's plenty outside.'

  'Hmmm?' Blaise wasn't listening. He crouched by one of the stones, his hand splayed on the rough glinting surface, his expression absorbed.

  ‘I said, nothing's been eating these. No foxes.'

  Blaise looked at him and got up quickly. 'What did you say?'

  He came over to the heap of carrion and looked at it. 'No flies.'

  'That's what I said.' Miles looked worriedly at the old man. 'No foxes, no flies, nothing. It's queer.'

  'Will you fetch my horse?' Blaise asked. 'Just lead him up here gently. See how far he'll come.'

  The horses were in the usual cloud of flies, flicking their tails and stamping. Sir Blaise's black gelding, an elderly dignified animal, walked willingly enough up the hill as far as the reach of the stones' shadows, where it stopped abruptly. Miles chirruped encouragingly, but the gelding laid its ears back and showed the whites of its eyes.

  'Take him round the other side,' said Blaise, squinting up at the pale sun.

  On the west side, the shadows lay inside the circle and the animal walked to within a yard of the stones before balking. Blaise came out and tried to lead it forward, but it pressed back hard on its hind legs and would not move. Blindfolding had no effect; it still refused. Blaise mounted and urged it on. The animal's skin began to quiver, its legs trembled, it squealed and reared, and almost threw its rider.

  'There, there, Saladin!' Blaise soothed it, turning the horse away from the stones. 'Before you take him back down, smash that thing to pieces, will you?" He kicked the stone trough. Miles grinned, spat on his hands and raised the hammer.

  'What now?'

  'Take my horse down and wait there for me.' As Miles began to object, Blaise went on, Tear lingers here, and he smells the blood. Horses are wise enough to shun it. Go on with you. I shan't be long now.'

  'Why are there no scavengers?'

  'The place is polluted. It must be cleansed. Go on, take the horses. I'm coming.'

  Miles led Saladin down to where its stablemate whickered anxiously in greeting. But the big gelding was quite recovered and began cropping the grass as if nothing had ever alarmed it. Present
ly the old man came down the hill, and they headed back to Skelrig.

  It was about two hours before sunset, and the rain that had threatened all day now began in earnest. Miles had been wetter this year than ever before in his life.

  'I shall have to come back alone,' said Blaise as the tower came in sight.