‘Why here in England?’ Raife shrugged. ‘That was something of pure luck. My master knew where the starting point was — Ghaznavid, which was where the monk had re-emerged from hell — and we thought that he would have fled back toward Europe, as that was his home. Had I needed to I would have travelled. But, as luck had it … the diadem is currently somewhere within England, within London, and if I am to believe the rattling of the Templars, then it is somewhere with Maeb.
‘And, no, there are no other servants of hell sitting about Europe. I am the only one.’
‘Somewhere in there you are lying,’ Edmond said.
‘I can smell it. But where? Where?’
‘I tell only the truth,’ Raife said.
Edmond grunted.
‘I have a question,’ I said, suddenly, and both men looked at me in surprise, as if they had forgot my presence. ‘What is hell like, Raife?’
He looked at me a long time before answering. ‘I cannot speak of it,’ he said eventually.
‘It is too terrible.’
‘And yet you would drag me there,’ I said, softly.
‘Trust me, you say.’
‘And I say it again, Maeb. Trust me, if you love me.’
‘Enough,’ said Edmond. ‘All I wish is to see you gone, and I wager that Maeb wants much the same. I cannot attempt to rebuild this realm until I know it will not be devastated over and over again. It is in all of our interests, Raife, to see you gone and this damned diadem with you.
‘Maeb.’ Edmond turned to me. ‘You are connected with this diadem, somehow, I have no doubt. It must be through your father.’
I repressed a sigh.
‘Let us suppose,’ Edmond said, ‘that your father brought the diadem home with him from Jerusalem. You say you have no knowledge of it, and I do not disbelieve you. Yet, somehow, you do seem to have the diadem or at least brought it in some manner to London.’
‘I have never seen it,’ I said, wearily.
‘Be that as it may,’ Edmond said, ‘who else on your father’s estate might your father have confided in besides you? Did he have a valet who travelled with him and back? A servant? A groom? Is there a priest on your estate who may have taken confession?’
I thought. ‘My father travelled with a groom-cum-valet,’ I said. ‘His name was Eadgard. A man from the estate. But he did not come home with my father. When I asked, my father said that he had died on the way to the Holy Lands. My father brought no one else home with him.’
‘A priest?’ Edmond said.
‘My father trusted and befriended the old priest,’ I said, ‘who was incumbent when my father left on his pilgrimage. But he died shortly thereafter, and a new, much younger man came to the church as priest. My father tolerated him, but did not overly like him. I cannot imagine that he would have confided in this priest.’
‘Confessed to him?’ Edmond asked.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, somewhat reluctantly.
‘Anyone else on the estate your father was close to?’
‘There is but one person. Our steward, Osbeorn. He was an intolerably lazy steward, but retained the post because my father liked him. They used to spend countless hours together in the evenings dipping their beards into cups of rough wine.’
‘He is still alive?’ Edmond asked.
I nodded. ‘Unless he was carried away when the plague passed through Witenie.’
Edmond rose and shouted for de Warenne, who entered the great hall. ‘de Warenne,’ Edmond said, ‘I need you to travel to Witenie, there to make enquiries about a man named Osbeorn. You will not travel as a lord in your fine tunic and mantle, but as something less … visible. I want no rumour of this spreading about the land. If you find this Osbeorn, bring him back here as speedily as you may.’
De Warenne nodded. ‘He may not trust me, my lord. Is there some token I can take with me that he would trust?’
Edmond made as if to draw off a ring, but I shook my head. ‘He would not know that ring, my lord king, and would suspect that he was being bribed by a wealthy lord into some black action. My Lord de Warenne, if you would accompany me back to my Cornhill house then I will give you something that Osbeorn will recognise as mine. That he will trust.’
I looked to Edmond. ‘If I have my lord’s permission?’
Edmond gave it with a nod.
‘I will also —’ Raife said, rising.
‘I would appreciate it if you stayed here,’ said Edmond. ‘While we are waiting for Osbeorn’s presence you may assist me in planning for the recovery of this realm when —’ he glanced at de Warenne and moderated his words, ‘— when all danger is passed. Maeb, stay within the house, if you may, until I call for you again.’
I stood, dipped in courtesy to the king, and followed de Warenne from the great hall.
I gave de Warenne an item that I knew Osbeorn would recognise, then I sent him on his way.
I waited five days. In those five days I did not see Raife, nor Edmond. Presumably Edmond kept Raife close by him, whether in the Tower or when they were in London. Gytha told me that both had ridden about London on several occasions, inspecting damage, encouraging those who remained.
I was glad I did not have to see Raife, and was still so chilled by the memory of the imp in my own bed that I slept with Gytha in her chamber.
I did see much activity in the streets about Cornhill; there were more people about, mostly men, and also men-at-arms, and I thought that Edmond was bringing the men in to strengthen defences, or to help with rebuilding — or destruction, rather, as mostly, Gytha reported, these men laboured at pulling down dangerous buildings.
I spent these five days going through every single one of my possessions, and then through every chest, pannier, basket, storage vat and pot in the building. I turned everything upside down.
There was nothing. Not a single bead let alone a diadem of immense value.
Once I had done that, I spent my time in the solar, thinking.
I thought of Raife, and our marriage. I thought of the past year or so of my life. Just over a year, and in that time I had moved from the lowest rank of the nobility to the very highest. I had been seized and almost murdered; I had borne a child; I had become intimately involved in a battle with the master of hell himself.
I did not know how this was going to end, nor did I want to think about how it might end. My mind kept playing tricks on me, one moment trying to devise a possibility where Raife was not who he said he was, and where we might continue to live our lives as husband and wife, and the next moment rejecting that as an impossibility in the face of everything Raife had said to me.
I don’t think I wanted to accept that. My mind kept going back to worry over everything Raife had said, trying to find that one reason that would give me hope.
But there was nothing. I could see nothing but bleakness ahead.
I could not sleep. I rejected the food fitzErfast sent to me, and which Ella and Gytha encouraged me to eat.
Everything was coming to a head, I knew it, and knew that somehow Osbeorn, if he still lived, would bring with him the seeds of my destruction.
Perhaps the destruction of my life; certainly of my happiness.
In my most honest moments, I could admit to myself that I didn’t want the diadem to be found, that I wanted Raife and myself to continue as we had before all this horror had surfaced.
But that way, only a continuance of the plague and of death and horror. This had to end, one way or the other.
Either way, I knew, would tear me apart.
On the sixth day after de Warenne had left, a soldier came from the Tower, and told me that Edmond requested my presence.
I closed my eyes momentarily, fighting to control the terrible churning in my belly. Then I opened them, and smiled, and rose.
Chapter Five
Again, there was just Raife and Edmond waiting in the great hall. It was close to evening now, and servants had placed torches on the walls. They threw shadows about the immense
chamber, and I felt that danger lurked in every dark, shrouded place.
Raife rose as I came in and came to meet me. He made as if to lean forward and kiss me, but I drew back.
‘Please trust me,’ he whispered. ‘When I ask it of you, trust me.’
His tone stung my heart. If I could have, I would have trusted him, but the thought of that imp rolling over me, grabbing at my flesh, was still too fresh in my mind.
We walked over to the table and sat down. Edmond nodded at me, but did not otherwise speak to me.
Instead, he called for de Warenne to enter.
The man came in through the archway leading to the king’s privy chambers. With him came Osbeorn.
I choked up with tears the instant I saw Osbeorn. He had always been a part of my childhood, a part of that life before now, when all had been innocent. He had been my father’s friend.
He looked older, ravaged by the years and the time of horror when plague had raged through Witenie. His hair, what remained of it, was white, his face lined and pouchy. He walked with a shambling gait that spoke of his age and increasing infirmity.
‘My lady,’ he said when he saw me, and bowed. ‘I am happy to see you. You have done well.’
‘And I am happy to see you, Osbeorn,’ I said, rising and kissing him on the cheek. ‘Osbeorn, this is your king, Edmond, and here my husband, the Earl of Pengraic.’
I thought Osbeorn might have been unnerved at an introduction to Edmond, but he did not appear perturbed, and bowed to both Edmond and Raife, greeting them both with polite phrases.
‘Thank you, de Warenne,’ Edmond said, dismissing the man. ‘Will you make sure that all entrances to the Tower are well guarded? Use all the available men. Then return and wait outside in the gallery.’
De Warenne bowed and left.
‘Do you think the armies of hell are about to invade?’ Raife said.
‘I take no chances,’ Edmond replied, then looked to Osbeorn. ‘Osbeorn, you were steward to Sir Godfrey Langtofte, yes?’
‘Indeed, my lord king.’
‘And you were close friends?’
‘Good friends, aye, sir.’
‘You spent many evenings dipping your beards into cups of rough wine.’ Osbeorn chuckled. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And this closeness continued after Sir Godfrey returned from the Holy Lands?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Osbeorn, good man, do you know of any jewels or valuables Sir Godfrey brought home with him from the Holy Land?’
‘There were nothing, sir king. My master, he came home with his life and a few clothes. Naught else.’
Raife rubbed his eyes with a hand, as if he were suddenly very, very tired.
‘Nothing at all, Osbeorn?’ Edmond asked. ‘Nothing?’
‘His life, and his clothes, sir. Oh, and that old dusty piece of embroidery that he begged me give to the Lady Maeb here.’
‘That embroidery came from the Holy Land, Osbeorn?’ I asked.
‘Yes, indeed, my lady. My master, your father, he loved it dear. Dusty rag that it was. He wanted you to have it badly.’
Both Raife and Edmond were looking at Osbeorn intently. ‘An embroidery?’ Edmond asked. ‘An embroidery of what?’
‘Of the Last Supper,’ Raife said. ‘Maeb showed it to me. It has no significance. I would have felt it otherwise, I am certain.’
‘Where is it now?’ Edmond said.
‘It is in the Cornhill house,’ Raife said.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it is not. Not any more. I gave it to de Warenne as a token. So that Osbeorn here would know that he came on my behalf.’
We were all looking at Osbeorn who had no idea why the tension in the chamber had suddenly grown to deeply uncomfortable proportions.
‘This cloth?’ he said, and from the pocket of his mantle he drew the old embroidered cloth.
‘I brought it to return to you, madam.’
Both Raife and Edmond moved, but it was I who took it from Osbeorn.
‘Thank you, Osbeorn,’ I said, then I handed it to Raife.
He unfolded it, showing the embroidered scene of the Last Supper to Edmond.
‘It is nothing,’ Raife said. ‘Nothing. Not even good embroidery. It has nothing to do with the diadem. I have no idea why Godfrey would have treasured it so much, or wanted Maeb to have it so badly.’
‘Good sir,’ said Osbeorn, ‘Sir Godfrey did not like the embroidery as such, but he said that the depiction of sweet Lord Christ shows Jesu using an eating knife almost identical to the one that my Lady Maeb had as a child, so that the cloth always served to remind him of her.’
‘An eating knife?’ Edmond said, and glanced at the one that hung from my girdle.
The knife that Alianor had given me.
‘What eating knife?’ Raife said to me.
‘The one I’d had since childhood,’ I said.
‘It cannot have any significance. It is not something my father gave me, and certainly not anything that came back from the Holy Land.’
Raife looked at the one on my girdle.
‘That’s not it. I remember you using a plainer one.’
‘I did, yes,’ I said.
‘Alianor gave me this knife when first I arrived in London.’
‘And your old one?’ Edmond said.
‘Your childhood one?’
‘I presented it to fitzErfast, the steward at the Cornhill house, as a token of my esteem for him.’
‘Jesu,’ Edmond muttered.
‘So the plague followed you around until you handed the knife to this fitzErfast. That is why the plague did not follow you back to Pengraic Castle? By God, Maeb, why did you not connect this sooner?’
‘Because I thought it had no significance, my lord king! It was not my father’s, he did not give it to me, and most certainly not after arriving back from the Holy Lands! I do not even know who gave it to me — it was, I believe, a baptismal gift from an unremembered well-wisher.’
‘Could this knife have significance?’ Edmond asked Raife.
‘I won’t know until I handle it,’ Raife said.
‘Does fitzErfast still have it, Maeb?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘When I returned to London I remember seeing it at his belt, and was pleased he still wore it.’
‘de Warenne!’ Edmond shouted, then he looked at Osbeorn.
‘You may go, good man. My servants will bed and feed you, and give you means to return to Witenie in the morning. But be sure never to mention a word of what you have heard in this chamber, for fear of your life.’
An hour. It took an hour for de Warenne to ride to the Cornhill house and return with the knife, and Edmond, Raife and I spent that entire time in uncomfortable silence.
De Warenne came in, handed the knife to me, then left without a word.
I held it in my hands and looked at it. It was as familiar to me as my own face, for I had used it since I was four or five until that moment some months ago when I gave it to fitzErfast. It was of good although unremarkable craftsmanship, having a twisted handle of silver and a steel blade. I could not see what possible connection it had to the diadem.
I lifted it to the table, then slid it toward my husband.
Raife hesitated, just very slightly, then picked it up, turning it gently in his fingers.
‘You were given this as a baptismal gift, Maeb?’
‘Yes. I think so. It may have belonged to my mother. I truly can’t remember. I just know I have had it all my life.’
‘The blade is of recent craftsmanship,’ Raife said. ‘Made within the past twenty or thirty years. Perhaps just before it was gifted to you, Maeb. But the handle, now … that is of ancient craftsmanship. Very ancient. It belongs to the time of the Old People. Maeb, who was your mother?’
‘A woman of poor family,’ I said. ‘My father loved her, though, and made a match with her. Her name was Leorsythe.’
Raife looked at me sharply. ‘That is a name of the Old People. It
is from her, not your father, that you have your blood, Maeb.’
Uda, I thought. Uda told me that I had the blood of the Old People. Uda herself must be one of the Old People.
And yet I never took that thought through to its logical conclusion, or combined it with what she had told me. Not for thirty years.
‘You seem to have made a study of these Old People,’ Edmond said to Raife.
Raife gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I listen to the myths, for they are strong about Pengraic. But, this knife — wherever it came from anciently — it has recently had work.’
‘The new steel blade,’ I said.
‘Even more recent than that,’ Raife said. He held up the knife, and tapped at the knobbed end of the handle with a finger. ‘This end knob has recently been taken off and fixed back on again within the last year or two,’ Raife said.
‘I can take a good guess and say sometime after your father returned from the Holy Lands, eh, Maeb.’
I went cold.
‘I lost it for a time,’ I said.
‘Some weeks. I was so happy when I discovered it in my chamber. I could not think how I could have overlooked it in previous searches.’
Raife gave a nod. ‘Your father took it,’ he said, ‘and hid the diadem within it.’
‘No!’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Raife said.
‘How?’ Edmond said.
‘How? A diadem could not possibly fit in that handle.’
‘We speak not of any diadem,’ said Raife, ‘but of the Devil’s diadem and that is very subtle trickster. It can be persuaded to do almost anything you ask of it. Sir Godfrey would have needed no magic to hide it. He would simply have requested it of the diadem, persuaded it somehow. Maeb, your father left the embroidered cloth to you as a clue, as a pointer to the true hiding place of the diadem. God knows where he got the cloth … whether he had it made up himself, or if the cloth gave him the idea of where to hide the diadem. But it is here, in this small knife. Maeb, forgive me what I do now.’
Before either Edmond or I could speak, Raife struck the knife a hard blow on the edge of the table.
The knobbed end of the handle flew off, rattling several paces away on the floor.
Then Raife upended the knife over the table, and gave it a gentle shake.
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