Winter Siege

by Ariana Franklin

  Then, and only then, did it occur to him that the thought of the monk had propelled his hunt from the beginning.

  Ramon and the others? Animals on hind legs. Slaughtered animals now. The true monstrosity was the beast dressed in holy robes, an abnormality unfit to live.

  ‘And there’s a link between us, Lord,’ he said. ‘It was in the girl’s hand. You left the quill case there so’s I could find him through it. You meant it for a sign. Don’t tell me You didn’t. I know You did.’

  God remained silent; He couldn’t wriggle out of that one.

  ‘You all right, Gwil?’ Penda asked. ‘You’re muttering.’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘We could give exhibitions, Gwil. We’d earn money. I hit dead centre every time now. I’m good at it, that old lord said I was. I like shooting.’ Penda’s voice became a deliberate whine. ‘Only thing I do like.’

  She’s playing on it, Gwil, the Lord said. You’re becoming fond, and she knows it. She’s twisting you.

  Yes, she was, but that too, like her affection for bright clothing, showed she was getting better. The dullness that had encased her like the patina on an old sword was beginning to rub off, allowing glimpses of the character beneath. And the talking; although she still shrank from strangers, around him she was almost garrulous and what with her incessant questions, there were times when he was nostalgic for the days when she was mute.

  ‘Bloody mountebank, that’s what you are,’ he said, grumbling.

  ‘What’s a mountebank?’

  The document in the quill case went untranslated because, though he enquired of lawyers, notaries and priests, Gwil found nobody who could read Greek. His other questioning of everyone he met was treated as laughable. A monk? Monks were two-a-penny; most were confined to their monasteries, but there were enough travelling on monastic business, carrying letters etc., from abbey to abbey, as to make them unremarkable.

  ‘This one stinks of asafoetida, though,’ Gwil would persist. It was no good; most of those he quizzed wouldn’t have recognized asafoetida if it had been shoved up their nostrils, it being a rare commodity in England. A knowledgeable little apothecary whose shop Gwil ventured into at Bedford was at least informative on the substance, if not the monk.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘so named from the Persian aza and the Latin foetidus, I’m told, otherwise known as “Devil’s dung” or “stinking gum” for its penetrating odour – it is a gum, incidentally, not a spice. I presume the person about whom you are enquiring suffers from flatulence? A splendid specific against flatulence, asafoetida. Also boils.’

  ‘Where would he get it from?’

  ‘Well, not from the likes of me; I haven’t got a wealthy enough clientele. It is used in the richer kitchens, of course; I’m told that when cooked properly it can impart a pleasant flavour reminiscent of leeks. Your odorous friend must be using it raw.’

  ‘Yes, but where’d he get it?’

  The apothecary shrugged. ‘If he is a religious, presumably from his monastery, which, in turn, would have access to a port trading with the Orient where the gum comes from. London, Southampton perhaps, or any of the East Anglian harbours.’

  Ely. That’s where the bastard had got it from. Ely wasn’t on the coast but was lapped by rivers that led to it. He’d been a monk at Ely, which had enabled him to have the geographical knowledge to betray it.

  ‘Though,’ the apothecary said, intrigued by the puzzle Gwil had set him and pursuing it, ‘one wouldn’t have thought that an ordinary brother would be able to treat his affliction with asafoetida; too expensive, hardly in keeping with his vow of poverty. There are other, herbal methods, though less effective, of course.’

  ‘This is no ordinary monk,’ Gwil said grimly.

  ‘I imagine not. He must hold some position in the monastic hierarchy; those functionaries always do themselves well.’

  Before he left the apothecary’s shop, Gwil showed him the document from the quill case. The little man peered at it, shaking his head. ‘I’m a Latinist. I don’t read Greek, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s Greek?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Out of gratitude, Gwil spent one of his diminishing supply of pennies on a strengthening medicine of motherwort and rosemary for Penda before he left the shop.

  Where to go now? Where was the monk making for? Did he need more of that bloody asafoetida? If so, where’d he get it?

  Not Ely, that was for sure. He’d never return to Ely, not after what he and the others had done there. He and Ramon had been going away from East Anglia before they’d separated, heading south-west, so maybe he was keeping to that same direction. London? Southampton?

  There was no more success in finding out what the document said; readers of Greek were rare.

  ‘Couldn’t you’ve given me more clues, Lord?’ Gwil groaned. ‘A stench and a piece of writing no bugger can decipher, what’s them to track a man down by?’

  Stick with them, Gwil, that’s my advice.

  At least the immediate problem of where to spend the night had been solved by the apothecary. ‘Try the convent at Elstow, just south of here,’ he’d said, ‘the nuns there take in bona fide travellers.’

  They set out smartly; the light was changing, evening was coming on, and it would be too dangerous to camp in the open. After dark, a fire could attract men desperate enough to slit a throat or two for the food cooking over it. So far Penda and Gwil hadn’t been subjected to an attack, but they’d seen what happened to those who had been. Already the road was deserted.

  Not quite, though.

  From round a bend came the sound of screaming and shouting.

  Automatically, Penda and Gwil reached for the bows in their packs, he selecting a bolt from his quiver, she an arrow, before stepping into the shadow of trees on the right-hand verge to begin moving quietly along it.

  Five figures were silhouetted against the setting sun; the screams came from a young woman pinioned round the neck by the arm of a thickset man whose other hand ostentatiously waved a knife. His equally big companion was shouting at two slighter men. ‘Cash and quick, or he slits her fucking throat.’

  The two archers moved closer while the male victims fumbled in the purses at their waists.

  Gwil put his foot carefully in the stirrup and armed the crossbow. ‘Mine’s the one holding the girl,’ he hissed at Penda, ‘you take the other.’ He looked at her; she was breathing heavily, her face white in the gloom of the trees, her grin revealing teeth that were even whiter. ‘Get him in the arse,’ he told her. ‘We ain’t out to kill.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Now.’

  Instantly, fletched feathers were sticking out of the shouter’s backside, and the hand of the other man had lost its knife to the end of a bolt which sent it into the trees.

  For an open-mouthed second nobody moved, then, as the girl freed herself, one of her companions looped into the air, landed on his hands, and performed another half-loop so that his feet connected with the jaw of the man who’d been holding her, sending him crashing down like a felled tree.

  It took some minutes for the three travellers to comprehend that their rescuers weren’t replacing the two robbers in order to rob on their own account, by which time the thieves themselves were hobbling off down the road, the shouter supporting his half-conscious friend on one arm while, with the other hand, groping frantically for the arrow still sticking out of his backside.

  As a group, they all looked too disreputable to be invited to attend Evensong when they reached Elstow, though the nuns were prepared to provide bread, cheese, ale and a barn with straw to sleep on. They ate by the light of a candle Gwil produced from his pack.

  Pan, Wan and Waterlily still hadn’t finished marvelling. ‘Just to hit the knife,’ Wan said. ‘Didn’t even scrape his fingers, far as I could see. You were aiming at the knife?’

  ‘He don’t ever miss,’ Penda said. Gwil turned to look at her, astonished. It was the first time sh
e had spoken since they met the group and he was relieved to see that the taciturn suspicion with which she had previously regarded them, as she did all strangers, was fading. He was also a little flattered that it had been her pride in him which prompted it.

  Pan turned towards her and smiled. ‘And you! An arrow, right plumb in the arse. From that distance!’

  ‘That’s the bit I liked,’ Waterlily said, clasping her hands in delight. ‘That bastard running off with feathers sticking out of his arse. Keep me warm at nights, that will.’ Gwil watched as a broad grin spread across Penda’s face, like the thaw of spring.

  ‘And your jumping!’ The words came out in a great rush now and she was blushing. ‘How come you can jump like that?’

  Pan spread his hands. ‘It’s what we do.’

  They were strolling acrobats, collectively the Sons and Daughter of the Great Chan, whoever he was. Their clothing declared that they were performers, the colours of their cloaks and caps – all of them feathered – outdid Penda’s so that compared with them she was a dowdy peahen among three peacocks. In fact, they were Saxons who’d all been born into London’s rat holes with the enterprise to clamber out.

  ‘It was the docks,’ Pan said. ‘All the world comes in on ships to the London docks, and as a lad I saw this sailor doing handstands, don’t know where he came from, somewhere to the east I reckon, but he taught me a few flips and I taught Wan and we went on from there.’

  The two men were sharp-faced, thin-bodied and alike as peas in a pod although, in fact, they were cousins. Waterlily was a waif they’d found dancing on the streets for money; they’d trained her and added her to their act to give it feminine interest …

  ‘And bugger me,’ said Wan, ‘she’s turned out limberer than what we are.’

  Her long wavy red hair reminded Gwil of Penda’s before she cut it; indeed, from a distance, they looked remarkably alike, which, he supposed, was one of the things that first endeared Waterlily to him. A childhood in London’s hovels had given her a resilience that was admirable; from the way she chattered she might never have been held at knife-point only an hour or so previously, ignoring the fact that her hands still had a tendency to shake, clattering the many bangles on her wrists.

  As the sound of female voices chanting the Nunc Dimittis for Compline came through the barn’s slats, she demanded quiet so that she could listen. Her eyes filled with sentimental tears. ‘I’d like to’ve been a nun. Must be lovely, all that peace.’

  ‘Got to be a virgin for that,’ Wan told her.

  Amiably, she threw a piece of cheese at him – obviously it was a regular exchange.

  The three travelled from castle to castle where they were in demand for feast days by lords laying on entertainments for their guests.

  ‘You’d think, way things are, they’d be too busy fighting,’ Pan said, ‘but the rich always got time and gold to celebrate a knighting or a wedding or some bloody thing.’

  ‘Done us a good turn, the war has,’ Waterlily chipped in. ‘Ain’t so many farcers around no more. Plenty of mummers, but when did you last see a proper fire-eater? All run off to somewhere safe, and them as stays is mostly bloody amateurs. We’re popular, we are.’

  Pan nodded. ‘One chamberlain tells another. Word of mouth. Can’t do better’n that.’

  ‘But we got to keep off the roads come evening, Pan,’ Wan warned. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s getting too bloody dangerous.’

  ‘Or’ – Pan glanced slyly at their rescuers – ‘we ought to team up with a couple as could protect us.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s right.’ Waterlily clapped her hands in delight. ‘You two come along of us and give exhibitions.’

  Penda was triumphant. ‘See, Gwil. Twice in a week we been told that. It’s a sure sign.’

  The striped balls streamed back into the jugglers’ hands like red and yellow iron filings to magnets, their owners bowed to the applause, there was a roll on the tabors …

  The chamberlain of Hertford Castle took the stage. ‘And now, my lords, ladies, messieurs, mesdames, may I present for your amazement that world-renowned marksman with the bow, Master Vaclav of Bohemia, and his talented young assistant, Master Penda, lured at great expense from the court of King Vlatislav the Second.’

  Penda had asked, ‘Where’s Bohemia? And who’s King Vlatislav?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Wan said. ‘Pan come up with them names.’

  You had to have an exotic title in this trade. Norman lords, who’d happily hack off the limbs of other races on crusade, liked their entertainers to be foreign. Magicians were invariably Abdul or Mustafa from the Orient, acrobats hired from Far Cathay, dancers from Persia; yet the oaths exchanged as they all struggled into their costumes in the allotted and overcrowded changing rooms rarely came from further afield than Yorkshire or Calais.

  The exception was the fools. Buffoonery had to be seen to be home-grown; fools kept the plain names of Wilfrid or Godwin or Oswald: Saxons to a man – as if finding comical the antics of a people they’d conquered reassured some hidden Norman unease at having conquered them. They were always the pièce de résistance; their drollery, especially their ability to fart tunes, had noble audiences rolling among the rushes. The Sons and Daughter of the Great Chan ran them close in popularity, partly because their agility beggared belief, and watching a skimpily clad Waterlily being twirled like a twig by Pan’s upheld right hand brought roars of appreciation from male watchers, if not their less enthusiastic ladies.

  Master Vaclav and his talented young assistant attracted little applause to begin with, and only appeared on the first programme above a sad-looking dancing bear.

  ‘I told you an’ told you,’ Pan explained wearily afterwards, ‘every bugger in that hall uses a bow out hunting, an’ every bugger in that hall thinks if he only practised a bit more, he could do what you do.’

  Penda was indignant. ‘Bloody couldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, you’re clever, but there’s no sparkle to the act. Got to have sparkle in this game.’

  So sparkle, somewhat to Gwil’s disgust, was introduced.

  Penda now ran down the length of the great hall – apparently carelessly, but in fact counting her steps to mark out the required distance of a hundred feet – and placed a large square straw target at the far end of the tables.

  Another roll on the tabors. (‘Always musicians at the entertainments; you don’t need to bring your own,’ Pan had said. ‘Just give the taborer a halfpenny.’) Penda twirled and bowed again – she was good at sparkling; Gwil, self-conscious, tended to lumber.

  She came back to pick up her bow and sent an arrow into the dead centre of the bull. Gwil took her place, and aimed, splitting her arrow open through its fletched end. To show it wasn’t a fluke, they repeated it, each time moving the target a further two yards away.

  A candelabrum was set on the top of the target and its branches lit. Gwil and Penda took turns to snuff out the candles.

  Oohs and aahs from the watchers began to punctuate the performance.

  Now it was the turn of the glove; it had been specially made for Penda with slightly extended fingers; Pan had suggested it, saying it was worth the expense.

  Penda took up position at the side of the target, extending her right arm so that her gloved hand lay against the bull.

  Again the tabors drummed. One by one Gwil sent an arrow so that it lodged between each finger. (Louder oohs and aahs, though in fact this wasn’t as difficult a trick as putting out a candle flame.)

  Now. The finale.

  For the first time, Gwil took up the crossbow – until this moment they’d been using vertical bows. While he cocked it the chamberlain, as instructed, took the floor. ‘And now, my lords, ladies, messieurs, mesdames, Master Vaclav will perform a feat so dangerous that he begs your co-operation by not moving or calling out in case he is distracted in his aim. To this end, the doors of the hall will be shut to ensure that there is no draught.’ There was a sharp, collective intake o
f breath and a long roll on the tabors.

  Penda took the close-fitting cowl off her head and replaced it with a conical Phrygian cap, settling it carefully so that its forward peak was three inches directly above her forehead. She bowed again and took up a stance in front of the target.

  Gwil hated this bit; it wasn’t that he distrusted his aim; he was shooting as well as ever, though there was bound to come a day … What worried him was that there were times when, for all her gaiety in front of an audience, a look came into Penda’s eyes – she never shut them for this but stared straight into his – that told him she didn’t much mind if the bolt went through her brain.

  I don’t care, it said, not if it wipes out the memory I can’t remember.

  It shocked him; he’d thought she was doing so well. When he tried to envisage what it was like in the girl’s head – and he thought about it a lot – he saw a horizontal shutter dividing her past from her present, the darkness behind the shutter seeping through it like fog into a room, so that her present, no matter how brightly lit, was always shadowed.

  The drumming stopped. There was silence.

  The hiss of the bolt going through the air sounded in the ear in the same second that the Phrygian cap lifted from Penda’s neat, boyish red head and hung, quivering, as if from a hook on the target behind it.

  In the stamping and roars of applause, Gwil cocked and armed the crossbow again, turned to face the top table, aiming at it for a second, causing a gasp, before raising his sight and sending another shot through a ribbon attached to a beam above the hostess’s head, separating it, so that the bunch of flowers it had been holding fell into her hands.

  As they escaped the thunder of the hall, the Sons and Daughter of the Great Chan, dressed to go in for their act, clapped them on the shoulder. ‘That’, said Pan, ‘is what I call sparkle.’

  Pan was right; in a country falling apart, its barons and knights still managed to observe saints’ days, weddings, celebrations, etc., with music and feasting, despite the growing poverty outside their walls.