‘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 stron
g 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, ‘I’ll 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.’
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 comra
dely 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.’
[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar Page 14
