[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar

by Sylvian Hamilton

  Away from the stones, their heads began to clear. A damp wind, rising, tore at the fog, and a bleached moon slid out between retreating clouds. By its light they could now see the distant top of Skelrig tower, gaunt against a paler sky.

  In the hall they found the sleepers, who they slapped, pummelled and threw water over. Dully at first, but soon growing angry, the garrison listened as Sir Blaise told them what had been found at the Nine Stane Rig.

  ‘Lord Rainard is my prisoner, and Lord Robert’s sister has no authority here,’ the old man finished. ‘Until King William decides what to do with Skelrig, take your orders from us.’

  ‘Let’s burn the witch,’ said the captain of the tower guard who had served Lord Robert. A growl of approval rose from the others.

  ‘Burn she will, no doubt,’ Blaise said, ‘but after a trial, and in Edinburgh for all to see. You will not touch her, do you hear me?’

  They shuffled their feet and looked resentful, but nodded, and some said, ‘Aye.’

  They laid Julitta on a narrow pallet in the small room where, although Straccan did not know it, his daughter had been confined.

  The snick of the new bolt that imprisoned her penetrated Julitta’s stunned consciousness. Her eyelids flickered opened and she stared around the little chamber. When she tried to sit up there was a savage jolt of pain in her head. Probing carefully through her hair she found the lump and winced. Carefully she lay back and closed her eyes. Memory returned in disjointed images.

  Snow … cold wind in her face, lifting her hair … The ever-changing shape descending from the black pit of the sky … De Brasy dropping the girl… the Arab screaming … arrows in flight … Soulis falling, crying, ‘Now! Kill her now!’ Two strides to the fallen child. She raised her knife and heard Soulis call, ‘Look out!’ And knew no more until now.

  Whoever had brought her here would be back soon. She must find a way to escape.

  The savaged body of the boy they took to the chapel, where Bane and Larktwist laid it on a bench before the stripped altar and rummaged around in the priest’s deserted room until they found a linen cloth to cover it.

  Lord Rainard, still trying to mumble through his gag and staring past them at nothing with eyes like de Brasy’s, pupils contracted to pinpoints, they fettered in the vault. The arrow had pierced muscle but nothing vital. There was very little blood. Blaise snapped the shaft, leaving the arrowhead in the wound. They searched him and emptied his belt purse which contained a few coins, a nail-paring knife and a small key.

  They searched the place. In Soulis’s baggage they found a barrel of gold and silver coins, tight-packed in linen sacks. The lid was askew and the bags didn’t fill the barrel, accounting for de Brasy’s getaway fund. The silver was of all kingdoms, but the gold was that which they had seen before, small greasy coins with something like an octopus stamped on them. Sir Blaise picked one up. ‘Irem,’ he said, and threw it back wiping his fingers in disgust. ‘How does this open?’ Miles had flung a pile of garments aside and found an iron casket. It was a marvel of the locksmith’s art with no less than seven intricate locks, each looking as if it required a different key.

  ‘Let’s see.’ Larktwist took it from him and turned it round in his hands, peering intently at the locks. There was thick dust in all of them. ‘Dummies,’ he said. ‘German work. They think it’s clever; as if anyone could be bothered to use seven keys.’ He upended it and scrutinised the elaborate wrought design on the bottom.

  ‘There, look.’ A small keyhole, hidden in the arabesques of foliage. Soulis’s little key opened it.

  Letters. Spilling them on to the bed, Blaise recognised the seal of the King of France. There too was the seal of the Lord of Alnwick, Eustace de Vesci, and the wolf’s head of Arlen. Blaise began to read. ‘God’s eyes, he would be King of Scots,’ he said, amazed.

  ‘Here’s treason. You go on, I’ll read.’

  Sitting on Soulis’s unmade bed, he went through all the letters while the others continued to search. At last, in what had been the lady’s bedchamber, Straccan found a little grey dress and a pair of small scuffed shoes.

  He pressed the dress to his lips and his tears ran, blotting the fabric. Clutching Gilla’s crumpled dress and little cloth shoes, his last hope died.

  Chapter 35

  De Brasy’s corpse had been shovelled underground with unceremonious haste, no one bothering to waste a prayer, for it was certain that his torments now entertained the fiends, and serve him right. And a good thing too that someone’d had the sense to hamstring the body before burying it, lest it walk again. Better safe than sorry. But in Skelrig’s earth-floored chapel, tacked on to the side of the tower and roofed with leaky old gorse thatch, many candles had been lit. The floor had been swept, the dust wiped away where the slaughtered child lay.

  Sir Blaise knelt and prayed before turning the linen cloth back. As he examined the slashed and inscribed flesh, a shadow fell over the body and he looked round to see Miles standing behind him.

  ‘Who did this? Soulis?’ The young man’s eyes were full of shock and pity.

  ‘He, or the Arab,’ said Blaise grimly.

  ‘Where d’you suppose he’s got to? There was no sign of him at that Rig place, although de Brasy thought he’d killed him.’

  ‘That one would not be so easy to kill. He fled, and his countrymen with him. This poor child may have come from the will. Someone must go and ask. Has the woman come round yet?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miles gently covered the body again. ‘I sent food and water in to her.’

  ‘It’s time we talked to her.’

  Julitta denied everything. She had come to Skelrig only to see her poor sick brother, and then, when he died so shockingly, his terrible overlord arrived and forced her by threats, to be an unwilling partner in black sorcery.

  Thank God, good Sirs, that you came when you did,’ she said, speaking to Sir Blaise but turning her green gaze pleadingly upon Miles, who blushed. Straccan, standing in the shadows by the door, she did not appear to have seen. ‘Will you not untie my hands? You can see I couldn’t manage to eat much with them bound, and I spilled the cup. It is against courtesy to keep me bound like this. And it hurts,’ she added, her voice small and pained.

  Miles took a step towards her but Blaise blocked his way. ‘Leave her,’ he said. ‘We know well, Lady, that you are accomplice and creature of the Baron de Soulis.’

  ‘It isn’t true,’ Julitta said pathetically. ‘How can I convince you?’

  ‘We have his letters,’ Blaise said. ‘Letters from your husband among them. You may as well speak the truth, Lady, before you die a traitor’s death. I doubt if King John will be any more tender of your fair body than of any other traitor’s. You know better than I what mercy you may hope for from him.’

  She lowered her eyes, but not before they saw the malevolent gleam in them.

  ‘As for your brother, God have pity on his soul, he asked for your help,’ Blaise continued. From his belt pouch he took the icon in its case. They heard her indrawn breath. ‘He asked you to find his friend, Martin Brus, whom he knew would understand what it was and whence it came. But you betrayed your brother, Lady. You sent this thing back to your master. The letter you wrote is in his casket with the rest.’

  She glared her hatred at him.

  ‘Martin was my nephew,’ said Blaise. ‘He would have recognised this perilous thing and brought it to me, and I would not have failed your brother. His death is your blame, Lady, as surely as if you put your own white hands to it; and the death of that poor child, butchered in the ring of stones. Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know. De Brasy brought him.’

  ‘What of Sir Richard Straccan’s daughter?’

  Straccan’s hands clenched and he took a step forward. Julitta spat at him. ‘You damned bone-pedlar! I knew you’d bring trouble! How you fancied yourself, you interfering fool, sending your servant to my brother, meddling in my affairs! And you wanted me, didn’t you? In your arms, in y
our bed, skin to skin … You burned for me.’

  Straccan bowed his head, shame and revulsion scorching him.

  ‘If you wanted to avoid his attention, you shouldn’t have stolen his daughter,’ said Blaise.

  ‘I didn’t! It was Pluvis, the damned perverted fool! He and de Brasy reft her from that nunnery and carried her to Arlen castle. I took her from him and brought her here. What else could I do? Hand her back to her father and hope he’d do no more than thank me.”

  ‘Where is her body?’ Straccan asked.

  Julitta looked at him and saw the glimmer of a chance. ‘I can show you the place,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ll not find it else.’ They had brought her palfrey, ready saddled, to the mounting-block, and led her into the bailey. A rumble of anger and a few shouts of ‘Witch!’ came from the men-at-arms and servants watching. She did not seem to hear.

  ‘That horse is lame,’ she said.

  Bane trotted it forward and round, and back to the block. It limped on the right fore.

  “There was no sign of that before, Sir, I swear,’ said the puzzled stableman. It must be a sprain.’

  Straccan was impatient. ‘Get another horse.’

  ‘There’s only that black stallion,’ said the stableman, ‘or one of the ponies.’

  ‘I can ride the black,’ she said.

  They rode east, Julitta between Straccan and Miles, the stallion on a rope tethered to Straccan’s saddle bow. It was a dull cold morning with a venomous north-east wind, and the masses of dark cloud piling up in the north promised heavy rain before long. She rode well, handling the stallion with no effort, her head bowed, the bright blood-spattered hair hidden under an old hunting cap. Miles, glancing sideways at her, saw her lips moving constantly as if in prayer.

  Halfway down a rock-littered slope the path narrowed and they rode single file, Straccan leading, Julitta in the middle. Suddenly she cried out, pointing. Straccan caught only the word boar. He looked, and saw the side of the hill above them begin to move.

  A great tusky boar was barrelling down upon them, as unstoppable as an avalanche. How in God’s name came such a beast here, so far from its natural forest lair? Stones rattled around them, raising a fog of red dust. The feet of Miles’s horse were swept from under him, horse and rider tumbling down the hill.

  Julitta leaned low in the saddle and heeled the stallion hard. The great animal leapt forward, jerking the tether violently and dragging Straccan’s horse, which lost its footing on the shifting ground and fell, rolling sideways. The strain on the rope was too much; it snapped, and she was away.

  In the tumbling debris Straccan rolled aside to avoid being crushed by his horse. His girth broke and the saddle pitched downhill. The animal tried to get up, shaking and snorting, but fell back. A fore-leg was snapped. Bitter at heart, Straccan drew his knife and gave the mercy stroke.

  Through the cloud of dust he saw the lady, her great horse moving so fast and smoothly it seemed to fly over the ground. In a few more moments she was out of sight among the little hills. There was no boar, only a great rolling rock: loosened by the recent rain, it had slid from its place and brought down the rockslide. Bruised, bleeding and swearing furiously, Miles ran to Straccan, who was kneeling in his horse’s blood.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Help me up.’ He held out a hand and was tugged to his feet.

  ‘She’s got away,’ he said. ‘What a God! No pity.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miles said. He’d been saying it for ages.

  Sir Blaise sat in Lord Robert’s great chair in the hall and Straccan, bruised and scraped and limping, paced back and forth by the window. They had been over and over the sequence of events, and Miles was sick at heart and sick of apologising. ‘She had too good a start; and anyway, I couldn’t follow her and leave Richard,’ he said helplessly.

  ‘You should have, boy!’

  ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘Leave him be,’ Straccan said. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

  The old man glared at him, then covered his eyes with his hand. After a moment he looked up at Miles and said, ‘No. Forgive me. You did what seemed right. But that woman is deadly as a viper in a glove! She knows us and has cause to hate us. We shall rue her loss.’

  ‘I’m sor—’ Miles began.

  Blaise interrupted. ‘No. I’m sorry, boy, for rating you. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Now we shall never know what happened to the little girl,’ said Miles unhappily. Sweat streaked his face and he was only just becoming aware that his body seemed to be all one great bruise.

  ‘Tend to yourself,’ said Blaise. ‘Get that man of yours to bring you water and towels. There’ll be salve somewhere in this place; if anyone can find it, he can.’

  Miles went in search of Larktwist, and Blaise turned to Straccan.

  ‘You should see to your hurts as well,’ he said.

  Straccan stared out of the window, gripping the bar. ‘Do you think she truly knew where Gilla lies?’

  ‘No, I don’t. She led you out only so that she might escape.’

  ‘Then what has become of her? If that devil Al-Hazred took her, she must be dead like that poor innocent in the chapel.’ His knuckles whitened.

  Blaise was thinking hard. ‘The Arab went off with his countrymen,’ he said. ‘Their horses were gone. He had no reason to take Gilla. It was Soulis who needed her dead. Al-Hazred was making his getaway; your lass would only hinder him.’ He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, frowning. ‘All we know is that she was in the Nine Stane Rig and we have not found her body. Perhaps because there is no body to find.’

  ‘De Brasy said she was dead.’

  ‘She was alive when he ran.’

  ‘Julitta said it too.’

  Blaise stared at him. ‘No. No, she didn’t. Think back. She said nothing about Gilla being dead. You asked where her body was. She simply said she’d show us.’

  ‘But her dress, her shoes …”

  ‘Don’t dwell on that. Richard, I do not believe God is so pitiless. I believe there is hope of her. Take a party and search. If she got away, she can’t have gone far.’

  ‘Look,’ said Gilla. ‘There’s my lady.’

  Hob crouched on a rocky ledge beside the burn, his skinny bare arm in the water stroking the smooth side of a fat trout. Ssh, he said mentally, and with a jerk of his arm flung the fish into the reeds where it flapped and twisted. He sprang up, beaming, but the girl wasn’t looking at him or the fish. Her gaze was fixed further along the stream and her smile was beautiful. Suddenly it felt warmer—as if the sun had come out—but the sky was dark with cloud and the cold wind rose to howling pitch over their heads outside the gully.

  The lady stepped delicately through the water, but the water was not stirred nor did she get wet. She walked away along the bed of the burn, stopped to look back at the children and beckoned, smiling.

  ‘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 ha
ve 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.