She shivered and, taking care not to look at the stone carving, rolled up the black sleeve of her kirtle. Clenching her jaw against the cold, she plunged her arm into the icy water to scoop out the glittering silver coins from the bottom of the pool. Even the bent pins had to be collected, for whenever they had amassed a boxful, they were sold to be melted down for their silver. But it was like trying to snatch minnows with your bare hands. The pins and coins were never where they appeared to be under the water. Over the past months, Fina had learned the skill of catching them, but that night, perhaps because she was still unnerved by the red glow she had seen, her fingers were as clumsy as those of an old woman with palsy, and the ripples she made as she lunged for them only sent them drifting further away. She gave up. She was hungry for her supper. The prioress would not come down here so late. She’d try again in the morning.
She blew out the candles on either side of the spring. Shadows closed in, like a pack of wolves, and only where the feeble light from her horn lantern flickered over the walls did the moss still glow with a green-gold haze. Once the light was gone, like the water, the moss turned black. She hurried up the stairs and into the safety of the chapel, slamming the door to the staircase behind her, as if the darkness might come bounding after her.
As the door banged, there came a yelp of fear. Fina spun round. The chapel had been empty when she’d gone down, she was sure, just as she was certain she’d locked the far door leading to the outside. But now a little boy was standing by the stone altar, gripping the corner tightly in both hands, turning his head this way and that, as if trying to see what had made the sudden noise.
He looked seven or eight years old, his tangled black hair curling over the top of a brown homespun jerkin. Fina thought he must be travelling with a family who’d taken shelter in the pilgrims’ hall for the night and, as children do, had gone exploring and somehow found his way into the chapel through the door from the courtyard, which she’d left unlocked.
‘What are you doing in here, child?’ She took a few paces towards him, intending to usher him out. ‘The holy well is closed for the night. You—’ She broke off. He was cringing, his arm raised over his face as if he expected a blow.
She held up her hands to assure him she meant him no harm. ‘We’d best get you back to your kin before they start to fear the wisht hounds have taken you.’
She’d meant it as a joke, but he seemed even more terrified.
‘Come,’ she said, as gently as she could. ‘Supper will be served soon and you don’t want to miss that. There’ll be a good hot soup. Well, the soup will be hot, at least.’
Good was not a word anyone bestowed on the cook’s meals in the pilgrims’ hall. Even when he did flavour the pottage with herbs or a bone stock, all you could ever smell was burned beans. That man could scorch water. The sisters always gave heartfelt thanks that Goodwife Sibyl cooked for them.
Fina raised the lantern, more to let the child see that she was smiling than to study his face. Only then did she realise the boy wasn’t looking at her. His head was turning from side to side, as if he couldn’t understand where her voice was coming from. His eyes were as dark as the peat-black bog pools, clear and unclouded. Twin reflections of the flame in the lantern blazed in the wide, bright pupils, but he couldn’t see that light. He was blind.
She touched his shoulder and he started violently. Then his fingers inched up to grasp hers. He clung to her with a hand as cold as the water in the well below, yet his touch seared too, like ice sticking to bare skin, and she had to force herself not to flinch.
It took Fina and the boy some time to reach the pilgrims’ hall, though it was only across the corner of the courtyard. The child was afraid to move. He stumbled on the cobbles and kept stopping abruptly whenever he thought he might bump into something.
That evening, only five people occupied the long, narrow chamber where travellers in need of a night’s shelter ate at the scrubbed table and slept on the straw pallets on the floor. Two were pedlars, the others a master cordwainer and his pregnant wife, the last an old woman who, from her torn but costly gown, looked as if she had once known better times. But none recognised the boy or remembered seeing such a lad with anyone on the road.
Leading the child out into the courtyard again, Fina pulled him into the infirmary, which stood alongside the pilgrims’ hall, where the sick, the frail and those travellers in need of many days or weeks of rest were cared for. There were a dozen beds and most were occupied.
Sister Fina’s gaze darted at once to the far corner, where Sebastian sat curled on a heap of sheepskins as far from the fire as he could get. He’d been there longer than any of the others, longer than most of the sisters, and though he wasn’t an old man, the hair that tumbled down his back was white and his limbs thin as worms, every joint swollen and twisted at odd angles. He was staring at a crucifix in his lap, clumsily rubbing the wounded hand of Christ with the tip of a finger, as if he was trying to soothe the hurt. Fina was relieved that he appeared quiet and calm tonight. She did not want him frightening the boy, for Sebastian would sometimes cower and scream, as if he was being tormented by all the demons in Hell. Many of the servants whispered that he was possessed but, curiously, it was often Prioress Johanne who calmed him when he was seized by these evil spirits. Although Fina couldn’t begin to imagine how, for in her experience the prioress was more formidable than a legion of devils and more likely to scare someone out of their wits than into them.
Sister Basilia, the infirmarer, was at the other end of the hall, apparently giving instructions to one of the female servants. There was a mulish expression on the maid’s face, and she folded her arms sullenly, staring at the long table on which the remains of supper still lay – burned mutton broth by the smell of it. Basilia kept smiling as if she was quite certain the woman would do whatever she was plainly resisting. She reminded Fina of a plump, eager spaniel, always wagging her tail and jumping up, convinced that everyone she met wanted to be friends.
She broke off as she caught sight of Fina and bustled over, while the servant seized the opportunity to escape, collecting the wooden bowls from the table with ill-tempered bangs and clatters.
Basilia beamed down at the child still clutching Fina’s hand. ‘And who have we here?’ She gave the black curls a vigorous pat. The boy shrank back. She chuckled. ‘Shy little fellow, isn’t he?’
‘Not shy, Sister.’ Fina hesitated, then guided him to an empty bed. She prised his icy fingers from her hand and pressed them to the straw mattress. ‘There . . . a good, warm place to sleep. Can you feel the wall behind? You stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.’
The boy stood where she’d left him, his hands dangling, his head turning this way and that to follow the many voices and clatter of dishes, but he made no attempt to touch anything around him.
Fina returned to Basilia and drew her aside. ‘I found him alone in the chapel. He’s blind, but I don’t believe he can have been so for long – he has not learned to use his hands to discover where he is and he can’t follow sounds, as Father Guthlac can.’
She nodded towards an elderly man sitting close to the fire, his fingers and lips moving as he recited his paternosters, counting them off on his string of beads. But his mind seemed not entirely focused on his devotions, for he cocked his head, listening to the chatter around him, smiling at this, frowning at that, occasionally calling a remark mid-prayer. His sight had faded gradually over the years, but with the help of his deacon he’d still been able to perform his duties as parish priest. Like most, he had never been able to read much Latin and had always gabbled the services by rote, so his parishioners scarcely noticed when darkness had closed in upon his world.
Basilia glanced over Fina’s shoulder at the boy. ‘Who brought the poor mite here?’
‘I don’t know, but someone must have. He can’t have found his own way in. He’s not even able to cross a room alone. He can’t tell me where he came from or who he is. He hasn’t uttered
a word. I don’t know if his kin have abandoned him to our care, or they mean to return for him, if he can be healed.’
Basilia regarded her with sad, reproachful eyes, as if she’d betrayed their faith in thinking that St Lucia might not perform a miracle. ‘Imagine leaving a child when he needs you most. What mother would do such a thing?’ She puffed up her chest like an indignant hen. For a moment Fina thought she would march over to the boy and gather him up in her arms, like a baby.
They all knew that it was Basilia’s greatest sorrow that she had no children. But with a litter of lusty sons to provide for, in addition to his daughters, her father had been able to offer land enough only for one of his girls to acquire a husband of suitable rank.
‘Maybe he has no mother,’ Fina said. ‘And no one else can spare food for him. The famine is biting hard and if he can’t work . . . You see how he is. He can do nothing for himself.’
‘But he can learn,’ Basilia said firmly. ‘And there’s no one better to teach him than Father Guthlac. He’d still be out tending his flock, if his poor swollen legs would bear him up.’
She lumbered over to the boy, seized his hand and dragged him towards the old priest. In her eagerness, she didn’t watch him closely enough and the lad collided with the corner of the table, setting the remaining bowls and spoons on it rattling.
Father Guthlac turned his head towards the sound. ‘Who’s that?’ he called. ‘Don’t know that tread. I reckon they’ve been supping too much mead by the way they’re crashing about.’ He chuckled to himself.
Basilia took the boy by the shoulders and steered him close to the old man. ‘A boy brought to us, Father Guthlac. Sister Fina believes he’s newly blind and no one’s shown him how to get about for himself. We thought you might teach him.’
The old priest raised his hand to silence her. ‘Come closer, boy.’ He extended a wrinkled hand and grasped the child’s sleeve. The boy tried to pull away, but Father Guthlac had dealt with a good many little sinners in his time and held him firmly by the shoulders. He lifted the boy’s arm by the cloth and ran his hand down it until he found the fingers. The old man stiffened, hunching forward in the chair and sucking his breath in noisily through his teeth. His hand darted to the boy’s face, running lightly over it, like a spider.
Then the old priest gave a cry of horror and jerked his hand away, as if he’d been stung. His sightless eyes flashed wide in fear. Seizing the staff beside him, he struggled to his feet, his paternoster beads slithering to the floor. He tottered backwards, crossing his breast as if the devil himself had risen up from the ground in a cloud of sulphur. Clutching the corner of the table, he brandished his staff towards where Basilia and the boy stood.
‘Drive him out!’ he shrieked. ‘Drive him out from these halls now.’
‘Father Guthlac!’ the infirmarer protested, wrapping her arms protectively across the boy’s chest. ‘Whatever has possessed you? He’s a little boy, a helpless child. Didn’t you hear me tell you he’s blind?’
‘If you don’t put him out this very hour he’ll destroy us. Destroy us all! I know what you are, boy. You may fool those who can look but don’t see. But I can see you, boy – see you plain as sin. Be gone, foul creature of darkness!’
Fina rushed forward to try to quieten the priest and help him back to his seat, but he was waving his staff so wildly she was forced to retreat. The servants and the patients who could move had backed away to the corners of the hall as if they were afraid the blind priest might charge towards them. In the corner, Sebastian was moaning in fear. He shrank against the wall, trying in vain to cover his head to protect himself, but he could not raise his poor twisted arms.
Fina tried to placate the old cleric. ‘Father Guthlac, we can find the boy somewhere else to go in the morning. In any case, his kin may have returned by then. But he’ll have to stay here till daylight. The gates are locked for the night.’
The old man’s mouth twisted in fear and rage, a stream of grey spittle trickling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You want your sisters to be alive come cockcrow, then heed me, Sister Fina. You take that demon, bind him tight, and throw him into the sucking mire. For I give you fair warning – if that boy sleeps beneath this roof this night, not one of us will be spared the curse he’ll bring down upon our heads.’
Chapter 2
Sorrel
That was the day I knew I had to go, though I’d no notion where or why. I only knew I felt the urge flooding my veins, as swallows sense the icy grasp of winter stretching out to crush them, even before the first leaf has fallen, and know they must fly before it’s too late. Too late! Yes, that was the ghost that had come to haunt me. Every dawn for months I’d woken in dread knowing that something was wrong, so very wrong, but what? She gave me no answer. She spoke no other word to me, as if I was talking to the wind or the sun or the moon. She said nothing but Come.
I was kneeling furthest downstream from the rest of the village women. The bailiff’s wife always squatted highest upstream so that no dirt or lye from the others’ washing could touch hers. That was her spot by divine right and no one dared usurp it, even though that day she wasn’t with us. The lowest place was left for me. No one wanted water from my clothes near theirs for fear that my misfortune might flow on to them. The river carries curses from one person to another, like the wind carries dust from one man’s field and blows it into another’s eyes.
But I was used to my neighbours drawing away from me, glad of it really, for then I need not join in with their prattling, though I could hear them bellowing to each other over the rush of the water.
‘Don’t know why we’re bothering to wash these clouts,’ one shouted. ‘The rain’ll never hold off long enough for them to dry.’
‘To stop the menfolk bellyaching that their breeches are stinking and lousy,’ her neighbour replied. ‘Spend half our lives doing things just to stop them complaining.’ She ferociously pounded her husband’s shirt with a stone as big as her fist, as if it was his head she was battering.
‘You’ll never get rid of the lice,’ another called, ‘no matter how long you hold them under the water. Cunning little beggars. I reckon they’re the only beasts left in this village that aren’t starving.’
I scrambled on to a wet boulder that jutted into the water, and used my chin and my good arm to twist my shift into a rope, slapping it against the rock. It would not get as much dirt out as scrubbing, but the cloth was so threadbare it would fall apart if I rubbed too hard.
The river was running high and would run higher still, if we didn’t get a dry spell soon. A year or so back, the boulder I was sitting on was so far clear of the water that on a hot day you could spread your linens on it to dry. But it had been months since we’d glimpsed even enough blue sky to make a cloak for the Holy Virgin. The village children talked about summer as if it was some fanciful tale a storyteller had invented.
A sudden surge of water smashed into the rock, which shuddered beneath me. The river swirled and foamed around the boulder, tugging at it as if it meant to tear it free and send it sailing downstream. The sky was darkening. A chill wind wrapped itself around me, breathing ice on to my wet skin. Another squall was coming in. But upstream, the women chattered on, like the babble of water over stones.
A dark red flash in the river captured my gaze. I thought it might be a flower, though I couldn’t make out what kind. The current swept it towards me. It spun on the surface, drowned and rose again, then was tossed from one side to the other, as the eddies caught it, until it bumped against the boulder on which I sat and was trapped behind it, trembling as the spray buffeted it. Now that it was close, I could see what it was – hound’s-tongue. Its crimson petals are beautiful to look at, but it stinks like dog’s piss and poisons sheep or cattle if they swallow it. I reached down to fish it out before it could do any harm.
But as my fingers stretched towards it, the water around it began to turn red, as if the petals were bleeding into it. The stain widened and s
pread till it touched the riverbanks. I snatched my hand back and jerked upright. For as far as I could see, above and below me, the whole river was blood red. But the women were still pounding their clothes in it. Red liquid ran down their arms and dripped from their fingers. Scarlet droplets glistened on their faces. The shirts they were scrubbing were stained crimson. But the women were still washing, still chattering, still laughing.
I scrambled to my feet, leaping back to the bank. ‘Stop! Stop! The river— Can’t you see?’
Their hands froze half in and half out of the bloody water. They stared at me, then at the river and back at me, gaping as if I was making no more sense than a cawing crow.
‘The water! It’s full of blood! Look at it!’
They looked. Then they dropped the sodden scarlet clothes on to the bank and came hurrying towards me. I pointed down into the bloody water and they gazed slack-jawed.
Then one laughed and snatched up the dripping flower, waving it at the others. ‘’Tis only a sprig of hound’s-tongue.’
‘You want to keep that.’ One chuckled. ‘You put that inside your shoe on a journey and no dog’ll come nigh you nor bark at you.’
The finder rolled her eyes. ‘Blood, indeed. A flower, ’tis all. You blind, as well as crippled, Sorrel?’
‘Hound’s-tongue.’ Another snorted. ‘If you ask me she’s been bit by a mad hound. First sign it is, being scared of water.’
‘Then she’d best keep this. They say it cures that too.’ The woman tossed the stinking flower at me. It caught in my hair and I felt drops of water from its sodden petals trickle down my cheek. I pulled it out, and stood there foolishly clutching it.
They were laughing, but I could see the fear in their eyes as they stared at me. I was afraid too, but I made myself glance down. Under the leaden sky, the river was as transparent and colourless as the tiny elvers that wriggled through it.
A Gathering of Ghosts Page 2
