A Gathering of Ghosts

by Karen Maitland

  They had sluiced the floor and steps with lye and lime, but he was sure he could still smell traces of the foul putrefaction creeping from the open door. Like the stench of heresy, it could not be washed away.

  Nicholas closed the chapel door and strolled towards Fina. He was half amused to see the panic on her face as she retreated sideways until she collided with a pillar. She stood with her back hard against it, as if she was trying to melt into it.

  ‘No need for such modesty, Sister. We’re brother and sister in the same order, both sworn to chastity. It’s no less seemly for you to be alone with me than with one of your father’s sons.’

  God’s blood, surely she didn’t think he was going to ravish her. She might be the youngest sister, but she was no beauty, though now he thought about it, he couldn’t exactly decide why. It wasn’t that any of her features was ugly, he decided, more that everything about her was mismatched. A nose too narrow for her face, eyes too pale for her dark hair, and breasts too small for her ungainly height. But he was prepared to convince her he found her more ravishing than the Queen of Sheba, if he had to. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d bedded a woman to discover what he needed to know.

  It had been pounded into him since the hour he first grasped a sword that the first and overriding commandment was to ensure the survival of the order. Nothing transcended that. If a knight must disguise himself as a Saracen to discover where an attack was planned or lie with a woman to learn what God’s enemies were plotting; it was his duty to God and to the Hospitallers to do it. Such knowledge was as nobly won as any fight on the battlefield.

  Nicholas glanced towards the closed door, then back to Fina. ‘Sister, you collect the offerings left by the pilgrims at the well, don’t you? I know what pilgrims leave as gifts at the shrines of saints, but I confess I’ve always been curious about what they bring to a well like this. Tell me, what’s the largest sum you’ve collected in one day?’ He laughed. ‘I imagine they are quite generous, having toiled all the way up here.’

  ‘Bent pins. That’s what they bring. They drop them into the water and I collect them. Prioress Johanne says . . .’ She pressed a hand to her mouth, like a guilty child, as if she had said something she shouldn’t and was afraid she might incriminate herself.

  Nicholas studied her carefully. Now, just what is it that our sainted prioress says that you don’t want to tell me?

  He stepped towards Fina, reaching out his hand. He fingered a stray lock of chestnut hair that had crept out from beneath her black veil.

  ‘You have hair like silk. I noticed it before, and I should know. I’ve handled the finest silks in the markets of the Citramer.’ He tucked the strand back beneath her veil, his fingers gliding over her cheek. ‘Don’t blush, Sister Fina. There’s no sin in a knight giving praise to God for the lovely thing He has created. Indeed, it would be a sin to ignore it.’

  Fina tried to move away, but he leaned across her, supporting himself on the pillar with one hand, which rested a breath from her face.

  ‘You were telling me about the pins. It must be a tedious chore to collect those wretched little things day in, day out. And I dare say you have to clear up all the mess those pilgrims leave too, their bits of flowers and stinking rags covered with blood and pus. I’ve known warrior knights who wouldn’t have the stomach for that. I only hope your prioress appreciates all you do for her. I doubt she’d bend her proud neck to lift a rag or fish around in freezing water for something as small as a pin.’

  She nodded eagerly and seemed on the verge of speaking. That was the trouble with women: if you feigned the slightest interest in any mundane task they performed they’d insist on telling you about it in such tedious detail that you’d be begging for the mercy of the executioner’s axe before they were done. And he hadn’t come in here to listen to her babble about pins.

  He stepped away from her, fixing his gaze on the bloodied head of the crucified Christ that hung above the altar. ‘After dealing with all those villagers and beggars traipsing through here, it must be a relief for you to meet with the merchants and their wives who cross these treacherous moors on their way to and from the ports. Doubtless their offerings of coin and jewels are worth the trouble of collecting. If they’ve endured the perils of the sea, they must be overwhelmed with relief to have been brought safely to shore, and those about to venture on board ship must be praying they don’t perish. They’re fearful going one way and grateful coming the other. I imagine it’s hard to say which pays better.’

  He laughed. ‘Brother Alban reckons it’s the merchants returning from the ports that pay more, thankful to be on solid land. I say it would be those about to set sail, for they’re praying twice over – first, that they don’t drown and, second, that if they must, their days in Purgatory will be short. But you know what a surly fellow Alban is, always insisting he’s right. That weasel had the nerve to bet me that you collect as much as twenty shillings a day at this well when the merchants are returning. I said it was twice that sum when they’re going out. I beg you to settle the wager for us, Sister Fina. And I pray you’ll tell me my reckoning is nearest to the mark, for if I should lose the wager to Alban I’ll be obliged to—’

  He spun round as the chapel door opened and sunlight burst in, scattering shadows. But the light was blotted out moments later by the great bulk of Sister Basilia waddling through the doorway, gripping a young boy by one shoulder. She propelled him towards the edge of the stone altar, lifted his arm as if he was a doll and pressed his fingers on to the edge. His hand clasped the corner, like the claws of a little wren perched on a rock. The boy stared at Nicholas, with an unblinking gaze that the knight found both impudent and unnerving.

  ‘Why have you dragged this village brat into the sanctity of the chapel, Sister Basilia?’ Nicholas demanded. ‘There’s no service today and I was about to make my private devotions. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

  Basilia looked flustered. She glanced uneasily at the child, who hadn’t moved from the altar or given any sign that he knew they were talking about him. ‘Forgive me, Brother Nicholas. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I shouldn’t have dreamed of fetching him in here if I’d known you were at prayer. I hadn’t expected you . . . That is, you don’t often . . . But Prioress Johanne instructed me to bring the child here and bathe his eyes and tongue in the holy well, now that the flies . . .’ She faltered, her gaze darting to the well door as if she feared a new and more terrible plague was even now gathering below.

  She took a steadying breath. ‘If St Lucia intercedes for the child, the holy well will cure him of his blindness and his dumbness too.’ Her tone suggested she intended to be quite firm with the saint and leave her in no doubt as to the nature of the miracle that was required of her. ‘Though how I’m to get him and a lantern down those steps without him falling and sending us both crashing to the bottom, I’m sure I don’t know. I can barely manage to squeeze down that staircase myself. I can’t see where I’m putting my feet and those steps are so worn and slippery.’

  She stared pensively over her great belly. Her feet were remarkably tiny for a woman of her size. ‘I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’m always afraid I’ll get stuck and won’t be able to turn round. It’s foolishness, I know, but those rocks seem to close in soon as I start on the steps.’ She gave a nervous high-pitched giggle. ‘If I’m to take the boy down, I fear I’ll have to trouble you to help me, Sister Fina.’

  Fina’s eyes flashed wide in alarm and she took a pace back, as if Basilia had asked her to cradle a snake.

  ‘Blind, you said.’ Nicholas took a pace forward. ‘Is this the boy who caused the death of the old priest?’ He addressed the question to Fina. But she made no answer, though he hardly needed one for her panicked expression spoke louder than a town crier. ‘So, this is the little sorcerer.’

  ‘Prioress Johanne says he is just a helpless child,’ Basilia retorted, lifting her head defiantly, so that her many chins wobbled.

  Nicholas stu
died the corpse-pale lad. He was as thin and frail as a prisoner chained for months in a dungeon. The prioress may have protested the boy’s innocence, but she didn’t appear to have given orders that he be treated well. He looked half starved.

  Nicholas did not trouble to lower his voice. ‘The devil may work through any creature. His imps take the form of frogs, foxes and goats, why not a boy? We have no way of knowing if the child has ever been baptised and had the devil cast out of him.’

  Cupping his fingers under the lad’s chin, the knight tilted the child’s head towards the light from the door, passing his other hand several times across the boy’s eyes. Then, without warning, he slapped the child’s face. The boy yelped, trying to protect his head with his arms.

  ‘Interesting,’ Nicholas said. ‘He can make sounds.’

  He dragged the child’s arm away from his cheek and wrenched open his jaw, tilting his head back until it seemed he might snap his neck. He grasped the boy’s arm, pulling him round to face Sister Basilia.

  ‘He has a tongue and it’s not tied to the bottom of his mouth, like some I have seen. He does indeed appear to be blind, but I can see no reason why he shouldn’t speak, except for obstinacy. I wager you could cure his dumbness far more swiftly and surely than by pouring holy water into his mouth. Arm yourself with a good switch and use it hard. Tell him you’ll stop only when he begs you to. That will encourage him to words. I’ll gladly do it for you, if you’ve not the stomach—’

  He broke off and stared down at the stick-thin limb that he still grasped in his great fist. The boy’s arm was moving, but not because he was trying to struggle out of the knight’s grip. He was standing motionless. Only his arm wriggled. It was undulating in Nicholas’s hand as if the long, solid bones inside were now many tiny bones, as supple as a spine, as if the soft skin had hardened into scales, as if Nicholas was holding a writhing serpent in his hand instead of the arm of a boy. The boy’s hand began to open, but it wasn’t a hand, it was a head, with jaws that were stretching wide to expose two long fangs.

  With a cry of horror, Nicholas staggered backwards, crashing into the pillar behind him. He stared at the boy’s arm. But it was just an ordinary limb made of human flesh, no different from its twin – anyone could plainly see that. Yet he knew what he had felt.

  The child was staring up at him, as if he could read every wild thought that was passing through the knight’s head, as if he could see the shock and fear on Nicholas’s face. A shaft of bright sunlight from the open door fell across the boy, the golden sparkle reflected in the twin pupils of those great, unblinking eyes. But even as Nicholas stared, the light that bathed the child turned to thick crimson gore. Nicholas pressed his hands to his eyes, convinced that he must have struck his head on the pillar when he stumbled and blood was running down his face, blinding him. He drew his hands away and examined his fingers, expecting to find them stained scarlet, but they were clean and the light that flooded through the door was as yellow as the sun itself.

  ‘Whatever ails you, Brother Nicholas?’ Basilia cried, waddling towards him. ‘You’ve gone as pale as milk. Do you feel faint? You should sit down.’ She tried to take his arm, but he shoved her away.

  She was still clucking around him, when out in the courtyard a bell began to toll for the midday meal. She gave an audible sigh of relief. ‘That’s the noon bell. Cook will be putting the pottage on the table.’ She waddled back towards the boy. ‘No time for bathing now, young man. We’d best get you back to the infirmary else you’ll miss your dinner. We can’t have that, can we? You’re already as skinny as a mouse’s tail.’

  She seized the boy by his hand and dragged him out behind her to the courtyard. Nicholas stumbled to the doorway, but a sound behind him made him turn his head. Fina was standing in the centre of the chapel, making the sign of the cross over and over again, as if to protect herself against something she feared. Had she seen that serpent too? Nicholas was certain that was one question he did not want her to answer.

  Chapter 26

  Sorrel

  I hugged the threadbare cloak to my chest and paused to draw breath, staring down at the tinners’ valley. The slopes of Fire Tor had been jewelled with rosy-purple heather and butter-yellow furze, but here on the hills every bush had been torn up for fuel or bedding, leaving weeping sores in the scalp of the earth from which the mud oozed in deep rivulets. The snide wind carried a fine mizzle, which, though you could scarcely see the drops, had already soaked through my hair and skin into the bones beneath. After the warmth of the fire in the tor, I was chilled to the marrow and my belly griped with hunger. Even the roots of my hair ached with cold. But though my body craved heat, I cringed at the thought of returning to the clatter and swarm of that valley. I wanted time to think about what had happened in the cave. I needed peace. I needed to be alone, but there was no chance of that down there.

  Misery had wrapped around me, like a wet mantle, and spurts of anger kept rising inside me, not for Morwen but myself. Truth be told, I was as frustrated with me as she was, more so. Why had I pulled back? Why had I not followed that voice, followed Brigid to the place she was trying to lead me when I’d had the chance? I’d been so close.

  I’d left my home, my village, all I had ever known, and trudged to this midden, this hell, to follow that voice. All these weeks I’d been begging her to tell me who she was and what she wanted of me. All through the long, cold days and freezing nights I’d been trying to reach the place she was calling me to, and now, when every question was about to be answered, when I would finally see her, finally understand, I had fled!

  Why can’t we call that hour back, unsay what should not have been said, turn right instead of left, stay instead of running away? But time will not turn for us. Each moment melts, like a snowflake, and will not come again. And everything has changed because of it. The flight of an arrow is quicker than a breath, yet it takes a man from this world for eternity.

  If I could have run back to that cave, I would have done it in a heartbeat. This time, I would have found the courage to enter the fire. Even knowing I could never return, I would have followed that voice. But it was too late. Morwen would have extinguished the flames. She would have walked away, and who could blame her?

  Would Brigid simply abandon me here in this desolation? The thought terrified me, but I knew I deserved no better. Worse than that, I had driven away the only person who could help me find my way. Morwen would not summon me again, of that I was certain.

  I jumped as the mournful echo of the ram’s horn drifted towards me on the wind. It couldn’t be that late, could it? The tinners would already be trudging back to their huts. Would this be my life from now on? But where else could I go? Where else would I find work when so many were tramping the roads in search of it? Listless, I began to pick my way down the muddy track, weaving from one side to the other, trying to find a stone or a clump of rotting grass to step on, every muscle tense, fearful of slipping in the glutinous mud. The fires outside the huts had already been poked into life, their gusting flames huddled beneath the tiny shelters.

  It was hard to see clearly through the smoke and mist, but there was no welcoming glow in front of my own hut. Couldn’t Todde at least have mended the fire? After all, he practically sat on it half the night. The only time I ever got near its warmth was when I was stirring the pot.

  I picked my way along the bank of the soup-thick, muddy stream. A figure was limping towards me. His pace quickened as he caught sight of me.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Todde snapped. He was annoyed, that was plain, and a wave of guilt overcame my irritation. Hunger makes everyone waspish and he’d spent the day shovelling and breaking stones, knowing he’d have next to nothing to show for it come Saturday. We were so deep in debt we couldn’t afford to lose a single minute, and I had thrown away whole hours up in that cave, and for what? I couldn’t have felt more wretched if I’d dropped a loaf of fresh bread into the mire.

  He broke off, tilting hi
s head as though he was trying to look at someone behind me. ‘Where’s Eva?’

  His tone had changed so suddenly that it took me several moments to understand what he was asking.

  ‘She’ll be up at her fire by now, doling out the men’s supper,’ I said, feeling all the more guilty that I wasn’t at my own hearth stirring our pot.

  ‘Aye, well, that’s just it, she isn’t. Seeing as how neither of you were at your fires and no one had clapped eyes on either of you all afternoon, we thought you’d gone off together foraging, setting snares or some such.’

  There was no reproach in his voice and I was grateful that he didn’t add ‘when you should have been streaming’. Not that I answered to him: he wasn’t my kin. But, all the same, he’d a right to expect that I’d help pay back what we both owed.

  ‘Did she tell you where she was going?’ Todde asked. ‘Her cooking fire’s dead and her pot cold. Beans in there still hard as nails. Only thing blazing is the men and lads who want their food. They’ll be spitting like a nest of weasels if she doesn’t come soon.’

  ‘She’s a lover, one of the men she cooks for,’ I told him. ‘Maybe she’s with him.’

  Todde gave a snort of laughter. ‘I reckon it’d have to be all the men she cooks for to keep her rolling in the hay so long. There’s not a tinner in this camp who’d have the strength to keep a woman pleasured for so much as an hour after a day’s graffing.’ His grin vanished and anxiety furrowed his forehead. ‘No, I reckon if the two of you weren’t out together, then something’s amiss. Maybe she’s had a fall and done herself a mischief. Some of the tinners she cooks for were muttering about starting a search. I best tell them she’s gone off on her own. It’ll be dark soon.’