A Gathering of Ghosts

by Karen Maitland

  As if she had read my thoughts, Clarice briskly patted my arm. ‘There’s one blessing, Commander John’s tame ferret can’t send any more of his letters out until Hob returns after the frosts have set in. And I reckon we’ll see the back of our two brothers once and for all then.’

  ‘But the moment Hob returns Nicholas is bound to ask why Commander John has sent no answer to earlier reports,’ I said.

  ‘If he brings no answer, which he won’t since they never received them, it’s my reckoning the brothers will decide to ride back themselves, so that Nicholas can speak to the commander in person. That’ll buy us time, and if he’s no real proof that any sums have gone missing, what with the famine raging, Clerkenwell will more than likely decide there’s no point in digging further, for they’ll have greater dragons to slay than us.’

  I hoped she was right, except that it wasn’t simply the missing money. There was Sebastian and what Nicholas knew, or thought he knew. It hardly mattered if he couldn’t prove that the accounts we submitted were false, he had only to speak the word ‘heresy’ and all other crimes real or imaginary would be proved. Sebastian was all the evidence of that they needed. And if Nicholas realised exactly who Sebastian was . . .

  There was much I had confided over the years to Sister Clarice. She probably knew more about me than my own confessor, but not this. No one knew of it. There are some wounds that can never bear the touching and some secrets too dangerous to share with even a trusted friend.

  I gazed out disconsolately over the valley. The sodden grass and bracken, beaten down by the rain, were decaying where they lay and the slopes of the hills were the colour of dung. Even the leaves on the trees sheltering in the folds of the land had turned from green straight to dull brown with none of the gold, orange and ruby I recalled from the autumns of my childhood. The rowan berries, usually a bright splash of scarlet, had, like the purple bramble fruit and blue whortleberries, shrivelled and fallen before they had ripened. Everything inside the priory – clothes, leather-bound books, walls and hangings – was covered with mould and stank of damp and mildew. Clumps of fungus, the colour of old bones, had sprouted around the walls of the courtyard and even sprung up overnight in the chapel. The whole world was rotting away.

  Clarice took a few paces forward, peering anxiously down the hill. ‘There’s one of the boys coming now. Where’s the other with the rest of the herd? If they don’t make haste, the sun will be setting again before we have even the first beast butchered.’

  We started down the hill towards the stone pinfold. A solitary lad was trudging along a sheep track below us, his bare feet so caked in mud, it looked at first glance as if he was wearing boots. Three goats hobbled in front, and in spite of the whacks he kept delivering to their scrawny back-quarters with a long, thin birch switch, they did not quicken their pace. At the sight of us bearing down on him, he stopped and half turned, as if his first impulse was to run away. But he seemed to think better of it. With a last push, he herded the listless goats inside the stone wall enclosure and slid the wooden board into place.

  I would be the first to admit I knew little about the care of goats. I merely gave the orders that they should be cared for, but even I could see something was badly wrong with those pitiful creatures. Their hair was matted. They were painfully thin and limping from the hoof rot. They had patches of bald skin on their backs and necks, which in some places was scabbed, or raw and oozing, as if they had been burned.

  Clarice reached the pinfold first and dragged out the wooden board. Without saying a word, she clamped the goatherd’s ear between her thumb and forefinger, making him yelp, and dragged him inside the stone wall. She let him go, only to seize one of the goats by its curly horns and examine the sores on its neck.

  ‘Rain scald!’ she barked, releasing the animal and turning furiously on the lad. ‘You were charged with the care of these beasts. Didn’t you see the signs? If you’d got them under shelter and treated the scabs straightway you could have stopped this. You’ve tended goats since you were in clouts, didn’t the older boys teach you how to cure it?’

  The boy rubbed his ear, looking mutinous. ‘Goose grass, devil’s leaf and great bur, that’s what you use. But great bur only grows where it’s dry and the devil’s leaf had all gone mouldy. Could only find a bit of goose grass. Not enough for all of them.’

  ‘And just where are the rest of the herd and the other lad who’s supposed to be minding them?’ Clarice demanded.

  Fear suddenly flooded the boy’s face. He darted a glance at the entrance to the pinfold, but I was blocking his escape.

  ‘Had your tongue cut out, have you?’ Clarice snapped. ‘Answer me, boy.’

  He stared at the ground, tracing a triangle in the mud with his toe. ‘Tinners and outlaws stole a few, but then last night . . . We penned the goats up, we did, in the fold. Me and Kitto sat outside the gate to guard it, same as always. We had a fire lit, but only a small one, mind, ’cause we were trying to dry the rest of the wood. It was Kitto’s turn to keep watch, but something woke me . . . a horn, then a pack of hounds baying answer. But no one goes hunting in the dark of the night. Kitto was nearly shitting himself. He reckoned it was Ankow riding cross moor looking to collect dead souls. He said if you heard the wisht hounds, it meant you’d be next to die. They were coming right down the hill towards us. Kitto, he opened the gate to the pinfold. I reckoned he was going to hide behind the wall, but afore he could get inside, the hounds were on us. Some went in through the gate, others they leaped clear over the top.

  ‘Goats were bleating and the hounds were chasing them round. Me and Kitto, we only had our slings and staves. Couldn’t fight that many dogs – besides, no one can fight the wisht hounds. So, we ran and hid. After a bit, we heard the horn again, closer this time, like it was calling the hounds, and they ran out and vanished.

  ‘Kitto took off then. I reckon he hared it back to the village. I daren’t move, case the hounds were still out there. Didn’t close my eyes all night. First light there was this great screeching and cackling. I crept close to the pinfold. Couldn’t hardly see the goats for this huge flock of crows, ravens, kites and buzzards all squabbling and fighting over the carcasses, pulling off great strips of meat. I fired my sling and yelled, but there was too many of them. They scarcely stirred.’

  Helplessly he gestured towards the three goats. ‘Found them wandering when I was on my way here to tell you – must have slipped out, when the hounds attacked.’

  ‘More likely they were never in the fold and you’d lost them days ago,’ Clarice said.

  The goatherd looked as if he was about to protest, but thought better of it and simply shrugged.

  Clarice looked as grim as I had ever seen her. ‘I’d best take some of the servants and see what can be salvaged. I’ll wait here, Prioress, while you go to the kitchens and tell them to send the men down here. Ask them to bring moor sledges, so we can drag the meat back. The lad can show us where the carcasses are.’

  The boy shuffled his feet. ‘There’ll not be much left after birds have been at them. And the goats have their throats torn out. It’ll make you sick to your stomach to look at them. Best not go.’

  ‘I can assure you, boy, my stomach is stronger than most and I’ve seen a good many beasts after dogs have mauled them.’ Clarice eyed the goatherd suspiciously. ‘Why do you not want me to see them? Will I find fewer carcasses than I expect?’

  ‘Told you,’ the boy said sullenly, ‘the tinners, they stole some.’

  ‘And if Kitto spreads the news of what’s happened, the villagers will spirit away the remains of the rest.’ She clamped a hand on his shoulder. ‘On second thoughts, you and I had best go to find those goats now, boy. Prioress, can you send the servants down after us? Tell them to come with good stout staves and maybe a bow or two.’

  I nodded. ‘Perhaps our brother knights could help to guard those carcasses. Nicholas has been itching for an excuse to draw his sword. I’m sure I can see to it that
the task keeps them safely occupied for the day.’

  The goatherd stared from one to the other of us, evidently bewildered by the grim smiles that suddenly flashed between us. But I had underestimated Brother Nicholas.

  By the time the servants and knights arrived at the pinfold where the goats had been killed, the villagers were already at work plundering the spoils, ignoring Clarice’s orders to stop. As soon as they glimpsed Nicholas and Alban bearing down on them, they ran off down the slope, nimble as the goats whose remains were now slung over their shoulders. Apparently, Nicholas had charged after them and managed to give one of them a slash across the back with his sword, sending him tumbling head over heels. But the haunch of goat the villager was carrying had landed in a bog pool where it sank into the black ooze.

  I had suggested to the servants that they might butcher the first sledge-load before going back for the next, pointing out that the cooks and scullions could start the boiling and preserving while they dragged back the next load. That way, Nicholas and Alban would be standing guard for the best part of the day in the rain and cold, for Clarice had left them keeping watch with only young Brengy, the stable boy, for company.

  But late that afternoon, a clatter in the yard made me whirl round. Alban was leading his horse across the yard, muttering to himself. He faltered as he caught sight of me, but led the horse purposefully forward, staring straight ahead as if he had not seen me, though I was sure he had.

  ‘I understood that you were doing us a great service by keeping watch on the pinfold, Brother Alban. Surely you’re not deserting your post.’

  He hesitated, clearly wondering if he could pretend not to have heard me, but reluctantly stopped. ‘Only a few carcasses left down there now. Villagers have seen Brother Nicholas’s handiwork with a sword. They’ll not be foolhardy enough to tackle a knight of his skill. Not worth getting their heads lopped off for a scrawny haunch of meat.’

  ‘Men whose families are starving might well think it worth the risk,’ I said, but Alban merely grunted.

  I stepped closer. Blankets and packs were tied high around the saddle to help keep him firmly seated on the muddy track. Plainly he wasn’t riding out to inspect some local mill or tenant’s farm. ‘It is late to be riding out, Brother Alban. And you look set for a long journey. Where are you bound?’

  ‘Brother Nicholas’s orders,’ he said dourly. ‘Reckons there to be a good two hours of riding light left.’ His voice lowered as he continued grumbling, but he seemed to be addressing himself. ‘Could have waited till morning, get a full day in. What difference will an hour or two make? He’s not the one’ll have to sleep out.’

  ‘Sleep out?’ My stomach lurched. ‘Is Brother Nicholas sending you to Buckland?’

  I caught a twitch of Alban’s mouth at my mention of the name. For a moment, I thought his shifty expression was because I had guessed correctly, but then the real reason dawned on me.

  ‘You’re not going to Buckland, are you? Where are you bound?’

  Alban glanced behind him towards the guest lodging. He seemed to be considering whether or not to answer, then finally he shrugged. ‘Clerkenwell, that’s where.’

  ‘But it is madness in this foul weather. Even if the horse doesn’t get mired, half the bridges have been swept away and the rivers will be far too swift and swollen to ford.’ I caught hold of the reins, trying to think of some way to keep him there. ‘At least stay until morning. You’ll need a full day’s riding even to reach a road that is well travelled. Go blundering about the moor in the dark and you’ll break your neck.’

  He stiffened and I knew at once that I’d said the one thing guaranteed to make a man like Alban go. ‘I’ve yet to put my leg over a horse that can throw me, Mistress. Flood, snow and storm, I’ve ridden in them all and there’s never been one that’s stopped me going wherever I’ve a mind to.’

  He jerked the reins from my hand and led the horse around me towards the gate. Meggy was already struggling with the beam that braced it. The old gatekeeper seemed to be having much more trouble than usual in releasing it. Everything was swelling and sticking in the wet. Alban watched Meggy for a moment or two, then impatiently nudged her aside and thrust the reins into her hand, leaving her to pat and soothe the horse, as he wrestled with the beam, but it took even him an age to drag open the heavy gate.

  I watched him lead the horse out on to the moor, sick with dread. There was nothing I could do to stop him. Our time was running out far more quickly even than I had feared.

  Chapter 43

  Sorrel

  Todde lies in the mud behind the spoil heap. Blood pools around his thighs and the earth is too sodden to soak it up. It vomits it back. It will drink no more. Todde’s belly is mangled, slashed by Gleedy’s knife, which stabbed and twisted and stabbed again. Gleedy’s boots are stained with scarlet as he viciously kicks and stamps on the dying man.

  ‘Think to stop me following her, did you? I’ll track her down and make her watch the dogs chew you up and shit you out. She’ll not be weeping over your grave, Toddy. There’ll be nothing left for her to bury.’

  But I do weep. I scream at Gleedy to stop. I thrash at him with my fists. But though he hears my shrieks, to him they’re only the cry of the owl, and though he feels my fists, it is only the buffeting of the wind.

  A fox, a black fox, suddenly appears above Todde’s body on the ridge. It stands motionless, its head turned towards me, ears pricked. We stare at one another, its brush streaming out in the wind like a flame from a blazing torch. I smell its animal scent. It grows stronger. It envelops me. And I know that the boot which slams into Todde’s ribs and smashes his nose can do no more hurt to him now.

  A tiny shriek jerked me back into another place. I couldn’t grasp where I was, and I was too afraid to move. Giant flakes of snow were falling and swirling about me. One drifted down on to my face, but it wasn’t cold. It was dry and scratchy. Leaves, that’s what they were, not snowflakes. I was lying in a small copse, my body twisted between mossy rocks and snaking tree roots. Through the trees, I could just make out the smudge of a distant tor, black and jagged against a pale ghost light, which marked where the sun would shortly rise.

  A weasel, slender and sinuous as an eel, bounded on to a moss-covered rock and stood on its hind legs, warily sniffing the air. My alien human scent hung between its hunting ground and the den it was making for in the roots of the twisted oak.

  A mouse scurried through the undergrowth, trying to reach its nest before dawn, just one more rustle among the thousand whispers of the dried leaves. Only the weasel could smell it. The hunter was on top of its prey in a single leap, wrapping the muscles of its body around the mouse like the coils of a snake, squeezing the frantically beating heart. The mouse screamed. The weasel sank its fangs into the neck of its prey. The mouse shuddered, and lay still. The hunter bounded off towards another of its dens, breakfast dangling, like a hanged felon, between its jaws. They say our souls leave our bodies as mice when we dream. It was well for me the weasel hadn’t noticed mine scurrying back.

  I dragged myself upright in the gap between the mossy boulders, rubbing my stiff neck. As the breeze hit my back, I shivered. My kirtle was soaked through from the sodden ground, but I was well used to waking to that.

  I could hear the burble of running water somewhere close by. My throat felt as if it had been stuffed with old tree bark. I tensed, listening for any sounds of Gleedy’s dogs. But they were probably back at the camp by now and he had more than likely set them on to poor Todde’s corpse to obliterate the stab wounds. I gagged and tried not to think . . . tried not to think that Todde was dead because he’d protected me. I wanted Gleedy to pay and, somehow, I would find a way to make him pay for Eva, for Todde and for me too. I wanted to tear him apart. I wanted him to die pleading for his life and I wanted to hear the fear and pain in his voice, see them in his twisted soul.

  Rage only increased my thirst. I clambered towards the sound of running water, though my legs w
ere so numb I could barely stand. My feet kept sliding off the sodden moss, and my legs slipped down the gaps so that I was continually banging my ankles and knees on the rocks, but it was still so dark beneath the trees, I was more afraid of stumbling straight into the river.

  As the first pink shaft of light penetrated the small gap in the trees, I saw a twisted rope of pearl-white mist threaded through the trunks and caught the glint of water racing beneath, spilling over the clawed roots of the nearest trees. But above the rush and gurgle of the stream, I was sure I could hear other sounds – voices, a high-pitched murmuring as if people were hidden behind the ribbon of fog, or even in the water itself. They were like the sounds on Fire Tor, but these were fainter, higher, like a host of soft-spoken women. I stopped, balancing precariously on a boulder. Were spirits watching me through the mist?

  My tongue was glued to my teeth and there was a foul taste in my mouth, like the stench of wet dog. My belly ached for food. Maybe if I drank deep it would fill my stomach and stave off those hunger pangs, but I was afraid to go any closer. When I was a child, Mam had often warned me about the water sprites who lured people to the riverbanks with their singing, then reached out their long, icy arms and dragged their victims beneath the water to devour them in their slimy beds.

  I peered through the billowing white mist. It seemed to glow with light of its own under the dark, twisted branches. Great beards of silver lichen hung from the twigs, stirring faintly in the breeze. As the wind swirled the edge of the fog, I thought I could see a dark shape moving, the outline of a head turning towards me. I jerked backwards. My foot slipped on the moss and I crashed down against the trunk of the tree, dashing the breath from my body.

  I was fighting so desperately for air that, though I was dimly aware of something or someone moving silently towards me through the gloom, there was naught I could do to protect myself, save raise my arm to try to fend it off.