by Alis Hawkins
I glance across at Hob. He has his good ear turned towards me but I know the other is a bloody mess with a gash that has near torn it in half.
I try to feel the knife in my hand, slashing at Hob’s neck, slicing his ear. But I cannot. I have never fought a knife-fight. I do not know how it would feel to throw myself at Hob, my mind possessed with the thought that I must kill him.
I rub at my knotted belly, feeling the hard, underfed leanness of my own body. Something hot to eat would do me good.
It is clear that a pilgrim-city is close at hand. This wayside town has more places where ale and food can be bought than its size could possibly justify. Not that all are open today; the shutters are closed beneath many signs and there are few people on the streets.
‘Pestilence’ll be the death of us one way or the other,’ a baker says as he hands over two loaves of bread and some of his wife’s cheese. ‘Either it’ll kill us quick, or lack of folk to sell to’ll see us starve to death.’
Before the pestilence came, he tells us, the shops on either side of his bakery would sell dozens of pies in a day. ‘And not just them — there’s four others making pies in town and then there’s the inns as well. Now, we couldn’t make pies if we wanted to — no market, see? No animals going to the butcher. Not a pound of fresh meat to be had, not for love nor money.’
But everybody still needs bread and townsfolk hang back from the shopfront while we are there, waiting their turn to take their loaves and retreat to their houses.
One bold fellow asks whether we are on pilgrimage, tells us that Saint Dernstan’s bones have not availed to keep the pestilence away from Salster’s priory. ‘You’d be as well going home now,’ is his opinion, ‘for if his relics won’t keep the pestilence from those who tend his shrine night and day, what will they do for you?’
I say nothing but Hob protests that we have not come for Dernstan but for Salster’s other saint.
He shakes his head. ‘Salster’s got but one shrine.’
‘What about Saint Cynryth?’
The man shakes his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Her,’ Hob says.
‘Never heard of her, then. Where’s her relics s’posed to be?’
‘In a shrine in Burdynge Forest.’ Hob seems to have turned spokesman for the saint now and I keep silent, clutching our loaves and cheese.
He shakes his head. ‘No shrines in Burdynge Forest.’ He says it as if he has quartered every inch himself. ‘Not since time out of mind.’ He scratches his armpit. ‘What Burdynge’s got is more deer’n a man can shake a stick at. One of the king’s favourite places to hunt, so they say. Stays at that palace the bishop’s got.’
‘Is the bishop in Salster with his people?’ In truth, I do not want to prolong this conversation but something in me yearns for proof of a churchman’s fidelity.
‘Thomas Wardine? Dead. On his way back from seeing the pope.’
The bread is new and still warm in the middle. Hob and I sit at the side of the road and eat a loaf between us, straight off, with half a pound of crumbling white cheese. The mare, unhitched to forage for herself, browses happily, watched by a straggle of cudding cows and their barelegged herd.
‘So Burdynge Forest is a favourite with the king,’ Hob remarks. ‘Not going to be too happy, is he, if you clutter it up with shrines?’
I glance across at him. Whatever he says, I have no choice but to follow the wishes of the saint. It is the only way to be sure that my father’s soul — and my own — will be safe. The only way to rid myself of this demon.
I get up and brush bread crumbs from my tunic.
‘Let’s get on.’
As I approach the mare to hitch her up again, she moves away from me and I can see that she is favouring one of her back legs. I take her by the bridle and walk her forward. Yes, there it is — a definite heck in her stride. I call to Hob to hold her and I pick up her hoof. There, stuck between the shoe and the tender quick is a stone. I straddle the hoof and rest it between my knees before reaching for my knife to lever it out.
My knife isn’t in its sheath. I drop my head, close my eyes. Where is it?
I see Hob, his ear bleeding.
I had to take your knife off you before you did worse.
Hob took my knife. He still has it.
I crane my neck around to see him. ‘Can I have my knife?’
‘As long as you won’t come at me with it.’ He grins but the barb catches. I watch as he reaches around for his own knife and pulls mine from the sheath where it’s nestled behind his long blade. He hands it to me, resisting slightly as I take it. Then he grins and releases it into my grasp.
The stone removed, I return the knife to my own sheath. Something twinges, a memory. I try to force my tired mind to pay attention, to draw the memory up, but, try as I might, nothing comes.
The afternoon wears on and long, slow slopes begin to tire both us and the mare. On steepish downslopes, Hob and I put our backs to the front of the cart to brake it and, on the drawn-out, sweeping rises, he puts his shoulder to the back to help as the mare pants, head down, flanks dark with sweat.
‘Martin, it’s against all sense to try and get to Salster today — we’ll never get there before curfew.’
I blink, feeling the stiffness in my eyelids, the ease with which they close. If we stop, I will have to spend another night under the thumb of the demon.
‘Let’s walk another mile or two,’ I say. ‘Then we can decide.’
The shadows from the setting sun are long and I am beginning to stumble in my stride. The second time I fall, Hob pulls me up and stands in front of me.
‘Enough, we’re stopping here.’
I raise my head and look along the road. ‘Is that Burdynge Forest?’
Hob looks over his shoulder at the country spread out below us. ‘Must be.’ He turns to me. ‘An easy morning’s walk to Salster. We can stay here and still be in the city before noon tomorrow.’
I lean against the mare and try to think of something to say. But I am so tired the words will not come.
A mile or so back we passed a town on our left hand side. We seem to have walked for a long time since, but I can just see the roofs and towers of its monastery if I look back along the long, slow hill we have just climbed. Following a straight road is hard going, it seems you walk and walk for very little ground gained.
I turn the mare’s head and she plods gratefully off the road and on to the sheep-cropped turf.
‘How much firewood have we got?’
‘Enough,’ Hob says. ‘We won’t need to keep the fire in all night because there’ll be no need for embers. Tomorrow, we’ll sleep beneath a Salster roof!’
I do not tell him that tomorrow I will be in the forest. No matter. I can make the fire last, make sure that there are embers enough to take with me.
I wake to find Hob shaking my shoulder. ‘Martin. Come and have something to eat.’
When did I fall asleep? I remember sitting down for a moment against the wheel of the cart while Hob unhitched the mare... It was still light then but dark has crowded in since.
I work some spittle into my dry mouth and swallow. ‘I thought you didn’t cook?’
‘I do if there’s no choice. And you were dead to the world.’
His words send a cold shiver over me. I rise on watery legs and follow him to the fire where both stools stand waiting for us. Hob has been busy.
‘Feel better?’
I nod. Though I still feel as if I have wool for wits, the ache for sleep has dimmed. ‘Weren’t you worried?’ I ask. ‘About what would happen?’
He shakes his head. ‘It was broad daylight when you went to sleep. And I’ve been keeping a close eye on you. Even with the demon in you, I reckon I could still knock you down. You only got the better of me last night because I was dozing.’
Is that true? Does the demon simply use my strength or does he have his own to add so that he would be able to overpower even the likes of Hob?
Or the likes of your father.
It is all I can do not to cry out. With fear pressing in on me like a fist around my heart, I look over at Hob but he seems to have noticed nothing. We are so close to Salster, all he can think about is the fulfilment of his dreams. Does he believe he has talked me out of my resolve to stay in the forest, establish the Maiden’s shrine there?
We eat his pottage in silence; it is edible, if not appetising. How will I manage for food on my own in Burdynge Forest? I shall have to hope that I can buy food from people on the road; if I build the shrine, pilgrims will come, we have seen enough proof of that on the road where people have flocked to see the saint on a cart.
His supper finished, Hob stretches his legs out towards the fire and looks over at me.
‘So. Tomorrow we’ll be in Salster. What d’you think your father would say?’
My father. I see his nose pointing towards the roof of the hut. His bony shape on the bed beneath his blanket. His hand over the needle through the seam in his shroud. Last night I laid out a shroud ready for Hob—
‘He would’ve wanted to come with you — wouldn’t he — if he hadn’t died?’ Hob’s voice breaks into my fears. ‘After seeing you healed, I don’t suppose anything would have stopped him coming on pilgrimage to the saint’s shrine.’ Hob raises an eyebrow. ‘The demon would have been in trouble then — two of you to try and control.’
There is no doubt who would have been the stronger. No doubt at all. There would have been no walking in his sleep for my father. He would have spat in the demon’s eye.
That’s why you killed him!
‘No!’
Hob’s eyes are on me immediately. ‘What? What’s the matter?’
I shake my head. I am not going to tell him that the demon is whispering in my ear.
‘Guilty conscience?’
‘Don’t start, Hob.’
He looks at me, silent for once. There is pity in his gaze, I can feel it, even with my eyes fixed on my supper. A sick prickling chills my skin as I think of myself rising from my bed in the hut and putting a hand over my father’s mouth, gripping his nose with my fingers.
I swallow, unable to speak.
Hob shrugs. ‘Whatever happened to your father, Martin, you certainly tried to kill me last night.’
‘Not me, Hob!’
He waves away my objection. ‘All right. You know why the demon wants me dead, don’t you?’
‘Why?’
‘To stop me making you see sense about establishing the saint’s shrine in the city. He knows that would bring pilgrims to her and he’d far rather you kept her in the forest. Out of sight, out of mind.’ He likes that phrase. ‘The demon knows people’re lazy. They won’t go out of their way, even to see a saint. Think how the villagers complained at Tredgham — wanted you to put the Maiden in the church, said you were making it difficult for them to come for a blessing —’
‘They still came, though.’
‘Yes. But they could see Tredgham woods from their own doors. They might have resented the walk but it wasn’t so far. Your shrine could be miles from Salster.’
‘If I build it at the edge of the forest, pilgrims will see it, coming and going.’
‘Those coming from the north and the west will. But what about those coming from the south, the east — from France?’
‘France?’
‘Isn’t that what you want for her? To be known and worshipped in all of Christendom? Isn’t that what she showed you in your vision?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Then you’re putting her shrine in the wrong place!’
‘If that’s where the saint wants it, that’s where it’s right for it to be!’
‘But Martin —’ he leans towards me, his beard red-gold in the firelight — ‘are you sure that you’re listening to what the saint wants? How can you be sure it’s the voice of the saint you’re hearing? If actions speak louder than words, you’re the demon’s servant, not hers!’
I feel as Edgar must have done after Hob’s first blow across his shoulders — agonised, winded, terrified of what would come next. How could he say that? Being possessed at night is one thing but to say that I am the demon’s servant —
‘The demon knows that taking the saint to the city will make her shrine popular,’ Hob presses on. ‘The last thing he and his master want is a shrine where thousands of pilgrims come, where miracles are done. So he tried to force you to kill me so that I couldn’t make you see sense.’ Hob sits back. ‘I’m sorry, Martin, truly I am. I know you think that your vision of the saint was telling you her shrine must be in the forest, but —’ He stops, shakes his head as if he has thought better of what he was going to say.
‘What? But what?’
Hob pulls at his beard as he looks over the fire at me.
‘Look, I know you think that the only thing that matters to me is making money but that’s not true. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter — it does, I admit it. You’ve never known poverty — you come from a family that had money and the means to make more. But I have known it, and I’ll never willingly be poor again. The saint, God bless her, knows that.’
His eyes flick to the White Maiden and back to me. ‘She chose me to be your companion in the full knowledge of who I am. She knows I have dreams. She knows those dreams need money and she hasn’t begrudged me that because she knows I’ll always protect her — and you.’
He stops, fixes his eyes on me. ‘Whatever my faults, the Maiden chose me, Martin, as much as she chose you. She drew you to the wood where Edgar and I were staying. She showed me that I must protect you from Edgar. And then, in leading us to our meeting with Richard Longe, she showed me that I had to stay with you, that you’d be the means to my fortune as much as I would be the means to yours. And hers.’
I am lost in Hob’s words. What is he saying — that the Maiden has chosen him to protect her, even from me?
I stare at him but he says no more. I look around at the cart, at the Maiden standing against the wheel. And I know what I have to do.
I stand up and walk over to the cart. My legs are unsteady but I feel a strange kind of elation, freed from fear. I sit down next to the Maiden, my back to the wheel, its hub between us.
Hob has not moved but his eyes have followed me.
‘I’m not the demon’s servant, Hob. What I do when I’m asleep he forces me to do. He takes my limbs and he inhabits them. They’re his actions, not mine. My will has no part in it.’
He watches me but says nothing, waiting for me to explain.
‘I want you to tie me up.’
My words jerk him into life. ‘What?’
‘I don’t want to do the demon’s bidding, willing or unwilling. If you tie me up I can’t do you — or the Maiden — any harm.’
He frowns, clearly unhappy with the idea. ‘But what about you? You won’t be safe.’
‘If the demon wanted to do me harm he could’ve done it a long time ago.’
Hob puts his hands to his head, scrubs at his scalp with his fingertips. ‘What if we’re attacked in the night and I can’t get to you in time?’
‘We won’t be.’
‘But what if we are?’
I shrug. Why should we be attacked tonight, of all nights? ‘Just tie me up, Hob.’
‘All right,’ he says, finally. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’
Unwilling to stand again, lest he think my resolve is wavering, I tell him where to find the rope. He brings it and gooseflesh rises down my backbone as I remember taking the same rope to bind the cross that I put on Edgar’s grave.
He holds the skein up to me. ‘Sure?’
‘Yes. If you tie me to the wheel, I won’t be able to move but I’ll be able to sleep.’ I shuffle myself into a comfortable position. ‘There. If you loop it over both my shoulders and tie it behind my back you should be safe.’
He follows my directions and binds me to the wheel. He pulls until
the rope is firm but not tight then ties it.
‘Pass me your knife, I’m not using mine to cut rope, it’ll blunt it.’
I struggle to get my hand behind my back to reach my knife but I manage it and pass it to Hob.
‘What about your hands?’
‘Tie them in front of me.’
‘D’you think you could untie those knots with your teeth?’ he asks when my hands are bound.
I try. ‘Maybe.’
‘Better tie your hands to your feet then.’
He ties my ankles together, loosely, then he takes the long end he has left and loops it between my wrists before tying it off. Now the knots are out of reach of my teeth.
He pulls my knife out of the earth where he stuck it and slides it into his own sheath behind his knife.
‘Satisfied?’
I nod and he turns back to the stool.
‘Sleep for a while,’ he says. ‘I’ll wake you when it’s your watch.’
Relieved of demon-dread, I do sleep for a while but I am woken by aches and soreness. The seemingly comfortable position Hob tied me in has now turned tormenter.
I can see how long I have been asleep by the state of the fire and the woodpile — most of the firewood is gone and the embers are turning ashy.
A small wind blows across my face and I look over at Hob. I am not surprised to see him asleep — often I have woken in the morning to find him drowsing and the fire almost dead. He has always refused to sit on my one-legged collyer’s stool, told me I was welcome to have my arse tipped on to the ground for the crime of falling asleep if I liked, but he was damned if he was going to submit to it.
I glance at the fire again. The embers are fading. I should wake Hob and get him to put more wood on. I will need those embers later.
Will you?
I lean my head back against the cart’s wheel, remembering all the things Hob said last night.
If actions speak louder than words, you’re the demon’s servant, not the saint’s.
No! I strain against the ropes that bind me, willing the pain in my shoulders to drive out the terrible notion that everything I have done might have served the demon’s ends rather than those of Saint Cynryth. Again and again, before my unwilling eyes, I see the sheet that I laid out last night as a shroud for Hob, see myself rolling his dead body on to it, gathering it over him and sewing it from toe to crown.
