by Alis Hawkins
Would I have stripped him first, taken his good boots and his tunic and his golden cloak? Would I have left him in shirt and braies or stripped him naked?
My father’s clothes had been folded small on the hut’s stool, all but his braies. An act utterly unlike his usual habit.
Did I strip him, fold his clothes?
No. Not me. The demon.
If I had succeeded in killing Hob, the demon would have been guilty of the crime, not me. And, just as I have no memory of attacking him, I would have no memory of killing him. I would simply have woken up in the morning to find him dead in his shroud.
Would his face have been left uncovered, his nose pointing to the sky, his hand on his chest, fingers covering the needle I had left there?
Would his eyes have been bloodshot and staring, like Thomas Hassell’s?
Would his lips have been cut and bitten on the inside, like Scaff’s?
I groan but I cannot push these thoughts from inside my head. I want to get up, stride about, kneel before the saint and ask her blessing.
The saint. I turn my head to see her beside me.
‘Lady, guide my thoughts. Help me!’
I close my eyes in prayer but hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing. Nothing but discomfort. The bones of my arse are grinding into the ground and pains are shooting into my shoulder blades from my backbone. I badly need to stand and stretch.
But it is best not to think about relief. These bonds protect me.
Instead, I think of the decision that faces me once dawn comes. Should I go to Salster with Hob? Should I trust his vision over my own; his vision of the saint in a parish church, drawing pilgrims with fat purses?
I try to picture the shrine that might be made for her. Carved and painted, it would glitter here and there with a gold which has nothing to do with the sunlight in the forest; the Maiden would stand on a pedestal instead of the lip of a well, covered by a canopy of stone instead of trees.
Is that what she wants? I crick my neck to look at her in the dim light of the night sky. The only shrine she has ever known is a scrubbed-out rock niche behind our forest cistern. No carved stone, no gilding, no pedestal or canopy; just a crack such as a fairy might walk through into our world from his own. A crack my father cleaned and cleared to be worthy of a saint whose particular care are the springs and wells that rise in woods.
When I began this pilgrimage, it was for my father’s sake. I promised myself that I would pray for his soul at Cynryth’s shrine. And, if I was to discover that there was no shrine in the woods — and it seems that there is not — I was determined that I must go to Salster and offer prayers to Saint Dernstan. I would never have strayed from that intention but for my vision of Saint Cynryth at a well-side shrine, multitudes kneeling before her.
A vision that was slipped into your mind by the demon to mislead you.
I must not let the demon blind me to my father’s need. I must go with Hob tomorrow. I must go to the priory church and fall on my knees before the shrine of Saint Dernstan and ask him to intercede for my father’s soul. I can decide what to do with the Maiden later.
A sharp pain shoots up between my shoulder blades. I must wake Hob, get him to untie me. If he had left my knife stuck in the grass beside me after he finished tying me up, I might have been able to wriggle close enough to pull it out and free myself. But he put it in his belt-sheath.
The twinge that pulled at me when Hob returned my knife, yesterday, hooks at me again. This time, it snags a memory from the depths and holds it up to me.
My knife.
When Hob borrowed it in Scaff’s yard to take the horseshoes from the cart, I did not wait for him to give it back to me but left him to his prising and went inside. He did not return it until earlier today, when I needed it to take the stone out of the mare’s hoof.
At the time I thought he had simply kept it after I attacked him; but, now, I realised that I had been mistaken. Hob had never given my knife back to me.
I could not have tried to kill him last night because I did not have my knife.
Icy prickles raise every hair on my body.
You came at me with your knife. I hear Hob’s voice, full of matter-of-fact courage. You came at me with your knife.
But I could not have done that. I did not have my knife. He did.
I did not attack Hob. And yet, his ear was ragged and bloody.
I try to think, but my heart is beating fit to burst my rib-cage. He must have cut his ear himself.
And the shroud? Did I lay that out, or did Hob do that too?
Hob might have been asleep but he was on watch — he claimed I had knocked him off the stool so he could only have been dozing. Surely it was impossible that I had got up, untied the canvas, thrown open the lid of the press, found the sheet and laid it out, all without rousing him?
My head is light, whirling with mingled relief, rage and terror. I lean back against the wheel. The demon has not made me its slave. I did not attack Hob. I did not lay out his shroud.
But if I did not, then Hob did.
I swallow a gulletful of bile, the pain in my shoulders forgotten in the painful beating of my heart.
How did he do it? Did he watch the demon raise me from the pallet then quickly dart past me to take the sheet out of the press? I see him lay it out, looking over his shoulder to make sure that I am still wandering, my limbs not my own, putting the needle and thread on the top. I see him pulling his ear out from his head with his left hand, slashing quickly at it with his right, before he can change his mind; I see him laying hold of me and drawing me backwards towards his upturned stool, beating at my chest and head and shouting fit to wake the dead.
Is that how it was? Or did he tire of waiting for the demon to make me walk and take things into his own hands, drag me sleeping from my bed, rain blows on me, yell till I woke?
Yes. That must be how it happened. Hob would not risk the demon leaving me alone. And, with no horseshoes on the cart, I was sleeping next to the fire where it was easy for him to lay hands on me.
I close my eyes, try to think. How long has he been planning this? Since I told him that my task was to build a shrine for the saint? Or even longer — ever since I told him about finding my father in his shroud?
All the doubts he has been slipping into my mind about how my father died — has each one been carefully planned? Has each suggestion, each fear, each assurance that he did not care what I had done, been preparing me to believe that I might try to kill him in my sleep too?
I did not kill my father. The knowledge makes me almost light-headed with relief. He died like the villagers at Dode, swift and sudden, without plague marks. But it was the Death that killed him, not me. That has been nothing but Hob’s lie, all along.
And what about Scaff? Hob was callous — I don’t care, bastard had it coming either way — but he tried to sow a seed of doubt by telling me that I had left the lodging room not once but twice.
But it was not me who went out to the cart to fetch his cloak and tried to swear Watkyn to secrecy, it was Hob; he stood to lose the pilgrim staff and eighteen shillings. And, whatever he says, I know that he was not in the lodging room when I came back from the yard. Was that what woke me from my demon-dream — the scuffle of Hob setting upon Scaff?
A sick dread coats my body in sweat beneath the blanket Hob tucked so carefully around me. If Hob killed Scaff to keep the staff and the horseshoe money, did he kill Thomas Hassell to keep the saint? Was he so worried about what the parson would find in the library at Malmesbury that he left the hut, the deep-sleeping Tom undisturbed by his going, and murdered the priest?
The coroner’s talk of foul air did not persuade the jury to suspect that Master Thomas had been smothered but, if he had seen the blood that I saw on Hob’s cloak — blood I took to be Edgar’s but which might have belonged to Thomas Hassell — he might have instructed them to bring in a different verdict.
That cloak of Hob’s; that heavy, golden, densely wo
ven cloth — is that the last thing Thomas Hassell’s bloodshot eyes saw in this world — wadded in Hob’s hands and coming down towards his face, blotting out light and life?
Has Hob snuffed the life out of anybody who stands in his way, who threatens him?
I look across the dying fire. His head is lolling on his chest, his breathing noisy.
While he thinks me fooled, cowed by what the demon has made me do, I am safe.
But how can I do what the saint wants without making myself a threat to Hob, without putting my life in danger?
CHAPTER 31
It is a bitter thing to watch a new day dawn knowing that the world is not, today, as you thought it was yesterday.
I am a fool. I, of all people, should have known that wishing something never makes it so. Wishing did not persuade my father to let me go to the abbey school. It did not keep the pestilence from Lysington. It did not grant my mother joy with a new babe. And wishing to believe it has not made Hob Cleve a trustworthy man.
I see, now, that every word of his, every deed, has been said and done in the service of his own fortune. At every turn — from the moment of our first encounter in that snowy wood — he has seen how events may be managed to his advantage. Quick and ruthless, he has played on my slowness and my trust.
He has lied to me the whole time we have kept company together. No, he has not simply lied, for there is something akin to honesty in simply saying something that is not true; a lie can easily be disproved. What Hob has done is to twist the truth. He has taken words and happenings and thoughts and he has twisted them together to make a new thing: the world as he would like it to be. Like his braids, his world is composed of so many different strands — strands which weave over and under and through and around each other — that it is impossible to see clearly where falsehood ends and truth begins.
But this I do see: his intention has been to make me mistrust my own judgement. To make me mistrust myself so that I would rely on him. So that I would fall in with his plans. His plans to become a rich man in Salster.
He thinks the saint can make him rich. He slipped, in his anger after Slievesdon and the loss of all our money, and told me as much. But she can only make him rich if she is in Salster, amongst those whose money can build her shrine, raise a chapel to house it, form a religious guild devoted to her. The guild of Saint Cynryth, the White Maiden of the Well. It has a ring to it.
Hob will have the barren wives of rich men coming to kneel before her and receive her blessing; he will have them wearing a white braid as a token of their daily prayers for a child, an heir. He will have the parents of sick children offering money for her intercession and the safe delivery of their offspring from the palsy or the falling sickness or a fever. He will have widows making braids for him by rushlight and pilgrim-badge makers carving little horseshoe moulds.
Hob will make an industry out of the saint. Or he would if I let him.
I must not let him.
I look over at the fire. I need embers. I must act now. It must be the saint that guides me, not fear of Hob. I must remember that Saint Cynryth healed me and hold that knowledge to my heart. My father put her into my dying hands and she healed me.
I take a breath but it seems to fill scarcely half my lungs. I am stiff with fear. Breathe. And again. My heart is punching at my ribs but I can sit here no longer. I must have those embers.
‘Hob!’ Another breath. ‘Hob!’
He rouses, wiping the drool from his mouth and sitting up with a grimace. He puts his hand to the side of his neck, kneads at it with his knuckles.
‘Can you untie me? I need to move.’
‘Is it really you?’
‘Of course it’s me.’ I do not have to pretend irritation.
He nods and stands, stretching and yawning as he does so. ‘It’s nearly dawn. Why didn’t you wake me before?’
‘No need.’
‘Did you sleep much?’
‘Enough, I think.’
‘Any trouble…?’
‘No.’
He nods.
‘Hob! Untie me.’
He moves closer. ‘Quicker still, I’ll cut you loose.’
He reaches around for his knife.
‘No!’
His hand is still behind him. ‘What?’
I try to slow my galloping heart. The sight of him reaching for that knife while I am trussed and helpless is too much. ‘Rope’s expensive. Just untie me.’
He hesitates, then drops his hand.
‘All right. Though what we’ll need rope for in Salster, I don’t know.’
For a moment, as he reaches behind me, I think perhaps I will go with him to the city, despite his treachery. I could go to the priory and pray at Saint Dernstan’s shrine and then come away again, back to the forest.
But a moment’s reflection shows me that I must not do that. As soon as we were inside the walls, Hob would be twisting the truth into his own shape, charming people into his world, setting alight ideas about the saint and her place in their city. I cannot let that happen.
‘D’you think the city gates’ll be open?’ I ask, aware that I must say something.
‘Don’t see why not. If that clerk in Rochester’s right, the pestilence is gone from Salster. No point shutting the stable door now, is there?’
I make a noise that might be taken for agreement and wait for Hob to finish untying me.
Feet finally released, I try to stand but my legs refuse to support me. Hob helps me up and I lean against the cartwheel.
‘Are you going to be able to walk?’
I nod. ‘I just need to move about.’ In truth, I feel like a sapling bent over for so long that it has grown into the curve. How long would a man have to be bound in the same position before he started to grow crooked, too?
‘Plenty of time,’ Hob says. ‘It’s not properly light yet.’
While Hob stows the pallet and the cooking pot, I put what embers remain into the basket. The moss is almost dry — I should have found some fresh, yesterday, instead of relying on dampening it.
‘Why are you bothering?’ Hob asks. ‘We’ll be in Salster tonight.’
‘Forest habit,’ I tell him, trying to sound as if it’s of no real consequence to me, either way. ‘Always have the means to lay a fire, just in case.’
‘What, just in case they turn us away from Salster?’
I shrug.
He smiles indulgently and shakes his head. ‘With a bit of luck, neither of us’ll ever need to lay a fire again.’
As I raise the canvas and stow the basket, I see that my hands are shaking. ‘Planning on having servants to do it for you, eh, Hob?’
‘All in good time, Master Collyer, all in good time.’
‘No.’
He looks around in surprise.
‘Not Collyer. I’m not a collyer any more. And I won’t be — that life’s over. Here —’ I swallow. ‘In Salster, I’m going to be Martin of Dene.’
He sticks out his bottom lip. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘Are you sticking with Cleve?’
‘Hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘Is it the name of your manor?’
The look he turns on me is cold. ‘No.’
I give him a half shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter then, does it?’
We have been walking some time now and I have had no sign from the saint that a particular spot is where she wants me to establish her shrine.
The Rochester parson was right — the road skirts the edge of Burdynge Forest and, if there is a track or a path that runs into the woods from this side, I cannot see it. But perhaps I have been too timid — perhaps I should have insisted that we make our way through the woods?
Furlong after furlong, I scan the ground around me, looking for a likely spot.
‘Here, lady?’ I ask, silently. ‘Show me where.’
I watch for birds to give me a sign, as the goldfinches did when we came upon Hugh and Agnes, but see only rooks over the trees
. I look for a lark, listen for the song that hovers between earth and heaven, lifting men’s eyes up. Surely a lark would be a sign?
‘Show me, lady,’ I murmur as we crest another hill. ‘Show me where you want your shrine.’
But the air is silent. I hear no larks, see not a fluttering wing.
The sun climbs the morning sky and still there is no sign. Am I wrong? Does the saint want me to go to Salster with Hob before finding a place to build her shrine?
No. That cannot be. Once we were in Salster he would never let the Maiden out of his sight. I might even be in greater danger in the city. Given the worn and battered state of us, nobody would question my sudden death, especially as Hob would come ready with stories of the swift deaths at Dode. Salster would bury me as fast as it could, without thinking twice about coroners or foul play.
I glance across. Hob’s eyes are set on the city ahead.
The mare will not go anywhere for him so he needs me to get as far as the gates. Once we are within the walls, could I go to one of the priests at the priory and tell him the whole story, get him to witness my giving Hob his share of the money while I take the saint?
No. Hob is more persuasive than me and nobody knows us in Salster; who is to say who the saint belongs to and what has happened on our journey?
There is no help waiting for me. I must find my own path. And soon.
As we close on the city, the uneasy feeling creeps up on me that I must have missed a sign from the saint. It cannot be right to be too close to Salster, lest pilgrims feel that the shrine is hardly worth stopping at. I can almost hear their words. Oh, we don’t want to stop now — we’re almost there. Better just to press on and have more time in in the city.
I look about me. Here, at the top of this rise, the treeline is a stone’s throw away to our right but away to our left is more open country, falling away in a gentle slope and rising again to hills in the distance. The crest of a hill is, surely, a good place for a shrine? Pilgrims would be glad of an excuse to stop for a while and catch their breath and they could look about them, see what the weather will do as they cover the last couple of miles to the city.
