by Alis Hawkins
My heart begins to thud in my chest and my bowels gripe. I glance over my shoulder but the saint is safely stowed beneath the canvas. ‘Here, lady?’
There is no reply but, as I stare across at the hornbeam and oak shapes of the forest I see a sudden glint. I narrow my eyes. No, I was not mistaken. The sun is glinting off a thin thread of water. I cannot see whether it comes from a spring that rises in the wood, but it is a sufficient answer to my prayer.
It must be now. Fear rises in me like a flood but I have to believe that the saint will protect me.
I swallow the fear. Take a breath. Pull the mare up.
‘Tired?’ Hob asks.
‘No.’ My heart is hammering against my ribs. My breaths are coming hard and sharp. ‘I’m stopping here. I’m not coming on to Salster.’
‘What?’
With shaking hands, I lift the canvas to get at the press. This is my only plan; if it does not work, I have no other. I know Hob’s ruthlessness. My lack of cunning may cost me my life.
‘You said, once, that you needed two pounds to get your start in Salster. Well, with what you’ve got in the cloak, and your thirty-six shillings from Snodland, you’ve got more than two pounds already.’
I lift out the bag of money we were given for the horseshoes at Sibbertswell. ‘I’ve taken the ten shillings that was mine for carrying Richard Longe’s letter to Slievesdon. You can have the rest. That’ll mean you’ve got over three pounds. Plenty to get you started.’
His eyes move from the purse to my face. ‘So where are you going?’
‘Nowhere. I told you, the White Maiden’s shrine has to be in the woods. I’m going to put it over there.’
He turns in the direction of the glint of water, then looks back at me.
I clench my jaw and wait for his anger, for him to duck under the mare’s neck and grab me by the tunic. But he does not move. Instead, he begins to laugh.
‘Martin, listen to yourself!’ He shakes his head again. ‘You can’t just stop at the side of the road and build a shrine!’
I keep quiet. I am not going to argue with him.
‘Come on — don’t be a fool.’ He hooks his thumbs in his belt. ‘Put the money back in the press. Come to Salster, get yourself sorted. It’ll be far better to find a place in a church for the saint — then you can come and set up a shrine out here later, when her name is known.’
I stare at him. This is how he twists things; by saying things which appear full of good sense. But good sense and being right are not always the same thing.
‘I’m staying here.’
He shakes his head, as much — it seems to me — in confusion as in denial. ‘You can’t.’
My heart is shaking my chest so hard that I can feel the bile rising up my throat. I swallow. ‘I can. I am.’
‘No! We’ve come all this way together. You can’t just decide that we part company now.’
‘Then stay. Help me build the shrine.’
It is a bluff. The last thing I want is for him to stay.
‘Our fortune’s waiting for us in Salster, Martin, not here on the side of the road!’
‘Your fortune, Hob, not mine.’
‘But the saint brought us together — brought us all this way! You can’t just tear us apart now. That’s not what she wants!’
‘Don’t presume to tell me what the saint wants, Hob — you’ve got no right!’
My heart is still racing but now anger is driving out fear.
‘Who says I’ve got no right? Didn’t the saint choose me to protect you? Didn’t I save your life?’
‘If you did it was for your own ends — because you saw better prospects with me and my cart than with Edgar!’
For once, he is not quick enough to disguise the expression on his face; I have shocked him.
‘Don’t bother denying it Hob. You switched allegiance from Edgar to me because it suited you.’
‘Do you blame me? Edgar was a brute. He would’ve killed you.’
‘And are you any different?’
His eyes narrow. ‘When have I done anything but look after your interests?’
‘When you tried to trick me into thinking that I’d attacked you!’ I see the spittle flying out of my mouth with my words. ‘When you tried to make me believe that I’d killed my father, that the demon had controlled me from the beginning!’
‘What?’ his face loses all expression.
‘Don’t try and deny it. I couldn’t have attacked you with my knife because I didn’t have it. You didn’t give it back to me after I’d lent it to you in Scaff’s yard — not till yesterday when I was seeing to the mare’s foot.’
‘And this?’ He indicates his torn and bloodied ear. ‘Did I do this, as well?’
‘You know you did! And laid out the sheet to prove that I’d planned to kill you and bury you.’
‘Martin, listen to yourself! You’re raving, man!’
‘No, Hob. My mistake has been in listening to you. But I won’t make that mistake again. I’m staying here.’
He comes around the mare. ‘No. I’ve nursemaided you for weeks. The saint belongs to me as much as she does to you, now. I have a say in what happens to her.’
Anger makes me unwise and I take a step towards him. ‘No! You don’t!’ I thrust the money-bag at him. ‘Take this and go to Salster. I’m staying here.’
He tosses the bag on to the canvas. ‘The saint’s coming to Salster with me, Martin, whether you come or not.’
‘No.’
‘Stop saying no!’ He pushes me backwards.
‘I’m not coming to Salster!’
‘Fine. You can stay here and I’ll take the cart.’
Has he forgotten that the mare won’t go for him, or is he so convinced of his own power that he thinks he can compel her?
‘No.’
His fist moves so fast it has hit me before I am aware of movement. The shock is sickening. I stagger back.
‘Come on then —’ Hob’s fists are ready to hit me again — ‘we’ll fight for it. Whoever wins will take the cart.’
‘No. It’s mine.’ My mouth feels odd as I speak.
His fist slams into my half-closed eye. I hear the skin split as much as feel it, and I fall to the ground. Before I can think about getting up, his boot has caught me in the ribs.
‘Come on. Get up. Let’s fight for it.’
I crawl away, retching, holding my side.
He follows me, his fists clenched. ‘Come on. Get up!’
I use the cart’s wheel to haul myself up. My head throbs and every breath stabs at me. Hob has broken my ribs.
He grabs me by the shoulder. ‘I’m taking the cart.’
More by luck than judgement my swinging fist catches him on the nose. He staggers back, hands to his face.
‘Take the mare if you think you can,’ I manage, my battered jaw filling my face with pain at the slightest movement. ‘You can sell her in Salster.’
‘Mare’s no bloody use to me. I’m taking the saint.’
‘No. She’s mine.’
He comes at me, his full weight bearing down on me. I know I must not let him get me on my back. Not after what I saw him do to Will in Tredgham woods.
I stagger backwards, towards the rear of the cart. The remainder of last night’s firewood is in there. If I can arm myself, I might be able to hold him off. But Hob sees where I am going and runs at me, pushing me aside.
‘Going to batter me, are you, Martin?’
My eyes on him, I back off a pace or two.
‘That’s it, run away!’
I stop. I cannot let him drive me away from the saint.
He lunges at me. I flinch but I stand firm. Hob laughs.
‘I’m taking the cart, now, Martin. Don’t follow me.’
I step towards him. ‘You’re not taking it.’
He laughs again and walks towards the mare’s head. He lifts the reins and clucks to her. ‘Come on.’
The mare does not move. ‘Come o
n, damn you!’ He pulls at her bridle but she pulls her head up and plants her feet. ‘Move, damn you!’ He turns and punches her in the ribs; she whips around, teeth bared, and bites at his shoulder.
I see my chance. Moving as quickly as the pain in my ribs will allow, I snatch a shortish length of sound wood from the cart and rush at Hob. I aim for his head but he fends off my blows with his shoulders.
‘Kill me, would you?’ he yells.
Is this what it has come to? Must I kill him if I want to stay here?
He throws himself towards me. I get in a blow to his head but it glances off and he comes on. Helpless beneath the blows that thud into my head and ribs, I fall to the ground. A boot stamps down on the hand that is fumbling for the stick. I cry out in agony but, before I can move, he has dropped and has me pinned, his knees on my shoulders, his hands coming towards my face. I squirm and buck in terror, whipping my head from side to side so that he cannot get a grip on my nose, clamp a hand over my mouth.
He punches me, a hard blow just under my eye. It stuns me and his hands are on my face. I cannot breathe. I try to shake my head free but he moves up my body so that his knees are on either side of my head, his feet on my chest.
Legs and body free, I buck and lift, trying to throw him off but he does not let go.
My head feels as if it will burst and my chest heaves with breaths I cannot draw in. Pinpoints of light flash in my eyes and I hear a rushing in my ears.
With the last of my strength I kick my legs up and get one knee around his neck. I pull and he falls backwards.
Air rushes into me and I roll on my side, panting and gasping.
A boot smashes into my side. Something hits my head with a horrible crack —
‘Come on, you bloody animal, he’s here! It’s him!’
I hear a muted jingle. I know that sound. It’s the mare’s bridle when she tosses her head. She does that when she is being contrary. Where is she?
My eyes are closed. I try to open them. One is stuck shut. Through the other, the world is grey and floating, as if someone has spat in my eye. I let the eyelid fall.
‘Come on!’
I am jerked to one side. Pain stabs my ribs, wakes my wits. Hob hauls me up, hefts me like a slipping sack, my left arm over his shoulders.
‘Hold that.’ He puts something in my right hand but I cannot seem to grasp it.
‘Damn you!’ I feel him bending down then up again. ‘Hold it.’ I feel a leather strap being wound around my wrist and hand. The mare’s reins. She will not go for Hob. He needs me to lead her.
‘Now, come on, stupid animal.’
I am jerked forward again and I feel the reins tightening, pulling my hand up. Pain from fingertip to elbow makes me cry out.
Another step. My hand is pulled backwards, skewing me around painfully. The rein tightens on my mangled hand, pulls my shoulder. Hob is bending beneath me, pulling against the mare. ‘Come on, damn you!’
‘Stop.’ The word is clear in my mind. But what come out of my mouth is something else, something thick and slushy.
Hob straightens up, shrugs me into a half-standing, half-leaning position.
Every move me causes me pain. I try to stand, to make him let go of me. As he ducks out from under my arm, my legs almost buckle. I stagger forward, collide with the mare’s shoulder. She shies and tries to sidestep but comes up against the cart’s shaft.
I lift a hand to her neck.
‘Easy, girl. It’s all right.’ The words are a mush of baby-sounds.
The mare steadies and looks around at me from the white of her eye.
‘Make her walk.’
I try to stand upright.
‘Make her walk and I’ll let you live.’
I do not want to go to Salster. Not with Hob. Not with Hob and the saint. But I want to live.
Painfully, I gather a small amount of spittle in my mouth. I work my tongue around my loosened teeth and spit. The gobbet is bright red on the ground. I raise my head and right myself, using the mare’s withers to pull myself up. As I stand, I feel something running down my face. I wipe it off with the back of my crushed hand. Not blood, some other liquid. It is seeping out of the split beneath my eye.
I feel sick. My head is throbbing. The pain from my jaw is like nothing I have ever felt. It must be broken.
There will be bonesetters in Salster.
The saint is taking pity on me, giving me permission to go to the city.
‘Make her move. Now!’
I dread another blow. I manage to get both feet properly under me and stand up as straight as I can. Rib-ends grate and I gasp, doubling over.
‘Now!’
I suck in a cautious breath and lift myself up again. Another breath. One foot in front of the other and a cluck for the mare, a wet, sloppy imitation of the sound she is accustomed to but, still, it persuades her forward. I stumble into a shuffling walk at her side, bent over to protect my ribs.
‘Good,’ Hob says as if we have just agreed some small thing. ‘Good.’
I cannot tell how long we walk before Hob stops us. My world has shrunk to the pain in my body and the ground I must drive it to cover. I measure distance not against waymarker trees on the skyline but against the stones beneath my shambling feet. One yard gained, and another, and another. Yard after yard, foot after foot, inch after panting, gasping inch goes by beneath my downcast eyes. In every step there is pain — the mare seems to sense it for she half-turns and whickers every now and again.
I can feel a breeze, warm against my battered face. The morning is wearing on.
We are on a long, long hill. I am bent so far over that I keep losing my balance and falling, only to be hauled up again. The agony in my ribs each time almost deprives me of my wits.
There is the sound of bells. One of the little hours. Terce or sext? I raise my head until I can see the sky; by the sun, sext. I must have lain senseless some time before Hob dragged me to the mare’s head.
‘There.’
I look up. I see a church with a hospital or leper house next to it. The churchyard is full of the dead, a pestilence-pit. I drop my head again.
‘Salster,’ Hob says.
I shake my head. I do not want to be in Salster.
‘Not here,’ he says, taking my shaking head for denial, ‘there.’
I look up, my head pounding, my jaw a solid lump of pain, and follow his pointing finger. There, beneath the hill we are standing on, is Salster, its priory huge and white in the midst of it.
‘Another mile and we’ll be there.’
The thought of another mile of pain reduces me to tears and I fall to the ground, almost at the mare’s feet.
‘No, Martin, you can’t die yet. You’ve got to get me to Salster first.’
My head hangs between my knees. I shake it slowly. I have not the strength go on.
‘Don’t start saying no again, Martin. Come on.’
I cannot even raise my head. There is too much pain. I just want to lie down and not move.
‘Come on! Get up!’
Broken ribs grind as Hob’s boot connects. I cry out and fall to one side. The mare skitters as I fall against her back leg and her iron-shod hoof comes down on the side of my head in a sickening but short-lived pain. Then, no more.
CHAPTER 32
My eyes open. I am in a hospital. There are beds down both sides and a well-swept floor of flagstones.
Two men stand together. One wears a monk’s robes.
On the bed in front of them, a body lies, battered, bloody and utterly still.
The monk speaks. ‘The brother who let you in said you brought two bodies.’
‘No. The second wasn’t a body.’ The other man moves. A wrapped bundle stands next to the bed on which a corpse lies. ‘It was this — the reason for my pilgrimage.’ He bends to unwrap the blanket from the figure. ‘This is Saint Cynryth, known as the White Maiden. She’s a saint from the old times and my father — God rest him — was very devoted to her.’
The monk shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, friend. I don’t know your saint.’
‘You will.’ The man speaks with assurance. ‘For she’s done miracles. She healed me of the pestilence when I’d been given the last rites, when I’d drawn my last breath. She healed me and I sat up, alive, when all around me were dead.’
The monk nods but he does not seem much moved by this testimony.
‘We were collyers, my father and I, in the King’s Dene Forest. That’s where we first heard of the saint. But she’s native to Salster. In the time before the Normans, the time of the Seven Kingdoms. She’ll be a great saint again, when people hear of her miracles. As great a saint as your Dernstan.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘She’s guided us here — every step of the way. She’s granted visions and done miracles. A young girl knelt beneath her hand for a blessing —’ the man lifts the saint and lowers her fractionally — ‘and the hand on her head became flesh, not wood.’
At this, finally, the monk does turn. ‘The wood became flesh on her head?’
‘Yes. And not just for her. For many others afterwards, too.’
The monk’s face says he does not know what to think. ‘What did you say her name was?’
‘Cynryth. She was the daughter of Halstan, a king of the south, in the time before the Normans came.’
I know this story. I wish I was closer to the men, so that I could see their faces.
As if the wish has pushed me, I move, like goosedown on a breeze. I see their faces. And I see the face of the corpse. Dark featured, battered. He looks like somebody. Kin to me, perhaps. Dark, like my father. My father is dead but this corpse is not him. Battered, his face bruised and swollen, one eye closed and weeping; one hand lies on his breast, bloody and misshapen. My hand. Me.
I stare down at my own battered, unmoving face and I hear the monk ask a question.
‘Where did you say you came from?’
‘From the King’s Dene Forest, in Gloucestershire.’
