‘On the throne, Sylvain, that is where the blood must be spilled,’ Father Arthmael insists. ‘Come here to me, Regulus.’
The boy tries to pull away from the gloved hand holding his arm and return to the voice he recognises.
The man tightens his grip. Regulus jerks his head up to look at him, feeling a sudden tension in Sylvain’s body. He is staring at Father Arthmael.
‘The throne . . . You called it the throne. That is where the old king dies.’
He takes a step forward. With both hands grasping the boy’s shoulders, he pushes him in front of himself like a shield. ‘And which of us is the old king, Arthmael? Black or white, which do you intend will fall into the grave with the boy? No, don’t bother to answer that. I can see it in your face. I seek resurrection for one who is dead. You . . . you seek eternal life for yourself. But what you fail to grasp, after all those years of study, what you failed to learn from the Great Master is that to gain the eternal life you seek there must be death, and the death must be your own. You cannot escape the grave, Arthmael.’
Without warning he shoves Regulus forward hard against the abbot. Regulus’s head smashes into Father Arthmael’s stomach, knocking the breath from him. Regulus crashes down onto the wood boards and Father Arthmael doubles up, crumpling down against the wall, trying desperately to pull the air back into his lungs. In one fluid movement, Sylvain snatches the golden sickle from the table. Regulus sees only the flash in the light of the brazier, which seems to leave a long golden-red trail in the air, as if a flame hangs there suspended.
Sylvain springs towards the crouching abbot. He raises the sickle in his right hand and with his left tries to grab Father Arthmael’s hair to drag his head back. But the priest is tonsured and the short fringe around his head is slippery with grease. The hair slides from Sylvain’s fingers. With a shriek of frustration, he lifts the sickle higher as if he means to cleave the man’s skull in two. Father Arthmael, still struggling for breath, raises his arm to shield his head, his face distorted in fear. But just as the murderous blade descends, Sylvain shrieks again, this time in pain, as a thick staff knocks the sickle from his hand and sends it spinning across the floor.
Father Madron shoves Sylvain aside and hauls his superior to his feet.
‘Forgive me, Father. I know you gave instructions I was to keep watch outside, but when I heard the commotion I—’
‘Stop him! Stop him, you idiot!’ Father Arthmael cries.
But it is too late. Sylvain is dragging Regulus across the floor. The young canon and Father Arthmael try to lunge for him together, but succeed only in falling over each other in their haste. Sylvain releases his grip on the boy only long enough to grasp him around the waist and, with the small child tucked under his arm, he mounts the ladder, using his own head as a battering ram to push open the trapdoor above him. Regulus’s shoulder is rammed against the frame, and he yelps in pain as Sylvain drags him through the small opening. The trapdoor falls back into place with a hollow thud, and Father Madron, scrambling up behind them, puts his hand to the trapdoor just moments too late to prevent the bolt being kicked into place above him.
Chapter 55
They must be extracted, conjoined, buried and mortified and turned into ashes. Thus it comes to pass that the nest of the birds becomes their grave.
Gisa turned her head to me. It might have been the shadows cast by the single trembling flame, but her face suddenly looked as gaunt as a skull, her eye sockets hollow, as if all the flesh had been sucked from her.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘sorry that I drew you into this, that it is my grandfather who is responsible.’
Not as sorry as I am, I thought. Why on earth had I persuaded her to ask Sylvain to see me? I should have taken it as an omen when Odo first refused me at the door. I should have walked as far away from this accursed place as I could. I should never have crossed the river. I should never have crossed the sea to England. I should never have mentioned the forgery to Philippe in the first place. Why had I ever left my life with old Gaspard?
‘Not your fault,’ I said gruffly, though I wasn’t sure I believed that.
Come to think of it, it was entirely her fault. I had come merely to offer my services in telling stories. If she hadn’t gone around sewing bags with my intimate hair or helped Sylvain brew his potions, things would never have got this far.
Gisa gave a startled cry as another lump of blackened plaster crashed to the floor. The stench of rotting wood was growing stronger. Was it just a shadow thrown by the candle flame, or was the mould now creeping up over the end of the bed towards our feet?
My hands were still tied firmly behind my back and the full weight of my body was pressing down on them. Pains were shooting up my arms and shoulders. My hands had already gone completely dead. I twisted, trying to turn onto my side to ease the blood flow.
‘Stop! You’re just tightening the ropes,’ Gisa said. ‘We have to try to undo the knots.’
‘And how exactly do we do that?’ I snapped.
We tried, but with her wrists crossed in front of her and tied to the bed posts and mine pinioned behind my back, not to mention the ropes lashed across our chests, neither of us could reach a single knot, not even with our teeth. Odo had made quite sure that even an acrobat couldn’t have freed himself from those bonds. Sweating from the effort, we sank back exhausted again.
‘We’re in no danger,’ I said, trying to sound as if I believed it. ‘This is just some insane fantasy of Sylvain’s. All we have to do is wait till morning, and when he finds we’re still alive, he’ll realise whatever spell he thinks he’s cast isn’t working and give up. Whenever have you heard of mould killing anyone? It can’t. It just can’t!’
But it was already covering the toes of my leather shoes.
‘Look, up there,’ Gisa breathed.
The mould covering the ceiling was swelling out in fat black cushions. But there was something else up there too. Spiders! Dozens of them, swinging on threads across the chamber on currents of warm air from the candle flame. They were spinning webs, great thick swathes of them.
Even as I stared up, a movement on the walls caught the edge of my vision. The stones appeared to be trembling. For a moment, I feared the tower was collapsing, but there was no sound. Then I saw that what was moving were worms, thousands of them, wriggling out between the cracks, burrowing through the crumbling stone and falling in thick slimy handfuls into the carpet of mould on the floor.
I clenched my jaw, trying to suppress a scream. The spiders swung lower on their threads, dropping down towards our faces. I started to struggle frantically again. But even as I did I heard a murmur of voices, snatches of words, as if there were people close by.
‘In here!’ I yelled. ‘Up in the turret. We can’t get out. Help us. For God’s sake, come quickly.’
The mutterings grew louder, though I could not distinguish anything that made sense, but somewhere close by was a whole crowd of people. They really had stormed the manor, after all, and come to rescue us. Relief surged through me.
‘Up here,’ I yelled. ‘Hurry, for God’s sake, hurry. Break the door down!’
But the words were turning to shrieks, moans and wails. Then came a rhythmic thumping, like the sound children make with bone-clappers on All Hallows Night, as if a crowd of people was trying to smash through the walls of the tower.
I called out again, but was cut short by Gisa, who had gone rigid.
‘No! No! Don’t call to them. For pity’s sake, don’t.’
‘But we need their help,’ I protested.
‘They won’t help us,’ Gisa whispered. ‘I’ve heard them before. Those are the dead. And they’re coming for us.’
Chapter 56
The wingless bird that is below holds the winged bird that is above and will not let it escape the nest.
A cloud passes across the moon and a tide of darkness floods over trees and buildings alike. On the road outside the manor house a weasel-thin boy g
rins to himself. He has already moved the broken cartwheel into position against the wall and he’s been watching the cloud creeping towards the moon, waiting for it to obliterate the light. He won’t have long, though. The wind is gathering strength. The clouds are moving more swiftly. Far off there is a growl of thunder. A storm is coming, but it will not break yet.
He balances precariously on the wheel’s rim, stretching up to a stone near the top of the wall where he is sure he can get a finger-hold. He grabs the stone with one hand and, as the cartwheel topples away beneath him, gropes wildly for the top of the wall with his free hand. For a moment, he hangs there limply, like the hanged felon he may very well become if they catch him breaking in. Then, as his bare toes scrabble against the rough stones, he gains the purchase he needs to haul his belly onto the top of the wall and tip himself over it. He lands on the grass, jarred and smarting from a dozen grazes, but he doesn’t care. He’s suffered worse, far worse, and his elation at having got inside dulls any pain.
But his triumph does not last long. His plan, if such it can be called, extended no further than getting over the wall, and now that he has done it, he swiftly realises he has not even the wisp of an idea of how to find Regulus.
When Regulus did not return to the dorter for supper, or appear among the boys at Compline, Felix knew at once that, like Mighel and Peter, he would never come back. In the morning, Father John would provide some explanation for the boy’s absence – Regulus’s family had come for him or he had been sent out to become an apprentice to some great man. The little boys would believe it, because they wanted to believe it, in the way a dying man wants to believe that the figure he sees sitting in the corner of his chamber really is an angel, not a huddle of discarded clothes. But Felix never would. They’d never convince him that Regulus was back in his mother’s arms, not even if they swore on a thousand virgins.
They had not taken Regulus down into the cellars, Felix was certain of that. No lights burned through the slits of the chamber that led to the staircase, and as they filed out of Compline, he’d seen Father Madron heading towards the main abbey gate. Felix was certain they’d given Regulus to the black-robed wizard who changed boys into birds. He’d wagered his dinner for a month on that.
In the dark, it had not been difficult for Felix to slip away from the others just before they reached the dorter. He’d scurried along beneath the walls, keeping to the pools of shadow, well away from the candlelight spilling from the casements. Father Madron was deep in conversation with the gatekeeper, as his horse was led snorting into the yard. The beast’s breath spurted in white plumes from its nostrils and its iron shoes struck blue sparks against the cobbles. Felix’s stomach gave an excited lurch. The gatekeeper would have to open the main wooden door to let Father Madron out. No one could ride or even lead a horse through the narrow wicket gate.
The gatekeeper began opening the heavy door before Father Madron had even walked across to his horse. Felix crept closer, sidling round behind the White Canon as he was occupied with mounting his beast. The boy ran for the shelter of a cart that stood in the corner of the yard, close to the gate. Two chickens roosting on the cart opened their blackcurrant eyes and watched him, fluffing their feathers in annoyance at being disturbed. He prayed they would not start squawking.
Felix waited, crouching low. The flaming torch on the wall flooded the whole archway with yellow light. If he ran through the gate now, he would be lit up like a heretic on a pyre. But if he didn’t move soon, the canon would have ridden through and the gates have been locked behind him.
Felix leaped up and, seizing one of the roosting chickens, tossed it into the middle of the courtyard. The indignant bird fluttered to the ground, screeching and flapping its wings. Startled and disoriented, it fled across the yard, directly in front of the horse, which reared and whinnied at the sudden appearance of this demented creature. Father Madron fought to bring his mount under control, swearing and cursing at the stupid bird, while the gatekeeper and groom rushed forward to help.
Felix didn’t hesitate. Keeping low to the ground, he dashed through the archway and threw himself into the shelter of some reeds beyond the moat bridge. Panting and sweating, he knelt there until Father Madron, having calmed his horse, finally passed through the archway and trotted past his hiding place. The great wooden gate closed behind him with a thud that echoed off the stones.
Two thoughts struck Felix at the same instant. The first was that any punishment he had thus far suffered at the hands of Father John was mere play compared to what he could expect when he returned after having sneaked out. The second was that he was free. He need never return and nor would he.
His absence would surely be discovered as soon as Father John came to lock them up for the night; probably it already had been. But they would search the abbey first, all the usual places a boy might go – the necessarium, where he might have gone to relieve himself, and the kitchens or store rooms he might have raided to steal food. Everyone knew it was impossible to leave the abbey save through the main gate and the gatekeeper knew better than to let any boy go out unescorted. So, if Felix was lucky it would be some hours before they thought the unthinkable and began to search for him outside the abbey grounds. By which time he would be long gone.
A thrill of excitement rippled through him. He could go anywhere in the world, do anything he pleased. But excitement turned swiftly to anxiety. Where could he go? He’d been brought to the abbey when he was even younger than Regulus. They’d told him his family was dead. He didn’t know if that was true, but even if they still lived, he’d no idea where they might be or what they were called. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been called before he became Felix. The name was there, submerged somewhere beneath his nightmares, but he couldn’t reach it.
And how would he live? Food, clothing and shelter might have been meagre, but they had appeared in his life day after day, as the sunlight and the rain fall on grass. He had little idea how to obtain such necessities for himself. A great chasm of fear and loneliness opened beneath him. He wanted to run back to the gate and pound on it, demand to be let back into the safety of those cloisters. He didn’t care that he’d be punished. Punishments always came to an end eventually. He wanted to be safe in there with the other boys.
He shook himself angrily. Regulus wasn’t safe, not if he was with the man in the black robes. That was why he’d escaped, Felix reminded himself sternly, to save Regulus, and when he had rescued him, he’d take him back to his family. Regulus’s mother would be so glad to see him that she’d hug them both till they couldn’t breathe. Maybe she’d ask Felix to stay with them – for ever. He clutched at the thought. He and Regulus would be brothers. He’d have his own family then and they’d live in their own cottage deep in the forest. He’d help his new father cut wood and tend traps. He’d mind the little ones – he’d had plenty of practice at doing that – and in time . . . He shook himself again. Time was running out. Before he could return Regulus to his family, he first had to find him.
Felix had never visited the manor, but from what he’d overheard the lay brothers saying, it wasn’t far along this track. That was what they’d said, anyway. But when he was creeping along the ink-black path, tripping over unfamiliar ruts and holes, it had seemed a very long way to Felix and several times he almost turned back, fearing he was walking in the wrong direction. His heart had been thumping most of the way too, as he bolted past the rustling bushes, or started at the sudden screech of an owl. Once, he thought he heard the sound of sobbing coming from a ditch. Maybe it was the ghost of a drowned child. Felix ran.
But now that he is finally inside the manor walls, his escape and the journey seem a mere stroll across a sunny courtyard compared with the task of finding Regulus, never mind rescuing him. As the cloud slides away from the moon, Felix sees that he is standing in a garden, not unlike the cloisters at the abbey. To his left is an imposing house. All the stout wooden doors are firmly shut, probably locked too.
<
br /> As the silver lake of moonlight spreads out across the grass it reveals another building to the right of him, a gaunt square tower. Candlelight flickers in the upper window slits, and the deep red glow of a burning fire in the topmost chamber. But where are they keeping Regulus? Is he in the great manor building or up in the tower? Maybe he’s somewhere underground, like the vaulted cellar beneath the abbey. Felix can hardly march up to one of the doors and demand to know where his friend is, and in truth, he suddenly loses all confidence that Regulus is here at all.
He’s a toadwit, a clodplate, a muttonhead! Regulus will be safely back in the dorter by now. He returned while they were all at Compline and right now he’s curled up under his blanket asleep. He hasn’t even troubled to imagine what’s happened to Felix, much less care. Why on earth has Felix risked everything to rescue a stupid little maggot who isn’t even in any danger?
Felix turns back, searching along the wall, trying to find a foothold or a thick stem of ivy he can use to scramble back over the top. He grows frantic, expecting at any moment to hear a pack of savage guard dogs running towards him or a watchman yelling. The man who lives here is a wizard. He turns boys into birds and keeps them prisoners for ever, caged in his dungeons. What will he do to a boy he finds prowling in his grounds at night? As he runs down the length of the wall, Felix tries desperately to think of any excuse he can for being here. He hears a cry above the gusting wind. Is that the scream of one of the enchanted boys? Is it the shout of a guard who’s spotted him?
Even as Felix turns his head, a flash of light catches his eye. A beacon has been set ablaze on top of the tower. It’s a warning that there is an intruder in the grounds. It will bring the guards running. Felix wills the blaze to die away, but the red and orange flames leap higher into the black sky as if they mean to set the stars ablaze. Thick smoke, hell-red in the glow of the fires, twists and turns in the wind, one moment spinning skywards, the next licking down over the side of the building.
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