“A male entity or revenant for sure,” Geraint said.
“I am thinking there are surely two restless dead, possibly more than two,” answered Yolande with a heartfelt sigh. “And of different natures. There is so much trouble here, Geraint. Worse, I begin to fear something is deeply amiss with the priest.”
Geraint yawned. Since his brief time as a reluctant novice in a monastery, he did not like clerics and certainly never worried about them. “You will find it, or them.”
“Or they will find us.”
“Even better. We will be ready.” Geraint, sprawling by the reeve’s hearth as if it were the softest of feather beds, was too comfortable to be anxious. Replete after a supper of bread and honey, he pushed the pot of ale across the beaten earth floor to Yolande.
“Rest, cariad. The reeve and his lads are out tonight with their sheep and the womenfolk are all in church at your suggestion, even the babes. Nothing will reach them there.” He yawned and, rolling flat on his back, stretched his arms above him. “We have this place to ourselves.” A home of his own, even an adopted one, was a novelty, but one he liked since Yolande was with him.
And was she resting? Not a bit, unless scouring floors and scrubbing tables and beds could be counted as slumber. She had said she needed no help, thanks, and so he left her to it, enjoying her speed and nimble fingers. Had he been scrubbing alongside her, he would have had cobwebs in his hair and soot on his nose but she was still as neat as a fresh pin.
“What now?” he asked as she leaped onto a sleeping platform. She had already beaten the rough mattress and shaken the blankets outside.
“Sacred herbs.” Yolande dropped a stream of delicate dried flowers and stems into the heart of the bed.
Geraint took another slurp of ale and stared at the web-free roof beams. “You will do this in all the huts?”
“In the homes of those who will allow it, yes.”
She was otherworldly yet canny enough to start with the reeve’s house and he approved that but could not resist a tease. “Even if you delay their Christmas?”
“Better that than a plague of dreams.” She propped her bow and quiver against a barrel of dried peas, directly opposite the door and within easy reach.
“Expecting company?”
“Just in case.”
Usually he rolled onto his side, away from her as she lay softly beside him, knowing he would not impose on her. Tonight, after all that chatter of incubi and carnal dreams and her own revelation concerning wives, he sat up and unfurled his cloak.
“It will be cold later, even with the fire.” He worked at keeping his voice low and easy. “We should bundle together.” He shook the ends of his cloak, miming a bear hug.
Her smile deepened at his blatant invitation. “I must sleep here.” She patted the sleeping platform.
“To make sure you have no nightly dream visitors?” Geraint guessed he looked like sour milk but he did not care. This whole do-not-touch gulf between them had always irked and he was a lusty man, not a saint. And why did she not tell me we could be wed? What is she waiting for?
The anger and hurt flared in his eyes and she ached to comfort him, hold and embrace him, make it right between them. Her despair and frustration quickened into anger as she considered how she had tried to do right and been met by a wall of silence.
It is months since I sent that message by way of a friar. Why have I heard no word? For how long must Geraint and I endure this gnawing wait and earthly limbo?
The lash of shame smarted as she took her place on the sleeping platform. She was thirsty but felt too guilty to ask Geraint to pass the jug of ale and a cup. Her mouth parched, her eye sockets throbbing, she tugged her cloak over her head and pretended to go to sleep.
Later, she slept in truth and dreamed, but not of incubi. She dreamed of Abbot Nigel, her mentor, who had given her the sacred bow and told her she must toil as an exorcist for a time of seven.
He had been old when he said that to her but in her dream Abbot Nigel was in the prime of his life, stocky and straight with piercing brown eyes and a weather-beaten face as round as a full moon. Yolande’s heart thumped in her breast.
“Did the friar pass on my question to you?” she asked.
Abbot Nigel looked at his feet then at the still blue summer waters of the fishpond. “He came too late. I was already dead. I died in the midsummer, soon after you met Geraint.”
Yolande felt her heart fall, felt as if her whole body was falling. Please, Holy Mother, let it not have been the pestilence that killed him, let him not have suffered.
“I died in my sleep, peacefully, free of plague.” The abbot pointed to the path winding around the fishpond. “Let us walk.”
What happens now? What of my life and Geraint’s?
“I cannot help you with that.” Abbot Nigel skimmed a pebble across the flat surface of the fishpond. “And before you ask, I did not speak of your mission to anyone else, neither priest nor layperson. I did not share my sacred vision of your task with any save you.”
“So the mystery dies with you.” Yolande clenched her fingers into fists and scowled at the placid, sun-dappled waters, ashamed of the impulse to strike out at him. She could not ask anyone still alive what a time of seven meant. How could you have left me this way? How could you have died?
“I am sorry, Yolande. You have my prayers. Farewell.”
“Please—” She flashed out a hand to grip his, to cling a little longer. “Stay!” Her plea met empty air.
The abbot was already gone.
* * * * *
Geraint, lying on the rushes, still as a toppled doorpost, angry as a hornet, had not slept a wink. Yolande gasped. The semidarkness swirled above the sleeping platform as she sat upright and hot jealousy burst from him.
“Good dreams, eh? Fine, lusty dreams?”
“Pig!” she spat in Welsh then vaulted down from the sleeping platform, snatched up her bow and sped out into the night.
He followed, determined to have it out with her, and met her striding back, determined to have it out with him.
Very good, he thought and the words flooded out. “Why did you not tell me marriage is protection in your work? Oh, I should have guessed, should I not? You even wear a wedding ring.”
She glanced at the gold band on her third finger before piercing him with a wild glance. “It was my mother’s and you know quite well why I wear it. It is to stop questions, and stupid men from pestering—”
“Stupid men, eh? Am I one of those?”
“Do not put words in my mouth.”
“Not stupid then, but not good enough for you?”
Her eyes narrowed, a sign of real anger. “I know this waiting between us is hard but I am acting too, Geraint. I was not floating around, doing nothing. I sent a messenger months ago.”
They were talking at each other at the same time then they both suddenly stopped, breathing heavily, the chill night air thick as smoke between them.
“How could you think that?” Yolande flicked her bow in irritation, as a cat flicks its tail. “If you are weary of me, go.”
Oh, he would not have her turn it. She was the one at fault here. “Take my hand. We call on the priest, haul him from his sickbed and wed. We can be done by midnight.”
“Done? Done? I am not a task to be endured.”
“And I am no grand noble. Did you hope to win yourself one through a mighty exorcism? I could carry both your packs then and be even more the fool.”
She flung aside her bow and flew at him, almost knocking him off his feet. “I sent word!” she shouted as she flailed at him. He ducked and wove, laughing, relieved at her fury and her futile attempts to land a blow. “I asked!”
He slipped on a patch of frost, tottered and took her down with him. They rolled on the hard ground and then she was beneath him, soft and sinewy together, her hair spilling everywhere and her breath spurting like a pot boiling over.
“I could pitch you off,” she hissed agains
t his ear. “I am resting, ’tis all.”
“Exactly.” There was mischief in her eyes and he did not let her up. He did not trust her quite yet. “What message is this?”
She puffed out her cheeks a bit, indignant still, but then the words flowed out of her. She had sent an urgent question by way of a traveling friar to her spiritual mentor, Abbot Nigel, asking, “If I might marry as my father did.”
“And what was his answer?”
“There is none. He is dead. I dreamed of his death tonight.” Her generous mouth turned down at the corners and she rolled onto her side.
He drew her into his arms, distraught that she did not resist. Rocking her, feeling a single tear splash down her face onto his neck, he whispered endearments in Welsh, longing to soothe her with the finest silks, foods, wines—anything.
Why did you not tell me what you were about? he almost asked, before sense choked his voice. She had acted, had asked and had endured that waiting alone. To spare me more worry. He knew that was true, just as he knew he had a temper.
“What now?” she asked. “He was my mentor and no one else and he is dead. I have no other to ask.” She beat her fist steadily on her knee, seemingly unaware of what she did.
Geraint wrapped her cold fingers in his. “Cleanse this place first and then let us go to a sacred spot I know, where all wishes and prayers are answered.”
She sat up at that, glinting a quick smile at him. “It sounds much, much too easy, honeyman.”
Yolande’s use of his nickname settled him as nothing else could and he wanted badly to do something for her.
“This I swear,” he intoned, crossing his legs against the possible lie, aware he was thinking on the spot. There is that place my mam told me of, but first… “After we rid Halme of its revenants and incubi, we shall go.”
I will work something out on the journey. Her father is dead and so is her mentor so she needs a man to sort this for her.
Geraint knew that was possibly another lie but grinned anyway.
Yolande pierced him with a knowing glance but said nothing. She rolled to her feet, using a tumbler’s move he had taught her. “Come on.”
“To where?” he asked, though he did not greatly care. They were whole again and the shadow between them, cast by his own impatient suspicions, had gone. He would have followed her to the moon.
“To the heart of this.” Yolande strode up the track, sweeping up her bow, patting her shoulder to check that her quiver of arrows was secure.
“The churchyard again?”
“The priest’s house, idiot.”
Geraint fell into step alongside her. Idiot was better than pig.
Put it aside. Grief for Abbot Nigel made Yolande’s eyes raw with unshed tears. Geraint is right, we shall find a way. As for the rest, the abbot was old and died a peaceful death. He is surely with God. So why dwell on it?
She tried to focus on the coming encounter but Halme’s priest was a man of God, like the abbot. She wiped an angry tear away and Geraint’s large fingers squeezed hers.
’Tis said that as with the size of a man’s hands, so with his other parts.
Heat rose in her and she crossed herself.
“What is this?” To her relief, Geraint’s wry question was not directed at her.
The church was set in a hollow but, surprisingly, the priest’s house was at the other end of the village, surrounded by a stand of rowan trees. The rowan was a good tree, a holy tree, but the charms dangling from the trees were strange.
“Do not touch,” she warned.
“What is it—them?” Geraint asked, seeing more and more hanging from the bare branches.
“Nothing wholesome.” She knew that already.
“Chicken bones?”
“Cat bones,” she whispered and agreed as he grimaced.
“Is Father William trying to keep things out or welcome them in?”
“We’ll see.” She strode to the small thatched house, raising her fist to thump the door.
Geraint scampered after her and caught her by the shoulders. “It is long after moonrise, cariad,” he said mildly. “Guile may open this door better than force.”
He scratched at the wood, shriveling before her, making himself old and gnarled. “Alms,” he croaked. “Pity at Christmas for a poor man—”
The door opened a crack and a shovelful of ashes hit Geraint in the face. “Hell and damnation!” he roared, batting the filthy cloud away.
“Neither courteous nor Christian, Father.” Leaving him cursing but unharmed, Yolande shouldered her way in. She stopped abruptly when she saw the cowering figure by the hearth. “You are his mistress?”
“His sister Bertha. You should not have come here.”
“Where is he?”
It was obvious the priest was nowhere in the one-roomed cottage and there were signs of long-term neglect. The place needed fresh firewood and bedding, a good scrub and more stores laid by. Yolande looked more closely at Bertha, a diminutive, skinny woman with lanky hair, wearing a patched, grubby robe and a worn-down expression.
“For how long has he been gone?”
Bertha hugged herself, saying nothing.
“Has he fled or does he wander every night?”
“I cannot stop him. Month after month, after sunset, he goes out.”
But not to the church, not at night, or Geraint would have seen him.
“By day he is slower but still my brother, still a priest, visiting houses, hearing confessions, saying mass—”
“Mass within church?”
Bertha nodded. “He did until the coming of these darker times, but for these last ten days he will not go before the altar. He stays within the nave. He does not preach anymore. Often he wanders off. I had to tell the steward he was ill. People were beginning to talk.”
Off to her side, Yolande saw Geraint gathering filthy pots together. It must be bad in here if even he tidies. “Did you toll the church bell earlier tonight?”
Bertha put her fist in her mouth and gnawed on her fingers like a babe. “Sometimes he heeds it,” she mumbled through her skinny hands. “Then he returns to the church or to this house.”
“Why back here?” The question seemed beyond Bertha, who merely gnawed some more on her fingers. “Does he come here to collect vestments or things he will need in church?” Yolande hazarded.
“Perhaps that.” Bertha’s guarded reply inspired no real confidence but Yolande let it go, briefly overwhelmed by the mountain of the task before her.
“The priest possessed and needing to be exorcised? Not good,” murmured Geraint in Welsh, echoing her thoughts. Then in English, “I will wash these crocks in the stream and get more wood.”
Grateful for his quick understanding and support, Yolande turned again to Bertha. “I can help you, Bertha,” she said firmly.
The priest’s sister sobbed. “Your coming has made him worse.”
“The ghost or spirit within him fears me,” Yolande said quietly. She made the sign of the cross before Bertha, relieved when the woman did not flinch. Bertha at least was spiritually clean. “Your brother is possessed but he will be cured, believe me. Tell me, why is his house so far from the church?”
“And from the rest of the villagers,” Geraint remarked dryly in Welsh. He gathered more pots into his cloak and moved with them to the open door. “A man who likes his privacy.”
Privacy or secrets? Yolande wondered as Geraint slipped outside. But why should the priest here need either?
Bertha gave a helpless shrug. “William did not like the old priest’s cottage. He said it was too cramped. We moved here last winter as soon as the lord gave him leave to do so.”
“I understand,” Yolande answered, but did not. “And who hung the cat bones from the tree?”
“William did in the summer.” Bertha shuddered. “He said it would give him more knowledge, that he would break open every secret.”
One of those priests. Forbidden lore was always a draw to some, e
specially clerics. Perhaps he meddled too deeply, woke or summoned something with his hanging charms.
Geraint stole back inside, stacked the dripping pots on the trestle and began to tend the fire.
Yolande pointed to a bench beside the hearth and swept it quickly with the edge of her tunic before nudging Bertha toward it. “Let us sit together and share a soothing tisane. Your brother will be well again, I promise.”
“You should send her to the church.” Breaking sticks over the flaring fire, Geraint looked like a wild-haired Welsh angel. “Let her have a night in peace for a change.”
He bowed low over the flames, so close Yolande was convinced his eyebrows would smoke, and addressed Bertha directly in English. “Mistress, my lady and I must cleanse this place. Allow me to escort you to the church, to join the other good womenfolk of Halme.” He smiled, Yolande thought, far too generously. “My lady is sending some sleeping herbs to the maids and I must deliver them. Might we stroll together, Bertha?” He rose and stepped across the fire, holding out his hands.
Yolande had to rummage quickly in her pack for the herbs. “What are you about?” she hissed at her glib companion.
“You need to work on this house and I want to work on you,” he answered in Welsh.
“Work on me?” For an instant, she wondered if she had understood properly.
He guided the dazed and unresisting Bertha to the threshold and stepped out into the starlight, only then turning to look at her.
“What do you mean?” Yolande asked.
He blew her a kiss or two. “To court you, cariad, what else? A man usually woos a maid before he weds her.”
He went out and left her astonished.
Chapter Eight
Geraint discovered the church packed with villagers. Bertha was swiftly gathered in by a balding, mustached, bandy-legged neighbor, who glared a possessive this-one-is-mine stare at him. Geraint was glad of the fellow since he suspected Bertha might be a clinger.
And you are not? taunted his conscience, a rare voice for him and usually ignored. Less easy to ignore were the questions from the villagers.
“How is your lady doing?”
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