Relics bp-1

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  I looked out onto one of the broader streets that sloped down to the river. People were about, but the drizzle was keeping their heads down. I decided to take a risk: hopefully my appearance, filthy, unshaven and starved as I was, would be disguise enough. I hurried down the street until I reached the bottom of the hill, then took a right turn. I was now in a busy thoroughfare that ran parallel to the river. It led to the castle, I figured, and to the rocky, deserted shore beyond. Cowl pulled down, hands clutching my stolen prize, I trotted on.

  At last the street ended. I was beyond the town. Some fishermen sat around mending nets, looking wet and dejected. They did not notice me as I passed, and soon I was amongst the rocks in the lee of the castle. The tide was out, and the river was a narrow ribbon winding between wide plains of rippled sand. I found a jutting tusk of stone to hide behind, just beyond the tide line. The gravediggers' lunch turned out to be a great hunk of yellow cheese the colour of the skin on an old man's heel, but tasty and powerfully strong. There were two raw onions still in their skins, and two slabs of black bread clamped around a slice of salted pork fat. In the flagon was scrumpy, fresh and fine, as sour as death. I took a bite of onion, then a bite of cheese, then a swig of scrumpy, chewing all to a pulp in my mouth which I savoured until every morsel was swallowed, then began all over again. I finished an onion, most of the cheese and enough of the cider to feel it in my head and limbs. Then I stuffed the remains back into the satchel, which I used as a pillow while I took a long, deep and dreamless nap. The gulls woke me to bright sunshine. It seemed to be about three hours after noon. The tide was in and boats were bobbing on the water. A couple of big sea-going craft were edging towards the wharves, and a gaggle of fishing boats were sailing out to sea. A few yards off shore, a little rowing cob rode at anchor while its occupant jigged a hand-line up and down in the water. The fisherman looked up to see me watching him. Feeling suddenly exposed, I waved a hand, not knowing what else to do. The man waved a languid hand in return, and went back to his jigging. To him I was no one important. That felt good, so I had a few more swigs of scrumpy and a corner of bread and pork. I would have to wait until dark before going back into town to find Adric's Frenchman, so I settled myself against the warm rock with the flagon between my legs and watched the gulls wheel overhead.

  There were fewer people in the darkened streets, but the wharves were still busy. Fishing boats were putting out and coming in. Catches were being piled up and inspected by lantern-light. Sailors were coming and going from the bigger ships as well. I wondered which of those belonged to Monsieur de Sol. I had slipped back into the town just after dusk, not wanting to risk being caught by the Watch. It was still too early, I thought, to look for the inn, so I made my way back to the church and slipped into the graveyard. I noted that the grave had been filled in and was strewn with flowers. There was a wooden marker, but I could not make out the name carved upon it. I gave silent thanks to the unknown soul who had inadvertently supplied me with lunch, and returned to my nest under the yew-tree.

  There I waited. It was pitch-dark in my leafy cave, but I was too anxious to sleep. Instead I went back over the past few days, reliving them in my mind: the meeting and parting with Adric; the Dart in the moonlight, the foxes. It is strange how quickly the human spirit adapts to change, for I was already putting behind me the pain of leaving my old life. Wounds as deep as those do not ever entirely heal, perhaps – and I could no longer bear to let my mind linger for even an instant on Will, for the pain would come at once like hot iron pressed on flesh – but they were closing now, and I could half-smile as I remembered how the old boar had stared at me, indignation and terror in his piggy eyes. My heart sank again as I thought of Adric, who might even now be suffering the anger of Sir Hugh. But I had seen unsuspected depths in my friend, and a strength and goodness that someone like the Sieur de Kervezey could never understand or dominate. Somehow I knew that the coming summer would see Adric back on his pony, seeking out new wonders to delight his voracious mind and filthy, old and grisly artefacts to horrify his brother monks. I toasted him with the scrumpy, and grew a little more calm. An owl landed in the tree somewhere far above me and hooted softly to itself. In a little while I heard the watchman calling out ten of the clock. It was time to go in search of the White Swan.

  But first I finished the scrumpy, needing the courage and not wishing to be weighed down by the empty flagon. I took off my robe and wedged it into a bole of the tree. Now I would look like any country boy, so long as no one looked too closely at my scalp. I left the flagon on the new grave-mound as a puzzle for the diggers, and made my way out into the streets. Not knowing anything of Dartmouth's inns, and being too afraid of drawing attention to myself to ask directions, I would have to search the town, and do it quickly. I had not passed the White Swan so far, so I could rule out two big streets. I decided to investigate the wharves first.

  The waterfront was as busy as before, and no one paid me any mind. Dartmouth stretches out along the river, and it took me some time to walk the full length of the docks. There was no White Swan inn, although there were a number of other noisy hostelries and I was tempted to step inside more than one of them for a beer and some company. Finally I was back on the outskirts of town and turned back. I would have to search the alleys that ran back from the river first, then take to the back streets. I walked into a couple of empty courts. The third sheltered a sailor and his whore, hard at work against the wall of an old house. I slipped out of sight before they noticed me, but the woman's groans, and the cider that still warmed my guts, began to give me a warm glow inside, and not one that a cleric should be feeling. I began to feel my blood heat up – began, perhaps, to feel like a hunted fox, and not like the fox's future dinner.

  The fourth alley I tried was not a dead end, but turned sharply to the right. I followed it, passing through a narrow opening where the houses leaned so close together that they formed a kind of tunnel. Then the alley turned again, and I was in a small court, blocked at the far end by a tall house from which poured lamplight and the sound of a hurdy-gurdy. The front of the building was plaster between wooden beams carved with laughing, leering faces and animals scurrying amongst oak leaves, and from a jutting post hung a great white-painted swan, a crown around its neck. I looked back down the alley, but saw only darkness. Time, then, to take my new road, be it short or long. Better to go on, and to get matters over with for good and all.

  Chapter Eight

  Stepping over the threshold of the White Swan was like walking into the heart of a vast bonfire. Candles and lanterns hung from the ceiling, burned in sconces on the walls, rose in great mountains of wax from the tables. At one end of the long, low room logs crackled in a big stone fireplace. Meat and birds roasted on spits or hung from slowly revolving strings in front of it, and kettles steamed merrily on the hearth. I had been living in a world of cold and shadows for so long that my senses faltered. The carved swan over the door outside and the light inside merged, and I truly believed for a moment that I had been enfolded in the wings of a great bird of fire, whose feathers were flames that did not burn but fluttered softly against my face. Coming back to reality, I discovered that I had walked right over to the fireplace and was staring into it, standing there like a statue.

  I looked around me, horrified that I had dropped my guard so recklessly, but it seemed no one had noticed. I was just another customer warming himself before he ordered food and drink. And after all, I was just that, in part at least. Looking neither left nor right, I marched to the bar and put down my florin.

  Your pleasure?' asked the innkeeper. He was a tall, thickset man with a round face and a nose broken so badly in the past that it sprawled to one side, the tip pointing towards his left ear. But despite looking somewhat demonic he had friendly eyes, and I decided I could probably trust him. But not quite yet. I ordered a mug of ale, and gulped off half of it the moment it appeared before me. It was cool from the cellar, light and fragrant. I had not had strong beer
since that night at the Crozier, and this was nothing like that rich elixir. Instead it reminded me of a moorland stream and the taste water has after running over oak roots and moss. I finished the mug and called for another.

  And another. I asked for food, and a pewter dish of roast meat was brought, with a hunk of bread to soak up the bloody gravy. By this time I was starting to relax; indeed, the food and drink – especially the drink – was giving me little choice in the matter. The fire that the sight of the rutting couple had roused in my blood was flaring, and I began to look around the room. I had no idea, of course, whom it was I was searching for. The place was full. There were many men whom I took to be sailors by their dress, and others were plainly merchants, wealthy ones at that. There were many foreign voices in the general hubbub, holding forth in tongues I did not know, some of them outlandish to my ears. And there were dark faces, sallow faces, pointed black beards and white-blond hair. Women lounged here and there. I assumed they were whores from their bright clothes and brazen laughter, and the way they wrapped themselves around their chosen men. But some of them were young and sweet-looking, and the thought that I was nothing more than an ordinary man made me pause and turn back to my beer. 'Concupiscence,' I thought, rolling the fleshy word on my tongue. How wonderful the religious life was for providing men with rich words to describe things they would never experience. Well, I reflected, I was free to put actions to those words now, but I was unlikely to live that long. Finding survival still upwards in my mind, I decided that time was wasting. I caught the innkeeper's eye and motioned him over.

  'Another beer, my boy?' he asked. It occurred to me that he probably did not serve many young peasant lads who spent silver coin, but was treating me as well as any other customer. It was then that I decided to put my trust in him, although I was not overly furnished with choices in the matter.

  'In a minute, yes, please,' I said. 'In the meantime I am looking for a friend of mine. Do you perhaps know Monsieur Jean de Sol?'

  If the man was surprised, he did not show it, although I thought I saw a new alertness in his eyes, and that ruined nose suddenly seemed more hawk-like than comical.

  'Perhaps,' he agreed, and turned to serve another patron. Now that I had played my hand, I was terrified. What now? I supposed I would have to wait and see. I was grateful when the man brought me another beer, but his silence and sharp gaze unsettled me still more.

  The next few minutes were agony. I drank quickly, although tension made my stomach, full for once, feel as if someone were squeezing it in a huge fist. I felt sick. At last the beer was gone, and I signed to the man that I wished to settle up. He cocked his head at me in surprise and was about to say something, but then with a shrug he took up my florin, grabbed a pair of large iron shears from beneath the bar and snipped the coin into quarters, three of which he handed back to me. As I turned away I felt his eyes on my back. I glanced around, but I was as unnoticed as before, and I made my way through the tables towards the door. I was almost there when a tall man stepped in front of me, barring the way. He placed a large hand lightly on my chest.

  You have some business with Jean de Sol, I think.' It was a statement, not a question. The voice was low and distinctly foreign.

  I almost denied everything and was bracing myself to spring away from the stranger when I saw that his sunburned face, though serious, was not menacing. A few faces were turned towards us now. In any case I was all too aware that the man's hand must be feeling the reliquary through my tunic. I swallowed. 'Indeed,' I said hoarsely.

  At once the man smiled. It was a good smile. 'This way,' he said, and without waiting, stalked off through the spilt drink and outstretched legs. I followed him to a door I had not noticed, in the shadows to the side of the fireplace. Behind the door was a staircase, which led to a long, narrow corridor flanked with many doors that seemed to run the full length of the building. The man selected the second door on the left, knocked once and muttered something through the keyhole. It opened, and I was waved inside with a gently mocking flourish.

  The room was larger than I expected. Most of it was taken up by an enormous bed with carved pillars and heavy drapes of some once-rich cloth that had seen better days and a great many moths. A cluster of candles burned on a high stand in one corner. By the shuttered window was a low table, and a man sat there, his back to the door. He seemed to be writing in a ledger. Another man, the one who had let us in, stood by the bed. I saw that a short-sword hung at his belt and his hand rested on the hilt, although he was smiling. He too gestured, in that mock-courtly way, towards the figure at the table. Not knowing what else to do, I stepped into the room, made my best bow towards the seated man and cleared my throat. The lock clicked behind me.

  'Monsieur de Sol, I bring you greetings from Adric of St Mary's abbey. I am called Petroc of Auneford, and I have…'

  The seated man turned and stood up. I saw that he was dressed in the French fashion, and that the cloth was expensive. A dagger hung from his crimson leather belt. He had long black hair and a sharply pointed black beard, and his eyes were quick and bright. His two colleagues were laughing quietly. I straightened, blushing wildly. What was I doing wrong? What was the right way to sell a stolen relic, in God's name? But the Frenchman saw my confusion and gestured to his chair.

  'Sit, please. We are not polite, I think. My apologies.' His accent was heavy, but his manners were as good as any Englishman, I thought, sitting down carefully and feeling like a plump mouse in a room full of cats. The three foreigners sat on the bed facing me. They seemed to be appraising me carefully, and I thought even more strongly of cats.

  'Monsieur de Sol,' I began again. 'Brother Adric of St Mary's abbey at Buckfast advised me to seek you out. I need to find passage to the Continent, and I have the means to pay my way.' Perched on the low stool and facing my inscrutable hosts I felt like a schoolboy under examination. I was certain I sounded like a scared child.

  I ploughed on. 'Brother Adric thought that you might be interested in acquiring something in my possession.' There was no reaction from my three examiners. 'It came to me by accident, but I have no way to return it to its rightful owner… I mean, I am its owner.' This was horrible. 'My good sirs, I do not want this thing! I pray that you do.' Silence. 'Please, you must help me. I have carried the hand of St Euphemia with me all the way from Balecester. A man was killed for it, but I was not the murderer. There is a man who is hunting for both of us, me and the hand. He killed the verger and then my dearest friend Will, but I was blamed, and now Sir Hugh will kill me and take the hand.' Whatever had loosened my tongue, it was not in my control. 'I walked here from Buckfast, through wood and briar, and death has followed in my footsteps. Adric is my friend. He said you would help me. If you will not help me, take the cursed relic and let me go to my death with a clean conscience.'

  Telling my story to these strangers made me almost lightheaded. In a fury I ripped open my tunic and began to scrabble at the silk that held the reliquary. At once the Frenchman was on his knees in front of me, holding my wrists and murmuring as if to soothe a frightened animal.

  'Be still, be still, young sir,' he was saying. We will help you. Do not worry. We will help.' But I had pulled the binding free, and the reliquary tumbled to my lap and onto the floor, where it lay, palm up, slender golden fingers glowing softly in the candlelight. Everyone gasped, including me. The disembodied thing on the floor seemed to offer a blessing to the room. 'Heavens above,' said the Frenchman, unnecessarily.

  After that, everything changed. The swordsman wrapped me in a fur robe from the bed. The man from downstairs, who seemed to be called Rassoul, poured a goblet of wine and made me drink. All the while, the Frenchman turned the golden hand in his own two hands, holding it up to the light, seeing how the gems on the rings sparkled, examining the workmanship. Finally he shook it. Drawing his dagger, he deftly inserted the point at the base of St Euphemia's wrist and turned it. With a faint pop the casing opened, and a black thing fell out onto hi
s palm. He held it up to me.

  It was frightful, a little wizened claw like a bunch of old blackthorn twigs. St Euphemia must have been very small, for her hand was no bigger than a young child's, though the reliquary had seemed to shelter that of an adult. The Frenchman was holding it between thumb and forefinger.

  'Look at what a sad little thing you have been carrying,' he said, and his voice was full of some emotion I could not place. 'Dead flesh and gold. What power they have over the living.'

  Tenderly, he slipped the claw back into its golden glove and sealed the end once more. He passed the reliquary to the swordsman, who placed it carefully on the table behind me. I was glad I did not have to look at it any more. I could feel the fingers still pressing into me and, looking down, I saw that the outline of a hand stood out red above my breastbone. Sweat, dirt and chafing had branded me with St Euphemia's mark. I wondered if it would ever fade.

  'Now, Master Petroc, I am afraid we have deceived you,' said the Frenchman. My heart stopped. So this is what happened to fools who meddled in matters beyond their understanding. I waited for the swordsman.

  My face was hiding nothing tonight. 'No, no, no,' the Frenchman went on quickly. 'You are safe with us. But I am not Monsieur de Sol.' 'But who are you?' I managed. 'And where is he?'

  'I am Gilles de Peyrolles, his lieutenant. He is aboard our ship. He does not often come on land these days. We will take you to him.'