By Sylvian Hamilton

by Max Gilbert

  Bane waited for Straccan as he'd been told, while watching for the unknown fair man. He wandered the streets, visited the alehouses, patronised the bear-baiting and the dog fights, and stared hard at every fair head and every black horse, with no luck at all. Nor could he learn anything of the man Gregory. Today, Saturday, Watering Day, along with half a hundred other idlers he had come to the well chamber to watch the show, and now stood below the steps of the well in a sweaty smelly press of hymn-singing hopefuls. He was not at all surprised to see Brother Celestius and his charges in the crowd a little way off. There was no need to worry about William or Alice, Bane thought. The crush of bodies was too tight for them to do anything but shuffle slowly forward waiting their turn.

  Hung about with filthy rags, a shivering beggar crouched on the lowest step beneath the well, as offensive an object as could be. The skin showing through his rags was covered with sores, great pustules, raw wet lesions, maggoty ulcers and broken scabs. The stench was so powerful that people pressed away from him and he sat in a small space all his own, a mute huddle of misery. Bane noticed he was quietly secreting coins among his tatters, ragged quarters and halves of silver pennies, and even the occasional whole coin, dropped beside him in charity.

  Brother Celestius and his people had reached the bottom step, where they fell to their knees, faces rapt; all but Walter's, who was staring at the basin and watching the steady flow from the pipes. The hymn rose to a crescendo, a huge volume of sound which echoed back and forth from the curves of walls and roof. It was followed by a moment of intense silence, before the cries and pleas of the imploring sick rose in a great clamour and the packed bodies surged forward. The two strong young attendant monks rolled up their sleeves and began bawling. 'Wait!' and 'Stoppit!' and 'Shut up there! Two at a time,' shoving back against the pilgrims with considerable force.

  In pairs the pilgrims ascended the steps, sat on the parapet, or leaned over the basin shouting their prayers, battering at the ears of the Blessed Saint with their grievances, illnesses and troubles, while the monks dipped and poured, dipped and poured. Two by two by two, men and women, children, babies in arms, all dipped in the water as if in a second baptism. There was a brief disturbance when one of the babies was found to be already dead. Its mother would not let it go, and was dragged away screaming.

  In a sudden flurry of movement Walter eeled through the crowd, rising suddenly on the bottom step. He reached for the neck of the smelly beggar, hauling him from his seat and plunging his head and upper body into the well. Water surged up and overflowed, deluging the legs and feet of those nearest. The unfortunate victim struggled and plunged, breaking the surface with a yell of 'Leggo!' but was thrust under again in Walter's iron grip. 'I baptise thee, I baptise thee,' Walter cried, 'all clean from sin!' Both monks had hold of him, trying to pull him back without success. Bane pushed forward and snatched Brother Celestius' staff, thrusting it between Walter's ankles and jerking him off balance so that he toppled down the steps, dragging monks and half-drowned beggar all in one splashing yelling heap. As they separated and began to scramble up again, there was a sudden silence, then gasps, murmurs and rising cries.

  'Look!' 'Praise God!' 'Praise Saint Felicity!' and 'What?'

  'What's appened?' 'Soddit, get your great ed out o me way and lemme see!'

  The beggar's body was clean of sores! Some scabs, drowned maggots and other repellent debris floated in the basin. The beggar coughed and spat up water, then, realising everyone was staring at him, looked down at his breast and arms, and ran a wet hand over his face and scalp. 'Shit,' he said, and launched himself at Walter, ramming his head into the madman's belly. Walter, still held between the two monks, doubled up and began to cry.

  'E tried to drown me,' the beggar said, furious.

  'E can't elp it, don't urt im, e's a loony,' cried Brother Celestius.

  'I'll give im loony,' shouted the beggar, and swung his fist at Walter's eye.

  Bane caught his hand before connection. 'Reckon he did you a service,' he said with a wink. 'Came here to be cured, didn't you?' 'Cured? Oh! Yes, of course! Cured! That's right! It's a miracle,' said the beggar fervently.

  The magic word echoed and re-echoed and leapt from tongue to tongue. –Miracle ... Miracle ... The beggar smirked at the monks. The monks looked at each other, a spark of intelligence jumped from eye to eye; one raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips interrogatively, the other nodded and they made the best of the opportunity.

  'A miracle,' shouted one brother in a great bass bellow. 'Praise be to God and Saint Felicity.' While the crowd sank to its collective knees the other monk hustled the beggar away behind screens and out through a back door into the abbey garden, where he administered a swift kick and several slaps. Sounds of protest drifted back before the door was firmly heeled shut.

  In the crypt, the prayers and howls and praises were deafening, a solid battering of animal noise, its purpose to grab and hold the saint's attention. Women swooned. Men wept, tearing at their hair and clothes. On their knees the sick, the penitent, the lame and blind and wronged, lurched and shuffled forward, dabbling hands and faces and torn bits of cloth in the water puddled on the floor.

  'How'd he get loose?' Bane asked Brother Celestius, seeing him reattaching Walter on a shortened rope.

  'Cunning old git, ain't e?' The monk sighed. 'E asked the man standing next to im to lend is knife. Cut the rope. Gave the knife back. In all that squash, I never noticed.'

  Bane made his way to the door, shoving through the kneeling pilgrims, and as he went out he met Straccan coming in. Together they walked out into the courtyard.

  'What's going on in there?' Straccan asked.

  'Signs and wonders,' said Bane. 'You all right now?'

  'Yes. Any sign of that fair bastard, or news of Gregory?'

  'No. What happens now?'

  'I want you to stay here a bit longer in case the fair man turns up. I'm going to the Temple commanderie at Durham, to find out about that man you saw in Alnwick, Soulis. Wait for me at Burnhope if you get there first.'

  'You reckon he's got something to do with this?'

  'I think he's the man we know as Gregory. Those children said the fair man was riding with Saracens, and you saw Soulis with them too. He may have been a crusader, and if he was, or if he was a pilgrim to the Holy Land, the Templars will know.'

  Chapter 18

  When Straccan had gone, Bane bought some bread and bacon and leaned back against the abbey wall, munching and waiting. Presently the miraculously cured beggar was flung out, bruised, dusty and cursing. Picking himself up, he shook a fist at the brawny gate-porter and limped off along the street, not noticing that Bane followed. A Saturday market was in full swing outside the Westgate, and the beggar pushed through the crowd, past the stalls and in through the gate, making for the brothel district, and nipping swiftly in at the front door of one whose signboard proclaimed it to be the Bishop's Mitre.

  Bane tucked himself inconspicuously in a doorway at some distance, and waited again. An hour or so passed before the man emerged, washed, decently dressed and carrying a bundle. In ordinary trews and tunic he was not readily recognisable as the disgusting vagabond from the crypt. Bane followed him back to the abbey, where streams of pilgrims were passing through the gate and in and out of the wellchamber, from which a sustained roar of praise and pleading continued. The beggar pulled up his hood and pushed his way into the chamber. Bane waited and after a while the man came out again, gazing around anxiously now, peering at people and faces, looking for someone. Bane followed him back to the market, where he waylaid the beggar by the simple means of ducking around a stall and colliding forcefully with the startled man. Allowing his bread and bacon to be knocked from his hand, he grabbed the fellow to steady himself and said cheerfully, 'Oh, it's you!"

  'Eh?' said the beggar.

  'You. From the well chamber. The miracle man! I was there, remember?'

  'Er ... yes.'

  'Here, pick up that loaf
, will you? I've only just started on it. Where did the bacon get to? Oh, there ..." He snatched it up, brushed the dust off and blew on it. 'Hungry?' he asked. 'There's enough for two.'

  They sat on the ground outside the Westgate, leaning against the town's defensive wall, watching the ebb and flow of the market and sharing the food.

  'The maggots were a nice touch,' said Bane. 'Original.'

  'I thought so,' said the beggar. 'A good idea, though I say it myself. I keep some here.' Delving into a pocket he produced a small round wood-shaving box, eased off the lid and displayed the seething contents.

  Bane eyed them critically. 'What do they eat?'

  'That's a bit of mutton pie they've got there.'

  'Oh.' Bane's gaze wandered along the stalls and over the people, selling, buying, arguing, laughing, haggling. He saw a cutpurse slip his trophy to a woman partner who shoved it down the bosom of her gown, caught Bane's eye, grinned cheekily and stuck out her tongue before melting into the crowd. 'Funny bumping into you like that,' he said. 'You look a bit more prosperous than you did this morning.'

  'That's my working clothes,' said the beggar, picking his teeth. 'Did they take your earnings?'

  'Every penny, the sods! Every half, every fourthing! Said I was lucky not to be flogged.'

  'You were.'

  'I know. But that monk, the fat one, he gave me such a kick up the arse I won't sit easy for a week.'

  They sat quietly for a while, chewing. A group of well-dressed pilgrims on mules clattered and jangled their way out through the gate, heading west. Two knights, one a Hospitaller dusty with travel, rode in.

  'How'd you make that stench?' Bane asked.

  'Professional secret,' said the beggar. 'But seeing as you've shared your breakfast with me, I'll let you in on it. Rotten fish and dead moles. Nothing stinks as bad as a mole, ever notice that?' 'Can't say I have. Where will you head for now?'

  'Not sure. Newcastle, maybe. What about you?'

  'I'm waiting for someone.'

  'Perhaps we'll bump into each other again somewhere,' said the beggar matily.

  'I shouldn't be surprised,' said Bane. 'Seeing as you've been following me ever since I got here. You going to tell me why?' The beggar looked taken aback. 'I don't know what you mean!'

  'Yes you do.'

  'No, honest!'

  'Honest my arse,' said Bane. 'You were a leper at the gate when I got here on Thursday. I chucked you a penny. I've a bloody good mind to have it back now! And I've seen you several times since, dressed as a pilgrim, keeping an eye on me.'

  'Don't be daft,' said the beggar uneasily. Bane's arm moved quickly. His dagger appeared in his hand in no more than a blink, its point at the side of the beggar's neck just under his ear.

  'Open your bundle!' And, as the man hesitated, 'Open it,' pressing slightly until the point broke skin.

  'All right! All right!' Opened, the neatly strapped bundle revealed among other things a leper's cloak, clapper and alms bowl. The cloak, reversed, became a pilgrim's cloak, and there was a badge-studded hat very like the one poor Walter cherished. 'How'd you know?' the beggar asked resentfully.

  'I've had some experience in the same line. And there was that smell. It's a bloody powerful smell. I noticed it when you were the leper, and by God, there it was again in the well chamber. So I took a good look at the face that went with the stink and realised I'd seen it in lots of other places lately.'

  'It's a small town,' the beggar suggested hopefully. 'Bound to keep running into the same people.'

  'Bollocks,' said Bane. 'Why are you following me?'

  'I was told to,' said the man sulkily.

  'Who told you?'

  'I don't know! I do it for a living. Follow people. When I'm told.'

  'So who told you?'

  The beggar looked uncomfortable. 'I don't know,' he muttered, 'I don'tl' The point nicked a little deeper and a trickle of bright blood ran down to his collarbone. 'I get messages!'

  'I can push this in a bit further each time. You'd really better tell me about it.'

  'Like I said, I get messages! Someone tells me. Might be anyone --beggar, child, whore--someone who's been given a penny or two to pass it on. Saying who I'm to follow.'

  'I don't believe any of this.'

  'Look,' said the man, T was a player. You know? Mummery and mysteries, buffoonery? Keep em laughing, make em cry? One day, well, night it was, back in Bristol, I had a spot of trouble. The company I was with got into a fight and a fellow got killed. They buggered off and I was the only one taken. I was locked up. I expected to hang. Then someone offered me this job.'

  'When was all this?'

  'Last Michaelmass. Not this one just gone, the one before. Steady wages, he said, and a good bonus, just to follow folk. I've been doing it ever since. Bristol, Peterborough, Lincoln, York, all over. Tell where they go, who they meet. That's all. In disguise. I'm good at disguise.'

  'Very painstaking,' said Bane.

  'Well, so I get carried away a bit now and then. It's an art! And no one's ever twigged before.'

  'There's always a first time. Go on.'

  'It seemed a good idea at the time. Better than being hanged. And I didn't really have any choice, did I? What d'you think would've happened if I'd said no? Pat on the head and sorry we troubled you?'

  'The man who hired you, what did he look like?'

  'Oh, Christ. I never got a look at him. It was dark. The candles were behind him. He was just a shape.'

  'Make some guesses.'

  'Thin. Oldish. Croaky voice. Spoke English like a Frenchman.' Bane thought about it. 'So you got a message to follow me?'

  'No, not you. Your master what's-his-name, Straccan. Only you turned up alone so I hung about watching you. Reckoned he'd be along.'

  'Well, you missed him,' said Bane with satisfaction. 'He's been and gone again, while you were having your sneaking arse kicked out of the abbey.'

  The beggar flashed him a look of pure dislike and sat dumb.

  Chapter 19

  It took Straccan three days to reach Durham. Heavy rain turned the roads to sucking swamps, showing no sign of relenting when he at last reached the Templars' commanderie by the Cow Gate. It was an outpost, a unit of knights and sergeants seeing to the administration of the Order's properties in the area and offering banking services. The black and white pennon, Beauseant, hung sodden from its pole. Straccan sat on the bench inside the gatehouse, looking out at the steady drumming grey rain. As he sat, he thought of Gilla and of his dead wife, Marion, and of Janiva. He had thought a lot about her since leaving the house at Shawl. After the destruction of the charm, she had told him about her gift of scrying and had tried to see in the water where Gilla might be. She could not. He remembered her anger and frustration at the failure. A barrier, she said. Some sorcery that baffled her seeing.

  Sorcery! What could a man do against invisible unknown enemies? How could he fight intangible evil? He needed something to attack with sword and lance, and all he had to fight were shadows against which he was helpless. Surely only Holy Church could stand against sorcery? Yet Janiva had found that ill charm and destroyed it, and he was no longer weakened by evil dreams.

  'What?' he said, startled, looking up at the squire who had come to attend him.