by Max Gilbert
'Sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to make you jump. I only asked your name and errand here.'
'I'm Sir Richard Straccan of Stirrup. I want to talk to the master.'
The squire led him through passages, up stairs, across galleries, and down more stairs to a small comfortless damp-smelling room, no more than a cell, where the spare and shrivelled master, Sir William Hoby, sat at a desk sealing letters. A smell of hot wax filled the room.
'William,' said Straccan, relieved. 'I hoped someone I knew would be master here. How are you?'
'Older,' said Hoby morosely. 'Riddled with rheumatism. You look fit enough. What do you want?'
'You needn't bristle. I'm not after your money and I'm sorry your old bones ache, but you probably deserve it. I need information, William.'
'Sit down,' said Hoby. 'Shove the cat off that stool and have a drink. Stay and eat with us. Spend the night. What's the matter?' He rocked his chair on to its back legs.
'I have to find out about a man. He was probably in Palestine, but I don't know when. All I've got is his name. Lord Soulis.' Hoby's chair banged down on all four legs again. 'Soulis? Where'd you come across him?'
'Our paths haven't exactly crossed yet, but they're going to. Do you know him?'
'Saw him a couple of times,' said Hoby. 'He was pointed out to me at Acre. Saw him again a few years later on the road from Joppa to Jerusalem. A troop of us camped at the waters at Lydda, and this bunch of tame Saracens appeared, looking like it was more than they could bear not to slit our throats. You know that look they have for Christians. Not Saladin's men –they belonged to Soulis. He was in the middle of them –Saracen armour, robes, the lot –on the most beautiful horse I've ever seen. We asked him about the road ahead. His infidels jabbered at him; not a dialect I knew at all, couldn't make out any of it. He said something to the master, I never heard what, then he and his creatures went their way. After a little while we went ours, smack into a nasty little ambush in that gorge, you know it, at Khatrak. The master was killed. They impaled Isumbras of Dray ton, remember him? And poor old Martin of Andover. Can't be sure, but I've always thought Soulis let us ride into it.' Hoby stared ahead, not seeing Straccan at all, only the remembered treachery.
'What became of him?'
'Ah, now. I heard he became a very rich man indeed. Found a lost city somewhere in the desert. Brought out a lot of gold. My opinion, nasty piece of work altogether. All sorts of rumours.'
'What rumours?'
'Folk said he studied the black arts. Found his treasure with the aid of demons. There was a queer old fellow he brought out of the desert, supposed to be some kind of Arab sorcerer. Probably all rot. But still, I don't like him. He gave me the creeps!'
'Any idea where he is now?'
'Scotland, I suppose. That's his country. Want me to find out?' 'Yes, William, I do As quick as you can. I'll tell you why.'
A damned queer story, Hoby thought after Straccan had left, and it worried him. Worried him so much that he couldn't sleep and in the middle of the night got up, lit a candle and wrote a letter in his own hand, no secretary.
To Sir Blaise d'Etranger, at the Priory of Coldinghame, in Scotland, greetings ...
Chapter 20
There was a lot of unusual activity in the enclosed yard at the foot of Skelrig tower. A huddle of derelict wattle outbuildings had been pulled down and burned, the remains of the huge bonfire glowing in gusts of warm wind. Flames leapt up each time more rubbish was dumped on, as serving men emerged from the tower's arched door with loads of rags, bones and festering slimy rushes. Just inside the outer gate were four loaded waggons, now horseless; the horses stood heads down in the walled hay-meadow which ran down to a pretty lake where ducks, coots and moorhens ignored the rumpus, bobbing about at the far end with their backs turned. It all looked very domestic, a tremendous long-overdue spring-cleaning.
'... and clear out that filthy stable. I want it swept and washed, clean and fit to put the horses in tonight,' said the Lady Julitta, appearing in the doorway and continuing the stream of orders she had been issuing ever since her arrival that morning. 'Faugh, what a sty! You! Yes, you,' to a servings lad trying to escape her eye. 'Tell my steward to have the beds and hangings unloaded and put up on the second floor.' The boy scooted off on his errand. Julitta took a deep breath and surveyed the bonfire, the yard, the meadow, the lake and the track along which her retinue had travelled. Apart from a couple of huts in the middle distance, the landscape was empty of humanity; just rocks, gorse, sheep-cropped grass, heather and reeds.
Her steward trotted towards her. 'My Lady, the floor is still wet upstairs.'
'Have it flogged dry, then,' she snapped. 'I want all the stuff inside before it rains.'
The steward cast a wary eye at the pure blue sky, not a cloud in sight, and kept his thoughts to himself. Men began shouldering bundles of bedding and the dismantled parts of beds.
'Has the kitchen been scoured?'
'Yes, My Lady.'
'And the cook?'
'Doused in the horse trough, My Lady, and scrubbed.'
'Then let him get his fires going and get to work. What about my brother?'
'Not a cheep, My Lady. Door still barred. Lord Robert doesn't answer.'
'He will when he gets hungry.' She looked up at the tower where two men-at-arms, keeping watch, leaned on the rampart overlooking the approaches. 'Get the ale and wine unloaded. And don't forget to take some ale up to those two.'
She went back inside and climbed the uneven spiral steps to the bedchamber. There the beds had been set up, some with slatted bases and some with lacings, and mattresses and covers were being shaken and laid on. Two women with long mops were beating the floor to dry it. Light and a little breeze came in at the windows on the western side. On the recessed stone seat by one of the windows a child sat looking out over the empty hills. A little girl. Julitta went and stood beside her. She laid one hand gently on the child's shoulder but the girl took no notice. On the horizon, a line of clouds had appeared. Julitta put two fingers against the child's face and turned it towards herself. The dark blue eyes met hers without expression, but a shiver shook the small body. 'Are you cold?' Julitta asked. The child shook her head.
'Hungry?' Another shake. 'Well, you will eat something soon, and then go to bed. You are very tired, aren't you? The blue eyes closed and opened, and the girl nodded. 'Yes,' said the lady, satisfied. 'Very tired.'
Gilla yawned.
The clouds were nearer now, and darkening.
Chapter 21
Sir Miles Hoby lowered his head and muttered, 'Thanks so much,' as a deluge of rainwater escaped from a market-stall canopy and descended upon him. It hardly mattered. He was soaked to the skin already, and the blue dye of his cheap padded jerkin had run, staining his wrists and hands and even his fingernails pale blue. It had been one of those days, one of those weeks, really. In fact, looking back from this sodden standpoint it had been one of those years, culminating in the series of accidents, incidents and misadventures of the past seven days. Nothing had gone as planned since he left Durham. First his servant had come to grief, drunk; toppled off his mule on to a pile of bricks, broke his collarbone and had to be left behind. Then the packhorse had gone lame and Miles had exchanged it for a mule, all he could get, and that proved a wilful, peevish, ill-conditioned, lazy, cunning brute, given to biting, jibbing, kicking and bolting. Miles's hand was bandaged, there was a piece out of the flesh of his shoulder, his shins and one hip were blackly bruised and he hadn't run so far so often since he was a small boy. Still, he was young, healthy and delighted to have a job at last. Full of righteous goodwill he had stopped to render thanks and praise to his favourite saint at Nettleham and discovered his purse missing when he got out of the crowded church, the cut ends of its strings flapping forlornly. He could and would, of course, indent for expenses at the next commanderie or preceptory, but it cast a certain blight over the whole business.
Then, only this morning, this except
ionally warm sunny morning, riding through the small town of Dale, he had encountered an abjurer being led through the town by soldiers and a priest. Pelted with filth and stones and buffeted in the face and body by any man's fists that could reach him, the poor devil's few remaining tatters of clothing had been torn from his body, and even the town's stray dogs were baying and snapping at his bleeding heels. Limping along behind him, almost as ragged, thin and runny-nosed was a young woman, massively pregnant. His wife, the priest told Miles, who would not stay behind in their home town, who insisted on following her man into exile and almost certainly to death; and there was nothing they could do about it.
Miles unbuckled his cloak from the saddle behind him, leaned down and draped it over the woman's shoulders. She flinched as if from a blow, then stood still clutching the cloak to her, staring open-mouthed with astonishment at the young knight. Before he could snatch his hand away she seized and kissed it, plastering it with snot.
Such a fine morning! And now look at it! He was cloakless, drenched and dripping, and if he wasn't sneezing and snuffling by morning that would be a miracle of some sort! But at least he wouldn't have to tether the beasts and sleep saturated under a hedge. Here at Fenrick was a pilgrim hall, built by the bounty of a local nobleman now dead, where travellers could dry out, be fed and bedded, and enjoy some company and conversation. He might, though he doubted it, be able to pick up another servant, perhaps even find a man who could manage the brute; now that really would be a miracle. Miles's hopes, damp and deflated, began to fluff up and dry.
When he opened the door of the hall an overpowering smell of wet people, mingled with that of fried onions and burnt sausages, rolled out to greet him. Miles still had most of his strong young teeth, and there was little he loved more than a crusty blackened sausage. His spirits revived so much that he began to hum a cheery tune.
There was no reason at all why a knight should not use the pilgrim hall, but very few did, preferring to keep among their own kind, camping off the road, or seeking hospitality at a house of religion, or a manor, or the castle of a relative, friend, or friend of a friend. Miles stood out in the crowd like a grape among currants, his tall figure drawing all eyes; nudges, whispers and admiring looks among the females, and resentful glances from the men. He sat at the long board set on trestles in the centre of the hall. Many pilgrims had brought their own food and shared it with those nearest them; but the hospitality of the hall tonight ran to sausages and onions. Along came a warty little man in a grubby apron who slapped a bread trencher down in front of each guest and was followed by another as like himself as to be a brother, doling out the food with a generous hand. Smoke and cooking fumes hung in visible blue veils and the atmosphere was eye-watering, but Miles was glad to be warm; and his jerkin, which he'd hung on the rack by the fire, was steaming heavily.
There were several piles of straw pallets at one end of the hall, ready to be laid down for the night. They looked third-or fourth-hand, Miles thought, but never mind, what were a few fleas set against the relentless deluge outside? A great flash of lightning cast a blue and sinister light on the upturned startled faces at table, and thunder bowled around the edges of the sky. Folk crossed themselves and muttered the names of saints. Miles picked his teeth, sat back, surveyed the company and thought about the job. 'You can make yourself useful at last,' his uncle William had said. 'And if you don't cock this up, my boy, well, perhaps we can think about you joining the Order. If you still want to, that is." 'Of course he still wanted to! Had wanted to be a Templar since he was seven years old. Wanted nothing so much, especially as a certain young woman, Hilda daughter of Sir Brian Jourdaine, remained stubbornly unimpressed by his efforts to attach her interest. But once he wore the coveted Templars' white mantle with its crimson cross, she'd look at him with different eyes. Too late then, of course! Warrior monks were celibate, and she'd have lost her chance, but the fantasy was tempting, and he half-dozed over it for a while in the increasing fug.
Outside, the wind changed, and rain began to blow in through the windows. Someone fetched the hide shutters and hooked them up. Talk and laughter began--jokes, travellers' tales. Someone sang an old love song which was very well received, and a little wiry chap leapt on to the board itself and walked along it, back and forth, on his hands, somersaulting neatly down again and pretending to stumble into a plump and jolly woman's lap; cheers and helpful suggestions were not wanting.
Miles listened and laughed, got up and turned his jerkin over to steam the other side, and with a fine bow accepted a honey cake offered by a blushing young matron. Thanking her, he admired the swaddled baby she carried –a pallid pungent larva-like bundle.
'Fine little lad,' he said cheerfully.
'It's a girl,' said the mother irritably.
He'd taken off his wet boots and hung them round his neck, and now he sat with his feet in their damp darned hose near the fire. He'd sleep dry if itchy tonight. Tomorrow he'd make an early start, and if he could coax the brute into anything like a decent pace, he hoped to catch up with Sir Richard Straccan in two or three more days.
'A good man,' his uncle had said. 'Dependable, honest. Having a rather worrying spot of bother. Catch up with him and lend a hand. I've a feeling he'll need it.'
'How shall I know him?'
'Some thirty years old or so, about my height. Rides a big bay with one white fore. Wears a blue cloak, carries his hauberk rolled behind him strapped to the saddle. Old saddle, patched, with worn red leather trimmings. Axe at the saddlebow and an old-fashioned sword worn at his back. One manservant, I've not seen him.
Making for the border turning west for Liddesdale. Soulis's hold Crawgard is there. My information had Soulis there at Christmas, though he may be elsewhere by now.'
'What is Soulis like?' Miles had asked.
'I haven't seen him for twenty years. He was a black-haired, white-faced, lipless creature, proud as Lucifer. About thirty years old then, fifty or more now. Miles ..."
'Sir?'
'There may be something else behind it all. Soulis is an evil man. Wear this.' He produced a small flat silk packet stitched all round, with a cross embroidered on it and suspended from a silken cord.
'It is the Blessed Host,' said Sir William. 'I got it from Father Alphege. It will protect you from all evil. Keep it close.' Miles hung it round his neck and tucked the little packet under his shirt.
His uncle took a chain and locket from his own neck and put it on his nephew's, saying, 'Wear this also. It is a relic of Saint Cuthbert. Don't lose it, I want it back!'
Miles knelt to receive his uncle's blessing, quite touched at the old man's concern and absolutely thrilled to have a job, an errand --by stretching the imagination only a very little he might even be able to call it a quest. He'd kicked his heels at York and then Durham, hoping to be taken on in some capacity by the Order, ever since his father's death last summer had left him penniless and landless with only his youth, strength and skill at arms to recommend him.
The little chap who had danced on his hands was an entertaining fellow. During the evening he told a long and robust tale concerning a monk, a goodwife, her spouse and an ale barrel, which made all but a few sour folk laugh long and loud; and he made astonishing shadow-pictures with his hands--animals, birds, an old woman nagging –which drew cries of delight. Not a few fourthings and ha'pence were tossed his way. He didn't look like a pilgrim –no staff or hat or badges –just a mountebank, making his living from the others. But a merry fellow. Or so Miles thought until he was leaving the backyard privy on his way back to fug, fleas and bed, and found the merry fellow's knife at his neck.
'I never took you for a robber,' he said indignantly, 'and anyway, you're out of luck, I had my purse cut two days gone.' 'I'm no robber,' the merry man hissed, 'but I heard you, when you arrived, asking the porter at the door about a friend of mine. What do you want with him?'
'Do you mean Straccan?'
'That's the name.'
'Funny
way to enquire about a friend,' said Miles. 'Why not come over to me in hall and say, Here, I think we have a mutual acquaintance?'