by Alys Clare
She can see figures. Three mounted men – big men – riding in the mist, their horses’ feet splashing in the water. There is a cry of panic, the shrill neighing of a terrified horse.
The mist swirls as if it is alive. Sometimes it is so thick it’s like a white wall. Sometimes it blows away in tatters, like streaming pennants on a wind that can’t be heard or felt.
And then suddenly a tunnel seems to open up within the blinding whiteness and she can see straight down it. There are the three figures again – they are big men, oddly similar. There is a sudden whistling sound. A hard thump, a cry of agony, a big red patch spreading on the breast of a tunic. A figure falls to the watery ground with a splash.
Help him; get him up, he’ll drown! she hears herself cry.
There is someone else watching: someone she knows, although she can’t think who he is or why she should recognize him … what is he doing there?
And in a voice that rings like a deep, mournful bell, he says, It is too late. He is dead.
Helewise woke with a cry of dread. The cry was still echoing as, profoundly distressed, she wrestled herself out of deep sleep and sat up.
The cry came again. ‘Please. Please!’
It wasn’t she who had cried out. It was Hadil.
Still fighting the horror of the nightmare, Helewise got up. She lit a second lamp and, one in either hand, hurried over to Hadil’s bed. She knelt beside the sick woman, putting the lamps on a narrow shelf, out of the reach of a flailing arm. ‘Are you in pain?’ she asked softly, her hand on Hadil’s forehead.
‘Your hand is cool,’ Hadil said. ‘No, not pain – well, my arm is sore, but no more than before.’
‘Are you thirsty?’
‘Thirsty … yes.’
Helewise poured water from an earthenware jug into a cup and held it to Hadil’s lips. Hadil drank a few sips, then lay back on the pillows.
Helewise waited. After a while, Hadil said, ‘It was only a dream, you know.’
‘A … what?’
Hadil smiled. ‘You were moaning in your sleep. Restless. Twisting and turning. Then you were crying, and I thought it was kind to wake you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Helewise gravely. ‘It was not a pleasant dream.’ She shook her head, trying to disperse the persistent images. Then: ‘Do you think you could sleep again? It is not yet dawn.’
Hadil sighed. ‘I will try.’
‘Call me if you want me.’
Hadil nodded.
Time passed. Helewise was afraid to sleep again; what if the dream came back? I am worried about him, she thought. That is why my dreaming mind makes these pictures.
Sleep did not come.
And so, when Hadil began muttering, Helewise heard every word.
‘… should have left it alone, ought to have destroyed it … they knew it was evil, a curse out of antiquity, and that nothing good could come from something so tainted …’ There was a pause. It lengthened, and Helewise thought Hadil had entered a deeper sleep. But suddenly she cried out, ‘Father! Oh, Father, you were her grandson, the first male to inherit the responsibility! Why did you not end it? Why did you leave this final horror for my son and me?’
There was such anguish in her voice, such weariness and grief, that instinctively Helewise hurried over to her. Fully expecting to find Hadil asleep, she was shocked to see that her eyes were open.
‘Do not distress yourself so,’ Helewise said soothingly. ‘I will prepare an infusion, and we shall hope that …’
Then she realized that, despite the open eyes, Hadil was not truly awake. What was it? Helewise wondered, anxiety swiftly rising. Was she in a trance? Was another of the frightening fits about to take her over?
She searched her memory for everything she’d ever been taught about dealing with patients in such states. Listen to them, dear old Sister Euphemia used to say. Respond as if what they are saying is perfectly sensible and lucid. Above all, do not let them see that the unnaturalness of it is worrying you.
And so, with the calm, kindly, comforting presence of the long-dead infirmarer’s shade beside her, Helewise sat on Hadil’s bed, took her hand and said, in her usual tone, ‘I’m sure your father did his best. He would not want you to suffer so.’
Hadil turned to her, wide-eyed. ‘Yes, yes, Father was a good man and, even as a boy, he tried to do the right thing. That’s what my grandmother told me, and she did not lie. But Father was too kind! Gentle, like his mother and his grandmother, and that was why he did not do what he should have done.’
As the low, urgent voice went on, Helewise, bemused, tried to make sense of what Hadil was saying. She didn’t think this was the rambling of delirium. For one thing, Hadil’s fever was much reduced. For another, there seemed to be logic, of a sort, in her words.
Hadil seemed to be saying that something bad – evil – had somehow come into her family’s possession. She spoke of her father, his mother, his grandmother. So that was – Helewise counted – three generations back. What was this thing? And where had the family found it? For it sounded, she reflected, as if it had been found, and perhaps by accident, rather than being acquired, or received as a gift.
‘Did he find it at home?’ she asked. She had no idea how Hadil would respond, or even if it was the right place to begin.
‘At home?’ Hadil echoed. ‘No, no, not at home!’ Her voice was scathing, as if to say, How could you possibly think that?
‘He dug it up – he must have done, it’s what my grandmother used to tell me. Then, when they set on him and killed him, they took it. They should have left it on his body! But they were greedy, her father and her brother. They stood there, his body and the body of my father’s brother’s son lying dead at their feet, and they took it from him. They knew he was evil!’ Her voice had risen to a shout. ‘They ought to have realized that nothing good could come from robbing him. Oh, oh, and now we are here, my son and I, and we have come so far, so very far, and although my kinfolk have tried so hard, down through all the years, still it is not ended!’ She stopped, panting. Slowly her breathing returned to normal. Her eyelids drooped, and Helewise thought she was drowsy.
‘Sleep, Hadil,’ she said very softly. ‘Go to sleep.’
Hadil turned on her side, settling herself. For a little while there was silence. Then, just as Helewise was creeping away to her own bed, Hadil said, quietly and poignantly, ‘I wish I could go home.’
Almost afraid to ask, for Hadil had been so very secretive and the question might rouse her fury, Helewise drew a breath. Then, casually, as if it wasn’t really very important, she said, ‘And where is home?’
Hadil, in the middle of a huge yawn, didn’t at first answer. Helewise wondered if she’d heard the question. But then, sleepily, uncaringly, Hadil murmured, ‘Jerusalem.’
Meggie and Faruq were riding as fast as they could, pushing the horses and themselves to the limits of their strength, racing to catch up with the King’s party. Some factors were in their favour: the weather stayed dry; the tracks and roads were in reasonably good condition after the summer and early autumn; the land was neither hilly nor marshy, and they didn’t often have to cut through forest or thick undergrowth; the horses, although of very different breeds, were both fit, strong and, most importantly, used to covering many miles in a day. Nevertheless, the journey seemed endless and, as day after day passed, Meggie began to wonder if they would ever reach their destination.
Other than that they were bound for East Anglia, she didn’t really know what that destination was.
They had passed Cambridge the previous night, going round it to the west at a distance, and on smaller tracks that had kept them from the notice and the unwelcome attention of those who might have been using the main roads during the hours of darkness. Now they were almost at the end of the night’s ride, going north-north-east, and the increasing frequency of marshy ground told her that they were in the fenland. That realization led to another: they were in East Anglia now and that vague descript
ion of their destination was no longer enough. Somehow they must find out the King’s present position.
Then, before they found him – she felt sure they would – there was something else she must find out.
It seems most likely that Faruq wishes to save the King from harm, she thought, because that was his intention when he believed the threat endangered the Queen.
But what if she was wrong?
I cannot help Faruq to harm the King.
She knew that, and it made no difference if it was right or wrong. It followed, then, that somehow she was going to have to ask him.
She drew rein and waited until Faruq came level with her. ‘There’s no point going much further until we’ve asked someone where the King and his party are,’ she said.
He understood instantly. ‘And he might be in any part of this region.’
‘Yes.’
He looked at her, half-questioningly, half-amused. ‘You have already told me your idea, about saying you are a healer.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll say we’ve been summoned to help in an outbreak of fever. We’ll say camp fever, I think, because that’s pretty common among armies.’
‘You know about this fever?’ He sounded disbelieving.
He’s wondering how a forest healer like me can have such sophisticated knowledge, she thought. She resisted the strong temptation to explain, to tell him of the wide experience she’d gained working in the Hawkenlye infirmary; how Sister Liese had invited her to help nurse a couple of sick soldiers making their way up from the coast towards London, both feverish, with red spots on their torsos and their arms, explaining how the crowded and insanitary conditions of an army in camp led to the widespread presence of lice, whose blood-sucking activities, by some strange and unimaginable process, spread disease from man to man. The soldiers were lucky, for they came under the care of the Hawkenlye nuns and survived.
She simply said, ‘Yes.’
He watched her, not speaking, for a moment. Then he said, ‘And I am to be your assistant.’
To her relief, he hadn’t made it sound like a question. Perhaps, she reflected with a wry smile, he had managed to swallow his masculine pride at the very idea of being the assistant to a mere woman, and now understood the wisdom of it. Perhaps the fact that she knew about such exotic maladies as camp fever had finally convinced him.
But, again, she just said, ‘Yes.’
He was frowning. ‘So, tomorrow we shall ride in the daytime, I think?’ Following his thoughts, she nodded. ‘In the day, yes,’ he went on, ‘for we need to encounter others. And, when we come across someone who is knowledgeable about the progress of the King, we shall ask where to find him. Should this person be suspicious, we shall explain our purpose and that will reassure him.’ He looked enquiringly at her. ‘This is correct?’
She suppressed a smile. Put like that, it sounded simplistic and slightly absurd, but, in essence, he had it right. ‘It is.’
She put her heels to Auban’s sides, and they rode on. She had one more idea, although she hoped she wouldn’t need it. She had decided, anyway, not to tell Faruq. It was almost guaranteed, she thought, to make him give her that sceptical, doubting, undermining look of his, and she had enough to worry about without that.
They stopped soon after dawn for a few hours’ rest, hobbling the horses beside a narrow little stream that flowed its quiet and gentle way towards some larger watercourse. There was still plenty of grass, and Meggie fell asleep to the sound of large equine teeth tearing off clumps of it.
They found what they had hoped to find the next morning. No longer avoiding the towns and the settlements, they rode along a straight causeway into the small town of March, standing on slightly elevated ground above the surrounding marshland. In an open square among close-huddled dwellings, a farmer stood beside his cart selling bread, vegetables and cheese. Meggie bought two loaves and a soft, garlic-scented cheese, and was mounting up again when, with a great clatter of hooves and the smell of men who had been in the saddle for too long, a band of about twenty riders came into the square. They were soldiers, without a doubt: well armed, some clad in surcoats over mail, one bearing a banner with a recognizably royal device.
Not pausing to think – not wanting to give herself time to think – Meggie went up to the man at the head of the group.
He looked down at her from his horse’s back, grinning. ‘You’ve left us some, I hope?’ He nodded at the provisions in her hands.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said with an answering smile. ‘Try the garlicky cheese – the farmer gave me a morsel to try and it’s delicious.’
‘Thank you, I shall.’
He turned, perhaps about to issue instructions, but she stopped him. ‘Please, can you tell me where to find the King?’
His expression changed in a flash. He had looked friendly, relaxed, clearly enjoying the mild flirtation with a pretty woman. Now, though, suspicion darkened his face. ‘And why do you want to know?’
She steeled herself. This had to sound right.
‘I’ve been sent for. Me and my assistant.’ She jerked her head towards Faruq, still mounted on the black gelding and holding Auban’s reins. ‘I’m a healer, see, and they’re worrying in case fever breaks out in the camp. They want me near, to treat men before it spreads.’
Now his expression had changed again. Like all soldiers, he feared the dreaded fever. She saw him cross himself, heard his swift, muttered prayer. ‘Can you treat it?’ he said, not much above a whisper.
‘I can make men wash, and launder their clothes, and, for those already sick, make sure they keep drinking good, clean water. I have potions, too.’ She patted her leather satchel.
He studied her for several anxious moments. But then, as if he knew she was telling the truth – which indeed, when speaking of the fever, she had been doing – he gave a curt nod. ‘He’s been at Lynn these past couple of days. Now he’s on the move again and word is he’s going north.’
She needed more than that. ‘Where will they stay next?’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t say for sure.’ He gazed up and to the right, eyes narrowed in the bright morning light. ‘South from Lynn, round the base of the Wash at Wisbech, then north to Spalding …’ Now his gaze was on her again. ‘He’ll likely stop overnight at one of those places, but which one will depend on how fast they move. Tough going, round the Wash,’ he commented. ‘Too many streams and rivers all making their way to the sea, and unless you’re a Fensman born and bred, you don’t know from one day to the next what the tide’ll be doing.’ He paused, apparently thinking. ‘Make for Spalding,’ he said eventually. ‘That way.’ He pointed and, following the direction of his hand, Meggie made out the same causeway by which they’d arrived, stretching away beyond the little town.
She turned to go, thanking him. Then, hurrying now, she mounted Auban and moved off.
She was aware of the soldier’s eyes on her as she and Faruq kicked their horses to a trot and then, once on the firm, elevated causeway, a canter.
He’d been suspicious; she was quite sure. Best, she decided, to be far away before he made up his mind to come after them.
ELEVEN
11 October 1216
Josse had been out and about since early on. His sleep had been uneasy. Vaguely distressing dreams had visited him, so that when he finally gave up and decided to abandon his bed and see what was happening outside, it had been a relief. And, as early as soon after dawn, there had been plenty to observe. He had followed his nose to the kitchens, helped himself to freshly baked bread thickly spread with butter, and a mug of small beer, then gone outside into the inn yard, where he had found himself a comfortable perch at the top of steps leading up to a hay loft and settled down to watch.
The biggest of the great wagons, drawn by teams of oxen, were already being prepared for departure. Their pace was slow, and if there was to be a chance of their arriving at the next destination by this evening, they had to make an early start, well ahead of the rest
of the long train. Josse munched on his bread, smiling as he saw a fat, red-faced servant, unaware that Josse was watching, help himself from one of the ale barrels he was loading. Now the first wagon was pulling away, rolling towards the wide entrance to the huge inn yard; the man driving the oxen, apparently checking on directions, paused to exchange words with a tall, broad man in the livery of a senior servant. ‘You head for Wisbech, then you’re following the better road further inland,’ the liveried man said impatiently. ‘You’ve been told enough times! The heavy carts and pack animals aren’t to be risked on the tracks running close to the shore.’
The driver muttered something about it being a long way round, but the liveried man interrupted. ‘Those are your orders. Follow them.’
He turned on his heel and strode away, missing the vulgar gesture the driver made to his departing back.
There was a sudden confusion of noise: men’s voices raised in shouts; the crack of horse- and ox-whips; a series of slow, creaking sounds as the vast wagons slowly moved away, oxen straining with the effort. The huge ox carts were followed by horse-drawn wagons and then by the strongest and largest of the packhorses, laden with panniers. So absorbed had Josse been in watching the busy activity that, until he glanced up to see the position of the sun, he hadn’t realized how much time had passed.
The early morning had been still, with swirls of mist hanging in the grey sky. Now, with the sun strengthening as it climbed, the moisture had largely burned away and the day was clear and bright. ‘A fine morning for a journey,’ Josse said aloud.
Just for an instant, one of the troubling images from his dreams flashed into his mind. But, before he could study it, he saw Geoffroi come hurrying into the yard, calling for him, and the image went away. He descended the steps, went to join Geoffroi, and the two of them went on to the stables to prepare their horses for the day’s ride.
Josse sat on Alfred’s broad back, eyes roaming around the throng of men, both mounted and on foot, in the wide courtyard in front of one of Lynn’s finest houses. It was the house where the King had been staying, and he had sent word to summon Josse and others of his trusted companions to await him there. It seemed he wanted to have his old friends close; what was it, Josse wondered, that he feared?