‘That poor child,’ Father Nimbus said quietly. Then he bowed his head and stood in silence for a while, until, with a deep breath, he returned reluctantly to the parchment. ‘ “And if this should be done to the satisfaction of this abbey and I, Fulbert, be made its bishop, Brother Thancmar shall be raised to the post of Archdeacon of St Albans which will be in my gift …” Dear Lord.’ He turned to Gwil, suddenly pale and shaking. ‘You know the story of St Albans?’ he asked. Gwil shook his head.
‘No, I presumed not,’ Father Nimbus continued. ‘It is well known among the clergy but there is no reason its contagion should have spread further afield. This Fulbert of Caen’ – he rapped the parchment angrily with his finger and shook his head – ‘was indeed Archdeacon of St Albans and had ruled that particular roost, showing himself a slave to avarice and ambition, ever since the old bishop died; extorting money from his churches to put into his own money bags. His robes were gorgeous, his plate of silver and gold, and he travelled with a retinue of brutal mercenaries whose doings were a scandal, as, indeed, were those of the women who shared his bed. And yet …’ Father Nimbus paused and put his hand over his mouth. ‘And yet,’ he said again with emphasis, ‘King Stephen would anoint him bishop! Fulbert supported him, you see, against the Empress, advancing a fortune to the Royal Treasury, putting his mercenaries at his disposal while wriggling among his courtiers like an eel in salt water.’
The exertion of such an impassioned speech had begun to take its toll on the little priest and he sank down on the pew behind them breathing hard. Gwil sat beside him and for a while a hush descended on the chapel until Father Nimbus spoke again.
‘But good will out,’ he suddenly exclaimed as if to reassure them both. ‘Even in these desperate times. The virtuous people of the chapter of St Albans sent to the Pope, warning the Holy Father that this candidate for a bishopric, this Fulbert, is worthy only of the fire. And meanwhile the fortunes of the abbey are dwindling and with them Fulbert’s power.
‘You should know, though you may not, that many, many years ago when Christian England was still being torn to pieces by the pagan Danes, St Albans sent its finest relics to Ely Cathedral – yes, including the bones of St Alban himself – asking them to safeguard them until the danger of the invasion had passed. This they did and returned them too, though reluctantly, when it was eventually deemed safe enough. However, all this time later, provoked perhaps by Fulbert’s wicked and extravagant ways, Ely suddenly announced to the world that they had not, after all, returned the relics but had kept them and that what had been returned were fakes. All of a sudden St Albans’ profits diminished, as did its reputation along with Fulbert’s own; pilgrims were no longer willing to pay, you see, for the privilege of touching the tomb of England’s first martyr if it did not actually contain the bones of that brave Christian and could therefore no more grant them the miracles they asked for than some common skeleton dug out of a charnel house.’ Father Nimbus stopped speaking and turned to look directly at Gwil.
‘This parchment’, he said, ‘is Fulbert’s pact with the Devil … this … this Thancmar. The return of the relics would restore riches to St Albans and silence Fulbert’s critics. Why, even the Pope could not gainsay the man who returned the bones of St Alban to their rightful place.’ He paused again, raised his eyes to the heavens and rapped the parchment on the front of the pew. ‘This is a licence to rapine and murder.’
‘I know.’ Gwil spoke for the first time in a long while, although he could not look at the man beside him. ‘I was there, remember? I witnessed the slaughter at Ely.’
Father Nimbus made the sign of the cross; then he turned to Gwil and took both his hands in his. ‘Then you are in grave danger, my child,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper now. ‘Fulbert is dead, murdered, like all the other witnesses to this crime. Thancmar is archdeacon now and King Stephen has applied to make him bishop. You and this parchment are all that stand between him and great power. And he will stop at nothing to get it back.’ Gwil felt the priest’s small, cold hands tremble as they held his between them.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I knew Thancmar.’
‘But you don’t know everything,’ Father Nimbus said in a whisper, clutching his hands between his own so tightly that Gwil felt the blood freeze in them. ‘He is close. He was here today. I saw him! Outside the castle. It was he who attended the parley with the King!’
Chapter Seventeen
IT WAS TO be a busy night for Maud. After Compline, instead of retiring to the solar, she and Milburga accompanied Sir Rollo and Alan to the castle’s labyrinthine basement to inspect the work being done on the postern.
The improvements were considerable. A metal grille like a small portcullis, operated by a simple windlass, had been added to the entrance and the tunnel, wide and tall enough now to accommodate both horse and rider, had been shored up against collapse by timbers from the cherry orchard. The felling of it had been a bitter blow to Maud, for whom the pink and white blossoms of the trees were one of the great pleasures of spring, never mind the deliciously plump cherries she had gorged herself on every summer as a child. Ah well, another sacrifice to the Empress. It had better be worth it.
‘Where does it come out?’ Alan asked Ernulf, the guard.
‘Other side of the ditch,’ he replied. ‘Middle of a copse of rowan trees. There’s good cover there, won’t nobody see you.’ He pulled proudly on the ropes which operated the winch and the grille lifted smoothly.
‘Shall we?’ Alan turned to Maud, his arm sweeping theatrically in the direction of the entrance. She nodded, although she refused to return his smile, took the lantern Milburga proffered and stepped, business-like, into the tunnel.
Once inside, the darkness was visceral, but as her eyes grew accustomed to it, she saw that though it was long it was at least straight; the contour of its exit was just about visible in the distance, illuminated as it was by the pale light of the moon. She began gingerly stepping towards it, instinctively moving closer to the warmth of the body beside her.
‘Not afraid of the dark, are you, madam?’ In this light she couldn’t see his expression – could barely see her hand in front of her face, come to that – but knew somehow that he was amused by her sudden tentativeness. ‘Wouldn’t like me to take your hand, I suppose?’
‘No, I would not!’ she snapped, recoiling from him and stepping up her pace to prove a courage she didn’t feel.
He was, she thought, without a single shadow of a doubt the most impertinent man she had ever met, and nothing he had said or done since the first time she had clapped eyes on him could persuade her otherwise. And so damned pleased with himself! The confidence of the man! Didn’t he realize that he was just another blasted mercenary? That she loathed him and all he stood for? Did he not know his place at all?
The courage she had up until that moment been feigning began to rise in direct proportion to her indignation and, eschewing the hand he offered, she pressed on brusquely into the damp dark void, vowing as she did so that she would never again appear vulnerable to him, even if she were forced to follow him into the bowels of Hell itself.
He watched her stride off into the darkness, muttering under her breath as she went, which made him smile all the more.
They were halfway along the passage when her lantern’s candle sputtered and died. The cloying blackness closed around her like a shroud and she was forced to stop.
She hadn’t admitted it to him, of course, but from a child she had been terrified of the dark, which was why the ever-vigilant Milburga kept a candle burning in her room at all times, even waking in the night to replace it if necessary. He had a candle; she could hear his footsteps behind her, but to wait for him would be an admission of weakness. No, there was nothing for it: she must swallow her fear and press on. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes against the panic swelling inside her. When eventually she opened them again her sight had adjusted to the engulfing blackness and she was comforted by the promise o
f moonlight in the distance. Phew! She walked on, staring fixedly at the halo of milky light ahead, until her boot suddenly caught on something, tripping her up and sending her stumbling headlong towards the cold dank earth of the tunnel’s floor.
But just as she had braced herself for the inevitable fall and the painful impact with the ground, she found herself unexpectedly upright again, Alan’s arms around her waist, holding her tight. For a moment or two neither spoke and then:
‘I hope you’re not laughing,’ she mumbled, relieved that he wouldn’t be able see her blushing, which she undoubtedly was.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, madam,’ he replied softly, with only the merest suspicion of a smile.
‘Good,’ she was about to say, but couldn’t because a peculiar feeling had gripped her, like a ligature around her throat.
He was so close, so terribly, terribly close. His face was just inches from her face, his chest so tight against hers that she could feel every breath, every beat of his heart as though they were her own. And not only was she rendered speechless, she was no longer able to think or move independently … But worst of all was that neither did she want to.
She shook her head. Enough now! She must separate from him, push him away, move on, and yet the delicious warmth of his hand on her back was so horribly thrilling that her body refused to budge.
What was happening to her?
She thought about Sir John, the only other man she had been physically close to, and the equally powerful feelings he had invoked, but the gulf between the two experiences was overwhelming, like Heaven and Hell. Oh help! She must do something … before it was too late …
And yet it was he who released her … eventually.
‘Shall we proceed, madam?’ he asked gently.
Did she imagine it or was there the merest hint of a caress as he withdrew his hand from her waist? She stepped away from him, and although she dared not look at him directly, she could nevertheless feel his gaze on her face like the warmth from a fire.
‘Madam?’ he repeated.
Still unable to trust her voice, she simply nodded and allowed him to take her hand and lead her the rest of the way along the passage.
When they emerged into the moonlit rowan copse, he separated from her and she watched him walk to the outer rim of the trees, where he stood, hands on hips, staring intently in the direction of the enemy camp. She could hear him muttering to himself as he plotted the Empress’s escape, calculating time and distance and the likelihood of a safe passage through the trees; and Maud, who had previously only felt resentment for Matilda, felt a sudden, unwelcome stab of jealousy towards her.
When he had finished his calculations, he turned back to Maud and stood looking at her for what seemed an uncomfortably long time.
‘Perhaps we should go back?’ she said, her voice still tremulous.
He smiled. ‘Good idea,’ he said after a moment, and then took her hand as though it were his to take and led her back through the trees towards the postern.
Once inside the tunnel they walked in silence, until halfway along a lantern came swinging towards them.
‘There you are!’ Milburga squinted out at them from the other side of the light. ‘Getting worried about you, I was,’ she said, wagging an admonishing finger at Maud. ‘You been such a long time down there I was beginning to fret that you’d been captured or summat.’
‘I’m fine, Milly,’ said Maud, almost euphorically grateful for her nurse’s timely appearance. ‘I really am fine,’ she repeated, wrapping Milburga’s ample arm in hers and squeezing it tightly. ‘Let’s go back, eh?’
Back at the entrance, Sir Rollo was waiting for them. ‘How was it?’ he asked as they emerged blinking like moles into the unaccustomed brightness of the cavern.
After a long silence in which he never once took his eyes off Maud’s, Alan grinned and said: ‘As posterns go it was an absolute beauty. In fact, I can’t honestly remember when I liked one better.’
‘Oh, good … er … very good,’ Sir Rollo replied, twiddling his chubby fingers nervously. ‘Yes … Very good. Uh … Well, if you’ll excuse me, long day and all that …’ And wandered off.
Maud, still clinging to Milburga’s arm, felt the heat rising in her cheeks again and hoped to God it didn’t show. This feeling, this, this … malady or whatever it was would pass; she knew it would. It had to. She would come to her senses … eventually. She must … And yet, however hard she tried, there was nothing she could do to prevent her mind slipping back to that moment in the darkness when he had held her in his arms and made her feel so unexpectedly peculiar.
‘Bed,’ she heard Milburga say and felt herself propelled in the direction of the keep. ‘You’re looking a bit peaky, madam, if I may say so.’
Chapter Eighteen
HALFWAY BACK TO the keep the composure Maud had prayed for returned like an enchantment lifting. She stopped abruptly.
William!
Amidst everything else she had forgotten since she almost lost her senses, she had completely forgotten about the boy and was suddenly anxious about him.
‘What’s the matter?’ Milburga asked. ‘Acting very odd you are all on a sudden.’
‘It’s William,’ Maud replied. ‘I haven’t seen him today!’
‘Oh, ’e’ll be all right,’ Milburga said. ‘Shouldn’t wonder if ’e’s not up with Sir John. Saw ’im at suppertime. Certainly ate hearty enough. Wouldn’t worry if I were you.’
But Maud did worry. There was something about William which haunted her. It wasn’t just that he was a motherless child with a brute for a father; it was something in the boy himself, some intangible quality that drew her to him. It was almost as if he had been born without the protective carapace other people possessed, making him extra vulnerable. It hadn’t been immediate, but from early on in their relationship she had felt an overwhelming urge to love and protect him as though he were her own flesh and blood. And if this revelation had come as a shock, the intensity of the feeling had only increased with time and was still capable of surprising her.
‘I just don’t like the idea of him being up there all the time,’ she said. ‘It’s not healthy to spend so much time in that cesspit with those two … all that scrying and nonsense … No! It’s not right! I’m going to fetch him.’
Milburga sighed and shook her head. It had been a long day, they were both tired and to cap it all her mistress had been acting very peculiarly ever since she had emerged from that blasted tunnel. On the other hand, as she knew only too well, once Maud got an idea in her head there was no shifting it.
‘Don’t know what you’re fussing for,’ she complained to her mistress’s back as it marched off in the direction of the turret. ‘’E’ll be asleep by now and ’e don’t seem to mind ’em.’ But Maud was implacable and as Milburga had decided long since that it was her role in life to love and protect her mistress come what may, she would have to go too.
The stairs were punishing on tired legs and both women were breathless by the time they reached the top. Milburga, who carried a good deal more weight than her mistress, and several more years besides, could be heard chuntering and complaining under her breath most of the way up.
‘Bloody child’ll be the death of me and you, if you ain’t careful,’ she said.
‘Shh,’ Maud hissed. They had just arrived at the door to Sir John’s chambers, against which Maud’s ear was now pressed; partly from a reluctance to go inside – as if by sheer force of will she could absorb William through it – and partly because, after the unpleasant surprise of the other day, she wanted to know what Kigva was up to before the woman was alerted to their presence.
Nothing, apparently. There wasn’t a sound.
‘Ain’t I told you?’ Milburga whispered as Maud eventually raised her hand to knock. ‘Them’ll be asleep. Let ’em lie.’
Maud knocked anyway. Footsteps scampered on the other side of the door but there was no answer. She knocked again, more loudly this time.
‘Lady Maud to see her husband,’ she called out imperiously. More silence, and then after a few moments the hinges of the door began to creak before opening to reveal Kigva staring warily at them out of the gloom.
They brushed past her into the room, which, Maud noted, still smelled decidedly foul, but only, thank goodness, with the familiar foulness of its general decay; there was nothing to suggest anything of the olfactory untowardness of her last visit. Milburga wrinkled her nose, grimacing at the squalor surrounding them. Goodness only knew when those rushes had last been changed, or would be – that floor had probably never even seen a broom. She lifted her skirts ostentatiously high above the reach of the filth and sniffed accusingly at Kigva, who was now crouching in the furthest corner of the room like a spider.
‘I am here to see how William is,’ Maud announced loudly and clearly, as one might address the profoundly deaf. She had long since decided that both her husband and Kigva were beyond the reach of most human understanding and therefore, to communicate effectively with them, one should speak up.
‘I’m well, thank you,’ piped a voice.
Maud peered into the murk in the direction of the voice and saw William sitting on the other side of the room by his father’s cot, attempting to feed him some slush of indeterminate colour. One of Kigva’s preparations, presumably.
‘Uck-oo!’ Sir John said when he spotted Maud. She pretended not to hear, but couldn’t help noticing that he looked even more robust than he had done yesterday and, as she approached, sat bolt upright. ‘Uck-oo!’ he shouted again and, ‘Uck-off!’
‘Ooh,’ she heard Milburga say under her breath. ‘Adding to our repertoire, I see! We are getting better.’
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