by Alys Clare
This would be his last night at Hawkenlye. He would make it one to remember. Calling for his attendants, he told them to fetch his outer garments and help him dress.
King John let his men accompany him as far as the clearing, then told them curtly to remain on guard while he went into the chapel. Opening the door, he went inside. It was not yet fully dark, and the soft light reflecting off the white walls still held the glow of sunset. The curved east wall, over to his right beyond the simple altar, was brilliant with the sunlit colours of the stained glass in the west end of the small building. He stopped and looked up at the window.
St Edmund rode a richly-caparisoned horse and was depicted with his sword arm raised, ready to strike down the enemies of the Lord. He was tall, broad, auburn-haired and blue-eyed, and he resembled John’s elder brother far too closely for it to be coincidence. Only Queen Eleanor, her son reflected, could have got away with it . . .
He stood quite still in the middle of the little chapel. She was not here, but he believed she would come. This place was clearly important to her. It was where he had first seen her and, when he had fought with the madman who had launched his ferocious attack, she had been here, defending not only the little girl but also – he saw her clearly in his mind’s eye – the chapel.
He would wait for her. If he was wrong and she did not come, he would explore the surrounding woodland. It was dense and dark, and there were alarming rumours concerning the magical creatures that dwelt within its shadows, but he had no time for peasant superstition and he did not believe in magic.
She lived nearby: of that he was certain.
The sun sank down behind the trees, and the brilliant illumination that had lit up the west window slowly faded. Only then did he realize that a lamp burned on the altar. As the shadows grew, it shone relatively more brightly. Presently, it was the only source of light in the chapel. His eyes were drawn to it.
The door opened, and one of his guards looked in. He shouted at him and, with a bow, the man backed out again.
When the door opened a second time, it was to admit her.
Meggie did not know what drew her repeatedly back to the chapel. She knew full well why she wanted to stay at the hut for the time being: because she wished with all her heart that she had gone with Ninian, and, back at the House in the Woods, she knew she would find his absence a constant reproof. He needed her, she kept telling herself. Their mother would have wanted them to go together. But, against those two powerful facts, a third had been even more forceful. The look on her father’s face when he realized she was on the point of hurrying off after her half brother had done something funny to her heart. She had known then she had to stay.
Being in the hut made her feel close to her mother. She sensed Joanna’s vivid presence; she even saw her sometimes, or thought she did, although the image was faint, as if seen through mist. Her mother understood why she could not go with Ninian. Joanna had loved Josse too and knew what he meant to Meggie.
Perhaps it was Joanna who wanted her to keep vigil at the chapel. Meggie had been wrong in thinking that the great lords – one of whom, as she now knew, was the king – had been there because they were hunting for the Black Madonna. The king was after something far more earthly than a mysterious black goddess.
Still, Meggie could not relax. Repeatedly, she found herself returning to the chapel, simply, as she told herself, to make sure all was well. Late in the afternoon, just before sunset, she decided to pay a last visit. She was some way down the path when, with a soft exclamation, she turned and retraced her steps. Going back inside the hut, she took a small, hard object wrapped up in a leather bag out of a specially-crafted wooden box that was screwed to the underside of the sleeping platform. Obeying some indefinable impulse, she had brought it with her from its habitual hiding place at the House in the Woods. Holding it lightly in her right hand, once again she walked briskly out of the clearing.
As she emerged from beneath the trees, she saw a group of armed men lounging around outside the chapel. One of them said something to the others, making a vulgar gesture with his hand and jerking his head in the direction of the chapel. Meggie leapt back under cover. She knew, then, who was inside.
She feared him, for she knew what he wanted of her. Yet when he had spoken to her, against all logic she had found herself liking him. She had had no dealings with men such as him; Josse had once lived in those elevated circles, but now, on his own admission, he was an ordinary family man doing his best for those he loved. She did not really understand the power of sophisticated, intelligent, determined charm . . .
Her own feelings must in any case be put aside, for he was in the chapel, only a few feet above the place where it held its secret. She waited until the men were not looking – that was easy, for now another of them was telling a joke or a lewd story, and all their attention was on him – and, slipping out from the shadows, she ran round to the chapel door, opened it and went inside.
He turned to look at her. ‘Meggie,’ he said softly. ‘I knew you would come.’
She made herself walk closer to him. Standing right before him, she made a low curtsey. ‘We are honoured by your presence here, my lord,’ she said.
He reached out for her hand and raised her up, putting his fingers under her chin so that she lifted her head and looked at him. They were roughly of a height; if anything, she was a little taller.
It was difficult to take in anything other than the bright eyes. He was in his forties now, the strong body getting fat around the middle, but she found that those factors weighed little against the compelling power of his gaze. He is dangerous, she told herself. Do not forget it.
‘I shall leave the abbey in the morning,’ he said softly, ‘but I could not go without saying goodbye to you.’
‘You flatter me, lord,’ she replied.
‘I have wanted you since I saw you outside with your little friend,’ he went on. ‘That mad fool Olivier must have seen me watching you both and mistaken the object of my attention.’ Anger briefly contorted his face: there and gone in an instant. He moved closer to her, and she felt the heat of his body. ‘What I want,’ he murmured, ‘I usually get.’ He ran his fingers down her hair. ‘Such beautiful curls,’ he murmured. ‘You smell clean, Meggie. I like clean people.’
‘I smell of herbs,’ she said. ‘I work with them.’
He nodded. ‘Very laudable.’ His eyes seemed to bore into her. ‘You have light in your face, and your eyes flash like sun on the water,’ he murmured. Then he took her face gently in his hands and kissed her.
For a moment the temptation was strong to kiss him back. This man held Ninian’s life in his hands. If Meggie were to give him, willingly and generously, what he so clearly and so badly wanted, perhaps he would grant her the one thing she really wanted and spare her half brother’s life. Besides, man of broad experience that he was, the prospect of making love with him was not unappealing.
A voice like cold water spoke in Meggie’s head. It was a voice which, other than in dreams and visions, she had not heard for more than a decade. Her mother said, firmly and clearly: have no truck with kings, for they take what they want and do not give anything in return.
Meggie pulled away. The moment of weakness was gone. She knew her mother was right. He would not give up the pursuit of Ninian, even if she slept with him until he grew tired of her. More than that – worse than that – if she allowed him close to her, she might inadvertently give away some small fact that would lead him to the very person she was so desperate to protect.
He moved his hands so that he gripped her shoulders. ‘You would give me the sport of forcing you, would you?’ A cruel smile crossed his face. ‘Oh, Meggie, and there I was believing you were about to yield to me right here in the sanctity of my late and much-mourned mother’s chapel!’ He gave her a shake. ‘I will have you,’ he said, his voice as soft and dangerous as a snake’s hiss.
He released her briefly, dragging at the neck of her gown and
at the lacings of his own tunic. She knew she had to act then or be lost. Grasping the leather bag, which hung from her belt, she loosed the drawstrings and took out the object within.
Then she held up the Eye of Jerusalem and, just as she had so desperately hoped, the light of the lamp burning on the altar shone on it, brought its incredible heart to life and flashed blue fire all around the chapel.
The jewel was her inheritance, coming to her from her father and her grandfather, accompanied by the prediction that she would be the first person in its incredibly long history to discover its full potential. She had worked with it as much as she dared, tentatively exploring its incredible power, nerving herself to push her experiments steadily further, even though she had frequently terrified herself and regularly caused herself at worst injury, at best a crushing headache that took days to dissipate. But magic was like that; she never complained.
One thing that she had discovered was that the great sapphire had the ability to send her into a trance. She had sat with it in the hut one night, idly swinging it to and fro so that the light of the fire burning in the heath caused it to flash intermittently. Transfixed by the sight, she had felt her eyes go unfocused and her mind empty itself of whatever she had been thinking about. She had only emerged from the Eye’s spell when she had fallen over sideways on to the floor.
Few people knew about the jewel. Her father did; so did Helewise. So did one or two others. Josse and Helewise had reluctantly agreed to allow her to try out her discovery on them, and both had succumbed to the stone’s trance-inducing power even more swiftly than she had done.
Now, when so much depended on it, she prayed to her guiding spirits that it would not let her down.
She swung it gently on its gold chain. He tried to grab it, but she flicked it up out of his reach. She went on swinging it, and the blue light flashed out so brightly that it was almost blinding. She remembered to look away; this was no time to entrance herself.
There was a change in him. His hands dropped to his sides, and the brilliant eyes followed the stone in its arc – left, right, left, right – their intense blue seemingly lit from within by the light radiating through the great sapphire.
She said, very softly, ‘You do not want me. This place is hallowed, and to make love to a woman in it would violate its sanctity. There is a power here that you cannot comprehend, and it does not do to offend it.’
She went on swinging the Eye. He was deeply under its spell now, his face blank, his eyelids heavy. She knew she must stop soon. If he went right under, he would fall on to the hard stone floor and possibly injure himself. The noise of his falling might bring the guards running, and she would instantly be arrested and taken away in chains for assaulting him.
‘Leave this place,’ she intoned, almost singing the words. ‘Go away from here. I am not for you, for my fate is connected with the secret of this place and I would not have you risk its vengeance by taking from me what I do not freely give you.’
The trance was deepening. Slowly, she lessened the Eye’s swing until it hung still. Then she enclosed it inside her palm, and its light went out. Now they were just two people standing face-to-face in a small, simple chapel.
His eyes opened fully. He seemed totally bemused. He looked around him, apparently searching for something. Finally, he turned to her. ‘Meggie?’ he said. He sounded as if he doubted even that.
‘I am here, my lord,’ she said calmly. The jewel was back in its bag, hidden in the folds of her skirt. ‘What do you wish of me?’
He shook his head violently. ‘Nothing! You are – you are—’ He frowned, clearly confused. Then, with the ghost of a smile, he said, ‘You, my dear, are a vestal virgin. Keep your fire burning . . .’ The frown deepened, and for a moment he spun round as if some memory stirred. ‘There was a fire,’ he muttered. ‘A blue fire.’
‘There is a lamp on the altar.’ She pointed. ‘I have observed myself how some trick of the light allows its flame to catch in the blue of the window there.’ She indicated St Edmund on his horse, the sky blue above his head.
He did not look convinced. He was eyeing her suspiciously. ‘I would believe there was magic here,’ he murmured, ‘and that you, my Meggie, were a witch, only I do not believe in magic and, whatever the ignorant peasantry may say, there are no such things as witches.’
She bowed her head. ‘No, lord.’
His hand was under her chin. She raised her eyes and looked at him. ‘I leave for London in the morning,’ he said. He looked momentarily puzzled, as if half-recalling that he had already told her. ‘I wish that I could take you with me.’ He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, gently, affectionately. ‘But you belong here, witch of the wildwood.’
He took one long, last look at her. Then he turned away and strode out of the chapel.
She made herself wait. She heard his voice, shouting out some command, and another man’s raised in reply. There was the faint patter of conversation, quickly fading. When she was sure they had gone, she hurried over to the flagstone trapdoor and, raising it, flew down the steps into the crypt.
She did not bother with a light. She knew every inch of the place and, besides, the goddess’s power drew her unerringly. She fell to her knees before the niche where she knew the Black Madonna sat, opening her heart and pouring out her gratitude.
A long time later, she rose to her feet, went back up the steps and left the chapel. She looked down at Hawkenlye, most of its lights darkened now. She sent King John a silent good night.
Then she hurried off through the woods towards the hut and her bed.
SIXTEEN
At Hawkenlye Abbey, the nun who had replaced Sister Martha in the stables was surprised one morning when a shabby-looking peasant brought in an extremely handsome horse. It was not in very good condition, for its coat was dull and matted, its ribs showed, and its expensive leather harness was dirty. The reins had broken, and the two ends had been clumsily knotted together. When Sister Judith asked the man what he was doing with such a horse, he shuffled his feet and said lamely, ‘I found him.’
She guessed there was more to it than that. She suspected that the man had thought about keeping the animal, only to discover pretty soon that a fine riding horse is not very much use to a peasant. She knew she ought to report the man – the dear Lord alone knew how long the horse had been in his keeping – but something about his sad, defeated face and the dejected slump of his shoulders stopped her. If it were to be discovered that some time had elapsed between his finding the horse and bringing it to the abbey, they’d probably accuse him of trying to steal it, and horse thieves were invariably hanged.
Times were hard enough anyway without hanging a man. He might have dependants. Most men did. Sister Judith made up her mind. ‘You did right to bring the horse here,’ she said. Fixing the man with a hard stare, she added, ‘I am not going to ask you to tell me how and when you found him. If there are sins on your conscience, I suggest you pray for forgiveness. Now, be off with you, before I change my mind.’
He grabbed her hand, squeezed it, muttered something and ran.
Sister Judith saw to the horse’s immediate needs, removing the dirty saddle and bridle, giving him water and what she could spare of her meagre supplies of feed. Then she went to report to Abbess Caliste.
Abbess Caliste had had so many matters to occupy her mind since the drama of having a king in the infirmary that it was some time before she thought to connect the arrival of an unknown horse with recent events. It was a couple of days since the king had left, and she felt that the dust was still settling.
Abbess Caliste thoughtfully put down her stylus. She had been hard at work for hours, and a brief walk in the fresh air would do her good. She got up, put on her cloak and went outside, crossing the cloister and slipping out through the front gates. She hoped that one of the people she sought would be at the chapel; if not, she would have to send a messenger to the House in the Woods.
Helewise was on the point o
f leaving the chapel to go home. She would have left sooner, only a woman with a small child had appeared outside the tiny cell where Helewise had once lived, begging for food. The child, a little boy, had looked at Helewise with huge eyes in his dirty face. He was too weak to walk, and his mother had been carrying him.
Not for the first time, Helewise had raged silently against the men of power who cared not a scrap for the people. She hurried off to Meggie’s hut, where she heated water and prepared a thin soup, putting it in a pot and wrapping it in her cloak so that it would keep hot while she returned to the clearing. She also cut up the last of her small supply of bread so that the woman could dip it in the warm gruel and let the boy suck in the nourishment. She told them they could stay in the cell that night.
It was so little, but the woman fell on her knees in gratitude.
Helewise had gone to pray, trying to find it within her to ask pardon for her inner fury against her king. The battle with herself was long and, ultimately, futile.
As she closed the door of the chapel, Abbess Caliste came up the rise and approached her. She made a reverence, but, as she always did, Caliste caught her up and gave her a hug. Then she told her about the horse.
Helewise thought hard all the way home, and her concentration was so intense that she was back sooner that she had thought possible. She could hear Josse’s voice in the stable yard, and she hurried to find him.
‘Josse, I think—’ she began.
He took her hands and instantly exclaimed, ‘You’re freezing. Come inside. You can tell me whatever it is when you’re sitting by the fire.’
She did as she was told, containing her impatience while he fussed around her, shouting to Tilly for hot food and tucking a blanket round her. She resisted the urge to scream at him to stop. It was, she had to admit, lovely to be looked after.
When finally he was seated beside her, she said, ‘Josse, I want you to listen. I’m going to tell you a version of how Hugh de Brionne was killed, and I don’t want you to interrupt. When I’ve finished,’ she added as a concession, ‘you can comment.’