[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘Will he die?’

  Hob shook his head fiercely. Not if he could help it. But he kept up a perpetual barrage of half-threatening prayer to God-and-Mary. Make him better, make them both well, or I’ll never go to church again. I’ll never dust you, I won’t bring you any more flowers. One of his self-imposed duties at the tower had been to keep the chapel clean and occasionally wash the statue, an ancient squat almost featureless Virgin holding a shapeless lump that bore no resemblance to a baby. I know you can do it, Hob nagged silently. You can do anything. So come on! That’s what you’re for! Father Kenneth would not have agreed with him but Father Kenneth wasn’t there, and Hob followed the constant-water-weareth-away-stone school of faith.

  On the third morning, the old knight opened his eyes. Hob sent Gilla running for Sir Miles. By the time Miles reached his bedside Sir Blaise was asleep again, but Miles sat patiently until, hours later, the old man’s eyes opened once more and his pale gaze found Miles.

  ‘Told you …’ he said, his voice not much more than a thread. ‘Not to go there … disobeyed me.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Miles, wretchedly. ‘How could I let you go alone?’ He bowed his head, and his tears fell, surprisingly hot, on the old man’s cold waxen hand. Sir Blaise seemed asleep again, and presently Hob chivvied Miles away. Bane found him later, sitting by the fire in the hall, and put a cup of mulled wine in his hand. ‘What happened up there?’ he asked at last, having nearly burst with the effort not to probe too soon.

  Miles frowned. ‘It’s queer. I know I saw something, and I know it was … oh, Christ, terrible. But I can’t seem to remember what it was. I followed Sir Blaise. He didn’t know I was there. I hid outside the ring. He told me not to go but I feared for him; he was pretty groggy but he wouldn’t admit it. I saw him doing something, he sort of drew in the air with his hands and he was chanting in some foreign lingo. I thought, when his hands moved they left marks, like lines of light hanging in the air. But they faded, and I couldn’t see them any more. It took a lot out of him; he was pretty wobbly. That star-thing he wore round his neck, he buried that too, beside that big fallen stone.

  ‘All the time, he was chanting and getting more and more breathless, and then he just sighed and gasped and fell down.

  ‘That’s when I went in. And that’s where it gets all blurred. I had a real job to get to him. God knows why, but it was hard to move in there. And my ears hurt. And it got harder and harder to breathe. But I got to him, and he gave me that string of relics and told me what to do. It felt as if a strong man was hanging on to both my arms, to try and hold me. It sounds daft, but it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  ‘I thought I saw—I don’t know, it was so dark and I couldn’t look at it—something struggling in a silver net. Something terrible.’ Miles’s cheerful young face was twisted with distress and his eyes had a faraway haunted look. ‘Suddenly Richard was there, then I thought the lightning had hit us all; there was a God-awful noise and then nothing.’

  ‘Drink your wine before it gets cold,’ said Bane.

  ‘What about Soulis?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Will there be trouble, them killing him?’

  ‘God knows! Perhaps not. Though, whatever he was, it was murder.’

  It was a week altogether before Sir Blaise could travel and by then Straccan had been on his feet for three days. Although the old knight tired quickly and had not yet recovered his full strength, he was able to sit a horse. It was the last day of June.

  The bustle of their departure filled the bailey. The sergeant-at-arms was left in charge pending the arrival of a new lord, and Julitta’s servants had elected to remain until then, with a reasonable anticipation of being taken on the strength when the new lord came.

  Farewells were said with promises to meet again. Straccan had shared Soulis’s letters with Blaise who, taking the journey in easy stages, was riding with an escort of two men for Roxburgh and King William. Sir Miles would return to Durham. Straccan, Bane and Gilla would journey home by the Great North Road, and once Gilla was safe, Straccan would find King John.

  They had put their heads together about Hob who stood forlornly by the kitchen door, watching the comings and goings the loading of pack pony and mule. Blaise, not yet mounted, called to him.

  ‘We all have good cause to thank you, Hob. And none of us wants to leave you. What do you want to do? Listen, and tell me. You can stay here and live with your grandsire, if that is your wish. In any event I will see he is paid a pension; he will not go cold or hungry ever again. Or you can go to Sir Richard’s home in England, and he will treat you as a son. Or, would you like to come with me? I will take you, after I’ve seen the king, to the priory at Coldinghame, where you can learn the healing arts from Brother Alan. He’ll welcome a young helper. They are gentle folk at the priory. But the work won’t be easy. It will take years to learn.’

  Hob was smiling and crying all at once; tears ran down his face and dripped off his chin and he was nodding so hard he sprayed tears in all directions. He seized Sir Blaise’s hand and kissed it.

  ‘Well,’ Bane said, ‘that seems settled.’

  Gilla was crying too, and she hugged Hob. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘I won’t forget you. I love you, Hob.’

  Straccan put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Hob had grown, surely, in just this past week: he was taller and broader. ‘I owe you my daughter’s life. I could never thank you enough if I spent all my days trying. My home is yours whenever you want it, and I am your servant if ever you need me.’

  ‘Where’s Sir Miles?’ Larktwist asked. He was to accompany the young knight on his journey south, until his calling waylaid him. Just then Miles emerged from the hall and stood on the steps above them, looking down.

  ‘Sir Blaise,’ he called. The old man looked questioningly at him. Miles ran down the steps and across the yard to Sir Blaise’s stirrup.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, all in a rush, for he’d rehearsed it and must get it out before his nerve failed. ‘Sir. Master, you spoke of your nephew who died, he that was your pupil. You said there was no one now to whom you could pass on your learning.’ Miles stared at the foot in the stirrup, not daring to raise his eyes. ‘Sir,’ he said again, gathering courage, ‘I have no parents, no kin save my Uncle Hoby your friend, no holding, no wife or sweetheart. What I mean is, Sir, if you need another student, well, will I do? I will serve you with all my heart and learn to … to watch and guard, if you will teach me.’

  Blaise leaned down and embraced him. ‘I won’t ask if you’ve thought this over,’ he said. ‘I see that you have. You must go and tell your uncle—you can ride that far with Sir Richard—and then, when you’re ready, join me at Coldinghame. God be with you, boy.’ Blaise, his escort and his baggage, and Hob, nervous but proud on a Skelrig pony, rode out of the gate and took the Roxburgh road.

  A stable man brought Straccan’s party their horses. Now, at last, they turned their heads towards home.

  Chapter 39

  A few fishing boats and two bigger trading vessels moved sluggishly at anchor on the ebbing tide. Crewmen lounged on decks for none could sail as long as the onshore wind pinned them there. Gulls wheeled and screamed above, smoke streamed westward from the chimneys ashore, and more gulls picked along the smelly tideline of weed and dead shellfish.

  On the shore sat a few ragged abjurers, criminals condemned to exile but unable to afford a passage oversea, out of reach of justice. Slowly starving, they picked the shoreline as eagerly as the gulls, and ate them too, when they could catch any. From time to time one or more would wade into the water, skinny arms raised in pleading, to wail in vain at the men aboard the trading vessels. Those who could pay bought passage to France, Flanders or Holland; but these penniless leftovers had no hope of safe exile; they must stay on the beach between land and sea until they starved to death, and good riddance.

  The hulk Mary Maid was old and small, and looked every inch the smuggler she
was. Her crew hadn’t expected to put to sea today, or tomorrow either, not with this relentless southeaster.

  When the woman came aboard seeking passage to France the skipper eyed her up and down, not that he could see much of her in that all-enveloping cloak; she might be young or old, but she was certainly female and therefore bad luck. He spat contemptuously over the side and refused to take her, until she put a purse in his hand. Then he peered inside and changed his mind. His crew began to argue, but he was the skipper.

  While they argued, the wind changed.

  A howl rose from the abjurers, seeing vessels suddenly preparing to sail. They surged into the sea, screeching and praying; one even grabbed at a dangling rope that had no business to be there and tried to haul himself aboard the Mary Maid. It took several blows with a boat-hook to knock him back into the water, where he floated face down and bleeding. His fellows in adversity took no notice of him. It was every man for himself. The Mary Maid headed southward, sail taut.

  There was a tiny shelter on deck, made of hides tacked on a wooden framework, and the skipper ushered the woman inside, out of sight. His men stared enviously at his disappearing back and grinned at one another, but after a few moments he backed out again, pale and cursing, and laid about him with a rope’s knotted end to make them pay for his embarrassment.

  Inside the shelter the woman sat still as an image, but her lips moved silently as if she was praying.

  The water ran murmuring along the sides, and the wind blew the Mary Maid steadily down to where the Tweed joined the true sea, and the heaving swell grew strong.

  Through a gap in the hides, sunlight struck into the shelter. The woman stirred, drew from her belt pouch a flattish piece of grey translucent quartz and angled it towards the light. Shaking back the hood of her mantle, she stared intently into the crystal, seeking her enemy.

  Kneeling at the streamside, sunlight hot on her back, Janiva was washing her shift, turning it in the water and beating at a stain with a flat stick. Smooth multicoloured pebbles seemed mere inches below the surface, but here at this deep pool her arm’s full length could only just reach them. She sat back on her heels, wringing the water out of the garment. The blue-jewelled flash of a kingfisher caught her eye as it rose from the water clasping a tiny silver fish in its orange beak.

  She felt suddenly cold. The light had changed—she looked up the sun still shone but its disc was cold and white, dead as the full moon. The water, a moment before alive with sunlight, now looked grey, cold and hard. Like stone.

  She leaned over the pool, curious, off-guard, reached out a hand to touch the grey gleaming surface—and was caught.

  Julitta drew in her breath sharply, staring at the face, small and distinct, in the crystal’s smoky heart. A woman, and young to have such power! There she was at last, the meddler: the lowborn interfering trull who’d released that bone-pedlar Straccan from the spell which would have rid them of him and, worse, somehow warded his brat from the power of the master and thereby brought all their plans to ruin. Because of her, Arlen and many others would die. Because of her, Julitta had lost everything, all she had striven for, and must flee into exile to wait on King Philip’s coffin-cold mercy.

  In the crystal, Julitta looked into her enemy’s eyes.

  In the water, Janiva looked back at her, tranced.

  ‘Mistress Janiva! Mistress!’ The forester’s worried face filled her vision. Janiva was lying at the pool’s edge, soaked and cold as ice. She coughed, gasped, and turned to vomit water into the grass.

  ‘Tostig,’ she said weakly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You fell in. Lucky I came by! I pulled you out. Are you all right?’

  ‘I fell?’ She sat up, shivering hard.

  Tostig threw his cloak around her. ‘Well, sort of. You were kneeling on the edge. I called to you, and you just seemed to lean forward and fall straight in. Did you faint, Mistress?’

  She remembered looking into stone-cold grey water, into stone-cold green eyes that numbed her mind and will. Wanting to resist, not able to resist. What had happened? Tostig took her hands and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Faint? I suppose I must have,’ she said, her voice as unsteady as her legs. ‘Tostig, please help me home.’

  Julitta closed her fist round the crystal, gripping it so tightly in her fury that its edge cut her flesh and blood oozed through her clenched fingers. The wind dropped and the sail hung limply for a few moments as her concentration shifted, then filled again. ‘I’ve not done with you, slut,’ she said softly. ‘I almost had you. I know you now. Threefold I curse you. All that you are, all that you have, all that you love you shall lose!’ She let her blood collect in her cupped palm, and in blood on the crystal wrote the rune of destruction.

  Chapter 40

  Larktwist left them at Alnwick. They were riding past the castle when a beggar-child snatched at Larktwist’s reins and mouthed something at him, the others didn’t hear what. He nodded, gave the child a coin and turned to his companions. ‘I must leave you here,’ he said. ‘I won’t say it’s been a pleasure exactly but it’s certainly been interesting. No hard feelings, eh, Sir Miles? Sir Richard? Master Bane, here’s the dice I promised you.’ He handed Bane a small wood-shaving box. ‘Perhaps we’ll run into one another again, one of these days. God be with you all!’ And he was gone, into the crowd at the castle gate, round a corner, out of sight. Miles said, ‘I suppose he’s gone to report on our business to whoever’s paying for the information.’

  ‘It’s a living,’ said Bane, tolerantly. The little box was in his pocket, and he patted it affectionately.

  They parted with Miles at Durham, where they stayed for two nights as guests of Sir William Hoby before setting off again. ‘Miles, brother,’ said Straccan, ‘you have my love and gratitude all life long, for your help and your company. We wouldn’t have got through without you. You know where I live; come whenever you will. My home is yours. God’s blessing go with you.’

  Shawl was not on their road home, but that’s where they went next. Straccan’s horse lasted just long enough to reach the manor before it went lame. He led it, limping, into Sir Guy’s stable to be left until called for. Sir Guy and Lady Alienor, who had never met him, greeted him cheerfully and offered their hospitality. Visitors, with their news and gossip, were a breath of life and their welcome was assured.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Guy, My Lady, you are very good. We will be glad to sleep under your roof tonight, but first I have to see a friend.’

  As he left with Gilla, Alienor nudged her husband. ‘He’s going to see Janiva,’ she hissed.

  ‘Is he? How on earth do you know that? Still, seems a nice enough fella.’ Sir Guy tugged thoughtfully at his earlobe. ‘Old Duffy St. Obin was a friend of his father.’

  ‘He was?’ Lady Alienor’s eyes were bright with interest. ‘Tell me about him, this Straccan.’

  Sir Guy settled back comfortably. He prided himself on genealogy. Knights and barons knew all about one another’s antecedents, good and bad. Most of them were related to some degree, by marriage or blood, and reckoning kinships was a popular pastime during winter evenings. ‘Well, let me see. His father was William Straccan; he was killed on crusade—didn’t have any property—his father Draco supported King Stephen and lost everything, of course, when FitzEmpress took over. Draco’s name was FitzEstraccan; goes back to some Breton fella called Estraccan de Something who won lands serving Rufus. This Straccan’s father dropped the Fitz bit and just called himself Straccan.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lady Alienor impatiently, ‘but who is he? Has he any property?’

  ‘Oh, he’s rich enough. Went on crusade. Came back with money. Bought property from the abbey near … where is it?’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and screwed up his face with the effort of memory. ‘Dieulacresse! That’s it.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Was. She’s dead. Odd chap. Does some sort of trade nowadays. Relics. Funny business really.’
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br />   ‘He’d be a good match for Janiva,’ said Lady Alienor.

  ‘Match? Janival But he’s a knight!’

  ‘All the better. He’s already wealthy, he can choose to marry where he likes. I’ll have to talk to her.’

  ‘Alienor,’ said her husband warningly, ‘don’t meddle!’

  ‘Meddle? Sir Guy! How could you say such a thing? I never meddle!’

  ‘Not much,’ muttered her lord to his lady’s retreating back.

  ‘What did you say?’ She looked back at him over her shoulder, chin high, very pink.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing at all!’

  She was smaller than he remembered, and more beautiful. To Straccan’s surprise, when he lifted Gilla off her pony she went straight to Janiva as if they knew each other and knelt on one knee at her feet, kissing her hand as if she was an abbess. Janiva put her arm round the girl, and they stood together, smiling.

  ‘Mistress Janiva,’ said Straccan, pulling off his cap.

  ‘Sir Richard, and Gilla, I am so glad, so very glad to see you well.’

  Later, when Gilla began yawning, Janiva put her to bed and rejoined Straccan outside in the sweet warm summer evening. Subdued birdsong surrounded them, and there was a scent of roses and mint. They sat on a bench among the herbs, Janiva with her spindle, Straccan shredding a sprig of thyme.

  ‘Sir Richard, may I ask … do you mean to place Gilla in the convent again?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about it. I’m away so much, it seemed wise, and she was happy there. But now …’

  ‘I have a suggestion,’ she said, hesitantly.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Keep her with you when you can. Let her visit the convent, spend a few days there from time to time. It would look strange else. But when you must go away and will be away some time, send her here to me. No—’ as he made to speak ‘—wait, let me finish. So much has happened to her, such strange things, she is changed from the child she was. To me, if she needs to, she can talk about it; but if she talks at the convent of things she has seen and done the good sisters won’t know what to make of it, or of her. She won’t fit in.’