Fina began, ‘Father Guthlac said—’
But I cut her off. I had no time or patience to listen to more wild talk about boys appearing by magic and rocks bleeding. ‘I’m sure Father Guthlac’s reason will be restored by morning,’ I told her firmly. ‘He may even be able to tell us who the child is and where he lives.’
When I ventured out into the courtyard I walked the long way around so that I could pass beneath the casements of the infirmary. I stood for a few moments outside listening, but all seemed quiet within. The rain had eased into a fine wet mist, but the wind dashed it so hard against my skin that I was soaked before I’d reached the door of the lodgings that were reserved for highborn guests and clergy. I tucked stray strands of wet hair beneath my black veil, hoping I did not look quite as bedraggled as I felt.
Inside, two men were seated at either side of the table, fishing rabbits’ legs from a dish of egurdouce, and gnawing them so voraciously that I would have sworn they had not eaten for a week. They clambered to their feet as I closed the door behind me, wiping the thick wine sauce from their fingers to their napkins and inclining their heads somewhat curtly.
‘I am Knight Brother Nicholas, late of Buckland,’ the older of the two said.
He had the appearance of one who had been forged of steel, not flesh, from the silver-grey of his close-cropped hair and the stubble on his chin, to the hard, angular bones of his face and rigid stance. I suspected that though his knee might bend when he prayed to God, his back never would. A single glance at his hard-muscled frame and corded neck told me he had known battle.
‘This is Brother Sergeant Alban, my groom, also late of Buckland,’ he added.
The groom, a bow-legged, wiry fellow, shuffled awkwardly and glanced shrewdly up and down the length of me through narrowed eyes, as if he was appraising the worth of a horse in the marketplace.
‘I heard a man shouting earlier. If someone is causing trouble, I’ll soon put him to rout.’ Nicholas gestured towards his sword, hanging from a peg on the wall next to his cloak.
‘That will not be necessary,’ I said firmly. Why do men think a sword or a bow is the answer to every problem? ‘It was merely Father Guthlac. Until recently he was the parish priest here, but now, in the winter of his life, he’s being cared for in the infirmary. Something distressed him, but he is usually a mild-tempered man. I doubt he will disturb you again.
‘But you said you were late of Buckland, Brother Nicholas? Then I assume you are journeying to join our brothers on Rhodes. God speed you both, and grant you safe passage. But it must be a matter of some import that forces you to travel by this route. Have you a message for us?’
Even as the words left my lips, I knew the question was foolish. Neither Commander John nor the Lord Prior of England would waste the services of two members of our noble order to deliver a message that could as easily have been carried by the carter. Hob had often carried them before and, since neither he nor his son could read, they could be entrusted with letters even of a delicate nature.
‘We’re not bound for Rhodes, Sister,’ Nicholas said, ‘which I deeply regret, but for which Alban here is profoundly grateful. He doesn’t lust for the sea as his mistress, do you, Brother?’ He jabbed at the groom’s stomach with the point of a knife still dripping with red wine sauce.
The groom scowled and muttered something under his breath, but all the while his gaze kept darting back to the plate of rabbit, like a starving ferret.
‘This is our journey’s end, Sister,’ Nicholas announced with a cold smile. ‘The Lord Prior of England has commanded us to serve the order here in the Priory of St Mary. I have come to relieve you of the heavy responsibilities you have had to bear. You need have no more anxieties. I shall take charge now.’
Chapter 4
Hospitallers’ Priory of St Mary
The fire spat petulantly in the hearth and the wind rattled the door and shutters, but even these sounds were less deafening than the chilling silence that had descended upon the guest chamber after Brother Nicholas’s announcement. The speech he had been rehearsing ever since they had set off had withered on his tongue before he’d uttered a single word of it.
The summons to attend his commander at Buckland had filled him with elation. The arrival of two new brothers from Clerkenwell was a sign that two of the existing brothers were to be moved on, and Nicholas had prayed, with considerably more devotion than he had for many years, that he would be one of them.
All the men at Buckland grumbled that they had become little more than servants and bodyguards to the sisters of the Knights of St John, who complained almost daily about the brothers allowing their livestock to wander on to the sisters’ land or not providing them with the provisions or wine they claimed they were entitled to either in sufficient quantity or quality. Nicholas would have been eternally grateful never to spend another moment in the company of those demanding harpies.
He was aching to return to the Citramer, to be back in the fight against the Saracens, with the blood and sweat of battle in his nostrils, hoofs thundering beneath him, and on either side his brother knights, their mouths roaring death, their eyes shining. He longed to be sitting round the fires at night reliving the glory, his belly full of good wine, the smell of roasting meats mingling with the scents of rose, amber and musk, which clung to the skin long after aching muscles had been soothed by silent, dark-eyed maids.
So certain had he been that he was to be sent back to Rhodes that Commander John had been obliged to repeat his instructions twice before Nicholas had grasped them. His fellow knight was indeed to set sail, but Nicholas had served far longer in the Citramer than most, and fighting in that heat took its toll on the body.
‘Let young blood fight the Saracens,’ Commander John had said. ‘The order has a far more subtle and insidious enemy to defeat here in England, one that threatens our very existence. Think of it as a mission behind enemy lines,’ he had added, with a smile. ‘The task will be simple for a man of your talents and it will take no time at all. And if you succeed, as you surely will,’ he spread his hands, ‘then Lord Prior William will undoubtedly wish to send you back to Rhodes, not as a fighting man this time but as a commander. And, believe me, Brother Nicholas, you will need all your wits and cunning to uphold the English cause there among all those knights of France. Prove your talents in this matter, Brother, and you will rise.’
Nicholas’s dealings with the sisters at Minchin Buckland had led him to believe that flattery, combined with his authority as a man and a knight, was the best way of handling women, and with fifty noble, literate but bored sisters pitted against seven overworked and harassed brothers, it was his only weapon. But his commander had assured him that managing the eight women who were alone up here on these remote moors would be as easy as bridling a well-schooled mare. The sisters would be overjoyed to have two men to protect them.
Commander John had nudged him in the ribs and winked. ‘Next time I see you, Brother, you’ll be twice your girth. They’ll be falling over each other to make sure you have the tastiest dishes and softest linen.’
His commander had been right about the food: the rabbit in egurdouce, which was even now congealing in the dish, was delicious, but the expression on the prioress’s face told him she was as far from overjoyed as it was possible to be.
Prioress Johanne was a small, neat woman with a straight, narrow nose, and startlingly vivid blue eyes, rendered all the more piercing by the black veil that covered her hair and hung in damp folds at either side of her sharp cheekbones. She held her head so upright, that her neck, not covered by any wimple, seemed to elongate even as he watched. Steam was rising from her wet clothes in the heat of the small room, so that she looked like some avenging spectre rising from a tomb.
‘Here!’ she finally spat at him. ‘And precisely what do you intend to take charge of here?’
Alban dropped back into his chair, making clear that he wanted no part in this conversation by stuffing his mouth wit
h large sops of bread dipped into the rich sauce.
Nicholas’s belly was rumbling and he had to fight hard to drag his gaze from the dish. Couldn’t the woman have given them an hour or so to eat before she had burst in? ‘Sister Johanne, my orders—’
‘Prioress,’ she said, enunciating each syllable in a voice as brittle as ice.
He ploughed on, ignoring the interruption. He was damned if he was going to allow her to correct him like some errant schoolboy. ‘I am ordered to take over the stewardship of the priory and to oversee the running of—’
‘Sister Clarice is our steward. I can assure you that she is more than equal to the task, having run her husband’s warehouses and estates for many years before making her profession. She has never once failed to collect the produce and rents owing to this priory, nor, as I am sure the Lord Prior would be the first to acknowledge, failed to deliver a perfect reckoning to Clerkenwell. I shall compose a letter to the Lord Prior and Commander John, which you may deliver to Buckland, thanking them for their care, but explaining we have no need to deprive the order of the valuable services of two brothers who, I am sure, are needed to serve in the fleet.’
Nicholas could contain himself no longer. He reached over to the pot in front of Alban and stabbed one of the rabbit’s legs savagely with the point of his knife. He dragged it out, tearing at the flesh with his teeth and gulping it down. He took a certain satisfaction in watching a spasm of disgust and annoyance flash across Johanne’s brow. You can stamp and frown as much as you please, Mistress, but this is a battle I am going to win. When he had finally stripped the leg of its meat, he waggled the bare bone at her. ‘Your sister may have found it easy enough to collect the rents and tithes in times past, but the longer people stay hungry, the more obdurate they’ll become. It’ll take more than the pretty face of a woman and her sweet tongue to persuade them to hand over what they owe. Believe me, Prioress, half the commanderies across England cannot raise enough to send the responsions that are due to Rhodes.’
‘If, on your own admission, our brothers in the other commanderies have not persuaded their tenants to pay their rents, whereas we have, it must be self-evident that Sister Clarice’s “sweet tongue” has proved considerably more effective than those of our brother knights. Perhaps you would like Sister Clarice to give them some instruction on how it should be done.’
An angry flush spread across Nicholas’s cheeks. ‘And perhaps you would like to read the Lord Prior’s direct orders, Prioress.’
He snapped his fingers at the groom, who reluctantly laid down the bone he was gnawing and fumbled in a leather scrip, finally thrusting a roll of parchment into the knight’s hand. Nicholas slid it across the table towards Johanne. ‘I take it you are familiar with Lord William’s seal and signature.’
The prioress unrolled the parchment using only the tips of her fingers, as if she was handling a soiled arse-rag. As her gaze marched over the letters, Nicholas watched the muscles of her jaw clench so tightly that he fancied he could hear her teeth splintering.
‘I am sure I need not remind you that you and your sisters have taken a sacred vow of obedience, as have I, and we are all subject to the Lord Prior’s rule.’
Johanne’s blue eyes glinted as cold as winter ice. ‘And may I remind you, Brother Nicholas, that prioresses, unlike commanders, are not appointed by the Lord Prior but elected by their own sisters.’
Nicholas slammed his fist on the table, jolting Alban’s elbow so that the sauce-soaked bread he was about to pop into his mouth slid half across his face. He wiped it on the napkin, cursing under his breath and darting furious glances at the knight.
Nicholas, trying to hold his temper in check, ignored him. ‘Doubtless you are aware that the other communities of our sisters in England have been compelled to move to Minchin Buckland where they can be kept safely cloistered under one roof – all except this one. If the Lord Prior should decide to close this priory and move you to Buckland too, you would no longer be prioress. So, if you value your independence, Sister Johanne, you had better learn to bend your neck before it is broken for you.’
‘Do you dare to threaten—’
‘I make no threats, Prioress.’ Nicholas held up both palms in the mocking gesture of a man who shows he is unarmed. ‘I merely offer you my humble advice.’ He stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth with one hand, while pouring wine into two goblets with the other. He offered one to Johanne, who curtly refused it.
‘You must forgive me, Prioress. It’s been a long, cold journey and my tongue grows sharp when my backside is aching from the saddle. Years of riding in stinking, sweaty armour in the heat . . . Well, let us just say that it gives a man sores that nag at him worse than any scold who was ever sentenced to ducking.’
‘I will ask Sister Basilia to make up an ointment for you.’
‘Ask her if she’ll rub it in for him too.’ Alban chuckled.
‘I’m sure Brother Nicholas does not need the assistance of a woman to find his own arsehole,’ Prioress Johanne said sweetly.
Alban’s jaw dropped, revealing a mouthful of half-chewed rabbit.
‘I will leave you to your rest, Brothers.’ Johanne inclined her head curtly. ‘We will discuss this matter further in the morning.’
She stepped out into the darkness of the courtyard, pulling the door closed. She had barely taken a step when it opened again and Nicholas slipped out behind her.
He pressed himself close to her to be heard over the wind. ‘I fear that we have not made the best of beginnings, Prioress, but I must obey my orders and you will find it a good deal less painful to help me to carry them out than attempt to fight me. Do I need to remind you that it’s been but seven short years since the Knights Templar were first interrogated in England and their treasures plundered, even though the order had believed itself safe here? Indeed, when the persecutions of the Templars began nine years ago in France, many fled to England to escape the torture and burnings, believing the Inquisition would never come to these shores. But come they did. Now there is no country left on God’s earth in which those heretics and sodomites may hide. I’ve heard men mock the Dominican Inquisitors as Domini canes, the hounds of God. But all good jokes are built upon a savage truth, for when hounds are in full cry they will tear to pieces any beast that crosses their path, whether or not it is their quarry.’
‘And what has that to do with this priory?’ Johanne said. It was too dark for Nicholas to see her expression, but her tone was as sharp as a freshly honed blade.
‘Since the Pope gave so many of the Templar lands to our order, there are rumours that the greedy eyes of the kings are now turning towards us. If they attack us, they will gain the lands and property of both orders at a single stroke. Our Lord Prior is determined to ensure they have no excuse to cast us into the same prisons where so many Templar knights lost their lives. He has eyes everywhere, searching for the smallest spark of corruption, heresy or sorcery in his order, and if he suspects so much as a glimmer of it, he’ll grind the guilty beneath his boot before they can ignite a blaze that will burn us all on the heretics’ pyre.’
‘Are you suggesting—’ Johanne began indignantly.
‘I suggest nothing. I merely wish to remind you that the sisters from the other priories were not gathered together in Minchin Buckland merely for their safety but to ensure that no whisper of scandal attaches itself to them.’
‘Because they are the weaker sex?’ she said. ‘Have you forgotten, Brother Nicholas? It was the Knights Templar who stood accused of immorality and heresy, not their sisters.’
He spread his hands. ‘As you say, Prioress, the weaker sex. And a fortress is only as strong as its weakest wall. As every defender knows, that is the wall you must shore up first.’
‘Don’t you mean shut up?’ the Prioress snapped.
A satisfied smile creased the corners of the knight’s mouth. The arrow had struck its mark. ‘Sleep well, sweet Sister,’ he murmured, as he strode back into the darkne
ss.
Chapter 5
Sorrel
I must have been six or seven days upon the road when I finally met the one she’d sent to guide me. Now that I think on it, he was a strange one to send, for he didn’t even realise he was her messenger. No more did I, at first.
I’d been searching for a place to shelter for the night, for though I couldn’t see the sun behind the leaden clouds, the grey light was fading and bedraggled black rooks were massing in a small coppice of trees around me. Dusk was swiftly approaching. My legs ached and I was dizzy with hunger. While I still had enough daylight to see and strength left, I had to build a fire and cook the few wild worts I had been able to glean from beside the track as I’d trudged through the rain. If I didn’t, I’d simply sink down in the mud and fall asleep, no longer caring whether I ever struggled up again.
But just when I despaired of finding shelter, I emerged from the trees and saw a drovers’ hut and pinfold a little way off the track. The pinfold was no more than a clearing of sodden earth and mildewed weeds, surrounded by a broad bank. A stone trough stood in one corner, fed by a spring that flowed out of the bank and spilled over on to muddy stones beneath. By the look of it, no sheep or cattle had been driven this way for many a month – part of the bank had fallen away and one of the walls of the tiny wattle hut, which huddled next to it, had blown in. Still, half a shelter was better than none, and I’d little fear that any drover would be needing it. Since the famine had taken hold, few had any beasts left to sell and those that still lived were so weak they could scarcely be driven a mile to market without collapsing.
The earth floor of the hut was slimy and wet, but at least the roof gave some protection from the wind and rain. I wedged the sagging wattle wall upright, as best I could, and gathered a few stones to set a fire on. With my flint and iron and few precious wisps of dried flax, I managed to get a flame burning and tried to coax it into a blaze, but the wood I had gleaned along the way was so damp that the fire gave more smoke than flame. I set my pot of water and worts over it, but there was scarcely enough heat to warm my numb fingers, much less the iron pot. For the hundredth time since I’d set out, I asked myself why I’d left my village. I’d precious little there but at least I’d slept warm and dry.
A Gathering of Ghosts Page 4