For the hundredth time, Meggy cursed herself. She should have made the woman come in, dragged her in. Maybe in the morning after a warm night’s sleep and a full belly, she might have seen another way. But Meggy knew better than most the cruelty of having the pride ripped from you when that was all you had left.
Dusk had already been circling the priory when Meggy had slipped outside to light the torches on the priory wall. Heavy amber clouds were pressing down upon the hills, covering the tops of the tors, and the wet wind that howled up the hill sliced through her, like a butcher’s knife. She’d no mind to linger out there and was hurrying back inside when she’d caught sight of a hunched figure limping up the hill. Meggy’s eyes were not what they’d been in her youth and she squinted into the fading light, trying to decide if it might be a pilgrim seeking shelter or, more likely, from the painfully slow and unsteady progress, a beggar. Best wait and see before she went to the trouble of bolting the gate, for it was getting harder and harder to ram that rain-swollen beam back into place, or maybe her old arms were weakening – she angrily dismissed that thought.
Meggy had hovered just inside the open gate watching the figure stagger closer. The pitiful creature looked so frail that Meggy feared the next gust might bowl her straight back to the bottom of the valley. As she drew level with the gate, Meggy realised she was probably no older than she herself was, maybe younger, but the woman had no more flesh on her bones than that of a corpse left a year in the gibbet. The only sign of life in her was in her eyes, sunk deep into the hollows of her face.
Meggy stretched out a welcoming hand. ‘Here, come you in and rest. Sisters’ll find you a bite of food and a place at the fire.’
The woman had stopped, her hand clutching her heaving chest. She stared up at the walls of the priory, as if she’d thought it a trick of pigseys to deceive her, a castle of mist and smoke. Meggy had repeated her offer of food and warmth, but the woman had flapped her hand, as if shooing Meggy’s words away.
‘I’ll not trouble you,’ she wheezed. ‘Never begged in my life. Least I can say that much . . . Reckon I’d vomit anything I tried to eat now, anyhow. Waste it’d be. You got bread to spare, you give it to the chillern. It’s the young ’uns who need food now.’
She stared out at the desolation of grey, rain-soaked moors. ‘When we were girls dancing so carefree, we never thought it would end like this. There’s a curse come upon Dertemora, a terrible curse, and I’m not sorry to be leaving it now.’
‘Leaving? Where’re you bound?’ Meggy had asked. The woman didn’t look strong enough to reach the next valley, much less find her way off the moor.
But she didn’t reply. Leaning heavily on her stave, she had turned and hobbled away. For a while Meggy watched her, puzzled and uneasy. The distant figure paused and raised her head, staring up at Fire Tor, invisible and cloistered behind a wall of cloud. Then the stave fell from her hand and she stretched out her arms towards the tor, like a child begging to be lifted up. Suddenly Meggy understood what she intended. It’s the young ’uns who need food now.
Grief and anger blazed up in the old gatekeeper. Her own lifetime, all her memories, all her past happiness seemed to be hobbling away from her in that brave, frail figure. And it wasn’t right – it wasn’t fair that any soul should come to such a bitter and lonely end. Yet fear also laid its cold hand on Meggy’s back, for she knew that if it wasn’t for the priory she’d be taking that same walk and there’d be no one left even to remember her name. But as she watched, the cloud rolled down the hillside, like a great wave. The woman was gathered up into the mist and vanished.
A great bone weariness sank over Meggy. Her limbs felt suddenly twice as heavy as they ever had before. When we were girls dancing so carefree, we never thought it would end like this. No, she should have been sitting side by side on a bench with her neighbours in the summer sun, stretching out steadying hands as grandchildren pulled on their skirts, dragging themselves up on to their chubby legs while the parents toiled in the fields. That was how it should have been. That was how it had been for their mothers and grandmothers for generations before that. Why had it all vanished into the mist? Whole lifetimes washed away in the rain. No, we never thought, did we, never dreamed, it would end like this.
Tears gathered in Meggy’s eyes. How many months was it since she’d last set foot in the village? She didn’t belong there any more. Friends she’d known all her life stared at her whenever she returned, glancing sidewise at her black cloak as if she was collecting taxes or bringing bad news. They didn’t meet her eyes when she spoke to them, and their little children stared unsmiling at her, hiding behind their ma’s skirts. What reason had she to go back? Yet if the priory was closed by those knights or destroyed by that boy, where could she go now? Would she, too, end her days out there starving and alone on the tor?
Anger and fear grow unseen in the darkness like the wind. At first you only notice the shutters rattling or a branch creaking, but as the night wears on it gathers strength till it has the power to rip the thatch from a roof or burst a door wide open. So it was with Meggy for the dregs of that night. She lay in her narrow bed, tossing this way and that, till anger had grown to rage and fear to terror. Even when she finally slept she was assaulted by dreams of the brideog, which had grown a long snout with sharp teeth and scurried about the blacksmith’s cottage, gobbling every bite of food in the place, before scuttling up the wall to devour the side of pork hanging from the rafters. But Meggy suddenly realised it wasn’t a joint of meat at all, but her own little son dangling there, and woke with a shriek of horror.
She lay sweating and trembling. Was the brideog falling on her a sign of anger from the old goddess? Was she being punished for neglecting her, turning her back on the old ways?
For the first time in many months, the fire in her hearth had died and no amount of fresh kindling, poking and blowing revived the flames. It was another bad omen. A body always feels more chilled after a restless night, especially one that has survived as many winters as old Meggy. So, grumbling to herself, she slipped out of the door of her hut, fire pot in hand, to fetch some burning embers from the kitchen.
A few servants were straggling in and out of doors bearing fresh peats and ewers of water. One of the scullions, Dye, was bent sideways trying to lug a heavy pail of piss and night soil across the cobbles. She had already spilled some over the hem of her skirt and on the rags that bound her feet and more of the foul liquid was sloshing out as she staggered forward. The girl was going to be soaked long before she reached the midden. The scullion gave a furtive glance around her, then tipped the contents into the shallow gully that ran down the middle of the courtyard. She jumped guiltily as she caught sight of Meggy watching her, but though the gatekeeper wagged a finger at her, Dye knew she wouldn’t tell, and flashed her a cheeky grin as she scurried back inside.
It was only as Meggy was halfway across the yard that she saw the boy standing in the corner, deep in the shadow of the wall. Had he moved even a hand Meggy might have noticed him sooner, but he was as still as a grotesque on the church wall, with his cheek and ear pressed against the granite stones, as if he was trying to hear what they were whispering. Like Dye, Meggy glanced guiltily about her. All of the servants were about their work inside and the courtyard was deserted now, though she could hear Brengy, the stable lad, whistling as he tended the horses.
Meggy stepped closer to the blind child. ‘What you doing out here, lad?’
When he gave no sign that he knew she was there, she made to touch his shoulder, but even as she stretched out her hand towards him, fury bubbled in her belly and clawed up into her throat. Why did he live, when somewhere out on the rain-drenched moor a good woman lay cold and dead?
He’ll destroy you! He’ll destroy you all.
He had already murdered the saintly old priest, and now he had destroyed the well. Cursed it with frogs, flies and blood, then stopped it flowing at all. Ice slid down Meggy’s stiff old spine. She saw the
boy again standing in the courtyard in the dead of night, his hands stretched out, summoning the spirit to her gate; she heard the unearthly keening reverberating through the black empty sky; she saw his face turning towards the well as the water ceased to flow. Brigid’s spring had kept the villagers safe and healed them since the first dawn had broken over the tors. That water had given Meggy a son. And this demon had destroyed it and he would destroy the priory too, for without the well the pilgrims wouldn’t come.
Bring me something of the boy’s, something I can use to ask the spirits.
Only Kendra could stop him and she must. Meggy had tarried far too long. The falling brideog was a sign. Brigid had sent it, and now Brigid had led the boy to Meggy. She must do it before it was too late. She might never get a second chance.
Meggy reached for the knife dangling from the sheath at her waist, not to stab the boy, no – as much as she loathed him, fear of what he could do to her would not let her hurt him – but simply to cut a lock of that curly hair or a snippet of cloth.
Take care how you get it. He mustn’t know, else he’ll put you in the grave alongside Father Guthlac. Gently now, quietly, before he senses anything amiss. He doesn’t know you’re there.
The old woman’s grimed fingers trembled as they reached towards the child. What should she take?
Hair, take hair. It weakens a sorcerer’s power. But will he feel the strength leave him?
The boy lifted his head from the stones in the wall, as if they’d whispered to him, warned him of danger. His arm banged against Meggy’s hand. His eyelids jerked wide at the touch and, with an animal mew of fear, he started forward, his shoulder striking the rough stone wall as he staggered too close to it. The blow knocked him off balance and he toppled over, banging his knee against the shards of stones that were hammered sidewise into the courtyard floor.
The boy twisted himself into a sitting position, bending over his injured knee, which was drawn up under his chin. His arms covered his head and face. He whimpered as if he expected blows to fall on him. The sight of a child cringing away from her twisted Meggy’s guts. In that moment, as he was on the ground, he suddenly looked too helpless, too vulnerable to be feared. Maybe there was something about that curly head or that wordless cry that reminded her of another boy, before he was marched away and vanished into the first icy mist of autumn with a hundred other men and boys who never returned.
The courtyard was still empty and the tiny whimpers of the boy were no louder than a nestling’s cheeping. No one else seemed to have heard him. Meggy hurried back inside her hut and found some clean rags and a jar of unguent Sister Basilia had given her last winter to soothe chilblains and chapped hands. She dipped the rags in a pail of cold water and returned to the boy. He hadn’t moved. He just hunched, shivering, as if afraid to stir for fear he might fall off the world. Crouching, she wiped the blood from the bruised and grazed knee, then gently massaged the ointment over the torn skin. Her fingers were rough, the skin jagged. He winced but did not pull away, as if he understood she meant no hurt to him. Finally, she bound his knee with the dry rags.
She was helping him to his feet when a servant ambled out of the kitchens. ‘Whatever has he been up to now?’ She hurried across, holding her skirts clear of the mud. ‘I only left him for the blink of a hen’s eye. Set him against the wall where he’d be out of harm’s way.’
‘Took a tumble,’ Meggy said. ‘Grazed his knee is all.’
The servant shook her head, her expression flitting between annoyance and anxiety. ‘Boys – always charging about! I tell you a herd of rampaging goats is easier to mind than any lad. And as for that one, he’s . . .’ She shuddered. ‘Keep the butter from coming and make the cows run dry, he would.’
She seized the boy’s sleeve, seeming unwilling to touch his flesh, but as she gave him a tug towards the infirmary, he pulled away from her and fumbled for Meggy’s hand. He clutched it in his icy fingers, lifted it to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss in her horny old palm, before allowing himself to be hauled away.
Meggy stared down at her hand, still feeling the warmth and softness of the child’s lips in it, as if she was holding a sun-warmed rose petal. Her throat felt uncommonly tight.
Something caught her eye, flopping back and forth in the breeze. It was stuck in the mud between the stones of the courtyard. She picked it up. A damp rag, the one she’d used to wipe the boy’s knee. It was stained scarlet with his blood.
Bring me something of the boy’s.
He had given it and didn’t realise it had been taken. Just minutes before, Meggy would have been elated. But now . . . She stared down at her palm again. Maybe she should just rinse it clean. No need to go bothering old Kendra. Then somewhere far off, carried towards her by the breeze, she heard the tolling of the village bell, deep and melancholy, a death knell. Had they found that poor woman, or was it another soul taken from this world? Stuffing the bloody rag into the pouch at her belt, Meggy hurried towards the gate.
Chapter 35
Sorrel
I am standing on top of a towering tor. The great boulders beneath my bare feet are drenched in the crimson and purple light of a huge blood-red sun. Across a ravine there is another stack of rocks, even higher, and flat as a vast table. The sun is drifting down behind those stones, and they shimmer gold in its dying rays. Far, far below, the moor stretches in every direction, but it is already in darkness. Tiny fires, glittering like shoals of little fish in a black pool, mark the cottages and those who dwell in them. As I lift my gaze, I see that I am no longer alone. A little boy I do not recognise stands on the rock opposite me. He does not move. He does not look at me. I think he cannot see me. Maybe I am a wraith, a ghost.
As I watch, dark clouds are gathering in the sky, but as they roll towards the tor, I see that they are not clouds but birds, hundreds of them, thousands. All carry twigs and branches in their beaks. They drop them at the feet of the little boy. More fly towards us, black against the scarlet sun. The pile around the boy grows wider, higher, till he is standing on top of a great mound of wood. It glows gold in the dying light.
But it isn’t glowing. It is burning. Tiny flames are shooting up through the pyre, like seedlings. They are taking hold, clawing upwards. The boy still stands motionless in the centre. The flames are writhing towards him. I try to cry out, to warn him, but no sound comes. Dark shapes leap from the wood, like mice from a burning hayrick, foul creatures, their bodies long and sinuous as weasels, snouts full of sharp teeth, eyes black as spiders. They are streaming over the rocks and running down the hillside, a great tide of them, pouring down on to the people below huddled around their fires. I hear the screams. I see the fires going out one after another as the wave of beasts spreads out from the tor and still the boy does not move.
I have to reach him. I have to stop this. The moor is writhing, shrieking in agony as the creatures swarm over it.
Then I hear it, hear her voice. Brigid’s voice.
Protect the child.
I cannot see her. I cannot see. The sun has vanished. The flames die. All is darkness now. But the beasts are still swarming down the hillside. I hear their claws slithering over the rocks, smell the reek of death on their breath.
Protect the boy.
Who is he? Tell me! Tell me how to find him!
But she does not answer.
She never answers.
Chapter 36
Prioress Johanne
An explosion of screeches, yells and crashing metal jerked me from my morning prayers. I flung open the door of my chamber, then leaped back, covering my head with my arms as a dozen wings and claws flew straight at my face. For a moment, I could see nothing except a shrieking black snowstorm of flapping feathers and furious eyes. A great vortex of ravens, rooks and crows were swooping and rising in the courtyard, as if they’d been trapped there by some invisible net and were beating their wings trying desperately to escape.
The servants, brandishing brooms, ladles and frying
pans, waded among the birds, trying to drive them off, but that only added to the creatures’ panic and fury, and for a few moments, it seemed that they might succeed in driving the humans back into the buildings. Then above their cries came the clang of the chapel bell. The birds rose again in alarm, but as the bell swung back and forth, its great echoing gong proved too much even for them. They rose into the grey-pink dawn and flapped towards a distant tor, in dense dark cloud.
I leaned against the doorpost and muttered a prayer of thanks, trying to steady my breathing, but as I opened my eyes I noticed one of my sisters standing motionless in the courtyard, her arms stretched out in a cruciform, her head bowed. Black feathers, still drifting down in the breeze, brushed her face and caught on her veil and in the folds of her black kirtle. Around her lay the bodies of maybe half a dozen birds, some dead, others still twitching feebly, smashed out of the air by the servants’ flailing brooms and pans.
Taking care not to slip on the fresh bird dung that now covered the courtyard, I hastened towards her. ‘Sister Fina! Whatever . . . Are you hurt?’
Of course she was, I could see that. Scarlet blood trickled down her white face from several deep and livid scratches, and there were more on her long bony fingers, yet it was not those wounds that concerned me for I could feel the burning sting on my own neck where a bird’s claw had raked me. No, it was that Fina hadn’t moved. She still held her arms stretched out, like stiff wings. Her eyes were closed and she was so still that had she not been standing I would have assumed she had fainted.
‘Sister Fina, look at me!’
A Gathering of Ghosts Page 24