The young woman slowly raised her head. Her eyelids, almost blue and transparent, opened suddenly, like shutters on a casement being flung ajar, but the tawny eyes beneath were as sightless as the painted eyes on a wooden saint, the pupils so small that they were mere dots. I caught hold of one of her wrists and pulled the arm down to its natural position at her side, giving its owner a little shake. Fina’s other arm flopped down with the first, as if the two were attached by strings.
‘The place for contemplation, Sister Fina, is in the chapel, not in the middle of the courtyard. We are not nuns who make a show of public penance and humility.’
Sibyl, one of our cooks, clutching a heavy iron frying pan splattered with feathers and blood, shuffled towards us. She was scarlet in the face and sweating after her efforts, and the twist of cloth about her head was pulled rakishly askew, almost covering one eye. She glanced up at Fina, who remained statue-still.
‘I reckon that tumble she had a while back must have scrambled her wits. Why didn’t she get herself indoors when the birds started swooping?’
‘Perhaps it happened so suddenly she was too frightened to move,’ I said. It was the only explanation I could think of, but even that made no sense. Fear would surely have made someone cover their head with their arms, or cower in a corner, not stand there with their body and face exposed, like a holy martyr welcoming death. ‘What on earth caused the birds to mob the yard like that?’ I glanced anxiously up at three carrion crows, which had once more alighted on the roof.
Sibyl attempted to stuff the greasy grey locks of her hair back beneath her spattered head-cloth. ‘That nuggin, Dye, caused it, that’s who. You wait till I get my hands on her. I told her to take the scraps from last night’s supper to Sister Melisene for the poor basket. I said, “There’ll be beggars pushing and shoving round that alms window before alms bell has finished tolling, and the sooner we’re rid of them, the safer we shall all be.” So, I told Dye, I said, “You take the meats to Sister Melisene, so they’ll be ready to dole out straight way, afore those vagabonds get themselves settled in front of our gate.”
‘But that girl’s not got the brains of a dried bean. She goes ambling out of the kitchen, mindless as a headless herring, without even thinking to cover the tray. A bird swoops down from the roof to snatch at the bread, gives her a fright and she drops the whole mess of it, scatters bread and meats all over the yard. And before you can say “pickled pork”, there’s a whole flock of those vicious creatures swooping down. Dye came tearing in as if the wisht hounds was after her, as did everyone else in the yard. We all grabbed up something to drive them off, but her’ – Sibyl jerked her head towards Fina – ‘she just stood there, like she was St Cuthbert talking to the beasts. It’s a wonder they didn’t peck her eyes out, mood they were in. I’ve seen them do it to lambs as can’t protect themselves.’
As if her words had indeed become flesh, her gaze fastened on a corner of the courtyard behind Fina and she gave a little cry. She scuttled over and returned to my side, the limp and bloody bodies of two chickens dangling by their feet from her fist. ‘Look! See what those flying imps have done, murdered two of my finest laying hens.’
‘Murdered.’ Fina repeated the word clearly and slowly, as if it was one she had never heard before. ‘He’ll do it again. I have to stop him.’
We stared at her. Her eyes were alive now, bright, almost luminous in the leaden morning light.
Sibyl took a pace backwards, holding the iron frying pan like a shield across her chest. ‘Blessed Virgin and all the saints . . . is she saying someone’s been murdered?’
I felt a chill hand clutching at my heart, but I shook my head emphatically. ‘Of course not! She is simply upset by the birds.’
I glanced back at Fina’s pale face, her strange eyes. Could Sister Basilia have given her more dwale? But there was no reason to do so.
‘The boy murdered Father Guthlac,’ Fina gabbled. ‘Sibyl says, he’s calling up his flying imps to destroy us. You saw them. I had to pray against them. I had to drive them away.’
I glared at both of them in exasperation. ‘Goodwife Sibyl knows they were just birds, not imps. She merely meant they were causing mischief, didn’t you?’ I said firmly, and ploughed on before she could argue. ‘And, for the last time, Father Guthlac was not murdered by anyone! Cosmas never left the pilgrims’ hall that night. You know as well as I do that he is blind. He can’t find his way out of any chamber unless someone leads him. The child was asleep. How could he possibly have harmed anyone?’
In truth, I was not at all sure Cosmas had been asleep for, now that I thought about it, I’d never seen him sleeping, no matter what hour of the day or night I had visited the infirmary, but that was hardly a sign of evil.
Sibyl frowned. ‘There’s folk do say that when we dream our spirits leave our bodies and they travel to distant places—’
‘But they don’t kill anyone there,’ I snapped.
Sibyl eyed me doubtfully. ‘My uncle went to his bed hale and hearty, and he was found dead as boiled beef come morning, face all purple and swollen like he’d been strangled. Only a mouse could have got into his livier. And they reckon that’s how the spirit came in, as a mouse, then murdered him. It was his brother that did it. Two of them had been butting horns like rutting stags for years and his brother wasn’t the least surprised when he was told the news. Bold as a magpie, he said he knew already because he’d dreamed his brother was dead that very same night. That’s as good as admitting it was his spirit who’d killed him.’
‘But Cosmas has not killed anyone.’
‘And you have proof of that, have you, Sister Johanne?’
Brother Nicholas peeled himself away from the cart he had been leaning against and covered the short distance between us in a few strides. I cursed silently. Just how long had he been standing there and what part of Fina’s wild accusations had he heard?
My brother knight did not wait for me to answer, as if he had already dismissed anything I might say. Instead he took a pace closer to Sister Fina, almost pushing his bulk between us and deliberately turning his back to me. ‘Was the boy out here in the courtyard, Sister Fina? Did you see him summoning those birds?’
Fina was staring at him stricken, obviously remembering too late that I had warned her not to speak of the boy or of sorcery in Nicholas’s hearing.
‘Brother Nicholas,’ I said coldly, before she could reply, ‘as I have already reminded Sister Fina, Cosmas cannot leave the infirmary unaided, and if one of the servants had brought him out here, they would hardly stand around idling to watch the child cast spells. The birds flocked here because, as Goodwife Sibyl told us, a scullion was clumsy enough to drop a tray of meats and scatter them all over the yard. There is no more mystery to the birds swooping down than—’
‘Prioress!’ Sister Basilia was standing in the doorway of the infirmary beckoning frantically. ‘You’d best come. It’s Sebastian. The commotion in the courtyard frightened him and nothing’ll calm him. He’s begging for you.’
I hesitated, torn between Fina and Sebastian. It was dangerous to leave my sister alone with Nicholas. He would not rest until he had bullied and cajoled her into giving him the answers he wanted, no matter if they were true or false.
But as Basilia called again, Nicholas turned towards her, his curiosity evidently aroused. I could not have him questioning Sebastian. I walked swiftly towards the infirmary, hurling orders over my shoulder, which I hoped would give Fina and Sibyl ample excuse to scurry away to the noisy, bustling kitchen, where Nicholas would find it impossible to trap and question them.
The rush screen was pulled beside Sebastian’s bed, but I could hear his cries before I reached him. Not the shrieks and screams that at times could carry right across the courtyard, but the quiet sobs of misery and despair that were far worse, for they drove knives through my soul.
He was lying curled on his side, trying in vain to hold his hands over his head, but lifting his arms was agony
for him and his limbs trembled with effort. That he even tried was testimony to a pain that was worse than any his flesh endured. I could not even hold him without causing him hurt. So I stroked his soft white hair, now matted with sweat, as he thrashed to escape the noise from the courtyard.
‘Let them die!’ he was sobbing. ‘Sweet Jesu, spare them this agony, let them die now! Let it be over. Make them stop! Stop!’
‘Hush now. You’re safe in the priory. Nothing can harm you. It was only the shrieks of birds you heard through the casement, fighting for crumbs in the courtyard.’
‘Swords! Can’t you hear them? It’s begun. You must come away now. Quickly, quickly, before it’s too late! The tunnel . . . we must reach the tunnel. Run!’
‘Sebastian, try to listen. All is quiet. The banging and shrieking is over.’
But the courtyard was never really quiet except at night. Always someone was dragging a rake across the stones, clanking a chain against a pail, or banging burned fragments from an iron pot. I had grown used to it, but for a man like Sebastian, lying helpless in his bed, tormented by his dreams, every clang, scrape and squeak must have felt as if a blacksmith was driving nails through his skull. How could he understand what the most innocent of sounds outside the wall of this infirmary signified when in his nightmares even a pail of water might be an instrument of pain?
‘No one is attacking us, Sebastian. It was only Sibyl and the servants banging pans to drive off the crows. No one has come with swords into this priory. You are safe here.’
I prayed with all my soul that he was. But I had lied when I said none had brought a sword within our walls. For one man had, and he could summon a whole army against us. And there was no tunnel in this priory. No hiding place for us.
Sebastian’s shoulders would no longer take the strain of holding his hands above his head. His arms collapsed in despair as if he had given up trying to defend himself.
Still murmuring promises of safety to him that I did not know I could keep, I smoothed the sheet on which he lay, gently lifting swollen joints and settling them again on folds of sheepskin to take the strain from them. I knew better than any of the other sisters at which angle each wasted limb should lie to give him more ease, for I had been tending him the longest.
But as I cupped my hand under his wrist to move his arm, his fingers suddenly seized mine, pulling me close to him. His eyes, sunk deep into their dark sockets, searched my face.
‘Please, I beg you do what I have asked.’ His breath was sour and cold, like an old man’s, though he wasn’t old.
‘Lie still, Sebastian, try to sleep. I’ll remind the servants to be careful and quiet. I know noise distresses you.’
‘No!’ He spat the word at me, tugging on my hand with all the strength he could muster. But his grip was so feeble and clumsy that a small child could easily have drawn their hand from his, but I did not.
‘You must listen to me . . .’ he croaked. ‘I can’t do it . . . You . . . It must be you.’ But fear and exhaustion had already taken their toll. I saw that he had sunk into sleep.
Chapter 37
Dertemora
Meggy stepped out of the narrow wicket gate and dragged it shut behind her. The moment she left the safety of the courtyard walls, the wind leaped on her back, snarling and roaring, trying to claw her cloak from her. It took several moments of wrestling with it before she managed to untwist it and free her arms. The torches on either side of the gate were guttering so wildly that she had to feel for the hole where she could push the long iron key through the wood, and wriggle the prongs to slide the bolt into place. She’d persuaded Dye to listen for the bell. The girl owed her a favour and she knew it.
Meggy turned to face the wind, and though she kept her head down, her eyes watered and her nose dripped from the smart of its bite. But she’d been born and raised in these parts and to her, like all villagers, the wind was merely the great moor breathing. If it ever stopped blowing, they’d have thought the moor had died. But even Meggy was forced to admit it was panting hard and angry tonight. There was malice prowling out in the darkness.
Her fingers strayed to the rag stuffed into the pouch hanging from her belt. It was stiff now with the boy’s dried blood. Should she take it to Kendra? She hesitated again, half turning back. She’d watched them bring that woman’s body down from the tor, slung over the back of a shaggy little packhorse, like a sack of grain, but the poor soul had been lighter than grain, just a sack of dried chicken bones, good for nothing, save dumping in the ground. Meggy had stood in the gateway, watching a man and a little boy leading the horse down the narrow sheep track, listless, stumbling, their heads bowed, but not in grief. What little energy they had left could not be wasted on useless feelings.
You got bread to spare, you give it to the chillern. It’s the young ’uns who need food now.
Meggy had run inside and grabbed the first thing she could find in the kitchen, then ignoring Sibyl’s outraged bellows, hurried out, calling to the man to wait. The boy’s eyes had popped at the sight of the dead chicken, its feathers matted and crusted with rusty blood where the birds had mobbed it. He snatched at it with such a wild, ravenous expression, that Meggy was afraid he’d sink his teeth into the raw flesh and devour it like a fox. But his father pulled the bird from his son’s hand and thrust it into a sack next to the sodden corpse. He said not a word to Meggy, as if she had struck him a final blow, the last of so many that he could no longer feel the pain. But his face turned briefly towards her, angry, bitter, ashamed.
If the priory closed, she would be driven out on to the moors, for she had nowhere else to call home, no one who would take her in. And when she died out there from cold and hunger, there wasn’t a single person from the village who’d waste their time searching for her corpse. No one would bring her back to lie in the earth beside her husband, her mother and grandmother. The villagers would leave the ravens to pick her clean, like a dead sheep. She had only the sisters at the priory now. They were all that stood between her and death.
Worse than death, for what happened to those souls who had no priest to give them a Christian burial, no family or friends to set salt on the corpse to protect it from the torment of evil spirits? There was no rest for such souls, no Heaven, no Blessed Isles. They wandered for ever on the desolate lych-ways, haunting the mires and lonely tracks, trying to find their way back to the living, back to homes long vanished. She’d heard them scrabbling at doors in the night. She’d seen their white shades flitting over the marshes, no longer human, twisted into the foul creatures of darkness, neither living nor dead.
She’d seen her future, felt it when the boy had turned his face to Bryde’s Well and destroyed it, destroyed the life blood of her mothers and grandmothers, which had poured out for them ever since the old goddess had first struck the rock and called the spring forth. Meggy had seen what that demon could do. She had stared out into the black desolation, listened to that dark silence. She knew what was coming for her.
It must be done. He must be defeated before it was too late. His blood had been delivered into Meggy’s hand. Brigid herself had put it there.
Meggy dug her staff into the muddy track and turned her face towards old Kendra’s cottage. Behind her, the burning torches beside the gate fought and lost their battle against the darkness that rolled over the priory, enveloping it like a sorcerer’s cloak.
Meggy paused on the track, digging her stave into the soft ground to steady herself against the violence of the wind. She strained to listen, peering through the dark. Now that her eyes were accustomed to it, she could just make out the outlines of the furze bushes and thorn trees closest to her as they shuddered in the wind. It didn’t bend them, like it did the birches – they were too stiff and low to the ground – but tonight it was giving them a fair old thrashing.
She heard the sound again. It was more than wind in the grass and it wasn’t the whistling of the ghosts up on the tor. It sounded like the barking of a hound, maybe mor
e than one. Meggy took a firmer grip on her stave. The wind was tossing the sound back and forth across the hills, like a juggler, first, it seemed, on the right of her, then behind, next in front. She peered down the valley. She could see shapes moving. Were they just bushes blown by the wind, or were creatures running out there, quartering the ground? Her eyes were watering, blurring everything.
The sound came again, a deep baying of hounds on the scent of their quarry, but from behind her now. She jerked round, her heart banging in her chest. How close was she to Kendra’s home? She’d thought she could walk this track blindfold, but she’d lost all sense of how far she’d come. She didn’t know whether to turn back for the safety of the priory or make for the cottage. She took a step down the track, but at once changed her mind and started back the way she’d come.
The howling was closer now, she was sure of it. She broke into a limping run, but she was struggling up the slope and the path was as slippery as raw egg. She knew she couldn’t keep it up for more than a few paces.
She slowed. Her breath tore at her throat. It was only the farmers’ dogs howling their protest about being chained up, she told herself firmly. No reason for her to go tearing across the moor and risk breaking a leg. She should know better at her age. But still she hesitated. Perhaps, after all, it was wisest to return to the priory. It was a foul night and an old besom like her might easily slip in the mud or on a loose stone, and then where would she be? Lying out there in the cold and wind, that’s where, and it might be hours before any soul found her, for that feckless scullion would saunter off to her bed without thinking to tell anyone that the gatekeeper had not returned.
The wind shrieked about her, driving thick clouds across the sky, like ships in a storm. Meggy dug her stave into the hillside and pulled herself up the track. Her legs were as heavy and stiff as fallen tree trunks now. A black shape moved on the hummock ahead of her. A tree? There wasn’t one, not there, unless she was being pigsey-led. They did that, the pigseys, imitating bushes and rocks to fool you into thinking a track was familiar so you’d follow it and become so hopelessly lost you’d wander in circles till you died of exhaustion.
A Gathering of Ghosts Page 25