A Gathering of Ghosts

by Karen Maitland

  I had told Sister Clarice that I had managed to persuade Brother Nicholas that Alban’s body could not be taken to Buckland for burial until the first frosts.

  ‘Being as wet as it is, I reckon that if it turns colder we’re more likely to have snow than frost up here,’ she had said. ‘That means there’ll be no moving him off the moor till spring.’

  ‘The point is, we must stop the body being taken anywhere, now or then. If Commander John or the Lord Prior should learn that a Hospitaller was murdered here, we shall have the whole order riding in to investigate. I think even Brother Nicholas understands that he couldn’t get a cart further than our gates without it becoming hopelessly bogged down. But he is demanding to take the heart to Buckland for burial at least, which he says he can do on horseback, whatever the weather. And I suspect he could, given his skill as a rider and his determination. Once there, he is bound to be questioned about how the man died. Commander John will not let Brother Alban’s death go unavenged.’

  ‘Aye, and that low-bellied viper will waste no time in tattling to Commander John all he thinks he’s discovered that’s amiss here, including my accounts, not that he’s got a mote of proof,’ Clarice had added indignantly.

  ‘Then we had better see to it that Brother Nicholas does not leave this priory,’ I had said. Missing money was the least of the crimes Nicholas would report, if he had the chance. Half the priory had heard what he’d threatened and those who hadn’t had certainly learned of it by now.

  I cursed myself. I had already given orders that a grave be dug and that Alban should be buried at first light. With the ground so sodden and the corpse so mutilated, it would decay rapidly in the earth, and if we could keep Brother Nicholas out of the way until the grave was filled, even he might balk at digging it up, especially if we could convince him the heart would have rotted. I had thought to let the body lie before the altar until dawn, for by rights a corpse should lie for three days as Christ’s had done. The soul must be given time to move on, before the earthly remains are laid in the ground. Alban was a Hospitaller and he deserved that much at least.

  But now I knew that I should have had Alban interred straight away. Nicholas was probably even now cutting out the heart. Why else would he have demanded the keys to the chapel at this hour? Which meant he had determined to set out for Buckland tonight. I had to prevent that, whatever the cost.

  But as soon as I entered I saw that the chapel was empty, at least of the living. Had Nicholas already removed the heart? I crossed swiftly to Alban’s body and drew back the cloth that covered it. The winding sheet was still in place, the cord still tightly bound around the neck, thighs and ankles. Just to reassure myself, I laid my hand upon the chest, feeling for any signs that the ribs had been broken open. Those, at least, seemed to be intact. Relief flooded through me, swiftly followed by guilt. I had thought so little of Nicholas that it had not occurred to me that he might simply have wanted to keep vigil and offer his prayers for the soul of our brother. Though even as that struck me, I confess I was shocked that his prayers should have been quite so perfunctory, for he must have left the chapel before Meggy had even finished telling me he was there. Otherwise I would have seen him crossing the courtyard. Most knights of our order would have remained kneeling in vigil till dawn.

  I knelt too, to beg mercy on Alban’s soul, though I had already spent some hours in prayer for him. But my prayers now were also brief for the hour was late and I would have to rise before dawn to see that the body was laid to rest as deep as possible in the earth. I was on the point of scrambling to my feet when I heard something that sounded like slow footfalls.

  I rose swiftly, fearing that someone was behind me, but I could see no one. Stone amplifies and distorts sound, so I couldn’t be sure of the direction, but as I strained to listen again, I realised it was coming from below my feet. The cave! I glanced towards the well door. The pool of light cast by the trembling candle flames that stood sentinel around Alban’s corpse did not reach as far as the wall and the door lay in deep shadow. But as I edged towards it, I saw it was partly open.

  If that was Brother Nicholas moving about, then what on earth was he doing down there? Certainly not collecting holy water, that was for certain, for there was no sound of splashing to indicate the spring was flowing again. A thought struck me. Was it possible he had caused the water to run red and had blamed the tinners for it? And had he somehow managed deliberately to block the flow? He’d boasted of his knowledge of how to poison water supplies. Was that what he was doing down there now, poisoning the holy water, so that the pilgrims would fall sick and our priory would be closed? Only that morning he had threatened to destroy the well, fill it with rubble so that it could never be used again. Was he even now carrying out his threat?

  I had no weapons except the knife at my belt and I knew I was no match for a trained knight. But I could not stand aside and let him do this wicked thing. At the very least, I intended to catch him in the act and confront him.

  Chapter 48

  Hospitallers’ Priory of St Mary

  Brother Nicholas felt as if he was lying at the bottom of a deep, dark, water-filled pit, staring up into a small circle of sunlight. He couldn’t move his limbs. He could hear voices, but the sounds were far off, muffled. Two figures in black hovered above him, locked together, struggling, fighting. He caught the flash of a blade. Then the small patch of sunlight shrivelled into a tiny ball and vanished. All was silence and darkness.

  ‘Brother Nicholas, open your eyes.’

  Something was crawling down his face. Flies? He tried to bat them away, but his arm had been turned to stone. He could scarcely lift it. A cold ring closed about his neck. Water! Water was trickling over his skin. Was he drowning? He forced his eyes open and pain seared through his head. Only as it subsided into a dull throb did his mind begin to grasp where he was.

  He was lying on his bed in the now too familiar guest chamber. Sister Basilia’s massive breasts almost slapped his chest as she bent over him to peel a sodden cloth from his forehead, immediately replacing it with another dripping icy water. He winced as she smoothed it across his brow, pressing it against the tender lump on the side of his head, which seemed to be the source of his pain.

  ‘How are you feeling, Brother Nicholas?’ Prioress Johanne was standing at the foot of his bed, her face illuminated from beneath by the candle set on the table. She looked like a talking skull.

  Skull, where had he seen . . .? Vipers pouring out from between the jaws . . . Someone on the steps behind him . . . someone with a knife.

  He struggled to sit up, but Sister Basilia pushed down on his shoulder with her not inconsiderable weight. ‘You must lie still, Brother. You struck your head, and if you get up too soon, you’ll feel dizzy and sick. We don’t want you falling again and giving yourself another nasty little bump, now do we?’ she cajoled, in the jolly tone that a mother would use when trying to divert a small child from crying over a grazed knee.

  She was right about feeling sick, though. Nicholas was afraid to sit up again for fear that he would disgrace himself and vomit. He resolved to lie still, at least until the bed stopped rolling, like the deck of ship.

  ‘What happened? I was down in the cave . . . How did I get here?’

  ‘You slipped,’ Johanne said briskly, ‘and banged your head on the rock. Meggy helped me to drag you up into the chapel. It wasn’t easy getting you up those stairs. If you hadn’t been found, you might have lain unconscious in the well all night, probably for days. When I saw the chapel was empty, I was about to relock it. Only by the grace and blessed intervention of St Lucia was I moved to check the well first. We must give thanks to her for that miracle. You could easily have died of the cold. What were you doing down there in the middle of the night, Brother Nicholas? The spring is dry. And you, above all people, must be very well aware of that.’ Her tone had grown suddenly sharp and suspicious.

  But Nicholas ignored the question. He had one or two of his own.


  ‘I slipped because someone crept down behind me on the stairs. Someone who tried to stab me.’

  ‘Stab?’ Johanne gave a slight smile. ‘It would appear you are still a little confused from the blow to your head. I am told our recollection of events is often jumbled, when we have been rendered unconscious. Isn’t that so, Sister Basilia?’

  The infirmarer nodded enthusiastically. ‘Some men can’t remember anything that happened on the day they were injured. One I tended thought it was still Lent when it was just a week from Michaelmas. And there was a woman who couldn’t even remember her own name. Swore she’d never been married when her poor husband was standing right there with the half-dozen children she’d borne him clinging to his breeches. When she clapped eyes on him she—’

  ‘I know exactly who I am,’ Nicholas bellowed, though he instantly regretted it as a spear of pain shot through his skull. He tried to keep his tone level. ‘I can remember with perfect clarity what happened down in that cave. Someone was standing behind me with an upraised knife. If I’d not slipped, that blade would, at this moment, be sticking out of my back, or I’d be lying in that well with my throat sliced open. I don’t know who it was because her face was hidden in the shadow on the stairs, but I do know it was a sister in this priory. I saw her black kirtle.’

  Sister Basilia’s hand shot to her mouth and she gave a strangled gasp, as if she was the one who was going to faint. ‘Why would anyone wish to harm you, Brother? No sister in our order would ever do such a wicked thing to any living soul, much less to a brother knight. It’s that bang on your head that’s making you imagine such terrible things.’

  But Nicholas was not listening to the infirmarer: his gaze was fixed on the prioress’s face.

  ‘Sister Basilia is right. I fear you misunderstood what you saw, Brother Nicholas, which is hardly surprising in the confusion. You may indeed have seen someone on the stairs carrying a knife but, I assure you, no one was attempting to stab you. It seems that while Meggy was in my chamber, explaining that you had borrowed her keys, Sister Fina was crossing the courtyard to the garderobe, when she caught sight of a light moving behind the chapel window. Knowing that the chapel should have been locked at that hour, she was naturally concerned that thieves had broken in and went, rather foolishly, to investigate, instead of rousing the lay-servants. She is keeper of the well and has come to believe that it is her responsibility to protect it. She says she saw the well door open and could hear someone walking down the steps, so she followed them, and pulled out her knife to defend herself, should she have need. As soon as you turned, she saw who you were and quickly withdrew so as not to disturb you. You must have slipped as she was climbing back up the steps. The floor of the cave is treacherous.’

  Sister Basilia beamed with evident relief. ‘There, you see? I knew there was no harm intended. Hardly a wonder Sister Fina should have been afraid that thieves and outlaws had broken in after what had happened to dear Brother Alban, God save his soul. It’s my belief it was outlaws who set upon that poor man and killed him. Since this famine came upon us, they’ve grown so bold and reckless that it’s not safe to cross our own courtyard after dark.’

  She crossed herself, gazing anxiously at the closed shutter of the chamber, as if she feared that a band of bloodthirsty robbers might even at that moment be massing on the other side of the flimsy wood, preparing to attack.

  The infirmarer might have been convinced by Johanne’s story, but Nicholas was as far from reassured as it was possible to be. He knew now he had seen two sisters on the stairs, as he’d briefly regained consciousness, but neither had been rushing to his aid. One had been trying to hold back the other, he was sure. But what he didn’t know was whose hand had been holding the knife.

  Chapter 49

  Sorrel

  ‘Tonight, it’ll begin tonight,’ Morwen said. ‘We must summon the spirits to help us.’

  My whole body tingled. Though I’d no notion what would happen, I knew this was why Brigid had called me. I could feel a power growing inside me, like a flame that runs silent and unseen, burning beneath the thatch till suddenly the whole village is ablaze.

  ‘Are we going to Fire Tor?’ I asked her.

  ‘Can’t go there. Ma’ll be waiting. She’ll have set her curses on the tor to keep us out. She’ll try to fight us and we’ve no time to waste dealing with her. It’s Brigid we must serve now. We must go to the place where the spirits walked long afore they were driven into the shadows. They were strong in life and are even stronger in death. You’ll see.’

  I took her hand, which was warm in mine, and we clambered over the ridge in the dawn light, following the path of a surging river that ran along the bottom of the steep-sided valley. Streams and rivulets ran down the sides of the gorge into the river from tar-black bog pools and glistening rocks. A brown buzzard watched us from its perch in a dead tree, jagged as a broken tooth against the swelling granite-grey clouds.

  Morwen stared up. ‘It’ll be a duru moon tonight – that’s when the door to the other worlds opens. Ma’ll be at work too, but she’ll not be able to stop us.’

  As we came around the curve of the hill, Morwen gestured towards a long strip of dense woodland that hung above the river. ‘That’s where the spirits gather. My granddam told me that, hundreds of years ago, the tribes who lived in these parts brought their cunning women and men here to be buried. The oaks are sacred. They keep watch over the dead. No one ever cuts wood from these trees, or comes here unless they know the charms and the gift to bring, ’cause Crockern keeps his wisht hounds here and they guard it.’

  She tugged me back towards the riverbank. ‘Afore we go into the woods, we must wash. The old ’uns will be offended else.’

  We stripped off our kirtles and left them by a small rowan tree just before the first oak. Morwen scrambled naked into the river. She arched her back and shivered in the shock of freezing water, but as soon as she found a place to balance herself against the strong current, she held out her hand to me. I slipped off the bank and down into the water. I gasped. It was so cold it sucked the breath from my chest. The current knocked my feet from beneath me, and I shot under the water, but Morwen clung to me, dragging me up. I was gasping and coughing, but we were both giggling. Our teeth were chattering like magpies.

  Morwen ducked three times beneath the water and I copied her. We were rigid, our lips blue, our feet stabbed with knives of ice. The wind chilled our dripping heads, but we grinned at each other, though we were so numb we could scarcely move our lips. We hauled each other back on to the bank, squeezed the water from our hair and rubbed each other’s limbs to warm them.

  Morwen pulled some green reeds from the bank and I watched her tie them into the rough form of a doll. A brideog, she called it. She started to make one for me, as if I couldn’t manage it. I snorted, snatched it from her hand and finished it myself by wedging it between my knees as I bound a strip of reed around the neck to make a head. I glanced up and saw her smiling, but it wasn’t in mockery of my efforts.

  She pulled out a few strands of her hair and bound it around her brideog, then tucked it into the fork of the tree that stood at the very edge of the wood, begging the oak of the sun to give us leave to enter. I did the same.

  Morwen stood for a long time, inclining her head as if she was listening to a host of people. I tried to make out what she was straining to hear.

  ‘The trees are talking,’ she said. ‘Don’t need words, but you can hear them right enough, hear whether they’re angry or content. Granddam used to say that if the trees are silent, that’s when they’re at their most dangerous. You must never enter the vert then. “Take heed of the silence,” she always said, “for then the trees’ll strike without warning” – a great branch crashing down on someone who’s vexed them, a long-cripple striking out from its nest deep between their roots. The long-cripples in this wood are deadliest of all the vipers in England. No man or beast can survive their sting. The old oaks have their ow
n ways of exacting revenge.’

  The trees in this valley were barely taller than me, gnarled, stunted, twisted, like ancient dwarfs. They were almost bare of leaves now, but hung with long beards of silver-grey lichen. Their roots slithered over thigh-high boulders that covered the ground so closely that in places you couldn’t lower your foot between them. Rocks and roots alike were wrapped in a dense pelt of emerald-green moss, sodden and weeping.

  We picked our way through the tangle of stone and wood, clambering over the mossy boulders and clinging to the branches to balance on them where the spaces were too narrow to squeeze between them. I pointed with my chin towards some flat stones laid on top of vertical slabs of rock. ‘They look like little tables.’

  ‘Tables where the dead eat,’ Morwen said. ‘Bones of the dead rest inside those. Long-cripples curl round them to guard them. Seen whole nests of them, big and little ’uns, slithering through the ribs and skulls.’

  We’d reached a steeply sloped clearing, ringed by oaks standing so close together their branches had grown through and around each other, frozen in woody knots that could never be untangled. A huge rock jutted from the ground in the centre, broad at the base and narrowing to a point at the top, like a spear, reaching up as if it would impale the sky.

  ‘That’s the queen stone, that is,’ Morwen said, padding towards it. I followed.

  The boulders were smaller there, humps beneath the skin of shaggy moss that covered the ground, like the lumps on a toad. My skin tingled with cold, but for the first time in my life I welcomed its bite. The air inside the wood was chill, damp, but quite still, as if the wind was forbidden to enter this place, but the trees were still talking.

  Morwen turned this way and that, as if she was trying to catch a whisper being tossed back and forth between these ancient souls, yet somehow I understood, as well as she now, that the language they spoke was deeper than any word or thought. The two of us squatted between the small boulders, gazing up at the stone. Towering ramparts of purple cloud were bubbling up over the moors, sucking the light and colour from the earth below.