A Gathering of Ghosts

by Karen Maitland

  She began to sing. The notes were soft, like the distant rushing of the water running unseen in the river below. I caught the tiny whisper of movement. A wren had fluttered down. It perched on the twisted, moss-covered root of a tree and regarded us. Lifting up its tail as if it was trying to imitate the huge rock, it suddenly burst into a short piercing trill of a song, its whole body trembling with the effort, then hopped towards one of the little stone tombs and vanished, as if it had walked through the solid rock.

  ‘There,’ Morwen breathed. ‘That’s the tomb of the one who will lead us tonight. Bran’s bird lives with the dead, she knows. Cracky-wren tells all the secrets of the living to spirits and they whisper theirs to her. Now we wait for the moon. We wait for the door to open.’

  Chapter 50

  Hospitallers’ Priory of St Mary

  The clash of metal, and the screams of men and horses smash into Brother Nicholas’s ears. Sweat pours down his face and chest. His hands are slippery with it. The Saracen is running towards him, a great curved scimitar raised above his head, glinting in the burning sun. He reaches for his own sword, but as he raises it, he sees he isn’t holding a sword at all but the severed head of Brother Alban. The eyes open wide and the lips move. The swollen face is pleading with him, but he can’t make out the words above the howl of battle. The deadly scimitar is slashing closer and closer. The Saracen is whirling it high in the dust-choked air. At any moment it will descend on Nicholas’s skull, cleaving it in two. But he can’t defend himself: his arms are full of bloody heads. More and more are being heaped on top. He mustn’t let any of them drop. He has to carry them to safety.

  Nicholas’s yells woke him as he fought to climb up out of the pit of sleep, but it was some time before he could force his eyelids open and even longer before he could make his limbs move. They felt heavy, swollen, though from what he could see of them they looked normal enough. The bedclothes were sodden and cold, drenched in his sweat. His mouth and throat were as dry as a desert and his teeth covered with a sickly, sticky film. He groaned. Just how much had he drunk last night? He struggled to remember, but fragments of images and words were scattered haphazardly in his skull, as if marauders had broken in and smashed all that was inside. And, from the throbbing in his head, they were still in there, rampaging around with war hammers.

  He staggered out of bed and over to the table, reaching for the goblet that was still half full of wine. He took a deep swig, rolling it around his parched mouth to moisten it. The wine was even more foul than usual, with a bitter-sweet taste, but maybe that was because his furred tongue was like something dug out from the bottom of a midden.

  But he’d drunk less than usual, that much he did remember now. Besides, he’d been known to consume a whole flagon of wine and still manage to cut the heads off a row of straw dummies at the gallop, without missing a single one. He pressed his hand to his forehead as the grisly images from the night terror surfaced again in front of his eyes, and flopped down into a chair.

  It was Sister Basilia who had brought the wine to his chamber last night. She’d poured it herself and insisted on warming it before handing him the goblet. Why had she brought it and not one of the scullions? The servants were abed – that was what she’d said. But . . . He turned to stare at the empty bed. Alban was dead, murdered by that demon boy. For a moment, he thought it had been another nightmare, but he knew it wasn’t. And last night, down in that cave, one of the holy sisters in this priory had tried to kill him too.

  Nicholas was suddenly aware of how chill the chamber felt. The fire was out, the ashes cold. How long had he slept? He began to pull on his clothes, clumsy in his feverish haste. His limbs still felt leaden, his back ached and his fingers kept losing their grip. He stumbled to the door, half afraid that it might be locked, but it opened easily. He shut it again and stood for a moment, staring at the wood, trying to calm himself. Of course they hadn’t locked the door. What in the name of Lucifer had made him think they could or would? He was a knight, a warrior who’d faced the enemy in battle more times than he could remember. He’d been afraid, yes – any knight who said he wasn’t was either an untried fool or a liar – but he’d never panicked. He’d always been able to think coldly and clearly, even in an ambush. What was happening to him? Was that foul demon even now witching his mind?

  Nicholas turned back into the room and began stuffing what he could into a small leather scrip. He’d have to abandon his travelling chest and most of what he had brought with him, except his sword, of course. It was only as that thought struck him that he glanced over at the corner where it usually hung next to his cloak. It wasn’t there. He snatched down his cloak, but it wasn’t hanging under it. He pivoted on his heel, staring round the small chamber. Although he knew he would not have put the sword anywhere else that did not stop him searching for it, even in places that could not possibly contain it. He was finally forced to admit it was gone, and he felt as if someone had cut off his arm. Never had he felt so defenceless.

  Up to that moment, he had still been resolved to cut out and carry Brother Alban’s heart to Buckland so that it could be buried with the honour due to any in the Order of St John. He hadn’t particularly liked the idle, greedy swine and, truth be told, he was sure Alban had despised him, but every knight was pledged to ensure that if the body of a brother could not be returned for burial to their own priory the heart must be laid to rest there. But now Nicholas had only one thought in his head: to escape this vipers’ nest while he still could.

  He peered out into the courtyard. A couple of servants were crossing to the kitchen, looking as if they were performing some kind of strange and jerky dance, as they kicked out and flapped their arms to drive off the horde of kites and rooks that were pecking at the mud and filth on the ground. Keeping close to the wall, Nicholas made his unsteady way to the stables. Once safely inside the dim interior, he breathed a little easier, drinking in the familiar, comforting smell of horse sweat and dung. He moved towards the far end where he always made sure his horse was tethered, furthest away from any driving rain and wind. But the space was empty.

  ‘You looking for something, Master?’ Brengy, the young stable boy, emerged from behind the dun-coloured palfrey he was brushing.

  ‘My horse! Where is it? Has someone taken it out?’

  Getting no reply from the boy, Nicholas grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him the few paces to the empty iron ring on the wall to which he always tied his mount. ‘The black rouncy, where is it?’

  Brengy attempted to wriggle free, but the knight’s grip was too strong.

  ‘Blacksmith took him back to his forge to shoe him. Can’t do it here, can he? How do you think he’d fetch a thundering great furnace and his anvil up here? Ow!’ He squealed as Nicholas cuffed his head

  ‘There was nothing wrong with his shoes when I last rode him.’

  ‘Knocked one loose in the night. That ugly brute’s always kicking at the walls. Keeps me awake half the night.’

  ‘I’ll kick you till you can’t sit down for a month if you don’t mend your manners. When’s the blacksmith bringing my horse back?’

  ‘When he’s finished, I reckon,’ Brengy said, earning himself another resounding slap around the head.

  ‘I’ll fetch him myself—’

  ‘Young Dye said she saw you coming in here,’ a voice called from the door. ‘Now what are you doing loitering in a draughty stable when there’s a good hot supper waiting for you?’

  Nicholas turned to see Sibyl at the entrance, her hands on her broad hips. Brengy, taking advantage of his distraction, wriggled free and ran out of the stables as if the devil himself was flying after him.

  Sibyl bustled forward. ‘Now you come and see what I’ve cooked for you. A nice mess of Saracen.’

  For one crazed moment, Nicholas thought she’d meant it. He was beginning to believe these women were capable of any horror. Then he realised she was babbling about sarcenes, a sauce dyed cherry red. She was st
ill talking as she edged him back towards his chamber, as she might herd a goose towards the butcher’s knife.

  She opened the door for him. ‘I know how much you like your rich sauces, Brother Nicholas, but don’t you be telling the sisters I made this for you. There’s scarcely any spices left in the store. But I thought you needed a good supper inside you after that nasty business. And you’ve not eaten for nigh on two days. You must keep up your strength, else you’ll end up like poor Brother Alban, God rest his soul.’

  ‘I dined last night.’

  The cook shook her head. ‘Night before last, it was. Been sleeping like a bear in winter, you have. And a good thing too, if you ask me. No better physic for body and soul than a nice long sleep. But your belly must think you’ve forgotten where your mouth is. So, you make sure you eat every scrap. I’ve no bread to give you for sops, but I’ve put plenty of goat’s meat in there you can use to mop up the sauce. Mind, it’ll not taste quite the same as usual for I’ve had to use honey and herbs ’stead of sugar and cloves, and there’s no flour. But I’m sure you’ve had worse.’

  As soon as the door had closed behind her, Nicholas crossed to the fire, which, in the brief time that he’d been in the stables, had been rekindled. A pipkin of the dark red stew was keeping warm by the blaze.

  Someone, that scullion probably, had plainly been charged with keeping watch on his door. He dared not risk trying again to leave until all in the priory were sleeping. If he could slide the brace back on the gate without the old gatekeeper hearing, so much the better, but if he couldn’t, he’d threaten to kill her – he would kill her – if that was the only way of keeping her silent.

  But he should put something warm in his stomach before setting out on the moor – he didn’t intend to stop until he had put himself well beyond the reach of the priory. He pulled his spoon from his scrip and fished around in the sarcenes sauce. As the cook had said: there was a generous quantity of goat’s meat in it. He scooped out a chunk.

  Now that he’d smelt it, he found he was indeed ravenous. Hardly a wonder, if Sibyl was right and he had slept for nearly two days and nights. Was that possible? He’d never done it before in his life, not even after battles that had raged from dawn to nightfall. But the rest certainly hadn’t refreshed him. Even now he was finding it hard to think clearly, as if his mind was drowning in a mire. But a thought was slowly unfurling and taking shape in his brain. No man sleeps for two days without waking at least once. That had been no natural sleep. Only dwale or some such potion could make a man slumber so deeply, or for so long.

  He dashed the piece of meat on his spoon into the fire. Did they really imagine he was foolish enough to fall for that trick again? He seized the pipkin of stew and was on the point of opening the door and hurling both contents and pot across the courtyard in his fury, but stopped, smiling grimly to himself. Very well then, let them think he had eaten it. If they checked and found him deeply asleep they would reason he could be left for hours, and wouldn’t bother watching his door or setting a guard on the gate.

  He couldn’t risk emptying the pot on to the fire. They’d smell the stench of burning meat. He searched for somewhere to dispose of it. His eyes lighted on Alban’s chest, still standing in the corner. Pulling out the spare clothes, he tipped the contents of the pipkin into the bottom. His mouth watered and his belly pleaded as the aroma enveloped his nose. Quickly he shoved the clothes on top of the mess, arranged himself on the bed and lay in the gathering darkness, waiting for the door to creak open. Even as he lay there, he could feel the women standing on the other side of the door, a silent ring of black cats, watching their prey, just waiting for it to walk into their savage jaws.

  Chapter 51

  Sorrel

  The clouds slid over one another, parting to reveal the rising moon then veiling her again. Waves of bone-white light and darkness lapped over the twisted trees. Snakes of mist slithered around their trunks and writhed through branches shaggy with lichen. Morwen and I sat in silence till the first ray of moonlight touched the stone in the centre of the clearing. Then Morwen stood up. I sensed that whatever she was going to do she must do alone. I didn’t move as she took a tiny piece of dried meat from a small bag about her neck and chewed till it softened, then pushed with her tongue till it fell into her hand. She placed the morsel at the foot of the rock as carefully and solemnly as our village priest used to lay the Host on the paten.

  ‘Flesh from a red cat, Mother.’

  She blew on each of her palms and laid them over her eyes. I kept still and silent, watching. The moonlight washed over Morwen, turning her hair to silver, her bare shoulders to marble, petrifying her, until she was one more stone among the many. For a long time, she stood quite still. Then she drew her hands from her face, reached out to grasp my withered paw and pulled me towards the queen stone. We pressed our free hands to the rough surface. We were a circle of three now, three women, three rocks. And Morwen began to sing a chant that made my skin prickle. I understood without being told that I must want the spirit to rise, think it, will it. I knew if I let it, my hand could sink into the stone, like hot iron into snow, and I would be drawn into the very heart of the rock, as I had been pulled down into the heart of Ankow, but that was not where I had to go, not tonight.

  I stared towards the stone slab where the wren had vanished. The tomb seemed to hang suspended, its mantle of wet moss glittering in the moonlight. The oak crouched over it and a coil of mist wrapped itself around it, as if they were determined to protect it. Then the moonlight vanished and the tomb became a deep, dark hole in the forest of trunks. And still Morwen sang.

  A thread of mist trickled from the hole, like the wisp of smoke when a candle is snuffed out. The mist thickened, rearing up, whirling, though there was not a breath of wind inside that wood. It threaded up through the crooked branches, skull-white at first, then slowly glowing poison-green.

  Chapter 52

  Hospitallers’ Priory of St Mary

  The latch on the door of Nicholas’s chamber lifted softly and he heard the soft pad of leather approaching his bed. He lay still, eyes closed, trying to slow his breathing to the steady rhythm of a man deeply asleep, but it was not easy – his body was as taut as a drawn bowstring. Was it Johanne, Clarice? It would be the easiest thing in the world for any of the sisters to smother him with sheepskin as he slept or plunge a dagger into his chest, if they thought him helpless with dwale. It might be weeks, even months, before the cart from Buckland was able to return and anyone discovered the two brothers were missing. Even when they did, if the sisters disposed of his body, they could easily claim he and Alban had set out on horseback to Buckland and must have been attacked by outlaws or swept away in a fast-flowing river when they tried to cross.

  The footfalls came closer. Skirts swished against the leg of the bed. Suppose the sarcenes sauce had contained not a sleeping draught but poison? Would they think him already dead? Someone was standing over him now. He could hear her breathing – short and shallow. Excited? Tense? Someone who was about to raise a dagger? It took all his willpower not to open his eyes.

  Just as he thought he could hold himself in check no longer, the person softly padded away from the bed to the fire. He heard her raking and banking it down. At least they weren’t planning to burn him to death, or more likely they just didn’t want their precious priory to catch fire. Then came the clink of the empty pipkin as she picked it up. Finally, the soft rustle of skirts and the slap of shoe on stone as she crossed towards the door. He heard it open and felt the rush of cold air as she paused, watching him again till finally it closed behind her. Still he dared not relax, trying to maintain that steady, slow rhythm in his breathing just in case they were standing outside, listening.

  Nicholas lay motionless on the bed, straining to catch the sounds outside – chatter in the yard, the distant clattering of pots, the creaking of the well rope. He was afraid of falling asleep, of lying there as vulnerable and helpless as a trussed chicken if t
hey crept back into his chamber. He had to admit, grudgingly, one blessing of being so hungry: the ache in his belly was sharp enough to goad him into wakefulness.

  How many hours had passed? Now he could hear nothing except the wind outside. Were they all safely asleep? Nicholas slid off the bed, trying not to let it creak, and tiptoed to the casement. He could see a flicker of lights in the crack beneath the shutter, which he hoped were the flames from the night torches on the walls. He eased the door open an inch and squinted out. The courtyard was deserted, silent.

  He fastened his cloak about his shoulders and, keeping close to the walls, slipped around the yard towards the stables. He was certain that his own rouncy would still be missing, but he would not get far on foot across the moor. The horses pricked up their ears, stamping and snickering softly, as he entered. The only light came from the torches in the courtyard and he could barely distinguish the beasts from the blackness around them. He needed to get closer to find a mount that would bear his weight over such a distance, but only a fool would risk getting too close to the hindquarters of a strange horse for fear they might kick out.

  Something creaked above him in the hay loft. Nicholas froze. The ladder cracked and swayed, as the stable lad descended. He leaped down the last two rungs and bounded towards the courtyard, clearly intending to raise the alarm. But Nicholas’s training had not deserted him. He seized Brengy from behind in mid-stride, clamping one hand across his mouth and locking his neck tightly in the crook of his other arm.

  He bent his head so that his lips almost touched the lad’s ear. ‘Listen carefully, boy. I have killed many men in my time and I can break your scrawny neck with a twitch of my arm.’ He squeezed Brengy’s neck harder to ensure his words were believed, slackening his hold only slightly when he began to choke.