“Yes,” sneered the steward. “But you stole the tear-soaked veil. And I’ve learned from a certain relic dealer that you stole the toe of Saint Peter.”
Oh, were the hounds loud. I could not hear above their racket. Please, hush! I begged.
Secundus frowned. “I did not steal the toe. I paid two florins for that miserable bone.”
The small one speaks! the hounds cried. Hunt kill?
Please don’t kill me, I pleaded. Though I know that you could. You’re fine hounds.
“Two florins?” the steward scoffed. “You and I both know what that relic is worth.” He nodded at Secundus’s purse, his voice oozing with greed. “Give me the toe.”
We’re fine hounds, he said! bragged the hounds to one another. We’re fine, said he, said he!
You are. Shh . . . I strained to listen over their baying.
Secundus gazed at the steward. “No.” He spoke calmly, even with a sword at his throat.
The hounds’ barking softened. We’re fine, he said—did you hear? Did you hear?
“This boy’s got a bag of some sort,” called the huntsman, eying the pack in my arms. “Away, hounds! Away!” He cracked his whip.
Do not snap, whip man! snarled the hounds. We hate it, that whip!
“Bring it to me,” ordered the steward.
“No!” I cried, cowering.
No, no! cried the hounds. The small one is frightened!
The huntsman stepped toward me. “You heard him.”
I gripped the pack tighter. They could not take Saint Peter!
The hounds whirled and bayed. No, no! The small one does not like you!
“You little—” the huntsman reached for me. He grabbed my fine blue tunic—
Hunt! howled the hounds. They leaped at him—
The huntsman jerked back—
The tunic ripped. Strong, the cloth was, but worn, and the huntsman’s grip was fierce.
The tunic fell off my shoulders.
Never reveal yourself, Father Petrus had ordered. But revealed I now was.
In horror and shame I fell to my knees. “I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered, the pack of Saint Peter clutched to my chest. “I’m so sorry.”
I huddled, my head bowed. The night air prickled my hump.
Silence . . . and in the silence, a thud. The huntsman dropped his whip. “No!” he screamed. He ran, pounding across the floor and into the night.
I shivered from fright and cold. Hounds, can you hear me? What is happening?
The hounds pranced in confusion. You spooked the whip man, they marveled.
I didn’t mean to! Oh, did the silence unnerve me. I turned to Secundus. “I am sorry, milord, for revealing myself. . . .”
Secundus stared at me with wide eyes.
The swordsman gaped, his arm slack. He looked at the wall behind me and swallowed. “Angelus,” he whispered.
The sharp-faced steward stared, too, his eyes never leaving my hump, and his face blazed with greed. He licked his lips, and drew his knife, and took a step toward me.
Secundus eased away from the swordsman, and quick as a wink swung his staff at the man. Wood met skull with a crack, but still the swordsman kept his eyes on me as he fell.
The steward spun at Secundus, knife in hand. “The thing is mine!”
“Don’t hurt my master,” I cried. Don’t hurt him!
Don’t hurt him! echoed the hounds. They leaped, for dogs prefer action always, and as one they lunged at the steward: Don’t hurt his master! The largest hound bit the steward.
The steward dropped his knife. “Cursed beasts!”
Hunt! snarled the hounds. They circled him, growling.
The steward turned and ran, the hounds on his heels baying Hunt, hunt! Hunt, kill!
Pounding hoofbeats—the horses bolted away. Still the steward ran, hounds baying after him.
Moonlight lit the church. My ripped tunic on the floor. My skinny hose-covered legs.
I swallowed.
Secundus stared me. The swordsman lay unmoving at his feet.
“Master . . .”
“Don’t speak to me!” He held out his staff. “Tie on the pack. Now!”
And so I did because I knew naught but to obey. With shaking fingers I tied the pack to the end of the staff, Secundus hissing his impatience as I knotted the cord.
At last the pack was secure. He snatched the staff, and headed for the door, staff in hand.
“I am coming, milord.” I scrambled for my tunic—the fine blue tunic, now so torn.
“You are not!” He glared at me, and the wall behind me. He stepped through the doorway, the moonlight framing him, and he was gone. Gone with the pack of Saint Peter.
“Milord!” I stumbled past the swordsman sprawled unconscious. I looked about—
The east wall, so shadowed when first we arrived . . . Now the moon lit every square inch.
The wall had suffered from vandals and time. But above the altar, a section yet retained paint. An image of someone with curls and wide eyes, and a hump twixt its shoulders. Two humps, in fact, far bigger than mine.
Not humps.
Wings.
Faded though this image might be, there was not a shred of a doubt ’twas an angel.
III
Deceit and Calamity and Ruin
17 One Thousand Years of Devising
“No!” My scream echoed around the church. I scrambled for the ripped tunic. It covered me—somewhat. I needed the pack of Saint Peter! I needed it to protect me till I reached the tomb—
My master ran away when he saw me. When he saw my hump.
The huntsman ran screaming, and the swordsman collapsed, and the sharp-faced steward called me a thing. The thing is mine, he’d said, licking his lips.
An image came to me: the angel feather of the relic dealer. A goose feather it had been, dusted with gilt—but the goose had bled to produce it.
I dashed out of the church, clutching the flaps of my tunic. Cow muck ripped off my boots but I did not pay heed. “Milord!” I ran, my bare toes gripping the earth.
The thing is mine, the steward had hissed, the moonlight glinting on his knife. . . .
Now I understood, finally, why I must never reveal myself. If folk ever saw my hump, I would be as dead as that goose. I’d be cut into a thousand pieces and sold on the steps of every church in Christendom because some greedy fool thought my hump made me an angel.
Desperately I peered, seeking Secundus, whilst also glancing back—was I pursued? The sun mounted the horizon. Do not shine on me, sun, I prayed. No one must see my hump. My hump that is—no, no, no!
A fox barked: Beware: someone comes.
There he was. Striding as fast as ever, his staff with the pack on his shoulder.
“Secundus,” I called. Oh, my relief!
“Stay away!” He glared at me, and past me.
I spun—but there was naught behind me but dawn.
Secundus shifted his grip on the staff, blowing on his fingers. The staff must be hot, what with the relics tied to its end. “Stay away!” He recommenced walking.
I followed. I did not know what else to do. I was so feared of the sharp-faced steward. So feared of being called angel or thing. For all his rage, Secundus seemed to have no interest in slicing me up. And he journeyed to Rome. Where I must go to become a boy. Naught mattered but that.
We traveled some distance in silence, the sun climbing its way up the sky. Never did he pause, and never did I. Oh, I tried not to think of my hump, nor of the angel on the church wall. The swordsman whispering Angelus, so stunned that he crashed to the floor. The steward hissing The thing is mine like a miser counting coins. . . .
A harsh laugh: Secundus. “An angel. Just my luck.”
“I am not an angel!” I cried. “I am Boy—”
He turned upon me: “Truly? Tell me, Boy: do you eat?”
Like a slap, this question was—so fierce I stepped backward. “No,” I whispered. ’Twas true. I did not eat. B
ut this was a truth I did not like to dwell on.
“You take my food. You take honey.”
My cheeks burned. “Father Petrus said to take food when it’s offered. The dogs love it so. . . .” Everyone’s different, Father Petrus had said. You’ll understand someday.
“Do you urinate?”
I did not know that word.
“Do you piss?”
I hung my head: No. I pretended. Father Petrus taught me to.
“What have you got between your legs?”
Always tell them you’re a boy. . . . “Naught, milord,” I whispered. How awful I was.
“What? I cannot hear you.”
“Naught.” That was my secret—my most horrible secret. I was a monster with no boy parts, with no parts at all. That was why I must reach the tomb of Saint Peter.
“Ah.” Secundus gritted his teeth. “Angels do not eat or drink or piss. Angels have no . . . they’ve naught between their legs.” He glared at me. “You’re an angel, you dumb fool.” Off he strode, blowing on his hands.
I scuttled after him. I’m not an angel, I wanted to shout. I’m a monster who wants to be a boy.
“I said to stay away,” he hissed. “If men discover what you are, they will kill me, too.”
“They won’t—” But the memory of that sharp-faced steward . . . he’d have killed Secundus to get to the thing. He broke his own fingers for gold. . . .
“I cannot die! I cannot die yet.” Secundus snatched out the key—the dark stinky key. “How do you think I acquired this? How do you think I know beyond doubt that my wife”—his breath caught—“that my wife and child are in heaven? How do I know?”
I didn’t know. I didn’t want to.
“Because I come from hell!”
I leaped back. “You’re a demon! I thought so—”
He barked a laugh. “Don’t be daft, you stupid twit. I’m a sinner. I am a man—I was a man. A man who sinned and died, one thousand years ago. Who one thousand years ago was damned to hell.” He pressed his knuckles to his lips. “Flavia,” he whispered. “Lucius.” He began to cough. He coughed so that he had to lean on his staff. “No one escapes hell unscathed,” he whispered.
A noise behind us. Baying. Hounds approaching, fast.
At once I ran. I had no choice. I ran like the prey that I was.
Secundus ran, too, faster even than me.
The hounds were upon us, baying madly. The hounds from the church.
Secundus spun, shaking the pack of Saint Peter from his staff. He crouched—
I crouched—
The hounds tumbled over one another. Hunt, hunt! they cried. We found you!
Secundus swung at them. “Get away!”
The small one! the hounds laughed, leaping about me. Hunt, hunt—you’re here!
Secundus glared down the path. “Where are the men?”
Where are your masters? I asked as the hounds wriggled, licking my hands.
The whip man cannot track the scent! they chortled. And the other has too sore a paw.
I puzzled over their words. “I think the huntsman is lost, and the steward is hurt.”
“What? How do you know this?”
“They—” Never reveal yourself. “They . . . told me. The hounds did.”
“They told you?” Secundus looked rightly suspicious. “They barked it?”
“No. I understand them, that’s all. And they understand me.” Can’t everyone talk to animals? I’d asked Father Petrus, who had chuckled and patted my curls.
Secundus’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. Because you’re an angel.”
“I’m not an angel! I just can.”
Secundus studied me, and the half-dozen hounds at my feet. Bloodthirsty hounds, now as docile as doves, grinning as I scratched their ears . . . “Can you talk to any dog?”
I shrugged. “Dogs like me.” The hounds lolled in bliss at my scratching.
He tapped his chin. “You want to go to Rome, yes?”
“Yes, milord!” I must become a boy.
We found him, we found him, the hounds boasted to one another.
“There is a man—a man with whom I must negotiate. For the shin.”
Oh, yes. Rib tooth thumb shin . . .
“He has a dog.” Secundus waited.
“Oh. And you—you think I can talk to the dog?”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
Secundus’s eyes hardened.
“But I can try.”
He stared at me. At the hounds . . . and off he set. Just like that. Striding along with his staff. “Get the relics,” he ordered, pointing to the pack he’d dropped. “And hurry. Boy.”
“Yes, milord.” I did not mind if he said my name coldly. Not if he took me to Rome. Right quick I retrieved the pack of Saint Peter. How nice it was to hold him again.
The hounds sniffed. What have you there?
Something good. But not food.
“Hurry, I said,” called Secundus.
Quick I tied on the pack. It hid my hump, and the cords held down the torn flaps of my tunic.
The hounds trailed us, yipping in glee. I must follow Secundus, because he was my only hope of becoming a boy. Even though he was a thief. Even though . . .
That man smells of farts, stated a hound.
He smells of bad eggs, said another.
No, no, bayed a third. ’Tis old turnips.
On I trotted. You’re all wrong, I told them. What you’re smelling is brimstone.
Brimstone? A big brown hound butted my hand. What is that?
I scratched his ears. Brimstone is the smell of hell. ’Tis hell that my master stinks of.
18 Downstream
Rocking is the word for the motion of a boat. But it’s a false word, for a boat does not rock like a cradle, no; it quakes like a witch shaking a baby. I did not want to sit in a boat with naught but a shred of wood betwixt my bottom and the bottomless deep. But ’twas our only solution, for the river flowed faster and straighter than ever we could walk.
All that morn we had trekked away from the ruined church and the awful night within it. The hounds leaped round my legs, delighted with the adventure, baying Rabbits! and Hunt! and Me, too!, and I listened so I would not have to think of anything else.
At noon we found the river, a river half as wide as the sky, and the hounds sniffed out a tiny boat beneath a pile of branches. Hunt, hunt! they bragged. Men hid this!
“What are you doing, milord?”
Secundus tossed the branches aside. “I’m getting us where we need to go, Boy.” He pushed the boat into the water. “Get in.”
The hounds leaped about: Hunt! We found it! What now?
Across the river stood a huddle of buildings—and a huddle of men shouting at us.
“Silence those hounds,” Secundus ordered, “or I will.” He settled in the boat the size of a wine cask. Waves smacked its hull like claws wishing to drag us to death.
Such fun! bayed the hounds. We can swim! They leaped into the river.
“Get in, I said,” Secundus snapped. “Or should I leave you behind?”
The thing is mine, the steward had said. . . . Shivering, I stepped into the boat. How it rocked. I gripped the sides with both my hands, and tried not to look at the water.
Secundus pushed off. The hounds swam around, baying. “You’re bringing them with us?” he asked, incredulous.
“I’m not—’tis not my decision. They want to come.”
“If they follow us, they will drown.” He began to row.
Oh, I did not want them to drown. But I did not want to lose them, either, for then I’d be alone with naught but a wasps’ nest of thoughts. Hounds, I cried, sadly. You must not follow us.
What? they answered. No hunt? But we’re fine! You said so!
Yes, I did—and you are. But ’tis not safe. My heart sank, saying these words. You should find your kennel, and your keepers. And your pups.
Ah . . . our kennel.
Our pups. One by one, they turned to shore, though a few ran along the riverbank till they, too, peeled off, and followed their own trail back home.
Good-bye, I cried. Good-bye, friends. And then I had naught to think of but my own unhappiness, and the misery of this wee small boat.
The rest of that day we floated. We passed cliffs and villages. We passed rafts of barrels and rafts of sheep, and ferries with horses tied behind, swimming. I’d think I will drown when the boat rocked, or I will vomit . . . although I had naught to puke for never did I have food in my stomach. Did angels even have stomachs?
You are not an angel, I scolded. Even though you do not eat, and have a hump on your back, and the gift of speaking to creatures . . .
Whatever I was, I must get to the tomb of Saint Peter in Rome. I must become a boy.
Secundus rubbed the scar on his palm—the burn he’d received from the rib of Saint Peter. He caught me watching. “One thousand years will do that,” he said coldly.
“Do what?” I did not understand.
“Relics—true relics—drive away demons. I’ve spent enough time in hell, it seems, that relics also drive away me.” He frowned at the scar.
“Do . . . do relics burn other men?” I asked, thinking. “Or only warm them?”
Secundus snorted. “Why? Do they warm you?”
Hastily I shook my head, which set the boat rocking. Wicked you! I chided myself. ’Tis wicked to lie. Relics did not warm men. They only warmed . . .
I am not an angel, I scolded. Stop talking, mind. I’ll no longer listen.
The sun drifted toward the western horizon.
“Behold.” Secundus jerked his chin.
I roused myself to follow his gaze. Downstream stretched the longest bridge I ever did see. It had a span as long as an arrow’s flight, and stone arches that crossed the river like stitches in cloth. Beside it rose a city with dozens of spires. The riverbank was crowded with ships, their masts a straight black forest. Shouts drifted across the water like smoke.
“Rome,” I breathed. “Now I can become a—”
Secundus snorted. “You think this is Rome? ’Tis the miserable city of Avignon where the pope now cowers. He fled Rome—you did not know?—because Romans today are a murderous rabble of villains. Here we must recover the shin. The fourth relic—” His face grew dark. “The relic I’d thought was fourth. It appears I know less than I’d fancied.”
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