By Sylvian Hamilton (2 page)

'Bring
us wine, Brother,' the abbot had said, 'and some of those little
savoury pastries.' Then, to his guest, as the kitchener hurried off,
'The chapel is in use until midnight. We cannot take the girdle from
the altar until then.'

The
visitor sniffed at his medicinal pomander. Half the community was
down with a vicious winter cold, fourteen monks ill enough to be
tucked up in the infirmary, full now to overflowing, with pallets
having to be set up in the adjoining still-room and storerooms. The
infirmarian himself was sick unto death and his very junior assistant
in charge, while the rest of the brethren coughed and sneezed all
over the place.

The
abbot's parlour was small and cosy. An elegant brazier glowed,
warming the room. Heavy hangings at the door and a snug shutter at
the window kept out the November wind complaining and shrieking
outside. The abbot's feet, in warm knitted socks, were toasting on a
foot warmer tucked under his fur-lined over-robe. Pink plump and
contented, he sat quietly, occasionally eyeing his visitor with an
expression of smug satisfaction. Both men were pleased, the visitor
because he'd paid less for the Girdle of the Blessed Virgin than he'd
expected, the abbot because he'd got more than he'd thought he would.
The hangings stirred slightly as gusts of draught raced down the
passage outside but failed to penetrate this sanctum. Drowsy, they
soaked up the warmth. King Philip's man like a dark and wrinkled
basking lizard, Abbot William a cosseted, overfed lapdog.

A
shaggy Saxon head, its tonsure much overgrown, appeared round the
side of the curtain at the infirmary door, 'Is he dead yet?'

'Not
quite.'

'Right
then, shove over. Let the dog see the rabbit.' Brother Sylvestris,
elbowed roughly aside by Brother Witleof, permitted his annoyance to
show.

'Oh,
sorry,' said Brother Witleof. 'Did I hurt you?' His tone and cheerful
grin made it clear that he couldn't care less, and Brother Sylvestris
made a visible effort to appear unconcerned. 'It's nothing,' he said.
'Hurry up, do! There isn't much time.' Brother Witleof looked
undersized and almost lost in the voluminous habit hastily borrowed
(against the rule) from a snoring, oblivious but much larger fellow
monk in the dormitory. His own habit was saturated with blood from
the pig-killing earlier that day, when he fell over a bucket of the
stuff. He fumbled in the breast of the robe and took out what looked
like a piece of old rope and placed it reverently on the breast of
the dying man.

'Do
you want to pray, or something? he asked.

Brother
Sylvestris, about to do just that, thought better of it, shook his
head and tucked his cold hands up his sleeves. 'No? Oh well, please
yourself,' Witleof said. Til say a few words, then, shall I? Does it
matter what?'

Encouraged
by another shake of the junior infirmarian's head, he clapped his
palms together, gazed upward and prayed. 'Holy Blessed Virgin, see us
here below! This is Brother Alfred who's dying! And we've borrowed
your holy relic, your blessed girdle, before it's taken away from
here. We know it can restore our brother to vigour--'

'She
won't listen to you,' snapped Sylvestris.

'Why
not?'

'You're
not praying in Latin!'

'That
doesn't matter,' said Witleof irritably. 'Surely God's Mother
understands English?'

'The
language of pigs,' hissed the Norman Sylvestris, out of patience.
'It's disrespectful.'

'Bollocks,'
retorted the Saxon Witleof. The two glowered unmonastically at each
other over the body of the wheezing infirmarian, and Norman fist was
on its way to Saxon nose when the dying man suddenly sneezed and his
eyes snapped open.

'Brother
Alfred!' Sylvestris grasped the sick man's hand fiercely. 'Alfred,
it's me. Sylvestris! Are you cured?'

Brother
Alfred blinked, sneezed again, and stared fixedly at Brother
Sylvestris. A gush of blood erupted from his mouth. The eyes lost
their shine, the jaw sagged.

'Oh,
bugger,' said Brother Witleof miserably. 'It didn't work. He's dead.'

'Typical,'
muttered Sylvestris. 'Just like a bloody Saxon! After all we've done
for him.' He swung round in alarm as the hanging over the doorway was
jerked aside and someone entered. Sylvestris relaxed when he saw the
newcomer was only a lay brother.

Brother
Arnold, whose face and grubby torn habit were bloodstained and from
whose nose blood ran freely, shrugged apologetically, dabbing at the
flow with a sodden handful of tow. 'What happened to you?' Witleof
asked.

'A
bit of a disagreebet,' mumbled Arnold. 'It wote stop bleedig.'

'Lie
down,' snapped Sylvestris. 'There's a pallet over in the corner.'

'No,'
said Witleof. 'You should put a cold key down his back.' 'Or a
horseshoe,' offered Arnold helpfully. 'By old bub used to use a
horseshoe.'

'Wait
a minute,' said Sylvestris. Til get the medicine cupboard key.
Brother,' he whispered urgently to Witleof, 'take the--that the
thing. Take it back, now, at once!'

'Righto.'
Witleof took the girdle from the still breast of the infirmarian, and
at that moment Brother Arnold fainted clean away, falling against
Witleof who dropped the girdle and tried to support him, but the
larger man was too heavy and slid relentlessly to the flagstones.

'Help
me get him on the bed,' Witleof gasped.

Sylvestris
took the shoulders, Witleof the ankles, and between them they heaved
their unconscious brother on to the straw mattress.

'Will
you get back to the chapel before they come for the girdle?'
Sylvestris straightened his habit and brushed at its skirts.

'Take
it, and hurry'!'

'I
am hurrying,' Witleof scowled. He groped on the floor where the
candlelight cast deep shadows until his hand closed on the relic.
Thrusting it into the bosom of his borrowed habit he disappeared
behind the door curtain. Sylvestris listened to his sandalled feet
clapping along the stone passage until the opening and closing of a
distant door cut off the sound.

Brother
Arnold groaned and tried to sit up. Sylvestris pushed him down. 'Keep
still, do,' he said. Til get the key.' Blood from Arnold's nose
splashed on to the junior Infirmarian's sleeve and he pulled his arm
away, annoyed.

'I
cart lie dowd like this,' Arnold objected, struggling up. 'I'll drowd
id by ode blood!'

'Well,
sit up, then, tilt your head back and breathe through your mouth.
I'll get some ice, that'll stop the bleeding. And some water to clean
you up. You look like a battlefield.'

Outside
in the stable yard he broke the ice in the horse trough and put some
pieces in a small sack. On his way back he filled a jug with water
from the butt in the passage outside the infirmary door, where the
water was doing its best to freeze and would succeed before long, the
surface pleating and wrinkling inwards from the edge.

Sylvestris
pushed through the curtain again and surveyed his domain. There was
Brother Alfred's corpse, staring straight at him. With an exclamation
Sylvestris set the jug down and with icy aching fingers closed the
dead man's eyes. They popped open again as soon as he took his hand
away, 'Merde,' he muttered and closed the lids again, holding them
shut for some moments before letting go. This time they stayed shut.
Sylvestris turned from the bloody dead to the bleeding living, only
to find the pallet empty. Brother Arnold had gone. Turning back to
the corpse, Sylvestris saw that one eye had opened again, and Brother
Alfred appeared to be winking at him.

Bells
chimed. Sandalled feet slapped on stone floors. A quiet rap at the
door was followed by a billowing gust of chill and the sacristan,
Brother Euphemius, wiping his red and swollen nose on his sleeve.
'Midnight, Abbot,' he croaked.

'So
it is,' said the abbot with a reproving scowl. 'Fetch the girdle.'

King
Philip's man stood up and stretched and yawned. 'I did not look to
spend another night here. This damned storm!' Then will be out at
first light,' said the abbot, 'to cut and haul away the fallen trees
and start clearing the snow. The gale is dropping. As soon as the
road is clear you will be able to leave. You will be able to sail
tomorrow, if the wind's fair.'

A
tap at the door and the sacristan entered, holding a silver casket.
Through the opened door the perishing cold leaped into their well of
warmth, and the two old men shivered.

'There
you are,' said the abbot, taking the casket and placing it in the
Frenchman's hands. 'The Blessed Virgin's Girdle is yours, My Lord de
Mortai. Or rather, King Philip's.'

The
Frenchman turned the key and opened the casket, taking out what
looked like a piece of old rope. 'It doesn't look like much,' he
said. 'What's it made of, horsehair?'

'Camel
hair, we believe, My Lord,' said the abbot. 'Ah, may I see it, just
once more, before you close the casket? You understand, we would not
sell so great a treasure except that our need was great.'

De
Mortal nodded. He knew of the ruinous lawsuit Winchester had lost to
a neighbouring nunnery after a long and vicious fight, and the
massive damages the abbey must now pay, forfeiting lands and treasure
to do so. He held the casket out and the abbot lifted the girdle from
its silken bed. As he did so, an odd expression crossed his face and
was swiftly gone. He touched the relic to his lips, put it quickly
down again, closed the lid and handed the box back to the Frenchman.

'If
you wish, you can leave it locked in my strongbox here, overnight,'
he offered.

De
Mortai grinned. Not likely, he thought, but coughed politely, saying,
'Thank you, My Lord, but no. I shall sleep with it under my pillow
tonight and every night until I place it in King Philip's hands. I
must ask you to tell no one about the sale until I am safely back in
Paris. Were it known that I carried such a treasure, robbers would
try to take it.'

'Of
course,' said the abbot. 'Then I will summon your servants and bid
you goodnight.'

When
the count had gone to his bedchamber, Abbot William rounded on the
sacristan. 'What have you done with it? You can't think we can get
away with it! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?'

'What,
My Lord?' The sacristan looked astonished and, the Abbot realised,
perfectly innocent.

'Oh,
never mind. I am weary and,' he sneezed, 'I think I've caught a
cold.'

The
sacristan was all concern, the odd little outburst quite forgotten as
he ran for hot stones for the abbot's bed and hot wine with a
sleeping potion to get him through the night. It would never do if he
wasn't well enough to see the Count of Mortai off tomorrow. It would
look like sulking.

Sweating
in his bed, rising fever making him light-headed, the abbot
remembered the feel of the girdle in his hands, rougher than it
should be, almost prickly, heavier than before and not quite the
right colour –a brighter younger-looking brown. Someone had
stolen the real one and the King of France was getting a forgery.
Still, thought the abbot as the first thick soft veils of sleep began
to cover him, he's never handled the real girdle, so it's very
unlikely he will suspect. Blessed Mother of God, don't let anyone
find out! 'It was a clumsy job,' Straccan said. 'I had no time at all
at the end, such a rush, the damned thing sold out from under me. It
was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment, when I
heard Sylvestris and Witleof planning to borrow the relic before it
was handed over to the Frenchman. Oh, God!' He knelt by a stream,
bare to the waist, splashing icy water over his bloody face and
chest. He had discarded the bloodstained habit and donned breeches
and boots.

'Is
all this blood yours?' Bane rolled up the soiled robe, weighing it
down with stones in the stream.

'Some
of it. The rest is pig's blood. They killed a pig yesterday.'
Straccan was shivering hard. 'I had little bladders of blood to use
in case my nose stopped bleeding.'

'How'd
you make it bleed?'

'I
had to pick a quarrel with poor silly Brother Odo. He swung at me and
got my nose and I kicked him in the balls. I think he was still
crawling towards the infirmary when I left. I fell over something
soft.'

'Here.
Put this on.' Bane produced a crumpled rolled-up shirt and a thick
knitted jerkin. Straccan pulled the clothes on, carefully tucking the
relic in a leather pouch between the woolly and the hide jacket he
put on over all.