By Sylvian Hamilton (22 page)

The
watchman kept as far away as he could. Never at ease near great folk,
he was more than usually uncomfortable in the proximity of this lot.
The self-murder of poor Lord Robert had set any number of nasty
rumours afloat, and the watchman, conscious of the contemptuous
stares of the two infidel archers, was seriously thinking of taking
to his heels as soon as he got the chance.

The
Lady Julitta was talking about the child.

'She
must have some sort of protection,' she said, her perfect brow
creased by an angry frown. 'Something happened when she was scrying.
I could do no more with her. I keep her quiet with valerian, but to
be useful her mind must be free. Even drugged, she resists me. She
resists me! A child! Beating has no effect, nor hunger. Where does
she get such strength?'

'Fetch
her,' said Soulis.

When
Julitta returned with the child, he picked her up and set her on the
waist-high wall with the sheer drop below. She sat with her hands in
her lap, her expression calm and dreamy.

'What
is this?' Julitta demanded. 'She doesn't seem to see or hear.' She
waved a hand in front of the child's eyes. Gilla did not blink.

Lord
Rainard put a finger under the small chin, tilting her face up and
turning it towards the morning sun. The pupils did not contract. The
faraway look never wavered. She simply did not see him.

‘
I've
seen this before,' he said. 'You overplayed your hand, my Julitta.
You terrified her so badly that, somehow, she found a place to hide.
Remarkable! I could bring her out but there is no time; we have much
to do. It's a pity. She is rarely gifted. But there it is, if we
can't use her one way, we can in another.'

He
stared at the rapt face. Bending close, he whispered, 'If you do hear
me, maid, listen well and think on this. Whether you will or no, you
shall serve me. I will write my spells on your body with sharp pens
and bloody ink. It would be better to obey me and live.' And, to
Julitta, 'Lock her up again. We've work to do.'

Chapter
28

Now
they were a company of four; and with four to talk, joke and share
the chores of the journey, to argue and to laugh, the journey seemed
less slow. But they could not ride fast enough for Straccan who
fretted with impatience over every mile of the road, such as it was.
It got rougher and rockier, with mud holes that could swallow a
donkey, until eventually it was no more than a track which they
followed from hint to hint—a dislodged stone, the scrape of a
cartwheel, the blackened remains of someone's cookfire --all there
was to show that other travellers had come this way. They passed
through clumps of birch and alder, bright hazel woods and denser
tracts of oak and ash. They crossed deep quarrelsome streams in
sinister gorges. The travellers' way led up, day after day, into
hills where storms and mists closed in, soaking and chilling them,
only to speed away to the south and east to let the hot sun dry and
warm them all too briefly. They camped by small streams full of
trout, and slept uneasily with the crashing roar of waterfalls never
far.

Great
bulwarks of hills rose around them, the way grew steep and wild and
they led their beasts beside tremendous precipices, over raging river
gullies and through pools aboil with foam. They grew used to the
screaming eagles circling overhead, and to long silences among
themselves.

When
at last they came down out of the hills, they hit upon the remains of
an ancient stone road, running from the west to the north-east coast.
Broken in places, it was still a miracle of easy going after the way
they had come, and they were able to follow it for several miles
before their way took them north of it, and into forest.

They
passed the ruins of deserted farms and villages swallowed by the
forest, crumbling walls and roofless ivied chapels. This was
Northumberland, torn to pieces over centuries by raids and warfare,
stuck together with the blood of martyrs and slaughtered innocents.

They
met no one but a tinker with his donkey, whistling his way south;
they passed none nor did any catch up with them. For a day the forest
track was wide and dry, but then it steepened and worsened, rough and
rocky for a mile or two, then boggy and foul. They forded streams,
circled deadfalls, and led their beasts round swampy places. Once,
far away, they heard a hunting horn, but it came no nearer and they
heard it no more. That night it rained, and though they made a
shelter of branches, they slept little and lay cold. Next day, the
forest started to thin. Then there was a sudden smell of woodsmoke,
their rough track crossed another wider, clearer, and they met their
first souls since the tinker: a family of charcoal burners, with
their low snug huts and wagon. Straccan asked about the road ahead
but they gaped at him, the women giggling and whispering to each
other, the men unable to understand him or he them. Bane fared no
better, their dialect was as foreign a tongue as Greek to him.

They
rode on, their footing muddy and slippery after the night's rain,
leading the horses for long stretches and plagued by mosquitoes and
vicious tiny midges.

There
were great hills again, climbing to the east, west and ahead of them.
Once, from a hilltop, they saw the distant sea to the east, blue as
the sky, and on it a ship with striped sail bellied, scudding south.

At
last a will, a poor place but they could buy black bread and ewes'
milk, and pay for a night's lodging on fairly clean straw in a
farmer's brew house reeking of old ale, but dry. Soon after dawn they
were on their way again, given knowledge of the road ahead by their
host. 'Two vills, Lords, Muchanger and Haccledun, and then a hard way
through the forest for three leagues or so, but after that the road's
level and easy and meets other roads, and you will cross into the
Scots' country soon after you pass through Crantoun.'

They
made good time, stopping in Crantoun at noon for ale and pottage at a
hovel reckoned an inn. The house was poor and so was the pottage, but
the ale was potent and yes, they were on the road for Crawgard, the
innkeeper said sullenly. Go another mile to the ford, then turn west
and follow the river road.

They
could hear the man cursing long before the path brought them upon him
and the reason for his profanity became plain. A loaded cart had
overturned spilling sacks of oatmeal, peas and salt, sides of bacon
and other goods into the reeds. One of the shafts had snapped, and a
knock-kneed horse, freed of its burden, stood in the cool of the
river, head down smugly sucking up water. The driver's curses died on
his lips as the riders came in view, and he looked no whit reassured
by Straccan's amiable greeting. 'Who've you?' he demanded.

'Travellers,'
said Straccan. 'Is this the road for Crawgard?'

'Crawgard?
Aye.'

Straccan
slid from his horse. The carter snatched up a piece of the broken
shaft and clutched it competently, like a quarterstaff. 'Keep off,'
he snarled.

'We
mean no harm,' said Straccan. 'Truly, we are just travellers. Have
you an axe?'

'Axe?
No. Why?'

'To
cut another shaft.' He unstrapped his own axe from the saddle bow.
'Well, do you want a hand or not?'

The
new shaft was cut and fitted, the cart righted and reloaded and the
melancholy horse harnessed. The driver was friendly now and full of
thanks. 'Crawgard's about two miles,' he said. 'I'm going there
myself; this lot's for them. It's a rough path--crosses the water
three times before it gets there.' He took a leather bottle from
under his seat and passed it round.

Miles
drank and coughed. 'Sweet Jesus,' he croaked, 'what's that?' He
handed it delicately to Straccan. 'Be careful. I think it's poison.'
I 'It's whisky,' said the carter indignantly, 'and wasted on
Southrons! Give it back if you don't want any.'

The
bottle had gone from Straccan, who was wiping his eyes, to Bane,
whose startled expression didn't worry Larktwist at all. He tilted
the bottle and took three swallows before the carter wrenched it
away, shoved the stopper in and poked it back under his seat. 'My
brother makes it,' he said. 'Mild as milk. Bairns are raised on it.'

'God
help us all if we meet any of your bairns,' said Straccan hoarsely.
'I'm afraid we've drunk most of your bottle.'

'That's
all right. I've got another.'

'What's
your name?'

'Magnus.'

'Magnus,
how would you like to earn some money?'

'How
much?'

'Funny,'
said Bane. T'd've thought "what for?" would come to mind
first.'

'Sixpence,'
said Straccan, holding the thin silver coins out on his palm. 'And
sixpence more when the job's over.'

'What
for?'

'My
friend here,' said Straccan, clapping Bane's shoulder, 'has a fancy
to ride in your cart.'

'Have
I?' Bane said, surprised. 'Oh. Yes. Lucky me!'

Coming
up from the leaf-shadowed water into the sunlight, they saw the
donjon of Crawgard, the loneliest fastness of the border, stark
against the sky. Crowning a low hill, it was an ancient tower, small
by English standards, the lower storey built of stone, the two upper
floors of wood thickly plastered. A few small thatched buildings
leaned against the outer walls. Sunlight gleamed on the helm and pike
of the guard on the roof. The great gate stood half open, and two
sloppy-looking men-at-arms watched the wagon as it crawled up the
road. A couple of hobbled cows and a few newly shorn stunted sheep
grazed. There was a pbwerful sheepy smell and constant bleating as
they neared the gate. The guards pushed the gate wider open to let
the familiar cart roll through.

Inside
the yard, penned shaggy sheep were packed tightly and two bent ragged
figures were busy with shears. A steady trickle of shorn beasts
dashed out through the gate to join the rest on the slopes below.
Within the rough circle of the outer wall, the donjon rose tall and
grim. An outside stair of stone led up to the first floor where the
door to the great hall stood open and a thin haze of smoke leaked
out. The ground floor storeroom at the base of the donjon was entered
by a broad doorway at the foot of the stair. Smaller timber buildings
clustered round the base, rather like the hovels outside: brewery,
wash-house, dovecote, stable and byre. Only the kitchen was
stone-built. The cart stopped at the kitchen door which also stood
open.

Bane
followed Magnus inside. In the impenetrable darkness of the farther
corners, rats squeaked and scampered over piles of stinking kitchen
refuse. A huge sullen fire cast a lurid hellish glow. The cook, a fat
dirty man with a pustulant nose, lay on a heap of smelly fleeces
behind the door, hiccuping and clutching a leather bottle very like
the carter's. A scullion with a black eye and split lip applied
himself drearily to the turning of two spits. Mutton smoked on one
and a row of plump little ducks blistered on the other. Under the
great table, a small boy, soot-streaked and snotty, dabbled wooden
platters in a bucket of unspeakable water.

'You're
late,' said the cook, waving his bottle at Magnus.

'Had
an accident. Broke a shaft. This fellow gave me a hand.'

'Well,
bring it all in,' said the cook. 'I'd give you a hand, but you know
what my back's like.'

Magnus
nudged Bane and winked.

It
took an hour or so to unload the waggon, stowing the sacks and tubs
in the dark storeroom, which smelled of cheese and onions and had its
own population of rats. When they'd finished, the cook offered his
leather bottle. Bane declined with a shudder but Magnus took several
swallows before handing the bottle back. 'Where's Marget?' he asked.

'In
the wash-house,' said the cook. 'There's roast duck for dinner, if
you're not too tired to eat it.'

Magnus
waved a scornful hand. 'See you later,' he said to Bane.

'I'm
leaving at first light. You can get a mattress in the hall and have
your dinner there.' He made off across the yard to one of the
buildings.

'Who's
Marget?' Bane asked the scullion.

'His
sweetheart,' the man said. 'His sister.' Jerking his head towards the
cook.

'What
time's dinner?'

'Dusk.
Will you help me carry it up?'

'I
might. How many feeders?'

'Twenty.'

'That's
not the full garrison, is it?'

'Ach,
no. The lord's away, he's no been here since Yule, and the young
lord's gone off and took twenty with him. So there's just us,'
gesturing round the kitchen, 'and Marget, and the young lord's friend
in the gatehouse, the lady of course, them upstairs, and the
infidel.' He spat and crossed himself.