Relics (11 page)

I needed to catch my breath. Hunkered down with my back to the cold stone, I wondered what had possessed me just now. The old boar had for years been a tenant of my nightmares, and could easily have maimed or even killed me. But somehow I had known what to do. It was nothing to do with bravery, I thought now: more the instinct of a hunted animal. In any case the creature had proved more coward than monster. I would offer up a prayer for him the next time I sat down to a meal of pork - if there was a next time.

Adric's black outline was just visible through the beech twigs. I edged along until I was directly behind him.

'Adric,' I whispered. 'Don't turn around, but it's me, Petroc.' The tall shadow in front of me made no movement. 'Adric!' I hissed again, a little louder. 'I'm here, behind the . . .'

'Quiet!' the librarian croaked back. Sir Hugh's grip had been tight around the poor man's throat: he sounded half-strangled. 'If that really is you, Brother Petroc, and not that perfumed assassin, what in Jesus' name are you doing here?' There was an ugly rattle as he cleared his throat, and then: You are a murderer, a thief and a blasphemer. You are dead, to the abbey, and to me.'

I felt myself collapse inside like a punctured wine-skin. What had I expected? This was what I deserved. My ears burning with shame, I began to move away, when Adric's croak came again.

'That being said, I shall sit here in the sun and say a quiet Mass for the soul of a dead friend, I think. We believe our prayers are heard, do we not? Then listen now.'

I crouched in the damp shade, hardly daring to breathe.

'I have missed your company, young brother. And as a writer of letters you are not diligent. When the Sieur de Kervezey arrived here a week ago with his tale of butchery and theft, it was more news of you than I wished to hear. Kervezey tells a fine story and acts the courtier's part well enough to turn country heads, but I could smell lies on him like rotting meat. I did not believe his account, although the others were quick enough to damn you.'

I began to protest, but Adric cut me off.

"Whatever happened, he is a devil. He knows that we were friends. Sweet as honey he was at first, flattering me with his "Master Librarian". Then he revealed his mission. You were my pupil, as he put it, and he represented the Church in their interest in discovering how a young monk had in reality been a murdering apostate - a living devil, as he would have it. Officially you are dead, dear boy, but Sir Hugh seems to have reasons of his own to think that untrue . . . and so just now he dragged me from the library and promised me extreme pain if I did not give you up. But,' and he coughed, as if feeling hands around his throat, 'he may now think that you truly are not here.' Adric chuckled, never a pretty sound.

'And you are not here, are you?' he continued. You must not show even a sliver of your shadow. I do not know what your plans might be, but they should involve getting as far from this place as you can.'

I could stand this one-sided dialogue no longer. 'I have just been there, and it did me no good,' I muttered, bitterly. 'My dear friend Will is dead and I am the cause of it. I am not far behind him, Adric. If I am to die, it may as well be at home.'

There was silence from beyond the hedge. I could see the black outline of my friend, and he was leaning forward, head in hands once more.

'This is
not
your home now!' he hissed. 'The abbey believes you are dead - I am sorry, but you must have thought of that. The news has been all over the county - monks are worse than fishwives for gossip, as you know. You would not wish the brothers under Sir Hugh's suspicion, I think ... I am sorry. Truly sorry, my son.'

I felt myself growing empty inside. As I cowered beneath the hedge I felt my old life cut from me with a finality that might as well be that of death. I had lost my past as I had lost Will. I raised my hands to pray but no words formed, and instead I watched a party of ants overwhelm a squirming caterpillar on a beech twig. The brothers were shouting again, a long way away.

But I was young, and found that a tiny spark of indignation still burned in my hollow guts. 'I am an innocent man,' I said at last, as loudly as I dared. 'Sir Hugh played a game with me. He killed Will and the deacon before my eyes. He did it as easily as you would open a book.' I stopped, sickened by the memory of the hot blood on my face.

Adric's shadow straightened suddenly. Yes, yes. You are no killer, Petroc. A dreamer, perhaps.'

"Will thought the deacon was killed for being in league with the Papal Legate, Adric. How . . . how did I come to be tangled with such things?'

'The Papal Legate? No, no. Kervezey is a hunter, but you are not the quarry.'

'How can you say that?'

'Because it is the truth. We have no more time for explanations, but believe me when I say that you are blameless. Sir Hugh's wickedness . . . This was no chance. He killed your friend, not you, he let you go - and he knew where you were going.'

He must have heard my sigh of miserable confusion, for he continued: 'Trust me, lad - I'm afraid that you have no choice. Now listen, because I think there may be a chance for you to save yourself. We should have a little more time before those fools catch that hog, so please, pay attention.'

'There is a man,' he began. 'He is a Frenchman, and yet he belongs to no country. He is a traveller and a merchant of sorts. He keeps a small stock of curios of the kind I am interested in, and we meet, every now and then, when he puts into Dartmouth. This Frenchman owes allegiance to no one, and he hates the Hugh Kervezeys of this world. I have had word that he is in Dartmouth now, and wants me to meet him there. He has something for me, doubtless some ancient wonder that I cannot afford and that will make me commit countless sins of covetousness. But he will be at the White Swan tavern this week. Ask for him there. His name is Jean de Sol. I assume you still have the reliquary you stole.' I spluttered audibly.

'That is good,' said Adric, to my great surprise. 'Show your loot to Monsieur de Sol. It is the kind of thing he likes. He might be persuaded to carry you abroad. This island is too small to hide you now. You will leave tonight. I will bring you food and clothing - I can smell you through the hedge, Petroc - and a little coin if I can muster it.'

I murmured my thanks. This was like confession, I realised, and Adric had just granted me absolution of the most wonderful kind. 'I will be out in the long grass, under the old wagon with the rose growing through it,' I told him.

'I will not risk your life or mine that way,' he replied. 'Kervezey will be keeping me under his gaze, I am sure. No, you will find a bag outside the privy, the one that faces the river, after the evening service. I will drop it from the window. It should land in the willows. If you find nothing, leave anyway. Eat roots if you have to. Follow the river. And find the Frenchman.'

He stood up then, and knelt, facing me. I could see the shape of his face through the branches, although I doubt he could see mine. 'I can hear the brothers,' he said. 'They are wrestling with the pig, by the sound of it. You must go. But Petroc,' he began, and paused. 'Go safely, my son. I will pray for you, of course. I believe the Holy Martyr Saint Elfsige of Frome may intercede in a case such as yours.' He laughed his dry laugh. 'Remember him? Perhaps I will light a candle in front of his skull tonight.' He sighed. 'But a long life to you, Petroc,' he said, in his true voice. 'I am glad we were friends. Now go.' He sat down on the bench and bent his head once more.

I felt truly abandoned then. I was no longer a cleric. Adric had surely told me that. In helping me escape he was releasing me, in his way, from my vows. I was an outsider. Tears were streaming down my face as I crawled back down the green tunnel. I could hear the monks away behind the barn, clamouring in triumph. Sobbing, I hurled myself across the track and into the weeds. I dragged myself through the rough grass and thistles, hardly caring if I was discovered. Adric of all people had been caught up in my nightmare, and now his life was in as much danger as mine. I was like contagion, infecting everyone around me. I should never have come back. As I regained the pathetic refuge of the wain, I wished Sir Hugh had skewered me in the cathedral. Death must be better than this half-life: Guilt, fear and uncertainty pecked at me like crows worrying a corpse. I pulled my cowl over my head and cried as I had never cried before.

The rest of the day passed. That is all I can say on the subject. The shadows grew long, it turned to evening, then night. I do not wish to remember my part in that day. There was a pile of rotten wood, and under it a filthy vagrant dozed, and woke, and cursed, and wept. Or perhaps it was another sort of creature that lay there, writhing in pain as he shed his old skin and suffered the pangs of transformation into an entirely different form.

But night came at last, and the evening hours were rung. I left my shelter for the last time and sloped across the wasteland to the stable and the river beyond. The refectory was to my right. Warm light and the happy sounds of eating came from it. I slipped down the bank and followed my nose to the privy, a lean-to that clung to the abbey wall and hung precariously above the river. Willows and other plants grew thickly underneath with the sinister vigour of things that feed on dirt and decay. The stench was bad, but in the cool of evening not too intense. I ducked behind a tree and settled down to wait as the moon rose behind me.

I had sat there for perhaps half an hour when the little window showed the dim light of a candle. A shadow reared briefly, and a dark shape flew through the air, hit the bank a few yards in front of me and began to roll towards the river. I leapt from my hiding place and threw myself at the bundle, managed to catch it before it reached the water, and found myself holding a leather satchel, its strap wound and knotted tightly around it. Looking up at the privy I might have glimpsed a pale face at the window, but more likely I imagined it. In any case it was time to be gone. I turned and scrambled along the bank, heading downstream. Soon I was past the mill and saw the outline of the bridge in the distance.

Chapter Seven

U

nder the bridge it was cold, and water dripped from the shadows above onto my head. My tonsure had almost grown out, and it was odd to feel the drops land on hair, not bare skin. Adric's package contained a silver florin, half a dozen wizened apples, a chunk of ham and a gourd of small beer, wrapped in a pair of rough woollen breeches, a linen tunic and a monk's robe. My own robe was a disgusting web of worn and torn cloth encrusted with dirt, and I gladly threw it off. When I unwrapped the bindings that held the hand to my body I found a belt of angry skin beneath. I walked into the river with my sandals still on, and sat down on the smooth granite stones, letting the icy water play around me for as long as I could bear it. Then I grabbed a handful of river sand and scrubbed myself quickly all over, ducked down again to rinse off, and ran up the bank, my body burning with cold. But despite the pain I felt new hope as I bound the hand back in place, pulled on the breeches and tunic, and let the clean robe fall about me. Now I looked like a monk of the abbey again, at least for a little while longer. I sat and ate the ham - muttering my thanks to the old abbey boar - and two apples, chewy and wrinkled from their winter in an abbey cellar, until I felt ready to begin my next journey.

The moon was nearly full, and it was easy to pick my way along the river. The Dart runs fast over stones between Buckfast and Staverton, and for the first hour the gurgle of water kept me company. It was not cold, and although my feet were wet from fording the little streams that crossed my path, I was as happy as I had been since leaving Balecester. I stopped once to wrap my old robe round a boulder and drop it into a deep salmon-hole under the bank. Before long the stone bridge at Staverton came into view, and I slipped under one of its arches. I knew that there were fat sea-trout - peel, we called them - lying in the dark water. I had often leaned on the bridge and watched them hold their own against the current with just the lazy flicking of their tails.

Below the bridge are the water-meadows of Hood, and beyond the woods of Dartington. I followed a well-worn path, clambering over the high wall of the Lord of Dartington's deer park and following the river that now flowed deep and quiet. In another hour I was in the King's Meadow, and the mound of Totnes Castle crouched ahead of me in the moonlight. I kept to the riverbank, slipped past the mill and under Totnes bridge. I was in luck: even on such a bright night there were no fishermen about, checking eel traps or setting illicit nets for peel. I did not want to disturb any poachers. But the meadows were empty, although I could hear big fish jumping, and silver ripples appeared on the silver water. The river was tidal now, and there was a salty, muddy smell in the air. I made good time to the hill at Sharpham and, skirting it, struck inland. A sunken track led south and west, so I followed it gladly, the packed earth a pleasant change from dew-soaked grass.

As I hoped, the track led to the little hump-backed bridge over the Harbourne at Tuckenhay. The Dart, like other rivers of the West Country, spreads itself out into a long, deep estuary with many fingers that jut into the hills. These fingers are themselves deep, wooded estuaries, and I was at the head of one of them, where the Harbourne, a little stream that rose close to my home, flowed into the main river. Downstream the Dart widened and meandered, and following its banks would take far too long. I would have to head inland and find a shorter route to the port. It would have to be across country. Farmers would be awake soon, and I did not intend to meet anyone.

Adric's advice had been to cross the bridge and leave the track, heading south-east. My way would be across the ridge to Capton, then on to Dartmouth. Adric knew the country well. He loved to poke around in old churches and had visited even the tiniest, amassing reams of esoteric information that he would share with me. Upstream from where I stood now, I remembered, Harbertonford church had a font carved in the Byzantine style, though Adric had been less sure about what a Greek stonemason had been doing in Devon. There were old burial mounds on the coast as well, and the librarian was irresistibly drawn to such things. He also had a fine memory for landscapes and directions, and I knew his map, though rough, was sure to be true. And in any case my mother had grown up here, and her childhood home was just four miles from this bridge, so this was familiar ground. I was in the South Hams, a land of secrets, hidden folds and ancient tracks. I would have a hard scramble up through woods to a long ridge of rough pasture before I came to the steep hill above Dartmouth. It would take me another day, at least. I ate another apple, tightened the wet thongs of my sandals and set off once more.