Relics (12 page)

A couple of dogs barked as I made my way through the tiny gaggle of thatched huts that was the hamlet of Tuckenhay, but their owners, and everyone else, slept on. The track rose and turned right, but I scrambled up the bank on my left, crushing the yellow primroses that covered it, and jumped down into the wood beyond. The oak-trees grew thickly, but the ground between the trunks had been cleared by foraging hogs and the going was easy. The moon was setting, but a thin light still trickled through the branches overhead. It was a hard climb, but soon enough I reached the top of the hill and the ground sloped down in front of me. My legs were glad of the respite, but after a few minutes I was climbing again. The land was folded into troughs and crests that the trees hid, and the constant climb and descent were exhausting. The local hogs had apparently thought so too, as their rooting had been lazy here. Brambles and thorn bushes had begun to sprout, and as the dawn began to glow away to my left I was becoming scratched and worn out.

But I reckoned I had made good time, and a rest was in order. I pushed on through the undergrowth, looking for a clear patch to sleep on, or perhaps a tree with a crotch wide enough to support me. I must have stumbled around like this for nearly an hour when the brambles suddenly cleared and I found myself on the brink of a small precipice. It was nearly light now, and I saw smooth stone below me. I had come upon an old lime quarry, long deserted judging by the thicket of elder that filled it. A perfect place to lie low for a few hours. I made my way around the rim of the quarry until I found a place where I could scramble down. The dark grey stone was damp with dew and almost greasy to my fingers as I lowered myself from ledge to ledge. It was only a few feet to the bottom, but a twisted ankle now would be the end of me, so I moved like an old man, slowly and gingerly, finally stepping down onto the mossy floor of the pit. The elder thicket was low but dense. I forced my way inside. As I had thought, there was a hollow space in the middle where the older trees had grown tall, and I dropped down and stretched myself out. The ground here was dry and chalky, the refuse from many tons of burnt and powdered lime. Moss grew thinly, but there did not seem to be any nettles, for which I was thankful. The sharp, sour smell of elder leaves was strong here, and mixed with it was the rank musk of a fox or badger. I lay for a while staring at the trunk of the nearest tree, following the path of a tiny black and white spider as she hunted amongst the furrows of the bark.

When I awoke the day was almost over. Luckily for me the sun had not quite set, and its last rays showed me in which direction west lay. I stood up and shook away the aches of sleeping rough. Munching an apple and sipping at the stale beer in the gourd, I pushed through the bushes and out into the quarry. As I had thought, it had been scooped out of a hillside, and the way out was downhill and to the south. The old lime-diggers had worn a deep path that was still quite clear, and it went in my direction. I set off whistling.

Everything went well at first. The path was good and straight. The light was fading, but I hoped I would soon be out in open country. Through the trees the sky was a wonderful pink, the oak branches with their clusters of new leaf sharp and black in contrast. A few early stars were beginning to shine. Somewhere to my left a rookery was settling down for the night, and a few birds, late to bed, cawed above me. The moon was coming up, and I was looking forward to another good night's walk when the moonlight all of a sudden went out. A wall of cloud was sweeping across the sky, and in another minute there was pitch darkness. Not knowing what else to do I sat down in the middle of the path. Then I heard rain swishing towards me. I could see nothing, but the sound of water on leaves and branches was growing into a roar, and then the storm was all around, huge raindrops pounding me until my skin stung under my clothes. I cowered in the roaring darkness. And then the storm passed as quickly as it had come, just a squall blown in from the sea that had vented its rage, so I imagined, on the first living thing it had encountered on land: me. The moon came out again, and I was in a world that seemed drowned in quicksilver. Light glinted from every tree, and the path stretched away like a stream of white fire. The vision faded in a moment as the dry earth sucked up the water, and I felt a thrust of utter dejection. I was alone in the wilderness, and everything, even the sky, was against me.

The night air chilled my wet robes until I shook with cold. My wet sandals chafed against my feet and ankles. The path had become a mire and after another mile faded into a mass of blackthorn. I tried to find a way around, but the thicket seemed to be interminable so I began to fight my way through. The branches, each armed with a hundred inch-long thorns, were as unyielding as iron, and I had to turn around and push my way along backwards, taking the slashes and stabs of the thorns on my cowl, back and, worse, my bare ankles. Adric's satchel became hopelessly entangled and in near-panic I struggled free of it, abandoning my last apple and the dregs of beer. I was crying with pain and frustration by the time I burst through the last tangle and fell over into moonlight on open ground. I was in an overgrown meadow mounded with dead bracken. A stone wall stood ahead, and I waded through the crackling foliage, climbed the wall and looked around.

I had reached the high ridge. The sea was a dark blue line to my left. To my right, the South Hams rolled away eastwards. I turned and saw, away in the distance, the dark wall of the moors, the great hump of Ugborough Beacon with its topknot of boulders standing out before the line of higher, more distant hills. Under that hill was my home. My father and mother rested in the churchyard there. The image of a peat fire, burned down to a handful of bright jewels in the hearth, flashed before my eyes so strongly that I could all but feel its heat on my face. But it was an illusion that only served to make my freezing robes more cold, and my loneliness even deeper. Then I remembered Adric's words, and found some glimmer of comfort, enough at least to warm me for what I must do next. There was a grim walk still ahead, and no welcome, no safety in sight.

So I turned my back to the moors, and did not look behind me again, although I could feel their presence there. I crept along now, picking my way through the bracken and gorse. The moon was sinking. Somewhere on the path I had exchanged my confidence for a nagging fear, and my ears were constantly pricked for the least sound. I was not alone in the night, of course. Other creatures were abroad. Bats piped above me. Things rustled in the bracken. I thought I heard voices and saw, over a low ridge, a farmhouse some way off. There was a light burning in a low shed - someone woken up for some nocturnal task and cursing it. I gave the farm a wide berth and had left it behind when from somewhere in front of me came a horrifying shriek. High and empty, it trembled for a second and died, only to come again as a deathly, sobbing wail. I threw myself to the ground. Behind me, the farm dogs began to bay. Face-down in the grass, I realised that the sound was not murder or rape, or some blood-drinking phantom. It was foxes in heat, a sound I had heard often as a boy. Picking myself up again I almost laughed to think what a town-man I had become, not to know the night-song of the fox. But it is a bitter, human noise, and it mocked me as I tramped on towards the sea.

My footsteps were heavy now, driven by fear again. But fear drives one as fast as hope, and before long I had crossed the track that led from Capton to Downton - at least I hoped it was Capton church that I could see over to my right. Now I was walking through pastures, and sheep scattered before me like white clouds in the night. It was almost dawn when I came to the steep slope that dropped down to the town. The track fell away into darkness. The air was still, and the world seemed to be gathering its powers for sunrise and trembling in anticipation. Above and before me the sky was the deepest blue. This was my sky. The morning star, an ember of pale fire on the horizon, had bid me good morrow every day of my childhood. The air was full of the sweet musty scent of the moors. Then a bat whirred around my head, squeaking like a tiny lost soul for whom the dawn held no relief. I stumbled on down the Dartmouth road.

It is a pretty place, this nest of rogues and pirates. The wharves line one long bank of the river, and fine houses look out over

the broad estuary towards the little village of Kingswear, a tumble of cob on the far side. There is a castle to guard the river's mouth, and a rich church in which thieves and fishermen can salve their consciences. I had been there once before, on the Abbot's business, keeping Treasurer Ivo company as he took delivery of some embroidered hangings from Quimper. Then I had hovered around the quay, watching men unload fish, chests and bales from the boats. As I stood absorbing all the sights and sounds, a fisherman yelled something and tossed a fat, glistening lump at my feet. I looked down into the face of a gargoyle: a great slash of jagged-edged mouth, bulging eyes and a tangle of horns and spines. 'There's a demon to play with, young master!' the man cackled, and I looked again, shocked, to see a fish, just a fish. A monstrous one, to be sure, but - ' 'tis a
monk-fish,
boy! Grey and ugly all right, but the flesh is sweet . . .' He smacked his lips in a lewd, fishy kiss. Furious, I lashed out with my foot, booting the horrible thing, which tumbled in the air and caught the man on the temple, knocking him over into the hold of his boat. Then there was much cursing and laughter from the other boats, and Ivo chose that moment to drag me back to our wagon, his slender money-counting fingers twisting my ear.

But now I crept past the sleeping watchman at the gate and into the steep alleys that led down to the waterside. Only the fat wharfside cats noticed me. The church loomed up on my right. I glanced up at the turret and the motion set my head whirling. Slumped against the churchyard wall, dead-tired and bone-hungry, I saw what the future held if I gave up now. The watch would find me, drag me to gaol and throw me into the stocks as a vagrant. The townsmen would have their fun, then Sir Hugh would cut my throat.

Food was just a wish, so sleep would have to do. I managed to scramble up and over the churchyard wall, scraping my hands, and fell in a heap on the other side. I crawled through the grass and nettles towards the dark pavilion of a yew-tree whose branches drooped to the ground around it. Brushing through the sweet-smelling leaves and into the little space beyond, I crumpled onto the litter of twigs and moss and was asleep in a moment.

It was day when I woke. The sun was trying to shine through a curtain of drizzle. Drops of water were rolling down a branch above me and falling onto my robe. A big patch on my chest was soaked. I was well rested, and wondered how long I'd been asleep. Given the weather, I reckoned I'd been out for a whole day and night. I peered out between the yew fronds, and jerked back in surprise. Two men were standing a few yards away from my hiding place, and as I watched they hefted shovels and began to dig. I cursed silently. I was trapped, at least for a while, and I was starving. To make matters worse a big earthenware jug and a leather satchel sat on the ground next to the gravediggers. I began to imagine their contents. Beer, and salt pork? Oatcakes? Pasties, perhaps? It was unbearable. My belly growled, then roared. I stuffed a corner of my soggy robe into my mouth and chewed.

The men were hard at work, and the ground must have been soft, as they made good progress. They began to sink down amongst the grave-mounds. First their knees, then their thighs, then their belts disappeared from view. I knew what I was going to do. It seemed to take an age, but at last the gravediggers were deep enough that when they bent, they bobbed out of sight. I blessed the person whose grave this was. He must have been important, or else his grave would not be so deep. And the men were reaching the six-foot mark. All I could see were the shovel blades as they flung earth out of the hole. Now was my moment. I bolted out from under the tree, grabbed flagon and satchel and hurled myself up and over the wall.

Luck was keeping an eye out for fools that day. As I landed on the wet cobbles I realised I had leaped before looking, but now I was in a deep, narrow alley and no one was about. I could hear the faint sounds of shovel-work behind me, so the theft hadn't been noticed. But it would be soon enough. I shoved the flagon into the satchel, which I tucked up under my robe. The leather strap I pulled through the collar and looped around my neck. Now boasting a fine beer-gut, I crept to the mouth of the alley.

I looked out onto one of the broader streets that sloped down to the river. People were about, but the drizzle was keeping their heads down. I decided to take a risk: hopefully my appearance, filthy, unshaven and starved as I was, would be disguise enough. I hurried down the street until I reached the bottom of the hill, then took a right turn. I was now in a busy thoroughfare that ran parallel to the river. It led to the castle, I figured, and to the rocky, deserted shore beyond. Cowl pulled down, hands clutching my stolen prize, I trotted on.

At last the street ended. I was beyond the town. Some fishermen sat around mending nets, looking wet and dejected. They did not notice me as I passed, and soon I was amongst the rocks in the lee of the castle. The tide was out, and the river was a narrow ribbon winding between wide plains of rippled sand. I found a jutting tusk of stone to hide behind, just beyond the tide line. The gravediggers' lunch turned out to be a great hunk of yellow cheese the colour of the skin on an old man's heel, but tasty and powerfully strong. There were two raw onions still in their skins, and two slabs of black bread clamped around a slice of salted pork fat. In the flagon was scrumpy, fresh and fine, as sour as death. I took a bite of onion, then a bite of cheese, then a swig of scrumpy, chewing all to a pulp in my mouth which I savoured until every morsel was swallowed, then began all over again. I finished an onion, most of the cheese and enough of the cider to feel it in my head and limbs. Then I stuffed the remains back into the satchel, which I used as a pillow while I took a long, deep and dreamless nap. The gulls woke me to bright sunshine. It seemed to be about three hours after noon. The tide was in and boats were bobbing on the water. A couple of big sea-going craft were edging towards the wharves, and a gaggle of fishing boats were sailing out to sea. A few yards off shore, a little rowing cob rode at anchor while its occupant jigged a hand-line up and down in the water. The fisherman looked up to see me watching him. Feeling suddenly exposed, I waved a hand, not knowing what else to do. The man waved a languid hand in return, and went back to his jigging. To him I was no one important. That felt good, so I had a few more swigs of scrumpy and a corner of bread and pork. I would have to wait until dark before going back into town to find Adric's Frenchman, so I settled myself against the warm rock with the flagon between my legs and watched the gulls wheel overhead.

There were fewer people in the darkened streets, but the wharves were still busy. Fishing boats were putting out and coming in. Catches were being piled up and inspected by lantern-light. Sailors were coming and going from the bigger ships as well. I wondered which of those belonged to Monsieur de Sol. I had slipped back into the town just after dusk, not wanting to risk being caught by the Watch. It was still too early, I thought, to look for the inn, so I made my way back to the church and slipped into the graveyard. I noted that the grave had been filled in and was strewn with flowers. There was a wooden marker, but I could not make out the name carved upon it. I gave silent thanks to the unknown soul who had inadvertently supplied me with lunch, and returned to my nest under the yew-tree.

There I waited. It was pitch-dark in my leafy cave, but I was too anxious to sleep. Instead I went back over the past few days, reliving them in my mind: the meeting and parting with Adric; the Dart in the moonlight, the foxes. It is strange how quickly the human spirit adapts to change, for I was already putting behind me the pain of leaving my old life. Wounds as deep as those do not ever entirely heal, perhaps - and I could no longer bear to let my mind linger for even an instant on Will, for the pain would come at once like hot iron pressed on flesh - but they were closing now, and I could half-smile as I remembered how the old boar had stared at me, indignation and terror in his piggy eyes. My heart sank again as I thought of Adric, who might even now be suffering the anger of Sir Hugh. But I had seen unsuspected depths in my friend, and a strength and goodness that someone like the Sieur de Kervezey could never understand or dominate. Somehow I knew that the coming summer would see Adric back on his pony, seeking out new wonders to delight his voracious mind and filthy, old and grisly artefacts to horrify his brother monks. I toasted him with the scrumpy, and grew a little more calm. An owl landed in the tree somewhere far above me and hooted softly to itself. In a little while I heard the watchman calling out ten of the clock. It was time to go in search of the White Swan.

But first I finished the scrumpy, needing the courage and not wishing to be weighed down by the empty flagon. I took off my robe and wedged it into a bole of the tree. Now I would look like any country boy, so long as no one looked too closely at my scalp. I left the flagon on the new grave-mound as a puzzle for the diggers, and made my way out into the streets. Not knowing anything of Dartmouth's inns, and being too afraid of drawing attention to myself to ask directions, I would have to search the town, and do it quickly. I had not passed the White Swan so far, so I could rule out two big streets. I decided to investigate the wharves first.

The waterfront was as busy as before, and no one paid me any mind. Dartmouth stretches out along the river, and it took me some time to walk the full length of the docks. There was no White Swan inn, although there were a number of other noisy hostelries and I was tempted to step inside more than one of them for a beer and some company. Finally I was back on the outskirts of town and turned back. I would have to search the alleys that ran back from the river first, then take to the back streets. I walked into a couple of empty courts. The third sheltered a sailor and his whore, hard at work against the wall of an old house. I slipped out of sight before they noticed me, but the woman's groans, and the cider that still warmed my guts, began to give me a warm glow inside, and not one that a cleric should be feeling. I began to feel my blood heat up - began, perhaps, to feel like a hunted fox, and not like the fox's future dinner.

The fourth alley I tried was not a dead end, but turned sharply to the right. I followed it, passing through a narrow opening where the houses leaned so close together that they formed a kind of tunnel. Then the alley turned again, and I was in a small court, blocked at the far end by a tall house from which poured lamplight and the sound of a hurdy-gurdy. The front of the building was plaster between wooden beams carved with laughing, leering faces and animals scurrying amongst oak leaves, and from a jutting post hung a great white-painted swan, a crown around its neck. I looked back down the alley, but saw only darkness. Time, then, to take my new road, be it short or long. Better to go on, and to get matters over with for good and all.

Chapter Eight

S

tepping over the threshold of the White Swan was like walking into the heart of a vast bonfire. Candles and lanterns hung from the ceiling, burned in sconces on the walls, rose in great mountains of wax from the tables. At one end of the long, low room logs crackled in a big stone fireplace. Meat and birds roasted on spits or hung from slowly revolving strings in front of it, and kettles steamed merrily on the hearth. I had been living in a world of cold and shadows for so long that my senses faltered. The carved swan over the door outside and the light inside merged, and I truly believed for a moment that I had been enfolded in the wings of a great bird of fire, whose feathers were flames that did not burn but fluttered softly against my face. Coming back to reality, I discovered that I had walked right over to the fireplace and was staring into it, standing there like a statue.

I looked around me, horrified that I had dropped my guard so recklessly, but it seemed no one had noticed. I was just another customer warming himself before he ordered food and drink. And after all, I was just that, in part at least. Looking neither left nor right, I marched to the bar and put down my florin.

Your pleasure?' asked the innkeeper. He was a tall, thickset man with a round face and a nose broken so badly in the past that it sprawled to one side, the tip pointing towards his left ear. But despite looking somewhat demonic he had friendly eyes, and I decided I could probably trust him. But not quite yet. I ordered a mug of ale, and gulped off half of it the moment it appeared before me. It was cool from the cellar, light and fragrant. I had not had strong beer since that night at the Crozier, and this was nothing like that rich elixir. Instead it reminded me of a moorland stream and the taste water has after running over oak roots and moss. I finished the mug and called for another.

And another. I asked for food, and a pewter dish of roast meat was brought, with a hunk of bread to soak up the bloody gravy. By this time I was starting to relax; indeed, the food and drink - especially the drink - was giving me little choice in the matter. The fire that the sight of the rutting couple had roused in my blood was flaring, and I began to look around the room. I had no idea, of course, whom it was I was searching for. The place was full. There were many men whom I took to be sailors by their dress, and others were plainly merchants, wealthy ones at that. There were many foreign voices in the general hubbub, holding forth in tongues I did not know, some of them outlandish to my ears. And there were dark faces, sallow faces, pointed black beards and white-blond hair. Women lounged here and there. I assumed they were whores from their bright clothes and brazen laughter, and the way they wrapped themselves around their chosen men. But some of them were young and sweet-looking, and the thought that I was nothing more than an ordinary man made me pause and turn back to my beer. 'Concupiscence,' I thought, rolling the fleshy word on my tongue. How wonderful the religious life was for providing men with rich words to describe things they would never experience. Well, I reflected, I was free to put actions to those words now, but I was unlikely to live that long. Finding survival still upwards in my mind, I decided that time was wasting.

I caught the innkeeper's eye and motioned him over.

'Another beer, my boy?' he asked. It occurred to me that he probably did not serve many young peasant lads who spent silver coin, but was treating me as well as any other customer.

It was then that I decided to put my trust in him, although I was not overly furnished with choices in the matter.

'In a minute, yes, please,' I said. 'In the meantime I am looking for a friend of mine. Do you perhaps know Monsieur Jean de Sol?'

If the man was surprised, he did not show it, although I thought I saw a new alertness in his eyes, and that ruined nose suddenly seemed more hawk-like than comical.

'Perhaps,' he agreed, and turned to serve another patron. Now that I had played my hand, I was terrified. What now? I supposed I would have to wait and see. I was grateful when the man brought me another beer, but his silence and sharp gaze unsettled me still more.

The next few minutes were agony. I drank quickly, although tension made my stomach, full for once, feel as if someone were squeezing it in a huge fist. I felt sick. At last the beer was gone, and I signed to the man that I wished to settle up. He cocked his head at me in surprise and was about to say something, but then with a shrug he took up my florin, grabbed a pair of large iron shears from beneath the bar and snipped the coin into quarters, three of which he handed back to me. As I turned away I felt his eyes on my back. I glanced around, but I was as unnoticed as before, and I made my way through the tables towards the door. I was almost there when a tall man stepped in front of me, barring the way. He placed a large hand lightly on my chest.