By Sylvian Hamilton (15 page)

'Eh?'
said the beggar.

'You.
From the well chamber. The miracle man! I was there, remember?'

'Er
... yes.'

'Here,
pick up that loaf, will you? I've only just started on it. Where did
the bacon get to? Oh, there ..." He snatched it up, brushed the
dust off and blew on it. 'Hungry?' he asked. 'There's enough for
two.'

They
sat on the ground outside the Westgate, leaning against the town's
defensive wall, watching the ebb and flow of the market and sharing
the food.

'The
maggots were a nice touch,' said Bane. 'Original.'

'I
thought so,' said the beggar. 'A good idea, though I say it myself. I
keep some here.' Delving into a pocket he produced a small round
wood-shaving box, eased off the lid and displayed the seething
contents.

Bane
eyed them critically. 'What do they eat?'

'That's
a bit of mutton pie they've got there.'

'Oh.'
Bane's gaze wandered along the stalls and over the people, selling,
buying, arguing, laughing, haggling. He saw a cutpurse slip his
trophy to a woman partner who shoved it down the bosom of her gown,
caught Bane's eye, grinned cheekily and stuck out her tongue before
melting into the crowd. 'Funny bumping into you like that,' he said.
'You look a bit more prosperous than you did this morning.'

'That's
my working clothes,' said the beggar, picking his teeth. 'Did they
take your earnings?'

'Every
penny, the sods! Every half, every fourthing! Said I was lucky not to
be flogged.'

'You
were.'

'I
know. But that monk, the fat one, he gave me such a kick up the arse
I won't sit easy for a week.'

They
sat quietly for a while, chewing. A group of well-dressed pilgrims on
mules clattered and jangled their way out through the gate, heading
west. Two knights, one a Hospitaller dusty with travel, rode in.

'How'd
you make that stench?' Bane asked.

'Professional
secret,' said the beggar. 'But seeing as you've shared your breakfast
with me, I'll let you in on it. Rotten fish and dead moles. Nothing
stinks as bad as a mole, ever notice that?' 'Can't say I have. Where
will you head for now?'

'Not
sure. Newcastle, maybe. What about you?'

'I'm
waiting for someone.'

'Perhaps
we'll bump into each other again somewhere,' said the beggar matily.

'I
shouldn't be surprised,' said Bane. 'Seeing as you've been following
me ever since I got here. You going to tell me why?' The beggar
looked taken aback. 'I don't know what you mean!'

'Yes
you do.'

'No,
honest!'

'Honest
my arse,' said Bane. 'You were a leper at the gate when I got here on
Thursday. I chucked you a penny. I've a bloody good mind to have it
back now! And I've seen you several times since, dressed as a
pilgrim, keeping an eye on me.'

'Don't
be daft,' said the beggar uneasily. Bane's arm moved quickly. His
dagger appeared in his hand in no more than a blink, its point at the
side of the beggar's neck just under his ear.

'Open
your bundle!' And, as the man hesitated, 'Open it,' pressing slightly
until the point broke skin.

'All
right! All right!' Opened, the neatly strapped bundle revealed among
other things a leper's cloak, clapper and alms bowl. The cloak,
reversed, became a pilgrim's cloak, and there was a badge-studded hat
very like the one poor Walter cherished. 'How'd you know?' the
beggar asked resentfully.

'I've
had some experience in the same line. And there was that smell. It's
a bloody powerful smell. I noticed it when you were the leper, and by
God, there it was again in the well chamber. So I took a good look at
the face that went with the stink and realised I'd seen it in lots of
other places lately.'

'It's
a small town,' the beggar suggested hopefully. 'Bound to keep running
into the same people.'

'Bollocks,'
said Bane. 'Why are you following me?'

'I
was told to,' said the man sulkily.

'Who
told you?'

'I
don't know! I do it for a living. Follow people. When I'm told.'

'So
who told you?'

The
beggar looked uncomfortable. 'I don't know,' he muttered, 'I don'tl'
The point nicked a little deeper and a trickle of bright blood ran
down to his collarbone. 'I get messages!'

'I
can push this in a bit further each time. You'd really better tell me
about it.'

'Like
I said, I get messages! Someone tells me. Might be anyone --beggar,
child, whore--someone who's been given a penny or two to pass it on.
Saying who I'm to follow.'

'I
don't believe any of this.'

'Look,'
said the man, T was a player. You know? Mummery and mysteries,
buffoonery? Keep em laughing, make em cry? One day, well, night it
was, back in Bristol, I had a spot of trouble. The company I was with
got into a fight and a fellow got killed. They buggered off and I was
the only one taken. I was locked up. I expected to hang. Then someone
offered me this job.'

'When
was all this?'

'Last
Michaelmass. Not this one just gone, the one before. Steady wages, he
said, and a good bonus, just to follow folk. I've been doing it ever
since. Bristol, Peterborough, Lincoln, York, all over. Tell where
they go, who they meet. That's all. In disguise. I'm good at
disguise.'

'Very
painstaking,' said Bane.

'Well,
so I get carried away a bit now and then. It's an art! And no one's
ever twigged before.'

'There's
always a first time. Go on.'

'It
seemed a good idea at the time. Better than being hanged. And I
didn't really have any choice, did I? What d'you think would've
happened if I'd said no? Pat on the head and sorry we troubled you?'

'The
man who hired you, what did he look like?'

'Oh,
Christ. I never got a look at him. It was dark. The candles were
behind him. He was just a shape.'

'Make
some guesses.'

'Thin.
Oldish. Croaky voice. Spoke English like a Frenchman.' Bane thought
about it. 'So you got a message to follow me?'

'No,
not you. Your master what's-his-name, Straccan. Only you turned up
alone so I hung about watching you. Reckoned he'd be along.'

'Well,
you missed him,' said Bane with satisfaction. 'He's been and gone
again, while you were having your sneaking arse kicked out of the
abbey.'

The
beggar flashed him a look of pure dislike and sat dumb.

Chapter
19

It
took Straccan three days to reach Durham. Heavy rain turned the roads
to sucking swamps, showing no sign of relenting when he at last
reached the Templars' commanderie by the Cow Gate. It was an outpost,
a unit of knights and sergeants seeing to the administration of the
Order's properties in the area and offering banking services. The
black and white pennon, Beauseant, hung sodden from its pole.
Straccan sat on the bench inside the gatehouse, looking out at the
steady drumming grey rain. As he sat, he thought of Gilla and of his
dead wife, Marion, and of Janiva. He had thought a lot about her
since leaving the house at Shawl. After the destruction of the charm,
she had told him about her gift of scrying and had tried to see in
the water where Gilla might be. She could not. He remembered her
anger and frustration at the failure. A barrier, she said. Some
sorcery that baffled her seeing.

Sorcery!
What could a man do against invisible unknown enemies? How could he
fight intangible evil? He needed something to attack with sword and
lance, and all he had to fight were shadows against which he was
helpless. Surely only Holy Church could stand against sorcery? Yet
Janiva had found that ill charm and destroyed it, and he was no
longer weakened by evil dreams.

'What?'
he said, startled, looking up at the squire who had come to attend
him.

'Sorry,
Sir. I didn't mean to make you jump. I only asked your name and
errand here.'

'I'm
Sir Richard Straccan of Stirrup. I want to talk to the master.'

The
squire led him through passages, up stairs, across galleries, and
down more stairs to a small comfortless damp-smelling room, no more
than a cell, where the spare and shrivelled master, Sir William Hoby,
sat at a desk sealing letters. A smell of hot wax filled the room.

'William,'
said Straccan, relieved. 'I hoped someone I knew would be master
here. How are you?'

'Older,'
said Hoby morosely. 'Riddled with rheumatism. You look fit enough.
What do you want?'

'You
needn't bristle. I'm not after your money and I'm sorry your old
bones ache, but you probably deserve it. I need information,
William.'

'Sit
down,' said Hoby. 'Shove the cat off that stool and have a drink.
Stay and eat with us. Spend the night. What's the matter?' He rocked
his chair on to its back legs.

'I
have to find out about a man. He was probably in Palestine, but I
don't know when. All I've got is his name. Lord Soulis.' Hoby's chair
banged down on all four legs again. 'Soulis? Where'd you come across
him?'

'Our
paths haven't exactly crossed yet, but they're going to. Do you know
him?'

'Saw
him a couple of times,' said Hoby. 'He was pointed out to me at Acre.
Saw him again a few years later on the road from Joppa to Jerusalem.
A troop of us camped at the waters at Lydda, and this bunch of tame
Saracens appeared, looking like it was more than they could bear not
to slit our throats. You know that look they have for Christians. Not
Saladin's men –they belonged to Soulis. He was in the middle of
them –Saracen armour, robes, the lot –on the most
beautiful horse I've ever seen. We asked him about the road ahead.
His infidels jabbered at him; not a dialect I knew at all, couldn't
make out any of it. He said something to the master, I never heard
what, then he and his creatures went their way. After a little while
we went ours, smack into a nasty little ambush in that gorge, you
know it, at Khatrak. The master was killed. They impaled Isumbras of
Dray ton, remember him? And poor old Martin of Andover. Can't be
sure, but I've always thought Soulis let us ride into it.' Hoby
stared ahead, not seeing Straccan at all, only the remembered
treachery.

'What
became of him?'

'Ah,
now. I heard he became a very rich man indeed. Found a lost city
somewhere in the desert. Brought out a lot of gold. My opinion,
nasty piece of work altogether. All sorts of rumours.'

'What
rumours?'

'Folk
said he studied the black arts. Found his treasure with the aid of
demons. There was a queer old fellow he brought out of the desert,
supposed to be some kind of Arab sorcerer. Probably all rot. But
still, I don't like him. He gave me the creeps!'

'Any
idea where he is now?'

'Scotland,
I suppose. That's his country. Want me to find out?' 'Yes, William, I
do\ As quick as you can. I'll tell you why.'

A
damned queer story, Hoby thought after Straccan had left, and it
worried him. Worried him so much that he couldn't sleep and in the
middle of the night got up, lit a candle and wrote a letter in his
own hand, no secretary.

To
Sir Blaise d'Etranger, at the Priory of Coldinghame, in Scotland,
greetings ...

Chapter
20

There
was a lot of unusual activity in the enclosed yard at the foot of
Skelrig tower. A huddle of derelict wattle outbuildings had been
pulled down and burned, the remains of the huge bonfire glowing in
gusts of warm wind. Flames leapt up each time more rubbish was dumped
on, as serving men emerged from the tower's arched door with loads of
rags, bones and festering slimy rushes. Just inside the outer gate
were four loaded waggons, now horseless; the horses stood heads down
in the walled hay-meadow which ran down to a pretty lake where ducks,
coots and moorhens ignored the rumpus, bobbing about at the far end
with their backs turned. It all looked very domestic, a tremendous
long-overdue spring-cleaning.

'...
and clear out that filthy stable. I want it swept and washed, clean
and fit to put the horses in tonight,' said the Lady Julitta,
appearing in the doorway and continuing the stream of orders she had
been issuing ever since her arrival that morning. 'Faugh, what a sty!
You! Yes, you,' to a servings lad trying to escape her eye. 'Tell my
steward to have the beds and hangings unloaded and put up on the
second floor.' The boy scooted off on his errand. Julitta took a deep
breath and surveyed the bonfire, the yard, the meadow, the lake and
the track along which her retinue had travelled. Apart from a couple
of huts in the middle distance, the landscape was empty of humanity;
just rocks, gorse, sheep-cropped grass, heather and reeds.