Relics bp-1 Page 8

  Something furry, with sharp little claws, scuttled across my face. I flinched and opened my eyes. A pale light was filtering into the stable. I muttered my thanks to the mouse that had woken me: the watery dawn would have let me sleep. Outside the window the abbey was still, although the mumble of early Mass came from the direction of the church. I thought I would give the brothers time to settle in to their daily tasks before seeking out Adric, whom I thought would be the best person to hear my woes. He would surely know what I should do next, and I devoutly hoped he would take my side. Meanwhile I picked the straw from my robe as I wandered around the stable. The horses and ponies snorted at me as I passed their stalls, and I patted their great long heads. Some of the beasts I knew: here was the little black pony that had carried me on many a trip over the moors. He nickered as I rubbed his velvet nose. In the next stall stood a great chestnut horse, more magnificent than any I had seen in my years at the abbey. I wondered if the Abbot had acquired a new mount as I held a bunch of hay for the creature to nibble. Then I noticed the tack hanging from the stall's door. It was rich, caparisoned with fine silver. It was too fancy for the Abbot, I thought absently, as I bent to take a closer look. There were symbols on the bridle, and in the growing daylight I saw what they were. One medallion carried a crozier and a hound; on another two long bones crossed between four blazing stars. The arms of the Bishop of Balecester and his seneschal. Sir Hugh de Kervezey's charger bit my hand.

  I lurched backwards, tripped over a leather bucket and stumbled against the wall. The shock felt like Sir Hugh's knife twisting in my belly. So my escape, those days of lonely misery and terror, were for nothing. Kervezey still lived, and I had been outwitted, as if my wits would be a challenge to a man of Sir Hugh's nature. How could I have ever dreamed of escaping? My pursuer was a hunter of men. And I had walked blindly into his net. I sat on the floor, nursing my bitten hand. The horse had nipped the web between thumb and first finger, but not hard. The pain was enough, however, to prove that I was not dead yet. Until my throat was cut, I could still run. And so I did, bolting from the stable by the back door and darting behind the chicken coops. From there I crawled past the swine-fold and into the patch of long grass and nettles that spread down to the river, a little wasteland where old wagons, broken ploughs and other wreckage was allowed to crumble into the brambles. I found a heap of wheels and boards that had once been a hay-wain, and wormed underneath. Young-nettles, always nastier than grown-ups, stung my hands and face. But I was hidden. I had gone to ground, I thought grimly. But few people came this way. And I could just see a corner of the stable-yard. Perhaps Sir Hugh would lose patience and go home. I rubbed my bite and my stings and settled down to wait.

  It was really quite pleasant under the hay-wain. Honeysuckle and a dog-rose had grown over the old boards, and the sweet pink flowers were so bright and innocent that I began to feel, if not safe, then at least protected in some way by the sheer force of nature around me. Green shoots were everywhere. Perhaps it is strange for a man who has seen many wonders to think this, but there are few sights more awe-inspiring than a stand of young nettles in the first flush of their growth. They are greener than emeralds, and strain towards the sun with such vigour that one can almost see the life-force working within them. And their stings are a reminder that the mystery of creation may be approached, but not grasped. Now, watching the green spears soak up the light, listening to the bees at work in the roses, my fears began to subside.

  I found some dock-leaves to soothe the nettle rash and began to plan once more. If I could find Adric, I would at least have an ally. I wondered what day this was. If it were Sunday, I would wait all day. Monday he would spend in the library. Tuesday was the day he liked to saddle a pony and go in search of oddities in the countryside. I prayed it was a Tuesday. From my cave under the roses I could see, beyond the stable, part of the main abbey and the physic garden. Monks were beginning to show themselves, walking to their appointed tasks with the calm of a sheltered existence and an assured afterlife. Unfortunately I seemed to have abandoned both luxuries. But their presence meant that at least it could not be Sunday. I lay there, sucking the honey from the tiny funnels of the honeysuckle flowers, and reflected that I was looking at my life, as it had been, from outside. I had been one of those calm figures just two years ago. But the filthy outlaw lurking in the weeds was a lifetime removed from them now. I realised that I could not go back to that life, that I despised their calm now. I had an urge to reveal myself, to let them see that everything was illusion, that they could fall through the flimsy walls of their world in the wink of an eye, into the wasteland outside.

  As I lay there thinking these gloomy and uncharitable thoughts, I noticed a commotion over by the stable. Some monks weeding the garden dropped their hoes and started running towards the stables. Voices were raised, in surprise or anger – it was hard to tell from my distance. Then there was an almighty crash and a clatter of hooves, and from the stable burst a huge horse. The rider was dressed in dark green, and I saw it was Sir Hugh. The knight held something in his right hand, a long black bundle which dangled a few inches from the ground. As I watched, Sir Hugh raised the bundle to his face, shook it and flung it from him. It tumbled away, and I saw it was another man, a very tall, thin man in black robes. Sir Hugh wheeled the horse and seemed to make it dance for the monks who were watching the scene from a safe distance. Then horse and rider grew calm and trotted serenely from my view.

  The monks rushed towards the man, who had been thrown into the weeds by the pigsty. Adric,' they were calling, Adric!' I could only lie in my hole and watch as they picked my friend from the ground and held him, tottering, between them. At least he was still alive and, it seemed, unhurt. But he allowed himself to be led to a sunny bench in the physic garden and waved the other monks away. There he sat, his head in his hands, like an old raven, while the smaller brown birds twittered around him. Finally they let him be and went back to their tasks, shaking their heads and, I guessed, chattering like old women.

  This might be my one opportunity to talk to Adric. I eased myself out between the briars and slithered towards the pigsty. It was obvious that Sir Hugh had found out that I had been friends with the librarian, and that he had been trying to shake some information from him. I hoped he was satisfied that Adric knew nothing, and that he had left the abbey for good. But the horse had not been loaded for a journey, and Sir Hugh had worn no cloak. He would be back within the day. As I crept closer, I thought how terrified my friend must have been, and that it was all my fault. I flushed with shame. The news of my disgrace must be all over the abbey now, of course. It would be fatal to be seen by anyone else but Adric. I hoped with all my heart that he, of all people, would not betray me.

  The monks were giving Adric a wide berth now. I suspected that was because they saw the librarian as a lightning-rod for the wrath of Sir Hugh. They clustered at the far end of the garden, over by the beehives, and busied themselves with pruning the rose-bushes and trimming the low box-hedges -all tasks that allowed them to keep their backs to Adric. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought bitterly. But it suited my purposes very well. Adric's bench sat alongside a hedge of pruned beeches, just beginning to leaf out, planted in front of a high stone wall. Between it and the pigsty was a further swath of waste-ground, a cobbled track and a stand of yew trees cut into broad, flat-topped skittles of green. Between the yews apothecary roses had been planted in a thick line, forming another hedge about three feet high that met the beeches at a right-angle. If I could reach the roses unseen, they would screen me until I slipped between the beech-trees and the wall. But from where I lay peering out round the angle of the piggery's fence, the low grass and track might as well be a mile. I would be in full view of gardeners and, God forbid, the mad knight who might gallop back at any moment.

  Snorting and munching sounded through the thick wooden fence beside me. The pigs should be out foraging, so I guessed I could hear the old boar, who was far too cantankerous
to roam free. Many a novice monk had been bitten by the huge old beast, and I had been charged by him once, coming too close with the slop-bucket. He was a gross, bristly brute with beady eyes and jagged yellow tusks, and I was glad of a wall between us. Then it struck me. Without stopping to think, 1 hauled myself up and over the fence and dropped into the stinking, churned-up mud inside the sty. The hog was over in a corner rooting away, and he raised his red-rimmed eyes and stared at me with undisguised malice. Not giving him time to act, or myself time to have second thoughts, I rushed to the gate and, with three hard kicks, had it open. Then I charged the boar.

  The hideous old creature had never faced such insubordination, and he panicked, as I had desperately hoped he would. Instead of disembowelling me on the spot, he gave an undignified shriek and bolted away. Waving my arms, I chased him out of the sty, then climbed back over the wall. The monks in the garden had heard the door being kicked open, and the boar's surprised squeal. Now they watched in horror as the beast, free at last, hurried around in widening circles, squealing in rage or perhaps delight. One of the burlier monks began to walk gingerly towards him, carrying his hoe like a lance. The others began to follow, and I almost laughed out loud as the boar bolted off towards the stable. The monks, running and yelling now, set off in pursuit, and the jolly cavalcade was soon out of sight. Meanwhile, Adric had barely glanced at the cavorting beast and yelling fools before dropping his face into his hands once more. I leaped up and dashed towards the roses. If anyone had seen me, they would have assumed I was running to find reinforcements for the boar-hunt. Sprinting over the cobbles, I threw myself down behind the nearest yew-tree, and crawled fast along the line of rose-bushes. In another few seconds I had squeezed into the narrow, dank passageway between beech hedge and wall.

  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 t
he 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.