A Gathering of Ghosts Page 3

  Drops of rain began to splatter on to the rock. The women hurried off to gather up their washing and hasten home. They glanced pityingly at me over their shoulders as they walked away, and I knew they were whispering about me.

  The wind snarled, tearing at my skirts, dragging the bindings of my hair loose and whipping the strands around me. The branches of the willows snaked across the water towards me, as if they were trying to hook me and pull me away from the river into an air I couldn’t breathe. The clouds were bruised purple in the sulphurous light. At any moment, the storm would break over me. I should run home, but I couldn’t move.

  Come, you must come to me.

  It was the wind playing tricks on my ears, as the river had done to my eyes.

  Come to where the fire burns.

  It was one of my neighbours. She was coming back to urge me to hurry to the byre I called home.

  But I didn’t turn my head, for I knew I wouldn’t see anyone walking towards me. It was not a neighbour. It was not the wind. I knew that voice. I’d heard it calling to me since I was nine summers old, but until now only in my dreams. Was I asleep? I felt the sharp sting of rain against my face. Was I running mad?

  Fire and water wait for you. The time is now.

  The foul reek of hound’s-tongue burned my nostrils. I stared down. My right hand was balled so tightly into a fist I could no more move its fingers than I could those on the withered left. I had to will it to open. Slowly, painfully, my fingers uncurled. The mangled red petals of the flower lay in my palm. They had stained my skin scarlet.

  A flash of lightning startled me into looking up. On the opposite bank a fox, a black fox, stood motionless, its head turned towards me, ears pricked. We stared at one another. Its brush streamed out in the wind, like a flame from a blazing torch. The animal reek grew stronger till I was almost choking. And I knew that, even if I let the flower drop, it would not leave me. The smell was in the air, in the water, in the beast that stood watching me.

  Come! Come to where the fire burns in my heart.

  A growl of distant thunder rolled across the sky. The black fox had vanished, but its stench still rode upon the wind.

  Chapter 3

  Prioress Johanne

  A sudden chill drenched my skin as if the door to my chamber had been flung open and a cold wind had barged in. The sensation was so intense that I glanced behind me, but the door remained firmly latched. I poked at the sluggish fire, trying to prod it into a blaze. Exhaustion: that was why I felt so cold. My head throbbed. I longed to beg Sister Clarice to retire for the night and discuss the accounts in the morning, but my steward was one of those women who never needed more than an hour or two of sleep and couldn’t understand why others wasted so much time in their beds.

  Clarice ran a crooked finger down the column of figures she’d inscribed on the parchment. The numbers stood erect in such straight lines that not even a master mason with a plumb line could have schooled them better. ‘At least our calves are fetching twice what they did last year,’ she announced, with grim satisfaction. ‘The farmers who graze their cattle on the lower pasture lost many beasts because of the rain and floods, but we’ve been spared the worst up here.’

  She thrust aside the parchment and pulled another towards us, impatient to move on. She was a small, compact woman, but her black kirtle was tight about her. She had not so much as a pinch of spare flesh on her frame, but saw no reason to squander cloth on folds her body would not fill. She had come late to the Sisters of the Knights Hospitallers. She and her husband had, as donats, made a generous gift of land and money to the order, but had continued to live in the outside world. Clarice had managed her husband’s warehouses and properties while he travelled through Europe buying and selling merchandise for his cargo ships, but after his death from a fever in France she had made her full profession. I sometimes found myself wondering if that had been wise, for Clarice was unaccustomed to consulting with others, much less having her decisions questioned. If I had not heard her take the oath I might have been tempted to believe that, while she had vowed poverty and chastity sincerely enough, she had omitted obedience.

  She was still talking and now rapped her finger against another sum on the parchment, as if she was disgusted by its indolence. ‘But the offerings left at the well are lower, far lower.’ She stretched out this last phrase letting it vibrate in the room, as if she was an ancient prophet announcing the destruction of a wicked city.

  I moved the candle closer, peering at the column with smarting eyes. ‘Lower, yes, but only by a trifle, Sister Clarice. I am sure that will make little difference when set against the income from wax and wool.’

  Clarice gave an exasperated sigh. ‘The point is, Prioress, that the number of people coming to the well has increased so the amount collected from the offerings should have increased too, but it has not.’

  ‘But the famine—’

  A shriek echoed across the courtyard outside. We both jerked round. Someone was shouting and seemed to be in great distress. I struggled to my feet. ‘Sebastian! I should see what can be done to calm him.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like him,’ Clarice said. ‘But, if it was, he’s quietened now.’ She scuttled to the door and dragged it open, peering out across the dark, rain-drenched courtyard. The wind roared in, scattering the parchments on my table and sending billows of smoke and sparks from the hearth swirling about the room.

  ‘Sister, have a care for the fire,’ I protested, kneeling down to gather up the documents before the wind blew them into the flames. But before I could rise again, I heard another bellow as, somewhere, a door opened and slammed.

  Clarice flattened herself against the wall as Sister Fina came hurrying in, tugging a small boy behind her. Clarice latched the door while Fina stood coughing and flapping ineffectually at the clouds of smoke. In spite of the weather, she had not fastened her cloak, which was trailing wet and muddy behind her. The drenched skirts of her black kirtle clung to her legs.

  ‘What’s the commotion? Sebastian again?’ Clarice demanded, before I could utter a word.

  ‘It was Father Guthlac,’ Fina panted, wiping her wet face on her damp sleeve. ‘The boy . . . I never expected . . . how could I? After all, he’s just a little boy.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Sister Fina,’ I said firmly, in an attempt to remind both women that I was prioress and they were standing in my chamber. ‘Why don’t you and the boy come closer to the fire and dry yourselves, before you get the ague?’

  Up to then the child had been half hidden behind Fina. She grasped him by the shoulders and guided him gently towards the hearth. Although he was not in any danger of being burned, he shrank back as he felt the warmth, holding up his hands to shield his face as if he couldn’t understand the source of the heat.

  I wondered if he might be simple. Sadly, there were many such children born to villagers in those parts. They would rock back and forth, or shriek uncontrollably at the sight of something as commonplace and harmless as a feather. Changelings, the local people called them. They swore that pigseys stole human babies and left their own strange offspring in their place. But the boy’s expression was not vacant like those children’s. As he turned, he blundered into a stool and I realised he couldn’t see, not even the flames of the fire that were dazzlingly bright in the dimly lit room.

  ‘Who is this child? A villager?’

  Fina gnawed her lip. ‘I found him alone in the chapel, Prioress, when I was closing the well. He won’t tell us his name and no one in the pilgrims’ hall recognises him. I thought perhaps Father Guthlac might help him, being blind himself, but as soon as he touched him . . .’ She twisted her long fingers as if she was attempting to plait them.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, spit it out, Sister Fina,’ Clarice snapped. ‘Prioress Johanne and I have a great deal to discuss.’

  ‘The accounts can wait until the morrow, Sister Clarice,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t let me detain you if you have things to do.’ My eyes fe
lt as if they had been skinned. I couldn’t even look at another column of figures much less make sense of them.

  I was relieved as I saw Clarice scuttling towards the door, but instead of opening it, she plumped herself down on a narrow bench beside it and folded her arms as if to make plain she was waiting for an explanation.

  Fina glanced at the boy, who had backed as far away from the fire as he could and was crouching in the corner. She edged closer to me, lowering her voice, though in that small chamber the child could hardly fail to hear her, unless he was deaf as well as blind. ‘Something about him seemed to upset Father Guthlac. He started yelling that we’d draw a curse down on us all if we let him stay. He said . . .’ Fina swallowed and dropped her voice to whisper ‘. . . he said we should drown the boy in the mire. He’s a priest!’ she added, in a shocked tone, as if that fact had somehow escaped me. ‘He’s always so kindly and placid. What should we do, Prioress?’

  ‘Do? I think that is plain enough. Unless you want the whole priory to be kept awake you had better keep the boy well away from Father Guthlac. I imagine his shouting has also alarmed the other patients. Is Sebastian distressed?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Keep the boy out of the infirmary,’ I said. ‘We want no more disturbances for our patients.’

  ‘But, Prioress, suppose Father Guthlac is right? They say the blind have the gift of second sight, and the boy did appear in the chapel after I’d locked the door. How could he have got in there unless by dark magic? And there’s something else . . . When I opened the door to the well, the rocks . . . they were running with blood.’

  ‘Blood? Whose blood?’ I demanded. ‘Has someone been hurt?’

  Fina was twisting her fingers again, like an anxious child. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Not real blood, but the rocks were glowing blood red. In all these months I’ve been sister of the well, I’ve never seen such a thing.’

  ‘Sister Fina, you are not an unlettered cottager! What you think you saw was a reflection of the candlelight on water, nothing more. You know the walls glow when the candles are lit. As for the boy being in the chapel, I dare say he was crouching in a corner when you came in as he is now, afraid to move or call out since he couldn’t see who was walking about. But if you are going to take fright at shadows, perhaps I should appoint another sister to take charge of the well and you can work in the kitchens. In my experience plucking chickens and pounding dough is a sure cure for any strange fancies of youth.’

  From her perch by the door Clarice gave an impatient snort. ‘The boy got in because she neglected to lock the pilgrims’ door properly. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found it open after she swore she’d closed it. You don’t attend to what you’re doing, Sister. Always daydreaming. The prioress is right, some honest toil in the kitchens would soon set your head firmly back on your shoulders.’

  Fina opened her mouth to protest, but I was in no mood to listen to an argument between the two. ‘It matters not how the boy got into the chapel. Our duty is clear. He is a child without kin, at least until a relative claims him, and as such we are pledged to give him shelter and care. He shall stay here until we see if St Lucia, in her mercy, will intercede for him. Eventually he can be sent to one of our brothers’ priories to be—’

  I was interrupted for the second time that evening by a rapping at my door. How many more people were going to come charging in tonight? Could no one solve the slightest problem without running to me?

  Clarice rose to unlatch the door. The gatekeeper, Meggy, edged in, a ragged piece of sacking grasped tightly over her head against the rain. Her florid cheeks glistened with water, and more dripped from the end of her broad, fleshy nose. Some in the priory muttered that the widow was too old for such a post, but she’d spent most of her life ploughing the family’s own strip of land and helping her late husband in his blacksmith’s forge, hefting iron, pumping the furnace bellows and holding the heavy carthorses. Years of such toil had left her with brawn enough to deter most unwelcome intruders. Besides, I knew that she had nowhere else to call home now.

  ‘Prioress, Hob and his lad have come from Buckland with the supplies.’

  ‘At this hour?’ The carter usually arrived in the morning in time to unload his wagon and eat in the pilgrims’ hall at noon, before setting out again. For reasons I had never understood, Hob always refused to stay overnight, preferring to sleep in the stables of inns or even on the open road rather than in our warm hall.

  All our wine, with goods such as parchment and black cloth, which we could not purchase from the local markets, was delivered to us from the commandery at Buckland along with any messages from the preceptor of the Knights Hospitallers there, John de Messingham. But I had noticed in these past months that letters sent out by the Lord Prior, William de Tothall at Clerkenwell, intended for all the priories of the English order were dispatched to us through Buckland, instead of straight to my hand, which annoyed and alarmed me.

  The commandery at Buckland was small, the number of professed brothers seldom rising above seven, but the community of sisters in the nearby preceptory of Minchin Buckland had, of late, swollen to almost fifty professed women and dozens more lay servants as, one by one, Lord William had persuaded the priories of sisters across England to enter the cloister at Minchin Buckland and live under one roof, with the knights at Buckland tasked with the noble duty of protecting and serving them. Although, if you asked me, guarding and gaoling them was a more accurate phrase.

  But we would not be joining our sisters to sit sewing and praying for the souls of our brothers, of that I was determined. We were needed here, caring for those who crossed the moors, for they were fraught with peril. Outlaws hid among the rocky tors and deep valleys watching for vulnerable travellers. Seemingly lush swards of grass concealed mires that could suck down men and horses alike. Bone-chilling mists descended without warning, sending men wandering in circles till they died of cold or exhaustion.

  ‘Hob has more sense than to risk crossing the moor at night,’ I said. ‘What’s brought him so late to our door?’

  Meggy shrugged her broad shoulders. ‘Slow journey, Hob says. Up to their hocks in mud all the way, they were. Said they spent more time digging the wagon out than riding on her.’

  ‘Tears of Mary!’ Clarice muttered. ‘They could have had their throats cut on that lonely track when it’s as black as this, especially if the cart got stuck. There are more men turning to robbery every day, desperate for food since this famine took hold. Why didn’t he and the boy take shelter for the night?’

  ‘I reckon he’d a mind to do just that, but the knight riding with them was determined to press on to reach here. Asking to see you, he is, Prioress. I told him you’d not be best pleased to be disturbed. “Priory’s locked up for the night,” I said. I’d not have let him through my gate at this hour, save that he wears the cross of your order.’ She gestured with her chin towards the white cross formée on the shoulder of my left sleeve.

  ‘A brother Hospitaller? Here? Did he ride with the wagon to guard it?’

  ‘If he did,’ Meggy muttered, ‘it was a foolhardy thing to do. Hob knows how to slip past any trouble quietly without drawing attention to himself. Folks see his cart being escorted by a knight with his white cross flashing out in the dark for all to see and he might as well have the King’s herald marching in front of him bellowing, “Here’s a fellow wants robbing.”’

  ‘If Commander John de Messingham sent a brother from Buckland, he must have had his reasons for doing so,’ I said sternly. It did not befit a servant to question the actions of the Knights of St John.

  All the same, I confess that I was a little curious too. The brother was probably on his way to board a ship at Fowey to voyage to the Citramer, our order’s heartland on Rhodes, for every Knight of St John who held office was obliged to serve a season there or on our ships in the Turk-infested Aegean. But an unsettling thought burrowed into my head. Had the knight come to collect the responsions that ev
ery priory was obliged to pay to the mother house at Clerkenwell? But that money was not yet due. My stomach lurched. Why would he have come to demand it early?

  ‘Where have you left our brother?’

  ‘Sister Melisene took him to the guest chamber.’ The expression on Meggy’s face made plain that, had it been up to her, the knight would have cooled his heels out in the rain. ‘There’s a groom with them. He’s supping with the knight. I told Hob and his lad they could bed down in the pilgrims’ hall, seeing as how it’s half empty.’ She grinned. ‘Hob’s not best pleased about spending the night here. Said he’d sooner be on his way, but I told him, I said, “There’ll be no unloading that cart this side of dawn. Sister Clarice will want to check every last keg and bundle, and she’ll not be of a mind to do that in the dark.” Isn’t that right, Sister?’

  Clarice gave her an approving nod.

  ‘Then I had better find out what brings this knight to our door,’ I said, reaching for my cloak.

  ‘But what shall I do with the boy?’ Fina wailed.

  I’d almost forgotten she was there. The boy had not moved out of the corner where he was crouching, though he leaned towards us as if he was listening. I grasped his little hands and pulled him to his feet. His fingers lay limply in mine, cold as a corpse’s. I examined his face carefully, feeling his arms and ribs. He offered no resistance.

  ‘He’s pale and thin, but not as emaciated as most children who’ve taken to the road in search of food.’ I straightened. ‘Give him something to eat and put him to sleep in the pilgrims’ hall. And ask Sister Basilia to give Father Guthlac a sleeping draught to calm him. He can recognise faces by touch and it may be that something about the boy’s features reminded him of someone he once knew. If it was a person he thought dead, the shock might have caused him to utter such wild words.’