“Why?”
“My father did not say. He only told me that the Jews killed themselves at Masada rather than be enslaved.”
“Nobody is trying to enslave the people here. Sorrel heard the name and doubtless decided it sounded good.” Geraint flipped a pebble. “Why should Theodore and the rest want to kill themselves?”
“They have no provision for winter. Joan spoke of the men becoming angels.”
Her husband blew a loud, vulgar raspberry. “Not from what I witnessed.”
“Were they walking the labyrinth too?”
“No, that is farther off in the forest and you were right in your dreams. The oaks there are ailing.” Geraint started to add more but closed his mouth with a snap.
What has he seen there that he does not want to admit?
Yolande decided not to press him. She still had urgent news to share. “Joan said the men would walk the labyrinth seven times on May Day and they would be angels and go with the women into heaven.”
“May Day is two days away.”
Yolande pushed herself from the bank of violets. “We must be missed by now so let us go back. Tonight, Geraint, can you take me to their labyrinth?”
“Nothing easier.”
As they approached the settlement, Geraint was the first to hear happy squealing. He looked ahead to Yolande, who appeared to stop breathing for an instant then lengthened her stride. As he caught up with her Geraint heard the youngsters ahead call to each other then, through their excitement, Yolande’s steady prayer.
“Please suffer the little children to come to me,” she murmured in Latin. “Please come to me and not to Peter.”
They crested the hill and Geraint stared at the group of chattering strangers crowded into the clearing with their handcarts, sledges and tents. Two dogs milled around, one sniffing Peter, who gave the beast a wary pat. Joan was swinging a tiny girl ’round, Sorrel scowled at a toddler kicking a pinecone and Theo showed off his short legs and feet to a curious lad who would perhaps make a healer later.
“New converts.” They were serfs from their plain clothes and lack of oxen and horses, although one lad carried a chicken under his arm. “They found the place readily enough, I see. I think those who confessed to Katherine were ashamed. They wanted no chance of returning so they told her it was near impossible to discover.”
“I agree.” Yolande tapped an amulet about her neck.
“These are families,
cariad
. They will not accept any nonsense about purification.”
I hope
.
She was counting the newcomers. “Thirteen, seven of them under the age of ten or twelve. I do not think there will be any more of those rites, Geraint. Peter has what he wants.” She tilted her head toward the children.
The back of Geraint’s neck itched. “Were there children at Masada?”
“Yes.”
“And what is this?” Geraint breathed as a dun-haired man with a molting fur cloak greeted Peter and pointed to a handcart. The man was like a thousand others, the same as any you might find in a pub or church, but the cart, one wheel with iron spokes, looked familiar.
“Hide behind the hill. Do it.” Yolande darted away from him. She ran down the slope with her arms outstretched, swerving left and right so that she was almost dancing. In the clearing below, heads looked up to watch her graceful display and Geraint ducked aside.
“Yolande, my dear.” Peter claimed her, opening his arms. Geraint crouched and crawled behind a bramble bush as his wife skipped between the trees, drawing all attention to herself. “Where is your husband?” Peter called.
That hermit is too honey sweet by far. Yolande’s instinct is right—this fellow is up to something.
Yolande sped fearlessly into Peter’s grasp. “I thought Geraint was with you.”
Peter’s face was a story in sorrow. “Alas, no, my daughter, and now terrible news has come from the outside about him.”
Ah, this is how this bleating bastard means to discredit me.
Geraint settled more comfortably on his stomach to listen.
She did not believe a word but marveled at how artfully it was done. Yolande pretended to pay close attention as Jehan, the leader of the new arrivals, swore Geraint had set upon a man at the spring fair on the Great North Road. A man with drab hair and countenance, Jehan nonetheless gave a thrilling account of a savage attack that had left Geraint’s victim with two broken legs. Joan moaned when, gesticulating furiously for emphasis, Jehan went on to explain that Geraint had stolen his victim’s gold crucifix.
“Search my husband’s things,” Yolande rapped out. “You will find nothing of that kind in his pack.”
Peter touched her shoulder. “He will already have sold it.”
“Then let him stand trial.” She tore herself free of Peter’s slimy hold. The folk gathered to meet the newcomers sucked in their breath. Yolande took advantage of the silence. “You have iron here, yes? Let him swear upon the iron.” She spoke loudly enough for Geraint to hear then inhaled a deep, steadying breath.
My honeyman guessed this man would make mischief and so did I, though I never expected Peter to accuse him of such a crime. Let me see what Peter does now. Iron is Christ’s metal, so will he use it? Will he allow Geraint to swear upon it?
But what if Peter insists upon a trial by ordeal, maybe even ordeal by fire?
“You are deluded, my poor creature.” Peter pursed his lips and those gathered close echoed his gesture.
“Not an ordeal by iron.” Jehan flicked a spider from his sparse brown mop. “The knave is an entertainer, a juggler. Those people have all kinds of tricks to fool honest folk.”
Joan sighed. “You never told me Geraint was a juggler.”
Theodore stepped forward. “Commander, I juggled for my lady before I was freed by coming here.”
“And no one doubts you, Theodore,” said Peter. If he had noticed the glance of admiration Joan sent Theodore, Yolande surmised he would be too wise to show it. Peter was after Geraint, the mocking threat to his vision, the man unmoved by fleshly raptures. Minnows like Theodore could be dealt with later.
“He stuck a knife in that merchant,” said Jehan, twisting an imaginary knife. His sour face grew greedy. “We should swim him in the river. Swim them both.”
“And what is the man’s name?” Yolande stepped away from Peter and stalked around, scanning faces as she spoke. “Why can you not tell me at once, Jehan? Is it because you need time to invent one?” She whipped a fist into her gown and brought out her dagger, holding it aloft. “Here is Geraint’s knife. He loaned it to me to cut kindling. There is no blood on it.”
“Because he cleaned it first,” said Peter, a trace of white spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth.
His certainty might have worried Yolande but she knew Geraint.
And I lied. This is my knife and I have not stabbed anyone.
“You accuse him to my face, commander?”
“Your loyalty does you credit,” said Peter and a cloud of yellow steam snaked from his lips. Yolande scented sulfur and glanced at Theodore. He was watching Peter but he was puzzled, not alarmed.
Theo’s doubts grow but still he is not afraid. He and the others do not see what I can.
She wondered if Geraint, hiding on the hill above, could see the winding sulfur.
Pride and certainty, bedmates of the devil. How has Peter hidden this from me?
A breeze sprang up, wafting the stench at her. She choked, clamped her teeth together, and pulled away, not wanting the yellow to touch her.
It may harm my baby.
“You are wrong,” said Peter and beside him Jehan smirked. Sulfur rolled from Peter over the taller man, embraced him like a lover. Jehan wallowed in the stink, a man bathing in foulness.
Still grinning, Jehan pointed. “Wrong, black girl, wrong as sin.” His broken teeth showed as he made a grab for her. About him, the snaking yellow fog billowed, cradling Peter and himself, linking them in shrouds of dismal gold.
At the edge of her sight, Yolande saw Joan frowning at Jehan and looking questioningly at Peter, but the young serf woman was too habituated in obedience to protest. Theodore’s angry, “Not so!” was ignored.
Jehan jeered at her, plumes of sulfur spurting from his lips and gilding his molting fur cloak. “Did you think we would not find out about you and your thief of a husband?”
“He has abandoned you,” said Peter. Spots of sulfur condensed in his hair, making it appear for an instant as if he had sprouted horns.
“Never.” Yolande wanted to turn her back on the baleful pair but dared not.
These two are the pits of malice in this place. Two evil bringers, not one. It is summoned when they are together.
Trembling, she forced her arms to make a protective cross over her belly but her mind was a blank parchment and she could not pray.
What if they hurt my unborn child?
Others were taking up Jehan’s wicked call. “Wrong, black, wrong, black,” they chanted, stamping and clapping.
“Swim them, swim them both,” called Jehan. Another spout of sulfur spewed from him. When he clapped, his palms glowed red, hellfire red.
“It is finished,” Peter agreed, his words a mockery of Christ’s suffering upon the cross, his face sheathed in yellow fog.
The pair glanced at each other. She knew that in a moment they would set the company on her.
“Where is he?” Jehan shouted above the rising tumult. “Where is your filthy Welshman?”
The insult braced her and she thumbed at Peter. “He says my man has gone, but look!”
People always follow an outstretched arm. She understood that from her time as an exorcist and from Geraint’s as a performer. She flung her hope at the forest, a last diversion.
A pine tree crackled into flame.
“The dragon comes!” To the sound of Joan’s screaming, Yolande ran straight through the middle of the stricken group.
Geraint caught Yolande before she blundered into an elder bush, and hooked her off her feet. “Me,” he whispered into her ear and she settled at once, a shiver running through her body before she stilled.
Swiftly, he bundled her into cover, tossing himself over her. In the clearing there were shouts and howls but no pursuit.
No, because Peter will have to explain a few things, including that dragon, to his flock.
It had been the work of a second for him, reacting as Yolande flung herself away from the closing mob. He had guessed from the stress and movement of her limber body what she was about to do and added his flourish to her diversion.
And never has my fire-play performed so well, though getting the smoking tinder into the sling and out again into the forest before the whole bundle burst into flames was a tricky business. And who knew that a dry, half-dead pine would burn so well? Not me. Luck or providence, I take either because it worked.
“Did you use my bow?” Yolande whispered and he rolled off her and sat upright. They sat back to back, breathing heavily.
“My sling, though it is ashes now. I never thought a pine would burn so well.” He debated if he should explain more and admitted, “The sacred Marys warned me not to use your bow—’tis yours.”
It had been more than a warning—a piercing agony inside his skull and two brisk female voices reminding him the bow was hers.
Yolande twisted about, checked he had her bow safe, and tossed him a wry glance as if unsure what to make of the idea of Mary the Mother of heaven and Mary Magdalene chatting to him.
Since he was also uncertain, he shrugged. “That was the way of it.”
“Peter said you had left me but I said never.” She looked younger than her years, the whites of her beautiful eyes gray with weariness and strain. Her usually glowing skin and hair were dull. “Jehan called me black. He had them chanting my blackness.”
He wanted to slay the pair of them for that.
And how did I not hear it, or the chant? Must have been when the Marys were scolding me and after that I was too busy making fire, getting my missile ready.
He stroked her shoulder, his heart aching as he sensed her flinching.
“I have no power left,” she said. “My final trial has come and I have nothing.”
“You will do well. You always do well.”
She coiled into herself. “This moment, in the clearing, I forgot everything, even Christ’s prayer. I could only think of our child, of how Peter and his evil might harm my baby.”
“So? You are a mother now. ’Tis natural you are concerned.”
“What use am I when I do nothing to protect?”
He tugged her hair so hard she yelped. “You are a lioness, Yolande. You will fight for your cub and for others and so will I. If Peter and Jehan are together, so are we.”
She looked ready to doubt again and he flicked a ribbon into her tunic, between her breasts.
“Such tricks,” she muttered.
He was relieved to see her irritation. “If Jonah had braced the whale’s mouth with a stick, he would not have been swallowed. Tricks work. You summoned a dragon.”