Devil's Acre (16 page)

‘People die of plague all the time. And the Northumbrians are a superstitious lot.’

‘Some men came at night when the body was back in its grave,’ Maynus went on. ‘It is said the undead cannot pass a night away from their place of rest. They took it out of the town and burned it on a pyre having first removed the heart.’

‘Well then our course is clear,’
said Samson with heavy sarcasm. ‘All we have to do is wait by the grave for Ralf to return.’

‘It looks as though we may not have to,’ I said looking out of the window. A group of men had gathered in front of the priory porch armed with clubs and scythes.

Samson came over to the window and peered out with a groan. ‘Go down and speak with them, Walter.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you got us into this mess. Take Maynus with you since he’s such an expert on the subject.’ He started to put on his cloak. 

‘What will you be doing?’

‘I’m going to the castle to try to put a stop to this before it gets out of hand.’

It was as Maynus had described. The men - young hotheads most of them whose bravado came largely from the bottom of an ale barrel - wanted to wait by the grave until Ralf returned at sunset. Quite what they thought they were going to do if Ralf did appear I don’t know but Maynus wasn’t going to permit a gang of armed, possibly drunk, men to be camped on priory land all night. But they refused to take no for an answer, so after some difficult negotiating a compromise was agreed: two of the more sensible among them would be permitted to come back at dusk and together with two monks keep watch by the graveside. Unfortunately only one monk from the priory could be found who was willing to take part in this vigil so I agreed to be the other one, although the way things turned out I wished I hadn’t. With daylight fading so early and the temperature dropping again I could see it was going to be a long, cold wait.

We arrived shorty after nones and set up camp a few feet from the grave. Cemeteries are eerie places even in daylight and at night they can be terrifying. As darkness falls shapes begin to change, the familiar becomes unfamiliar. Every shifting shadow, every wisp of wind is enough to spook the most steadfast soul. Being February it was already very cold, but we could not allow fires, not even a torch in case it alerted the monster. My brother monk, a young man of doubtful courage, wanted to sing a psalm to keep up our spirits but we had to silence him for we needed to keep our ears alert. So here were the four of us in complete silence, near total darkness and growing colder and more fearful by the minute.

At first there was nothing but the s
nuffling of rats and the bark of a dog-fox. But then we heard it, quietly at first like the sobbing of a child. It came out of the darkness a few feet away startling us by it nearness. By now the moon was up and we could see a little as it poked through the cloud. I don’t know if any of us seriously believed anything would actually happen but now that we were facing it for real we were terrified. Instinctively we shuffled closer together. I looked at the other three faces wide-eyed with fear in the moonlight. I was certain mine was too.

‘What
is it?’ said one of the townsmen. His breath smelt of ale. Despite Maynus’s stipulation of no alcohol in the cememtery he must have sneaked some in.

‘The monster,’ said
the second man.

‘Ssh!’ I said
and cocked my ear.

Another sob.

‘Where’s it coming from?’ asked the second man

‘Near the grave,’
whispered the first.

We drew further away.
And then came the smell. I looked down at the face of the young monk; the smell was coming from him. He was trembling and pointing towards the grave:

‘Look!’

The first townsman, doubtless made courageous by ale, had crept forward. He was on his knees and leaning into the grave. ‘There’s something here,’ he whispered and started scraping with his knife. ‘Something - it looks like... Urrgh!’ He stopped and fell back. He tried to get up but fell again. He was struggling, pulling on his coat but something seemed to be holding him down. ‘I can’t -’ he said and pulled again more frantically this time, his voice sounding increasingly desperate. ‘Help me! For the love of God, someone help me! Please! Help me! Help me! Help - !’

S
ilence.

The man
’s body slumped forward. We none of us moved but all held our breath. Then something hopped out of the grave: a big black shiny crow. It looked at us sideways. It had something in its beak: a big piece of liver which it swallowed in one gulp.

That was
enough.

Terrified, w
e all leapt to our feet. The young monk ran off screaming towards the priory church clutching the back of his robe. I didn’t see what happened to the other townsman but I presume he ran too. I wanted to do the same but was torn between saving myself and saving the man in the grave. Then something caught my eye. I peered hard towards a clump of bushes next to the grave where I saw a shape I was sure I recognised...

Chapter
18

DEAD M
EN RISING

I
thought at first it must be Jane returned from her sojourn in the wild and wailing again. But it wasn’t. It was the boy from the castle, Nicholas. He was the last person I expected to see on this freezing dark night, but there was no mistaking it was him - the size, the shape, it couldn’t have been anyone else. He was crouching behind a bush and sobbing like a baby.

‘Nicholas? What are you doing here?’

He jumped at the sound of my voice.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ I said putting up my hands. ‘It’s me, Brother Walter. Do you remember me? We met yesterday at the castle.’

Once he knew who I was he let out a great sob
. ‘Oh brother!’ he bawled and threw his arms around my neck...

Now, a fourteen year old boy blubbing on your shoulder is not the most pleasurable thing and Nicholas could blub more copiously than most.

‘Hey hey, there’s no need for this,’ I said trying to extricate myself with difficulty. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘I’m running away,’ he sobbed.

‘Running away? Whatever for?’

I suppose running away from home is something most boys do - or think of doing - at some time. I can remember doing it myself as a young child. In any case I didn’t get very far. I’d gotten as far as the chicken coop where I promptly fell asleep and was found next morning by a milkmaid, my knapsack of cheese and bread still tied in a bundle next to me. I think I was about eight years old at the time. It’s not usually something a boy of Nicholas’s age would want to do, but then I had to remind myself that he had the mind of a child.
And if the castle guards were out looking for him - which I was sure they were for I could already hear dogs barking in the distance - it wouldn’t be long before they found him. Knowing who he was and who his uncle was I really didn’t want to be with him when they did.

‘Nicholas, listen to me,’ I said to him seriously. ‘You can’t run away, they won’t let you. You have to go back.’

But he just shook his head. ‘I’m not going back. You can’t make me.’

He
may have the mind of a child but he had a man’s size and a man’s strength. This was not going to be easy.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘why don’t you tell me what the problem is? I’m sure we’ll be able sort it out.’

He shook his head again. ‘You’ll be angry with me.’

‘I won’t be angry, I promise
,’ I said patiently. ‘Just tell me why you’re here.’

By now the
drunk in the grave was starting to come round. He wasn’t dead, just passed out from a combination of ale and shock. He sat up groaning and holding his head. As he did so something glistened beneath him.

It was then I became conscious of a sticky wetness on my shoulder where the boy had blubbed over me. I thought
at first it was his tears but when I touched it I realised that was blood also. Alarm bells started ringing in my head.

‘Nicholas, what’s happened? What have you done?’

He started backing away from me and put his hands behind him. ‘You said you wouldn’t be angry with me. You promised.’

‘I’m not angry with you,
’ I said, ‘but you must tell me what happened.’

Behind me the
drunk was still trying to scramble to his knees but he kept slipping back. ‘I can’t get up,’ he slurred in amazement and plucked at his sleeve. He put his hand under his bottom and pulled something out. ‘What’s this?’ He squinted at it then flung the thing down again in disgust. ‘Urgh!’

I turned back to the boy
urgently. ‘Nicholas, show me your hands.’

But he shook his head
violently from side to side and backed further away. ‘No!’

So
I pulled them roughly forward. As I feared, they too were covered in blood and in the right one he held a knife.

‘Nicholas!’

He started to sob. ‘They made me do it, brother. They said if I didn’t they would. They were going to skin her alive. Like a rabbit. I couldn’t let them. Not to my Esme.’ His face creased into a picture of silent anguish.

Now
I was angry, but not with the boy. I shook him by the shoulders. ‘Who made you do this? Tell me!’

But he didn’t have to tell me. Who else could it have been but the same boys who had tormented him the previous day? He looked so unhappy that despite myself and his
blubbering sobs I put my arms around him and held him tight.

‘
Hahaha. What’s the matter with him?’ the drunk giggled and pointed idiotically. ‘He’s crying. Cry baby!’ He laughed again.

I looked angrily at the man.
I could see now what was stopping him from rising but I wasn’t going to tell him. Scraping around in his drunken stupor he had impaled his sleeve with his knife. It wasn’t the monster that was pulling him down to hell but his own stupidity.

‘Isn’t anyone going to help me?’ he bleated still plucking at his sleeve.

‘Oh shut up!’ I barked.

I was furious. Monster or no monster, I was determined to get to the bottom of this without delay. Those boys needed disciplining and there was only one person who could do that: Lord William.

Before we left
, however, I helped Nicholas bury the remains of Esme’s body at the edge of the cemetery which appeared to have been his original intention. We did it quickly as I could hear the dogs getting closer. Nicholas also helped me clean up the grave once I’d released the drunken fool who had pinioned himself to its floor. I had visions of Jane returning and finding Esme’s bloodied remains in the bottom. In her state of mind heaven alone knew what she might make of that. Nicholas wanted me to say a prayer over Esme’s little mound but I explained that was going too far and in any case we had to get away before the soldiers arrived. Needless to say there was no sign of the Revenant. If there had been I think I might have cut him down too. At that moment I was ready to take on the world.

By now the moon had risen high enough for Nicholas and me to see our way through the deserted streets. We got through the town gate with
little difficulty once the guard realised who my companion was, but getting into the castle grounds wasn’t going to be so easy. As we approached Nicholas took off by himself - getting back in the same way he had got out, presumably - while I continued to the west gate alone. It was being guarded this night by a buffoon of a sentry with a halberd and a tin hat. For the first time in my life I understood the term “hopping mad”. I was literally hopping from one foot to the other.

‘I demand to see Lord William.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. I have urgent business with his lordship so you will do well to stand aside, my man, and let me in.’

‘Lord William usually tells me if he’s expecting anyone,’ said the guard equably.

I gave him my sternest look. ‘Do you know who I am?’

The fool shrugged.

‘I am Master Walter de Ixworth, personal physician to the Abbot of Edmundsbury. You’ve heard of him, I take it?’

The clown nodded.

‘Then you will understand that my visit could be a matter of life and death,’ I said pulling my robe together and trying to disguise the blood and saliva on my shoulder. ‘Lord William will not be best pleased if he hears you have been obstructing me.’

‘Well, in that case,’ said the man
, and to my satisfaction he raised the barrier to let me in. But I had barely gone two yards inside the grounds when I felt a hand grab hold of my hood lifting me up onto my toes. Without missing a beat I was propelled straight past the castle entrance to the east gate where with a shove I was sent sprawling in the snow, much to the amusement of the guards who were manning it.

‘And if he tries to get back in again,’ said the first guard dusting his hands together, ‘throw him in the moat.’

I staggered to my feet slipping on the mud in my confusion while my audience continued to laugh at my expense. Humiliated and angry, I was inclined to give them all a piece of my mind, but I didn’t relish the thought of a swim in the icy waters of the moat at that time of the morning. Discretion, therefore, being the better part of valour, I withdrew to nurse my bruised ego and to try to think of another way of getting into the grounds.

But I didn’t have to think for long for another figure now
materialized out of the gloom like a heavenly apparition. It was the lovely Simone, the gentlewoman servant from the previous day. She beckoned me with an angelic white hand.

‘Brother Walter?’

‘Yes?’

She smiled.
‘Follow me,’ and she led me back past the guards who watched us go with hooded eyes.

Simone led me up over the drawbridge and through yet another gateway into the inner bailey, the final defensive barrier of the castle. Up close I could see the donjon was less of a fortress than a sturdy house built of solid masonry four stories in height. But instead of going inside as I expected Simone led me to a wooden outbuilding that stood in the courtyard. This seemed to be some kind of hawking house - the stench of the aviary was unmistakable even to my untutored nostrils. As we entered, the exotic birds were sitting quietly on their individual perches each eyeing me with inscrutable benignity. At the far end stood a figure with its back to me, but there was no mistaking its identity. The countess was quite alone except for a single man-servant holding a tray from which she was feeding morsels to one of the hawks.

‘Master Walter is here, countess.’

‘Thank you Simone,’ she said without turning. ‘That will be all.’

Simone curtsied to her mistress
’s back and then smiled and winked at me before leaving. I think at that moment I was in love.

By now my anger over Nicholas had dissipated to be replaced by a sense of apprehension. Why had I been brought here? No-one could have known I was coming for I hadn’t known myself until a short while before, yet my presence seemed somehow...expected. Perhaps
Samson was wrong and my services were to be required of after all, but if so it was an odd time of the day to call upon them. And why here in this strange place?

The countess wiped her hands on a cloth draped over her manservant’s arm and turned to face me
. Before me I saw a woman in, I guessed, her seventh decade of life although with her hair completely hidden behind her tightly-drawn wimple it was difficult to say for certain. There was still a residual beauty there but time had taken its toll on her looks. Yet this was not a vain woman - at least, not one engaged in the futile effort of defying time with lead-white and rouge as so many ladies of her age do. As a result her natural beauty shone through. But she looked drawn and tired not helped by the stress of having her husband so close to death. She selected a chunk of raw liver which the bird eagerly plucked from her fingertips and swallowed in a single gulp.

‘This is Pennyboggid, my pride and my vanity,’ she said stroking the creature’s plumage. ‘The name in the Welsh language means “leader of hawks”. What do you think?’

‘He’s a beauty,’ I replied.

‘
She,’ the countess corrected me. ‘In the hawk world it is the female that is the larger sex,’ she smiled without irony. ‘Bigger, greater speed, more power. I take it you do not hunt, master monk?’

‘Never with such magnificent creatures as these.’

‘Nor indeed should you. The peregrine is an aristocratic bird to be handled only by the nobility. Oh, but I was forgetting: yours is a noble family is it not?’

That
shocked me a little. ‘I didn’t know you knew my family, my lady.’

‘I know of your mother.
There aren’t many women who can boast an education to rival that of Héloïse of Argenteuil. And like that lady she gave up her scholastic endeavours for the sake of a man.’

She was referring
, as I knew, to the notorious liaison between Peter Abelard and his mistress Héloïse. A love affair celebrated by the troubadours. I hoped she didn’t think my mother and father were guilty of similar indiscretions.

‘My father...’ I began -

‘...was a knight who abandoned his calling to turn physick during the great struggle in the Holy Land. Yes, I know. And, I might add, applied his skills to the relief of the heathen enemy to the great distress of his Christian comrades.’