Gisborne: Book of Pawns (41 page)

Ever the plain speaker, she put me quickly in my place so that I wondered if my new strength was really so self-made after all.

There had come a point one night between the bell for Compline and the bell for Matins that I had decided I could no longer be rolled back and forth like a twig in an ebb tide. Life had the capacity to end when one least expected and be damned if I was going to waste any more days. That was my epiphany.

With a faintly snoring Ceci on the other side of my parents’ bed, I nodded at the darkness.

A new day.

A new Ysabel.

A plan.

‘Of course I shall be perfectly well. Have you not noticed I take my role as the Lady Ysabel quite seriously? And with much loved charm?’ I mocked.

She snorted.

‘Yes. Well. I shall be back before you can get yourself into trouble because I can see you are brewing something. We shall talk when I return.’

No we shan’t, Ceci. But I love you anyway.

Cecilia and two Upton retainers left immediately, rattling over the causeway, and were barely gone for two bells when a clattering of horses sounded back the other way. I took little notice because horses came and went and the bailiff would send for me if I was needed.

I stood naked before a bowl of water, washing away the exertions of the morning, my dirty laundry piled high. Sorcia slept curled in a dark shadow, almost hidden. I undid my hair and reveled in the silken swish as it slid down my back, running a comb through and then I reached for a fresh chemise…

The door crashed open, my head flew up and De Courcey, hated husband, burst in upon his wife as if she were
in flagrante delicto.

‘Now that is what I call a homecoming, wife!’

His unbuckled sword and scabbard crashed to the floor.

I backed away holding my chemise against me as he advanced, ripping a travel-stained surcoat over his head, a chemise following. I stared at the powerful torso where the auburn hair sat lightly, his chest rising and falling with excited breath. He managed to pull his
chausses
,
braies
and boots away and still move with animal grace toward me, his manhood purple with intent. The stones bit into my back and my small oratory, the cushion littered with parchment, quills and a quill-sharpening blade, prevented a sideways step.

His hand reached out and grabbed me.

‘Great minds, wife, that you should so prepare yourself for my quick homecoming. You knew I would want to sire an heir before I left for the crusade, didn’t you?’

He ran a hand over my breasts and it was at that very minute that the new streak inside me spread to my heart, pumping the final dark syrup through my veins.

He nudged my legs apart.

‘You do not speak to me, Ysabel. Are you not glad I am home to wish you a touching farewell?’

His hands moved to wrap into my hair and he tugged brutally. I cried out and heard an answering growl from Sorcia in the corner.

I twisted my head away from his lips and he grasped my arms to shove me hard up against the wall, pushing inside, thrusting against an unwilling entrance.

‘Open to me, you bitch. Open to the new seed of my heir else you shall suffer.’

He began to grunt furiously and with each grunt I was slammed against the stone and a base streak exploded in my head as his hot breath filled my face.

I will kill him.

‘Open to me!’

His hand hit my face with bone-jarring force, my head whipping so that the heavy stone sill bit into the flesh near my eyebrow. Blood ran down my cheek and I could taste it on my lips and tongue as I fell sideways against the oratory with him on top, glued to me like a rutting dog. My fingers closed over something sharp as black, insistent words filled my mind.

I am Ysabel of Moncrieff and you shall not!

I shrieked and Sorcia came running, launching herself into his back at full-force. Enough to knock him out of me to roll onto the floor where his head hit the wooden frame of the oratory and where my hand rose and fell.

He lay still, his eyes closed and the quill sharpening blade sunk deep into his left breast.

Sorcia stood over the body of my husband. In the bailey, men’s voices shouted, a cock crowed, horses neighed and a dog barked, Sorcia rumbling deep in her throat in reply.

‘Shush,’ I whispered.

A dark shape flew past the window, its threatening shadow swooping over De Courcey’s inanimate frame. I shivered.

Think.

I grabbed my chemise, tugging it on.

Think!

I rubbed the blood from my face, wincing at the bruise left by his palm and gingerly patting around my eye. It felt fleshy and broken beneath the tentative fingers.

Think Ysabel!

De Courcey lay in a pool of his own blood, Sorcia reaching to smell it and then backing away.

The plan…

I raced to a chest filled with embroidery accoutrements, digging beneath to extract the youth’s clothes from a year before, pulling them on, dragging hair back to stuff under a hood, wadding a kerchief to staunch the still flowing blood. I pushed my mother’s comb and the small Book of Hours into the purse at my waist with one hand and thought how I would have killed to possess the Saracen book as a form of insurance.

Would have killed? Ysabel…

‘Sorcia, come!’

I hushed the order, one frantic glance at the prone form of my husband, then leaped for the secret way, making sure the large tapestry hung back cleanly behind us.

We had no light but we raced round and down – Sorcia by animal insinct and me by memory. Reaching the grille, I heaved it up. Outside, dusk cast long shadows.

‘Sorcia, hup, good girl.’

I dragged myself after her and we hunkered in the sedge, she sniffing the damp air of a spring evening, me holding her collar with one hand whilst pressing my face with the bloodied cloth.

Think.

We waited till it was fully dark and as I began to move across the stones and through the sedge, Sorcia padding by my side, I heard a shout from the bailey.

‘Sound the alarm!’

They’ve found him.

We ran over the boulders, across the causeway to the far side of the lake. In the village, Saint Agatha’s bell rang for Vespers and we sped to the church, meeting no one. I slipped inside, Sorcia’s and my feet silent on the paved floor. The priest stood at the altar, a taper in his hand.

‘Brother John,’ I whispered, wiping at the blood.

He turned quickly, the taper flaring.

‘Who goes?’

‘Ssh. It is me.’

‘Ysa…’

‘Hush,’ I glanced back over my shoulder. ‘I need help.’

He said nothing more, snuffing out the altar candle and the taper, the smell of tallow heavy on the air. He ushered me out the door and into the small stone and thatch dwelling that was his quarters.

Then, ‘I need to see to your face…’ He looked closely. ‘Jesu, Ysabel, it’s opened almost to the bone. It’s a wonder you still have an eye.’

‘I’ve killed him. Listen, they raise the alarm.’

From the castle, the sound of shouts, horns and alaunts started a stormfront of shivers down my spine.

He lit a candle and stirred the fire, filling a bowl from the kettle that hung over the coals. He gently peeled my hood back and grabbing a clean piece of linen, began to bathe the wound.

‘Curse the man for the devil spawn that he is, he has really done some damage this time.’

I jerked away as he probed the flesh.

‘I need to see there are no bone splinters there, Ysabel, be brave.’

He poured some wine onto another cloth and blotted away and I sucked in my breath as it stung and I wished he’d hurry. The noise from the castle had freshened and then drifted away as if the search party had left in another direction entirely but I knew they’d be back.

‘I need to cobble this together Ysabel, else it’ll never heal.’

Cobble together?

‘You mean sew?’

He threaded a bone needle with a piece of thread and as he reached for my skull, I jerked my head away.

‘Have you done this before?’

‘Yes, many times to the villagers when there was no time to get to the infirmarian.’

‘I did not know you were a barber-surgeon, Brother John.’

The first piercing of the needle through my face was like a branding iron.

‘We are all of us many things other than what we seem to be, Ysabel.’ He dug in again and tugged and I moaned. ‘People have had wounds stitched together since before Time and whilst I am not trained like some from the Middle Sea countries, I am competent enough.’ Tug and tug again, stitch after stitch. ‘That said, my child, I am afraid you will most likely have a big scar.’ He tsked and pulled once more.

‘There.’ He cut the thread with a sharp dagger and picked up a small stone bowl. ‘I shall apply a paste of honey, it helps the healing, and I shall wrap your head with this linen. Lord knows who you shall get to remove the stitches when it is time.’

‘How long?’

‘Half a month.’

‘I shall find someone. Just help me get away, I believed I might have time but I don’t…’

‘Time? What say you? Ah but of course! You planned to run away to Wales, didn’t you? Well run you shall. I’ll not see you stay here to be convicted of a brute’s death. But Sorcia must stay behind because she will indentify you too well.’

‘No…’

But I knew he was right, my most perfect man of God. How many such priests would there be who would help someone guilty of murder?

I knelt and hugged her.

‘Stay, Sorcia, and I shall not be long. Sit. Good girl.’

She sank onto the floor and tilted her head as Brother John guided me out the door and I resolutely tried not to turn back to look at the dog that had taken the place of my child, the dog who was my shadow in so many ways.

My head ached and I longed to wait till the throbbing passed but there was no time. We pressed against the outside wall, listening for noise but the alaunts howled from far away and I breathed out.

‘I shall keep Sorcia hidden until this is over,’ my dear monk said, ‘and then give her to Lady Cecilia when she returns. She will be well cared for, do not fret.’

I knew this to be true and had no fear for my giant hound. I would miss her but there was no time to indulge in such grief. I had made a promise with myself on the night of the epiphany and nothing would change it.

Brother John continued. ‘And there’s one thing you can be grateful to the Baron for, Ysabel. There are few of his men to hunt you … even if they use the villagers, none will help willingly. It is to your benefit!’

We walked swiftly through the dark, our feet finding neither obstruction nor bulwark to hinder us. I thought we headed west away from Moncrieff and I felt nothing as it disappeared behind my back; nothing but fear that I might be found and elation that I might escape. The moon shadows dimmed as we entered the heavily wooded ways of the forest and for a moment I was confused.

‘Where are we?’

I touched my head as a sharp pain pulsed around eye and ear. Underneath the bandage the wound snaked from eyebrow to cheekbone and into the hairline.

Bigger than I thought.

‘Brother John? Tell me
where we are
.’

‘We are well into the Moncrieff woods heading northwest in the direction of Lincoln. I will leave you with an old friend of Moncrieff’s and she will take you further. She is adept at finding her way hither and yon through the forest without being seen. She’s a rare creature.

‘Who is she?’

I tripped on a root, the jolt hurting my head and I sucked in a breath.

‘Nearly there, Ysabel, not too far.’ Brother John’s hand took hold of my arm and steadied me. ‘She is called Frida. But tell me, is he really dead?’

‘I… yes. I struck him near to the heart.’

‘Why?’

Such a direct question and I wonder you have not already guessed the answer.

‘He was raping me, Brother John. I am sorry to talk of such things but he wanted an heir begun before he leaves for the Holy Land and he t… he …’

‘No more of it, leave it behind. He is in the Devil’s hands now.’

He helped me over another root, the larger trees creating undulations on the forest floor with their spreading foundations.

‘What makes you think he is dead?’

‘Sorcia knocked him down and he hit his head on the wooden edge of my oratory. There was a lot of blood and I struck him with my quill knife. I plunged it in.’

‘To his heart you think?’

‘Aye. It stayed upright…’

I shuddered as a cold sweat crept over me, bile ascending into my throat. I began to vomit.

‘What do you do to the poor young boy, monk?’