The Complete Kingdom Trilogy: The Lion Wakes, The Lion at Bay, The Lion Rampant. Robert Low
saw the gaunt pain behind his eyes at that and nodded, then managed a smile as he turned to leave.
‘Fine turn, this,’ he said, grinning bleakly over his shoulder, ‘when a brigand like yourself becomes the Kingdom’s Sheriff.’
Spital of St Bartholomew, Berwick
Feast of St Athernaise the Mute of Fife, December 1297
The wind battered on the walls like a sullen child on a locked door, the chill haar-breath of it guttering the candles so that shadows swung wildly. The two men stood by the pallet bed and listened to the man thrash and groan.
‘Stone,’ he said. ‘Stone.’
‘He has been saying that since you brought him in,’ the priest said, almost accusingly. He had a square face with a truculent, stubbled chin and eyes that seemed as black and deep as catacombs.
The wool merchant did not like to meet those eyes, but he did it anyway, with as blue-eyed and smiling a stare as he could manage, for he needed this priest, this place.
‘He is a carver of stones,’ the merchant answered blandly, ‘for the church at Scone. An artist. Scarce a surprise that it should be in his fevered mind a little.’
‘A little? He has been repeating it more thoroughly than any catechism.’
‘A facet of his illness,’ the merchant soothed, then frowned. ‘What exactly is wrong with him?’
The priest sighed, lifted the crusie higher, so that the flame danced wildly.
‘Best ask what is not,’ he replied, then looked squarely at the merchant.
‘I do not ask how you came by him, Master Symoen. I ken you brought him here because of the nature of his condition, but there are worse matters than leprosy and I have to ask you to remove him.’
Symoen stroked his neat beard, trying to cover his alarm. The arrival of a half-babbling Manon de Faucigny, smelling like a dog’s arse and clearly diseased, had been shock enough, but this was … disturbing.
‘Worse than leprosy?’ he said and the priest laughed to himself as he saw the merchant put a hand to his mouth and step back a pace. He had seen it all in his years serving the Spital of St Bartholomew, which even the ravaging English had avoided – the lipless, noseless, rotting, foul souls who pitched up at the leper hospital were old clothes and porridge to the likes of Brother John.
Yet this Savoyard had everything. His blood was viscous, hot, greasy and tasted of too much salt. He had lacerations, ulcerations, abscesses, skin affections, partial paralysis, at least four festering bites from vermin and, almost certainly, a fever from one or more agues, each capable of killing him on its own.
‘And intestical worms,’ Brother John finished, seeing the wool merchant’s eyes widen until his brows were in his hairline.
‘Worms,’ Symoen repeated, hearing the dull clank of the word in his head, like a cracked bell. ‘Intestical.’
Manon was his nephew … he’d had hopes for the boy.
‘I can do little,’ Brother John said. ‘All I do here is mop brows and pick up the bits that drop off.’
Symoen stared at the priest, who broadened his lips in a smile.
‘A jest,’ he said pointedly, but saw that Master Symoen was not laughing. Still, the man was a considerable patron of St Bartholomew’s, so Brother John did what he knew he must. He offered every help.
‘I will do what I can,’ he said slowly. ‘But it is as if he opened the gates of Hell and guddled inside it. Every sin has been visited on him.’
The wool merchant nodded, licking his lips and breathing through his fingers, while the gaunt, sheened face of Manon swung wildly on the yellowed pillow.
‘Oh Dayspring, Radiance of the Light eternal and Sun of Justice; come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death,’ Brother John intoned, and Master Symoen, in a daze, descended to his knees and clasped his hands, grateful not to be looking at the tortured face of his nephew.
‘Oh King of the Kingdoms and their Desire; the Cornerstone who makest both one: Come and save mankind, whom thou formedst of clay. Come, Oh Emmanuel, our King and Lawgiver, the Desire of all kingdomss and their Salvation: Come and save us, Oh Lord our God.’
‘Stone,’ babbled Manon. ‘Stone.’
Nunnery of Saint Leonard, Berwick
Vigil of the Nativity, December 24, 1297
The woman with the cross sat at the head of the table, where the head man would usually sit; many other women, in similar grey clothes, sat around her. Isabel had seen brides of Christ before, though not in their setting and was shocked at the removal of headcovers, the shrieking laughter, the splashes of wine.
The woman who had brought her in saw her face and laughed as the woman with the cross got up and came to Isabel, dragging her from the room by an elbow. The door was closed on the gull-chatter.
‘You were instructed to take her to my quarters,’ the woman with the cross snapped at Isabel’s guardian, who gave back a sullen pout. The sharp crack of palm on cheek made Isabel leap and her grey guardian reeled back and fell, her headcover awry; she cowered on the flagstones, whimpering and holding her face.
‘Obey,’ the woman with the cross said, soft and sibilant, then turned to Isabel. If she strikes me, Isabel thought, I will rip the face from her.
The woman saw the fire in those eyes and smiled at it. Not for long, lady, she thought viciously.
‘I am Anna, Prioress of Saint Leonard’s,’ she said. ‘You will be taken to my quarters and made comfortable.’
The other nun climbed to her feet, nursing her face with one hand.
‘This way, mistress,’ she said numbly and Anna’s voice was a lash.
‘Countess. She is a countess, you dolt.’
The nun cringed and bobbed apologies, then scuttled off so fast that Isabel had to walk swiftly to keep up, through a bewilder of barely lit stone corridors sparkling with cold rime.
The nun led her through a door into an astonishment. Isabel stared at the fine hangings, the clean rushes, the benches, chairs and chests, the fine bed – and the fire. This was the warm room of a great lady, not a nun, even a Prioress.
‘Countess,’ the nun said in a dead voice and Isabel felt some pity then.
‘That was a hard blow,’ she said and the nun looked bitter as a thwarted rat, then to the left, then right. Finally, she moved to the wall, holding the light high and, satisfied, turned back to Isabel.
‘This place,’ she said in a whisper so soft Isabel could barely hear it, ‘is cursed.’
The light made mad shadows dance on her face as she indicated the wall she had just peered at.
‘There is a hidden way to watch,’ the nun said. ‘He likes it. All the women here are his.’
Isabel felt a sudden deadening sickness, for she knew the ‘he’ the nun spoke of, had endured the company of him since he had plucked her from the burning bridge at Stirling. A demon she had seen him as then and though sense and better light had revealed him to be a dark, saturnine man, that first impression was not far from the truth.
‘Sir Robert Malenfaunt,’ she said and saw the nun shiver, so that tallow from the candle spilled down on to the back of her hand; she never flinched.
‘All the women are for his pleasure,’ she declared suddenly and half-sobbed. ‘They are brought here and never allowed to leave.’
Isabel remembered the griming eyes of Malenfaunt, surveying her in better light. They had lit like balefires when he learned who she was and she had disliked him from that