Needle in the Blood (48 page)

“The wisest of birds,” she says to the horse, “who knows everything and tells nothing,” and starts to laugh, her laughter running off among the trees like a wood sprite.

She continues to ride because there is nothing else to do. As night deepens, the moon retreats behind cloud. A thin, cold drizzle begins to fall, seeping through her clothes, making the reins stiff and slippery between her aching fingers. From time to time she dozes and the mare stumbles, jarring her back into wakefulness. All she wants in the world is to sleep. She begins to dream of a bed of leaf mould and pine needles beneath the trees, so exhausted even the threat of wild beasts seems worth the risk if only she can dismount, escape the endless swaying of the horse, the hard saddle, the burning strain in her thigh muscles. Besides, if she is torn to pieces by wolves, or her brains are eaten away by an earwig creeping into her ear while she sleeps, at least it will bring an end to this utter desolation. She will be done with the world of men and all its rich disappointments.

She rides deeper into the woods. Without even bothering to tether the mare, she rolls herself in her cloak and closes her eyes. The last thing to enter her mind as she falls asleep is the face of the woman in the ruined church in Winchester, the face she thought was Death.

***

“Gone?” Fulk scratches his head.

“Her bed hasn’t been slept in and that leather pouch is gone, the one she keeps that locket in, and…” Freya’s speech tails off; she knows about the cockade in the leather pouch, but she is not sure she wants Fulk to. “I don’t know what he’s done to upset her. You could have cut the atmosphere around them with a knife the evening before he left for Winchester. Why they can’t just settle down and live like normal people beats me. You’ll have to go and tell him, Fulk. If his lordship doesn’t find out from us, he might think we had something to do with it, and then what?”

“Maybe she’s just gone to the convent, she’s been going there a lot recently.”

“Without you or I? Without even telling us?”

Freya is content at Winterbourne. Until now, her mistress has been so taken up with the earl she scarcely seems to have noticed how her household is run, as long as it runs smoothly, and the steward concerns himself only with estate matters, leaving Freya a free hand to exercise the authority of housekeeper. It is Freya who keeps count of the candles and spice boxes, supervises the laundry and dairy, and scolds the rest of the servants. She is particularly proud of the way she was able to rise to the challenge of Sister Jean’s arrival, with all the other women and the embroidery; she would defy any of them to complain they had gone short of anything, whether straw for bedding or wine to warm their bellies.

She has her man by her every day, and at night a good quilt and a clean hay mattress in the warmest corner of the hall. There is no shortage of food even now, on the cusp of winter and spring, for a small household with all the resources of the Earl of Kent at its disposal, so her milk remains abundant and the babies are thriving. She has no intention of letting any waywardness of Gytha’s threaten the life she has made for herself here.

“You have to go this morning,” she insists. “You can be there by tonight. I’ll go and pack up some food for you so you don’t have to stop. And Fulk…”

“Yes?”

“Don’t mention the convent. We wouldn’t want his lordship thinking we’d let her go out alone.”

***

As soon as she begins to recognise the country they are travelling through, Margaret suggests to her two escorts that they stop to eat the food prepared for them by Freya. She leads them in among paths crisscrossing the woods close to her home, ways known to her since childhood when she used to go poaching with her brothers. She was never much good with snares or slingshots, but came in useful for winding her curls coquettishly round her fingers and melting the hearts of the forest wardens whenever they were caught. Excusing herself to answer a call of nature, she slips away through the trees to join another path which will put her back on the main road.

She has no clear idea how she is going to set about finding Tom, but this does not trouble her. Although yesterday’s blue skies have been replaced by a layer of high, white cloud, the day is dry, full of sparkle and lark song. She walks easily along the road, which is in better repair now than it probably has been since the Romans left, carrying nothing but a little money given to her by Sister Jean, about which she might feel guilty if the day were not so fine, revelling in her health and strength, and the freedom to be out of doors instead of cooped up in the atelier like a goose being fattened for Christmas.

The way is crowded with Easter pilgrims, making her feel safe among their numbers. There are monks, and penitents travelling barefoot with their heads uncovered to the sun. The sight of a tooth puller, wearing the trophies of his trade strung on a macabre necklace, makes her shudder and turn away, catching the eye of a young mason, his tools hanging from his belt, who grins at her appreciatively. She stares ahead; she has no time for dalliance.

From time to time, parties of knights cut a swathe through the slow-moving throng with their riding whips and once she sees a closed litter, draped with embroidered curtains, escorted by liveried men at arms. There is hymn singing and singing of a more profane nature, peddlers cry their wares and prostitutes, wearing coloured ribbons on their hoods instead of pilgrims’ badges, solicit openly for trade, leading their clients in among the trees bordering the road. Gytha would be proud of her, she thinks, carrying through their deception so cleverly. Everything is full of hope, the days are growing longer, the sun has some warmth in it, a smoke of pale green blooms among trees and bushes, birds shout for their mates. The travellers push back their hoods, square their shoulders, and smile at one another. Another winter ended, another year survived.

Before long, Margaret’s stomach is griping with hunger. The sun, at its zenith now, is strangely hot for so early in the year; she has tried keeping her hood raised to protect her head, but her cloak is heavy, and covering her thick hair and couvre chef with yet another layer makes her dizzy. Sweat runs freely down her sides, between her breasts, and chafes her bare thighs as she walks. She wishes she had kept the jennet, or at least that her shoes had thicker soles; her feet are so bruised by ruts and stones in the road, and she is aware of a blister forming on her right heel, making her limp to try to prevent it bursting. Bright spots dance before her eyes, her head aches, she feels sick. She should have eaten before giving her escort the slip. What use is Sister Jean’s money and her small, almost empty water flask now?

Catching sight of a group of men and women seated on a flat patch of grass beside the road, emboldened by hunger and exhaustion, she asks if she might share the food they have spread on a cloth in the center of their circle. She has money, she tells them, and will pay whatever they ask. Two of the women look to a man who seems to be their leader, whose hostile expression softens at the mention of money. He nods and they shuffle sideways to make room for her; one has a child in her lap.

“Hello,” says Margaret, but the little girl buries her face in her mother’s breast.

“She’s shy.” The mother’s voice sounds familiar, making Margaret look at her cautiously. It is not unusual to meet people you know travelling at this time of year, particularly close to a great pilgrimage center like Canterbury, but Margaret knows of no one she would want to catch her on this journey.

“Oh, but it’s still Lent.” She hesitates to eat the cheese accompanying the hunk of bread passed to her by the woman on her other side, convinced by the gurgling in her stomach that it is a heathen even if she is a good Christian.

“Dispensation for pilgrims,” says the woman with the child, “and you look as though you could do with it.”

“Hawise!” exclaims Margaret as the two women face each other. Hawise holds her daughter in front of her like a shield. Seeing the hard, watchful expression in the servant’s small eyes, like currants in a pudding Little Walter used to say, Margaret’s smile shrivels.

“Miss Margaret.” Hawise expresses neither surprise nor curiosity.

“Are you making a pilgrimage, Hawise?” Both women look at Hawise’s little girl.
No
, thinks Margaret, taking in the child’s broad face, its small features grouped around a snub nose,
there can be no doubt
. Hawise does not bother to reply.

“And you, Miss?”

“I…? No, I…” She is unsure if she should trust Hawise, the girl seems so unfriendly, evasive even. It must be something to do with the child. Margaret does not believe her father would have thrown Hawise out over a child, but perhaps Lord Vital sees things differently. Lord Vital, of course. There is a way of ensuring Hawise’s cooperation after all. “It’s Tom,” she says. “I’ve found out he’s alive, but he’s…”

Hawise runs her fingers through her daughter’s sandy curls. Solemnly sucking a grimy thumb, the child stares at Margaret with eyes the colour of gooseberries.

“Of course.” Margaret puts down the bread and cheese, suddenly not hungry. “But Hawise, if you knew, why didn’t you do something?”

“Keep your voice down, Miss. I don’t want the whole world knowing my business.”

“Sorry. Is it the child? I might…I mean, there may be a way of settling things.”

“It’s not her, she doesn’t deserve this.” Hawise casts her eyes over her poor clothes and bare feet, the others in the company, some of whom, Margaret now notices, have whores’ cockades pinned to their hoods. The man who gave her permission to join them wears a bracelet Margaret could swear she had last noticed several miles back around the wrist of a lady on a white palfrey, escorted by a liveried man at arms. “It’s him. If you’ve seen him, you’ll know. He’s as mad as a basket of ferrets, and I’m not going back to your father’s house in case he comes looking for me there.”

“How dare you speak that way. He’s not mad, he’s just lost his memory. If I can just get him home, and he can see Christine and their little boy, everything will be all right, I know it will.”

Hawise gives a sceptical snort. “I know what I know. And Mistress Christine’s child is all the more reason to keep him away.”

“Hawise, you must tell me where he is.”

“Not me, Miss.”

“So you do know?”

Hawise shrugs. “I might.”

“Then tell me.”

“I’m not your servant now, Miss.”

“Do you know where Alwys and I have been?” Margaret draws herself up straight, trying to imitate her stepmother’s demeanour when disciplining any of the servants. Hawise gives a sullen shake of her head. The little girl, bored by grownups whose conversation claims all their attention, squirms out of her mother’s lap and runs off to play. The man with the bracelet dangles a string of pearls in front of her, repeatedly hoisting it out of her reach as she tries to grab hold of it.

“Since the second spring after the invasion, we’ve been employed at Canterbury Castle. As embroiderers for the Earl of Kent. D’you know who he is?”

“Can’t see how it concerns me.”

“He’s the king’s brother, and I know him very well.” No harm in a little exaggeration. “And I’ll tell you what else, my father’s new overlord is one of his tenants in chief.”

“So?”

“So, if I were to tell the earl I’d found one of his serfs on the run…” She pauses, watching the meaning of her words sink in. Hawise’s currant eyes seem smaller and blacker than ever, her mouth twists between her doughy cheeks in a way that reminds Margaret of Gird pinching patterns on the tops of loaves.

“You’re on the right road,” she whispers. “About half a day from here, there’s an ale counter by the roadside with a cottage at the back. Ask for Martin. After that you’re on your own.”

“Thank you.” Margaret hugs Hawise to her with one arm and kisses her cheek. “Go home, Hawise. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. Here, for the food.” She presses a coin into Hawise’s hand, but she is gone before she can see Hawise pass the money to the man in the bracelet.

***

“Left.” It is not a question. Lord Odo scarcely seems surprised, let alone angry, thinks Fulk, relieved. He has ridden hard as much to prevent himself thinking about the consequences of the message he is carrying as to reach Winchester quickly. But when he dares to look at the earl, he is fearful. The man is as white as a corpse. He has begun to sway, so Fulk is afraid he is going to faint and wonders, should he put out a hand to support him, or call Osbern? The etiquette of such a situation is beyond him. Eventually, after what seems an eternity of indecision, he takes a step toward Odo, but Odo, recovering himself, extends one hand, palm toward Fulk in a preventive gesture.

“There can be no doubt? She has not simply…gone to visit neighbours or something?”

Fulk shakes his head, torn between his duty to his lord and Freya’s exhortation not to mention the convent. If Mistress Gytha is at the convent, Freya will have found out by now and will send word in such a way they will not look blameworthy. Freya is better than he is at understanding complicated situations. Silence, he concludes, is the policy least likely to make matters worse.

Odo groans and drops his head into his hands, fingers pressed into his forehead so that, when he looks up again, their tips have left bloodless prints on his skin. “I knew it. Fulk, you must go from here straight away. Tonight. Take food and a fresh horse. I will give you orders to turn out the garrisons at Rochester and Dover. Tell their commanders she must be found. Whatever it takes, she must be found. Do you understand me?”