Countess, she added, with a slight, wintery smile, then looked at the scowling, shift-footed thugs.
Your task is done. You may leave the ladys baggage Elcho is no place for men.
The serjeants went, dismissed like the dogs they were; Isabel smiled, liking this prioress, yet recalling the other time she spent in a nunnery in Berwick as a prisoner of Malenfaunt.
She turned, to take a last scornful look at the retreating backs of her husbands thugs and saw another grey woman shut and bar the heavy door; she knew then that this was no different than the last time save that the nuns here were truer Brides of Christ.
The prioress smiled softly, gentle as falling snow and just as cold.
Your husband sent word of your coming, she said. Now we have established that an unwanted child is not the reason for your arrival, we may thank God for His guiding you here. We are to care for you and instruct you in the ways of Gods love. Victoria veritatis est caritas the victory of truth is love.
Isabel followed her meekly, past where women, unveiled, shaved heads revealed, wore stained sacking overserks and worked with lime water and sinopia at marking out a fresh plastered wall for painting; the blood-red sinopia ran in sinister runnels, swiftly halted by squirrel-hair brushes before they could besmirch the glory of the Raising of Jairus Daughter.
Red lead and cups of gold dust for the halos lay nearby, showing the wealth of Elcho, and Isabel wondered at what Buchan had paid for this, her final instruction.
Her quarters were simple, but comfortable. The prioress pointed out where the wash place was, and the latrines, showed where meals would be served, and told Isabel how she would be called by the ringing of the bell.
There was no need to show where the chapel was, for the sound of chanting revealed it; the prioress offered another thin smile.
Qui cantat, bis ora, she said who sings once, prays twice.
Alone, Isabel sank on the bedplace, feeling good springy heather and thick warm wool plaids. There was wood stacked beside the fireplace, but it was unlit and her breath smoked; a pair of panting nuns sweated in with her meagre baggage, all that had been garnered in the brief moments between her husbands brusque instruction and her own departure from Balmullo.
There had been little time to do anything, but she had used it as wisely as she could. A quick press of coin and token into the hand of Ada, a whispered, urgent message and the swift secreting of a bundle in the depths of her cosmetics.
She hoped it would be enough, the first to bring rescue, the second to bring some succour and, after a moment, she hunted out the bundle, unwrapping it to reveal the contents, the remaining five bright berries of blood on the snowy linen.
Wallace had shoved them at her in the cold half-light of the hall on the morning he had limped away from Balmullo.
For yer love and care, ye mun have need o this, lady, he had said, though sell them abroad and tell only those ye trust that ye have them. They are no use where I am bound, since no-one has the coin or the will to buy them in this country.
The sixth ruby Apostle she had sent with Ada glowed brightly in her mind and she wondered who was there, clasped in the warmth of her tirewomans considerable cleavage. James the Greater? Matthew? Peter?
May the saints bless your sleep, the prioress had said portentously on taking her leave and had been puzzled at Isabels sharp reply.
I have no need of them I have Apostles to bless me.
The ruby nestled in the warm down of Adas bosom like a blood egg, shining with soft hope as she hurried through the night.
CHAPTER SIX
Holebourn Bridge, London
The Invention of John the Baptists Head, February, 1305
The rain came across the Fleet like a curtain, a thin, stinking mist of tar, salt, pickle and fish. It collided with the rich odour of meat and dung, pie shop and bakery, hissing on the smithy fire, rattling the flapping canopies of the stalls along the river.
Folk fled it, grey shapes scampering, looming out of it with faces soft as clay, baggy-cheeked and scowling, the women barrel-bottomed and harsh-voiced. Hal didnt understand them, didnt like the place, not even the comfort of the Earl of Lincolns Inn which they had just left, and thought the best of London lay back with the unseen St Andrews church where they had paused for word of Lamprecht.
Kirkpatrick, squinting from under a loop of cloak, grinned at Hals expression; the wee lord had never been in London before Christs Blood, he had never been south of York and the sights and sounds and stink of it were as stunning to his sense as a forge hammer on the temple.
Even to Kirkpatrick, who had been here twice before, it was hard to take. Tinkers, furriers, goldsmiths, hemp-sellers, all with the crudely-daubed bar over their stall to show what they were, bellowed against the calls of butcher and, above all, the horse copers, for this was the southern edge of Smoothfield, main market for livestock and the sale of prime horseflesh.
The frenetic throng was thinning as folk huddled in shelters from the rain, leaving the muddy, shit-clogged roadway to carts, barrows, litters. And the doggedly foolish like us, Hal thought bitterly as the rain wormed down his back.
Sty Lane, Kirkpatrick declared, pointing the fetid entrance to an alleyway. Hal wanted to know how he knew that, but did not bother to ask; Kirkpatricks skill at finding places and people had long since earned respect from Hal. Still, he did not like the look of the place, where the houses leaned in and blocked the sky, making it a dark and dangerous cave.
Two men came out of it, carrying the split carcass of a large pig, leaking rain-watered blood on to the sacking of their shoulders which at least proves Kirkpatrick is right, Hal thought. Right, too, about Lamprecht making for here like a dog back to its own sick, though that had made no sense at first, even as they trailed him down to St Andrews and then the Purpure Lyon.
The little by-blow will offer this Mabs back the half-cross he has, Kirkpatrick had growled in answer. In return, he will want passage to France, or Flanders or even Leon if he dares the crossing.
Because thats what you would do? Hal had queried, speaking in a soft hiss so as not to be heard by the muttering growlers and drinkers in the inn. They spoke French for the same reason and Kirkpatrick had laughed.
Because it is what I would not do. But I am clever and Lamprecht is not only afraid, he is as idiot as a moonstruck calf.
He may have gone to Dover, Hal pointed out, not so convinced of Lamprechts stupidity. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
Without coin he can squat on the shingle and try to wish up a ship until we come on him, then.
The more Hal looked at the rain-misted cleft of Sty Lane, the more the Lyons now-distant fug-warmth called to him. The Earl of Lincolns Inn had been the last haven for Lamprecht, two nights before; no-one called it anything other than the Purpure Lyon thanks to the sign, the arms of the Earl of Lincoln, nailed over the door. Lincoln owned it as he owned a deal of the land round it, but Hal doubted if the Earl had ever been in it. Which was a pity for him, since the roast goose had been a joy, with raisins, figs and pears in it. A barnacle goose, for it had been a fish day and that was aquatic, as any priest would tell you
Kirkpatrick was on the move and Hal, flustered, shredded his dreams of food and followed on, hoping the rest of the plans made in the Lyon moved as smoothly.
The rain was flushing filth out of Sty Lane like a privy hole drain; Hals boots sloshed through a gurgling brown mess and the place stank, so that pushing into it made him open his mouth so as not to have to breathe through his nose.
Kirkpatrick stopped and Hal almost walked up his heels. There was silence save for the hiss and gurgle of rain and the squeal and honk of unseen pigs; sweat started to soak Hal from the inside at the sight of the grey shapes looming up in front of them.
Six he counted, their faces blurred by rain and beards and grease. Three wore broad-brimmed hats, turned up at the front and pinned so that the soaked droop of them would not blind them. Two wore coif hoods of rough wool, one a hat trimmed with ratty fur, all had the sacking tunics of slaughtermen, dark with old blood. Every one had a naked, long, knife.
Oo are ye and what dyer wish in Sty Lane?
Hal struggled with the thick accent, knowing it was English but unable to make it out without squinting. Kirkpatrick, seemingly easy, offered a smile and a spread of empty hands.
Looking fer Mabs, he declared. Heard there was work for lads as was not afraid o blood.
Which could mean much or little to slaughtermen, Hal thought, half crouched and silent in his role in the mummery. The rat-furred hat swivelled to take them both in, while the others circled in a ring; used to herding pigs, Hal thought wildly, his mouth dry, his heart thundering in his throat.
Sojers, Rat-Fur declared and then spat sideways. Kirkpatrick shrugged.
Have been, will be again if the shine is right. We knows the way of it, certes.
Warned, Rat-Fur held his distance while the rain plinked and splashed. Then he nodded at Hal.
Tongueless, is he?
From the Italies, Kirkpatrick countered smoothly. Knows little of a decent way of speaking.
Which hid Hals Scots accent.
Where did you hear about Mabs?
The question came sudden as a hip-throw, but Kirkpatrick was balanced for it.
Old friend, he replied and winked. Lamprecht. Ugly bastard of a pardoner. Said there was work in Sty Lane, with Mabs. Izzat yourself?
Which hid Hals Scots accent.
Where did you hear about Mabs?
The question came sudden as a hip-throw, but Kirkpatrick was balanced for it.
Old friend, he replied and winked. Lamprecht. Ugly bastard of a pardoner. Said there was work in Sty Lane, with Mabs. Izzat yourself?
Rat-Fur chuckled, glanced swiftly to his left. Oho, Hal thought, there is someone unseen jerking this ones strings.
Not me, Rat-Fur said, while the others laughed, though there was little mirth in it. Come and meet the bold Mabs, then.