Dark Maiden Read online

  Seven days, months, years? Geraint needed to know. And who is this abbot who lays time on you?

  But he said nothing. A silver strand of rain beaded against her cheek like a tear. She lost pace, slowing down, and not for any obstacle. She looked haunted for an instant, closed in.

  There is more than one way of possession. The work itself threatens to consume her.

  “These are the final days,” she said as if to convince herself. Rain hissed ’round her booted feet as she trudged through another puddle. Around them, the fields and even the grass-and-mud track they were on were lost behind belts of gray water and mist.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Using a juggler’s trick, he pulled a daisy chain out of her ear and wound it around her wrist. As she broke her stride, he pulled a second chain of flowers from his own ear and draped it ’round his wrist.

  “Fool.” She stopped walking altogether to laugh.

  “I have been called worse.” Glad to see her bright again, he took her hand in his, swinging it as they resumed their muddy slither.

  “I am going east of here to the monastery of Saint Michael and Saint Mary Magdalene under the Tower.”

  “We are going,” he reminded her as the back of his neck prickled in warning. “What order?”

  “Benedictine.”

  Fat and rich but old too, and powerful. Strange alliance of saints, Michael and Magdalene. “And they sent you the cross as a message to come? Why not send horses?”

  “Horses and I, we do not suit.”

  He glanced at her through the drilling rain, all energy and nerves bound in a tight rein of deliberate calm, and thought he understood why. “If we find a carter going east, we beg a lift.”

  Her chin rose at that. “I do not beg.”

  “Then I shall,” Geraint countered. He was sick of wet feet.

  A passing carter, once she was assured they carried no pestilence, was glad of the company and had news besides.

  “I see runaways everywhere these days,” she said between chews on a strip of lovage. She had generously offered Geraint a strip of the plant, but not Yolande, saying crudely, “It would turn your insides black too.”

  Yolande, her brain full of the trials to come, was not inclined to argue. She ignored the petty insult and dangled her feet over the end of the cart, leaning against bales of wool. She let Geraint sit in front with the carter.

  “Runaway serfs?” Geraint prompted.

  “Lots of those, for sure, especially from the abbey lands. Who would not flee when they are expected to do twice the work for the same wages and have no release from their dues even if their village is plague stricken?”

  “Including the monastery of Saint Michael and Mary Magdalene under the Tower?”

  “Them more than most. Strange lights have been seen in their fields and low moaning issuing from the abbey church, even during holy offices.”

  “Issuing, eh?” Geraint shot Yolande such a wicked look of mischief she was hard put not to snort with laughter, and it did make the rumors a little less alarming.

  The carter nodded and water dripped from the brim of her peaked cap. “People are saying the place is accursed.”

  “Have you any food to spare, mistress carter?”

  “Geraint!”

  Yolande was horrified by his outrageous request but the carter merely pointed a thumb behind her. “Cheese and bread in the pannier, fresh this morning from one of my regular customers. Your wife can pass it ’round.”

  “I am not—”

  “Excellent suggestion,” Geraint broke in. “Come to it, wife, for I am starving hungry.”

  * * * * *

  They parted ways with the carter in the village of Lower Liss and Geraint raced off the front of the cart to lift her down from the back. It was not until he had bundled her into his arms that Yolande realized what he was about.

  “I can jump down.” She did not squirm in his grip. That would be unseemly—if they could become any more so, with the carter whooping and whistling at them both as she drove on. “I do not need your help.”

  “Yes, but this is far more fun.” He hooked his free arm under her legs and drew her tight against him, snug against his beating heart. “And see—the rain has stopped for us.”

  It had indeed and there was even a rainbow arching beyond Geraint’s shoulder.

  “Are you my personal entertainer?” she asked. It was the best attack she could think of while her feet were off the ground and she was bobbing in his arms. “To light my life, give respite after danger?”

  He swung her higher and kissed her.

  This was no kiss of peace or brotherly embrace or even curiosity. His mouth urged a response as if he hammered on the doorway to her needs. Her lips tingled and throbbed and she was aware of her breasts and female parts in a way she had never been before.

  “This is not helping,” she hissed, kissing him back.

  He grunted, her annoying, seducing honeyman, and his fingers smoothed across her rump. “More than enough for now,” he said, smacking his lips as he lowered her to the ground.

  The front of his tunic bulged and she was glad. “Serves you right.”

  He turned a cartwheel by her feet and came up smirking. “Yes indeed, my zesty girl, but you will not be thinking on demons and dead folk now, nor indeed until you need to, and you have fresh herbs to gather.”

  “Most generous.”

  “I like to think so, cariad.” He winked and began to march jerkily in the direction of the sun, away from the thatched houses of Lower Liss and toward the wilderness surrounding the monastery.

  Yolande started after him, exasperated that he was right, irritated by her own lusts, but yes, also mightily distracted from the battle to come.

  And how does he know that I need herbs?

  Chapter Three

  The monastery of Saint Michael and Saint Magdalene under the Tower was built in a strange place, right enough. Geraint swatted another fly from the back of his neck and swore not to moan but wandering mile after mile in a fen of marsh and buzzing insects, with only wading birds and the odd sheep for company, did nothing for his spirits. He marveled at how Yolande kept going without complaint. The flies did not seem to touch her either.

  “How much farther?” He launched himself after a sheep that stared at him. The startled animal bleated and fled. Its fleece was shedding, a tangle of seeds and maggots.

  “The sheep are untended,” Yolande remarked, frowning. “This place is going back to the wilderness. I wonder if they have had the pestilence.”

  Geraint shrugged his aching shoulders. As a tumbler, he expected his body to ache but today was worse than usual. Every limb, every joint throbbed like the toothache. The crucifix in his pack weighed like a stone rather than wood.

  “There is no dishonor in turning back, Geraint. You have guided me so far.”

  “I stay with you, woman. When will you get that through your head?”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Do you understand now?” he persisted. She bit her lower lip. It shamed him to see her disconcerted. What is wrong with me? “How much farther?”

  She chuckled, annoyingly amused by his whining. “Not too far, honeyman. See that dot above the horizon? That is the hillside of the Tower and its monastery.”

  Did she just call me honeyman? “What did you say?”

  “The Tower is older than the monastery, I think. Me? I said nothing, I only answered you.” Her voice was guileless but her eyes were bright. Had he not been up to his armpits in fen sludge, he might have chased her, insisted on more of an answer, but he was sick of this flat, featureless land.

  “It sucks at you, I know. It is a place where evil flourishes. That is what you are feeling.”

  “Do not tell me what I feel!”

  She shrugged as if his surly petulance was no more than she expected and moved on, slogging through the damp, sticky afternoon.

  “Is this the end of the world?” He knew he was being unf
air but he could not stop it.

  “It is a door, certainly.”

  He was so surprised by her answer he stumbled, sprawling full length. Ooze filled his tunic and mouth and he yelled.

  Yolande dragged him to his knees. “Quiet! There are watchers here. That is who you are sensing.” She knelt and brushed mud and grass off him, then she was in his arms and he was shuddering, clinging to her. “It is the place, the place. That is all.” She stroked his hair as if he were a child, and he was ashamed. Self-disgust at his fear scorched through him. “You are a sensitive, that is all.” She drew back as far as his clutching arms would allow. “The first time I came here, I threw up. And I am trained.”

  “By the devil?” he croaked.

  “Hush.” Rapidly, she made the sign of the cross above both of them. “Take care of what you say.”

  Finally, his mind was beginning to work and he scrambled to recover bits of learning beaten into him as a reluctant novice. “Saint Michael is a guardian, a warrior.”

  “Some places are more receptive to evil and this is one such place. The monastery was built as a gatehouse, a defense.”

  “And the other saint? And the Tower?”

  She knelt back on her heels in the sludge, giving him a look as if he were a bright, annoying student who had asked difficult questions. Perhaps I have.

  “The abbot is not sure about Saint Magdalene or the Tower. It is pagan, he says, though not necessarily evil.”

  “How can I help?” His words surprised him, even as they came from his mouth, but he knew at once that he meant them. He brushed a gobbet of mud off her left shoulder. “I want to help. Tell me how.”

  “Do you know prayers, prayers to Saint Michael?”

  “I do.”

  “Say them to yourself. All the time. Say them aloud.” Her voice sounded as pure as a bubbling spring in this lowering place. “Say them in Welsh, the old tongue of this land.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  Had she winked at him then? “Praying to the Magdalene, of course.”

  He scrambled off his knees and helped her to her feet. Understanding that he had been under a kind of spiritual attack gave him heart. His pack no longer dragged, his head no longer ached. Indeed, he felt light, filled with purpose. I will help her best these spirits, devils, whatever they are.

  “We should link up too,” he said, trying his luck as he reached for her fingers. Why not? It is a good thing I feel for her and I wish her all joy and safety.

  She glanced at their joined hands, her lips quivering, but said nothing.

  “We go on?” he asked.

  “We go on.” She cleared her throat. “We do not want to be here at nightfall.”

  True enough. But what is waiting for us at the monastery?

  * * * * *

  Abbot Simon, a tower of a man, looked down his Norman-French nose at Geraint. “You are most welcome, daughter.” He addressed Yolande in Latin, another sign of disapproval. “The entertainer may sleep with the lay brothers.”

  “Geraint should stay with me.” Yolande spoke in English to help Geraint. Her heart was beating so fast she wondered if it might burst out of her body but her instincts, sense of justice and even her sense of gratitude were clear. Geraint had to stay. “He is most helpful.”

  “And willing,” Geraint put in, speaking in flawless Latin. “Do the others know?”

  They were in the chapter house and her prickly, I-am-as-equal-as-you-are honeyman had directed a question to Abbot Simon that she wanted to ask but had hesitated to do so, lest it was ill-mannered.

  Abbot Simon’s suave, beardless face twisted in distaste. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do the monks know that a restless spirit troubles this place? Do the lay brothers know or are they too lowborn and bovine to be told?”

  “Who are you to ask me that kind of question? Is your name Richard Rolle?”

  Puzzled, Geraint stared at Yolande.

  “He was a holy man, a mystic,” she said quickly. “He was much revered here in the north during his life and remains famous for his letters and sacred writings.”

  Geraint turned back to the abbot. “What does this Richard have to do with my question?”

  The abbot cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just as what I tell the lay brothers is no concern of yours.”

  “But it should be yours.”

  Yolande grew hot from the tips of her toes to the top of her scalp. Never had anyone spoken to Abbot Simon so frankly. Not even my father. She looked up at the corbeled roof of the chapter house, wishing she were somewhere else. The holy father can be arrogant and it is the way of the world, but Geraint is right. All are in danger here and all should know.

  Abbot Simon cleared his throat. “Yolande, I shall see you in church. I will escort your companion there in a moment.”

  After wanting to be somewhere else, she was suddenly intent on staying—more, it had become a matter of honor and pride. The bow across her shoulders twanged as she took a step closer, near to the snapping point herself. “I will not be left apart from any discussion, Holy Father. You asked for my help. Geraint is part of that help and if you doubt him, you doubt me.”

  She straightened, standing as tall as she could. “And I will not be put out of a room, or this chapter house, like a cat.”

  Geraint tapped his teeth with a finger and grinned. He slouched across the tiled floor to one of the narrow stone seats and patted the cool marble. “You are weary, cariad, why not rest a moment?”

  “Where is the crucifix of the Magdalene that I sent on to you as a sign?” interrupted Abbot Simon.

  Yolande groaned inwardly, hating to answer at this point. “Geraint has carried it back for me.”

  “And I took care of it. I did not sully it with my lay fingers, no more than I was forced to,” said Geraint, as yielding and pleasant as a battering ram.

  “Him?” There was a mountain’s worth of accusation in the abbot’s question.

  “Geraint Welshman, juggler and cross bearer, at your service.” His eyes as bright as sapphires, his face as hostile as a longship, Geraint sank into a mocking bow.

  “Please—” Yolande had not known she was going to plead until the word flew from her lips.

  “Do not worry, cariad. The big abbot here and me, we shall reach an understanding.”

  “I can speak for myself.” She wagged a finger at him. “You will not talk about me behind my back!”

  To her horror, he blew her a kiss.

  “That is enough.” Abbot Simon caught her by the bow across her shoulder and spun her to the doorway. “Go to the church, girl, and I will speak with you there. No!” He flung up an arm against her protest and the very air around him vibrated with power.

  And Geraint mouthed, “It is for the best. I have words to say to him too.”

  I have been set upon by the two living men who matter to me. Even as Yolande stiffened at the realization, she was marching to the door.

  I will not stay to be humiliated more. But I will listen, oh yes.

  She slammed shut the iron-studded door to vent her anger and to be sure they believed she was leaving, then put her ear to the keyhole.

  Geraint grinned. He knew he grinned when he was very angry as well as pleased, and right now he was furious.

  “You think I am no good for her.” He attacked the abbot just as the man was drawing breath to rant. He stepped up and jabbed at him with stiff fingers, loathing the high Norman-Frenchman’s fair, elegant looks, his Latin, his assumptions, his arrogance, the way Yolande had deferred to him. “What have you done for her?”

  “Yolande needs no ruffian like you as her champion.” Abbot Simon stepped back and began pacing, his black robes swinging and slapping against the pillars as he walked. “She is a learned, spiritual creature performing difficult tasks for lost and possessed souls.” He looked down his long nose again. “What can you possibly offer her? The dubious, fleeting delights of carnality?”

  “I would nev
er sin with her as you put it,” Geraint snapped. “I know she must remain a maid and I govern myself. I will never drink in her company so I may govern myself. I will never touch her thighs or breasts. Yes, master abbot, she has those. But your exorcist needs more than prayers. She is weary, can you not see that?”

  The abbot touched the golden cross hung around his throat. “And you help her how, minstrel? By carrying her things?”

  “By that! By exactly that!” Geraint shouted, fuming, knowing he should make a more rational, logical argument and unable to do so. The words spouted from him like boiling water in an alchemist’s workshop. “By linking her to herself, to her body and family and to the rest of humankind. I amuse her, divert her, give her ease, make her meals, make her happy! Is that not better than having her dwell forever on the last days?”

  The abbot snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the circular chamber. “This is a time of prayer and self-purgation and doubt. We should all be dwelling on the final days and reflecting on our sins.”

  Geraint shook his head. “And when dealing with a demon, such doubts help in what way?”

  “We will not agree on this matter,” Abbot Simon responded crisply. “You do not understand.” He sighed deeply as if in profound disappointment. “I should have known at once, when she allowed you to bear the cross. That is one of our most sacred relics, a cross made from the staff of the Magdalene. Kings have prayed before it. Even the holy are reluctant to handle it, for its power is immense and dangerous. Such a rare and priceless thing is not to be hawked from place to place by a common juggler.”

  “No more common than the pardoner who gave it to me,” retorted Geraint, astonishment and wonder raging through him as he appreciated afresh how Yolande had trusted him with the cross, how she had seen his wariness around it as a good sign and one in his favor. “But if it is so great, why not keep it in its reliquary? Even I know of such things, Father. And why send only one cleric with it and a pardoner at that, a man she despises?”