Part II
Chapter Six
For all his tiredness, Axl was finding sleep elusive. The monks had provided them with a room on the upper storey, and while it was a relief not to have to contend with the cold seeping up from the soil, he had never slept easily above ground. Even when sheltering in barns or stables, he had often climbed ladders to a restless night troubled by the cavernous space beneath him. Or perhaps his restlessness tonight had to do with the presence of the birds in the dark above. They were now largely silent, but every so often would come a small rustle, or a beating of wings, and he would feel the urge to fling his arms over Beatrice’s sleeping form to protect her from the foul feathers drifting down through the air.
The birds had been there when they had first entered the chamber earlier in the day. And had he not felt, even then, something malevolent in the way these crows, blackbirds, woodpigeons looked down on them from the rafters? Or was it just that his memory had become coloured by subsequent events?
Or perhaps the sleeplessness was on account of the sounds, even now echoing across the monastery grounds, of Wistan chopping firewood. The noise had not prevented Beatrice from sinking easily into sleep, and on the other side of the room, beyond the dark shape he knew to be the table on which they had earlier eaten, Edwin had settled to a gentle snoring. But Wistan, as far as Axl knew, had not slept at all. The warrior had remained sitting over in the far corner, waiting for the last monk to leave the courtyard below, then gone out into the night. And now here he was again—and despite Father Jonus’s warning—cutting more firewood.
The monks had taken some time to disperse after emerging from their meeting. Several times Axl had come close to sleep only to be brought to the surface again by voices below. Sometimes they were four or five, always lowered, often filled with anger or fear. There had been no voices now for some time, and yet as he drifted again towards slumber, Axl could not shake the feeling there were still monks below their window, not just a few, but dozens of robed figures, standing silently under the moonlight, listening to Wistan’s blows resounding across the grounds.
Earlier, with the afternoon sun filling the chamber, Axl had looked out of the window to see what appeared to be the entire community—more than forty monks—waiting in clusters all around the courtyard. There was a furtive mood among them, as if they were keen their words were not overheard even by those in their own ranks, and Axl could see hostile glances exchanged. Their habits were all of the same brown cloth, sometimes missing a hood or a sleeve. They seemed anxious to go into the large stone building opposite, but there had been a delay and their impatience was palpable.
Axl had been gazing down on the courtyard for several moments when a noise made him lean further out of the window and look directly beneath him. He had seen then the outer wall of the building, its pale stone revealing yellow hues in the sun, and the staircase cut into it rising from the ground towards him. Midway up these stairs was a monk—Axl could see the top of his head—holding a tray laden with food and a jug of milk. The man was pausing to rebalance the tray, and Axl watched the manoeuvre with alarm, knowing how these steps were worn unevenly, and that with no rail on the outside, one had always to keep pressed to the wall to be sure not to plunge down onto the hard cobbles. On top of it all, the monk now ascending appeared to have a limp, yet he kept coming, slowly and steadily.
Axl went to the door to relieve the man of the tray, but the monk—Father Brian, as they were soon to learn he was called—insisted on carrying it to the table himself, saying: “You are our guests, so let me serve you as such.”
Wistan and the boy had left by then, and perhaps the sound of their woodcutting was already ringing through the air. So it had been just he and Beatrice who had sat down, side by side, at the wooden table and devoured gratefully the bread, fruit and milk. As they did so, Father Brian had chatted happily, sometimes dreamily, about past visitors, the fish to be caught in nearby streams, a stray dog that had lived with them until its death the previous winter. Sometimes Father Brian, an elderly but sprightly man, got up from the table and shuffled about the room dragging about his bad leg, talking all the while, every now and then going to the window to check on his colleagues below.
Meanwhile, above their heads, the birds had been criss-crossing the underside of the roof, their feathers occasionally drifting down to blemish the surface of the milk. Axl had been tempted to chase off these birds, but had refrained in case the monks regarded them with affection. He was taken aback then when rapid footsteps came up the stairs outside, and a large monk with a dark beard and a flushed face burst into the room.
“Demons! Demons!” he shouted, glaring up at the rafters. “I’ll see them soak in blood!”
The newcomer was carrying a straw bag, and he now reached into it, brought out a stone and hurled it up at the birds. “Demons! Foul demons, demons, demons!”
As the first stone ricocheted down to the ground, he threw a second and then a third. The stones were landing away from the table, but Beatrice had covered her head with both arms, and Axl, rising, began to move towards the bearded man. But Father Brian had reached him first, and clutching both the man’s arms, said: “Brother Irasmus, I beg you! Stop this and calm yourself!”
The birds by now were screeching and flying in all directions, and the bearded monk shouted over the commotion: “I know them! I know them!”
“Calm yourself, brother!”
“Don’t you stop me, father! They’re agents of the devil!”
“They may yet be agents of God, Irasmus. We don’t yet know.”
“I know them to be of the devil! Look at their eyes! How can they be of God and gaze at us with such eyes?”
“Irasmus, calm yourself. We have guests present.”
At these words, the bearded monk became aware of Axl and Beatrice. He stared angrily at them, then said to Father Brian: “Why bring guests into the house at a time like this? Why do they come here?”
“They’re just good people travelling by, brother, and we’re happy to give them hospitality as is ever our custom.”
“Father Brian, you’re a fool to tell strangers of our affairs! Look, they spy on us!”
“They spy on no one, nor do they have any interest in our problems, having plenty of their own, I don’t doubt.”
Suddenly the bearded man drew out another stone and prepared to hurl it, but Father Brian managed to prevent him. “Go back down, Irasmus, and let go this bag. Here, leave it with me. It won’t do, carrying it everywhere the way you do.”
The bearded man shook off the older monk, and clutched his sack jealously to his chest. Father Brian, allowing Irasmus this small victory, ushered him to the doorway, and even as the latter turned to glare again at the roof, pushed him gently out onto the stairway.
“Go back down, Irasmus. They miss you down there. Go back down and take care you don’t fall.”
When the man had finally gone, Father Brian came back into the room, waving his hand at the feathers floating in the air.
“My apologies to you both. He’s a good man, but this way of life no longer suits him. Please be seated again and finish your meal in peace.”
“And yet, father,” Beatrice said, “that fellow may be right when he says we intrude on you at an uneasy time. We’ve no desire to increase your burdens here, and if you’ll only let us quickly consult Father Jonus, whose wisdom’s well known, we’ll be on our way. Is there word yet if we might see him?”
Father Brian shook his head. “It’s as I told you earlier, mistress. Jonus has been unwell, and the abbot’s given strict orders no one will disturb him other than with permission given by the abbot himself. Knowing of your desire to meet with Jonus, and the pains you took to come here, I’ve been trying since your arrival to attract the abbot’s ear. Yet as you see, you come at a busy time, and now there’s a visitor of some importance arrived for the abbot, delaying our conference further. The abbot’s even now gone back to his study to talk with the visitor while the rest of us wait for him.”
Beatrice had been standing at the window to watch the bearded monk’s departure down the stone steps, and she now pointed, saying: “Good father, isn’t that the abbot returning now?”
Axl, coming to her side, saw a gaunt figure striding with authority into the centre of the courtyard. The monks, breaking from their conversations, were all moving towards him.
“Ah yes, there’s the abbot returned. Now finish your meal in peace. And regarding Jonus, be patient, for I fear I’ll not be able to bring you the abbot’s decision till after this conference is over. Yet I’ll not forget, I promise, and will petition well for you.”
It was surely the case that then, as now, the warrior’s axe blows had been ringing across the courtyard. In fact, Axl could distinctly recall asking himself, as he watched the monks filing into the building opposite, if he was hearing one woodcutter or two; for a second blow would follow so close behind the first it was hard to tell if it was a real sound or an echo. Thinking about it now, lying in the dark, Axl was sure Edwin had been chopping alongside Wistan, matching the warrior blow for blow. In all likelihood the boy was already an expert woodcutter. Earlier that day, before they had come to this monastery, he had astonished them by digging so rapidly with two flat stones he had happened to find nearby.
Axl by then had ceased to dig, having been persuaded by the warrior to preserve his strength for the climb to the monastery. So he had stood beside the oozing body of the soldier, guarding it from the birds gathering in the branches. Wistan, Axl recalled, had been using the dead man’s sword to dig the grave, remarking that he was reluctant to blunt his own on such a task. Sir Gawain, however, had said: “This soldier died honourably, no matter the schemes of his master, and a knight’s sword is put to good use giving him a grave.” Both men, though, had paused to watch in wonder the progress being made by Edwin with his rudimentary tools. Then, as they resumed their work, Wistan had said:
“I fear, Sir Gawain, Lord Brennus will not believe such a story.”
“He’ll believe it well enough, sir,” Gawain had replied, continuing to dig. “There’s a coolness between us, but he has me for an honest fool without the wit to invent devious tales. I may tell them how the soldier spoke of bandits even as he bled to death in my arms. Some will think it a grave sin to tell such a lie, yet I know God will look mercifully on it, for isn’t it to stop further bloodshed? I’ll make Brennus believe me, sir. Even so, you remain in danger and have good reason to hurry home.”
“I’ll do so without delay, Sir Gawain, as soon as my errand here’s finished. If my mare’s foot isn’t soon healed, I may even trade her for another, for that’s a long ride to the fens. Yet I’ll be sorry for she’s a rare horse.”
“A rare one indeed! My Horace, alas, no longer possesses such agility, yet he’s come to me in many an hour of need, as your mare came to you just now. A rare horse, and one you’ll be sad to lose. Even so, speed is crucial, so be on your way and never mind your errand. Horace and I will see to the she-dragon, so you’ve no cause to think further of her. In any case, now I’ve had time to dwell on it, I see Lord Brennus can never succeed in recruiting Querig into his army. She’s the most wild and untameable of creatures and will as quickly spew fire on her own ranks as on Brennus’s foes. The whole idea’s outlandish, sir. Think no more of it and hurry home before your enemies corner you.” Then when Wistan continued to dig without responding, Sir Gawain asked: “Do I have your word on it, Master Wistan?”
“On what, Sir Gawain?”