“He wanted me to find Rufra,” I said.
“Well, Girton—” Neander’s grip was cutting off my circulation and I could feel my hand beating in time with my pulse “—you will not find your friend here. He has many faults but is more sensible than to come into the disused areas of the castle. It is not safe here, a lot of the stonework is loose.” Another tightening of his grip. “There have been deaths, Girton, deaths.” I nodded, and I think he saw the question I was about to ask in my eyes. “You wonder why I am here if it is dangerous?” I nodded again. “I am here because of the tears you hear. A servant girl has got herself into trouble with a squire and wanted my counsel. The servants believe they will get more privacy in these disused areas of the castle, and as their priest I must go where they wish, even when it puts my life in danger.” The words slid out of his mouth so smoothly it was either true or a very well practised lie. He looked down at his hand, as if only now becoming aware of how tightly he held my wrist. “Am I hurting you, Girton?” He stared into my eyes. “Sometimes I am overcome with fervour for my vocation and forget myself.” He let go of my wrist only when he had finished speaking. His grip had left a ring of red skin on my wrist and pins and needles fizzed across my hand.
“No, it did not hurt, Blessed,” I replied.
“Blessed.” He laughed. “I am no blessed man of power, Girton. I am only a simple priest and that is my lot. I dream of no more.”
“Of course,” I said, but his laugh was false and there was a look in his eye that left me sure he did dream of more, of much more.
“Now, you be on your way back to the castle proper and stay out of this place, boy. Go, get on.” He tried to smile again. “I have no doubt Nywulf’s errand is far more important than gossiping with this lonely old soul.” As I walked away he stood staring after me and I could feel his gaze as an itch at the nape of my neck. It was odd that he had referred to Rufra as “your friend” rather than calling him “my nephew,” which was the fiction he wished to sell to the castle. A little shiver ran down my spine and I rubbed at my wrist. Something about the priest, possibly his naked ambition, set me on edge.
After my detour I visited the kitchens then returned to the corridor with a view of Heamus’s room. I settled into a shadowed alcove to wait in a state of half sleep until Heamus left his room. It was a long wait.
When the water clock struck eight I was itching for Heamus to leave, but he did not. At half past eight I was cursing him under my breath, and by nine, when he finally left, I had become sure my master had known he was leaving later than she said and had lied to keep me from First of Festival with Rufra. I waited five minutes, counting out the my-masters faster than I should have, and then ambled over to Heamus’s door. I had tied my picks inside the sleeve of my jerkin and dropped them into my hand with a twitch of my shoulders. Standing with my back to the door so I could see both ways down the corridor I worked the lock behind me. Usually this was a frustrating way to work but the lock on Heamus’s door was so simple it clicked open almost immediately. With a quick glance around I let myself in.
Inside was nothing of the man. No personal mementos, no trophies of battle, no ornaments or reading material. It was like the cell of a hermit. A thin hard bed with one blanket sat against one wall and opposite stood a sturdy set of drawers which came to my knee. On top of the drawers was a washbasin, a rag and a candle. The dim light in the room came from a skylight above the door that let in reflected light from the corridor, but like most inner rooms in the keep it was a gloomy little place. I had brought a stub of candle with me—nothing surer to give you away than using the candles already in the room—and lit it. I used the light to check under the bed—nothing. Then I checked through the drawers. Clothes mostly. In the bottom drawer I found a tidily curled five-tailed whip and an oddly shaped knife. Something about the drawer bothered me, so I removed the whip and the knife. Beneath them was a badly fitted false bottom and beneath that two packages of notes. One was slim, no more than one sheet, and the other fatter and tied with ribbon. I slid out a note from the tied package. It was an old and faded love letter. The rest of the package was more letters, all in the same handwriting until I came to the final letter which had clearly been written by someone else and read simply, “I am sorry, Heamus, but Mathilda died in childbirth. The baby also.”
I sat back. “Oh, poor Heamus,” I said to myself, remembering the look on his face when he had told me he had loved a girl once. I could only imagine these letters were from her. Why had he lied and told me she still lived? Maybe it was easier for him that way. Like the magic roiling within me, maybe his lover’s death was something he could only cope with if he hid it from himself. Making sure I put the letters back in the correct order I replaced them and opened the second package.
I dropped it immediately.
It was a single piece of vellum. Written on it were symbols. The lines and curls made no sense to me, but they writhed and moaned in my mind and left a taste in my mouth like I had been forcing down rotting meat. I tried to commit them to memory but, as with the magic, my mind slid off them. I couldn’t understand why. My memory was prodigious. I had practised and practised and could commit to memory whole pages after only a glance. But these symbols defied me, and it soon became clear that if I continued to stare at them my stomach would rebel and I would end up leaving undeniable proof someone had been here. Touching the paper to pick it up felt like handling hot irons. I tidied it away as best I could and replaced the false bottom, put the whip and the knife in the drawer and left.
As I made my way to our rooms I heard the water clock strike half past nine and cursed. Rufra would not be waiting for me any longer, but it was important I tell my master what I had found. Something about those symbols would not leave me.
My master sprang up from her cot the minute I entered.
“Girton?”
“Yes, Master. I have found something in Heamus’s room.”
“Good,” she said, and pushed herself up. Where she had been lying down her black hair was mussed and sticking out at odd angles. “But before you tell me I must speak to you.”
“Yes?” I wondered whether she was about to tell me off again.
“What I said earlier, about your friendships …” She ran a hand through her hair, as she often did when worried. “I cannot apologise for the truth in my words, Girton, but I apologise for speaking in haste and anger.”
“I understand, Master.” I had never heard her sound so sad and it melted away the anger in me like the sun melts snow. “I have things to tell you.”
“You will be late for First of Festival.”
“Not if I am quick. I have two things and then a question.”