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Chapter Eleven In her head, there was singing. It wasn’t loud at first; it began as a half-remembered tune that haunted the trees and hung like willow boughs. Ailyth felt like she was walking through the song, that faded as she grew closer and decorated her fingers with an opaque mist of jewels. I know this song, she thought. I’ve heard it somewhere before.
Before what? Before the plague? Before Tristran? Before her birth? She tried to reach out and trace her fingers along the notes but, as she did, it was gone.
Just as quickly, the song began again, like the cry of a woman in mourning, and Ailyth recognised the voice of her mother calling her through the woods. Like an infant, she drifted towards the noise with a half-smile on her face.
“My child,” the voice keened. “My little girl. Where are you? Why did you flee?”
“I’m here, mother,” Ailyth whispered, running now. Her mother wanted her. She was grieving because she didn’t know where she had gone. She cared. “I’m coming home.”
She reached a clearing where a woman in rags crouched, crying into her hands. Slowly Ailyth moved towards her, still under the spell of the haunting song. Sunlight streamed through the trees and lit up all the green in the forest, so that it almost glowed. Only her mother was in the shade.
“I’m here,” she said, putting her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mother, I’m all right.”
As she touched the dirty sack-cloth wrapped around her mother’s torso the music stopped, and Lady Eleanor’s head snapped up to look at her daughter.
*** Ailyth’s scream made Canute drop to his knees in terror.
*** Her mother’s face was not there; instead, a dirt-bleached skull stared angrily up at Ailyth.
“Why haven’t you come back?” she screeched, her hair blowing in the gale of her own fury.
“I’m sorry,” Ailyth said, backing away. “I’m trying.”
With an agonised wail, the apparition disappeared in a cloud of dust, leaving only her rags on the ground. Ailyth watched them settle and wept for her soul.
The singing started again, stronger this time, beckoning her into the light and filling her with a bliss so great that she knew that she was floating. It hadn’t been her mother who was calling her. Who then?
From some hidden bolt-hole, Granfer said, “She’s calmer now. Lay her down here.”
Ailyth laughed at him. She didn’t want to lie down, she wanted to carry on drifting on the summer’s breeze.
“You can’t make me!” she taunted. “You can’t do anything now. I want to stay here.”
She could see below her, sitting serenely, a circle of maidens dressed in flowing white gowns. They held in their arms the treasures of the forest and painted on each of their foreheads were the sun, moon and stars. They looked up at Ailyth, hovering above them, and laughed. The bell-like sound of their joy cut through the bonds that held Ailyth aloft and she fell gently into their ring.
Who are you? she thought.
“We are the virgins,” they replied, and their harmonious voices made her want to sleep as they sang to her the stories of old, of men with too much pride and women who’s hearts had been broken. There were twelve, then nine, then eight, until Ailyth stopped counting and let them run their fingers through her ebony hair. For ten years she slept.
She woke to see a white hart standing next to her in the circle, and she drew a gasp. It’s alive! she thought. It’s still alive, we didn’t kill it. For the first time since she saw the beast disappear into the marshes in the wood, she felt light, and she looked down to see that she too was wearing an ice-white gown.
“Touch it,” the virgins urged her. “You’re one of us.”
“I can’t,” she told them, but they didn’t hear her, and each took hold of her body and forced her hand out to touch the unicorn’s flank. It was colder than the depths of winter.
The unicorn reared at Ailyth’s touch, and its eyes rolled back in its head.
“Oh no!” the virgins laughed, pulling away in twisted mirth. “You shouldn’t have done that. Look at the state of you. You’re the plague.”
Ailyth looked down at her dress and recoiled at her own appearance. Her clothes were filthy; covered in soot and mud and a few specks of red from where the brownies had clawed at her. Running her fingers through her hair she felt that it was matted and tangled, as it had been since her days of slavery at Castle Cary, and she could taste blood in her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, appalled at the way she looked. She didn’t look like a lady now; she looked like a wild-girl, and she was ashamed.
The virgins turned away from her and, on an unseen command, the hart lowered its head and thrust its antlers through Ailyth’s armpit.
With a look of confusion and fear on her face, she found herself flying through the woods, jettisoned back by the force of the blow.
Clutching the air around her as she flew, her fingers finally found a steady surface to grip onto and, holding tightly onto her wounded arm to stop the dark flow of blood that oozed through her palm, she saw that she was holding onto a tombstone. Looking frantically around her she realised that she had come to rest in a graveyard.
Each grave bore the name of someone she knew; Tristran, Elfrida, Matthew, the Baroness, the stable-boy, her little brother Edelmar and her sister Luflice, Roger (who was Roger?), the hostess... The names stretched on, until she could no longer bear to see them. Turning recklessly away from them, she realised that she wasn’t alone.
A man was next to her, sitting still on a black horse that also didn’t move, and clad entirely in black. He didn’t look at her, or stir as she approached and, when she begged to know his identity, his voice was that of the storm clouds.
“I am pestilence,” he said. “I am the plague.”
He held his arm aloft and pointed to a bare patch in the graveyard. Out of nowhere, figures appeared, playing a light-hearted tune on the vessel flutes and pipe whistles they had with them. They danced playfully, holding out their bilious clothes to catch the wind and tapping out a jaunty rhythm with their feet. As they twirled and paced, whirling around each other slowly, Ailyth began to move towards them, entranced by their strange jig.
As she moved closer, Ailyth realised that she didn’t want to go forward anymore. There was something sinister about their movement, as though they were beckoning people towards them. She thought of the fox, who would prance in pretended madness to entice its victims near, before it pounced.
“No,” she whispered, trying to root her feet into the ground, but still she was pushed onwards. “I don’t want to.”
Other people were being drawn out of the darkness towards the figures as well and, as a shaft of light illuminated their faces, Ailyth could see that the dancers were skeletons, and their floating gowns the dirty shrouds of the afterlife. She tried with every piece of strength in her body to resist, but the dance of death was calling her to the grave, and she couldn’t fight it.
As she came within the ghastly dancers’ reach, Ailyth struggled but there was no fight in her. The wound in her armpit throbbed and, as the reached out with sinewy hands and cold bones, she felt a sudden rush of heat course through her body as they lifted her and threw her into an open grave.
A crowd of men appeared at the grave’s edge as she vanished, holding up flaming crucifixes and chanting curses in Latin, roaring at her to burn in hell. ‘Flagro ab elleborus abnocto aevum, conciliator pestis et infans abeo.’ Burn in hell for all eternity, bringer of plagues and child of the devil.
Plunging through the darkness, Ailyth could see nothing and could only hear the moans of pain belonging to those who waited for her in the pit below. The heat was growing stronger, and she could feel the flames of hell licking around her ankles as she crashed to the floor.
There were poor souls everywhere, crying out repentance as they were cast into vats of fire, and cowering in caves amidst the underground prison. Ailyth could feel their pain as well as her own, and she stopped caring about the plague and those she’d left behind. This was to be her final judgement, and all she could think of was fear.
Standing before her, as tall and as broad as the mightiest oak, stood the devil, covered in thick matted fur and resembling a bull bred with a bear. She cowered before it, terrified and screaming, as he slowly leaned towards her and plucked her from amongst the crowd of sinners. As he lifted her towards his mouth, she gave one final howl of despair, that shook Granfer, Canute, RiffRaff and Ulfred to their souls, and passed out.
*** “Is she dead?”
Granfer placed a rough hand gently on the girl’s cheek and shook his head. “Thankfully no,” he replied. “She’s just sleeping now.”
“Praise be to God,” Ulfred said. “She has suffered so, may her pain now be gone.”
Granfer bit his lip and nodded. Ailyth’s skin was scorching and her body was drenched with sweat, but she was still living and, for that, he gave silent thanks to the mother goddess, as Ulfred had given thanks to God.
The lad looked relieved, there was no denying that, and he carefully wiped the blood away from Ailyth’s mouth. She had been vomiting in her delirium for the past two nights, and lately it had become apparent that she was vomiting blood. He wiped a tear from his eye, and adjusted the cloak that had been placed under her head.
“We may still lose her,” Granfer said quietly. “You realise that, don’t you Ulfred?”
He nodded, and walked away from the girl. Leaning heavily against a tree, he closed his eyes.
“Where is that man now?” Granfer cried suddenly, making both Ulfred and RiffRaff jump. “I’m sorry boy, I realise that he’s your father, but the cowardice that he has displayed over the past four nights is truly quite sickening. Where has he been when we’ve needed him, hmm? Where has he been when Ailyth’s needed him? He ought to be whipped.”
“Please, in Jesu’s name keep your voice down,” a quiet voice interrupted, and both men spun around to see Ailyth weakly pulling herself up into a sitting position. “I have a sore head as it is, Granfer; no need to make it any worse.”
“Ailyth!” Granfer cried, rushing towards her. “No no, don’t move, don’t over-exert yourself, stay right there.” He rushed towards the wagon and brought her a skein of spiced ale. “Drink this, please,” he said. “We’ve been trying to get you to drink for days, but you kept spitting it out.”
Ailyth smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Have I been eating raw meat?” she asked. “I can taste blood.”
Granfer lifted the skein up to her mouth and let her drink. “You’ve been very ill, child,” he told her, grimacing at the memory of her fitting in her sleep and burning up with fever. “You’ve been ill for four days. We...we thought that you might not recover.”
“I know,” she said. “I heard you as I dreamed.” The word brought back the memory of the things that had tormented her as she had raged with fever, and a spasm of fear bled through her heart. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the images. “I was very close to death, wasn’t I,” she said, as the skeletal dancers flickered through her mind.
“Yes,” Granfer said, and looked away. “I’ll fetch you something to eat.”
Slumping back against the tree she was sheltered under, Ailyth tried to shake the memories of her nightmare away. She could see now the peaceful glade where they had taken her when it first became clear that she was ill, and she knew that now she was safe, that she had beaten the sickness. Still though, the stench of Satan, as he lifted her to his mouth, filled her nose and brought tears to her eyes.
“Oh Ailyth,” a voice close to her ear said, “thank God you’re all right.”
Ailyth instinctively reached up to her shoulder and felt RiffRaff crouched next to her neck.
“Hello,” she said softly. “Have you been there the whole time?”
RiffRaff nodded. “I wouldn’t leave you,” he said proudly. “From the moment we put you here, and I was determined to stay by your side.”
“Why?”
RiffRaff nuzzled her neck. “Because you kept screaming in your sleep and I just wanted you to know that I was here.”
Ailyth smiled tiredly, and didn’t tell him that she hadn’t felt his presence during her feverish nightmares. Still, she was touched that he had cared enough to watch over her, and her heart grew with affection for the little rat.
As she lay her head back down onto her bundled-up cloak, RiffRaff jumped off her shoulder and looked her in the face.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Tired,” she told him. “And sweaty, and like there’s no more strength left in me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand for a few days.” Unconsciously, she felt under her arm. “And I’m sore here,” she said. “It’s like an aching throb.”
Slipping her hand under her chemise, she felt her arm and jumped when she found several small, walnut sized lumps growing on her skin. Immediately she felt her face, around her mouth, and cried when she realised that there was a cluster of blisters next to her lips.
“Oh Riff’,” she sobbed, “It’s the plague, isn’t it?”
RiffRaff buried his face in her hair. “You’ve had the plague,” he said, “but you’re all right now. This is the first time you’ve been awake properly since you first got ill. Can’t you see, you’re getting better.”
“But I feel so weak,” she said.
“Of course you do,” he replied. “But you’re going to get better. You’ve just done a battle with death, but you’ve won!”
Granfer looked over at them as these words drifted across the clearing. “Part of the prophecy,” he whispered. “But not enough. When man becomes beast, and beast becomes man,” he muttered, looking through the small bundle of Ailyth’s possessions for the oaken bowl.
For the rest of that day, Ailyth drifted in and out of an uneasy slumber, waking occasionally to see Granfer, Ulfred and RiffRaff peering over at her nervously. They always smiled when she woke, and brought her forest meat to lift her strength. It was a relief to her too, to wake and find that the terrible nightmare that had ravaged her mind during her fever was not real.
“I think my mother’s dead,” she said to RiffRaff and Granfer late that evening. “And my brother and sister too.” Falteringly, she told them about her dream, which they both listened to with grave expressions on their faces.
“It sounds quite traumatic,” Granfer said eventually. “But it was just a dream, child. You’ve been delirious, and your mind has merely been replaying your concerns from the last few weeks.”
“And besides,” RiffRaff added, “would you really be upset if your mother had died?”
Ailyth screwed her eyes up to blot out the nightmare. “I don’t know,” she said. “She was a terrible mother to me. She never cared about me when I was around.” But in the dream she was worried about me, she thought, and I so want to believe that my mother was worried about me. It means that she loved me after all.
When she woke the next morning, Ailyth felt marginally stronger, and tried to get up and walk, although she was still very weak. Placing herself by the small stream in the forest, she began to wash the grime that had covered her face over the past few weeks, cleansing her skin until no more soot, blood or dirt was washed into the water.
“Feel better for that?” a voice asked, and Canute came to sit next to her. “Glad you’re all right, maid,” he told her.
Ailyth grinned to see him. “Where’ve you been?” she asked. “I didn’t see you at all yesterday.”
“Oh, I was...er...keepin’ watch,” Canute said, looking uncomfortable. “Your pa says there are people who’ve bin followin’ yer.”
Ailyth’s heart stopped briefly, and she went red in the face. As far as Canute and Ulfred were concerned, they were just on their way to Exeter and would have no reason to be followed. Had Granfer told Canute the truth? She studied his face carefully.
“Yeah,” Canute went on. “He says you both got into bother in a tavern over the price of a bowl of pottage. He was a bit troubled, like, that they was going to be after you or summit.”
A poor reason, Ailyth thought, but she nodded anyway.
“There’s bin no bother, though,” he carried on. “None that I seen, anyhow. So I reckon you can rest easy today, you’ll be wantin’ yer strength back. Your pa wants us to carry on our journey tomorro’.”
Ailyth was eager to get on the road again. Since their encounter with the brownies, she had been a little apprehensive about travelling through woods. She could understand why her guardian had brought her here, to keep her hidden from the men who were chasing her whilst she was sick but, now she was recovering, she too was eager to get on with her quest again, and to stay one step ahead of those who wished her harm.
Dragging her spent body back to the clearing, happier now that her skin was clean, she found Ulfred with a bundle of woollen clothes for her to wear.
“From the wagon,” he said, blushing. “I thought you might want to put something fresh on.”
She couldn’t have agreed more and, with the embarrassed help of Granfer, she changed into the red jerkin and yellow skirt she had been given. It rubbed coarsely against her skin, she couldn’t deny that, but it was unsoiled and warm and for that she was grateful.
After another night’s sleeping, Ailyth pressed Granfer into letting them continue their journey. He was clearly in an unhappy mood, and insisted that she was not well enough to travel yet.
“I agree, I still feel very dizzy,” she admitted and, when she coughed, flecks of blood flew onto her hands. In truth, she felt disgustingly ill, and the buboes under her armpit were throbbing with each movement, although they were now going down. “But I want to get on again,” she continued. “The men who are following me may be just seconds away.”
“And travelling after what you’ve been through will not aid in your recovery.”
Ailyth closed her eyes and tried to explain it to him as though she were talking to a very small child. “When we’re on the wagon,” she said, “I can sleep. I won’t be tiring myself out - I’ll be resting while we’re journeying.”
Granfer glanced around them and drew Ailyth and RiffRaff closer. “I do not think it would be prudent to travel any further with Canute and Ulfred,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust them,” Granfer replied, and crossed his arms stubbornly.
“While you were ill,” RiffRaff carried on, “Canute was acting very disloyally to you. We drove off the road and brought you here, and he thought we were going to leave you. He kept saying that there was no hope for you, and that this was your rightful punishment for blasphemy. He said we should leave you to your suffering and...”
“Save ourselves,” Granfer finished grimly.
“Of course we wouldn’t do that Ailyth, and we brought you here in case we were still being followed. We tried to look after you, although there wasn’t much we could do, but Canute refused to help. He’s spent the last few days sitting under a tree and cursing our names.”
Despite Canute’s anger when she had attempted to heal the old hostess, Ailyth liked the wool merchant and his betrayal cut at her like a thorn. He had given her comfort at times, and had generously given them a ride when no-one else would have. Why then would he care so little for her wellbeing?
“He’s a very religious man,” she said slowly, determined to explain his behaviour away. “I know he believes the plague is a punishment from God.” She thought again. “And mayhaps he’s frightened of the plague. Mayhaps he was afraid of catching it. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? I mean, it’s human nature to be afraid, and people say strange things when they’re cornered.”
“Ailyth,” Granfer said, “if you were thinking clearly then you’d realise that those two reasons contradict each other. In my experience, people who give God as a reason do so because they, for one reason or another, believe that they are exempt from His judgement, that they are righteous. Think of the holy wars. If Canute believes that he has no need to fear God, then he has no reason to fear the plague as a punishment.”
"No,” Ailyth protested. “Canute isn’t like that.” He can’t be like that, she thought. We still need his help in getting us home. “And what about Ulfred?” she asked. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” RiffRaff said. “He was very attentive while you were ill. I think he was quite worried.”
The determined look on Ailyth’s face told Granfer that she had made her mind up, and would continue to travel with the merchants, be it with his blessing or not.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said. “Think long and hard before you climb onto their wagon.”
“RiffRaff?”
“I think we should stay,” he said.
“Then both of you, stay!” she said, sticking her bottom lip at them. “I’ll go with them.”
“Belligerent child!” Granfer cried. “You can’t admit that you might be wrong. Haven’t you learned to trust my instincts yet?”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Granfer,” she replied coolly. “This is my quest, not yours, and I say we need that wagon. RiffRaff, are you coming?”
“With you always,” the rat said, slightly doubtfully.
When Canute called them, Ailyth made a show of rushing to him and accepting his help as he pulled her into her seat. Seeing Granfer watching her angrily she raised an eyebrow, challenging him to act.
Narrowing his eyes back at her, he stamped towards the small gathering. “You know I’m sworn to protect you,” he hissed, “so I won’t let you leave without me. But know this, girl: I think you’re making a very rash move.”
All that Ailyth heard was that Granfer was coming, so therefore she had won. As they moved away from the clearing, and back onto the open road, she smiled triumphantly to herself.
But the feeling of triumph soon wore off, as two days journeying passed in almost complete silence. Canute seemed to be in a mood that could rival Granfer’s, Ulfred wouldn’t speak, RiffRaff couldn’t speak in front of the merchants, and Granfer only spoke up to tell Ailyth to stop scratching the blisters around her mouth.
“Don’t pick at them,” he grumbled. “You’ll only make them worse.”
“I wasn’t,” Ailyth muttered back, but she sat on her hands nonetheless.
“I’d say we’re two days at the mos’ from the Devon border,” Canute said suddenly, breaking the silence on the second day. “You’ll be home in three, at the very longes’.”
"Good,” Ailyth and Granfer said together, and they resumed their hush. Canute brought the wagon to a halt.
“Why’ve we stopped?” Ailyth asked, looking back to see who was behind them. The road for once was empty, and she could see that there had been a lull in the exodus to the countryside.
Canute pointed towards the trees on the roadside. “There,” he said.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Ailyth could just make out a small stone building. “What is it?” she asked.
“A church,” he replied. “I want to go in.”
“Whatever for?” Granfer snorted.
“’Cause I ain’t been to a mass or confessed me misdeeds since afore we met,” he said. “My soul feels heavy, and I wants to speak to God.”
Ailyth well understood what he was saying. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been to mass, and felt sure that unless she was blessed by a priest, and soon, her sins would burn a hole in her heart. There was also the guilt she felt at having been dabbling in the world of the faeries, which she was sure must be against God’s law. I’ll ask Granfer, she thought, before remembering that she wasn’t talking to him.
“I think I’ll come too,” she said to Canute, and jumped off the wagon onto the rough road below. Granfer sat up to protest, but she shot him down with a glare and told RiffRaff to wait with him.
“I never expected to find a church on the roadside,” she said as they walked towards the small stone building. “There isn’t a village nearby, is there?”
“There’s a manor, ten miles or so south,” he said, “but they’ve got their own church. No, this is the church for travellers.”
“You knew about this?”
Canute nodded. “Oh yes,” he said quietly. “The Romans built it, hundreds o’ years ago.”
“I thought the Romans were heathens,” Ailyth said.
“Most were. Some were Christian, tho’, and wanted a place to worship. When they left, most o’ they churches were left to rot too, ‘cept this ‘un.” He put his hand up against the grey boulders that formed its walls and sighed a sigh of contentment. “Makes you feel peaceful, don’t it,” he breathed.
“Yes,” Ailyth agreed, entranced by the age of the building. How many generations of man have passed through this door? she wondered as she touched the cracked oaken beams that marked the entrance to the building. How many people have come here to worship, over time?
She gasped as she entered the simple room, marked only by a few over-turned pews and an altar covered with decades of dust. Burned-out stumps of candles covered the floor but still, through the dirt, she could make out hundreds of tiny squares, building a picture of a noble family. On the walls, dark pictures of the holy family stared expressionlessly down at them, austere yet forgiving, and blackened by age.
“I don’t think it’s still used,” she said quietly, drifting towards the altar.
“Oh,” it’s still used all right,” Canute said, his voice strange and deep. “God’s house is never closed.”
“Yes, you speak true,” Ailyth said, and she knelt down in front of the sacrificial stone, ready to say her penance. “I wonder if, mayhaps, a priest might still be here.” She ran her fingers across the dust and laughed softly to herself. “Well, mayhaps not,” she said. “What do you think, Canute?”
“I think there’s a holy man closer than you think,” his voice rang out and, as she turned to face him, she was knocked down by a swift, heavy blow.
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