The Enchanter's Forest (33 page)

     Josse chuckled. ‘I can think of one or two priests who would fall into a swoon at the very idea of independent thought on matters of faith.’

     ‘So can I,’ she agreed wryly.

     He was still pondering her original question. Had he seen enough to say without doubt that Florian of Southfrith’s tomb was nothing more than a confidence trick? He did not know. There was nothing fraudulent about the tomb at Folle-Pensée, that was for sure, and he had been left in no doubt that there was a power source there beneath the vast granite slab and in the sparkling water. If he was honest with himself, that moment when Huathe had stood up on the stone and summoned the elements had scared Josse more than virtually anything in his life. He had been a fighting man, aye, but you knew what to expect with a flesh-and-blood opponent. That – that spirit, or presence, or whatever it was at the spring in the Brocéliande was not of this world, or if it was, it was from a part of it that Josse had neither experienced before nor wished ever to meet again.

     It dwelled, he thought, in Joanna’s world.

     He had been given, he realised, a unique vision into the place that she now inhabited. It was a privilege – aye, he recognised that well enough. But it also brought him immeasurable sorrow, for it made him see just how different her life now was from his. From anybody’s, come to that, who did not share her world.

   
Do not think of that
, a calm voice seemed to say in his head,
for there is nothing you can do but accept
.

     He felt his pain lessen and fade away and, after a moment, he found himself scratching his head and trying to recall what he had just been thinking about  . . .

     The tomb, he thought. I was comparing Merlin’s Tomb with the power of that spring out in the Breton forest. But then he had felt power from the great bones in the forest near Hadfeld, too, although he was as sure as he could be that whatever caused it had nothing to do with Merlin and everything to do with Florian making false claims for something he did not begin to understand.

     God’s boots, but it was difficult!

     She had sensed his mental turmoil – bless her, she always knew when he was in any kind of distress and would try to comfort him – and, snuggling against him, she said, ‘Josse? May I make a suggestion?’

     ‘I wish you would,’ he said fervently.

     She laughed softly. ‘Well, both the Abbey and the forest people are desperate to see the new site at Hadfeld closed down, the Abbey because the tomb is drawing away pilgrims from the healing spring in the Vale and from the skilful hands of the nursing nuns, and the forest people because the presence of a money-making business on the sacred soil of the forest is, in their eyes, sacrilegious. Yes?’

     ‘Yes,’ he agreed.

     ‘You were sent out to Armorica to see with your own eyes another place where it is claimed that Merlin lies entombed. It seems to me that you have to decide which of the two is the more authentic.’

     ‘There’s no question but that it’s the one in the Brocéliande forest,’ he said instantly. ‘It’s clearly ancient; it’s been a place of veneration for generations and there’s undoubtedly a force there, identified by local tradition as the magician Merlin. The Hadfeld site, on the other hand, is brash and brand-new and I have a strong suspicion that Florian didn’t find the bones where he said he did but brought them in from elsewhere. No. I may not be totally convinced that the place at Folle-Pensée is Merlin’s Tomb, but then I’m not sure that I believe that there ever was a magician called Merlin and even if—’

     ‘Josse,’ she interrupted gently, ‘would it not be a good idea to stop right there? Slightly earlier, actually, with your first remark.’

     He thought back. ‘That I’m in no doubt that the tomb in the Brocéliande is the more authentic?’

     ‘Exactly. The rest is a matter of belief and that, as we have just been suggesting, is up to the conscience of each individual.’

     He was nodding. ‘Aye. Aye, you’re right, Joanna.’ He hugged her close. ‘I can tell the Abbess Helewise just that, can’t I? That way I won’t be telling her a lie.’

     ‘No, you won’t,’ she agreed. Returning his hug, she added, ‘And I know how important that is to you. Not lying to her, I mean.’

     He did not know how to answer. The issue of the Abbess was something that he sensed was somehow unresolved between himself and Joanna. Should he raise it now? If he did, what would he say? Yes I love her, but not like I love you? That would be the truth, but would Joanna want to hear him admit to loving another woman, whatever form that love took?

     He could not make up his mind.

     Then Joanna said very softly, ‘Josse, I know. And it’s all right.’

     Which seemed to him to be all the answer he needed.

Behind them in the Brocéliande forest a man patiently awaited death.

     He had been there, slipping sometimes into unconsciousness, for a long time – dawn through to noon, then sunset and now night again – for he had been strong and fit, trained to endure hardship without complaint, and it would take many days for the life force to leak out of his fatally wounded body.

     As he lay there, past pain and instead affected with a growing numbness, he distracted his mind from his fast-approaching end by thinking back over his last mission.

     The one that had at long last brought him face to face with death and made him the loser.

Those whom he obeyed had commanded him to locate a particular man and woman; why he must do so was not explained and he had not expected that it would be. The third member of the little group was a child. His mission had been to watch and follow the party, awaiting the right moment to strike, and he had carried it out without deviation for many weary days, for ever performing the delicate calculation of how close to trail them without being seen while balancing this with not losing them.

     He was good at tracking people, which was why he had been selected for the job.

     This mission had been special, for he was only to kill the man and the woman if certain conditions were met. It had been left to his judgement to make the decision but what doubts he might have had were allayed by the demeanour of the pair; when it came to it, little judgement had been called for because both the man and the woman had shown perfectly clearly – by the man’s words as they came down from the spring, by their expressions, by the slump of their shoulders, by the woman’s tears that she tried so hard to conceal from the man – just what they were thinking.

     Those telling details had signed their death warrants. They had to die, that was plain, and so he had waited until the conditions were right and then made his move.

     He went back in his mind to the fatal night.

     They had known he was approaching, although he had no idea how. He was as silent as the darkness. Well, it was no use worrying over it for it made no difference now. He ought to have been successful, even after the woman had leapt up and shrieked at him and the man had gone for his weapons, and the fact that he had managed to disable the man’s sword arm ought to have increased his advantage over them. But then that she-cat had leapt on his back with her knife in her hand and that had been the beginning of the end.

     She’d cut off the lower part of his left ear.

     Also, although he had not realised this until much later, her savage cut had in fact found the target that she must surely have been aiming for; the knife’s point had gone into his neck in front of and just below his ear and nicked a blood vessel. Not the major one whose severance meant almost instantaneous death as the brilliant red blood spurted out; no. In that sense he had been fortunate, for her knife had found the little tube that carried the lesser flow of purplish blood. He must have started bleeding simultaneously from his ear and his throat and, the major wound being the more painful, he had not at first noticed that he was also bleeding from the neck.

     Then he had turned and fled off down the gentle slope, plunging down into the forest in the hope of evading the man, who unfortunately seemed quite prepared to attack with his sword in his left hand as in his right: he must, mused the dying man, be an ex-soldier, although nobody had thought to tell him so.

     I could have escaped, he thought, and perhaps attacked again another day, had I managed to evade him and hide away while I patched myself up.

     But he hadn’t escaped.

     Instead that terrifying black shape had risen up out of the forest floor right in front of him, appearing out of nowhere and frightening him so badly that he had felt his bowels turn to liquid. He had tried to defend himself but his attempts were as futile as a child waving its fist at an armoured knight: the black shape had swung a huge, hairy arm –
was
it an arm? – and the tall man’s long knife had flown out of his hand.

     I must by then already have lost more blood than I knew, he now thought wearily. I was delirious, seeing visions; how else explain the figure out of legend, out of nightmare, that put an end to my life?

     The dark shape had towered above him as he cowered before it. Then, even as he began to form the words with which to beg for mercy – a mercy in which, in truth, he had little faith for he knew he did not deserve it – the man, or the animal, whatever it was, had extended a long arm at the end of which were sharp points that gleamed in the starlight.

     The tall man had felt the flesh of his throat and chest open like butter under the knife and, looking down with horrified eyes, had seen the deep gashes tearing into him from just above his collar bone right down to his belly.

     He had sunk, already fainting, to his knees.

     As he slumped on the spongy forest floor dizzy and nauseated, trying to hold his flesh together and dam the great rush of blood but with the darkness already spreading in front of his eyes, he had looked up to face his attacker one last time; a man ought, after all, to know and recognise his final enemy.

     But there was nothing there.

He had slept, or slipped into unconsciousness; it was hard to tell the difference now. Awake and aware once more, he realised that he could not feel his feet.

     The insidious chill of death crept up his legs. He looked down at his hands, bloodstained from where he had clamped them to his destroyed chest.

     Not long now.

     What
did
I see? he wondered.

   
Was
I seeing visions? Was my killer in truth no other than the man with the sword, dressed up in that horrifying guise by my own fevered imagination? Perhaps, perhaps.

     But if so then why, the dying man wondered, did he have four parallel grooves in his flesh that looked for all the world like claw marks?

     He sighed.

     It was sad to die with an unsolved mystery on his mind.

     But it did not look as if he was going to have any choice.

Chapter 16

Helewise’s first action after the early offices was to send for Brother Saul and Brother Augustus and request that they return to Merlin’s Tomb in order to ask anyone prepared to talk to them one or two pertinent questions. Saul, whose expression did not look like that of a man readily able to distinguish a pertinent question from any other sort, began to frown but Augustus said straight away, ‘Like did anyone notice some man hanging around and trying to find out which day Florian was most likely to be carrying home the takings and what time he was going to leave?’

     Helewise beamed. ‘Precisely that, Gus.’

     Saul’s tense face relaxed; he was evidently relieved that he now understood what was being asked of him. He nodded sagely and was about to speak when Augustus got in before him.

     ‘We might also try to find out about the guards, my lady,’ he said excitedly. ‘They looked a tough bunch to me and, without wishing to blacken anyone’s good name without due cause, it’d be pretty obvious to anyone that they’d likely be the best source of information regarding Florian’s movements.’

     ‘Yes, Augustus, that’s right.’ She shot him a smile, then turned to Saul. ‘Brother Saul? Were you about to say something?’