‘Been there since before my great-grandfather’s time,’ he said. ‘No one recalls now when it was built, but it was after them Vampyre Wars the stories tell of, I reckon. Never been used for war, though. Armies don’t come here. Nothing for them: no plunder, no gain. Been a monastery now for more than a hundred years. Lowis monks. Fine spirit they produce there, made from grain. Take your head off, it will! Not that they allow much of it to
leave the monastery. Maybe a barrel at midwinter. By God, there’s some celebration around that time.’The name struck a chord with me and I remembered the conversation with Brackban. Mace had spoken with the Bishop of Lowis.
‘Can you row me across the lake?’ I asked the old man.
‘I could, I reckon,’ he said, ‘if I had a mind to.’I am not a killer, sir. I have no evil intent towards the Morningstar. But it is vital that I see him.’I know you’re no murderer, boy. Been around enough of them in my life. Him, now,’ he said, gesturing a gnarled finger at Wulf, ‘he’s a rough ‘un. Wouldn’t want him against me on a dark night.’Wulf gave a lopsided grin. ‘You’re safe, old man.’Aye, I am. But if I hadn’t liked the look of you, I’d have poisoned that stew.’The way it tasted, I thought you had,’ replied Wulf.
The old man gave a dry chuckle. ‘All right, I’ll take you across, Owen Odell. But only you, mind!’I followed him along the shoreline to where an ancient coracle was pulled up on the bank; it was made of dry rushes and resembled my old bathtub back home. ‘She leaks somewhat, but she’ll get us there,’ he promised, and together we pulled the old craft out on to the dark water. I clambered in and he followed me, settling down on his knees and picking up a wide-bladed oar which he used expertly as the coracle moved out onto the lake.
Water seeped in, drenching my leggings, and I began to wonder if this was a good night to learn to swim. The old man glanced back over his shoulder and chuckled. ‘Seems like I didn’t use enough pitch,’ he said, ‘but don’t you worry, she won’t sink.’The island of the castle loomed before us, dark and unwelcoming. The coracle scraped on shingle and the old man leapt nimbly out, dragging the craft towards the land. I stood and splashed into the shallow water, wading ashore; a cold breeze blew and I shivered.
‘You’ll be grateful for the wet,’ said the boatman. ‘The monks’ll take pity on you and offer you some of their water-of-life.’I thanked him and set off up a narrow path that led to the main gates of the castle. There were no sentries on the walls, and no sound from within. I bunched my hand into a fist and pounded on
the gate. At first nothing happened, but after several attempts and a growing soreness in my hand I heard the bar being lifted. The gate swung open and a small man with shaven head came into sight; he was wearing a long grey habit bound with a rope of silken thread.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded gruffly.
‘A little courtesy,’ I responded, ‘and shelter for the night.’There’s shelter to be had in the village,’ he told me.
‘I thought this was a House of God,’ I said, my temper rising.
‘That does not make it a haven for vagrant ruffians,’ he replied.
‘I am not a violent man . . .’ I began.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then do not allow yourself to fall into bad habits. Good night to you.’Before I could reply he had stepped back, and began to close the gate. I threw my weight against it – rather too sharply, for the gate crashed into him, hurling him to the ground. I stepped inside. ‘My apologies,’ I told him, reaching out a hand to help him up. He rolled to his knees, ignoring my offer of aid, then heaved himself upright.
‘Your non-violent behaviour is not impressive,’ he said.
‘Neither is your grasp of God’s hospitality,’ I responded.
‘Owen!’ came a familiar voice and I turned and looked up. Standing by an open doorway, framed in lantern-light, stood Jarek Mace.