Owain hesitated, then nodded. ‘They honour Stephen as much as they do the Old People,’ he said.
Then Eada reached into the basket and, to my horror, lifted out a dead cockerel and laid it in the very heart of the stone.
The bird was only freshly killed, for blood oozed across the stone where Eada had laid its corpse.
I opened my mouth to speak, to voice my horror, but Owain caught me by the arm and squeezed it tight as the women, now done, approached us.
Eada’s mouth twitched as she saw my appalled face. ‘For the wolves, my lady. For the wolves.’
And then she and her companions were gone out the door.
‘For the wolves?’ I hissed.
Owain nodded toward the walls. ‘You remember the wolves in the paintings. I told you that in ancient times people believed that the wolves were their protectors. The villagers still believe so, and like to appease the wolves in the mountains that Crickhoel may be spared their angry ravages.’
I remembered then the dream I’d had when I was dying, of the wolves who snapped at my heels and prevented me moving completely into death.
‘They are no protectors of mine,’ I said.
‘Do not fret. I will remove both flowers and cockerel.’
‘Just the cockerel, perhaps,’ I said.
He laughed, then leaned forward and laid a gentle kiss on my forehead. ‘Go in peace, Maeb. Do not worry about the ancient legends. Look after that child and husband of yours. And remember that Pengraic always waits here for you as refuge, should you need it.’
We travelled to London by the same route we had, so many months previous, travelled from Oxeneford to Pengraic. As Raife had said, we journeyed more slowly than when Stephen had led us westward, partly because Raife did not want to risk the child, and partly because our train was so large — ten carts, a hundred and sixty soldiers, knights, servants, grooms and two minstrels Raife had contracted to entertain us along the way.
Additionally, the further east we travelled, we acquired almost a score and four of pilgrims who travelled with us for the protection we afforded. Three parties were travelling to Saint Edmund’s Burie and then on to Walsingaham; another party to the tomb of Edward the Confessor in Westminster; others yet much further afield, to shrines in Europe, and even Jerusalem. All were glad to have the protection offered by the earl’s column as it travelled toward London, and the pilgrims themselves provided us with much entertainment in the evenings as they told us their tales.
But in many places it was grim travelling. On our journey we passed two villages which had burned entirely to the ground, most of their residents carried off by the plague. In other places, a house here and there may have burned, but most buildings still stood, even if many of the buildings, or the whole village, were now deserted.
It was not unusual to see flocks of sheep, pigs or cattle left to fend for themselves, or stray, starving dogs that the soldiers had to beat away from our column. There were people, too, on the road, who passed hollow-eyed and thin, their clothes worn and ragged. They rarely gave us a glance, and did not respond to greetings, as if they had lost any connection to this world, even though they still lived within it.
The monks in the monasteries where we stayed, or the lords of manors who offered us shelter for the night, warned us of parties of brigands. Men left desperate after losing everything during the plague, and now resorting to stealing and thieving to feed themselves. Despite the warnings, we were never troubled by them. I think the sheer size of our column, and the number of soldiers and knights who travelled with us, meant that any brigands kept to the forests, perhaps coveting our riches with their eyes, but not daring to attack.
Many of the towns we passed through had been damaged by the plague. Monemude and Glowecestre both had swathes of their housing blackened and burned, although the majority of their towns had survived.
Cirecestre, however, was almost totally ruined. Here it was easier to count the houses left standing, not the ones lost. We rode through the town in absolute silence, everyone overcome with the horror of what had happened, everyone imagining what it must have been like — the plague triumphant, and the town afire. Here and there men made the effort to rebuild, but I thought it would be a lifetime before the town existed again in any measure of normality.
Thus sorrow marked our journey. Everywhere we rode the plague reminded us of its grim toll. Everywhere we stayed we heard more stories of the suffering. Every family house and monastery we overnighted at was the lesser in number because of the plague than it had been when we’d passed through on the journey toward Pengraic. There was one monastery which offered Raife and myself a bed for the night — the bed was scorched although still sound, and it sickened us so much we slept on the floor.
Saints knew what lived in its mattress.
It was if we travelled to London along a vast, open wound which still suppurated anguish.
I prayed that the plague had indeed worn itself out. That, having taken what it wanted, it had now slunk back to whatever hell had spawned it. I did not think the country and its people could survive another onslaught.
After we’d passed Oxeneford, the land was better off. Here the plague had bypassed the hamlets and peoples, and most appeared bright and well. Peasants were in the fields bringing in the harvest, or driving their pigs into the forests to gorge on acorns before the Christmastide slaughter. Here was another world, the world I had forgot, and even though I had my concerns about court, somehow these contented lands relaxed me and I became happier the closer we came to London.
I allowed myself to believe that all my troubles lay behind me. I allowed myself to believe that I had a future as Raife’s wife. I allowed myself to dream of a life bouncing his babies on my knee, and watching them grow untroubled and beloved in a bright, unshadowed meadow.
I was very young then, and naïve.
The day we approached London was dark and gloomy and cold, for autumn had started to descend. By the time we rode through the tiny hamlet of Hamestede and neared the city, the occasional showers of earlier in the day settled into a steady drizzle that soaked through our mantles and froze our hands. I was half agog to see London ahead of me (drifting in and out of the rainclouds) and half desperate to find a warm chamber with a roaring fire.
Raife, riding close, looked at me in worry. ‘You are exhausted,’ he said. ‘It has been a long day,’ I said. As it had. We had risen at dawn and left not long after in the effort to reach London before dark. Now it was approaching dusk.
‘We will ride straight to my house on Cornhill,’ he said. ‘Another hour, two at the most, and we will be there. The steward has been warned of our arrival and will have the house bright and warm and a meal awaiting.’
Thank the saints for stewards, I thought. But an hour or two more? That meant we would not arrive until well after dark.
‘Which way is Westminster?’ I asked, trying to show some enthusiasm for Raife’s sake.
He pointed almost due south. ‘That way. On Thorney Isle. Edmond has a goodly enough palace there.’
‘We should not ride there first, as a courtesy?’ I desperately hoped not. I was exhausted, and I did not think I could cope with the complexities of court, nor with being polite and courteous, when I felt so fatigued and sore and sick to my stomach. Today my pregnancy wearied me immensely. I had not been able to keep any food down, and my temper was snappish and hot.
Raife shook his head. ‘No. We will go straight to the house. It is too late to pay Edmond a visit now. Time enough tomorrow for courtesy.’
I was so relieved I almost wept. Dulcette had a sweet pace, but right now I only wanted to get off her back and collapse onto a bed. Food and fires be damned … all I wanted was the bed.
Raife reached across and briefly laid a silent hand on my shoulder. That gesture of care was enough to undo me, and I spent the rest of the ride to London snuffling childishly and surreptitiously wiping away my tears.
We entered London through Lud Gate. Despite my exhaustion I roused enough to gaze about me. I had never seen the like of this! Immense red-brick walls punctuated by high towers surrounded the city, and as soon as we were through and riding up Lud Hill my gaze was drawn to a space further up the road, atop the hill, where arose what looked to be the unfinished building of a cathedral.