What have you done?' he said in a strangled voice. 'How dare you – how dare you!'
I was terrified. The man was clearly a deacon, and quite young. He must have been in the vestry and heard Sir Hugh and I talking. I had been so preoccupied that I had not heard him come stealthily up behind me. For all he knew I was a common thief and the worst sort of impious blasphemer. But then I remembered why I was here. 'I am doing the Bishop's bidding,' I stammered.
'The Bishop? What have you to do with the Bishop, boy?' The deacon had merely been shocked before: now he was angry as well.
'I am with Sir Hugh de Kervezey, Steward to the Bishop. He asked me to fetch the hand of St Euphemia. The Bishop requires it.'
'I see no Steward,' said the deacon. And, looking past his shoulder, neither did I. From where we stood, the body of the cathedral beyond the rood screen was in shadow. Sir Hugh must be sitting in a pew out of sight, I thought.
'He did not wish to approach the altar, although he has permission,' I said, desperately. 'The Bishop wants the hand. I am Petroc of Auneford, late of Buckfast in Devon and now studying here at the Cathedral School. Please,' I added, feeling close to childish tears, 'I mean no harm. Sir Hugh will speak for me.'
'Sir Hugh be damned, boy,' spat the deacon. 'Give me the hand.' 'Please, sir, it is true,' I pleaded.
'Give me the hand, and then I will call the Watch. You should not have drawn the Bishop into your poisonous lies, boy. You will surely suffer for what you have done.'
I was about to give up the reliquary, but a flash of something in the nave caught my eye. And there was Sir Hugh leaning against the rood screen, his arm raised casually. 'Come, Petroc, the Bishop is waiting for us,' he called.
I looked at the deacon in triumph. 'Sir Hugh,' I told him. The man glared at me. 'I see an accomplice, and a bold one,' he said. 'Come with me.' And he grabbed a fistful of my cowl and began to drag me down the aisle.
We were about half-way across the chancel when I felt his grip loosen, and we halted. The deacon turned to me, and his face had changed. Rage had fled, to be replaced with doubt. 'That is Sir Hugh de Kervezey,' he informed me. I nodded.
'I know,' I said. 'Please talk to him, then you will see I was telling the truth.'
And now I followed the deacon as he strode across the tiles. He was quite a tall man, and perhaps ten years older than me. Now that he had regained some composure, I saw that his face was not unkind, although he looked very tired. Long hours in this cold building, I thought, and who knows what battles he fought in prayer? I began to feel less ill-inclined towards him.
Sir Hugh was waiting for us, a tight smile on his lips. After the glittering majesty of the altar, the green damask of his clothes looked drab, but his face was almost as noble – and as unreadable – as one of the stone images that regarded us from all sides. His eyes, as they followed the deacon and me, did not blink. As we approached, he drew himself upright.
'Master deacon,' he said, ignoring me completely, 'I see you know me.'
Yes, my lord,' said the man at my side. Now it was his turn to stammer. 'I found this boy taking things from the altar, and thought I had caught a thief. Now I see he told me the truth, and I am sorry for thinking ill of him.'
'No matter, no matter,' said Sir Hugh, and treated us to a wide, white smile. 'I have the honour of addressing Jean de Nointot, I believe? Your uncle fought at Hattin.'
Yes, yes, my lord. That is so. I am amazed that you know of my family.'
'Brother Jean, remember that I am the Bishop's man. Now, has my young friend Petroc given offence?'
'In no way, my lord,' said the deacon, laying his hand on my shoulder. 'Although I fear I have terrified him. I certainly did not wish to interfere with the Bishop's affairs.'
Sir Hugh laughed. 'Terror seems to be Petroc's lot,' he said. 'But of course he will forgive you. Besides, I believe his fortunes are about to change.'
While this exchange went on, I stood between these two men, still clutching the golden hand. I was pleased that Jean the deacon had more or less apologised for frightening me half to death, and as he seemed a likeable man I was all too ready to forgive him, although I wished Sir Hugh had not done so for me. But what did he mean about my fortunes changing?
The knight and the deacon were now talking freely, Sir Hugh asking little questions about cathedral life, Jean de Nointot answering him happily. Then it seemed Sir Hugh noticed me again. 'But we are keeping you, and the Bishop is waiting,' he said. "Will you walk us to the door?'
'Gladly,' said the deacon, and then paused. 'It is none of my affair, but I am cursed with an enquiring nature,' he said, with a shy grin. 'But would you tell me why St Euphemia's hand is needed at the palace? I might also have to explain its absence to the Dean.'
'Nothing simpler,' said Sir Hugh. He reached out a friendly hand to the deacon, whose smile grew broader as he waited to be drawn into the confidence of the Steward.
Instead, Sir Hugh grabbed the front of his habit and pulled the deacon towards him so fast that the man's head jerked backwards. He yelped as Sir Hugh's knee came up between his legs and slammed into his groin. He began to crumple, but Sir Hugh's left arm snaked around him, spinning him to face me as I stood petrified, the world around our little group erased by this dreamlike flash of violence. Jean de Nointot hung from Sir Hugh's grip, choking and gasping for air. The knight looked past the twitching head and our eyes met. It was like falling through ice. Then I saw that the long blade of Thorn was in his right hand. He let the deacon slip down until the man's chin was under his left forearm, the throat stretched long and pallid. Quick as a kingfisher's beak piercing water, he stabbed Thorn deep into the side of the deacon's neck and cut forward.
There was a ghastly whistling sound, and then the deacon's blood burst from his neck in a thick roiling jet that hit me full in the chest. I staggered back, burning liquid in my eyes, in my hair, my mouth, running down inside my habit. There was a full-bodied reek of salt and iron and I gagged, spinning away in my soaking robes, the hot gore seething against my skin as it trickled down my back, under my arms and into the hair between my legs. The dead man in Sir Hugh's arms whistled once more, an empty squeak that ended in a forlorn burble. I could see, as if through a red gauze, Sir Hugh still holding the deacon under the chin so that the weight of the corpse dragged its slashed throat apart into a vast wound in which secret things were revealed, white, yellow, red, like the inlaid patterns in the altar steps. I thought I saw the flap between head and torso stretch like dough in a baker's hands, then I was running down the nave half-blind, blood squelching between my toes at every step. Behind me I could hear Sir Hugh's voice echoing in the cavernous shadows. He was laughing, a great, warm laugh full of ease and pleasure. 'Stop,' he called, happily. 'Come back, Petroc! What a mess you've made! What on earth made you do such a thing?'
Chapter Four
My eyes were raw with the salt of the deacon's blood and my own blood was roaring in my ears as I threw myself out of the west door and onto the pavement of the Cathedral Yard. It was not late, and people were still abroad, clerics bent on some errand, strollers arm in arm with friends or sweethearts. My mind was empty of any thought save that of escape, and I ran towards the nearest figure, waving my arms and yelling for help at the top of my voice. But the man, a merchant, stared at me for a moment, his mouth open in a parody of shock that would have been at home on a misericord. Then he turned and ran from me, shouting incoherently as he went.