said. ‘You two should give exhibitions. When you’ve found your man, come back.’
‘What’s ex’bitions, Gwil?’ Penda asked as they set out.
‘Mummery and such.’ Gwil had a low opinion of it. ‘Fire-eaters, jugglers and the like showing off their skills to amuse lords on feast days.’
‘What’s fire-eaters? What’s jugglers?’
When she’d absorbed the concept, Penda was quiet for a time. Then she said: ‘That old man said as
we
was skilled.’
‘Better than most, but don’t you get proud now. Ruins your aim, getting too proud does.’
‘Do they pay, these exhibitions?’
‘Suppose they must. Low way of living, though.’
‘Like our money. You said that was getting low. It’d be a way of getting about, Gwil, and we could ask if anybody’d seen a monk with your crossbow.’
He looked at her; in her eagerness she’d tugged at his sleeve, the first time she’d ever touched him. Bless her, did she think the crossbow was the be-all and end-all in his hunt for the monk?
Give it up, Gwil
, God said.
Take her back to Brittany with you
.
‘And do what, Lord?’
Make a home for her. She can’t wander for ever, not dressed as a boy. It’s not natural and one of these days she’ll remember
…
‘Maybe she will, maybe she won’t, but it ain’t natural what they did to her, neither. What that monk did … he ought to suffer.’
Vengeance is mine, Gwil. He’ll suffer when he gets to Hell, I’ll see to that
.
It wasn’t enough. Gwil saw his life, what life he had left, stretching in front of him, unfulfilled, wondering what the monk was doing, whether he was prospering, praying with steepled hands, chanting, being lauded for his sanctity, and all the time his sin seeping from him like filth, miring other young red-headed girls with its slime.
Then, and only then, did it occur to him that the thought of the monk had propelled his hunt from the beginning.
Ramon and the others? Animals on hind legs. Slaughtered animals now. The true monstrosity was the beast dressed in holy robes, an abnormality unfit to live.
‘And there’s a link between us, Lord,’ he said. ‘It was in the girl’s hand. You left the quill case there so’s I could find him through it. You meant it for a sign. Don’t tell me You didn’t. I know You did.’
God remained silent; He couldn’t wriggle out of that one.
‘You all right, Gwil?’ Penda asked. ‘You’re muttering.’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘
We
could give exhibitions, Gwil. We’d earn money. I hit dead centre every time now. I’m good at it, that old lord said I was. I like shooting.’ Penda’s voice became a deliberate whine. ‘Only thing I do like.’
She’s playing on it, Gwil
, the Lord said.
You’re becoming fond, and she knows it. She’s twisting you.
Yes, she was, but that too, like her affection for bright clothing, showed she was getting better. The dullness that had encased her like the patina on an old sword was beginning to rub off, allowing glimpses of the character beneath. And the talking; although she still shrank from strangers, around him she was almost garrulous and what with her incessant questions, there were times when he was nostalgic for the days when she was mute.
‘Bloody mountebank, that’s what you are,’ he said, grumbling.
‘What’s a mountebank?’
The document in the quill case went untranslated because, though he enquired of lawyers, notaries and priests, Gwil found nobody who could read Greek. His other questioning of everyone he met was treated as laughable. A monk? Monks were two-a-penny; most were confined to their monasteries, but there were enough travelling on monastic business, carrying letters etc., from abbey to abbey, as to make them unremarkable.
‘This one stinks of asafoetida, though,’ Gwil would persist. It was no good; most of those he quizzed wouldn’t have recognized asafoetida if it had been shoved up their nostrils, it being a rare commodity in England. A knowledgeable
‘What’s ex’bitions, Gwil?’ Penda asked as they set out.
‘Mummery and such.’ Gwil had a low opinion of it. ‘Fire-eaters, jugglers and the like showing off their skills to amuse lords on feast days.’
‘What’s fire-eaters? What’s jugglers?’
When she’d absorbed the concept, Penda was quiet for a time. Then she said: ‘That old man said as
we
was skilled.’
‘Better than most, but don’t you get proud now. Ruins your aim, getting too proud does.’
‘Do they pay, these exhibitions?’
‘Suppose they must. Low way of living, though.’
‘Like our money. You said that was getting low. It’d be a way of getting about, Gwil, and we could ask if anybody’d seen a monk with your crossbow.’
He looked at her; in her eagerness she’d tugged at his sleeve, the first time she’d ever touched him. Bless her, did she think the crossbow was the be-all and end-all in his hunt for the monk?
Give it up, Gwil
, God said.
Take her back to Brittany with you
.
‘And do what, Lord?’
Make a home for her. She can’t wander for ever, not dressed as a boy. It’s not natural and one of these days she’ll remember
…
‘Maybe she will, maybe she won’t, but it ain’t natural what they did to her, neither. What that monk did … he ought to suffer.’
Vengeance is mine, Gwil. He’ll suffer when he gets to Hell, I’ll see to that
.
It wasn’t enough. Gwil saw his life, what life he had left, stretching in front of him, unfulfilled, wondering what the monk was doing, whether he was prospering, praying with steepled hands, chanting, being lauded for his sanctity, and all the time his sin seeping from him like filth, miring other young red-headed girls with its slime.
Then, and only then, did it occur to him that the thought of the monk had propelled his hunt from the beginning.
Ramon and the others? Animals on hind legs. Slaughtered animals now. The true monstrosity was the beast dressed in holy robes, an abnormality unfit to live.
‘And there’s a link between us, Lord,’ he said. ‘It was in the girl’s hand. You left the quill case there so’s I could find him through it. You meant it for a sign. Don’t tell me You didn’t. I know You did.’
God remained silent; He couldn’t wriggle out of that one.
‘You all right, Gwil?’ Penda asked. ‘You’re muttering.’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘
We
could give exhibitions, Gwil. We’d earn money. I hit dead centre every time now. I’m good at it, that old lord said I was. I like shooting.’ Penda’s voice became a deliberate whine. ‘Only thing I do like.’
She’s playing on it, Gwil
, the Lord said.
You’re becoming fond, and she knows it. She’s twisting you.
Yes, she was, but that too, like her affection for bright clothing, showed she was getting better. The dullness that had encased her like the patina on an old sword was beginning to rub off, allowing glimpses of the character beneath. And the talking; although she still shrank from strangers, around him she was almost garrulous and what with her incessant questions, there were times when he was nostalgic for the days when she was mute.
‘Bloody mountebank, that’s what you are,’ he said, grumbling.
‘What’s a mountebank?’
The document in the quill case went untranslated because, though he enquired of lawyers, notaries and priests, Gwil found nobody who could read Greek. His other questioning of everyone he met was treated as laughable. A monk? Monks were two-a-penny; most were confined to their monasteries, but there were enough travelling on monastic business, carrying letters etc., from abbey to abbey, as to make them unremarkable.
‘This one stinks of asafoetida, though,’ Gwil would persist. It was no good; most of those he quizzed wouldn’t have recognized asafoetida if it had been shoved up their nostrils, it being a rare commodity in England. A knowledgeable
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