Morcar, lacking the knowledge to agree or dispute, had merely grunted. Then he had taken his gleeve and set off to catch some of the huge population of eels that the dark fen waters provided in such abundance. Or so he had hoped; in five days, his total was eight, and he had only caught those because a kindly and more experienced man had helped him. In despair, he was on the point of giving up.
Morcar was nothing if not determined, however. Taciturn, slow to lower his habitual guard sufficiently to make friends, he was by nature a solitary man and, other than to his mother, rarely spoke more than a handful of words to anyone. Silence concealed not weakness but stubborn strength; now he ground his teeth till his jaw ached as he made up his mind. I will try once more, he decided, and then I will call it a day.
Perhaps his luck would change if he moved upstream a few paces. . Eager now, filled with a sudden, unreasoned hope, he hurried up the track, away from the abbey and the confusion of the building site, at last quiet as evening approached. Once again he took up his pose on the very edge of the high bank. Then he stared down into the water.
He waited.
What was that? Movement? Did his eyes play tricks, or was there really a dark, sinuous shape moving silkily through the water?
There was no time to think. Raising his gleeve, staring fixedly at the faint ripple just beneath the surface, he drew back his right arm. Using his left arm as a pointer, he sighted along it and then with all his strength hurled the gleeve into the water.
He knew immediately that at last he had done it; the heavy weight on the end of the gleeve told him so. Hurriedly, hand over hand, he drew the pole back to the bank, laughing aloud as he saw what was wriggling and struggling on the barbs. Quickly he reached for the eel — it was a large one, almost the length of his arm, black and shiny in the faint light — and, releasing it from the barbs, he dispatched it swiftly as he had been taught and flung it down on the ground.
In his jubilation he forgot to be cautious. Eager to collect his gear, his eel and at last head for his lodgings, he forgot the perils of the steep bank and the narrow track that ran along the top of it, slippery from the incessant rain and the many feet that had trudged up and down it. He turned too fast, missed his footing and tumbled down towards the water.
If he fell in he would probably die. Nobody was there to hear him cry out, he could not swim, the water was deep and the sides of the stream so steep that he would not be able to climb them unaided. Acting instinctively — there was no time for thought — he thrust his gleeve into the bank.
It stuck securely into the earth and brought him to a shuddering, trembling halt. It undoubtedly saved his life. Unfortunately, in his panic he had managed to drive its sharp points through his right foot.
He lay there shaking with shock. The pain had not started yet — he knew it was only a matter of time — and before it did he edged himself up over the lip of the bank so that his shoulders and chest were safe on the track. Then he gritted his teeth and worked away at the gleeve until, with a nauseating squelching sound and a horrible grating as the metal spikes ground against bone, it ripped free of his foot. Before the agony really took hold, he gathered the last of his strength and swung his legs up on to the track.
He risked a quick look at his right foot. The leather of his boot bore two long, tattered tears — it seemed he had only speared himself with two of the three points — and he could see his pale flesh already dark with blood. A wave of dizziness washed through him, and he put his head on the wet ground.
I can’t stay here, he told himself. I must find shelter. Help. Clean water and cleansing herbs.
With a huge effort he stood up. Using the gleeve as a staff, he picked up his eel and his pack and began to hobble back along the track.
Morcar pulled the hood of his new cloak forward in a futile effort to shield his head from the biting cold. The cloak was quite short, its hem reaching scarcely to his hips, and it did not keep the wet out nearly as efficiently as the merchant who had sold it had promised. Moreover, it stank of whatever animal fat had been rubbed into it. The rain had at long last eased and now was no more than a misty dampness in the chilly air. Tendrils of white mist were swirling up from the sodden ground, twirling around his feet and ankles.
He hunched his shoulders and pressed on. He was close to the abbey walls now, and the flares set high up to light the track illuminated the puddles. He was still beside water, but now it was a stinking, dirty ditch, all but stagnant, and he doubted there would be anything living beneath the scummy surface.
Something caught his eye. An eel? Surely not. But if it were, he ought to have a try at spearing it, for he had suffered so much that day and two eels instead of one would be a more cheering result for all the hardship. His foot was throbbing, each throb so painful that he all but swooned. Forcing himself to ignore both the agony and the sensible voice in his head urging him to get back to his lodgings immediately and stop being such a fool, he put down his pack and the dead eel and once more raised his pole.
Whatever was down there under the water did not seem to be moving very much. The light from the flares caught it now and then; Morcar waited a moment and then took aim. The points of the gleeve struck, there was a clatter, as if metal had hit metal, and then something huge seemed to roll over in the dark water, sending up great bubbles of gas that burst as they surfaced, emitting a stench so foul that Morcar gagged.
Dear God in heaven, what was it?
Morcar stepped closer.
Beneath his horrified eyes, bobbing gently in the foul water, lay what had once been a man. A warrior, for the remnants of his rusting armour still clung to the skeletal remains. Morcar, his heart beating fast from the shock, wrenched his gaze away from the macabre apparition and turned his face to the sanctuary of the walls.
Then the lights went out.
He cried out in terror for, in the instant before the darkness came, he saw — or thought he saw — a pale shape rising up out of the mist, which now lay like a soft, slowly billowing blanket across the ground. His eyes wide, he stared, quite incapable of looking away, and the horror of the image that still seemed to burn into his eyes brought a long, low moan of dread from his parted lips. Then he saw more figures — a group of them, shadowy, vague — and he heard a sharp cry, quickly suppressed.
He sought frantically for a rational explanation, but panic gripped him and sense had flown.
From some resource deep within him he found the strength to pull himself out of his horrified trance. His wound hurt so much that he all but retched as he hurried up the track, heading almost blindly for the bulk of the abbey walls rising up before him. I must find the gate, he thought, fighting the abject fear that threatened to turn his bowels and his bones to water. I must find the gate, for within the walls there is light and company and safety.
Running — trying to run — had screwed tight the pain in his foot until it was all but intolerable, making him weak and faint. Leaning heavily on his gleeve, he forced his legs to move. One step. Two steps. Three. Four.