“I’m troubled to hear you say so, sir.”
“Why so? He hardly longs for a life feeding pigs and digging the cold soil.”
“Yet what will become of him at your side?”
“Once my mission’s complete, I’ll take him back to the fens.”
“And what will you have him do there, sir? Fight Norsemen all his days?”
“You frown, sir, but the boy has an unusual temperament. He’ll make a fine warrior. But hush, let’s see what he has for us.”
They had come to where three wooden shacks stood at the side of the lane, in such disrepair that each appeared to be held up by its neighbour. The wet ground was rutted with wheeltracks, and Edwin paused to point these out. Then he led them into the furthest of the three shacks.
There was no door, and much of the roof was open to the sky. As they came in, several birds flew off in furious commotion, and Axl saw, in the gloomy space vacated, a crudely made cart — perhaps the work of the monks themselves — its two wheels sunk into the mud. What arrested the attention was a large cage mounted on its carriage, and coming closer, Axl noticed that though the cage was itself iron, a thick wooden pillar ran down its spine, fixing it firmly to the boards underneath. This same post was festooned with chains and manacles, and at head height, what appeared to be a blackened iron mask, though with no holes for the eyes, and only a small one for the mouth. The cart, and the area all around it, was covered with feathers and droppings. Edwin pulled open the cage door and proceeded to move it back and forth on its squeaking hinge. He was again speaking excited words, to which Wistan, throwing searching glances around the shed, returned the occasional nod.
“It’s curious,” Axl said, “these monks should have need of such an object as this. No doubt to aid some pious ritual.”
The warrior started to move around the cart, stepping carefully to avoid the stagnant puddles. “I saw something like this once before,” he said. “You may suppose this device intended to expose the man within it to the cruelty of the elements. Yet look, see how these bars stand far enough apart to allow my shoulder to pass through. And here, look, how these feathers stick to the iron in hardened blood. A man fastened here is offered thus to the mountain birds. Caught in these cuffs, he has no way to fight off the hungry beaks. This iron mask, though it may look frightful, is in fact a thing of mercy, for with it the eyes at least aren’t feasted on.”
“There may yet be some more gentle purpose,” Axl said, but Edwin had started to talk again, and Wistan turned and looked out of the shed.
“The boy says he followed these tracks out to a spot nearby on the cliff’s edge,” the warrior said, eventually. “He says the ground’s well rutted there, showing where this wagon has often stayed. In other words, the signs all support my guess, and I can see too this cart’s been wheeled out just lately.”
“I don’t know what it means, Master Wistan, but I admit I now begin to share your uneasiness. This object sends a chill through me and makes me want to return to my wife’s side.”
“It’s as well we do, sir. Let’s stay no longer.”
But as they came out of the shack, Edwin, who again was leading, stopped abruptly. Looking past him into the evening gloom, Axl could see a robed figure in the tall grass a short distance from them.
“I’d say it’s the monk lately sweeping the yard,” the warrior said to Axl.
“Does he see us?”
“I’d say he sees us and knows we see him. Yet he stands there still as a tree. Well, let’s go to him.”
The monk was standing at a spot to the side of their path, the grass up to his knee. As they approached the man remained quite still, though the wind pulled at his robe and long white hair. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his protruding eyes stared at them without expression.
“You observe us, sir,” Wistan said, stopping, “and you know what we’ve just discovered. So perhaps you’d tell us the purpose to which you monks put that device.”
Saying nothing, the monk pointed towards the monastery.
“It may be he’s vowed to silence,” Axl said. “Or else as mute as you lately pretended, Master Wistan.”
The monk came out of the grass and onto the path. His strange eyes fixed each of them in turn, then he pointed again towards the monastery and set off. They followed him, just a short distance behind, the monk continually glancing back at them over his shoulder.
The monastery buildings were now dark shapes against the setting sky. As they drew closer, the monk paused, moved his forefinger over his lips, then continued at a more cautious pace. He seemed anxious they remain unseen, and to avoid the central courtyard. He took them down narrow passageways behind buildings where the earth was pitted or sloped severely. Once, as they went with heads bowed along a wall, there came from the very windows above sounds from the monks’ conference. One voice was shouting over a hubbub, then a second voice — perhaps that of the abbot — called for order. But there was no time to loiter, and soon they were gathered at an archway through which could be seen the main courtyard. The monk now indicated with urgent signs that they were to proceed as quickly and quietly as possible.
As it was they were not obliged to cross the courtyard, where torches were now burning, but only to skirt one corner under the shadows of a colonnade. When the monk halted again, Axl whispered to him:
“Good sir, since your intention must be to take us somewhere, I’d ask you to let me go fetch my wife, for I’m uneasy leaving her alone.”
The monk, who had turned immediately to fix Axl in a stare, shook his head and pointed into the semi-dark. Only then did Axl spot Beatrice standing in a doorway further down the cloister. Relieved, he gave a wave, and as the party moved towards her, there came from behind them a surge of angry voices from the monks’ meeting.
“How is it with you, princess?” he asked, reaching to take her outstretched hands.
“Peacefully taking my rest, Axl, when this silent monk appeared before me, the way I took him for a phantom. But he’s keen to lead us somewhere and we’d best follow.”
The monk repeated his gesture for silence, then beckoning, pushed past Beatrice across the threshold where she had been waiting.
The corridors now became as tunnel-like as those of their warren at home, and the lamps flickering in the little alcoves hardly dispelled the darkness. Axl, with Beatrice holding his arm, kept a hand held out before him. For a moment they were back in the open air, crossing a muddy yard between ploughed allotments, then into another low stone building. Here the corridor was wider and lit by larger flames, and the monk seemed finally to relax. Recovering his breath, he looked them over once more, then signalling for them to wait, vanished under an arch. After a little time, the monk appeared again and ushered them forward. As he did so, a frail voice from within said: “Come in, guests. A poor chamber this to receive you, but you’re welcome.”
As he waited for sleep to come to him, Axl recalled once again how the four of them, together with the silent monk, had squeezed into the tiny cell. A candle was burning next to the bed, and he had felt Beatrice recoil as she caught sight of the figure lying in it. Then she had taken a breath and moved further into the room. There was hardly space for them all, but they had before long arranged themselves around the bed, the warrior and the boy in the corner furthest away. Axl’s back was pressed against the chilly stone wall, but Beatrice, standing just in front and leaning into him as if for reassurance, was almost up to the sickbed. There was a faint smell of vomit and urine. The silent monk, meanwhile, was fussing about the man in the bed, helping to raise him to a sitting position.