Josse reached into his pouch and prepared some coins. When he was face to face with the mean-looking man on the gate, he offered a couple of clipped silver half-pennies, hoping that one of them would suffice. Both were quietly taken from his open palm. The man gave him a quick grin that was no more than a stretching of his lips and curtly nodded him through.
Within the enclosure another man came to take the cob; he, too, was heavily built and he bore the facial scars and flattened nose that suggested a life of fighting. Reckoning that it was no doubt the large amounts of money being made that necessitated so many guards — for that was surely what they were; there were three more of them loitering just inside the fence — Josse handed over the horse’s reins.
He edged along the path behind an old woman supporting an even older man. Turning, she gave him the time of day. Her expression was tense, her sunken blue eyes bright with excitement.
‘What’s up with you, then?’ she asked.
‘My back.’ Josse adopted a crouch and put a hand to the small of his back.
‘Ah-ha!’ She grimaced understandingly, as if she knew all about bad backs. ‘My old man here’ — she gave the man beside her a nudge in his skinny ribs — ‘he’s all but blind.’ The old man turned to peer at Josse through cloudy eyes and gave him a nod. ‘But that’ll soon change!’ the woman added happily.
Josse felt a stab of pity for her hopeless optimism. ‘You expect a miracle?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said confidently. ‘It’s Merlin, isn’t it? He’s magic, he is, and he’s one of us.’ Lowering her voice, she added in a whisper, ‘He and his magic were here long before the other lot came. They may have their fine abbeys and their holy springs but they can’t stamp out the old ways, now, can they? And now here’s our Merlin returned to us and back in his rightful place!’ She smiled her satisfaction. ‘Now we’ll see some wonders!’
Not entirely sure what she meant by the other lot — it sounded disturbingly as if she was referring to the Christian church and perhaps Hawkenlye in particular — Josse murmured a meaningless acknowledgement. Just then the line moved on several paces and he said, ‘I wish you luck!’
‘You too!’ the old woman called.
He shuffled slowly on, one hand on his back, face screwed up in pretend pain, letting a gap develop between himself and the elderly couple. He wanted to take his time in studying the whole area. The path led on to a second, higher, fence, also gated; this second fence was solidly built with hazel hurdles and underbrush and Josse could see neither over nor through it. By the open gate stood a man.
He was younger and far less heavily built than the toughs on the outer fence. He was also much better dressed, in a tunic of bright scarlet velvet trimmed with heavy gold braid. His boots were of soft leather, fitted him like a second skin and looked brand-new. His hair — bright chestnut and gleaming with cleanliness — was neatly cut and his light grey eyes shone with health. He was clean-shaven and extremely handsome. He was, undoubtedly, Florian of Southfrith.
Josse approached him and gave him a low bow, as befitted an impoverished man with backache greeting a young and wealthy lord.
A long, pale hand was extended, resting on Josse’s shoulder in a brief touch. ‘Rise up,’ intoned an educated voice, in the tone of a priest bestowing a blessing, ‘for your suffering will soon be at an end.’ Josse straightened, looking the young man in the face. Florian appeared taken aback at such a bold stare; hastily Josse lowered his eyes.
‘Thank’ee, Master,’ he muttered.
‘When I tell you to do so, you may walk on to the sacred spot,’ the soft voice went on. ‘Make your appeal, leave whatever offering you have brought, and then make your way past. You will be shown where to go.’
‘Thank’ee,’ Josse said again. He very much wanted to have another look at young Florian, but he had learned by his earlier mistake. The poor, the humble and the afflicted did not habitually meet the eyes of their lord.
There was a short wait, and then Florian tapped Josse on the arm and said, ‘You may go on now.’
Josse walked forward along the path.
It turned abruptly left, and then right; whatever lay at its far end was designed to be out of sight until a visitor reached it.
Stepping out into the open, Josse was faced with a stunning sight.
The ground had been cleared and stamped down and the forest floor here was now bare earth. The trees and the undergrowth had been cut back for some four or five paces in each direction, so that the sun shone down into the glade. There was a trio of thorn trees standing on the perimeter; pieces of coloured rag and ribbon had been tied to the lower branches. The ground sloped gently, higher to the far side of the clearing, falling away to the near, southern side. Right in the middle of the open space was a long, deep scar.
Josse went closer.
Now he could see over the lip of the steep-sided hollow into its dark interior. The pit had been walled with stones and its base appeared to be one vast slab. Stretched out on the slab, arms by its sides and fingers gently curved over the wide palms, was the huge and intact skeleton of a man who must in life have been a veritable giant.
Whatever else might be a lie or a false claim, these bones looked real enough and, despite himself, Josse was awestruck. His eyes ran over the huge bones — large dome of the skull, with the brow ridges elegantly curved; long, heavy arms, deep ribs; wide pelvis, femurs and lower leg bones stretching endlessly. He glanced down at his own legs then back at the skeleton, calculating that the giant’s legs must have been at least an arm’s length longer than his own. Which would have meant that had Josse and the giant stood side by side, the giant would have towered over him by perhaps almost as much as a quarter of Josse’s own height.
He did not know what to make of it. Expecting a very obvious fraud — a pile of bones scavenged from some old, forgotten burial ground, perhaps, or even the cast-offs from a slaughter house — here he was faced with a real human skeleton, moreover an unusually large one. It was. . disturbing.
Josse realised as he stood there in silent, entranced contemplation that something was happening: there was a definite sense of power emanating from the skeleton and he could feel the hairs on his arms tickle his skin as they rose in response to his atavistic dread. It’s not Merlin! he shouted silently, fighting his sudden alarm. It can’t be; Merlin is nothing but a legend. Am I to be like some ignorant peasant, deluded by a clever man’s trickery? For trickery it is, he told himself, struggling to keep a clear head and a rational outlook. Whatever power these huge bones may possess, Florian of Southfrith is claiming it to be something it isn’t and in my view, Josse thought grimly, that amounts to deception.
But argue with himself as he might, still Josse’s body defied his brain as the fear and the awe flooded him.
He tore his enchanted eyes from the bones and caught sight of the faint gleam of some dull, dark metal on the far side of the tomb. Moving around the head end of the pit so as to have a closer look, he saw that it was a plaque, probably made of lead. It was roughly in the shape of an equal-armed cross, pitted and broken at the edges as if it had, in truth, spent six hundred years in the ground. The inscription was in Latin and read Here lies Merlin, magician to King Arthur. Look upon his power and fear him.
Trying desperately to shake himself free of the spell, Josse took a pace — two, three paces — away from the tomb. And abruptly the dread left him.
He stumbled on, following the path as it curved away, concealing the tomb once more. His breath came more easily now and he felt the sweat of fear drying on his back. By the time he reached the huddle of tables, benches and low, rudely fashioned huts where the pilgrims took their refreshments, he was breathing normally again.