The graveyard outside the Chapel of St. Lamar in Upchurch. XIII Caulding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred And Fifteen. After Tierce.
Sir Hamral, Sir Will Garnfellow, Father Anselm, Friar Sidrach Landry, Renton McAllister, Mendelor, Owen Grey, St. James, Valerius, Dominic Gadling, Cerdic, Old Hamral, Oswald, Nym, Bardolph, Leofric, Pyers, Jacob, Lady Alice Rowland, Elsbeth, Helena, Hermia.
The lands of Upchurch are shrouded in pale white, with more white tumbling down through the cold, biting air. The skies above Upchurch are as grey as steel, and heavy fogs hang over the fields and woods.
The tiny churchyard is hushed; the only sounds are the wind rattling through the manor’s barns, an occasional sob, and the regular beat of shovels as Pyers and Jacob work feverishly in the cold, placing down clod after clod of frozen earth to cover over the body of Alda Sayer, who in life had been the wife of Hamlin, Upchurch’s master carpenter.
Her widower faces the gravediggers, but his eyes are distant and his face as blank as the snow. Big Esmund Ferrer, the blacksmith and father to Alda, stands next to his son-in-law, the tears freezing to the very whiskers on his broad, red face.
As soon as Pyers and Jacob’s grim job is done, Father Anselm steps forward to softly thank the boys, and one by one the parishioners break off their vigil to return to the warmth of their own homes. Eventually Esmond takes Hamlin by the shoulders and guides the forlorn carpenter away from the grave.
Only Sir Hamral, Bailiff of Upchurch, and Lady Alice remain in the freezing cold.
“I can remember her as a little girl,” says Alice, after a while. “We all can, running through Upchurch with her sisters. A good, hard worker, Alda, and probably the sharpest of all Esmond’s daughters.
“My Aleck was so pleased when he learned that Hamlin had taken a shine to her. Aleck always liked to see two good families joined—said it was the best thing for Upchurch. We had one of our own good cattle slaughtered for the wedding meal, we thought so much of them. And now, the poor thing’s buried not far from my lord. A good thing he never lived to see this day! It would have broken his heart. She was brave, you know. Alda was like a lion, to the very last…”
“Someday the curse will be lifted,” says Hamral. “Someday I will find those witches. And someday, they will be sorry.”
“Only if I cannot lay my own hands upon them first,” says Alice.
Antace Castle, XVII Caulding. Vespers.
Sir Charles of the Axe, Dunstan, Vandoren.
The Castellan of Antace sits at a small table and pours himself another cup of wine. He smiles broadly at his old friend, Dunstan, and at Dunstan’s son, Vandoren, who is patting the shaggy head of his sheephound, who sits beneath the table.
“Bah!” says Sir Charles. “Walking statues? It will be a cold day in Hell before Old Charles here loses a night’s good sleep over walking statues!”
“Keep in mind, my lord,” says Vandoren, “That I am not speaking of some small saint’s image. This thing wrought by Hecatesseus would have to stoop to pass within the great gates of Antace. And all but impervious to harm. Well you know the capabilities of my friends—and even we were forced to retreat in the face of this monstrosity.”
“Pagan magic,” says Dunstan, shaking his head. “Is there no end to ruckish depravity?”
“Old friend,” says Charles, “I much doubt that we have even begun to plumb the depths of the Canemite’s wickedness. I also have heard ill tidings out of Derwich. That bastard Busirane is up to some reeking deviltry, mark you my words.”
“You should by rights be wary, my lord,” says Vandoren. “Knowing Prince Busirane, he is still infuriated by his calamitous defeat here two years ago. And King Tereus undoubtedly still hates you for the death of his son, Prince Proteus.”
“As for Busirane,” says Charles, holding up his hand and flexing his fingers, “I still owe that villain a debt I will be all-too-glad to pay in kind. And as for Tereus, I suspect we will again enjoy his loving ministrations this coming spring. Well, let him bring his worst forth! Saints’ blood, I’ll drag his rent corpse seven times around the castle walls, ere I am done.
“If the rucks try to come at Antace from the north, they’ll have to pass through Eredy, and all the Seekers garrisoned there. And I have it on good authority that the brothers of Saint Markham are determined not to lose that village ever again.
“And should the rucks try to come at us from the south, they shall find that I have posted most of the King’s army near Dowdling. And every Pentian man there is a tried and true veteran, well provisioned and just itching for battle.”
“Dowdling,” says Vandoren. “I have never been there, myself, although I believe that some of my friends have visited the village. If I recall, that is where they found the broken sword that was reforged for Sir Reginald the Penitent.”
“Good Reginald,” says Charles. “He is another one to whom I owe a great debt. Did you know that after we drove off Busirane’s armies, I offered Reginald a post here at Antace, and all the coin he could carry. But he refused my offer, out of nothing more than utter humility! Imagine—Here among us walks that proverbial one truly good Pentian man, which Saint Marius once sought. Or so scripture tells us.”
“Reginald was in Upchurch, to see Sir Hamral installed as Bailiff,” says Vandoren. “I did not have a chance to speak with him before he was off again, on his unceasing quest to serve the Five with good and selfless deeds.”
“Indeed,” says Dunstan. “He has, on occasion, ridden into Canglen. If ever he asked, in moment he would be granted an audience with Bishop Martin himself. But instead, Reginald prefers to pay his respect to little Agnes. He has taken quite an interest in her well-being.”
“This is the babe who was born to the Anchoress of Abberlane?” asks Charles. “I have heard many passing strange tales of this girl.”
“Some of these idle tales are not to be taken seriously,” says Dunstan. “Though I can say that the girl is quite remarkable. Quite remarkable, indeed. She will be six years old this coming May.”
“By which time,” says Charles, “Five willing, we shall be up to our necks in ruck-man corpses.”
Outside Upchurch, XXII Caulding, Sext.
Friar Sidrach Landry, Mendelor, Valerius, Dominic Gadling, Helena, Hermia.
“Hurry!” croaks Noxumbra, wheeling above the barren trees. Below the raven, Mendelor struggles through a waist-deep snow drift, the woodsman’s curses ringing through the winter wood. Ahead of him Helena and Hermia scamper along, slowing only long enough to toss a burst of laughter back over their shoulders.
A smile hangs upon Valerius’s face as he watches his charges outrun Mendelor. He turns to Friar Sidrach and Dominic Gadling, also watching the scene play out.
“Those girls move swiftly,” says Sidrach, “considering how deep the snows are here. This is easily the coldest winter I can ever recall, and I suspect it will prove to be one of the longest, as well. Indeed, one of the longest, before spring comes.”
Helena and Hermia, giggling, reach the onlookers.
“Did you see us, Pater?” asks Helena.
“Mendelor ran and ran but couldn’t catch us,” says Hermia.
“Indeed, I did see,” says Valerius, watching as Noxumbra banks and wings back over Mendelor. The woodsman, only a hundred yards away now, is entangled in a patch of briars. The woodsman curses and draws his axe, but the briars trip him up and he drops the weapon before falling headlong into the snow beside his axe.
Valerius turns quizzically to his wards, but the girls are laughing as Mendelor picks himself up and shakes off the clinging snow. The woodsman snatches up his axe and resumes his wade back toward the onlookers.
“Valerius,” says Dominic. “Have you given any more thought to our next course of action?”
“Now that we have rescued Nestor from the prisons of Utterbol,” says the tall, thin, man in black, “we have considerably more latitude in what ventures we may pursue. Sir Hamral and myself are both concerned about this curse…”
“True, my sons,” says Friar Sidrach. “Too true indeed. The poor folk of the Frounter are growing more and more frightened of this curse with every passing day.”
“Understandably,” says Dominic. “I have never seen the like in all my years.”
“I am also interested in seeing to the destruction of the Popinjay,” says Valerius. “The recent reports of activity in Derwich lead me to suspect that we shall have to again contend with that fool soon enough.”
Dominic nods. “I have heard Renton and Owen speak of moving against Sarpedon, who must be considerably weakened now without his brother Minos or the giant Cacus. And I would suspect the loss of Nestor has been a great disgrace to the proud captain of Utterbol.”
Mendelor at last slogs out of the deeper snows and collapses on the ground next to Friar Sidrach, the woodsman’s face red and sweating, his chest heaving.
“I. Am. Getting. Too old. For this,” pants the woodsman.
An apartment in Heremac, XXV Caulding. After Lauds.
The room is pitch black and cold. Rud mumbles, snorts, and turns over and over in his straw mattress before letting out a frustrated groan. After a while, the heavyset man grunts and sits up, blinking in the dark. He fumbles for the chamber pot, finds it, and relieves himself.
“Hey, Bartle, mate,” says Rud. “That fucking fire you made has gone out again. Colder than a sea hag’s hoochie in here. Har! You hear that?
Bartle doesn’t answer and Rud doesn’t seem to notice. Rud scratches his belly, farts, and pulls the blankets around himself and shivers.
“Yesterday was a pretty good day, ey, mate? We done pretty well. Ole Hogge, he didn’t right know what hit him, did he? Har! Today, I say we hit up that baker again. What do you think? Huh, Bartle? What say we hit up that baker? I could fancy meself some good white bread today.”
“Bartle?” says Rud, shivering. The big man springs up from the bed and lurches to the hearth. He feels for the iron bar, and then begins pushing around the ashes. A few pale embers begin to glow, and Rud adds some kindling which quickly begins to throw off a flickering flame.
“That’s it,” says Rud, proudly, turning to the bed.
Rud stops. And then Rud begins to scream. A high, wailing scream.
Lying flat on his back in the bed is the tall, lean frame of Bartle, his arms folded upon his chest. And his arms cradle a rather curious sight. Bartle’s head, instead of resting on a pillow, has been severed at the neck, and now rests in Bartle’s own hands, the dead eyes flickering back at Rud in the hearth’s dim light.
Rud continues to scream.