Ariana Franklin - Grave Goods aka Relics of the Dead

“I reckon as that bitch has eaten ‘em,” Gyltha said, and met Adelia’s glare with “Well, I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“No, I couldn’t, mistress,” Bolt said. “You seen how many inns that town’s got? Going down High Street alone we must’ve passed dozens. I can’t spare a man or the time.”

As usual, he was in a rush; his orders were to deliver Adelia and company intact to Glastonbury, see them safely installed, and then return to the king as fast as possible. Looking for lost ladies was not in his brief.

“You could send him,” he said, jerking a thumb to where Rhys the bard was sprawled in the shade of an oak, a flask of ale by his side, a chicken leg in one hand, the other rippling the strings of the harp held between his knees. “I can spare him.”

They all could. At first the Welshman’s playing and singing had sweetened the journey, but as Captain Bolt said of him with complaint, “He don’t do anything else.”

And it was true-as an aid in the tasks of traveling Rhys was useless. Asked to fetch or carry something, he invariably dropped it. Since most of his life had been spent on foot or bareback Welsh ponies, horses alarmed him to an extent that he wouldn’t or couldn’t tighten their girths or put a bit in their mouths, thus necessitating one of the soldiers to do it for him.

What he could do, amazingly, was attract women. Having eaten prodigiously of the supper provided by whatever inn they’d put up at, he managed to vanish and, before they could proceed in the morning, there had to be a search for him, which invariably ended in some female’s bedroom. It sent Captain Bolt mad. “How does he do it?”

Adelia didn’t know, either, but there was no denying that bucktoothed, vague, and none too clean though Rhys was, his music sent a maiden’s knees wobbling, along with her virginity.

Mansur despised him, perhaps because Gyltha, usually irritated by inefficiency, showed a sentimental forbearance of the man. “He’s worth it for that lovely voice,” she’d say, tenderly making sure his plate was fuller than anybody else’s.

Allie was his slave, as he was hers. The only night on which he hadn’t pursued his amours had been when the child, having eaten some unripe crab apples lying in an orchard, was taken with a nasty stomachache. He’d stayed by her bed, soothing her with a song celebrating the Arab star Almeisan, after which she was named.

Adelia was prepared to forgive him a great deal after that, though occasionally, when he’d once more reduced Captain Bolt to apoplexy, she wondered why on earth Henry had sent the bard with her.

“Because he wanted to get rid of him, that’s why,” was Bolt’s response. “Couldn’t give him back to the damned Welsh, could he?”

No, presumably, he couldn’t. Rhys’s fellow countrymen wouldn’t look kindly on a man who presented the English king with a dead Arthur.

However it was, there was no use sending him to look for Emma. Even if Wells locked up all its daughters, it was doubtful he could find his way back.

There was nothing for it at the moment but to go on to Glastonbury and hope to locate Emma through more inquiries.

It was a winding road leading them there, and as darkness fell, it was empty of traffic.

The law ordering that verges be cleared of trees by the length of a bow shot so that travelers were not vulnerable to a surprise attack had been ignored here. And ignored for some years-the cavalcade rode through avenues that branched overhead, hiding the moon.

Torches and lanterns were lit, swords were drawn, silence demanded, the mounts slowed to walking pace-it had been known for robbers to bring down cantering horses by putting a wire across the road. Gyltha and Adelia, with a sleeping, panniered Allie, found themselves hemmed in by their escorts as they rode-and were glad of it. Rhys nudged his horse between theirs; the only weapon he had was his harp.

Michael, the trumpeter, muttered, “Most dangerous bit o’ road in England this, so I heard.”

“Why?” Adelia whispered back.

“Wolf. Outlaw. They call him Wolf acause he’s a animal though he runs on two legs, and a pack with him. They say…”

But Captain Bolt hushed them. He was listening to the hundred rustles that came from among trunks turned ghastly by the glare of the torches, his sword twitching toward the reflected green of animals’ eyes that peered out at them from the undergrowth.

At one point, Adelia heard the sound of a cough from somewhere among the trees, but whether it came from a human throat or not she couldn’t tell.

Wolf.

Because she was tired and scared, she became angry. Bolt should have taken them back to sleep over at Wells so that they could have made this ride in the daytime. Damn the man for refusing another delay. Always wanting to gallop back to his damn king, damn him.

And damn that female back there. Had she sent Emma and little Pippy out into another such dangerous night? She’d said she hadn’t. Mansur didn’t think she had. But there’d been a sense of suffocation in that pretty house and in its kitchen, a truth being choked.

Oh, God, suppose the hag was keeping them imprisoned? Worse than imprisoned?

No, this was the thinking of fatigue.

But there’d been something… She kept remembering the eyes of the man at the bread oven when he’d turned to look at her. Something…

Damn it, how long before they reached Glastonbury? It was supposed to be only a few miles from Wells, but there was no sign of habitation ahead.

The only indication that they’d reached it was the sudden clatter of their horses’ hooves on stone. No signpost, but there was a gap in the forest to their right. The men’s torches showed a steep, cobbled hill that leveled out at the bottom, where moonlight shone on water.

“That’s it,” Bolt said. “Must be. That’ll be the River Brue down there-comes right up to the abbey, I was told-but where is the abbey?”

Where, indeed? As one of the biggest, busiest, richest foundations in England, owning a good deal of Somerset and beyond, it should have shown some sign of activity even at this time of night, however much the fire had damaged it.

It wasn’t until they began to go down the hill that Adelia fully realized the extent of the catastrophe that had overwhelmed the place. On the left, they were following what had been the monastery’s great boundary wall, now a blackened, tumbled collection of stones with silence beyond it.

As pitiable-and nobody had mentioned this-flames had also leaped the wall to consume the little town that lay outside it. For on the right as they rode, torchlight fell on naked spars that had been the thatched shops and cottages belonging to laypeople serving both the abbey and the pilgrims who had come to worship at its shrines.

Here had once been a busy high street; now the smitch of ash hung acrid on its air; apart from the moon, there was no light anywhere, no activity, only silence. Adelia heard Captain Bolt say incredulously, making a sign of the cross, “God have mercy, it’s dead. Glastonbury ’s dead.”

Toward the bottom of the hill, where it met the river to flatten into a wide, paved market square and quay, the abbey wall remained intact and so, opposite, did a three-story building-proximity to water and the fact that it was built of stone had preserved it to be all that was left of a thriving town. Again, there was no sign of occupation; the frontage, with its stout door leading out onto the street, was dark, but Captain Bolt’s lamp shone on a wide, high entrance arch to the right and, above it, carved into the lintel, was the unmistakable figure of a man in a brimmed hat carrying a scrip.

They had found the Pilgrim Inn.

Wheeling to go under the arch, the cavalcade entered a large, deserted courtyard formed by outbuildings and, on the left, the inn itself-from which the light of a single candle shone through the boards of one of the windows’ shutters.