'Mistress, is there anything wrong?'
She smiled thinly. 'Nothing, Roger.'
(How I thrilled at her use of my first name!)
The journey has been exhausting and I will be glad to be home.'
I would have dallied longer but the venerable Bere came down to wish us farewell. Mandeville was as curt as ever. He leaned over, patting his horse's withers.
'Father Abbot,' he declared for all to hear, 'we thank you for your hospitality but we shall return. Certain questions need to be asked to which truthful answers must be given.'
He then gave the order to move off and led us out of the abbey gate.
Our journey was cold and uncomfortable, a brutal reminder of the comforts we had left behind. The sky, grey and lowering, threatened more snow whilst the previous day's fall carpeted the hedgerows and fields, choking the ditches and making the trackways slippery and dangerous. Never once did we stop even in Templecombe village but made our way through the sleepy hamlet, the houses on either side all boarded up, the only sign of life being columns of smoke and the occasional villager foraging on the outskirts for fire-wood. These seemed happy enough - burly, red-faced peasants who doffed their caps and shouted salutations to their Lord of the Manor, genuinely pleased to greet his return.
We were making our way up a trackway towards the main gate of the manor when suddenly an old hag slipped out of the trees on one side of the path and stood squarely in front of Mandeville. She was a veritable night bird in a dirty cloak with a hood half-covering her greying wisps of hair. Her face was lined and raddled, the toothless mouth slack, displaying reddened gums, yet her eyes were full of life. She wiped her dripping, hooked nose, clasped her hands together and cackled. Believe me, if I had seen her in any other place, I would have dismissed her as a witch from a mummer's play. One of those old beldames who like to proclaim themselves keepers of secret mysteries. But this old bird was more sinister, a veritable crow, a harbinger of bad news. Mandeville gestured at her to get out of his way. She just laughed and stepped back, her eyes bright with malice.
'Welcome to Templecombe!' Her voice was surprisingly strong and powerful. She made a mock bow. 'Sir John Santerre, your lovely wife and the beautiful Rachel.' The old crone licked at the saliva frothing on her lips.
'Get out of my way, woman!' Mandeville ordered.
'Yes, I will. I will.' The old crone cringed back. 'When I have told you my news.'
Mandeville leaned forward. 'And what news is that?'
'There will be deaths!' the old woman proclaimed, one bony finger streaking up to the grey clouds. 'Death by fire! Death by iron! Death by rope! Death by water! And you, Sir Edmund Mandeville, emissary of a king who is not a king, the hand of death lies over you! The Midnight Destroyer sits at your right elbow whilst the Lord Satan squats at your left. You all,' she screamed, her eyes blazing, *you all have entered the Valley of Death!'
'What do you mean?' Southgate shouted. No languid lisping now, I noted.
The old woman sagged, her chin falling to her breast. She looked up from under grey, bushy eyebrows.
'You have had your news, now I'll be gone!'
And, before any of us could do anything, she flitted like a ghost back into the trees.
Mandeville glared furiously at Sir John Santerre.
'Who the devil was that?'
'One of your tenants, sir?' Southgate accused.
Santerre shrugged. 'She's a crazed old woman who says she has visions. She's lived in a hut in a clearing just beyond the trees for God knows how long.' His eyes were lowered. 'Some people call her mad. Others say she is Hecate, Queen of the Night.'
'She's just an old woman.' Rachel spoke up, her voice muffled behind her cloak. 'Pay no attention to her, sirs. She's a veritable Cassandra who sees doom and death in the flight of a sparrow.'
Mandeville coughed and spat. 'If she accosts me again’ he grumbled, ‘I’ll burn the bitch!'
And on that uncomfortable note we continued our way along the track. A porter opened the double-barred gate, shouting a welcome to the Santerres as he led us along the old causeway which wound past birch, oak and yew trees up to the front of the house.
Chapter 7
Let me tell you about Templecombe. The Templars had first built it as a fortified manor but later generations had embellished it to make it more comfortable. A massive stone edifice built in a square about a spacious inner courtyard, three stories in all, its roof was of grey slate. Although we could see the old arrow-slit windows, more sophisticated owners had added rounded oriels, jutting bays and ornate chimney stacks. The stone gleamed as if freshly washed whilst every window was glazed, some with pure glass, others, despite the poor light, even displaying brave heraldic emblems in a variety of hues.