The Knights Templar Collection: Volume 1

by Michael Jecks

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Escape into the evocative medieval world of Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and his friend Bailiff Simon Puttock, as you join them on the suspenseful trail of three murder mysteries. The Knights Templar Collection brings together three engrossing novels in the widely acclaimed and much-loved Knights Templar series by Michael Jecks. Perfect for fans of C.J. Sansom and Bernard Cornwell. The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (Book 14): As the winter of 1323 descends on Dartmoor, who could blame the young priest, Father Mark, for seeking affection from the miller's daughter, Mary? But when Mary and her unborn child are found dead, Mark is the obvious suspect. Called to investigate, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and his friend Bailiff Simon Puttock soon begin to have their doubts. And by the time their search is over, life will never be quite the same again. The Templar's Penance (Book 15): It is the summer of 1323, and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Bailiff Simon Puttock have been granted leave to go on pilgrimage. When a beautiful girl is found murdered on a hillside en route to Santiago de Compostela, the friends are among the first on the scene. As Baldwin and Simon lend their skills to the inquiry, the unexpected appearance of a face from Baldwin's past could threaten the investigation, as well as the future of Baldwin himself... The Outlaws of Ennor (Book 16): On return from pilgrimage, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Bailiff Simon Puttock's ship is attacked by pirates, and Simon sees Baldwin washed overboard. On the island of Ennor, Simon must investigate the murder of the island's hated tax collector while, unbeknownst to his friend, Baldwin begins to unpick the same murder on the other side of the island. Can the pair uncover the truth in time to prevent certain massacre? What readers are saying about The Knights Templar mysteries: 'Michael Jecks is one of the best medieval writers of our times. His two main characters come alive in the imagination when you're reading them' ' The characters are richly drawn and weave in and out of the events of the early 14th century, with Michael Jecks showing great knowledge of the times ' ' Good introduction to the series '

Release date: February 12, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 1148

Sample

In the darkened room, the man’s shattered body gave a final convulsive jerk. A curious reflex caused his good arm to fly skywards as his body tensed, his back arching like a bow. The weird posture was emphasised by the guttering candles. Their thick, yellow flames gave off a greasy, black smoke that rose to the rafters, giving the chamber a grim, lowering atmosphere, as though the ceiling itself was moving closer to witness this last act in a life which had been so filled with pain and despair. As he died his shadow seemed to blacken, as though his entire soul was transformed into a larger figure looking down on the people in there, especially upon his hated neighbour, Sir Ralph de Wonson.

Sir Richard had never liked him or his brother, Sir Ralph thought to himself. At least Surval the hermit had gone after sitting up and praying for Sir Richard all night – not that it would have given the poor sick knight much comfort to see him there. Involuntarily, Sir Ralph’s eyes went to the shadow’s hand, showing in stark relief against the painted wall, raised high over Sir Ralph’s head, the fingers curled like talons about to strike him down.

Over the muttered prayers of the monk, Brother Mark, Sir Ralph could hear the rattling breath as Sir Richard’s soul fled. And then, as the arm collapsed and Sir Richard’s oldest servant, Wylkyn, sprang forward with a concerned frown on his face, Sir Ralph smiled with the relief of the winner in a long race.

‘Rest in peace, Sir Richard,’ he murmured, crossing himself and standing a moment.

This was the one man who could have become a brake on his ambitions: Sir Richard Prouse, lately the master of Gidleigh in the Hundred of South Tawton, once a powerful, handsome knight, tall, muscular and with a mind as keen as his sword; now a mere shell. A bad fall at a tournament in 1316 had devastated his body, leaving him lame and crooked, needing a stick to walk even a small distance, unable to mount a horse or wield a weapon. He had been only twenty-four when he was wounded; he was thirty the day he died.

However, a man didn’t need the strength and power of a Hector to stand in another man’s way. Sir Richard Prouse had successfully managed to thwart Sir Ralph’s every ambition. Now he was gone – and it was Sir Ralph’s time. He could do all he desired.

That was the thought that filled him as he left that foul little room in the castle’s gatehouse. He felt his contemplative mood falling away even as he stepped under the lintel and found himself out in the open air again. He glanced about him at the castle’s fine walls, at the good-sized stables and huge hall, and smiled to himself. Gidleigh Castle was a prize worth winning. It was all he could do not to shout his delight aloud.

He pulled up his belt and wriggled: his heavy tunic of bright green wool was a little too tightly cut about his shoulders. Any other day, this would have put him in a bad mood, but not today. His boots leaked, his shoulders were pinched, and he had noticed a stain on his hose, but he didn’t care because the castle was his at last.

A horse whinnied, but he took no notice. Nothing mattered, today of all days. He was freed, he was come into his new wealth. This fine Tuesday in the early summer of 1322 was the first day of Sir Ralph’s new life.

The horse neighed again, more loudly this time, and Sir Ralph looked at the gateway in time to see a glistening black stallion pelt in, skidding to a halt on the cobbles as the laughing rider hauled on the reins, only to stand panting and blowing, shaking his great head. Froth marked his flanks, and sweat, but the rider looked as fresh as when he had set off an hour earlier. Now he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and sprang down, a young man wearing a grey tunic and parti-coloured hose of red and blue. Simply dressed, he nonetheless gave the impression of money.

‘Well?’

‘He’s dead, Esmon,’ Sir Ralph said with quiet satisfaction.

His son gave a harsh laugh. ‘About time! I feared the clod was going to drag it out another week!’

A haggard-faced servant was walking past the court, and Sir Ralph called to him. ‘You! Fetch us wine and bring it to the hall.’

‘Sir.’

‘And hurry!’

Sir Ralph, a tall, trim figure, with a strong, square face and dimpled chin, turned and marched to his new home. Although his fair hair had faded a little, he was in the prime of his life; he had been tested in many combats, and had never been the loser. That knowledge gave him the confident swagger, but it was his position in the world that gave his grey eyes their steadiness. He was Lord of Gidleigh now, the owner of this land, the ruler of his villeins and all their families, the unopposed master of all the farms and moors about here, from Throwleigh all the way to Chagford.

‘You’re sure there’s nothing can take it from us?’ his son asked.

A momentary irritation crossed Sir Ralph’s features. ‘What could happen?’

Esmon’s face was longer than his father’s, but he had the same light hair. Barely seventeen years old, his occasional lack of confidence was displayed by either belligerence or a propensity to redden when he was unsure or embarrassed. Now he made an effort to shrug as though unconcerned. ‘The law . . . a clerk might find a reason.’

‘Not with us, not with our Lord Hugh Despenser returned to the country and in power. They say that no one can be presented to the King without his approval – nor without paying him! You think anyone would dare to say a word against us? Nay, boy. We have our wealth now. We’ve increased our demesne to double its previous size.’

‘All because a usurer was murdered.’

‘Yes,’ Sir Ralph chuckled.

It had been so easy, he told himself, marching into the hall and sitting in Sir Richard’s own chair. The damn thing was uncomfortable, he discovered: he’d have cushions made, or get the chair destroyed and order a new one. That might be better – a proof that the old lord was gone and the new one installed. It would do for now, though.

The wine arrived, and he noticed the peasant bringing it cast a look at him sitting in the chair. So! The villeins here weren’t happy that he had their manor, eh? They would just have to learn to accept it, or suffer the consequences!

Sir Ralph took up a mazer of wine and watched the man’s departing back. There were rumours of dissatisfaction. It was lucky that they had Esmon’s friends here, a group of men-at-arms who had served the Despensers with Esmon during the brief rebellion in Wales the previous year, 1321. Having Brian of Doncaster with his men meant a little additional security, and that was all to the good. Sir Ralph had even heard someone mutter that it was suspicious, the way Sir Richard had suddenly fallen victim to illness after six years of moderate health – but Ralph himself had known strong men collapse suddenly after a tiny pinprick, their limbs swelling appallingly until they expired. True, there was no obvious mark on Sir Richard, but he had been feeble in body since the tournament, with one side crippled, a badly dragging leg, a thin and weakly arm that must be tied into his belt, and only one eye. The other had been cut out and blinded.

It was the gout had made him take to his bed, but then delirium and fever had set in. Sir Ralph shrugged. It was common enough for men to contract diseases which took them away quickly. There was no mystery as far as he was concerned, and no doubt the rumours would soon fade.

‘It’s good land, Father. I’ve been over the whole estate,’ Esmon said.

‘What is the mood of the peasants?’

‘Surly, but they’ll obey. They are scared.’

‘Good.’

It was ironic that he should have won this castle. In the past he had learned to win money and land in battles, but this, his most prized possession, had been won by his political contacts. Sir Richard had been in debt to a banker who had died and whose possessions had subsequently reverted to the Crown. There all the unpaid debts would have been foreclosed instantly, the King demanding immediate repayment, if things had run their normal course. Sir Richard would have been forced to take on a new loan or leave his castle, and the estate would have been absorbed by the King if it hadn’t been for my Lord Hugh Despenser, who wanted to reward Sir Ralph for past favours, especially his support during the Despenser Wars.

When Lord Hugh realised that Sir Ralph coveted this little manor, he spoke to the King and the property was conveyed to Sir Ralph, in exchange for oaths of loyalty to death. Sir Ralph lost no time in advising his neighbour that he expected to take possession of his new property.

Sir Richard had fought, of course, and tried to have the King listen to his pleas, but soon after beginning his actions, he sickened and took to his bed. It was the last straw, people said. His feeble constitution couldn’t bear the prospect of losing his home and lands. So instead of being evicted, he would leave the place in a winding-sheet. Ah well. No matter. It was all Sir Ralph’s now.

All the land, all the rents, all the taxes. And all the villeins, he reminded himself with a wolfish grin, thinking of the girl with the sunny smile and long dark hair who lived at the mill.

Wylkyn was struck by a faint odour as he stood over the body of his master, but it didn’t register immediately. All his attention was taken up by the ravaged corpse before him, by the twisted body and the lunatic smile that showed the agony of his last contortions. Wylkyn sniffed back the tears as he washed his master and laid him out. He had been the loyal servant of this man for many years, and this last service was his way of respecting Sir Richard. Smoothing away the signs of pain and distress, he wondered what could have caused the death. Gout was the reason why Sir Richard had been installed here in his bed, because his one good foot had grown so painful that even to touch the base of the big toe caused the knight to cry out. Even having a blanket over it was intolerable. And then he had begun to complain that his sight was disordered – a curious affliction that made him feel giddy and nauseous. That was a matter of two or three days ago now, and suddenly he was gone!

His had been a miserable existence, Wylkyn knew, and he sighed as he gently manipulated the body, easing the tortured features into a more relaxed expression, closing the staring eyes and crossing Sir Richard’s arms over his breast.

As he worked, the priest murmured his doggerel in the corner in that low, sing-song voice that he always used, as though it added to the significance of words which Wylkyn couldn’t understand anyway. The servant felt his sadness increasing as he acknowledged each wound and mark on his dead master. There was the appalling group of scars at the base of his neck, stretching over his shoulders, where the mace that had taken away the use of his right arm and leg had struck him, leaving Sir Richard a cripple and figure of fun among the less honourable nobles in the area. Although those were the wounds that did him the most harm, it was the other scar that people noticed first, the one on his face.

It stretched from above his temple, past the ruined eye-socket, and down to his jaw, where the blade had sliced cleanly through. The bones had healed, but Sir Richard never again saw from that eye, and the hideous mark had made him hide away, fearful of the attention it always attracted. Pretty women shuddered and turned from him, children sometimes screamed and bolted.

There were other problems. Some, like the gout, were as painful as anything Sir Richard had sustained in the tournament. Thanks to Wylkyn’s fascination with herbs and potions, the knight had made good progress, for Wylkyn had learned how to treat Sir Richard as a patient as well as a master.

When he had finished setting out his master’s body, Wylkyn collected the cup and jug of wine from beside the bed, and made his way back to his little room beside the gatehouse. It was only a lean-to affair, two thin walls making a room in the angle between the gatehouse itself and the castle’s outer wall, which here was stone, unlike the fencing at the rear. Sir Richard had never had enough money to complete the defences of his home.

It was sad that he’d gone. Especially now, Wylkyn reckoned, looking out at the men in the yard. Sir Ralph of Wonson had brought his own guards with him, as though seeking to stake his claim to the place. Everyone knew he had always wanted Gidleigh for his own. With its fertile land and abundance of farms, it was a good place for a lord who wanted to fleece more peasants.

Wylkyn was a free man and had been since 1318, when Sir Richard had given him a signed letter of manumission, in grateful thanks for his medical knowledge, and on the express understanding that Wylkyn would not leave him. With the death of his master, Wylkyn felt his debt had been fully repaid. He had done all he could to ease Sir Richard’s pain, but now he had no patient, he could leave at any time he wanted.

From the look of the new master and his men, the time to go was soon. He didn’t want to remain here and see the place converted into the home of brigands and bullies.

Setting the jug and cup neatly on their shelf, he gave a deep sigh. He was exhausted after four days and nights spent sitting up and tending his master. Poor Sir Richard! His passing had been every bit as painful as his life. He’d started fading, but then suddenly he had become delirious, which was when the priest had been called; however, he had stayed less than a day, saying that his own congregation needed him more. He and Sir Richard had never been very friendly. That was why Mark, the monk, had been summoned instead. His little chapel had no congregation, so he could come and sit with the dying man.

Sir Richard had complained, in his lucid moments, of losing his sight. It was the one thing which terrified him, losing the sight in his one good eye. Wylkyn did all he could, but nothing worked; Wylkyn knew his poor master was dying.

Wylkyn considered his future. His brother lived on Dartmoor, and he could always go up there to live for a while. With his stock of potions and salves, he might even be able to earn some sort of a living from the miners.

At the thought, his eyes went to his pots and jars, lined up neatly on the shelves where he had left them. All bar one. With a slight frown, he stared at his second highest shelf, where the potions were out of alignment.

Wylkyn was careful, always, to obey the instructions of his tutor and keep all pots in their place, precisely positioned. A clean and tidy room showed a clean and tidy mind, his tutor always said, and Wylkyn believed he was correct. That one particular pot had been moved, he had no doubt, and now he understood why his master had suddenly failed and died.

Reaching up, he took down the jar. The lid was loose. Some apothecaries and physicians might be careless, but not Wylkyn. His tutor had explained that the vitality of many herbs lay in their freshness. All jars should be properly sealed after use. Someone had jammed this one on in a hurry.

Wylkyn had bought this herb only recently in order to prepare some slaves and medicines for Sir Richard’s gout. Failing eyesight, giddiness, sleepiness and delirium, he reminded himself. The very same symptoms that this herb would produce in excess.

He went to the cup and jug he had brought from the gatehouse and sniffed. Now he could smell it – an unmistakable narcotic odour, sweet and heavy, slightly acrid. He tasted the wine gingerly. The bitterness seemed to almost bite through the flesh of his tongue. This wine had been adulterated with poison. And he knew which one: henbane.

Mark, priest of the nearby chapel of Gidleigh, remained kneeling in the death chamber, his head bowed, running the beads of his rosary through his fingers as he prayed. He felt a genuine sadness to be present at the passing of this soul. Others who had witnessed the death gradually slipped away, following Sir Ralph’s lead, leaving Mark to maintain the vigil on his own.

The cleric was a young man, scarcely twenty, with clear, large, dark eyes. His face was pleasingly proportioned, with high cheeks and a wide brow, and his chin bore a small dimple. Women liked his slim build and narrow, delicate hands, and if he had not worn the cloth, he would have been snatched up as a husband long ago.

Now, although he tried to keep his mind focused on Sir Richard, he found his concentration wandering. Even a monk could only keep his mind on one topic for so long, and he had been here for more than three days.

Sir Richard had never been a generous or particularly friendly man. Piers, one of the local peasants and the Reeve of the vill, had once joked to Mark that the knight was so mean, he’d sell the steam off his piss if he could, but that mattered little to the priest. All he knew was that the knight had shown him some grudging respect, and in any case, a man who died deserved prayers, even if he was a miserable devil most of the year. Not that Mark could criticise a man for that. He had often felt low in spirits himself, since he was moved here to this wet, miserable land, and he was hale and healthy. How much worse it would be if you were born here and tied to the land, or if you were crippled and in constant pain, like Sir Richard.

He looked up as Wylkyn returned to the room, grim-faced. He stood a moment, staring down at Sir Richard’s face, then bent forward and kissed his forehead gently, before walking from the room, leaving Mark alone with the body.

Mark was about to continue with his murmurings when he felt a gentle breeze sough against his cheek, as soft as a woman’s sigh. There, at the opposite side of the room was a figure, clad in tatters of some heavy grey cloth and surrounded by light from the bright sun outside. It was Surval the Hermit.

Mark felt a shiver run down his spine. The creature – he hardly deserved to be called a man – was unwholesome. Mark could smell him almost before he could see him. Last night, when the two were here praying for Sir Richard, the stench had been enough to guarantee that Mark would not fall asleep. There was an odour of filth and something else quite repellent – not at all the aura of sanctity which a religious man should have carried.

Surval appeared to be gazing about him, and Mark realised he could see scarcely anything in this gloom after the sunlight outside, not that he would have found it easy to see Mark in his corner, kneeling near the head of the bed. Something about the hermit made Mark’s tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t have continued praying if he’d wanted.

The old hermit clumped his staff on the ground and shuffled through the thin scattering of rushes, slowly approaching the palliasse on which the dead knight lay. Mark could see the hermit’s eyes glittering as he bent down to Sir Richard’s dead face and studied it. Suddenly Mark was certain that the hermit knew he was there.

‘Rest easy, Sir Richard. You were weak, but that was no surprise. Your father was weaker. Fear not but that others will protect your folk. Boy – where’s your tongue? Pray for him! All we sinners need prayer.’

Mark cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the hermit spoke again, more softly. ‘And you more than many, eh?’

Mark knew what Surval meant. It was late in the year 1321, before the death of Sir Richard, when Mark first met her. Before that, he had only ever seen Mary as an occasional visitor to his chapel, and it was some months before he came to know the miller’s daughter not as a priest should know his flock, but as a man knows his wife.

Not that he had any premonition of disaster at the time. Until then, the young monk had lived a life of quiet desperation here on the moors, with little or no prospects. If he had spent any time considering his future, he would have hoped for a short period of service here in the chapel at Gidleigh, followed possibly by the gift of patronage from the knight. That dream was shattered when Sir Ralph had seen Mary at Mark’s home. Afterwards, there was nothing here for him but his prayers and work, and the struggle to avoid the devil’s temptations. In this desolate place, Satan’s efforts seemed to have redoubled.

Mark’s mind flew back to the past, and the first time he met her.

She was surely the devil’s best effort.

He had to keep working. That thought was uppermost in his mind when he slowly brought himself upright, his knee-bones grinding against each other as the weight made itself felt, the leather straps that bound the strong wicker basket to his shoulders squeaking in protest. Grunting with the effort, he began lurching up the short hill to the chapel, unaware that his every move was being closely watched.

His task wasn’t easy. Winter had set in weeks ago, and the water about his feet was near to freezing. He couldn’t feel his toes, and although there was no ice, every step he took fell upon the leaves that lay rotting thickly on the stream’s floor, making him slip and curse through gritted teeth, using words which he had heard often enough among the peasants, but which he knew he shouldn’t use himself.

The basket of stones was an unbearable weight, but he had set himself the task of enclosing the chapel in a wall, and he would go to the devil rather than fail. The only thing that made sense of his life in this foul backwater was the effort he spent each day, collecting rocks and bringing them up the incline to the chapel, tipping the basket on top of the heap. When he had a big enough pile, he would grade the stones, using the largest for the bottom of the wall, graduating them with smaller and smaller rocks until he reached the topmost layer. The tiniest would be used to fit the interstices, gravel and chips blocking the cracks so that no wind could pass through.

He toiled on. Sweat was prickling at his forehead now and along his spine, forming a chilly barrier between his flesh and the coarse linen shirt. Over that he wore a habit of strait, a thick mix of short wool, lamb’s wool and flocks, the usual stuff that the moors produced from their weak, suffering sheep. Nothing like the soft cloth produced in the warmer, drier land about Axminster, where Mark’s family lived. The material from his home would never itch and scratch like this. He fancied he could feel every hair, each one tickling or stabbing him through his shirt. It was all but intolerable.

As was the pain in his thighs, the strain in his groin, the tautness in his shoulders and neck. It felt as though his muscles had solidified, as though they had been forged and hammered and were now as inflexible as iron. It was hard to imagine that they could ever relax again, and Mark’s breath came in shallow gasps as he struggled with his burden.

The path here was well-trodden, for he had been working on this project for two months now, ever since he had realised that he must fight the mind-destroying tedium of his existence or go mad.

When the Bishop had sent him here, it had not been intended as a punishment, Mark knew. Bishop Walter had always appeared pleased with Mark’s progress. Whenever they met, he was polite – a bit distant, maybe, but that was not surprising, since he was one of the most powerful men in the whole country. How else was a great magnate to respond to a lowly priest?

Mark had been with Exeter Cathedral for some years, and he had learned his lessons well. He had anticipated travelling, perhaps visiting the college at Oxford which Bishop Walter was so fond of, and then going on to Paris, or even Rome itself, but then one priest had died, another had run off with a woman, a third had been accused of murder . . . and suddenly Mark had been asked to serve the small community here, at the small chapel near Gidleigh. It was only until a replacement was found, he was told, but that was in 1320, a year ago last August, and no one had yet been found. Mark was beginning to think he’d be stuck here for ever.

Certainly Bishop Walter had no idea of Mark’s secret motive in wanting to come here: it stemmed from his desire to see his real father at long last.

He finally reached the mound of stones, and slowly bent his knees, then allowed his body to tilt backwards until the basket sat on the ground behind him. Letting the thick leather straps fall from his shoulders, he was suddenly struck with the feeling that he had become weightless, as though he could float upwards by simply raising his arms. It was a curious sensation, one which he had noticed before, and he wondered what caused it. There seemed no logical reason. Perhaps the stones weighed down his soul, because the reason he was carrying them was to protect himself, keeping his mind and thoughts pure.

No one else would have volunteered to come here, he thought as he eyed the view sombrely, rubbing at his shoulders where the straps had chafed. A sudden noise made him spin round and stare up the valley’s side. There was a roadway up there, a narrow track that led from the moors down to Gidleigh itself. It must have been someone on that path, he told himself. This place was terrible. He spent much of his time jumping at the slightest sound. It was so desolate, so lonely.

This land was fierce: it fought all who lived on it, in his opinion. It sucked the vivacity from them, leaving deadened husks – whey-faced youths or chestnut-brown men who looked as though they were forty years old when they were only twenty. And the women were worse. Either they were worn out from too many birthings, or they were ruddy-faced and as incontinent as bitches in heat. They terrified the chaste young scholar, but there was another part of his soul, a very human part, which jealously watched the young bucks flirting with them. On more than one occasion, he had stumbled across naked buttocks hammering between parted thighs, and had rushed away, horrified; yet he also knew that the pounding in his chest wasn’t only from disgust.

There were times when, if he had been offered the solace of feminine company, he would have taken it, and that knowledge scared him. It was against his training and vocation to lie with a woman. Other priests might have sunk to that sin, but he had thought himself immune to such lust, that he had more willpower. It was to distract himself from his dreams of voluptuous female flesh that he had immersed himself in this building.

It was hateful, this place. Stories abounded of the devil, how he had tempted men and women into sin, how he and his hounds hunted for lost souls across the moors. When he still lived with his mother, Mark had known men who had laboured all their lives, but somehow they seemed less ancient than the shrivelled folk of Dartmoor. The people here had no sense of humour. Their existence was harsh, unleavened with laughter or pleasure. One survived, and that was all, in their world.

Mark gazed before him, thrusting his chilly hands beneath his armpits for warmth; he could feel the fingers like individual twigs of ice.

From here the land sloped down to the river. There, at the bottom, was the narrow track that led from Gidleigh to Throwleigh, a dangerous place in summer, when outlaws lurked, but safer now in the depths of winter when even the fiercest felon must be settled in his hovel. From here, at the door of his chapel, the priest could see the hills rising to the south. Bleak, they were, as though they had been blasted by God’s fury.

Glancing up, he saw that the clouds were heavy with threatening storms, lowering over the moors. They suited his mood, and he grabbed his basket and made his way through the ankle-deep black mud to his door. His legs were quickly caked up to his knees, and his habit was sodden and bespattered with it before he reached the small lean-to cob and thatch room that was his home.

It was tiny, but sufficient for his needs. There was a palliasse to sleep on, a few strands of hay – all he could afford – spread over the floor to keep in the warmth, and a good-sized hearth in the middle of the floor. At the wall which the room shared with the chapel stood his chest, a simple, plain box which contained his spare shirt, vestments and some parchment. It was little enough, and he found it a depressing sight. The fire was all but out, and the chamber was dingy and damp.

At least he could throw a faggot of sticks on his fire and enjoy the quick rush of heat. It might just bring the feeling back into his blue fingers and toes. The thought of flames was at once delicious and terrible: he knew that his chilblains would complain and the pain would be worse as the feeling returned to numbed toes and fingers. It was only at night, when he went to bed, lying beneath his rough blanket, that he knew peace. There, with the thick sheepskin pelts keeping him warm, he felt a kind of contentment. With his eyes closed, the room could have been anywhere. The dying fire at his side could have been the embers on the hearth of a great lord’s hall, the palliasse beneath his back a herb-filled mattress in a king’s solar and the thick skins and blanket the richly decorated bedclothes from an abbot’s private chamber. In his imagination, Brother Mark slept in magnificent halls.

In the morning, though, he always returned to real life and awoke shivering, huddled into a ball, arms wrapped about his breast and legs drawn up to his chin against the overwhelming chill.

Now, as the storm broke outside, he kicked his fire into life, poking the embers with a stick and then throwing a faggot on top. Almost instantly there was