By Sylvian Hamilton Read Free Page A

his sleeve.
'Midnight, Abbot,' he croaked.

    'So
it is,' said the abbot with a reproving scowl. 'Fetch the girdle.'

    King
Philip's man stood up and stretched and yawned. 'I did not look to
spend another night here. This damned storm!' Then will be out at
first light,' said the abbot, 'to cut and haul away the fallen trees
and start clearing the snow. The gale is dropping. As soon as the
road is clear you will be able to leave. You will be able to sail
tomorrow, if the wind's fair.'

    A
tap at the door and the sacristan entered, holding a silver casket.
Through the opened door the perishing cold leaped into their well of
warmth, and the two old men shivered.

    'There
you are,' said the abbot, taking the casket and placing it in the
Frenchman's hands. 'The Blessed Virgin's Girdle is yours, My Lord de
Mortai. Or rather, King Philip's.'

    The
Frenchman turned the key and opened the casket, taking out what
looked like a piece of old rope. 'It doesn't look like much,' he
said. 'What's it made of, horsehair?'

    'Camel
hair, we believe, My Lord,' said the abbot. 'Ah, may I see it, just
once more, before you close the casket? You understand, we would not
sell so great a treasure except that our need was great.'

    De
Mortal nodded. He knew of the ruinous lawsuit Winchester had lost to
a neighbouring nunnery after a long and vicious fight, and the
massive damages the abbey must now pay, forfeiting lands and treasure
to do so. He held the casket out and the abbot lifted the girdle from
its silken bed. As he did so, an odd expression crossed his face and
was swiftly gone. He touched the relic to his lips, put it quickly
down again, closed the lid and handed the box back to the Frenchman.

    'If
you wish, you can leave it locked in my strongbox here, overnight,'
he offered.

    De
Mortai grinned. Not likely, he thought, but coughed politely, saying,
'Thank you, My Lord, but no. I shall sleep with it under my pillow
tonight and every night until I place it in King Philip's hands. I
must ask you to tell no one about the sale until I am safely back in
Paris. Were it known that I carried such a treasure, robbers would
try to take it.'

    'Of
course,' said the abbot. 'Then I will summon your servants and bid
you goodnight.'

    When
the count had gone to his bedchamber, Abbot William rounded on the
sacristan. 'What have you done with it? You can't think we can get
away with it! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?'

    'What,
My Lord?' The sacristan looked astonished and, the Abbot realised,
perfectly innocent.

    'Oh,
never mind. I am weary and,' he sneezed, 'I think I've caught a
cold.'

    The
sacristan was all concern, the odd little outburst quite forgotten as
he ran for hot stones for the abbot's bed and hot wine with a
sleeping potion to get him through the night. It would never do if he
wasn't well enough to see the Count of Mortai off tomorrow. It would
look like sulking.

    Sweating
in his bed, rising fever making him light-headed, the abbot
remembered the feel of the girdle in his hands, rougher than it
should be, almost prickly, heavier than before and not quite the
right colour –a brighter younger-looking brown. Someone had
stolen the real one and the King of France was getting a forgery.
Still, thought the abbot as the first thick soft veils of sleep began
to cover him, he's never handled the real girdle, so it's very
unlikely he will suspect. Blessed Mother of God, don't let anyone
find out! 'It was a clumsy job,' Straccan said. 'I had no time at all
at the end, such a rush, the damned thing sold out from under me. It
was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment, when I
heard Sylvestris and Witleof planning to borrow the relic before it
was handed over to the Frenchman. Oh, God!' He knelt by a stream,
bare to the waist, splashing icy water over his bloody face and
chest. He had discarded the bloodstained habit and donned breeches
and boots.

    'Is
all this blood yours?' Bane rolled up the soiled robe, weighing it
down