The road presently turned away from the coast and through a flowery meadow beside a rushing stream. They stopped to allow Bluebell to rest, and both Lucy and Pega waded into the water to wash the dust from their feet.
“This is where we part company,” the Bard said. “I’ll meet you here on the morning of the third day. That’s more than enough time for Father Swein to winkle out a demon. And, Jack—”
The boy looked up at the man’s sharp tone.
“Don’t do anything foolish. Remember where your staff comes from and—well, you know what I’m talking about.”
Jack understood, though he didn’t think the Bard had anything to worry about. His staff, a copy of the old man’s more powerful one, had called fire from the heart of Jotunheim. It still thrummed with power—faintly, to be sure, but still there. Jack had tried to do interesting things with it, such as lift a boulder into the sky or turn back the tide, but all he’d managed was to expel mice from a grain bin.
“We should follow him,” Pega said as the Bard strode off.
“He can take care of himself,” said Jack, annoyed that she’d thought of it first. “He battled Frith, Half-Trolls, and she was a lot more dangerous than this Yffi sounds.”
“An adder is smaller than a wolf, but it can kill you just as dead,” the girl retorted.
“There’s St. Filian’s,” called Brother Aiden, pointing at a patch of white beyond a grove of pines on a hill. Behind the dark green branches Jack saw a wall of dazzling brightness that lifted his heart. As they drew nearer, he realized that it was a collection of buildings, all of the same shining hue.
“It’s
For all the beauty of the outside walls, the air inside was foul, no doubt due to the latrine at the far end of the building. The place was dank and cold, and the only light came through an open door.
“I didn’t know monks were allowed to keep slaves,” Jack said.
“Only ones who have lost their freedom through crime,” Brother Aiden said. “Serving the church is supposed to improve their souls.”
From what Jack saw, it seemed the church had an uphill battle. All the men were marked from earlier punishments—whip scars, missing ears, slit noses. Two had withered hands, which Brother Aiden said had come from trials by ordeal. “They had to carry a glowing piece of iron nine feet or plunge their hands into boiling water to pick up a stone at the bottom,” he said. “Afterward the wound was bound up. If it didn’t fester in three days, they were considered innocent. These, clearly, were not.”
Jack felt sick when he looked at the twisted flesh of those hands.
“It’s a merciful punishment,” the little monk explained. “Most thieves are put to death.”
“There’s nothing merciful about it,” Pega muttered under her breath.
They joined a line outside the abbot’s office, to make an appointment for Lucy’s exorcism. A young monk sat at a table to write down names, the type of complaint, and the expected payment. Whole families accompanied sufferers, some to console them and others to restrain them. One man shouted obscenities and was tied into a blanket to keep him from hurting anyone.
Father held Lucy in his arms to protect her from the sight of raving lunatics. When they got to the table, the recording monk said, “I can see why you brought this one. She’s ugly as sin.”
“Not her,” said Brother Aiden, putting Pega behind him. “The little girl. We fear she’s possessed.”
The recording monk smiled and reached up to touch Lucy’s hair. “I find that hard to believe.”
“She sees things that are not there and has delusions of being a princess.”
“I
Father put Lucy down, and she ran at once to the bubbling spring. He hastily scooped her up again. “You can’t play in it, dearest. It belongs to St. Filian,” he told her.
“No, it doesn’t. It’s
“Hush, my lambkin, we don’t want to make the saint angry.”
Lucy settled into Father’s arms and watched the spot. Jack wished the Bard were with them so they could trap whatever-it-was under the old man’s cloak. He was convinced Lucy really saw something.
Jack approached the spring cautiously. He could see nothing except the sweet alyssum and lavender planted around the edge. The courtyard was heavy with perfume, and a haze of bees moved among the flowers. And yet something
The air beyond the fountain shivered and faded, as a meadow dims when fog rolls in from the sea. It was very like mist, except that it occupied only a small area. It drifted in a lazy circle, growing more distinct until Jack was able to see a shape condensing in the middle.
It was a lady dressed in white, an exquisite being whose feet made no impression on the flowers she trod. Her hair was pale gold and her skin was as fair as moonlight. She bent toward Jack’s companions, beckoning them with her hand. Father couldn’t see her, nor could Pega. Brother Aiden looked uneasy. Lucy watched with great attention.
The lady turned and saw Jack. Instantly, she thrust out her arm, and pain shot through Jack’s chest as though he’d been struck with an arrow. The staff dropped from his hand. The sky arched overhead as he fell backward toward the ground.
Chapter Twelve
ST. OSWALD’S HEAD
“Does he have fits?” a man said nearby. Jack opened his eyes on the wooden beams of a low ceiling. Bunches of dried herbs dangled here and there.
“Never,” replied Father. “Perhaps he’s coming down with a fever.”