The Book of Whispers Page 4

  When the other knights have also donned their crosses, we kneel together and pray.

  St Horror’s demon watches Father and me as we walk back to Gemma. I return its stare. The air seems to crackle as we make eye contact.

  The demon looks shocked. It jumps. It pulls on the shadowy cord connecting it to the head of St Horror and breaks its binding.

  They can do that?

  Next, it spreads wide, bat-like wings and flies over the heads of the congregation, pausing near its demon mates as if passing on gossip. They turn to me, eyes shining red with malice. Claws are raised. Mouths filled with sharp teeth are opened in grins or snarls.

  Clearly, I’m safer when they don’t realise I can see them. I force my vision to blur. I keep my eyes firmly on other humans.

  After a few moments, St Horror’s cord lifts towards its demon like the head of a charmed snake. Reluctantly, the demon glides closer to it. Eventually, the cord snaps like a bite, and seizes back its demon. Apparently, demons can be freed for only a short while.

  Ramberti returns to the altar and we return to our bench.

  Gemma has pressed herself against the wall. Her eyes are saucers of wonder. ‘Luca,’ she says. ‘You’re leaving me here?’

  I pull her to me in an embrace and kiss the top of her head. ‘Someone really does need to learn those accounts. You’re needed here. You’ll be as rich as the Grand Contessa Matilda by the time I get back.’

  ‘But I won’t need to marry Narlo?’ she asks, anxiously.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve promised.’

  ‘The Lord is generous to us,’ Ramberti says. ‘Those who die in this war will go to Heaven purged of all sin…’

  ‘God wills it!’ chant the many knights who have just taken their vows.

  Father doesn’t join in. Anger is wrapped around him like another cloak. I want to ask him to trust me, to know I go along with him because my dreams will not let me believe he can survive otherwise. But he won’t listen.

  Outside the church, demons taunt me. They slither along the ground and make rude gestures. One circles Gemma and slides suggestively under her skirt. The fabric doesn’t move at all in response to its movement. I blink and look away. I wouldn’t know how to protect her if I tried. I know so little about demons.

  Does the book have answers? If it does, I don’t know how to read them.

  Father is silent. Ramberti comes to speak to us. Unlike the demons whose movements are so quiet, his footsteps crunch heavily into the pebbles underfoot. Thick brows conceal his eyes when he frowns. ‘Conte and Sir Luca, Narlo, you honour God and me,’ he says.

  Father turns and walks away.

  Ramberti grabs my hand. He leans closer, and murmurs, ‘Ipse tibi ímperat, qui te de supérnis cæaelórum in inferióra terræ demérgi præcépit.’

  It’s Latin, from the exorcism rite. I step back, shocked.

  ‘Do you know why I said that?’ Ramberti asks.

  I don’t blink. ‘To remind me of the Hell you put me through?’

  ‘No,’ Monsignor Ramberti says, smoothly. He considers his fingernails. ‘To remind you of the Hell I saved you from.’

  Ramberti crunches away, to talk to a tall stranger in an iron-coloured cape. I’m startled. I know that man. This is the man I dreamed of, standing over Father’s fallen body!

  The man greets Ramberti as he would greet an equal, the two nodding at each other. The young man has fair hair and pearl-tinted skin. He reaches for a large medallion hanging on a silver chain around his neck and holds it out for Ramberti to see.

  ‘There will be two falcons now,’ I hear Ramberti say.

  Who is that man? I approach, but he walks away. Ramberti holds the medallion now and stares at it with reverent eyes. What power can it have? I speed up, but the iron-caped knight is faster. Children run by, nearly tripping me over. He disappears into the crowd.

  At home, over our noonday meal, Father tells the others what I’ve done. Around the room, demons agitate their wings and the air stirs, as though anger could whip up an actual storm.

  Anna looks at me through teary eyes. ‘Oh, Luca.’

  I hate that I’ve upset Anna. And I can’t explain it to them. All I know is I have to work out who the iron-caped man is, in time to prevent him murdering Father.

  Narlo grabs my arm when everyone else has left. ‘I don’t need to marry Gemma. Your father will give the estate to me just because you did this.’

  Preparations for our journey continue over the next two sevennights, though everything is done in silence. Father refuses to speak to me. One morning, we’re forced to spend time together. I collect my most precious possessions—my sword, and an ivory horn that Father gave me after his previous trip to Jerusalem—and walk with Father to the local monastery to ask the monks to assist Anna until our return.

  A line of monks in brown cloaks stands beside the entrance of a high-ceilinged stone chapel that has stood here since Charlemagne’s time, three hundred years ago. I’m surprised to see elderly Brother Bonaccorso there, leaning on his sturdy walking stick. A friend of my late grandfather’s, usually he’s to be seen in one of the back rows of the chapel or sitting on a bench in the monastery gardens, reading. He is a gentle, peaceful man used to a life of quiet contemplation. Father greatly values his opinion.

  ‘Conte.’ Brother Bonaccorso bows when he sees us. ‘Luca.’ He raises his hands together. Each is stained with black ink from his work in the scriptorium. ‘Luca, I hear you are to join us.’

  ‘Join us?’ I repeat, as we enter the chapel. The air is cool.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine such an old man making such a difficult journey?’ He smiles. ‘I might not be a glorious young knight, but there are still things I wish to achieve. And I have a packhorse that can carry me.’

  ‘You’ll ride a packhorse?’ Packhorses, like donkeys, are normally used to carry supplies.

  ‘You need to stop repeating what I say. I won’t be joining you fighting. If I had my way, there would be none of that. But there are places I want to see. I used to travel when I was younger. I never made it to Constantinople. I never made it to the city they call the crossroads between East and West. I never saw the grave of Euthymius the Illuminator.’

  Even elderly monks, it seems, have dreams. But I don’t get a chance to ask Brother Bonaccorso more about his. We sit down, and are silent while special staffs and purses are distributed to all pilgrims who are going. As we’re leaving the chapel, Brother Bonaccorso says, simply, ‘You need to talk to your father, Luca. You should not leave on this journey with guilt in your soul.’

  I know he is right.

  Father and I walk home. When we’re nearly there, I try again. ‘I wanted to tell you.’

  He turns to me, tired rather than angry. Maybe Brother Bonaccorso gave him some advice as well. ‘Until now, your problems have been caused by foolishness. But what you did in the Collegiata was sinful. You deceived me.’

  I swallow and look down. ‘I did what I believe is right.’

  ‘Proving you’re not ready to make your own decisions.’

  Anger shoots through me, but I remain silent.

  ‘Did you think about the peasants whose cottages you planned to strengthen for the winter?’ Father continues. ‘In one moon, you will desert them. Are you happy if they’re cold now?’

  ‘I’ll still make plans. I’ll check their walls for repairs before we go.’

  Father closes his eyes. ‘We have a long way to go together, Luca,’ he says at last. ‘May this be the last deception ever between us.’

  That night, I dream that Narlo creeps into the stable and finds the trapdoor. He emerges a few moments later with the wrapped book under his arm. I wake before my dream-self learns what he plans to do with it.

  CHAPTER 3

  Twenty-eight moons

  GOREME, THE LEVANT

  Suzan

  The dusty earth shakes and rolls beneath us. I dream we’re in a large boat, sailing over waves I’ve never seen.
Except we’re in no boat, upon no sea. I’ve been asleep on a trundle bed in my mother’s underground convent cell. I open my eyes and listen. Perhaps we’re being attacked by a vast army of Saracens. The valley, beneath which our convent is built, is surrounded by enemy soldiers. But could any army have the strength to move the earth?

  From her cot close by, I feel my mother stretch a hand towards me. Her fingers close over mine. Touch is the only language we have.

  There’s no light. For all of my near-seventeen years, we’ve lived three floors beneath the ground in a convent carved from soft stone. Above us, the needle-like rock formations—fairy towers—point from our valley floor, towards the sky. What’s happening up there, I wonder? Up where people can see the sky? Are the fairy towers crumbling and falling?

  The walls and floors continue to move. It isn’t safe to light a candle or lamp. Is this the beginning of Armageddon, the end of the world?

  I listen for trumpets to sound.

  There are no trumpets. Earth and tiny pebbles crumble off the walls and dust our faces. The room fills with the chalky aroma of rock. The walls crack. This is it: the beds we made last night will be our graves. I clutch my mother’s arm.

  But as I abandon hope, the movements slow. Eventually, the earth stills.

  My mother loosens her grip on my hand. She does everything silently, as much from physical limitation as from the vows she has taken. My skin is damp with a mixture of her sweat and mine. I wipe it on my coarse blanket and sit up. My mother shuffles about and sits next to me.

  ‘I’ll find out what’s going on,’ I say, quietly. ‘You wait here.’

  I stand. The room is cold. My mother makes the noise in her throat she always makes when there’s something she really needs to tell me. She passes me something hard and smooth.

  I take the object from her. It’s two beams of timber, crossed. My fingers make out the familiar emaciated form nailed to it. My mother’s crucifix. Normally it hangs on the wall above her bed. It must have fallen off.

  ‘I’ll put this back when I have light,’ I whisper.

  Though she can’t talk, I can speak if I’m quiet. In the darkness, I kiss her forehead like she has kissed mine since my babyhood. I straighten and reach for a shawl to wrap around the tunic I sleep in. Outside, all is quiet.

  ‘Things will be all right,’ I reassure my mother.

  She takes my hand in hers once more, turning it. We’ve communicated like this since I was small. She used to draw everyday items on my palm with a few quick fingertip strokes: a bowl with a spoon; a woman’s face surrounded by a veil; the horns and whiskers of a goat. She moved on to more abstract shapes, teaching me to call them letters. At first, I believed letters were ideas my mother created herself. But other people have letters too. The most important are in the Bible. My mother’s letters are different, private.

  Now, with her fingertip, she writes, ‘We’re safer down here.’

  I’m grateful for her softness and warmth, but I pull away. ‘I need to know what’s going on. I can move more quickly on my own. Wait here.’

  I feel my way to the door of our cell and, carefully, push it open. The darkness is so complete it feels solid. The floor is cold and sandy beneath my feet. I’m familiar with this journey. My mother and I walk it several times every night. First for midnight office, then for matins, we go together to sit in the chapel. We always sit in the back row. The nuns have decided to tolerate me as long as I can’t be heard, but prefer me to be invisible too. I’m not meant to exist.

  I know my way in the dark.

  I find and climb the staircase, and run down another dark hall. I bump into someone and we both cry out and fall.

  ‘Help!’ she calls.

  It’s Sister Aysel, a younger nun. I pray that she doesn’t recognise me as I help her to her feet.

  She clings to my arm. ‘It’s so dark!’ She reaches for the front of my tunic. ‘What’s happening?’

  All I can do is shake my head. Only my mother knows I can speak. Everyone else believes muteness spread to me before I was born. Everyone knows a baby can be affected like that. Sister Najat, an older nun, once saw a baby with eight legs because its mother was frightened by a spider.

  ‘Where is everyone? Have you seen the priest?’

  Another shake of my head. I don’t believe Father Eser is near. He always gives me a nauseated feeling. It’s unpleasant, but at least it means I can feel him coming. If anyone knew when Armageddon was upon us, it would be Father Eser, who speaks of it frequently.

  Sister Aysel walks to the narrow stairs. I follow. On the next level, finally there’s light. The Sisters have gathered, in their sleepwear. Their hair is showing.

  ‘It means nothing,’ Sister Najat says. She carries a candle and its flickering light illuminates her grey locks, the burn scar on her cheek. This burn was the reason she joined the order. Her family realised she would never attract a wealthy husband and sent her here instead. Burned and abandoned, she spends much time on her knees thanking God for this kindness.

  ‘How can it be nothing!’ says Sister Irem. She nearly shrieks the words. ‘The earth moved!’

  ‘It might have been an army,’ says Sister Aysel. Other nuns move to make room for her. Although she’s young, she comes from a worldly family and knows more about the outside world than many.

  ‘No army ever made the ground move,’ says Sister Najat.

  ‘No human army,’ says Sister Irem. ‘A demon army might.’

  ‘Hush,’ says Sister Najat.

  ‘Don’t hush her. She’s frightened. And mightn’t she have reason for her fear? Haven’t we had signs?’ demands Sister Aysel. ‘Our lives here are contrary to the order of God.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Sister Irem, baffled.

  ‘The wealthy and the poor all mixed together,’ Sister Aysel says. ‘Though God chose to honour me with wealth and position, I am forced to share my table with women he chose to give nothing to at all. God cannot approve of this outrage.’

  I watch Sister Najat rest a hand on her arm. ‘Hush,’ she says, more gently. ‘Listen to me, Sisters. These are new caves, but they are built from old rock. The earth here has moved before. It might mean nothing at all.’

  There’s silence for a moment.

  ‘But what should we do?’ demands Sister Irem.

  ‘Do?’ says Sister Najat. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything we can do. Perhaps for now we should retire to our cells. It will soon be matins, and with daylight we can give thanks for our safety and see what changes the Lord has seen fit to bring upon us.’

  I feel my way downwards through the various stairways and tunnels, and open the door leading to my mother’s cell. I push it closed behind me and sit beside my mother. I feel her hand resting on her santur—the musical instrument is the one thing she brought from her own people. She strokes my hair with her other hand. Familiar, comforting strokes. I lean over until my mouth is near her ear.

  ‘Sister Najat says it means nothing. She says she has felt such movement before,’ I say. ‘All are safe now, and we can go outside after matins.’

  My mother nods. She traces the shapes for ‘We’ll be safest here.’

  When it’s time for mid-morning prayers, I follow my mother into the hot brilliance of open air, past tapestries hung out to be sold to passing travellers, across to the largest cave chapel. Although all members of our order survived, not all our neighbours were so lucky. Mass is to be said for the souls of those who died, and to give thanks for our survival. Heat radiates off the surrounding stone hills and dances in the air.

  Sister Najat leads the other nuns into the cave chapel. Like the cells where we sleep, the room where we attend mass has been cut into the soft rock. It has a very high roof above walls painted with red ochre copies of religious art. I’ve been told the originals in the Basilica of St Sophia in Constantinople are breathtaking. There’s no chance I’ll ever see them.

  I stand near the entrance, peering in at the black-
clad nuns as they genuflect before a painted crucifix on the far wall. ‘Stand back, you ugly girl,’ hisses Sister Aysel as she passes me. ‘God himself wants you to learn your place.’

  Father Eser comes now, behind the friars from their nearby monastery. He wears a roughly woven brown habit with a mottled green chasuble over the top, and plain sandals. Eser has always frightened me. Candles flicker when he enters a room. Sometimes his eyes look red instead of brown. He radiates evil, accompanied as he is by the stench of death and putrefaction. Older nuns have joked that he is good looking, but something about his skin is not quite right. Other people’s skin doesn’t give off such a sheen. And, as if he has something to hide, he hates being looked in the eye. I stand further to the side and stare at him.

  ‘Eyes down, girl,’ hisses the monk at Father Eser’s side.

  Father Eser sucks in his breath as he passes me and moves aside as if he’s worried his robes might be contaminated if they touch mine. The monk beside him pauses, raises his elbow and drives it with a hard

  thump

  into my stomach. I reel in pain and shock. The earthquake has rattled people. They are even more angry with me than usual.

  ‘Don’t tempt us with your devil eyes, girl,’ he orders. ‘It’s a good thing you’re so ugly. Otherwise you could cause real trouble.’

  At the altar, Father Eser addresses us. ‘The earth will not stop moving until we purify this place. God is judging us.’

  When I can stand straight, I hobble back to the door. I can see Father Eser in profile. In the candlelight, as always, his contours flicker. The mass begins. The Sisters receive communion. The blood, the body of Christ. None for me.

  Something flashes over Father Eser’s face, something that looks like a sheer scarf. A gust of wind seems to lift it, revealing a different face from the one Father Eser shows the world. I imagine I see scaly, dark-grey skin, like a lizard’s. But only for a moment, then the illusion is gone.