Donita K Paul [DragonKeeper Chronicles 03] DragonKnight (pdf)
Amber Kell [Hellbourne] Hellbourne [TEB MM] (pdf)
Denise A Agnew [Daryk World 03] Daryk Craving (pdf)
Carol Lynne [Cattle Valley 27] Alone in a Crowd Ryan, Rio, Nate [TEB MM] (pdf)
Daphne Clair Dark Remembrance [HP 458, MBS 586, MB 1802] (pdf)
Marquez Gabrie Garcia Na falszywych papierach w Chile
Evelyn Richardson Lady Alex's Gamble (pdf)(1)
Will Hubbel Cretaceous Sea
How the Catholic Church Built W Thomas E. Woods
Cartland Barbara Zagrośźone dziedzictwo
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
crossroads for the area. Though Dalton was on a much smaller
scale than Falconer s own city, the opportunity for pleasure taken
in good company was similar. Despite the hour, it was clear that
one tavern on this side of the town had still not rid itself of its
more persistent customers. The flickering light of tallow lamps
played across the frozen ridges of the roadway, and illuminated
the lower half of John Whitehed s body. He hesitated before the
doorway of the tavern, his feet shuffling in the pool of light.
Falconer, who had stopped as soon as his quarry had, was
suddenly pushed from behind. There was a muffled cry, and
131
Falconer felt Ralph s hands grasp his shoulders. He heard a
whispered apology. Sorry. I didn t see you.
Falconer sighed, and sat the exhausted monk on a convenient
rock at the roadside. Seeing that the sacrist had entered the
tavern, he told Ralph to stay where he was, and hurried down
the road. The door to the tavern was half open indeed the state
of its hinges suggested that this was its permanent state. Hidden
by the darkness, he peered cautiously through the gap in the
doorway into the tavern. It was a low-ceilinged, gloomy
establishment catering, at this hour, for a handful of dubious
characters. Three were hunched over the rickety table at which
they sat, snoring into the dregs of ale that lay in pools across
the surface. Two others were still awake, slouched bleary-eyed
over a game of nine-men s morris on which there was a
considerable wager to judge by the coins that were scattered in
front of them. One man groaned as the other s fingers flew over
the pegs in the board. From the picture framed by the door s
arch, Falconer could imagine many a shady deal hatched on these
premises, which clearly made it suitable for the sacrist s purpose.
No one would poke his nose into anyone else s business here
for fear of ending up in the middle of the roadway spilling his
life s blood into the mud. But where was John Whitehed?
Falconer felt for his eye-lenses, and squinted through the crack
on the hinge side of the door. In one corner he could just make
out a pair of well-shod feet stretched out underneath a table
marginally more steady than the ones used by the sleepers and
the gamers. They were not the feet of the sandal-clad sacrist,
but were they the feet of the man he had come to sell the book
to? As he turned his head to get the fullest view the narrow crack
would allow, his question was answered. John Whitehed leaned
forward, his face coming into sight. He looked pale, but there
was a determined line to his pursed lips. Then his face disappeared
again, and into the narrow range of Falconer s vision appeared a
pair of hands, tremulously clutching a book. A gloved fist came
from the opposite side and made as if to take the book. But
Whitehed wasn t letting go, and for a moment a strange tug-of-
war took place. Finally a silent agreement was reached and
Whitehed laid the book on the table between the two men.
Falconer could only hear the low murmur of their voices, but
their hands spoke volumes. First, the dealer s leather-clad palm
opened the bidding, to be followed by the monk s soft fingers
jabbing a refusal. The dealer s hand offered more, but Whitehed s
132
waved it away. Several rounds were conducted in similar fashion,
until Whitehed leaned into view again. Whatever he was being
offered still seemed unsatisfactory, for he shook his head. But
by now the buyer s gloved hand lay on the book as though he
already owned it. There was a pause, and Whitehed s features
disappeared again as he rocked back. The dealer s fingers
drummed gently on the surface of the book. Then suddenly the
sacrist s face reappeared, his eyes empty and downcast. He
nodded, and the buyer s other hand came into view with a leather
purse hanging from the fingers. The sacrist abruptly rose, and
turned towards the door. Falconer backed away, intending to slip
into the darkness.
At first he didn t realize that the figure approaching him from
behind was Ralph Westerdale, or he would have pulled him into
the shadows also. When he did see him, he hissed a warning,
but the precentor was too slow. Ralph merely stood in the middle
of the road, his eyes staring uncomprehendingly at Falconer. At
that moment John Whitehed came round the door of the tavern,
tucking the money bag into his sleeve. Confronted by his fellow
monk, he too stood stock still not comprehending what might
have happened.
The first to come to his senses was John Whitehed, and he
emitted a despairing wail at realizing he had been discovered.
Falconer, seeing the game was up, stepped forward to grasp the
sacrist s arm. As fate would have it, Ralph too saw that action
was required, and made a grab for his quarry. He only succeeded
in grabbing Falconer, almost knocking him to the ground. Once
Falconer had disentangled himself from the clutches of the
apologetic Brother Ralph, the other monk was nowhere to be
seen. The stricken Whitehed had fled into the night.
*
There was only one way into the inner cloister of Godstow
Nunnery and that was through the great gatehouse that stood in
line with the rickety river bridge. There were two other doors
between the cloister, where the nuns lived their now secluded
lives, and the outer court. But these had been locked and firmly
bolted under Sister Gwladys s regime. Ann Segrim walked round
the cloister perimeter, and tried both of the doors. The bolt on
each had had time to rust into place there was no evidence
that anyone had recently sneaked in from the outside. It was
133
still most likely that the murderer of Eleanor de Hardyng had
lived with her inside the nunnery. But Ann now knew that Eleanor
had had a visitor the night she died. Her sister, Gilda had said.
Would her own sister really have killed her? For what reason?
Grimly determined to gather all the facts and solve the mystery,
Ann made her way finally to the main gate, hitching up the ill-
fitting habit she had borrowed. The material was coarse, and
chafed her skin painfully she would be glad to escape this
purgatory, and don some more comfortable, worldly garments.
Before her loomed the tower of the gatehouse, casting its gloomy
shadow over the cloister. Beyond it, the sun shone on an
altogether more pleasant world inside its portals it felt chill
and grey. The outer court, beyond the gate, was occupied by the
convent s steward, bailiff and rent-collector. And the gate itself
was guarded like the gates of hell by the ever-scowling Hal Coke,
the Cerberus of Godstow Nunnery.
Having encountered him on her arrival, Ann Segrim knew him
for what he was: a woman-hater, who probably took as much
pleasure in keeping the nuns inside as in preventing the outside
world from getting in. It had not always been thus. A year ago the
Papal Legate, Ottobon, had deemed it necessary to lay an
injunction on the gate-keeper not to pass gifts, rewards, tokens
or letters between the outside world and the nuns. Such trade
must have been quite lucrative for Hal Coke, and its cessation
provided added reason for his present sour demeanour. To have
been able to recommence it must have proved irresistible to him.
As Ann approached the gate, Coke appeared under the arch
and stood four-square in the opening. His lumpy, scarred face
was set above a pair of broad shoulders that almost filled the
gateway. Hands on hips, he thrust his head forward, peering at
Ann with screwed-up eyes. His stare reminded Ann of Falconer s
own myopic gaze.
Going walking on your own again?
His voice was rough and carried an undertone of disbelief, as if
he could not imagine any woman not wanting to be in the company
of a man. Ann wondered briefly if he had seen her talking to the
constable, Peter Bullock. She decided he hadn t, and was merely
being his usual churlish self. She shook her fist, rattling the
coins she held in it. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
