By Sylvian Hamilton (18 page)

'No,
my son, I haven't seen him.' said the gatekeeper, passing bread and
cheese and ale through the wicket into their hands. 'But if you wait,
I will enquire of guest master if such a man has been here. What is
his name?'

'I
wish to God I knew,' said Straccan.

Chapter
23

Hugh
de Brasy was his name, and one of his women once said of him that he
was fair as an angel of God. That had amused him at the time, and
even now, some years and many women later, he would smile when the
thought recurred. All things considered, it was an excellent jest,
though it must be said of de Brasy that he served Satan with no more
ardour or enthusiasm that many a man served Christ.

Fair
he was, with features like the Archangel Michael in a church window:
straight nose, full lips, firm chin, large blue eyes and silver-gilt
hair. His hands were well kept, clean and manicured. He bathed often
and smelled of perfumes. He could play both lute and dulcimer, and
sing in a pure tenor; and with sword and dagger he was more talented
than most.

He
rode a splendid blue-black Andalusian stallion, his saddle and gear
ornamented with silver, and anyone could be pardoned who mistook him
for a prince, or at the least, one of great worth and noble blood.

In
truth, he was the son of an unnamed drab and an unknown sire,
ditch-born and ditch-abandoned, found near death by a kindly miller
on his way to market and deposited at the abbey he passed on his road
for the monks to save or lose. They saved him. And he grew to an
abiding hatred of them, because of their coldness, the merciless
Rule, poor food and many beatings; because of the rape of his body
when he was eight years old by the fat kitchener, who thereafter
shared him with his cronies. His savage hatred encompassed all of
them, the God they prayed to and the Church they served.

When
he was twelve he stabbed the kitchener to the heart with the knife
used for scraping wax from the candlesticks, and fled, lucky beyond
belief to tag on as servant to a cavalcade of crusaders setting out
for Palestine. There he passed the years until his eighteenth
birthday, though he knew not the day itself, only that he had been
found, birthwet and bloody, early in May.

He
learned many ways to please and serve the knights in those six
instructive years. And he learned several of the languages of the
East, for he had a quick ear and was gifted that way. He learned to
steal cunningly, to kill noiselessly and the art of poisons. Purged
by his experiences of either hope or faith in God, he was perfectly
willing to give Satan a try, only to find the king of hell equally
unresponsive. By the time he was eighteen, he believed only in
himself and his luck.

His
luck held, and he came to the notice of Rainard, Lord Soulis.

This
Soulis rewarded loyalty with a liberal hand, and in his service a man
could rise very high, no matter his birth, providing he was obedient,
not squeamish, and truly wished to please his master.

He
had served Soulis unquestioningly for more than fifteen years, ever
since the master came out of the desert with his sacks of gold coins
and the madman, Al-Hazred. All that time he had been Soulis's man,
body and soul, but recently Hugh de Brasy had begun to form other
plans.

For
at thirty-three a man is nearer the end of his life than at eighteen,
and whereas in the prime of young vigour, old age and death, heaven
and hell, are too remote to matter, once past thirty those
inevitabilities seem nearer.

On
this fair day it was good to be away from Crawgard, from the tower
where the Arab laired among his spells and stinking drugs. Good to be
under blue sky in green hills, riding a fine horse and listening to
the pure song of a thrush high above him; very good, even if one's
purpose was murder.

Murder
had never bothered de Brasy.

Nor
did his master's devotion to sorcery, for he had no belief in it. He
thought the Arab a cunning trickster, a parasite feeding off the
master's gullibility. Like the beast he was, de Brasy had a
highly-developed sense of danger. One way or another, he was certain
Lord Rainard was heading for disaster, and when he fell, like a great
tree he would drag lesser trees, his servants, with him. It was not
an easy decision. He had worried over it for months, considering and
rejecting one plan after another. Responding to that warning nudge of
danger's knuckle, he knew the time was ripe for a career move. He had
money hidden, not enough to content him but he knew where there were
gold coins a plenty, so much that a few handsful would not be missed.
And by the time he was, he would be far away.

In
the branches above, the thrush was still pouring out its torrent of
joy. A little bone whistle hung from de Brasy's belt. He put it to
his lips and blew a shrill piercing call that stunned the thrush into
resentful silence. He listened. Nothing. Dismounting, he looped the
reins over a deadfall and sat down with his back against a big ash
tree to wait awhile. Presently he blew once more, just as the thrush
was getting into its stride again. This time an identical note came
back from among the trees to his left, and soon a figure appeared
between the brambles, silent as a shadow. It walked upright on two
legs and had a whistle like de Brasy's hanging round its neck, but
that was all there was to show it was human. Clad in wolfskins, all
features hidden by a massive filthy beard and matted thatch of hair,
it stood and stared sullenly at de Brasy. The breeze, blowing towards
the seated man, carried the odour of old blood and decay.

'Well,
Sawney? I see you're still this side of Hell,' said de Brasy.

'How
long for, I wonder.'

The
creature growled like a dog, deep in its chest.

'Does
it never worry you? Hell? Eternal torment? No, I don't suppose it
does.' De Brasy stood up and leaned gracefully against the tree.
'I've got another job for you. Or would you rather I gave it to
someone else?'

The
creature grinned showing big brown teeth, and shambled forward
shaking its head. 'Na, na, master.' It seemed quite shocking to hear
words emerge, recognisably human. As shocking as if a bear or a dog
had spoken like a Christian. 'Sawney'll do it, good old Sawney.
What'll you give us?'

'Meat,'
said de Brasy. 'Venison. Mutton. Man. I know which you prefer.'

The
brute chuckled. 'Aye,' it said with dreadful relish. 'Meat! Man! Aye.
What's to do, master?'

'Same
as you always do. Travellers are corning, Sawney. Two men. One on a
big bay horse, the other on a grey. Take em, kill em, eat em if you
want, horses and all.' He slipped the reins back over his horse's
head and swung up into the saddle. 'Enough to feed your disgusting
tribe for a week. Two sheep and a fat doe, as well; they'll be here
for you afterwards. But I want the men's heads. Understand?
Recognisable. Not gnawed! So I know you got the right ones. And
anything they may be carrying--except money, you can have that.
Anything else--jewellery, lucky charms, letters, swords, knives –I
want those. Anything, understand? Put the heads and everything else
in a sack and hang it in this tree. I'll come and get it.'

'When
they coming, master?'

'A
week, maybe less. Wait and watch, Sawney. Have fun.'

The
creature laughed and turned back to the bushes. Tun,' it gloated.
'Us'll do that, master.'

De
Brasy looked up at the sun and down at his shadow. Time enough to
reach the town and have a bit of fun himself.

Chapter
24

The
Cistercian monks of Saint Mary the Virgin at Altraham, shockingly
hard up after floods drowned their flock of sheep and a storm threw
down their barns, had decided to prod the conscience of the laity by
putting the relics of their house in a wicker handcart and trundling
them round the country to rouse sympathy and raise funds. A peep at
Saint Joseph for a penny, or a halfpenny, or a fourthing, or –as
they got hungrier –even a couple of eggs.

It
chanced that by the bridge at Hexford they met a similar turnout, the
Austin canons from Saints Peter and Paul at Fimberly, a small priory
in like straits and blessed with the same bright idea. They had the
corpse of their Saint Osric, not a patch on Joseph, even if Fimberly
had all, or almost all, of their saint while Altraham had only the
skull and one hand of theirs, and a dubious leathery hairy object
hotly defended as Saint Joseph's scalp. The two parties approached
the bridge from opposite ends, each leader waving his great cross and
bawling to clear the road. Neither would retreat or give way. It was
obvious, said the Cistercians, that Saint Joseph had precedence, a
great saint whom all the world revered. A mere Saxon saintling, a
petty local hermit of whom no one had ever heard, must take second
place. Fair enough, retorted the Austin canons, if Joseph was
genuine, but all the world knew Altraham's saint –the dying
bequest of a lecherous local lordling, who hoped thereby to get a
leg-up into paradise –was a fake, just the skull and paw of an
old monkey and a bit of dog skin. Remarks were also passed about the
Cistercians going bare-arsed, all the world knowing, jeered the
canons, that they wore no drawers under their habits!

Matters
proceeded a. verbis ad verbera, and during the melee an enterprising
bystander made off with Saint Joseph, what was left of him, and so
poor Altraham lost its only treasure, and must now go home in
disgrace.

They
sat at the roadside, bruised, torn, muddy and sullen, and didn't even
look up as two horsemen approached.

'Brothers,'
said Straccan, 'have you seen a fair-haired man riding a black horse
pass this way? Perhaps with a little girl?'

They
had not, nor would they have noticed so despondent were they. But
Brother Udemar still clutched his collecting box and, without hope,
just out of habit, he rattled it under Straccan's stallion's nose.
Zingiber shied violently and nearly unseated his rider.

'What
a bloody silly thing to do,' said Bane. 'I've a mind to stick that
box up your arse!'

Brother
Udemar gave him a belligerent look but thought better of a retort.
Zingiber curvetted and pranced a bit more but let himself be soothed,
although showing the whites of his eyes to the monks.

Straccan
surveyed the row of tattered churchmen. 'What happened to you?'

They
told him.

'Well,'
said Straccan, 'you've still got the cart.'

What
good was that? They had no bones to show!

'Bones
are bones,' Straccan observed. He looked absently at the church and
churchyard a short way from the bridge. 'I doubt anyone could tell
one old skull from another,' he said.

They
followed his gaze. Possibility dawned. They looked shiftily at one
another. Brother Stephen, the youngest, just out of the novitiate,
stared blankly with one eye; the other was closed and blackening
fast. The penny dropped. Scandalised, he shouted, 'You mean, dig
someone up?' His brethren fell to hushing and shushing him, and one
even clapped a hand over the boy's mouth.

'Is
there a decent place to spend the night on this road?' Bane asked.
There was a Templars' hostel, they told him eagerly, four leagues
along, easily reached before dark.

'We
must be on our way,' said Straccan. 'Here ...' He leaned over and
dropped a penny into Brother Udemar's box. 'God be with you,
Brothers. I hope you find your lost bones.'

Out
of sight of the battered troop they began to laugh. Sir Miles and
Larktwist reached Hexford bridge at dusk and decided to spend the
night in the church porch. There was no alternative, Hexford being
nothing but a huddle of mud hovels, a church and the priest's house
–a slightly larger hovel than the rest. There was a half full
moon swimming between scudding clouds and frequent showers of
stinging rain.

Knocking
at the priest's door brought his frightened hearth-mate from her bed,
wrapped in a ragged blanket. 'Father Leonard's away,' she said. 'You
ain't goin to lock me up again, are you?'

'What?'

'Cos
Father's paid the ransom, all but a bit, and he'll pay that, honest!'

'What
ransom?' Miles asked, puzzled.

'What
Father Len had to pay to get me back, when the king's men took me
away.'

'Oh,'
said Miles. 'That!' He hid a smile. Annoyed by an upsurge of
opposition from the clergy, all of them inconvenienced and many
impoverished by the Interdict, King John had locked up their barns
and storehouses, demanding payment before he would restore them. Far
worse, he had ordered all their unofficial wives, mistresses,
hearth-mates, bidie-ins, whatever, to be locked up until their
partners bailed them out. Country-wide, from panic-stricken parish
priests left to mind their own babies, wash their own drawers and
tend their own cook-pots, and from arrogant bishops deprived of their
nocturnal consolations, a great stream of silver poured into the
welcoming royal coffers. After a brief separation from their masters,
the ladies were returned home unhurt, many of them having quite
enjoyed the enforced holiday from their bed-and-board obligations.
The whole country was still giggling.