The Outsiders (25 page)

Before Menzies
could naysay him the Earl strode across the floor towards the
plinth.

The hooded figure
stepped in front of him, blocking his path. The Earl didn’t
hesitate. He raised the sword and swung, backhanded. The robed
figure seemed to move lanquidly, only raising an arm in defence.
The sword went halfway through the forearm. The figure made no
sound. And there was no blood. The wound gaped, grey and
dry.

The
Earl hacked again. The arm came away at the shoulder. The other
hand gripped the sword and without seeming to exert any
force,
snapped
it
off, a foot from the hilt.

Menzies started
to move forward to his liege’s aid. At the same moment six more
robed figures emerged from the shadows, and moved quickly to block
any move he might make. They did not attack him… they didn’t have
to. He could not reach the Earl.

The white robed
figure had the Earl by the throat. The pair spun around in a
grotesque parody of a dance. The Earl was trying, without much
success, to reach a vital organ with what remained of the sword.
His face had gone bright red and he gasped, struggling for
breath.

Menzies jumped
forward, intent on trying to get through. An arm, heavy and solid
swung and hit him in the chest. It felt like he’d just ran into a
tree. He went down hard, the back of his head smacking against the
mosaic. His vision blurred.

His head rang
like a bell, but beneath that he heard the Earl call
out.

“
I am
here in the name of Jesus Christ. I do the Lord’s will.”

The white robed
figure went still, staring straight at the Earl. The big man took
his opportunity. He shoved the broken sword under the robed man’s
chin, pushing through till the blade punched out the back of the
skull. The body went down without another sound.

The Earl stepped
up to the plinth.

“
We
have it Menzies,” he shouted. He reached down towards the crown of
thorns. “I have my prize.”

The six robed
men, as one, turned and moved towards him.

The Earl still
had his back to them and did not see them approach, still intent on
the crown.

“
My
Lord,” Menzies called, but his voice was barely a whisper. He tried
to stand but his legs refused to bear him. He could only watch as
the six men grabbed the Earl. They took the sword from him as
easily as taking a toy from a babe. Once the Earl was disarmed two
of them moved aside to the large wooden cross and lowered it,
almost reverentially to the ground. The others started to drag the
struggling man towards it.

Menzies saw their
intent and went cold.

“
No!”
he called, but yet again only a whisper emerged. He began to crawl
forward, but his head felt like it might explode. His world began
to go black at the edges.

The robed figures
spread the Earl’s arms along the spars of the cross.

An arm went up
and came down.

There
was a dull
thud,
then silence for a heartbeat before the Earl’s screams began
and a splash of red on the wood showed where he had been nailed
through the wrist. The big man screamed again as it was repeated on
the other side, and mercifully lost consciousness for a time as
they drove a nail through both his ankles and deep into the main
stay of the cross.

A figure broke
away from the group to go to the plinth. It returned with the
crown. The Earl woke. His eyes went wide with fear as he realised
his fate. He threw his head from side to side but they held him, as
if calming a recalcitrant babe. They rammed the crown down hard on
the Earl’s scalp. Blood joined tears to run in runnels down his
face.

They hoisted the
cross into place against the cavern wall.

The six figures
prostrated themselves on the ground as the Earl cried out, his pain
echoing around the cavern and sending bats scattering
overhead.

Menzies tried to
crawl, but the darkness was even closer now.

He saw the Earl
raise his face to the roof and scream in pain.

“
I do
the Lord’s will.”

Soon the darkness
covered even that sight. He let it take him, and fell into
oblivion.

He woke to a
headache that pounded like a drum. When he tried to stand his
stomach heaved and he brought up what little he had in his stomach.
After that, he felt strangely stronger.

The feeling of
wellbeing only lasted as long as it took him to turn to face the
cross.

The Earl hung
limply -- chin lowered to his chest. Blood showed all around his
head where vicious thorns had pierced the scalp. More blood coated
his left side from a wound that had been punched through the chain
mail under his ribs. A black circle was painted on his tunic. He
did not look to be breathing.

The six robed men
still knelt on the ground at the foot of the cross.

My
Leige!

Menzies stumbled
across the cavern floor. His sword lay near the centre of the
mosaic but he paid it no heed as he approached the
cross.

Did
the Lord will this blasphemy?

The kneeling
figures ignored him as he approached. He reached up to touch the
Earl’s tunic.

The big man’s
head lifted.

He
lives. My liege lives.

The Earl’s eyes
opened.

There were no
pupils, just a blank, milky white stare.

Wood creaked and
groaned. Menzies couldn’t take his eyes from the face, but was
aware that one wrist was now free of the nail that had pierced it.
He felt gentle hands push him aside.

The robed figures
helped the Earl down from the cross then prostrated themselves
before him.

The Earl stood in
front of the bloodstained cross and opened his arms wide. He spoke
-- his voice a dry rasp.

“
To
Jerusalem. The Lord wills it.”

The kneeling
figures kissed his robe.

Menzies turned
and fled.

He had no idea
where he was headed. He only knew that he had to get out of that
chamber, away from those milky white stares.

If I
had stayed there but a minute longer, I would have been tempted to
join him.

He ran, slamming
into the stone by the doorway. He reached the exterior door before
he realised he could see clearly. The sun was rising, a thin watery
dawn.

We
have been in there all night.

He staggered out
to the clearing. A figure loomed in front of him. He threw a punch
but it didn’t have strength enough to land. Someone grabbed him
beneath the arms as he fell, off-balanced.

“
Dear
God James” David of Hawick said. “What has become of
you?”

A minute later he
was sat by the fire at the far end of the clearing. His gaze rarely
left the entrance to the tower, but nothing moved there.

Not
yet.

The Hawick man
fed him some dried bread and wine and the heat of the fire started
to loosen the chill in his bones.

“
I’m
sorry,” David said. “I ran when I should have been by your
side.”

Menzies waved him
aside.

“
We
all should have ran,” he said quietly. “Mayhap we would all yet be
alive.”

“
The
Earl?”

Menzies wasn’t yet ready to tell
that
story.

“
What
have you been doing all this time?” he asked the Hawick
man.

The man looked
sheepish.

“
I
started to run,” he said. “I even got as far as going down the
cliff. Then I came to the ledge where we left John the Swift. He
was just lying there, two crows feasting on his face. I couldn’t
find it in myself to leave him. So I made a cairn and buried him
under it. I sat with him through the night, saying the words. It
was the Christian thing to do."

The
Christian thing to do.

Menzies sat for
long minutes looking into the flames. Pictures came to mind, of the
Earl, crowned in thorns, riding at the head of a vast army before
the gates of Jerusalem, every man among them staring ahead with a
milky-white gaze as they hacked the Saracen to bloody
pieces.

And it
wouldn’t stop there.

He saw the Earl
sitting on a throne as all the Kings of Christendom were brought
before him to bend a knee, a Christendom that would all bow before
the holy relic, believing it to be the Lord’s will. He saw
countries fall. He saw home, and Melrose Abbey, the monks in grey
robes, black circles painted on their chests. He saw a world of
nothing but obedience and dead white stares.

And with that
came a memory of the night before.

The
air is filled with the sound of sword strokes thudding into the
body beneath the robes.

Yet
still it stands.

“
Die
you devil, die!” the Earl shouts. “In the name of our Lord Jesus
Christ.”

The
grey figure goes still. It makes no defence as the Earl brings the
sword round in one clean sweep that nearly takes its head off at
the neck.

Swift on the
heels of that came another memory.

He
hears the Earl call out.

“
I am
here in the name of Jesus Christ. I do the Lord’s will.”

The
white robed figure goes still, staring straight at the Earl. The
big man takes his opportunity. He shoves the broken sword under the
robed man’s chin, pushing through till the blade punches out the
back of the skull. The body goes down without another
sound.

“
It
was the same both times,” Menzies whispered. “They made no
defence.”

He came to a
decision. He stood, groaning at aches and pains the length of his
body.

“
Where
to James?” David asked. “Do we head for home?”

“
Not
yet. Come with me, or stay, it makes no mind to me. But we have our
duty as Christians to perform.”

Menzies tore long
strips from his tunic, and wound them tight round a piece of wood.
He lit it from the fire. David of Hawick followed his
example.

Together they
strode back into the tower.

The
Earl and his
disciples
still stood before the bloodied cross, heads bowed in a
mockery of prayer. The Hawick man would have ran again then, but
Menzies put out a hand to stop him.

“
You
did right by John the Swift. Now we shall do right by our
liege.”

Menzies strode
across the mosaic. His foot kicked his sword that still lay there,
sending in skittering across the polished stone. He didn’t bend to
retrieve it.

I
don’t need it. I have something else that will serve me
better.

The Earl looked
up at his approach. The pale eyes seemed to stare into Menzies’
soul. The big man opened his arms wide, welcoming.

“
You
have been by my side these many years,” the big man said. His voice
sounded dry and hoarse, and had withered to little more than a
whisper. “Join me now. The Lord wills it.”

“
Aye,”
Menzies said. “The Lord wills it.”

He stepped
forward and thrust the burning brand into the cloth of the Earl’s
robe. The black paint on the front took first, raising a fiery
circle that spread quickly. Menzies smelled the acrid tang of
burning hair as the Earl’s beard blazed. The big man started to
flap his arms, attempting to put out the flame.

“
In
the name of Jesus Christ, be still,” Menzies shouted.

Despite the flames, the Earl complied. He stood, silent even
as fire ravaged his face. The last Menzies saw was one of the white
eyes
pop
and
sizzle, then the body fell away to the ground. The disciples swayed
like drunkards.

The crown of
thorns hissed and crackled as the flame reached it.

The robed
disciples moved forward, but even as they reached with longing
towards the Earl, the fire took completely and raged through the
tinder-dry wood of the crown. As a man, the disciples fell,
pole-axed, onto the mosaic.

They let the fire
take its course. By the time it was done the Earl’s body was
charred and ravaged, the crown of thorns indistinguishable from the
rest of the remains.

“
In
the name of Jesus Christ, be at peace,” Menzies said softly. He
ground his foot on the remains, scattering the crown, and most of
the Earl’s head, to dust and ash.

He turned and
left. He did not look back.

It was only when
they were back out in the heat of the sun that David of Hawick
spoke.

“
What
did we just do?” he asked.

Menzies set his
eyes on the horizon and home. He didn’t reply, but something that
the Hawick man had said earlier echoed in his mind.

It was
the Christian thing to do.