By Sylvian Hamilton (26 page)

Miles
stood watch until an hour or so before the dawn, when he shook
Larktwist awake to relieve him.

'How's
Bane?'

'Still
breathing.'

'God
save him.'

'Amen!'

Straccan
woke a little after dawn and found Sir Blaise sitting beside Bane.
Bane's face was skull-like, damp and grey, the sunken eyes ringed in
bruised circles. 'He is cold,' the old knight said, chafing the
dead-feeling hands, trying to warm them. 'I have put another blanket
over him, and made up the fire.'

'Who
are you?' Straccan asked. 'How can you help me?'

'Yes,'
said Miles, who had woken when the fire was mended, 'and how do you
know about what's-his-name, the Arab, and the lost city, and all
that?'

Sir
Blaise sighed, 'I am the Lord of Sauchiehill. My domain lies north of
here. I am an old man, as you see, so I have put my holding in good
hands, and live in retirement near the priory at Coldinghame. Prior
Aernald and I were squires together, years ago. He lets me live in
one of the priory's houses, for friendship's sake. Once, long ago, I
was a knight of the Order of the Temple of Solomon, in Jerusalem.'

'A
Templar!' Miles breathed reverently.

"In
Outremer,' Blaise continued, 'I learned the legends of the desert. I
spoke with the wise men of Arabia and learned much of their lore. I
also learned some of their ancient languages, only to be found in old
books. In short, I made a study of Saracenic magic. This was
forbidden by the Church, and I was punished and disciplined for it. I
"lost the Order"; do you know what that means? I was cast
out, no longer a knight of the Temple, and I spent six years in a
Church prison until they judged me repentant and broken to their
will.' \ There was a shocked silence. After a while, Miles said
hesitantly, 'Wasn't that heresy?'\

'So
they called it,' Sir Blaise said. 'I call it knowledge. But I have
told you the truth, and it's for you to decide. If you prefer to
manage without any help from me, I understand. Heresy's a fearful
word. I am bound to tell you this; it is a duty laid on me by Prior
Aernald that I may offer my help, but must tell my history.' Straccan
had taken the bronze cylinder out of his pocket and was turning it in
his hands. This was the thing he had given to the Countess of Arlen,
and which she had said would go to the king. It had no business being
at Crawgard, but she was the sister of the Lord of Skelrig, where
Soulis was going ... They were all connected.

'May
I see that?' the old man asked. He looked closely at it.

'Lord
protect us,' he said. 'Where did you get this?'

Straccan
told him. It all seemed very long ago now: the murdered messenger,
Bane's journey north, his own visit to the lady Julitta. 'The picture
inside, she called it an icon,' he said. The old man uncapped the
cylinder and slid the rolled portrait into his palm, untied it and
studied the sorrowful face. 'Egyptian work,' he said. 'But the icon
is nothing to do with this business. This,' he tapped the cylinder,
'is what matters. The case.'

'Look,'
said Straccan. 'Can we please make sense of all this? What do you
mean about the case?'

'I
believe this came from Irem,' Blaise said. 'Although,' he smiled
slightly, 'the scholars of Arabia will tell you it is not of this
world at all, but came from a star.'

'That's
rubbish,' said Miles. The stars are holes in the floor of heaven made
by God's finger for the light to shine through, so we will know where
heaven is!'

Blaise
put the icon in its case and gave it back to Straccan. 'I have heard
it said too, that all that great spray of stars in the night sky is
milk from the breast of the Holy Virgin. Another view is that stars
are the souls of the righteous who died before Christ was born to
save mankind. Although spared the pains of hell, they may not enter
paradise, where only true Christian souls may go. They are set in the
sky instead, which we can only hope is some comfort to them! A priest
at Canterbury told me stars were the tears of angels, weeping for the
folly and wickedness of men. But I have also been told that angels
are in a state of perpetual exaltation, and if that is the case
they'd hardly spend time weeping. There are lots of stories about
stars, young Sir, so why shouldn't the Saracens have stories, too?'

Miles
looked unhappy and didn't answer.

Blaise
continued. 'They believe that demons dwell among the stars and that a
sorcerer who knows their names can call them down, force them to do
his will. But he must be powerful indeed, for always they seek to
break free and turn upon humankind. 'Soulis,' he added, 'must have
studied these matters deeply, or he would never have found the City
of Pillars.'

'What
can a man want,' Straccan wondered, 'enough that hell's fires hold no
terrors for him?'

Blaise
shrugged. 'With Soulis, we may rule out love. He is a man that has no
need of women. Although he has gold, he may crave more; some have a
great lust for riches. Then, too, he is growing old. If he believes
eternal life can be his for the asking, that might be worth any risk.
Also, he is proud: he may desire to make men his puppets, command
them, raise or put down kings, throw down kingdoms. In the ancient
lore books of Arabia, Al-Hazred is said to speak the tongue of demons
and to know their names. Without its name, no man can summon a demon
or compel it to obedience. If Soulis cherishes the old madman, it may
be because he believes him the key to power beyond most men's
dreams.'

'Can
devils give him such things?' Miles asked.

'The
Church itself does not deny the power of Satan. Didn't he say to the
Lord Christ, "All the kingdoms of the earth will I give thee, if
thou wilt fall down and worship me"? The summer solstice is
near, a time when the old magic of this world is said to be strong.
In pagan times, it was a great festival. Whatever Soulis has in mind
to do, that will be the time.'

Straccan
and Miles crossed themselves. There was no scepticism. The reality of
their time contained God and Satan, saints and demons, miracles and
magic, angels and ghosts, priests and sorcerers, nuns and witches,
castles and faery halls, heaven and earth, horses and cattle along
with unicorns and dragons, basilisks as well as everyday poultry, all
as much part of existence as themselves.

'I
met Robert de Beauris once,' Blaise said. 'He was a friend of my
sister's son Martin, my pupil who died last year, God rest his soul.'
He sighed. 'I am old, past the days of my strength, and now I have no
young successor to learn from me.'

'Learn
what?' asked Miles.

'As
much wisdom as I could push into him. I'm not a Templar any more, but
I honour the vows I took: to watch and guard pilgrims in their search
for Christ. Men strive to reach Him here, just as much as in
Palestine, and are beset by evil here too. There are others like me
throughout Christendom. While we live, we watch and guard, lest evil
prevail.'

Just
then Bane drew a few fluttering breaths and seemed to stop breathing
altogether for a few moments, before beginning again even more
faintly than before.

'He
must have the last rites,' Miles said urgently, looking at Blaise.
'In extremity, anyone may do it.'

Chapter
30

Outside,
full morning had come. A hind and fawn drank at the opposite bank,
and faded back into the dappled shadows beneath the trees. Birds
sang. The sun shone. It promised to be a fair day. Far along the road
there was a little cloud of dust. Travellers approaching. Pilgrims,
for as they came nearer they could be heard singing a hymn. They came
slowly, all on foot, and gradually the dust cloud resolved itself
into a group of odd-looking men and women in the charge of a small
skinny monk. Several of the trudging singers appeared to be tied to
the monk by lengths of rope attached to his belt.

Brother
Celestius, said Straccan to himself wonderingly. Striding forward to
meet them he cried the name aloud, whereat the dusty gang shuffled to
a halt staring at him uncertainly. The monk stepped in front of them,
spreading his arms as if to hold them back.

'Let
us pass in peace,' he shouted. 'We're pilgrims!'

'Brother
Celestius,' said Straccan again. Who else could it be?

'We
don't know you,' said the monk. 'Ain't seen you before.'

'You
know Hawkan Bane,' Straccan said. 'He met you at Altarwell. He told
me about you.'

Celestius'
worried expression switched to one of pleasure. 'Oh yes! We remember
Master Bane. Stop that, William! You remember Master Bane. Alice?
Walter? Course you do. E was kind to us.'

'Raisins,'
said William hopefully. 'He gave us raisins.'

'So
e did,' said the monk. 'You must be is master, Sir. E talked about
you. What you doin ere?'

'We
were ambushed by outlaws, savages,' Straccan said. 'Don't go on along
this road, Brother; it is deadly dangerous. Bane, they have killed
Bane.'

Celestius
stared at him. One of the ragged women began to cry and in moments
all the tattered company was in tears. 'Master Bane's dead?'

'Dying.
He's in there.' Straccan nodded at the stone hut.

'Brother,
God will surely reward you if you will give him the last rites.'

Celestius
cast off his umbilical cords, gathering them together and putting
them in Straccan's hands. Ducking under the low lintel, he entered
the beehive hut. They could hear his voice, low, mumbling, then
sing-song in prayer. Silence followed. Then they heard an odd sound,
a sort of hiccup, a weak cough. Bane! A few moments later the ragged
monk crawled out on his hands and knees and scrambled upright.

'Better
get im a drink of water,' he said. 'E ain't dyin. E's feelin much
better. But e's very thirsty.'

'He
was dying,' Straccan said obstinately, after the monk and his people,
fortified with a little whisky, had departed by a different way.
Celestius had refused the coins they pressed on him but accepted some
of Bane's private store of raisins. The sound of their cheerful
singing died away in the distance. 'I've seen enough men die to
know!'

'Yes,
he was,' said Sir Blaise. 'And if that's so, we have been privileged
to witness a miracle.'

'That
little chap ...' Miles crossed himself. He was pale and shaking.

'Yes,'
said Blaise thoughtfully. 'That little chap!'

Chapter
31

They
stayed where they were for two days while Bane recovered his
strength. Straccan restrained his burning impatience to be on the
road again. Indeed, the miracle of Bane's healing gave him hope. God
was good, surely He would safeguard Gilla. A litany of desperate
prayer ran through his mind day and night: Lord, keep her safe, bring
me to her, save her!

The
captive savage they kept on short commons: water twice a day, dried
meat only in the evenings, like a dog. Much like a dog it ate,
worrying at the food with black and loosened teeth, mostly gulping it
entire. It whined a lot, dog like, when not gagged, and shivered at
night, tied to a tree at some distance from their fire where its
stink wasn't right under their noses. Its only garment was a filthy
old shirt, inside which infested rabbit-skins were crudely sewn, fur
against flesh, for warmth. The shirt, heavy with grease and old
blood, contributed a large part of the creature's stench.

It
made no human sounds, just animal grunts when fed and squeals when
frightened, and their efforts to get it to talk were useless.

'Can
it talk?' Miles wondered. 'It's more beast than man.'

'They
were men before they were beasts,' said Blaise. 'I'm sure it can
talk, though we might not understand it.'

'You
seem to know all about everything,' said Miles ungraciously. 'Have
you heard of these things?'

'Rumours,'
Blaise said. 'But I can guess what happened. Once they were men, but
times were hard, they were hungry and they found a simple solution to
the problem. They needed meat and, after all, it was everywhere
around them, but on two legs. Probably to begin with, years ago, they
raided a farm here and there, a will by night, stole children as well
as sheep. Then they began to waylay travellers, and grew fat. They
bred and flourished. Now and then some local lord would send a troop
to hunt for outlaws or wolves; they might find an outlaw or two, a
wolf or two, but not these creatures. They don't find them because
they're cunning; they lair in some hidden place where men can only
scramble afoot, and no horsemen can go.