Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  Montmorency sighed and shrugged. ‘Things hang in the balance. War can have all sorts of unexpected outcomes. However, with both France and Scotland against them, England’s cause looks increasingly desperate. King Edward is weak and unpopular. He is a blasphemer and a sodomite. His barons could depose him at any time. Success by the Scots in taking Ireland will be the final straw for him. It is only a matter of time then before King Robert Bruce rules all these islands.’

  ‘What about here in Ulster? I’ve spent so much of the last few years embroiled in the damnable Gordian knot of Connaught politics that I’ve lost touch. What do people here think?’

  ‘A lot of the nobility are for the Scots, but not all. Significant numbers still remain loyal to the catamite King of England. Some of them could cause real trouble.’

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ The earl took Montmorency’s knight with his rook.

  ‘If you decide to take the Scottish side and things go the way I expect, then those who remain stubborn in their support for Edward of England will have to be… removed.’ Montmorency did not seem too annoyed at the loss of his knight.

  ‘Is anyone of significance against the Scots?’

  ‘Several noble families and some of the Gaelic kings.’ Montmorency quickly moved his own rook up the board to take the earl’s. ‘And your seneschal.’

  The earl rolled his eyes, both at the loss of his piece and the news. ‘Thomas de Mandeville is a loyal vassal. We fought together in Scotland and Gascony. If it comes to that it will be a shame.’

  ‘We all have to make sacrifices to achieve our goals,’ Montmorency said. He moved his bishop directly into the path of the earl’s king. ‘Perhaps if you were to declare your hand it may make some change sides. Publicly say which side you support.’

  The earl snorted and ignored Montmorency’s bishop. He could see the second knight lurking to take his queen the instant he took the piece. ‘And risk losing everything? I don’t think so, Montmorency, not ’til I’m surer of how things will turn out. Certainly not with le Bottelier arriving here later.’

  The Hospitaller became excited. ‘The Justiciar of Ireland is coming here? This is a perfect opportunity to tip the balance! The King of England’s representative in Ireland – the highest authority in the land – will be under your roof, in your power. It could hasten what we are trying to do!’

  The earl sighed and fixed Montmorency with a withering glare. ‘We? What I am trying to do, Montmorency, is survive. There was a time when I followed quests and kings and believed in causes, but those days are over. I did not spend thirty years building up vast estates to have them all blown away by the winds of Chance. When this war is over, regardless of who wins it, I intend to still be Earl of Connaught and Earl of Ulster, with my fortunes intact. And while I reign here, I want my future grandson on the throne of Scotland. Besides, Edmund le Bottelier will be very well guarded. He is also the only man in Ireland with enough soldiers at his command to challenge my power.’

  There were a few moments silence, then the earl continued. ‘Perhaps things will be clearer after I speak to Dame Alys.’

  The Hospitaller’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared slightly. ‘Why do you have dealings with that woman? The Bible is very clear on the matter: “Maleficos non patieris vivere”. Witches thou shall not suffer to live.’

  ‘The Bible also tells us to love our enemies, not slaughter them with the blades of our swords, Montmorency. How does your military order of warrior monks get round that particular principle of our Lord, hmmm?’ the earl said.

  ‘There is no dichotomy. Love our Christian enemies, kill all those who do not adhere to the true faith. “Tradideritque eas Dominus Deus tuus tibi percuties eas usque ad internicionem non inibis cum eis foedus nec misereberis earum.”’ the Hospitaller said. ‘“Utterly destroy them. You shall make no league with them, nor show mercy to them.” It’s all in the book of Deuteronomy and in a hundred other places as well.’

  ‘The Bible sets no bar against astrology, Montmorency. The Pope himself has his own astrologer,’ Earl de Burgh said. ‘Dame Alys Logan is the best star gazer in Ireland.’

  ‘Astrology is not all she is adept in,’ the Hospitaller spat. ‘The woman is a witch, a mistress of the black arts. She worships the native demons of this land and has been seen around the town at night casting her spells.’

  The earl smiled and took a sip of wine. ‘Then I’d rather have her on my side than against me. Sometimes, Montmorency, I cannot fathom you. On the one hand you rant and rave about the scriptures, while on the other you urge me in the coming war to take the side of Robert Bruce – a usurper king – against the legitimate King Edward of England.’

  ‘Better a man like Bruce than a sinner as King of England,’ Montmorency said.

  ‘The Pope himself excommunicated Bruce for murder.’

  ‘The Holy Father is not infallible, regardless of what Thomas Aquinas wants us to think,’ said Montmorency. ‘God has shown his approval of Bruce’s cause.’

  ‘Ah, yes. This mysterious “treasure” he is supposed to have that you are so keen on,’ the earl said.

  ‘Supposed? I have seen it with my own eyes!’ Montmorency hissed.

  The earl shook his head. ‘Trinkets like that don’t impress me. Like I said before, once there was a day when I followed quests and believed in miracles, but that day is long past.’ With that he moved his bishop to midway up the board, taking Montmorency’s rook in the manoeuvre. As he lifted the piece he examined it with interest. The rooks in the set were carved to resemble Viking berserkers with wide, staring eyes, gnawing frenziedly on the rim of their shields.

  ‘Such a savage chess piece,’ the earl said. ‘Montmorency, regardless of what my future plans are, what I really don’t need right now is a king’s envoy rooting around in my business, reporting back God knows what to his master. We can’t do anything about it tonight though. The king will have informed the justiciar of Savage’s coming here and le Bottelier will be expecting to meet him.’

  Montmorency gathered his cloak around him and leaned over the table as he moved his bishop back out of harm’s way. He looked like a huge crow waiting on a branch for a dying man below. ‘He will be competing in the melee tomorrow. The tournament is a violent, dangerous sport. That is why the Holy Father banned it. Accidents happen.’

  The earl’s eyes flashed as he swiftly moved his queen right across the board to two spaces from Montmorency’s king. ‘Let’s make sure one does, eh? Checkmate.’

  13

  After leaving the great hall, de Thrapston led Savage to his lodgings. This was a tower on the inner wall that was much smaller than the castle keep, but just as thick-walled. The keeper of the castle kept up a pleasant, friendly chatter the whole way, his voice loud and booming in the courtyard.

  ‘You’ve come at a very busy time for us. With the May Day holiday tomorrow and the tournament we have so many people coming to the town from all over Ireland. The justiciar himself is due to arrive anytime. Then there’s the May Day – or Beltane as the natives call it – feast tomorrow night. There is so much to do!’

  ‘The Justiciar of Ireland is coming?’ Savage tried his best to hide his interest.

  ‘Yes. The highest power in the land – bar the king that is – is coming here for the tournament. His son William is competing.’ De Thrapston grinned. ‘It’s a great honour but obviously means a lot of work for the likes of me.’

  There was no way into the north tower from ground level, so Savage and de Thrapston had to climb a stone staircase up to the battlements. Soldiers of the garrison were stationed at various watch points around the walls, and Savage immediately noted that the only one positioned on the battlements leading to the north tower was standing right outside the one and only door to the fortification.

  The soldier stepped respectfully aside to let them past, then retook his place, avoiding eye contact and staring out to sea instead of at Savage or de Thrapston.

  ‘Here w
e are: your accommodation.’ De Thrapston smiled and held open the door. Savage entered the chamber and turned to face de Thrapston.

  ‘What about my weapons?’ Savage demanded. ‘They weren’t returned to me after I left the hall.’

  De Thrapston smiled disarmingly. ‘Oh don’t worry about those. You won’t need them this evening. I’ll make sure you get them back before you leave.’

  ‘All the same, I’d prefer to get them now,’ Savage said.

  The keeper of the castle’s smile faded. ‘That won’t be possible.’

  ‘I’m a prisoner, then?’

  De Thrapston’s smile returned. ‘Of course not! My dear Syr Richard, let’s not fall out about this. I have my orders to follow as do you. Consider the situation: you have arrived unannounced at a time of great uncertainty. The earl just needs to be sure about you and your intentions before you are likely to be fully trusted. Now, I suggest you get some rest.’ He glanced down at Richard’s clothes. ‘I can bring something more suitable for you to wear if you like.’

  With that he closed the door. Savage was still looking at it as he heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock.

  ‘God’s balls!’ Savage spat the worst curse he could think of.

  He looked around his new lodgings. The room was round like the tower and the stone walls were hung with heavy warm tapestries. There was good clean straw on the floor and a large bed surrounded by heavy woollen curtains. Everything had the air of a rather comfortable bedroom, except for the fact that both of the windows had bars across them and the door was locked. Was this a prison made to look like a comfortable lodging, or lodgings that sometimes served as a prison? Was he once more a prisoner? Everything had been done so politely and with the minimum of fuss that it was hard to tell what was going on.

  Then again, Savage mused, this was Ireland. On the one hand there was an ancient well-respected tradition of hospitality, on the other it was common practice that if you intended to kill someone, you made sure that first he was well at ease. It made it less dangerous to the attacker that way.

  Savage looked out through one of the windows. Immediately outside was the sea and to his left he could see the edge of the turf ramparts that protected the town. The coast disappeared northwards. Along it, waves broke on the pale yellow sands of a beach. Directly below his window was a twenty-foot drop onto the unforgiving black rock of Fergus.

  He turned away from the window and sat on the bed. What was he going to do? He knew he had to do one thing as soon as possible: he had to get a report back to England about how the earl had received the news of Bruce’s intentions. But how he was going to speak to any of the contacts Lancaster had given him, from inside a locked room, presented a significant problem.

  The arrival of the justiciar offered a glimmer of hope. If anyone could be trusted it would be him. Edmund le Bottelier ruled the Norman lands in Ireland in the name of the King of England. He had to collect the taxes and keep the peace. It was as simple, and as difficult, as that. At all costs Savage had to try to speak to him privately at the feast the next night.

  If he lived that long.

  There was something odd about the room. Despite the glass in the seaward window and the locked door, the smell of the sea was strong: too strong to be coming through the slight crack at the bottom of the door and there was a definite cold breeze coming from somewhere.

  Savage got up and licked his finger. Holding it before him he felt one side colder than the other and turned to examine the wall on the cold side. A heavy tapestry draped the stones from floor to ceiling. The cloth had been woven to depict a scene of a king seated in regal splendour upon his throne. “Hic sedet Arturus” was the inscription above it. The light breeze seemed to be coming from behind the tapestry.

  Savage braced himself, putting one foot behind him so he could either spring forward or backwards depending on what lay behind the arras, then swept the tapestry aside.

  He smiled.

  ‘Here sits Arthur indeed,’ he said.

  The king on his throne was an appropriate motif for what lay behind the tapestry. Into an alcove in the wall was built a latrine, its wooden seat hovering over a sloping gap in the floor that opened out onto the rocks and the crashing waves that waited below.

  Savage sighed and returned to sit on the bed. There was nothing left to do but wait for whatever the evening would bring.

  Suddenly he heard commotion outside. The sound of horses’ hooves clattered across the cobblestones of the castle courtyard outside and Savage rose to see what was going on. The second window in the room faced into the inner courtyard. It too was barred but gave a good view of what was happening below. Being on the sheltered side of the room, it also had no glass so he could hear what was going on. Into the courtyard clip-clopped an old destrier that was long past its time to be sent out to pasture. Its thin mane and tail hung limp, its muzzle was almost white and its back was bowed.

  To Savage’s surprise, mounted on the warhorse’s back was not a knight but a woman and a little girl. The woman was quite tall and dressed in a black cloak that covered her from head to foot. Despite the late afternoon sunshine, she wore the hood of her cloak up, hiding her face from view. The girl looked about eleven or twelve, had long, curly blonde hair and wore a dress that looked like it had seen better days. She was mounted on the warhorse saddle behind the woman. To Savage’s further surprise, a scrawny grey cat also sat perched on the horse behind the saddle.

  With a deft hand, the woman brought her mount to a halt outside the great hall. As Savage watched he saw de Thrapston approaching her from the hall doorway.

  ‘Dame Alys. So good to see you!’ the keeper of the castle greeted her. To Savage’s ears there was something reserved, almost careful in the normally boisterous de Thrapston’s tone. The keeper of the castle proffered a hand to help the woman dismount. She ignored it and climbed off her steed with the easy grace of one used to being in the saddle. Once on the ground the woman swept back her hood to unleash a tumble of long black hair. Her skin was white as snow and she looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. The girl jumped down too and they were both followed by the cat, which leapt lightly off the horse to curl itself round the calves of its mistress.

  Savage’s brow furrowed as a memory from the long distant past resurfaced in his mind. De Thrapston had called her Alys. Could it be the same Alys he had known all those years ago?

  ‘Please come into the great hall,’ de Thrapston said. ‘The earl is waiting for you.’

  The woman lifted down a small leather chest that had been strapped behind the saddle of her horse, then began to follow de Thrapston towards the hall doors. Suddenly, she stopped and looked over her shoulder for a second as if somehow aware that she was being watched. In that instant Savage saw her dark, arched eyebrows and the flash of a pair of grey eyes that left him in no doubt.

  ‘Alys de Logan,’ Savage breathed. ‘I’ll be damned. After all this time…’

  The woman turned away again and followed de Thrapston into the great hall. The girl and the cat slipped in behind her. Savage left his vantage point to return to his seat on the bed, slowly shaking his head at this turn of events.

  If she was going to be at the banquet tomorrow it would certainly make for an interesting evening. This was one reunion that Savage did not relish the thought of.

  14

  Seventy miles to the north-east across the sea from Carrickfergus Castle lay the coast of another carrick: this one a Scottish earldom. On the beach there, as the sun began to slip towards the horizon, a short, stocky, black-haired man stood, gazing at the fog-obscured view before him.

  The bay was long, sweeping and edged by a wide beach of pale blond sand. White-topped breakers rolled in to crash on the shore, breaking around hundreds of boats beached along the water’s edge, their prows rising up like the heads of huge seahorses. Beyond them, mostly obscured by the heavy sea mist that clung to the water, the vague ghosts of many, many other ships moored in
the deeper waters of the bay could just be discerned. The true size of the fleet was obscured by the thick fog. The ships were a miscellany of maritime life: everything from humble fishing curraghs to massive galleys, virtually every serviceable ship in Scotland had been gathered in the bay. The unmistakable purpose of such a congregation hung in the air as an unspoken threat.

  ‘It’s like looking into the future, isn’t it?’

  A voice made the black-haired man turn. Approaching along the beach, his feet ploughing through the deep sand, was another man. He was very similar in appearance but younger and fair-haired.

  ‘Only this view is clearer, brother.’ The black-haired man gave an ironic smile. Despite being in his middle age, his hair and beard showed no signs of grey. ‘Have you ever seen such a fleet?’

  ‘Thomas Dun has done well,’ the blond man said. ‘He has gathered nearly four hundred ships for us.’

  The black-haired man nodded with satisfaction. ‘Well, Edward: the time for departure nears. Soon you will be a king like I am.’

  ‘Aye.’ The blond man grinned. He too gazed out into the fog, but his eyes were not focused on the wraith-like shadows of the ships. They sought a further goal: the unseen shore that lay beyond the horizon. ‘Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick. King of Ireland hereafter. I like the sound of it already.’

  ‘Let’s not count our conquests too soon,’ Robert de Bruce, King of Scotland – for that was who the black-haired man was – cautioned. ‘We both have many battles to fight first. You must conquer Ireland; I must subdue our rebellious Western Isles.’

  ‘We will prevail, Robert. Look how far we’ve come already. God is with us. How can we doubt that now? He has sent us a sign of his approval,’ King Robert’s younger brother said.

  Robert de Bruce grunted. ‘He didn’t always seem to be on our side, Edward. You forget the early days: when we lost at Kildrummy and our brother Niall was hanged, drawn and quartered by the bastards. They did the same to William Wallace. And they hanged our sister – lovely, sweet Mary – in a gibbet on the walls of Roxburgh Castle as food for the crows. In a gibbet, Edward. Let us never forget, never forgive that. When they slaughtered us at the battle at Methven and I had to flee for my life and hide out on that godforsaken island off the north of Ireland…’