Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  Carrickfergus was abuzz with excitement. The townsfolk were all clad in their best clothes and the market was already doing a roaring trade. The taverns were open and already the sound of singing could be heard coming from them. The whole place fizzed with the jolly holiday atmosphere.

  The townsfolk, also wending their way to Saint Nicholas’ Church, cleared the way for the riding nobility. Savage noted that the betting was already going furiously. People in the street pointed excitedly at one knight or the other as they rode past and money stakes were exchanged over who was going to do well in the tournament.

  Any game had winners or losers, Savage mused, and at least all the common folk were going to win or lose were their pennies. The knights taking part would be playing for honour or injury, or worse.

  ‘There was a woman at the castle last night,’ Savage said to de Thrapston as they rode. ‘Was that Alys de Logan?’

  De Thrapston raised his eyebrows. ‘You know her? Yes it was. She is the earl’s astrologer.’

  ‘I knew her when I was growing up,’ Savage explained. ‘Our fathers were good friends and we often visited the Logan manor.’

  ‘Well you’ll probably find she’s changed a lot since then,’ de Thrapston replied. ‘Some say she’s a witch.’

  Savage snorted. ‘That’s one way of putting it. She has a temper – I know that.’

  ‘No, really, I mean it. One who casts spells I mean. She has been seen around the town after midnight, sweeping with her broom and chanting spells. That big cat of hers is strange too. They say it is her demonic familiar. She also has a tongue that can cut corn. Young John Bysset must have the heart of a lion for taking her on.’

  ‘Who is John Bysset?’

  ‘He’s a knight from the glens, nephew of the Lord of Twescard,’ de Thrapston explained. ‘Ambitious sort of a fellow. Currently he is courting Dame Alys. You’ll see them both later at the tournament – he’s competing.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Savage said. ‘There was a girl with her.’

  ‘That’s her daughter,’ de Thrapston said. ‘Odd child. Wicked tongue like her mother. Goes everywhere with her, like the cat.’

  ‘Alys is married? If Bysset is courting her—’ Savage began. His tone was a mixture of confusion and consternation.

  ‘Was married. About eleven years ago,’ de Thrapston grunted. ‘Poor bugger didn’t last more than a couple of years. An accident, apparently, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t poison him. She’s a widow now. Somehow survives alone down in that tumbledown castle of hers at Vikingsford. The daughter is supposed to be the product of that marriage, but who knows? Some say the devil himself is her father.’

  They arrived at Saint Nicholas’ Church. All the nobility began dismounting.

  ‘You can sit with us,’ de Thrapston said.

  ‘No,’ Savage said.

  ‘You can’t sit on your own, Syr Richard,’ Edith de Thrapston said. ‘Do join us.’

  ‘I won’t be going in at all. I no longer go to church,’ Savage said. ‘I will wait outside during the Mass.’

  Both de Thrapstons looked shocked; Henry was particularly uncomfortable. Savage enjoyed his indecision, knowing he wanted to attend church but also that he would not let Savage stay outside alone in case he absconded.

  A galloglaich was standing close by, listening to the conversation. He pulled off his helmet and Savage saw it was MacHuylin.

  ‘It’s all right, Syr Henry,’ MacHuylin said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him. You go on in.’

  A smile of relief spread across de Thrapston’s face and he and his wife followed the rest of the nobles into the church, from where the sound of singing could already be heard.

  ‘Not going to church? You’ll get a bad name,’ the galloglaich said. ‘You’re not religious?’

  Savage gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘They won’t be long anyway,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Nobility barely stay ’til the Mass is said.’

  Waiting on their horses, they lapsed into silence. Savage felt unable to talk much. Tension was tightening his throat and he felt it hard to concentrate on anything but the coming competition. A familiar sense of anticipation was building within him about the tournament. It was not war, but it was the closest thing to it without anyone getting killed. The combat would be real enough, but the weapons blunted. In his breast was a strange mixture of excitement, relish and dread. He looked forward to the chance to use the skills he developed through years of training, but after so many years fallow, wasting away in a dungeon, would he still be able to fight?

  After a short time MacHuylin gave a derisive grunt. ‘Well here comes someone who will disagree with you on religious matters. There’s no doubt what this man believes anyway.’

  Entering the churchyard through the lychgate was the preacher that Savage had seen storming out of the castle the day before. MacHuylin gave a little whistle through his teeth and the galloglaich troops standing guard outside the church all became alert to the newcomer. The ones still mounted drew their horses into a barrier before the church door while the rest hefted their axes into a ready position.

  ‘This man is a religious lunatic,’ MacHuylin explained. ‘He’s an itinerant preacher, a member of one of those religious orders that make their own rules and are always attacking the Church. You know, the sort who think we should all be equal, with no lords or kings. Everyone should share the earth together and all that shite. His accent says he is from Dublin, but he’s been wandering around Ulster for a year now, disturbing the peace and stirring up the common folk with his mad notions. I’d say he’s coming here to disrupt the service, shout abuse at the nobles and cause a commotion. He’s done it before.’

  MacHuylin addressed his men: ‘Don’t let that man into the church. We don’t want the earl disturbed in his holiday prayers.’

  The galloglaich soldiers grinned, anticipating the prospect that soon they would liven up their boring day by giving this man a good kicking.

  As the preacher approached, he slowed and looked with disdain at the ranks of armed men who arrayed themselves to block his path.

  ‘So, the earl’s lapdogs wish to stop me entering God’s house to hear the Mass on a holy day?’ He spat. ‘Who do you think you are to say who can enter church and who can’t? The Lord’s own appointed angels?’

  ‘The Angels of Death, maybe,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Move on now, Father. You don’t want to get yourself hurt now, do you? Not on a holiday.’

  ‘And who is this? It must be Saint Peter himself.’ The preacher’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Why no – it’s only Connor MacHuylin, the earl’s chief lapdog.’

  ‘I prefer the term guard dog, Father,’ MacHuylin growled. ‘And you should fear my bite.’

  The preacher glared at them all through long, dirty hair that hung over his face, then spat into the dirt. ‘Curse you and all those who oppress the poor and the meek! The Judgement Day is coming, when the Lord will bring his vengeance down upon you. The lord you serve is nothing to the one I serve. You can break my bones, but you cannot break my spirit.’

  ‘I’ll be happy with your bones,’ MacHuylin replied.

  The priest gave an incoherent roar and swayed slightly, but did not advance. Savage wondered if the man had been drinking.

  ‘And who is this?’ The preacher suddenly locked his eyes on Savage. ‘Another lackey of the earl?’

  ‘Never you mind who he is. Move along.’ MacHuylin was growing even more impatient.

  Savage raised a restraining hand towards MacHuylin. There was something about the priest’s challenging glare that provoked Savage. He wanted to meet the man’s challenge and show he was not afraid. ‘I am Richard Savage, emissary of King Edward,’ he said.

  ‘A pox on all kings!’ the priest roared. ‘The earl is Satan’s slave but the king is the very Devil’s whore! No wonder you cower behind the protection of the galloglaich. Do you fear me? You should.’

  Savage jumped down off his ho
rse and strode towards the priest. ‘Watch it. He’s not wise,’ MacHuylin warned.

  Savage, his own anger growing in his breast, ignored him.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Priest.’ Savage jabbed a provoking finger on the man’s chest. To his surprise, the priest grabbed it and held his hand.

  ‘No you listen to me, Syr Richard Savage,’ the priest roared. ‘You son of a whore, son of the widow, for the good of your soul.’

  The men’s eyes met. Savage could hear the galloglaich soldiers coming forward and he held his hand out behind him to tell them to stop.

  ‘What did you just say?’ he breathed.

  ‘I said you are a whoreson of the widow,’ the priest said in a low voice, his mouth breaking into a mischievous grin. ‘A heretic dog of the Temple.’ He winked, then raised his voice again so the galloglaich could hear him. ‘Your lord is nothing compared to mine. Jesus overthrew the mighty Julius Caesar. What is King Edward of England compared to him? That is the key. Your master the king is worthless shit who will be swept away by the coming tide. I, Guilleme le Poer, say take this message to him.’ He stepped close and pushed a piece of parchment into the fold in Savage’s tunic as he whispered: ‘And take this one also from another of his lapdogs. Now push me away and hit me a thump.’ With that the priest spat directly into Savage’s face.

  Savage did not need to be prompted. He shoved the priest away from him and caught him a glancing blow across the side of the head.

  MacHuylin had seen enough and signalled the galloglaiches forward. As they advanced purposefully, the priest stumbled backwards towards the lychgate, shouting curses and waving his fists at them. Before they reached him he took to his heels and ran out of the churchyard.

  The galloglaich troopers broke into laughter that disguised their disappointment at missing out on the chance to teach the priest a violent lesson in manners.

  ‘Let him go,’ MacHuylin ordered. Behind him the doors of the church were opening and the people were already starting to leave. The galloglaich soldiers began preparing for the earl to leave the church.

  Savage retrieved the piece of parchment the priest had pushed into his tunic and took a surreptitious look at it. There was a message written on it, but the words were indecipherable: a strange mixture of letters that did not spell any recognisable words or phrases. The work of a madman? Perhaps. Julius Caesar was dead before Jesus Christ was born, so what did the priest mean by saying Christ overthrew Caesar?

  Suddenly all became clear.

  The message was cipher text, encrypted using the Caesar’s cipher technique. Julius Caesar had used it to encrypt messages to his legions. The message was hidden by taking each letter and substituting it with the one that came three after it in the alphabet. To decrypt the message you did the opposite. Looking again at the message, sure enough he quickly saw that the first letters spelt out his name. This was a secret message for him.

  Before he could get further, he spotted out of the corner of his eye Henry de Thrapston approaching. With him was the black-cloaked figure of Hugo Montmorency.

  Quickly he pushed the message back into his tunic.

  ‘You did not attend Mass, Syr Richard,’ Montmorency stated. ‘I hope we will not be meeting in a church court some day.’

  Savage did not reply, but simply met the Hospitaller’s glare with a cool gaze.

  ‘One place we will definitely be meeting soon is in the tournament. The state of your soul is not something to take lightly, Savage,’ the Hospitaller said. ‘The tournament is no place for someone used to the soft life at court. You will get hurt.’

  He turned his horse and rode off towards the lychgate.

  Henry de Thrapston appeared beside Savage. ‘Don’t mind the Hospitaller, Syr Richard. He loves his religion the way some men love gambling or hunting. It is his passion. Take heed when I say religion, mind you, not God. There is a difference, I believe. Anyway, now I’ve made my peace with my God, let’s go and get armed for the jousting.’

  17

  After the service ended, the congregation of Saint Nicholas’ Church erupted into an excited, bubbling throng. Their duty to Christianity complete, they burst eagerly out of the church to begin the May Day Beltane festivities. Outside in the churchyard, people milled around, chatting or greeting old friends who they had not seen during winter.

  Many visitors had come to town for the jousting tournament, staying with relatives, in hostelries or – if members of the nobility – in luxurious tents erected near the tournament field. Savage noticed one man in particular who exited the church alongside Earl Richard and the Countess Margaret. He was a rather tall, long-limbed, middle-aged man with a ring of long grey hair hanging around his otherwise bald head. He had a small grey beard, a hooked nose and a combination of small but protruding eyeballs and highly arched eyebrows that gave him the look of being constantly surprised about something. He was dressed in a gold embroidered tunic and long, sumptuous green robes with fur trimmings.

  Savage turned to the castellan, de Thrapston. ‘Is that the Justiciar of Ireland, Edmund le Bottelier?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ de Thrapston replied. ‘He’s here to watch his son competing in the tournament.’

  The Justiciar of Ireland ruled Norman lands inside the area known as the Pale in the name of King Edward.

  ‘I must speak to him,’ Savage said, earnestly. ‘Can you arrange it?’

  Henry de Thrapston was taken aback at Savage’s intensity but replied, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Look out: here’s your friend.’ He nudged Richard in a conspiratorial way.

  Savage turned to see Alys de Logan walking past, arm in arm with a younger man dressed in clothes so fashionable as to be almost ridiculous. Behind them traipsed the same little girl who had been with her at the castle the evening before. To Savage’s critical eye the man’s tunic was far too short for decency. The trend for shorter and shorter men’s tunics had evolved while he had been in prison, and it was definitely a mode that he did not approve of. In Savage’s opinion if he really wanted to look at men’s arses he could go to the bath house. The young man’s leggings were also a silly bright yellow colour and his shoes were so pointed that they caused him problems walking.

  Both Alys and the young man were sharing some private joke and laughing as they walked to their horses tethered at the lychgate of the church. As they neared Savage, Dame Alys caught sight of him and the laughter dissolved in her throat. Her face fell into a look of scorn.

  ‘Why, Syr Richard le Savage,’ she said. ‘I hoped you were dead.’

  De Thrapston, sensing the tension, gave an uncomfortable laugh. ‘You mean you thought he was dead, Dame Alys.’

  ‘Did I?’ Alys regarded Savage with a withering stare.

  ‘Alys. Hallo,’ was the best Savage could muster. His face was turning a deep crimson colour.

  ‘Who is this, Mother?’ demanded the little girl, regarding Savage with a look that was withering for one so young. She had Alys’s fine features but her bright eyes had something else in them: an aggressive arrogance that provoked irritation in Savage.

  ‘He is no one, Galiene.’ Alys de Logan spat the words with venom.

  ‘Is this the famous Richard Savage we have heard so much about?’ The young man with Alys seemed very excited. ‘You did not tell me you knew an emissary of the king, my dear!’

  Alys de Logan made a particularly unladylike derisory grunt while continuing to look at Savage with a clear mixture of disbelief and disdain. ‘An emissary of the king? What games are you playing at now, Richard?’

  ‘Syr Richard is here to warn us all of the dangers of the Scots invading us. Complete nonsense of course,’ the young man said. His watery blue eyes held a glare of challenge and his wide grin was more like a wolf’s when it sees its prey than warm and friendly.

  There was something about the man that Savage instinctively did not like. He seemed to exude arrogance the way fat men sweat. Savage narrowed his eyes. ‘News travels fast here,’ he s
aid, shooting a reproachful glance at de Thrapston. ‘Including news that was supposed to be a secret.’

  ‘Ulster is a small place, Syr Richard. It’s hard to keep secrets here,’ the young man said. ‘I am Syr John Bysset. Heir to the Lordship of the Glens and Dame Alys’s betrothed.’

  A small, bitter smile crept across Savage’s face. ‘That is something we have in common, then,’ he said, delighting at the look of confused consternation that spread across Bysset’s face as he looked to Dame Alys for explanation.

  ‘Childish as always, Richard,’ Dame Alys sighed. ‘Syr Richard is referring to a time very long ago, when I certainly must have been very young and very foolish. The world has moved on considerably since then. I am no longer the child you knew, Richard. I have no doubt you still are, though.’

  ‘We grew up together,’ Savage commented for the benefit of de Thrapston and Bysset.

  Bysset looked genuinely annoyed, which pleased Savage. ‘You must tell me all about it, my dear,’ he growled.

  De Thrapston did not like awkwardness and decided to step in. ‘Come: we must go to the tournament field, Syr Richard. We must get ourselves armed.’

  ‘Surely you are not competing in the tournament?’ Bysset’s expression became a mixture of disbelief and delight.

  Savage nodded.

  ‘You should watch yourself, John,’ Alys de Logan commented. ‘Savage by name, savage by nature. That’s what we used to say about Richard when we were growing up.’

  ‘And I used to call you—’ Savage began.

  ‘Shitty skitters – I remember it well,’ Alys cut him off. ‘Richard was always so immature and found the fact that I had freckles hilarious.’

  Bysset regarded Savage with undisguised contempt. ‘How gallant of you, sir,’ he sneered. ‘I doubt, however, that a fat lazy courtier will survive very long in the melee at the tournament today. Be warned, Savage: we are frontier lords here, used to real combat. You won’t last beyond the first charge.’ With that, he climbed on his horse and trotted out the lychgate away from the church. Dame Alys mounted her own tired old warhorse and the little girl, Galiene, clambered on behind her. She gave Savage a final cursory glance before following Bysset at a more sedate pace. Galiene watched Savage with a hostile glare as they rode away. Behind them both Savage saw the same grey cat from the night before still sat in the back of the saddle.