Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us there were no lepers here?’ MacHuylin enquired.

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ the abbot replied. ‘Lepers are free to roam the countryside as long as they stay away from crowds and outside towns and villages. The last two staying here left several days ago. Perhaps if you would like to come back next week, we might have some more by then.’

  Savage took a deep breath and rolled his eyes, trying to contain his anger. ‘All right. Now we’ll search the monks’ cells.’

  The abbot shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Very well.’ He sighed. ‘But I don’t know what you expect to find here.’ He led them back out of the infirmary and across the peaceful garden.

  They walked around the chapel, hearing the melodious singing wafting from it, until they came to the door of the monks’ accommodation building. Inside, they searched the cells one by one. Each was virtually identical: a bare stone room with either one or two hard and very uncomfortable-looking beds. Some cells had small tables and the occasional one had a little footstool. Lucky monks had a window. The only decoration was a simple wooden crucifix, hung on the wall of every cell.

  By the time they had completed their fruitless search, Savage’s anger had faded to disappointment.

  The abbot smiled triumphantly. ‘Now I hope you are satisfied,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry it had to go this far, but I understand you have a job to do. Perhaps you would like to share our evening meal, just to show we follow our Lord’s example and forgive our enemies their trespasses against us?’

  MacHuylin shrugged. Savage shook his head. ‘We need to go. There is a banquet at the castle tonight,’ he said.

  The abbot smiled. ‘I’ll show you the way out.’

  He strode off, back the way they had come through the accommodation building.

  ‘Hold on.’ MacHuylin stopped and pointed to a short corridor leading off to the right of the main passageway. ‘You didn’t take us down there.’

  Savage’s interest was reawakened. ‘What’s down there?’ he asked the abbot.

  ‘Just another monk’s cell. Same as all the others.’ The abbot smiled, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. Both Savage and MacHuylin noticed a flicker of concern flash across his face.

  ‘All the same, Abbot, we’d like to take a look,’ Savage said, pushing the grey-cowled friar aside to stride down the corridor. At the end of it was a door, the same as all the other cell doors. Eagerly he pushed open the door and went inside, closely followed by MacHuylin and the abbot.

  ‘Looks like the abbot was right,’ MacHuylin said. It did look just like the others: two beds, a small table and a window.

  ‘Yes, but what’s missing?’ Savage said.

  MacHuylin scratched his head and looked about. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

  ‘The walls are a bit bare, aren’t they?’ Savage announced. ‘Why does this room not have a cross on the wall? It must be the only room in the whole friary without one.’ He bent down. ‘And look—’ He picked up a small hand-woven rug from the floor, which was decorated with strange, intricate, intriguing patterns.

  ‘All the other cells were sparse. Why does this one have a little decoration? All the other cells were scrupulously tidy. This one’s a bit of a mess.’

  MacHuylin nodded. A footstool was lying overturned and a leather pouch lay beside one of the beds, its contents spilled in a fan shape over the floor. ‘What is that?’ he asked, pointing at the pouch and the odd-looking little crumbling green clay tablets that had spilled from it.

  Savage picked one of the tablets up and sniffed it. He narrowed his eyes. ‘If this is what I think it is…’ He trailed off, unsure even himself if he could be right. It seemed so improbable.

  ‘Someone left here in a hurry,’ MacHuylin observed. ‘They knocked the stool over, spilled that stuff and ran off. What is that anyway, Savage?’ He repeated his query.

  ‘Hashish,’ Savage replied. ‘At least I think it is.’

  ‘What?’ The galloglaich had never heard the word.

  ‘I can scarcely believe it, Connor.’ Savage shook his head. ‘But I think that there have been members of the Cult of Assassins here.’

  He looked at MacHuylin, a light of sudden realisation dawning in his eyes. Through the window came the sound of a horse whinnying and the clatter of hooves.

  ‘That bastard monk has been keeping us busy,’ he roared, ‘while whoever was living in this cell gets away!’

  24

  MacHuylin immediately dashed out of the cell. Savage pinned the abbot up against the wall by the throat. ‘You’re in trouble, monk,’ he spat, before releasing the friar with a look of disgust and running after MacHuylin.

  ‘Empty words!’ the abbot shouted after him.

  Out of the doors they dashed and charged across the garden towards the friary gates. They tore open the little door in the gates and rushed out, just in time to see two riders disappear over a small hillock to the north-west.

  ‘We need horses,’ Savage said and re-entered the friary gate. The abbot was just coming out of the door into the garden.

  ‘Where are your stables?’ Savage demanded.

  ‘We don’t have any—’ the abbot began.

  MacHuylin’s fist smashed into the monk’s cheek, opening the skin and sending him reeling backwards to collapse unceremoniously onto his backside in a vegetable patch.

  ‘Balls,’ the galloglaich said. ‘We don’t have time to piss about any more. Tell us where the horses are or I’ll break your goddamned neck.’

  The abbot – under no illusion he did not mean it – waved in the general direction of the side of the infirmary. Savage and MacHuylin ran round the building and sure enough they found well-equipped stables with a variety of steeds inside. By luck, a couple of novices were in the process of saddling four of the horses.

  Without any explanation, the young monks were thrown aside, and MacHuylin and Savage leapt onto a horse each. Within moments they were at full gallop, tearing across the monastery garden, ploughing up herbs, flowers and vegetables as they went.

  Hooves thundering, they left the friary gates behind and charged over the hillock to the north-west. Once over the rise, they saw the two riders ahead starting to climb up the steep Knockagh Hill which rose up behind Carrickfergus.

  The riders were wrapped in green cloaks. Every so often they turned their heads to check on MacHuylin and Savage’s progress. At such a distance it was impossible to make out any features, but they could see that both green-clad riders had black beards and long curly black hair.

  ‘You recognised something in that cell, didn’t you?’ MacHuylin shouted as they careered across the countryside. ‘What’s going on? Who are the Cult of Assassins?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Savage shouted back. ‘It’s complicated. I can scarcely believe it myself.’

  The riders ahead were fleeing directly up the hill towards some woods that covered the summit. MacHuylin and Savage pursued them doggedly, their horses’ hooves throwing up lumps of brown earth behind them. Savage’s horse was already tiring, and he began to fear he would not be able to keep up.

  ‘Looks like they’re heading for Doagh Manor,’ MacHuylin deduced. ‘If they go into those woods the only path that goes through the trees leads there.’

  ‘There’s no other way through?’ asked Savage.

  ‘Not on horseback. At least not without a great deal of trouble,’ MacHuylin shouted back. ‘The undergrowth’s too thick.’

  Desperately they drove their horses on in an attempt to catch up to the fleeing riders before they reached the woods. The wind roared in their ears as the hooves of the horses beat a thunderous tattoo across the turf. The ground rushed past beneath in a green blur. Savage pushed aside thoughts of what would happen if his horse set a foot wrong and stumbled.

  The two riders up ahead disappeared amidst the trees. The pursuers spurred their own horses up the last hundred yards of the hill until they too reached the woods.

  Without slowing they
dashed into the trees. The narrowness of the dirt path forced them immediately into single file, MacHuylin first. At full gallop the ride through the woods was heart-stopping. As the path twisted and turned the riders could see no more than ten feet in front of them at most. They ducked beneath branches and leapt fallen logs as thorns and briars grasped at their cloaks and breeches.

  Suddenly they burst into a small clearing. MacHuylin reined his horse to a halt without warning.

  Desperately Savage’s horse swerved around MacHuylin’s to avoid a collision before stopping also.

  ‘What in the name of God’s guts are you doing?’ Savage demanded. ‘They’re getting away!’

  MacHuylin held up a hand. ‘Listen,’ was all he said.

  Savage did just that. He noticed what MacHuylin was getting at. He could hear the panting of their horses and the sound of their own heavy breathing. Apart from that there was only the frantic chirping of disturbed birds. No hoof beats. The men they were chasing had stopped also.

  ‘They must be hiding somewhere,’ said MacHuylin.

  Without warning the undergrowth came alive and men came pouring into the clearing from all sides. Savage did not have time to count but a cursory glance told that there were at least fifteen of them, on foot and all armed.

  ‘It’s an ambush!’ shouted MacHuylin, ripping his sword from his sheath.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Savage shouted. ‘Back the way we came!’ Even in full armour he would have hesitated to take on all fifteen of their attackers. Without either chain mail or a weapon there was only one option: flee.

  MacHuylin wheeled his horse to head back to the track and Savage did likewise. The ambushers closed in on them. Savage noticed that while they bore a variety of weapons from long knives and clubs to spears, they were all dressed alike, each wearing a dark blue tunic.

  MacHuylin slashed aside a spear with his sword then brought his weapon down on one of the attackers, who countered with a blow of a long Irish knife. The galloglaich spurred his horse and it bolted forward, its powerful legs pushing aside two more of the blue-clad ambushers.

  Savage followed him. One of the attackers stepped forward and thrust at him with a stabbing spear. Savage spotted the attack and arched his back so that the spear missed its target and went behind him. He grabbed the shaft of the spear with his left hand and tugged it, pulling its owner closer to him. Savage lifted his right foot out of the stirrup and drove it down onto his attacker’s chest, sending him flying away from him but leaving the spear still in Savage’s grasp.

  MacHuylin brought down his sword in a wide arc, which caught a club-wielding ambusher on the side of the neck, striking his head clean off. The severed head tumbled off into the undergrowth while the decapitated body staggered wildly backwards, blood shooting from the severed neck arteries in a hideous fountain.

  Savage blinked, slightly shocked by the sudden carnage but impressed at the same time by the prowess of the galloglaich.

  Undeterred, five attackers crowded together to block the mouth of the path out of the clearing. With a frightening whoop, MacHuylin spurred his horse again and leapt clean over them, sending them cringing down to avoid the flying hooves.

  Savage hurled the spear at the men. It missed but made sure they stayed crouched. Then he followed MacHuylin and spurred his horse to jump.

  The palfrey, more tired than MacHuylin’s steed, did not leap as high. One of its rear hooves caught an ambusher on the forehead, stoving in his skull with a horrific crack.

  Now on the woodland path again, Savage and MacHuylin drove their horses back through the trees every bit as furiously as they had come, but this time as the hunted, not the hunters.

  Savage heard the unmistakable click and snap of a crossbow firing, almost immediately followed by the sickening thwack of the bolt striking flesh nearby. He sucked in a breath, expecting the onslaught of pain from somewhere in his body.

  Instead, his horse gave a startled squeal and reared up on its hind legs. Looking round, Savage saw the feathered end of the crossbow bolt embedded in the horse’s flank. The palfrey wheeled around wildly, just as the sound of two more crossbows fired. The whirling horse saved Savage as the bolts aimed at his body struck the horse in the neck and stomach instead. With a blood-flecked whinny the steed collapsed sideways, throwing Savage off the saddle into the undergrowth.

  Savage landed heavily, thorns from the brambles piercing and tearing at his skin.

  ‘Connor, I’m down!’ he shouted. ‘Leave me and get away yourself!’

  He did not know if MacHuylin heard him, but he could hear the hoof beats of the galloglaich’s horse receding through the forest. Behind him, his own horse screamed and thrashed, flailing hooves in every direction. He could also hear running footsteps and the crashing sound of men wading through the undergrowth as the pursuing ambushers approached.

  Savage looked through the brambles towards the path. The pursuers were nearly on him. Desperately he crawled further into the thick undergrowth, burying himself away from view.

  ‘Find him!’ he heard one of the pursuers shouting. Lucky for him, the thrashing of the dying horse made the men following him pause, afraid of being struck by the flying hooves. Through the bramble branches Savage could see five men approaching along the woodland path, two with loaded crossbows, two with spears and a tall, big-framed man with long brown hair who appeared to be their leader.

  ‘Kill that thing,’ the leader ordered, pointing at Savage’s horse with his sword. The two spearmen drove their weapons into the animal’s chest and belly, skewering the points home into heart and vital organs. The poor creature screamed once more and tried to squirm away from the agonising spears. Within moments it gave a final grunt and died. Savage screwed his eyes shut, pity for his horse fighting with outrage at what these men had done to it.

  ‘He’s in the undergrowth somewhere,’ the leader directed, and the spearmen began prodding the bushes on Savage’s side of the path with the bloodied spear tips, jabbing them randomly into the brambles.

  Savage lay under the thorn branches, considering what options he had. There were not many. Every time he moved the bramble bushes rustled and waved, giving away his position. If he stayed where he was, given the meticulous nature with which the spears were prodding the bushes, it was only a matter of time before one of them struck him. That left the option of surrendering.

  ‘You two make sure you have a clear field of fire,’ the leader of the ambushers shouted at the crossbowmen. ‘Shoot the bastard as soon as he stands up.’

  There goes that option, Savage thought to himself.

  There was something odd about this situation. The ambushers all spoke in Irish with local accents but they were not dressed like Irish warriors. Instead, the blue tunics and chain mail coifs were more common to war gear from the Island of Britain. Crossbows were not Irish weapons either. Could they be mercenaries?

  The stabbing spears were getting steadily closer to where he lay. If he did not do something soon he would be dead.

  The big leader held up his hand. ‘Quiet,’ he ordered. ‘I think I can hear him breathing.’ The spearmen froze. Savage could see they were watching the brambles, straining their ears for any sign that would give away his position. Desperately he held his breath. The frantic ride and ambush had left him panting however, and within moments his lungs were burning.

  Mercilessly the ambushers stood still as statues and continued to wait. Savage could hold on no longer and his breath exploded from his mouth.

  Through the brambles he saw the pursuers’ eyes light up as they pinpointed his position and began moving towards him, weapons raised for the kill.

  Suddenly, a piercing screech echoed through the trees. It was a weird, chilling sound like a cross between a woman wailing and a baby crying that rose and fell on the wind, somehow expressing a terrible sense of the utter desolation of bereavement, and the loneliness that was to come for those left behind.

  The pursuers all stopped dead. Savage was su
rprised to see terror in the eyes of the spearmen.

  ‘The banshee!’ one of them whispered.

  25

  News of Syr John Talbot’s murder spread like wildfire through the tournament arena and the tent village around it. Tightly controlled panic ensued. Murder was a far from unusual occurrence in Ireland, but what gripped everyone’s thoughts straight away was the question of whether this was an isolated killing, or possibly the herald of a sudden massacre. A gathering of great nobles in one place was such a tempting target for so many enemies and the killing could be the start of a surprise attack, either from without or within.

  The justiciar had ridden north from Dublin with a bodyguard of one hundred hobelars, the light cavalry Ireland had become famous for. Immediately the word of the murder was heard, the captain of his guard hurried Edmund Bottelier unceremoniously into his spacious tent. The now-dismounted cavalrymen, swords drawn, formed a ring of steel around the tent. In a similar way, the Red Earl had retreated to his arming tent while his galloglaiches blocked entry to anyone.

  Around the arena, men grabbed their weapons and prepared to defend themselves and their families from whatever attack might be imminent.

  As time passed and no wide-scale attack emerged, people began to relax slightly. The justiciar sent messengers summoning the earl, the seneschal and the other important nobles of Ulster to his tent to hold council.

  When everyone had arrived, the council began. The justiciar sat in a chair, sipping from a goblet of wine. The earl sat on a seat beside him. Thomas de Mandeville stood opposite them. At first, the Seneschal of Ulster had been unsure where he should put himself, for it was unusual for him to find himself in the situation that he did now, where the earl was not the most senior person in the room. Richard de Burgh may have been the richest, most powerful baron in Ireland, but as representative of the King of England, the justiciar outranked him.