Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  The ship was tossed about so violently that the bailing had to be abandoned. Everyone aboard simply clung to whatever they could for dear life, with the exception of Aengus who resolutely stayed at the steering oar.

  It was impossible to tell how long they were washed to and fro by the sea and wind but it seemed to Savage an absolute age, every second prolonged by the terror of expectation that the next wave would plunge them all into the water. He desperately wondered if he could still swim. As a child he had loved swimming and indulged himself whenever he could until one day the parson had caught him and a friend swimming and that had been the end of it.

  The priest had told their mothers, warning the worried parents that swimming was a skill inspired by the Devil. Floating in water was proof of the sin of witchcraft so swimming for Savage became forbidden.

  Now it might save his life if the ship sank. Then again, he agonised, God knows how far out to sea they were, and if pitched into the water how could he even hope to struggle against such unstoppable might as the waves possessed. Perhaps being able to swim would just prolong a very cold, very lonely, utterly hopeless death.

  Around him the mariners were praying to be delivered from their peril. Some were obviously hedging their bets as the name of Aegir could be heard amidst cries to Jesus, Mary and Saint Christopher for help.

  Suddenly Aengus’s voice was heard above the rest, shouting, ‘Listen! Shut up will you and listen.’

  The crew fell silent and strained their ears to find out what he was shouting about. Amongst the howling wind and rain and the roaring sea, there came a strange, rhythmic booming followed by a hissing sound.

  ‘What is it?’ Savage shouted to the nearest sailor to him.

  ‘Waves!’ the man yelled back. ‘Waves crashing onto the shore!’

  Savage’s heart surged. At last a source of hope. They had reached land and after beaching the ship, safety would only be a short wade away.

  There was no sign of hope yet on the sailors’ faces. They knew that a ship could only be beached on a sandy shore. Anxiously they strained for a sight of the shoreline.

  As the ship breasted another wave they could plainly see the mountains and glimpsed the dark outline of the shore. They were very close. Aengus did his best to steer the ship straight in that direction but in reality they could only hope to reach it if the waves carried them that way.

  ‘Row! Row, you lazy sods!’ the Hebridean captain shouted and the crew sprang to their oars again, desperately trying to influence their fate in any small way they could.

  The ship once again rose on the swell of a huge wave, then dropped suddenly down the other side.

  Suddenly there was an awful thud and the crack of splintering wood. The ship stopped dead. The crew were sent sprawling in every direction. Before Savage’s horrified eyes the black, wet ruggedness of a big rock exploded up through the deck between him and the rest of the sailors.

  The wave had smashed the ship down onto a massive rock.

  50

  Before anyone could react the next wave arrived. The ship, skewered on the rocks, was unable to move with the swell. Like a gigantic hammer the wave smashed down onto the boat. Battered by such awesome power, Aengus’s galley splintered like matchwood. Within a second it had ceased to exist.

  Savage tumbled headlong into the water. The wave carried him along spinning over and over, head over heels, upside down, unable to tell which way was up or down. He expected to strike the rocks himself and feel his bones smashing like the ship but all around him was only black, freezing water.

  Suddenly his head broke the surface and he gulped air. An instant later he sank again. Frantically he kicked out and struggled but kept sinking. Desperately he wondered if he had indeed forgotten how to swim, then remembered that a fully clothed man in the water sinks as fast as a stone. In an instant he had unclasped his cloak and unbuttoned his belt and baldric, abandoning his sword, purse and daggers to the anonymous depths. He was still sinking. Lungs beginning to ache, he struggled out of one of his boots and got his jerkin off.

  Finally he started to rise. Kicking his legs and beating his arms he came back to the surface, lungs now burning from oxygen starvation. Once again his head burst into the sweet air and he gasped frantically.

  Despite how hard his arms beat the water, the weight of his other boot dragged him under again. After another submarine struggle his remaining boot was consigned to the deep and he made it back to the surface. This time he stayed afloat.

  He was able to breathe the welcome air, but the shock of the cold water seized his chest and his breath came only in short gasps. He allowed the swell to carry him backwards as he fought to control his frantic breathing, knowing it would play havoc with his heart, which thudded wildly behind his ribs.

  As his breathing calmed down he took stock of the situation. There was no sign of anyone else from the ship, but there were plenty of pieces of the galley floating amidst the troughs and crests of the awesome waves. There was no sign of the rock they had floundered on, or rather it was impossible to tell which way he had been carried by the waves. Another wave lifted him and he tried to look about himself as he reached its crest. Far to his left, behind another wave, he finally spotted the site of the wreck. He saw the pathetic remnant of the mast, still upright but at an impossible angle, before it was engulfed in an explosion of white spray as another wave broke over the rock.

  He was still in deep water, so the ship must have struck an offshore rocky outcrop. Now with some bearings he waited for the next wave to lift him so he could try to see which way the shore was. As he waited in the trough, surrounded only by grey sea, above the wind and rain he heard the tantalising booming of the waves breaking on the beach.

  The next wave came and lifted him. He rose and looked about. No sign of a beach. As he sank down into the trough the horrifying thought came to him that the rock that had been the ship’s downfall was an isolated cluster, far out at sea. There was no shore. The booming was just the waves striking little islets. He was alone and waiting to die, with no hope of rescue.

  Angry with himself he put these thoughts aside as the next wave lifted him. He turned round as much as he could in the water. Suddenly he saw it. Only a momentary glance amidst the waves but they were there: the dark mountains and a black line that could only be the shoreline. It was ahead, in the direction the waves were travelling.

  Treading water he contemplated that if the tide was going in he would have a better chance of making it than striving against an ebbing tide. Either way he was wasting energy staying where he was.

  Now with something to aim for he struck out for the shore, counting his lucky stars it was not dark as well.

  As he swam, each wave lifted him and he felt its power surge him forward. Encouraged, he kicked harder. Despite the iciness of the water, the wind on his wet face was painfully cold. He plunged it under the surface as he swam, lifting it up every few strokes to breathe. It was strange that the water should seem warmer than the air, then he realised that his skin had become numb where enveloped by the water.

  On he swam, unable to tell how close he was to the shore. He just kept doggedly going, rising and falling with the sea. All around the storm raged with no signs of abating. The effort was exhausting. A strange sleepiness was creeping over him, starting in his fingers and toes and working in. His strokes became slower and slower until he felt content to rest a little, floating face down, relaxed, resigned to let the tide carry him on in. It would be all right to take a break for a bit. He would be able to redouble his efforts with renewed vigour later.

  A spark seemed to ignite within Savage and he raised his head out of the water with a gasp. It was Death who had been whispering these things in his ear. He would not – could not – give in. To stop was to die and he had no intention of dying, not when so close to the shore and safety. He began to swim once more, denying the tiredness in his limbs.

  A wave lifted him and he saw it. The black rocks jutting into t
he sea and running up to the land on both left and right. In between was a little crescent of sandy beach.

  Savage redoubled his desperate efforts, his heavy arms and legs protesting with exhaustion.

  Another wave took him and he surged forward. This time the wave started to break as it passed him. As he fell behind the wave he felt his right foot hit something soft. Land. Before he could react the next wave caught him, breaking as it did so. He was careered forward uncontrollably with the surf, bouncing through the shallows propelled, spinning, by the violent power of the wave. It passed and he found himself on hands and knees in the water. The broken wave began to go out again. Savage felt its awesome sucking power pulling him back into the sea.

  Wailing forlornly he tried to grasp purchase on the sand but it just melted away, running through his fingers with the wave. Back down the beach he was dragged.

  The next wave hit him, knocking him almost senseless and propelling him back up the beach. Savage realised that this shuttling up and down the shallows could be the death of him. Exhausted, he would drown, his feet on land but lungs filled with water he could no longer fight to keep out.

  When the wave passed him, with supreme effort he rose off his knees to his feet and half staggered, half lurched forwards through the water, feeling the strength of the undertow tugging his legs and the sand from under him.

  Another wave came and knocked him off his feet, but also shoved him further up the beach as if the sea, realising that this morsel was not going to be easily swallowed, had decided to vomit him up instead. His mind was now virtually a blank; he knew only that he had to keep struggling forwards. Savage rose to his feet once again and waded further forward before the next wave hit him. Again he was pushed further up the beach, the wave’s power being spent as it was expelled on hitting the land.

  With only the energy to get to his knees left, Savage crawled onwards; the water around him now only inches deep. Utterly exhausted, he collapsed onto his back.

  Only dimly aware of his surroundings, he thought he saw two human figures coming down the beach towards him. Weakly he croaked to them for help and waved a pathetic arm before he passed into unconscious oblivion.

  51

  Savage knew time was passing, but the days to him were a confused blur of lucid moments and strange dreams and visions. Interchanging dark and light told him days had gone by, but how many he could not tell. He drifted between sleep, wakefulness and a strange state that was somewhere in between.

  In his more lucid moments he found himself to be in a richly decorated bedchamber lying in cool, clean linen sheets. A beautiful young woman soothed his hot brow with damp cloths and coaxed him to drink bitter-tasting infusions that could only be herbal medicines. He was unsure, but he thought she had said her name was Repanse de Schoy.

  His less coherent times were filled by nightmares of drowned sailors and terrible sea creatures coming to drag him back into the waves. Through it all a vision of a shadowy woman and a little girl ran, for some reason frightened and calling for help.

  Eventually he awoke from a mercifully deep, untroubled sleep to find himself feeling the closest to what he could describe as normal since Aengus Solmandarson’s ship had sunk.

  Taking stock of his surroundings, he saw the bed was surrounded by beautiful tapestries. Beside his bed sat the dark-haired maiden who had called herself Repanse de Schoy.

  When she saw he was awake, she put down her embroidery and regarded Savage with dark, sloe-like eyes.

  ‘So you’re back among the living.’ She smiled. Her accent was slightly odd. There was a broad hint of Scots in it, but also something else Savage could not quite trace.

  ‘Where am I?’ Savage asked.

  ‘You are safe,’ the woman replied. ‘My uncle’s servants saw your ship floundering in the storm and picked you up off the beach, half dead from exhaustion and cold.’

  ‘Did they find anyone else?’

  She shook her head and laid a hand on his shoulder in a sympathetic gesture. ‘Were they close friends?’ she asked gently.

  ‘I’d only just met them, but…’ Savage trailed off, trying to come to terms with the news. The smiling face of Aengus surfaced in his memory. It was hard to think of him as being cold and dead, floating alone in the black depths.

  ‘You’ve been very ill,’ the woman explained. ‘Because of the cold and the soaking you caught a dangerous fever. For a while we thought you weren’t going to live. You’ve recovered admirably, though.’

  ‘How long is it since the shipwreck?’ Savage wanted to know, memories of the urgency of his mission surfacing.

  ‘Nearly a week,’ Repanse told him.

  A week? Savage was dismayed. Anything could have happened in that time. Perhaps he was already too late. Seeing the agitation igniting in his eyes, the woman laid a calming hand on his brow.

  ‘Rest yourself,’ she said. ‘You are not fully recovered – far from it. You are still weak and tired so no more questions for now. You will have time to ask all you wish later.’

  ‘I’ve had such strange dreams…’ Savage began.

  ‘That was due to the fever and the poppy draughts we’ve been giving you,’ said the woman, getting up. ‘I’ll leave you alone now. Take some rest. There are clothes for you if you wish to get dressed. Feel free to explore the castle if you want, but don’t stray too far. You’re still weak and we don’t want you passing out. It is a beautiful day, though. Perhaps some sunshine would do you good.’ With that she left, closing the door behind her.

  Savage was unable to remain in bed. His mind was a mess of agitation. The ship had been wrecked on the coast of Galloway, but where? Where was he now? Who were his saviours? They had saved his life, but he was still in the enemy country so he had to be very careful what he said. God knows what he had already let slip in feverish ravings. What was happening in Ireland? Were Alys and Galiene all right?

  He got out of bed but had to steady himself momentarily as his head spun with the adjustment of standing up after so long being perpendicular. Once his dizziness subsided he examined the clothes that had been left for him. These were a brand-new shirt of fine woollen cloth, off-white in colour and wonderfully soft and comfortable, green woollen breeches and a new pair of leather boots.

  He dressed then set about exploring his surroundings. The woman, Repanse, had said he was in a castle, and the walls behind the gorgeous and impressive tapestries were indeed made of stout stone.

  The room had an unusually wide window through which Savage studied the castle’s environs. Repanse had been correct; it was a beautiful summer’s day. The sun blazed in a cloudless blue sky and in its rays danced a sea of green – a thick forest alive with the newness of fresh spring leaves. There was no sign of the real sea, but the castle seemed to be in a wide, steep-sided valley so the water must lie beyond the valley, invisible to sight.

  On trying the door he found it unlocked.

  At least he was not a prisoner, Savage consoled himself. Opening the door he discovered a spiral staircase that went up and down. Savage descended, passing two doors on his way down, both of which were locked. Finally he arrived at ground level and a door that was unlocked. He opened this and went outside to have a look around, hoping to find someone he could talk to and perhaps discover some useful information.

  On leaving the building he saw that he had been in the tower of a castle. It was one of two small towers that flanked a much larger keep. Savage’s military eye surveyed the keep appreciatively and judged that in all his travels it was about as well built a stronghold as any he had seen this side of Beirut. Constructed of dark grey stone, the keep was square, as broad as it was tall and radiated the impression of solid, unshakeable strength.

  In front of the keep was the hall. Most castle banqueting halls were long, rectangular buildings but unusually, this one was square like the keep. All the buildings were surrounded by a round curtain wall with galleries built into it. Savage could only marvel at how well designed the cas
tle was, for both peace and war. He wondered that he had never heard stories of such a civilised place existing in the wilds of Galloway.

  There was no sign of any living soul about the place. It was such a beautiful day that the denizens of the castle must be out in the forest hunting or at some other sport.

  Savage decided to venture further and made for the castle gate. His legs felt weak after so long in bed, but he was enjoying the enlivening fresh air.

  Above the gate was an anonymous tower with arrow-slit windows but no sign of access to or from it, save for the murder hole above the castle entrance used to pour boiling oil down on unwelcome visitors. Although no sound came from the tower Savage felt the distinct impression that eyes were watching him from it.

  He called a loud ‘Hallo’.

  No one replied. With a shrug Savage continued on his way.

  The gate itself was open and led to a drawbridge, which had been let down to cross the moat that surrounded the castle. Beyond the moat was a forest into whose depths wound a little twisting path. Along this Savage sauntered, enjoying the healing coolness of the green shade dappled with golden sunlight amidst the ancient oaks, elders, ash and yews.

  He had not gone far when the cheerful gurgling of running water reached his ears and he came across a river, running between moss-covered rocky banks. The path led alongside the river and for a short time Savage walked beside the crystal-clear waters that ran deep and fast over the stones that made its bed. His worries were momentarily pushed aside by the peace and beauty around him. In the green canopy birds sang melodious ditties of their own understanding and the sun danced across the river in a million dazzling reflections.