Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  *

  The village masons and labourers had returned home when darkness fell so there was no one around the new tower. Jocard led the way to the storeroom where tools and torches were kept but, as he had suspected, it was locked. That meant the foray into the chapel had been a wise move but Henry knew, even if the priest was alive, they would hang him if they captured him. He guided Jocard around the scaffolding and pointed to the far corner of the abandoned yard and the grate. Pushing aside the bushes, ignoring brambles that snatched at them, they slithered down several feet to where the rock face met the ground. The rusted iron grate covered a cave mouth that sprouted plant tendrils through its grid: prisoners of darkness seeking the light. Henry laid down his two candles and heaved on the grate. It gave slightly. All they needed was to widen the gap between the iron frame and the side of the rock.

  ‘Help me,’ he whispered.

  Jocard grasped the grate and on Henry’s signal they pulled. The ground below the grate’s base had eroded over time which allowed the rest of the frame some leeway. It creaked. Henry’s back muscles ached; his arms felt as though they were being torn from his shoulders. Bracing his legs, he leaned back and yanked. The grate yielded enough for Jocard to do as Henry instructed and squeeze through. Henry pressed his back against the wall, turned his head sideways, pressing his face against the rock face, and forced his way through the narrow gap. Elated, they embraced each other. Jocard pulled out the handful of mattress stuffing. Henry struck his flint and blew on the smouldering lump to entice a flame. They each lit a candle’s wick and shielded the flame. The narrow entrance sloped away into what seemed to be an abyss. The sound of water flowed somewhere below. Henry edged forward.

  ‘It’s not as steep as it looks,’ he said, and went on down, ducking below the low rock ceiling.

  Henry guessed that they had slithered downward for a couple of hundred paces. The air felt more humid as the sound of water drew closer and the cave’s ceiling became higher, smooth curved rocks gleaming with dripping moisture. The boys shielded their candle flames. Their descent was easier now and the water’s noise grew louder the deeper they went until the faint speck of light that was the entrance disappeared. They reached a beach of crushed stone as fine as salt. Shallow, crystal-clear water gurgled, calf-deep, a gentle stream that surely fed the castle’s deep well flowing over water-smoothed rocks coated in its own wet sheen. Henry raised his candle higher and looked along a ravine.

  ‘We have no choice but to go down there,’ he said, looking towards the gap wide enough for a half-dozen men to stand abreast.

  ‘If the water gets deeper than this… I… I can’t swim,’ said Jocard nervously.

  ‘Don’t be afraid. If it’s shallow here, then it will probably be the same depth further along. If it gets deeper, I’ll help you. I can swim. But we can’t stay here. We have to find a way out.’ Without waiting for the boy to answer Henry stepped into the water and led the way into the cavernous underground passage.

  The riverbed was soft beneath his feet; lowering the candle he saw small puffs of disturbed silt. There was no sign of life in the clear water. No fish or creature would survive here, no vegetation clung to the rocks, no weed choked the passage of water. Their candles burned lower and their clothes clung to them from the humidity in the air. Henry raised a hand and brought them to a halt. The narrow passage opened into a space like a cathedral with a vaulted ceiling. He heard Jocard gasp in surprise. Henry suspected no man had ever seen this grandeur. Calcified columns hung down from a ceiling that looked to be more than a hundred feet high. Candlelight brought the rocks alive with the glint of a million stars trapped inside the stone. Henry held his breath. He turned to the boy behind him, whose face was filled with wonderment. The water spread before them in a small lake, edging further away to the left where it disappeared beneath low hanging rocks. It was barely a hundred paces wide in front of him. Henry edged forward, its depth reaching his thighs.

  ‘Bring your light here,’ he told Jocard.

  The boys stood shoulder to shoulder and raised their candles together. The light exposed a sheen of water dribbling down the rock face beyond the shallow lake which led to a dry passage, a path eroded by time and water. It appeared to ascend into more rock formations.

  ‘Up there,’ said Henry. ‘We might be in luck.’

  With renewed hope they waded forward. The darkness closed behind them, the sheer walls suffocating any voices they might have heard were they nearer the entrance.

  *

  When the bell for lauds had not rung three hours before dawn its absence raised the alarm. They found the priest alive and able to recount what had happened. And when Lord Mael found the dog with a frayed rope attached around its collar whimpering at the iron grate he quickly understood Henry’s betrayal.

  They summoned the masons who hammered and chipped into the rock face to loosen the grate. Lord Mael berated them, impatient to send men to pursue the fugitives. His dozen soldiers held back. They knew the legend of the cave. Lord Mael grabbed one by the neck, forcing him closer to where the masons feverishly chiselled at the rocks holding the iron grate. ‘You’ll lead the men down. Every man has a burning torch. No demon would dare approach a flame.’

  ‘My lord, I beg you. Do not send us through Hell’s Gate,’ said the unfortunate man, dropping to his knees.

  ‘Get to your feet, you snivelling bastard!’

  ‘I cannot, my lord,’ the man begged, arm raised, knowing Babeneaux would beat him.

  Lord Mael did not strike him with his fist as the man expected; he unsheathed his knife and slit the man’s throat. As his victim writhed, hands clutching his torn throat, Mael pointed the stained blade at the others. ‘You go down or you die here.’

  The masons pulled aside the iron stanchions. With trembling hands, the soldiers lit their pitch-soaked torches and hesitantly stepped into the cave.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘That’s not Lord Babeneaux,’ said Lady Cateline when she looked at the dead Roparzh in the early morning light. ‘It’s his captain of the guard. You killed a vicious man, Sir Thomas, taught by his master but a less able swordsman.’

  Killbere’s eyebrows raised but he left his thoughts unspoken. The man had come close to beating Blackstone. But then he took heart, despite his moment of doubt. Close had not been good enough.

  ‘There are others behind your husband’s walls who wear a different device,’ said Blackstone, thrusting away the memory of the hard-fought contest with Babeneaux’s captain. He showed her two bloodied blazons: a black unicorn on the one and four small castles set in a square on the other.

  Lady Cateline fingered the torn remnants. ‘Allies of his. The unicorn is Lord Judikael, the other Lord Gwenneg. They support Charles of Blois and have the French King’s backing. He depends on these men to hold the English and de Montfort at bay in Brittany. If they are in the castle, then they are planning an assault elsewhere to secure more territory.’

  Killbere shrugged. ‘Thomas, we have stepped into a viper’s nest.’

  Blackstone looked at Cateline. ‘Do you know how many men each lord has with him?’

  ‘Perhaps ten or more as a personal escort.’

  ‘So there could still be more men than we thought behind the walls,’ said Killbere. ‘I had hoped we had slain enough here to favour us if we ever got inside.’

  ‘We cannot leave Master Henry in there, Sir Gilbert,’ said John Jacob. ‘We must find a way.’

  ‘There is no way unless your son opens the postern gate and even then I don’t know what awaits you on the other side,’ said Cateline.

  A horseman appeared on the track at the bottom of the meadow. An arm raised. Another rider clung to him behind the saddle.

  ‘Sir Thomas! It’s Meulon and Renfred,’ Will Longdon called from where he and his archers held the high ground in case there was another attack from forces they had not yet come across.

  The two captains reined in. John Jacob reached up and hauled a
n exhausted Jocard down from behind the throat-cutter. The boy trembled. His face had the pallor of a resurrected man long entombed in a grave.

  ‘Jocard!’ his mother cried. She embraced her son. ‘Merciful God, you are safe.’

  ‘He needs food and drink is all,’ said Renfred. He turned to Blackstone. ‘Found him crawling out of a forest on our way back here. There was no smoke signal from behind the castle walls, Sir Thomas, but now we know why. Young Henry got the lad out through an underground river.’

  Blackstone turned Jocard away from his mother. ‘Boy, where is my son Henry? Is he alive?’

  ‘He saved me,’ Jocard answered, lip trembling, tears threatening.

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘Quickly, son, tell this good knight who fought to save us,’ urged Cateline.

  The boy controlled his exhaustion. ‘We travelled for hours underground and then found a place that had ridges in the rock face. We saw there was light above. But there was no foothold that let us reach it. Henry made me stand on his shoulders so I could reach a handhold. But then he could not get out. He told me to climb out and find his father and to ask forgiveness for his disobedience.’

  Henry’s image lodged in Blackstone’s thoughts. Picturing the boy sacrificing himself to save Cateline’s son, he felt a stab of pride that pierced his anger at Henry’s disobedience. ‘Does Lord Babeneaux know of this tunnel or cave?’

  Jocard nodded. ‘He will send men after us. It is a place the size of a cathedral. If they are searching, I think they would return before their torches burn too low. No one would want to stay down there in the dark.’

  ‘And my son is still down there?’

  A look of guilt clouded the boy’s face. He nodded. ‘Unless men or unearthly creatures took him. It is called Hell’s Gate.’

  *

  The place from where the exhausted Jocard had clambered looked like an abandoned quarry, dug deep, smothered with brush and sapling, shaded by the forest canopy. A place perhaps where ancient man had clambered down for protection and shelter.

  ‘Down there?’ said Will Longdon. ‘God’s tears, we’re not goats.’

  ‘You smell like one,’ said Meulon.

  ‘Aye, well, living alongside you for so many years rubs off,’ Longdon answered, more concerned with the dark, gaping abyss that awaited the men than the taunt from his friend.

  Blackstone tossed a rock down into the hole. The men listened. It tumbled away, crashing through bushes, bouncing off the rock face, but there was no sound of it reaching the bottom. ‘Will, you and Jack won’t be going down. If what the lad says is correct your bows will be useless down there. It’s too wet.’

  ‘Then what do you want of us?’ the centenar asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Blackstone answered. ‘Get your men together. Check everything, bow cords and fletchings.’

  The archer turned back through the trees where his men waited. Whatever Blackstone expected of them Longdon and his bowmen were to play a key part.

  ‘We still have lamp oil,’ said Beyard, the Gascon captain. ‘If we’re to go down into the devil’s arsehole we should light our way.’

  ‘Have torches prepared,’ said Blackstone. ‘Meulon, Renfred, get what rope we have.’

  ‘They’re not long enough to reach down there,’ said Meulon.

  ‘I know. We’ll climb halfway down. Will and his archers will lower our weapons and armour to us and then we will lower them to the bottom. That way we go down unencumbered. See to it.’

  As the men left Killbere spat a globule of phlegm into the void. ‘I heard what the boy said, Thomas. Hell’s Gate. Fighting the French is a different matter than battling against the devil’s imps.’

  ‘Gilbert, it is superstition spread to keep brave men out.’

  ‘Or draw foolish men down.’

  ‘Courage will win the day.’

  ‘But you failed to tell the men.’

  ‘What is not known cannot harm them. I do not expect you to tell them and put fear into their hearts. They will need strength and determination. We must not strip that away – it can leave a man defenceless.’

  Killbere scratched his beard. He watched the men go about their business, ready to do Blackstone’s bidding. ‘Even if you told them, they would follow you.’

  ‘I know. No man would refuse. But they would carry an extra burden if I told them.’

  Killbere nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, you’re right. And the woman and her brats?’

  Blackstone laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I thought I would leave them here under your care, Gilbert, seeing you hold her in such affection.’

  The veteran ground his teeth. ‘One day your jests will burst the veins in my head and drop me like a felled oak.’

  ‘Who said I’m jesting?’ said Blackstone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The men busied themselves preparing for the descent while Killbere fumed. He knew the climb into the depths would tax him, but to be given nursery duties?

  Blackstone attempted to assuage his friend’s anger. ‘Gilbert, I need you to create a diversion. If you do not, then the men and I will be trapped like rats in a sewer.’

  ‘A diversion? With these few archers? You expect me to stand there with my cock in hand and wave it at the bastards?’

  ‘It is a formidable weapon,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Thomas, for Christ’s sake. What is it you want from me? I am no wet-nurse child-minder. Do not demean me.’

  ‘I would never do so. We must make our way into the castle using this underground passage. From what the boy told us it might take us until the sun is past its zenith before we get there. And by now Lord Mael will know of Henry’s escape.’

  What sounded like a growl rumbled in Killbere’s chest. ‘Tell me and be done with it, then try not to break your damned neck. You’re no youngster yourself.’

  ‘You must return to the meadow that fronts the castle. Look to where the sun is. Three hours after noon. Then you ride out in full view with Will and Jack Halfpenny and their archers. Stand out of crossbow range. Declare yourself a routier and that you found the woman and her children in hiding.’

  ‘I’ll need three or four men-at-arms with me to look even half convincing.’

  ‘Meulon and Renfred will give you their best men, and take Beyard with you: he’s a good man to have at your back if the tide turns against you. Tell Lord Mael his men lie dead. That you came across the ground where they were slain. Keep him interested. Keep him on the outer walls. Bargain money for Lady Cateline but do not show him the boy. Not until he tells you he has no use for his wife and daughter. Then bring the boy in sight. He will pay to have him back. Is it likely he will ride out himself? No. Would he send a messenger with the ransom?’

  ‘And risk me taking the money, keeping the boy and killing the messenger? No.’

  ‘Exactly. Gilbert, it is you who face the greatest risk. It is your life that might be forfeit before any of us below ground.’

  Killbere grunted. ‘I see it, Thomas. He will invite me in as Will Longdon and the others hold the boy. He pays me and then barters me back for us to bring in the lad. And for all the good it will do me if you are not inside the castle walls by that time then I might as well wave my cock at them. If I still have one.’

  *

  Ignoring the hurt from his seared wound, Blackstone led the first group of men down the rock face, tree roots and rock outcrops giving them purchase. The void was more than a hundred feet deep. When they reached the bottom, the others lowered their weapon bundles. The light filtered down, enough for them to dress and arm themselves. Once all the men were ready flints were struck and half of the torches held aloft. They kept the remainder in reserve. Jocard had told them they might follow the riverbed for hours and no man wanted to be plunged into darkness when the torches spluttered and died. Blackstone raised Arianrhod to his lips and kissed the archer’s talisman. Slinging their shields across their backs the men waded behind th
e torchbearers Blackstone, John Jacob, Meulon and Renfred.

  The humid air soon engulfed them as did their wonderment at the underground river and its glinting, towering walls. They waded steadily forward, constrained by the loss of the arcing sun that would tell them how long their journey was taking. Dripping with sweat, they pushed through the water, skirted the small lake, sweeping the torches across their path to deter any malevolent creatures that might lurk in the cloisters of rock. They did not need Blackstone to tell them about the threat of dark places in the bowels of the earth. Ignoring the narrow alleyways of moisture-slicked rock, places where no man or boy could hide or traverse, they reached a narrow channel that funnelled the men closer together. Blackstone raised a hand. The men stopped splashing their way forward. The close air made their breathing laboured. Heads cocked, they listened to the faint sounds that reached them. Eerie sounds of discarnate voices that did not sound human.

  They listened. Distorted echoes whispered, twisted and curled through the channels and columns. Blackstone handed his torch to a man behind him. ‘Stay here,’ he said, then moved slowly forward, the water barely making a sound as he walked into darkness and the unknown. His extended arm guided him along the rock wall, his fingers telling him the rock was curving. Closer to the source of the sound he knew he would face men not demons. Edging around the turn he quickly counted more than a dozen men whose torchlight threw their shadows high onto the roof, giants of the underworld. They were bickering, some pointing from where they had come, another pointing to something at their feet. From what Blackstone could determine they were on a shallow sandbank that surfaced between the pools of water spilling each side of the stream. He heard one demand: ‘We go on! That’s a footprint. The bastards are here somewhere close. There’s reward to be had if we find them.’