Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘What about my sister?’ repeated Garyn quietly, ‘how did she die?’

  The Monk looked up again.

  ‘Her throat was cut,’ he said.

  Garyn gasped in horror as the news sunk in.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said eventually. ‘Why would someone want to murder my family? They never harmed anyone.’

  ‘I don’t know, Garyn,’ said the Monk, ‘but I promise you this. I will work tirelessly to find out and when I do, we will inform Lord Cadwallader and watch the murderers hang from the gibbet.’

  Garyn stood and stared back toward the cemetery.

  ‘What ill have I caused to be punished so?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘None of this is your fault, Garyn,’ said the Monk, ‘and we can only thank the Lord that you were at the Abbey that night or there could be four bodies in that grave.’

  ‘I have no thanks,’ said Garyn. ‘My life is done and I would rather wear that dank soil blanket than walk forward alone.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the Monk, ‘there is one reason to thank God he spared you and that is retribution. Being spared the grave means you can help me find the men responsible. Make this your reason for living, Garyn and when God’s justice is seen to have been done, then and only then question your destiny.’

  ‘Why would you do this?’ asked Garyn. ‘You broke them apart all those years ago and now, after the briefest of meetings you set yourself upon a path of justice in their names.’

  ‘During our early years we were as brothers, Garyn, each looking out for the other in times of peril. We fought together and bled together, each pledging his life to the other, a true oath of brotherhood yet when his happiness was on the line, I stepped in and tried to wrest it from him. There is no greater treachery, Garyn, I owe your father a great debt and though there was nothing in life he would have accepted as settlement, perhaps in death , the sword of justice will partly repay the great wrong I inflicted upon him.’

  ‘So my father was a Knight?’ said Garyn. ‘He never told me.’

  ‘Being a Knight is not the glorious life young boys dream of, Garyn. Your father and I saw more horrors than any man should see. There is no glory in death only pain and suffering. After a while a man becomes immune to the horror and he loses his soul to the slaughter. We saw Knights who never spoke, yet killed any before them with raging anger, devoid of reason and immune to all but the deepest of wounds. They had descended into a living hell, the kind where no life meant anything, even their own. Their nights were filled with horrors, worsened only by the reality of their days. We did not want to become like these men, Garyn so left when we could.’

  ‘You deserted?’

  ‘No, we were mercenaries and saw out every contract we entered. When a chance came, we declined further riches and rode home. We had enough money to live a comfortable life and with his share, your father bought this land.’

  Garyn looked up in surprise.

  ‘I thought our land was rented from the Manor?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said the Monk. Your father once served Cadwallader’s father and found favour with him. He agreed to sell this land at a fair price and it is one of the few holdings in these parts not owned by the Cadwalladers.’

  ‘The surprises keep coming,’ said Garyn. ‘Not only am I the son of a Knight but a landowner as well.’

  ‘You are,’ said Brother Martin, ‘and you owe it to your father to be diligent in the management of your legacy. It was hard earned and not to be lost as a fool.’

  ‘This is too much to take in,’ said Garyn standing up. ‘I must get to the wake and carry out my duties.’

  ‘Yes you must,’ said the Monk. ‘Pay them great tribute and when you are done, remember their lives not the manner of their deaths. There will be time enough for anger.’

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘I have to go back to the Abbey,’ said the Monk, ‘but will come again soon.’

  ‘How?’ asked Garyn. ‘I thought your order seldom left the confines of the Abbey yet you have been here constantly since the fire.’

  ‘I will not lie to you,’ Garyn said the Monk. ‘The Abbot has tasked me with finding out what you know of Masun’s tale. He still believes the man talked before he died. I am to befriend you and find out what you know.’

  ‘Even if I do know anything,’ said Garyn, ‘what makes you think I will tell you?’

  ‘I do not expect anything,’ said the Monk. ‘You asked and I was honest in my response. Either you will tell me or you won’t but I will not engage on subterfuge on behalf of the church. My quest will be to find the man who murdered your family and if you have any information you wish to share, then so be it. I ask no more than that.’

  ‘There is much to think about, Monk,’ said Garyn, ‘and I do not know if I am willing to trust the man who once set upon splitting up my family.’

  ‘A wise recourse,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Take your time, Garyn. When you are ready, let me know and we will talk again.’

  Garyn nodded and walked toward the village in silence. He was tired of talking, yet knew he had many hours of tribute and discourse before him. It was going to be a long, long day.

  ----

  Chapter Seven

  Krak des Chevalier

  ‘Open the gates,’ roared the guard commander, ‘Khoury returns.’

  Below the turrets, a patrol of thirty men could be seen riding up the slopes of the hill toward the impressive castle. The white cross emblazoned upon the black flag identified the patrol as Hospitaller and they thundered through the gates at a gallop before slowing down to negotiate the carefully designed tunnels within Chevalier’s giant ramparts. Above them, men at arms peered down through the murder holes built into walls and the ceiling, checking the patrol was indeed friendly. The unique design of the castle meant all visitors or indeed attackers had to ride along this enclosed passage to reach the main inner ward and as it was only a few paces wide, an attacking force would be constricted in a very tight space. Halfway along the passageway, it turned sharply back on itself, heading steeply upward and any attacker not taking the turn, would find themselves outside, trapped between the castle’s inner and outer walls, sitting targets for the archers above. Those enemy who were lucky enough to get that far and make the turn, would be slowed to a walk and once again, become easy targets for those defenders on the other side of the murder holes.

  At the end of the winding passageway, Khoury led his patrol out into the daylight of the courtyard and leapt from his horse, allowing it to walk away untended. A Squire ran to take control of the beast while Khoury strode through a doorway and up a stair to the Knight’s hall.

  Two servants jumped out of his way as he pushed the door open and threw his gauntlets onto a nearby table.

  ‘Bring me water,’ he said, ‘and while you’re at it, summon Sir Najaar to attend me.’

  The servants ran from the room, realising they were better off avoiding their master when he was in such a bad mood. Five minutes later another Knight entered the room.

  ‘Brother Khoury,’ he said pausing at the door. ‘You have made good time. I see the horses heave from exertion.’

  ‘A necessary demand,’ said Khoury. ‘There are events afoot that demand urgency in our manner.’

  ‘Was your petition granted?’ asked the Knight.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Khoury, ‘but there are far more urgent matters that demand attention.’

  ‘What matters are these?’ asked Najaar.

  Khoury reached beneath his tunic and threw a large piece of dirty fabric across to his comrade. Sir Najaar picked it up and unfurled a white flag with a red cross stitched across its centre.

  ‘Templar,’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ said Khoury. ‘I took it from the dead hands of a Squire less than an hour ago, part of a patrol we found slaughtered near the crags. Fifty souls slaughtered like market cattle and their bodies butchered before being strewn across the desert floor. It loo
ks like the boy was trying to save the banner and rode into the mountains but he stood no chance. They staked him out and opened his stomach to the midday heat. The vultures did the rest.’

  ‘Lord have mercy,’ whispered Najaar.

  ‘This is the work of Baibaars,’ said Khoury, ‘and if he has gall enough to do this almost within sight of our strongholds then he must be supremely confident and we have to take steps to increase our defences straight away.’

  ‘What would you have us do?’ asked the Knight.

  ‘Post guards at the bottom of the rock,’ said Khoury, ‘and at every approach to the Castle. I want plenty of warning of any attack. Send word to the villagers, we have need of labour and need it now. Offer good coin and empty the money chests if necessary. I want the ditch deepened across the approach and more stakes added. What is the state of the castle?’

  Sir Najaar considered the fortress’ formidable defences. The castle was built on a spur of a rocky mountain high above the valley floor. It was protected on three sides by a sheer escarpment while the only approach on the fourth side was protected by a staked ditch and a second stone wall topped with ramparts and castellations. The second wall had been an afterthought and was intended to slow any attackers down while suffering casualties from the defenders. Even if they passed this first obstacle, the formidable castle walls were impregnable. The Taluses were built from enormous blocks of limestone, smooth sloping walls hundreds of feet thick, impervious to any sort of ram or catapult. Eight towers incorporated into the walls provided dominant fighting positions and secure living quarters for the defending Knights.

  The foundations rested on the mountain bedrock, precluding any undermining and the eighty foot high walls were un-scalable by any siege ladders. Arrow slits provided archers a view of all approaches and high above, machicolations stuck out from the top of the walls, protective slabs providing cover for defenders to drop things on any attacking army below. Overall it was considered impregnable and had never been taken in its current form.

  ‘The fortress is in good order,’ said the Knight. ‘Our stores are healthy and we can last a year of siege if necessary.’

  ‘Water?’

  ‘The Cisterns are full.’

  ‘What about the Brothers?’

  ‘A hundred Knights in Garrison,’ said Najaar, ‘another hundred on escort duties. Most will be back within the month.’

  ‘Send word,’ said Khoury, ‘they are to return with all speed. What about archers?’

  ‘No more than a hundred,’ said Najaar. ‘Our greatest strength is Chevalier itself.’

  ‘Your stewardship will not go unrewarded, Brother,’ said Khoury, ‘but I want you to commission a further defence. Arrange a palisade to be erected on the eastern approach. Build it at least an arrow’s flight from the outer wall and furnish it with ramparts. I want it to be able to withstand anything short of a siege engine.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sir Najaar.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Khoury. ‘Dismantle the buildings on the eastern approach. The Burgus may be a valuable addition to the castle in settled times but a traders’ market is no use in war. Give the villagers a day to move, after that, get rid of them by any means necessary. I want a clear view of any man climbing that hill.’

  ‘At once, Sire,’ said Najaar. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, that will do for now. I need to send a message to Margat, for they too will be at risk.’

  ‘What about those men you found in the desert?’ asked Najaar.

  ‘I will send word to the White Castle,’ said Khoury. ‘The Templar Grand Master will want to retrieve the bodies and give them a Christian burial, though I fear there may not be much to bury.’ He looked over at his Brother Knight. ‘We have seen many threats, these past few years Brother but there are things afoot. Baibaars is up to something and though he has feinted such assaults on many occasions, I feel this time there will be no retreat. Brief the men and furnish the defences with weaponry. Our fate is in the Lord’s hands but until that path is revealed to us, we will not be found wanting. Join me in seeking his blessing.’

  Khoury drew his large sword and placing it point first on the floor, knelt before the weapon, using the hilt as a natural crucifix. Najaar knelt down to join him and clasped his hands together as Khoury prayed.

  ‘Lord, we thank you for unveiling our eyes to the threat of those who would deny your flock your glory. Grant us we beseech thee, the strength to carry your will, the knowledge to defend your name and the humility to accept your glory. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Najaar and the two men stood up once more. Without another word, Sir Najaar left the room to prepare for battle while Khoury climbed the watchtower. From there he could send a heliograph signal to the White Castle who in turn could relay it to the garrison at Margat in similar manner.

  As he climbed he knew it was important for all orders to unite in the face of Baibaars but even if they managed to put aside their differences, their combined strength would not be enough against a full Mamluk army. If the sources were right, all they could hope for is the early arrival of Longshanks’ army, that or a miracle from the Lord God himself.

  ----

  Longshanks looked around the port in Tunis. The docks bustled with men of all races, all busy with the task of restocking his fleet. King Louis had laid siege to the city but the Prince and the English force had arrived too late to take any part.

  Longshanks had sailed with the intention of providing support to the city of Acre and the surrounding territories but had diverted to support King Louis the Ninth of France in his Egyptian campaign. Tunis had been deemed an important step toward that goal but not long after the siege had started, the French King had died and within months his successor Charles, called off the siege and joined with the newly arrived Edward in his mission to Acre.

  Longshanks took command of the remaining Christian army and now intended to sail with all speed to Acre, knowing full well his presence could affect the very future of the Christian presence in the Holy-land.

  ‘Captain, are we ready?’ he called.

  ‘Upon your word, Sire,’ answered the sailor.

  ‘Then take us out,’ said Longshanks before adding under his breath, ‘and pray to God we are in time.’

  ----

  Chapter Eight

  Brycheniog

  Garyn walked through the snow toward the remains of the forge. An overnight flurry had covered the many footprints from a few days earlier and though the walls still stood proud, they were blackened from smoke and the roof had long gone. Garyn paused and stared at the place he had called home. The ruins were silent but as he watched, a movement caught his eye on the far side.

  ‘Brother Martin,’ said Garyn, ‘you startled me yet again. The day has not yet begun.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said the Monk, ‘the day is half over.’ He smiled. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Garyn walked across and joined the Monk in the ruins.

  ‘My heart breaks to see it so,’ said Garyn. ‘A loving family and a lifetime of work have all gone in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘Your family live in the arms of the Lord,’ said the Monk, ‘and destruction is but temporary.’

  ‘It doesn’t look temporary to me,’ said Garyn.

  ‘The walls are still sound,’ said Brother Martin, ‘and with new timberwork the thatch is but a week’s work for skilled men. The forge can be an entity again, should you wish to pursue your father’s path.’

  ‘And who will pay for these repairs?’ said Garyn. ‘I have no money.’

  ‘Your lands are substantial, Garyn. Sell part of them back to Cadwallader. That way your future is secured and you can honour your father’s memory in the manner he would have wished.’’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Garyn. ‘It is too soon to decide.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ asked the Monk.

  ‘The priest lets me sleep in the church,’ said Garyn. ‘I can stay as long as I wan
t until I sort out this mess.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ said the Monk. ‘Tell me, Garyn, are you aware of any enemies your father may have had?’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn, ‘but if what you say is true and he fought in all those wars then there must be many men who hold a grudge.’

  ‘No,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Warfare is brutal but grudges are not taken overseas unless a great wrong is carried out. Your father was an honourable man and only killed in the name of Christ.’

  ‘Then I know of no other,’ said Garyn. ‘We kept ourselves to ourselves and any visitors were always welcomed with open hospitality.’

  ‘Perhaps that was the problem,’ said the Monk. ‘It may have been they welcomed in a brigand without realising and he took advantage to steal what he could.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Garyn walking through the empty doorway to the forge. He looked up at the morning sky before returning his gaze to the snow covered remains of the workshop. ‘It looks strange like this,’ he said. ‘It used to be so dark and was lit only by the flames of the furnace. This snow makes it look so…’ he hesitated, ‘clean.’

  The Monk stayed quiet but followed Garyn through the ruins. Occasionally the boy would bend over and pick up a remnant from the fire, recalling what significance it played in his family’s life.

  ‘This is a broach from my mother’s favourite dress,’ he said, brushing the snow of the trinket. ‘She would have liked this to be in her grave.’

  ‘The dead need no chattels, Garyn,’ said the Monk.

  Garyn bent over again and retrieved some tools from amongst the debris.

  ‘These will have value,’ he said. ‘I should come back when the snow has melted and see what I can find.’

  The two men continued picking amongst the rubble, putting aside anything they thought could be of use.

  ‘What about the warped things?’ said the Monk. ‘Will they be of any use?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Garyn, ‘They can be melted down and will see life as a different item. Here’s my father’s tankard,’ he continued, picking up a twisted metal cup and turning to face the Monk but Brother Martin didn’t hear him, his brow was furrowed as he examined something in his hand.