Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘I understand, Sire,’ said Garyn, ‘but nevertheless, my friend rots in the dungeons of the Accursed tower and I beg his release in place of my brother.’

  Longshanks sat back and stared at Garyn.

  ‘You are a strange boy, Garyn ap Thomas and display the impudence of youth. I should have you whipped but I will not for I recognise that trait within myself. I will grant you your request but then you must leave Acre for I fear you are nothing but trouble. Take one of my guards and have the prisoner released in my name, now, be gone and don’t let my eyes fall upon you again.’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said Garyn and turned to leave the room, passing Brother Martin on the way.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked the Monk trotting to keep up with him.

  ‘First we are going to get Dafydd,’ said Garyn, ‘then we are going home.’

  ----

  Chapter 23

  The Port of Acre

  Dafydd stood at the stern of the ship watching the city come to life as the sun rose. He was wrapped in a horsehair blanket and his hair was tied back, revealing the bruises still evident around his face. Since he had been released from the dungeon he had spent several days regaining his strength in the Hospitaller headquarters while recovering from the injuries inflicted by the dungeon guards. Finally Brother Martin had secured Passage to Venice and they had boarded the vessel hours earlier in preparation, as the crew finished loading the stores. The two young men had found a dry corner in the hold to make their sleeping spaces and store the meagre possessions supplied by the Hospitallers, while Brother Martin made his way back ashore.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ asked Dafydd quietly as Garyn appeared beside him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Garyn. ‘He said he had to do something.’

  ‘Well I hope he hurries up,’ said Dafydd,’ I want to get out of this accursed place.’

  ‘Aren’t you disappointed the path of Knighthood is closed to you?’

  ‘A title and armour does not a Knight make, Garyn. That much I have learned.’

  He fell silent once more and they watched the activity together as they waited for the boat to leave.

  ----

  Across the city, Brother Martin knocked on the door of his old friend, Ahmed Mubarak. The same woman answered as she did many weeks earlier though this time with a look of recognition.

  ‘You must be Maysam,’ said the Monk, ‘Ahmed’s wife.’

  ‘I am,’ she said, ‘what do you want?’

  ‘I have come to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘I am leaving Acre and fear our paths will never cross again. Can I see him?’

  ‘He is very weak,’ said Maysam, ‘and coughed throughout the night. He finally sleeps but I know he would want to see you. Come in, I will wake him.’ They made their way to the back room where Brother Martin saw his friend fast asleep on a bed of reeds covered with a sheepskin.

  ‘I will wake him,’ said Maysam.

  ‘No,’ said the Monk grabbing her arm, ‘let him sleep. I will just sit with him.’

  Maysam nodded and left the room. For an hour Brother Martin sat quietly alongside his friend, remembering the adventures they had shared together. He thought of waking him but decided against it. Parting was always so hard and obviously this would be the last time they would see each other in this world. Finally he stood and touching his friend on the shoulder, said goodbye for the last time.

  ‘Until the next life, Friend,’ he said and left the room. Maysam was sitting at a table and stood to open the door.

  ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’ she asked.

  ‘Just say this, he was more of a Knight than I ever was.’

  The woman nodded and watched him go before closing the door. An hour later the voice of her husband came weakly from the back room and she got up with a sigh. He was probably hungry, as was she but she hadn’t dared to go out begging while he was asleep in case he woke and needed her. She walked through to his room.

  ‘I am here, Ahmed,’ she said.

  ‘Maysam,’ he said, turning his head toward her, his sewn eyes a blank red space in the candlelight. ‘Someone has been here in the room. Who was it? tell me quickly.’

  ‘It was your friend, the man from England. He came to say goodbye.’

  ‘Is he still here, where is he?’

  ‘He has gone, Ahmed,’ she said, ‘but left his eternal thanks and respect.’ She paused. ‘How do you know there was someone here?’

  ‘Because respect is not the only thing he left, Maysam,’ he said, ‘he also left this.’ He lifted his hand from the bed and held up a leather pouch before pouring the contents out onto the bed.

  ‘What are they, Maysam?’ he asked, ‘for they feel like copper coins.’

  ‘They are not copper, Ahmed,’ said the woman in wonder,’ they are silver and shine like the midnight stars.’

  ----

  ‘There he is,’ said Garyn as the Monk made his way across the dock.

  ‘You cut it fine, Holy man,’ shouted the Captain. ‘We are about to sail.’

  ‘I am here now,’ said the Monk, ‘you can cast off.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Saying goodbye to a friend,’ he said and turned to Dafydd.

  ‘How are you this Morn, Squire Dafydd?’

  ‘I am Squire no more, Brother Martin as well you know. Henceforth use my name only.’

  ‘So be it,’ said the Monk as he walked away to talk to the Captain.

  The two boys watched as the ship pulled away from the dock and turned gracefully under the power of the oarsmen below deck. Soon they were easing slowly across the harbour toward the raised chain that provided it with protection.

  ‘What was it like, Dafydd?’ asked Garyn quietly.

  ‘What was what like?’

  ‘Your time in the dungeon.’

  There was a pause before Dafydd answered.

  ‘It was awful, Garyn,’ he said. ‘I have never imagined the depravity men are able to inflict on each other. There were men down there praying for death, begging others to strangle them to release them from their hell. It wasn’t so bad for me, for I had not yet been found guilty so I was only beaten but the rest…’ He left the sentence unfinished before looking at Garyn. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I know it’s not what you wanted to hear but no man should cover up the truth of what goes on down there. I asked about your brother but nobody knew anything. Those who are sentenced to the pit are not around long enough to form friendships.’

  ‘So all men die down there?’

  ‘Most,’ said Dafydd. ‘Some are lucky like me and are pardoned but not many. Most are either tortured to death or left to starve but even they have cause for gratitude for there is a fate worse than that, saved especially for those who have caused the greatest ire to the Castellan.’

  ‘What fate is possibly worse than torture or death?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Nobody knows for nobody has ever returned. All I know is that it involves eternal pain and strong men weep like babes when they hear they are being sent into his embrace.’

  ‘Who’s embrace?’

  ‘Ba’al-zebub, Garyn. The devil himself.’

  ----

  Garyn fell quiet and tried not to think of his brother suffering eternal torment. The Castellan’s last words were that Geraint was in the arms of the devil himself and that could only mean he had been sent to Ba’al-zebub.’

  His head fell forward as he struggled to control his emotion.

  ‘I’m sorry, Garyn,’ said Dafydd, grabbing his shoulder. ‘You had to know.’ Without another word he left Garyn alone with his thoughts and walked across to Brother Martin and the Captain.

  ‘What’s the delay, Captain?’ asked Brother Martin. ‘We are dead in the water.’

  ‘The barrier is still up,’ said the Captain pointing at the chain stretched across the harbour entrance. ‘Until it is lowered we cannot leave.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ asked the Monk.

 
; ‘Who knows?’ said the Captain. ‘The wheel is situated in that tower on shore but they will not lower the chain until they receive the signal from the Tower of flies.’

  ‘Tower of flies,’ said Dafydd, looking at the lone structure in the water, ‘I remember wondering about its name when we arrived. A strange title for a defensive tower such as this.’

  ‘But a name well earned,’ said the Captain. ‘In warmer weather it is said the air around the tower swarms with flies and the stink is unbearable.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Lord God only knows,’ said the Captain.

  Brother Martin turned to Dafydd.

  ‘How is Garyn?’

  ‘His heart is heavy,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘I will speak to him,’ said the Monk and walked away to join Garyn.

  ‘So how long do we wait?’ asked Dafydd eventually.

  ‘Until the Lord of the tower wakes and gives the signal,’ said the Captain,’ and that depends on how much ale he drunk last night.’

  ‘Why do you call him a Lord?’ asked Dafydd. ‘Surely no man with such a title is responsible for such a lowly task.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the Captain, ‘he is named so in jest by all who pass due to the nature of the role. No one knows his true name, so he has been named after the tower and the Devil himself. Men call him Beelzebub, Lord of the flies.’

  ----

  Dafydd ran across the deck and interrupted the conversation between Garyn and the Monk. The Captain followed close behind and listened to the conversation.

  ‘Garyn,’ gasped Dafydd, ‘all is not lost, your brother may yet live.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Garyn grabbing Dafydd’s shoulder, 'explain.’

  Dafydd retold them the words of the Captain.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he said, ‘the Castellan was not referring to the fires of hell but a real place and a real man. Didn’t he say Geraint was in the arms of the Devil himself?’

  ‘He did,’ said Garyn, ‘but…’

  ‘Then he may have been referring to this place,’ said Dafydd. ‘The Devil is known by many names, Garyn, one of which is Ba’al-zebub, Lord of the flies. The man who dwells in this tower is also known by that name and may be holding your brother.’

  ‘You are right,’ said Garyn looking toward the tower, ‘I have to go over there.’

  ‘Not so fast, Garyn,’ said the Monk. ‘You have no way to get there and the Captain may not allow his ship to draw close.’ All eyes turned to the Captain.

  ‘I have heard tales of prisoners kept in that unholy place,’ he said, ‘but the Monk is right. I cannot risk the ship so close to the rocks.’ He stared at Garyn’s desperate face before continuing. ‘However, I too once lost a brother to injustice and I would be dishonouring his name to refuse aid. While the harbour chain is up, I cannot sail so you have an opportunity. Take the row boat and keep seaward of the ship. The hour is still early so there may not be too many eyes on the shore but I will say this, as soon as the chain drops, I will leave with or without you. I cannot risk the ire of Longshanks and to aid the release of prisoners is treason.’

  ‘But if the boy is there and we are successful,’ said Brother Martin, ‘surely the story will eventually come out and your part in this will be revealed?’

  ‘Then I will claim one of you held a knife to my throat,’ said the Captain.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the Monk. ‘Where is the row boat?’

  ----

  Fifteen minutes later, they pulled the rowing boat up onto the rocks at the base of the tower and sought a way in.

  ‘The door is barred from the inside,’ said Dafydd, ‘and the walls are too high.’

  ‘Over here,’ said Garyn and pointed at the place where the huge rusty chain entered the tower through a small hole in the wall.

  ‘I think I can squeeze through,’ he said and started to undress.

  ‘It’s too small,’ said the Monk, ‘you will never fit.’

  ‘Watch me,’ said Garyn and bent to look through into the tower. He placed one arm forward first and then forced his head and shoulders into the hole. For a few seconds he was stuck and he wriggled fruitlessly as he tried to free himself.

  ‘Pull him out,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘No,’ hissed Garyn from within, ‘push me in.’

  The Monk pushed Garyn’s body further in and the few inches gained meant the boy found a handhold and tugged as hard as he could. Slowly his body scraped inward until suddenly the pressure eased and he fell to the floor in a darkened room though not before a layer of skin had been scraped from his body by the rusty chain.

  ‘Are you alright?’ asked Brother Martin’s voice from outside.

  ‘I think so,’ said Garyn standing up.

  ‘Find a doorway,’ said the Monk, ‘and unbar the main entrance.’

  Garyn walked through the darkness and felt along the wall until he found a small door. At first he thought it was locked but he soon realised it was only jammed and he leaned against it to force it open. As soon as it opened he gagged at the stench that assaulted his senses. Clouds of flies filled the air and his hand flew to his mouth to mask the stench. He paused a few seconds before seeing the main door at the far end of the short corridor and breathing as shallowly as he could, walked quickly to unbolt the door.

  ‘By all that is holy,’ gasped Brother Martin as they stepped in, ‘what is that smell?’

  ‘Death,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘Where do we start?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Look for locked doors or a stair to a dungeon,’ said Brother Martin.

  ‘Do you think there will be a dungeon here?’

  ‘Has to be,’ said the Monk. ‘These places always do.’

  ‘And you think my brother will be there?’

  ‘It is a possibility, but you have to be prepared for the worst. He may be already dead.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Garyn, ‘but you once assured me the Castellan would see merit in keeping him alive until he had the cross. We know that Sir John died before that happened and he may not have had the chance to send the execution order. This Beelzebub may not know of the Castellan’s demise and has kept my brother alive.’

  ‘It is a possibility,’ said Dafydd. ‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’

  Together they walked over to the entrance to the spiral stairway disappearing up the tower. Garyn looked up but Dafydd tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the floor. Sunk into the stone floor was a trap door with a metal ring sunk into the wood. Through the ring was an iron bar which slotted into a hole in the wall, preventing the trap door from being pushed up from below.

  ‘Why bar a door unless you want to keep someone in?’ he said quietly.

  Garyn nodded and bent to withdraw the bolt before lifting the trap door. The stink from the corridor was nothing to the stench that escaped the hatch and they all caught their breath before Garyn peered forward into the hole.

  ‘Quiet,’ he hissed, ‘listen.’

  For a few seconds there was silence before they heard a groan from below.

  ‘Someone’s alive down there,’ he said, ‘lower me down.’

  ‘You don’t know how far it is,’ said Dafydd, ‘you could break your neck.’

  ‘I’ve come too far to turn back,’ said Garyn, ‘lower me down.’

  The two men lowered Garyn through the hatch until they could reach no further.

  ‘Let me go,’ said Garyn and he fell to the floor a few feet down. His fall was broken by the softness of dead bodies and he scrambled to his feet before pressing his back against the wall in a panic. For what seemed an age he stayed there, frozen in fear before Dafydd’s voice came from above.

  ‘Garyn,’ he whispered, ‘take this, I found it on the stairway.’ Garyn looked up and saw the boy holding a lit candle stuck onto the spike of a holder.

  ‘Watch you don’t drop it,’ said Dafydd,’ there are no others.’

  Garyn caught the candle and after a few seconds where he though
t it would go out, the flame re-gathered its strength and he held it up to examine the room by its flickering light.

  What he saw was beyond his worst nightmares.

  ----

  Chapter Twenty Four

  The Tower of Flies

  Garyn stared at the horrors of the dungeon. The floor was a carpet of bodies in various stages of decomposition, laying in a sea of dried excrement. Flies filled the air and the corpses were alive with the movement of countless maggots. A movement caught his eye and he saw the largest rat he had ever seen leave the opened stomach cavity of a recently deceased man, dragging entrails behind it. The more he looked the more depravity he saw. Metal baskets hung from the ceilings containing the cadavers of prisoners long dead, as well as those who had suffered more recent atrocities. Stocks usually used in village squares were fixed high on walls with remains of long dead men still held in their grip, their remains only held together by rotting clothing and toughened sinews.

  A large wheel sat between two wooden frames and a man lay stretched backward over the curve, the look on his face still testament to the pain he suffered as his spine had been stretched past dislocation before being pulled apart by the horrific device.

  Garyn was frozen with fear and disgust and wanted nothing more than to get out of this hellish place but he knew he had to go further, if only to confirm his brother was dead. Slowly he stepped forward, careful not to lose his footing in the unholy filth. A naked man lay tied to a table against a wall and at first Garyn could see no injury but then he saw a small domed cage over his groin and the dark ragged hole where the caged rats had eaten themselves up through his body. Even as he stared, the skin over his stomach writhed disgustingly as the creatures moved within the cavity. With this Garyn leaned over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the filth ridden floor. For what seemed an age he retched until there was nothing left until finally he straightened up and stared around the room. It was pointless, even if his brother had been here, there was no way he would still be alive. He turned to leave but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a whisper.