Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Help me,’

  His heart stopped and he stared around the dungeon again.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘is there anyone here?’

  ‘Help me,’ came the whisper again.

  Garyn took a step forward and held up the candle.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘In God’s name help me,’ came the weak voice again.

  Garyn looked toward the far wall and saw a man suspended from the rafters by his hands. His shoulders had long since dislocated and his arms had stretched above him in a deformed parody of a human shape. His feet had once reached the floor but the attentions of the rats meant his toes had been eaten away and his lower legs were blackened with infection.

  Garyn walked over and stared hopelessly at the condemned soul, knowing he was beyond help. His eyes had been gouged out and his teeth broken with a blunt instrument.

  ‘I cannot help you, Sir,’ whispered Garyn gently. ‘your tormentor has put paid to any hope. I am so sorry.’

  ‘Then kill me,’ whispered the man.

  Garyn nodded silently and drew his knife, knowing it was the merciful thing to do. He held the point above the man’s heart and rested the point against his skin.

  ‘Do it,’ whispered the man.

  ‘I can’t,’ stuttered Garyn.

  ‘In the name of merciful Jesus, I beg you to end my torment,’ cried the man.

  Again Garyn hesitated but the man used all his remaining strength to cry out once more.

  ‘Do it,’ he called, his voice breaking. ‘I beseech you, release me from this hell.’

  Garyn closed his eyes and with a cry of his own, drove the blade through the wretch’s heart.

  The man let out a gasp and a few seconds later his head fell forward onto his chest.

  Garyn still held the blade and watched as the man’s thick blood ran down the hilt and onto his own arm.

  In disgust he staggered back and fell amongst the filth. Panicking he jumped up and stumbled across the dungeon toward the hatch but as he passed a row of corpses piled against the wall, a hand reached out and touched his ankle.

  Garyn screamed in fear and he fell again, but this time pushed himself backward until he leaned against the opposite wall.

  ‘Sweet Jesus in heaven,’ he gasped as he righted the fallen candle, ‘what purgatory is this?’

  The body he thought was dead pushed itself up onto all fours and crawled slowly toward him, each movement a painful effort to get closer. Garyn pushed further away and looked up at the beckoning hatch above. He was about to call out when the prisoner gasped weakly.

  ‘Help me, stranger,’ it whispered and lifted his hand toward Garyn. ‘In God’s name I beg you.’

  The candlelight cast its yellow glow on the pathetic figure as he lifted his head toward Garyn and as the hood fell from the creatures face, Garyn covered his mouth with his hand in an effort to stifle the cry rising from his very soul. Finally he lowered his hand and crawled closer to the prisoner.

  ‘Merciful God,’ he gasped, ‘can it be true?’ He leaned forward and held the candle closer before touching the side of the prisoner’s face as gently as if a child. Tears burst forth and his body shook with emotion as he recognised the gaunt features of Geraint.

  ‘I have come for you brother,’ he sobbed in the darkness, ‘I am here to take you home.’

  ----

  Fifteen minutes later both boys had been hauled from the dungeon and Brother Martin gave Garyn his cloak to wrap the emaciated body of his brother.

  ‘We have to go,’ said Dafydd, ‘or it will be too late.’

  ‘What about the chain?’ asked Garyn

  ‘We heard it lowered a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Is he strong enough?’ asked the Monk, looking at Garyn’s brother.

  ‘He will make it,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Someone comes,’ hissed Dafydd and they looked toward the stone stairway stretching up into the tower.

  ‘Who’s there?’ shouted a voice from above.

  ‘Quickly,’ said Dafydd, ‘to the door.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Brother Martin and beckoned Dafydd to hide around the corner

  The sound of a wheezing man filtered down from above as the steps grew louder.

  ‘Whoever you are,’ snarled the voice, ‘I will have my rats eat your heart while you still live.’

  The end of a spear appeared from the stairwell and Brother Martin stepped out to grab the shaft and pull it toward him. The unexpected action pulled the man from his feet and he fell down the last few steps to smash his face on the opposite wall before falling to the floor.

  Brother Martin placed his heel onto the man’s neck and Dafydd stepped forward to stare at the fattest man he had ever seen, sprawled naked on the cold stone slabs.

  ‘Kill him,’ snarled Garyn from behind them.

  The Monk turned to stare at the boy.

  ‘Kill him,’ repeated Garyn.

  ‘Is murder now your trait, Garyn?’

  ‘You didn’t see what I saw,’ said Garyn, ‘he does not deserve to live.’

  ‘I will not kill a man in cold blood, Garyn. I left those days behind me many years ago.’

  ‘Then give me the blade,’ said Garyn and walked over to stand above the terrified man. He snatched the blade from the Monk’s hand and dropped to straddle the man’s chest, placing the knife against the man’s throat. The fat man’s eyes widened as he felt the pressure.

  ‘Do it scum,’ he spat. ‘Send me to hell.’

  Garyn paused. A quick death was too good for this man. He looked at the Monk.

  ‘Stand him up,’ he said.

  They dragged the fat man to his feet as Dafydd held the spear against his back. With a quick swipe of the blade Garyn sliced the tendons behind one knee and as the prisoner fell again, he repeated the action on the other knee. The man screamed but Garyn knelt on the side of his face as he sliced his knife through the tendons inside his elbows. The effect of the wounds meant the man could no longer use his hands or feet and as blood poured from the wounds, Garyn dragged him up into a sitting position.

  ‘Never let it be said I am a murderer,’ said Garyn quietly, ‘for as God is my witness, the last time I saw you, you still lived. You asked for hell, stranger so it is hell you shall have.’ Without another word he kicked the man in the chest and watched him fall through the trap door and into the dungeon below. Garyn closed the trap door and turned to see the Monk and Dafydd staring at him.

  ‘His people will release him soon enough,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘He has open wounds and useless limbs,’ said Garyn. ‘By the time they realise something is wrong, I suspect the rats will have meted out justice on my behalf. He will know how those who share his hell felt. Now, we need to get out of here.’

  ‘I’ll help you with your brother,’ said Brother Martin.

  ‘No,’ snapped Garyn. ‘I will carry him. I owe it to him and to myself.’ He picked up his brother and cradled him in his arms. ‘Come on Geraint,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ----

  ‘About time,’ snapped the Captain when they finally climbed aboard, ‘if I was to have waited a moment longer they would have been suspicious and raised the chain.’

  ‘We are here now,’ said the Monk. ‘Get us out of here.’

  ‘There is one thing more before we leave,’ said the Captain, ‘we found this amongst the cargo.’ He nodded to a sailor who dragged a small figure along the deck.

  ‘Misha,’ said Brother Martin in surprise.

  ‘You know her?’ asked the Captain.

  ‘I do,’ said the Monk. ‘Misha, why are you here?’

  ‘I need to get away,’ she said. ‘When I went back to my village I found they had killed my family and my name is known for helping you rob the mountain man’s tomb. If I stay here I am a dead woman and have no place to flee.’

  ‘But surely you can find a place in Acre?’

  ‘Acre will fall soon,’ said Misha, ‘today, t
omorrow, who knows but fall it will and when it does my fate will be sealed.’

  ‘But why have you hidden away on here?’ asked the Monk. ‘Surely you don’t intend coming back with us?’

  ‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘You are kind and will see I am not mistreated.’

  ‘Misha, you are Muslim, England is a Christian country.’

  ‘And that is why I will go with you,’ said Misha. ‘You say that the Christian God is merciful so I will be safe. One day, when my land is once more at peace then perhaps I can return.’

  ‘I don’t know, Misha,’ said the Monk.

  She ran forward and threw herself at his feet.

  ‘Don’t send me back, Holy man,’ she said. ‘I am begging you. If I return, my life will be forfeit.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with her, Monk?’ asked the Captain. ‘Shall I throw her overboard?’

  Brother Martin looked at Garyn and Dafydd before looking back at the Captain.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘she will come with us.’

  ‘And who will pay her passage?’ asked the Captain.

  ‘I will,’ said Garyn. ‘I still have the money from the Castellan’s compensation’

  ‘Then get her below,’ said the Captain, ‘and keep her from my men.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Misha and kissed the Monk’s hand.’ I will be no trouble and can help look after the sick one.’

  Brother Martin nodded and watched her follow Garyn as they descended the steps to the hold.

  ‘She is very pretty,’ said Dafydd eventually.

  ‘She is,’ said the Monk, ‘and something tells me that she is going to be the cause of much trouble before this thing is over.’

  ‘A worry for another day, Brother Martin,’ said Dafydd looking up at the unfurling sails. ‘For now, let’s just thank God and hope for favourable winds.’

  The Monk looked back at Acre as they left the city behind them, wondering how many more men would die before the Holy-land once more was at peace.

  ‘I agree, Dafydd,’ he sighed, ‘but for now, I would settle for a night’s rest and the silence that sleep brings.’

  ‘Then let us find a bed space for you,’ said Dafydd, ‘we have a long journey ahead.’

  ----

  Chapter Twenty Five

  England

  The trip home had been long and arduous but despite the rigours, they had finally landed on England’s shores and paid for passage back to Wales in the wagon of a trader from France. Geraint had slowly regained his strength though refused to talk about his time in the dungeons and Misha spent most of her time caring for him.

  Dafydd and Garyn walked behind the wagon while the Monk rode the one horse they had managed to buy with the remainder of their money.

  ‘The Monk looks ill,’ said Dafydd as they walked.

  ‘He does,’ said Garyn, ‘I fear the journey has been too much.’

  ‘He is an old man,’ said Dafydd, ‘and I fear he may not make it back to Brycheniog.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Garyn, ‘perhaps we should rest a while. Give him chance to regain his strength.’

  Dafydd nodded and they carried on walking in silence. Finally they stopped for the night and prepared to make camp. Garyn and Dafydd set about cooking a hare they had caught en route and were in quiet discussion when Misha came running from the cart.

  ‘Garyn, come quickly.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked,’ is it my brother?’

  ‘No, it’s the Monk, he is ill.’

  They ran to the cart where Brother Martin had made his bed. He leant against the side panels, his body covered with his blanket. His face was soaked with sweat though his body shivered with cold

  ‘Garyn,’ he said weakly, ‘I think I have the fever.’

  ‘You are no apothecary, Monk,’ said Garyn with a smile, ‘but I suspect you are correct in your diagnosis. I will send to the nearest village for aid.’

  The Monk smiled.

  ‘No, Garyn,’ he said, ‘there is no need. My body is tired and my soul exhausted. Let this illness take its course and if I fail to recover, then so be it. I don’t fear death and if truth be told the thought of eternal sleep is inviting.’

  ‘You are not going to die, Monk,’ said Garyn. ‘I won’t let you.’

  Again the Monk smiled.

  ‘We will see,’ he said, ‘but listen, there is something you should know. Something I have kept from you.’

  ‘More secrets?’ asked Garyn gently.

  ‘Just one more,’ said the Monk. ‘Garyn, you head for your home but you must know this. I know the man who killed your family.’

  Garyn’s smile fell away.

  ‘You do? How?

  ‘I learned his identity before we left England two years ago.’

  ‘And you did not tell me?’

  ‘I couldn’t, it would have put you at great risk and stopped you in your quest.’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Garyn coldly.

  ‘I don’t know the man’s name,’ said the Monk, ‘but I know the man who paid him to do it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Father Williams.’

  ‘The Abbott?’

  ‘Yes. He found out your family knew about the Muslim prisoner’s secret and arranged to have them silenced. He offered a thief freedom if he killed your family.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘I am,’ said the Monk. ‘I was going to take the truth to my grave but once the Abbott returns from Rome I fear he may seek retribution for your part in this. You have turned into a good man, Garyn and deserve a long life. Do not seek vengeance but be wary of the man, he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.’

  Garyn tucked the blanket around the Monk’s neck.

  ‘Thank you friend,’ he said. ‘I will give it serious thought. Do you need anything?’

  ‘I am cold,’ said the Monk. ‘Is there another blanket?’

  ‘I will bring you mine,’ said Garyn.

  The two boys made the Monk as comfortable as possible before returning to sit at the fire.

  ‘He is dying,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘I know,’ said Garyn. ‘I don’t think he will last the night.’

  ‘He was a good man, Garyn You owe him a lot.’

  ‘I owe him my life,’ said Garyn, ‘and that of my brother.’

  An hour later they were summoned again by Misha.

  ‘You should come,’ she said quietly.

  The two boys ran over and knelt at the Monk’s side.

  ‘It is my time, Garyn,’ whispered Brother Martin. ‘Do not fret, for it comes to us all.’

  ‘I may not be able to save your life,’ said Garyn, ‘but I may be able to save your soul.’

  ‘My soul is beyond redemption, Garyn and I fear the gates of heaven will remain barred to me.’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn, ‘they are not. For I have the key, my friend. I have the means to give you access to glory everlasting.’

  ‘Just bury me deep, Garyn. The rest is beyond mortal man.’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn, opening the Monk’s hand. ‘Not if you have this.’ He placed something in the Monks palm and closed his fingers around it.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Monk and opened his hand to see a sliver of wood. He looked up at Garyn in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s the remnant of the true cross,’ said Garyn. ‘I cut it from the crucifix when I locked myself away in the cells of the Hospitallers. I don’t know why but now I know God guided my actions for exactly this moment.’

  ‘But the cross was intact when you handed it over,’ said Brother Martin.

  ‘It was,’ said Garyn, ‘but the wood therein was no more than a piece carved from chair in the cell. You hold the real relic in your hands, my friend and when we bury you, it will be with a piece of the cross that once bore our saviour on his final journey.’

  ‘Garyn, I don’t know what to say,’ said the Monk.

  ‘Then say nothing,’ said Garyn, ‘but promise me
this. When you enter the gates of heaven, seek out my mother and give her a message . Tell her I kept my promise to her, tell her I brought my brother home.’

  The Monk gave his last smile before answering.

  ‘I would, Garyn,’ he said, ‘but there is no need. She already knows.’

  Slowly his eyes closed and Brother Martin finally slipped into the eternal sleep he had craved for so long, clutching a tiny part of a greater tale, a fragment of the one true cross of blood.

  ----

  Epilogue

  Brycheniog

  Three weeks later, Elspeth Fletcher sat at the table helping her father make flights for the Manor’s archers. Several candles burned around the room and she sat alongside her mother in the dim light. Finally they put aside the shafts and bagged the goose feathers.

  ‘Time to get some sleep,’ said her father.

  ‘I think I will get some air first,’ said Elspeth. ‘The dust from the feathers irritates my nose.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ said her mother, ‘and do not wander.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said and stepped outside to sit on a log in front of the house. She looked up at the stars and wondered if Garyn was looking at the same ones in some far off land. She sighed and pulled out the folded piece of parchment Garyn had given her over two years ago.

  Carefully she unfolded it as she had done a hundred times before and though the moon was bright, she didn’t need to read the oft repeated words she knew so well. Quietly she said them to herself.

  ‘Elspeth Fletcher, fair of face.

  Easer of nightmares, creator of laughter,

  Hair of softest down with sparkling streams captured in your eyes.’

  Before she could finish, a man’s voice interrupted her from the darkness and she jumped in fright as he walked up the path toward her, finishing off the poem.

  ‘Patient be for soon the wind changes and happiness beckons.

  Already you hold my heart and soon yours will be mine…’

  Garyn left the last line unsaid as he walked slowly toward her. Elspeth stood up and walked down the path to meet him, hardly daring to believe he was actually home. He held out his hands and she took them gently in hers’