The English soldier heaved a sigh. ‘Ah well, it is how many of us start.’
In groaning succession the portcullises lifted, and the small band of riders passed through to ascend the ramp. Kurt gaped open-mouthed, noted only dimly the cocked crossbows, the silhouettes of the giant slings, the distant figures of patrolling sentries. The scale was as monstrous as it had once been beyond his imagination. Seated behind him, Isolda clung tight.
‘We welcome you, Otto of Alzey.’ A burly sergeant had appeared from the guardhouse. ‘I see you are accompanied by Hugh of York.’
‘He acts as our guide.’
‘Then it will not be for spiritual concerns.’
Sergeant Hugh pulled a wounded face and dismounted in a jangle of accumulated chattels. ‘That is no greeting for an old friend to your Order.’
‘We have friends enough in the infidels we fight.’
‘Such meagre salutation in this time of Christmas cheer.’ The Englishman handed the reins to a stable-hand and looked about. ‘A good fire, a belly of roast pig, a flagon of wine are all a poor and humble traveller requests.’
‘Poverty and humility are not reputations which precede you.’
‘At least I am recognized.’
He helped the children down, patted their Arab mount, and gathered up his longbow and quiver. There was something in the piety of the military Orders that made them the butt of his jokes, something in him that drew wearied acceptance and resignation from the religious knights. To survive was to earn respect. The Hospitaller watched.
‘You brave weather and enemy to come here, Sergeant Hugh.’
‘My very reasons to keep away. But Otto is on quest to find his father, and I fool enough to assist.’
‘A wasted journey. Brother Wilhelm left our Order many years ago, a famed and goodly knight, before my service.’
Otto had lowered himself from his horse. ‘He did not return to Europe.’
‘Who knows what befalls a man in these parts?’ The sergeant brother was phlegmatic. ‘He may lose his mind or his life faster than an insect on a piece of dung.’
‘You do not reassure the boy.’ Sergeant Hugh placed a protective hand on the shoulder of the youth.
‘It is not my duty. You would strive better to visit our coastal fortress of Marqab, to speak there with the Grand Master and his senior brethren.’
‘For the while we will avail ourselves of his lower ranks here.’
Without invitation, Sergeant Hugh began to cross the bridge spanning the deep divide hewn from the rock. None was about to challenge him.
He was a strange and unnerving sight. Surrounded by runes and cabbalistic symbols scored in the walls, his attention focused on a small fire, the ancient sat as though in trance. In the guttering glow of the lamps, the youngsters listened to the drip of water and waited for the old Hospitaller to speak. Perhaps he would not, thought Kurt. Maybe he was dead, preserved for ever in the dank gloom of this chamber and kept upright by a stalagmite growing inside. The boy shuddered. It had been the idea of Sergeant Hugh to visit. He had ushered his protesting companions down a series of dog-leg stairways, had brought them to the hidden watercourse and bathing-rooms carved out beside the moat. There was someone he wished them to meet.
The head turned, revealing features shrunken and leather-skinned with age. Hair was vanished from the scalp, sight almost gone from the eyes, and the face dipped at the end of a spine twisted by the pressing weight of years. He was nothing more than the composite of a black habit thrown over a collected heap of bones. Brother Luke would have seemed young by comparison.
A small tongue flicked dry and lizard-like between the colour-drained lips. ‘You gather children to me, Hugh of York.’
‘It is important they meet with you.’
‘Imperative I should speak with them.’ His voice was faint and breathless. ‘Draw close, my brood. I shall not eat you.’
They took some convincing. The three glanced at Sergeant Hugh, who encouraged them forward with a nod. Hesitant, they shuffled nearer.
Otto glimpsed back at the bowman. ‘He is known to you, Sergeant Hugh?’
‘Hugh of York is known to most.’ The rheumy eyes of the Hospitaller were still and staring. ‘It may not seem so, but we were companions-in-arms, fellow soldiers who fought in the army of Cœur de Lion, I as Hospitaller, he as protector to the King himself.’
‘We have often heard his tales.’
‘Each, no doubt, growing more vivid with the telling.’ If there was humour, it was lost in the thin tones and wizened countenance. ‘Yet trust him, rely on his craft, for he is your sole surety in these troubled realms.’
His speech drifted to silence, the moment extending while the children and archer stood and the old knight sat. There was a sense that long time could pass in reverie, that days were akin to seconds, and seconds could stretch to days. None interrupted.
The mouth moved. ‘You may wonder why I choose to dwell in darkness, why I should inhabit the deepest chambers of this fortress. Take yourselves to the roof of our great keep and you shall see, will perceive the distant bastion of Castel Blanc, will observe how we are nothing more than remote islands of Christendom placed upon a sea of troubles and buffeted by infidel storm. I have already witnessed and foretold the end, given warning of our final days.’
‘So you hide?’ Kurt blurted a question before Isolda could restrain him.
‘I choose to keep from the sins of the world and the agonies of man. We build castles that are no defence, offer prayers that will not save our souls. The Beast walks on the earth, and will soon devour us.’
Kurt would not be hushed. ‘You are a soothsayer, a prophet?’
‘I am a seer of things.’
‘What manner of things?’
‘Our past and future, the nature of being, the fears and shadows in all our hearts.’
Otto crouched to peer level at the face. ‘I search for my father, Wilhelm of Alzey.’
‘A courageous and onerous task.’ The Hospitaller cast a pinch of powder to the fire and watched the flame turn to purple. ‘He was fine exemplar to the religion, the best among our brotherhood.’
‘Yet he bade you all farewell.’
‘That was his chosen destiny. He went like many knights on holy errand, in pursuit of discovery and the True Cross.’
Isolda took a pace forward. ‘It is why we too travel to these lands.’
‘Then you may be swallowed up as he has been.’
The young noble was insistent. ‘Tell me, I beg of you. Where now is he? What do you find? Does my father live or die?’
‘He lives in death.’
‘Such oracles deceive and have no meaning. Be clearer with your words.’
‘There is no clarity where he is gone. He has moved to the lightless side, to the service of the black and murk.’
Otto rose dismissively to his feet. ‘We are done, for it makes no sense.’
‘Did it make sense that four apocalyptic horse-men and Assassins should pursue you on your path? Or that heretic Cathars should surround you at the hanging-tree?’ Different powder was thrown, another flame blossomed. ‘And you, sweet brother and sister? Did it make sense when you buried a young girl at the wayside, or when unseen hands thrust you in the mountain torrent?’
They were stripped of response, dumbstruck at the understated revelation. Mood had changed, and yet the elderly Hospitaller had not.
‘How?’ Otto swallowed his dismay. ‘What secret magic is used to know this, which enchantments applied to your thoughts?’
‘No magic or charms, but the gift of vision. As everything is linked in nature, so everything beyond it also. The True Cross, your father Wilhelm, the murderous riders, the crusade on which you travel, the darkening skies that threaten brimstone and fire. Even the stalwart friar in his dun rags is shackled like you to the single flow of providence.’
Sergeant Hugh groaned. ‘I suppose I too am touched and tainted by event.’
‘
You are deeper immersed than you may think.’
‘I feared as much.’ The Englishman scratched his head. ‘And your talk is of the Beast.’
‘One man who comes among us, who seeks dominion over all. A false lord, a friend and dissembler, a dark and fallen angel made flesh. He sets people against people, drives kingdoms from peace towards war. He collects power to himself, will usurp and overthrow established order, intends to seize the throne.’
‘Saphadin?’
‘It is not he, nor any of the infidel.’
‘I can think of no Frankish lord with such malice or authority.’
‘Yet you will recall Reynald of Châtillon, the baron whose head was struck off by Saladin in his tent at Hattin. His spirit walks, and monstrous deeds are done. Legions of Belial assemble, and innocents die.’
Kurt was rooted to the spot. ‘All this you see in coloured flame?’
‘Message carries in the wind, in the song of birds, in the fall of mountain rain.’
‘And what are we to do?’
The question drew no immediate answer. The aged Hospitaller was again focused on the flickering light, had sunk further into reverie and himself. Kurt and Isolda craned to see, anxious to detect in the blaze a sign or a truth. They stood a long while before Sergeant Hugh shepherded them away.
‘Search others for wickedness and yourselves for strength.’ The voice trailed after them, yet the figure was still. ‘Answer is ever within.’
Firmitas et Fortitudo. It seemed pertinent to his circumstance. Brother Luke watched the flagstones pass beneath him, felt the pressure of hands beneath his shoulders as the guards dragged him onward. For days he had languished in the dungeon cell, had dwelt in the company of rats, roaches and faeces. A solitary precursor to what was to come. There was method in the Templar malice. It was their special way and Christmas rite, a technique crafted to soften the victim and nourish him with diet of his own anticipation and terror. The friar was content to allow them their confidence. Such welcome change to be on the move.
They reached a large chamber, its light painful to the eyes in the aftermath of gloom, and he was flung hard to the ground. The scattered straw did little to break his fall. He raised his head and peered about, could not be optimistic in what he saw. Philippe Du Plezier, Grand Master of the Temple, sat enthroned in a wooden chair. Both men viewed each other, one a jailer with vicious intent and predator instinct, the other a prone and elderly friar who seemed uncowed by the occasion.
‘You enjoy your sojourn with us, Brother Luke?’
‘I have scant complaint.’
‘There will be time for it, and for regret.’ The Grand Master bent to study his captive. ‘I have heard of Franciscans, yet until this moment have been denied occasion to meet one.’
‘More of my brethren head this way on pilgrimage, Brother Francis of Assisi our founder among them.’
‘Alas, they will not discover the fate or position of their brother Luke.’
‘That is a pity.’
‘Is it not? But my hand is forced, my patience tried by your trespass upon our generosity, your meanderings about our possessions.’
‘I meant no offence, Grand Master.’
‘Though we are quick to take it.’ Du Plezier had already betrayed his decision with his eyes. ‘What meaning and purpose lie behind your presence, friar?’
‘My trade is to preach and to nourish the wasted spirit of man.’
‘Your appetite is to meddle in the affairs of the Order of the Knights Templar.’
‘By accident and fortune, Grand Master.’
‘Through treacherous design. You are found within our cellars, seen in a boat traversing our domain, land south of Tripoli in company with the young noble Otto of Alzey.’
‘I do not choose my path or the companions with whom I journey.’
‘Nor will you choose your fate.’
The friar listened to the distant tolling of a chapel bell. It reminded him of the sound from the belfry of St John the Lateran in Rome, returned him to his audience three months earlier with the Pope. Innocent III had engaged him as a spy, and here was the drab and logical conclusion. Templars were not famed for acts of clemency.
‘Such crude and brute power, so sinewed and muscled in form for an old and pious creature, Brother Luke.’
‘Travel renders a man strong.’
‘We shall test that strength.’ Du Plezier nodded to his men. ‘Scourge him.’
Quickly, they cut away the sackcloth habit and forced him naked to his knees. The Grand Master surveyed the scene. He had expected trouble, a struggle of sorts, but the beggar spy was as pliant and meek as a sheep stitched within the pelt of a bear. Holiness, acceptance, might be only a flayed skin deep, however.
The Templar leader raised his hand. ‘Wait.’
He stepped from his seat and walked slowly to inspect the striped scarring to the back and shoulders of his prisoner. The marks were not livid or fresh, but were historic remnants, the rough and ossified layers of a previous life and of savage beatings.
‘Again you surprise me, friar.’ Du Plezier deliberated. ‘Are you flagellant? A criminal? A former slave?’
‘It is record of my years, of the many towns and villages from whence I have been driven.’
‘At least you discover shelter here.’
A joke of sorts, followed by a gesture to begin. Rawhide was used, and with each strike there was a shuddering crack of sound, the grunts of energy expended and the groans of air expelled. Truth would out, even if entrails came with it.
Brother Luke had not flinched. He lay quiet, his skin torn, his face in the straw as Du Plezier stood over him. The Grand Master casually emptied a pail of salt water on the welts and lacerations and watched the body spasm.
‘Is it wasted effort to apply the lash to you, friar?’
‘You must do as you consider just.’
‘Justice is not my endeavour.’ The Templar had yet to finish with his project. ‘Put his feet to the fire.’
It was the oldest of tortures and slowest of ends. The feet would be coated in pig-fat and placed before the hearth, the flesh roasting, the bones detaching, the victim screaming his tormented way to a superheated demise. He might take days to die, would do so with the stench of his own cooked and cauterized meat in his nostrils. Few who suffered thus ever rose to walk or talk again.
He was bound and his propped and shackled legs stretched out, the greased soles of his feet set towards the flames. Perhaps it was better this way, preferable to strapping, the monstrous art of tying wrists behind back and winching them upward until arms and shoulders dislocated and the writhing unfortunate expired. In the event, hard to make comparison. Sweat coursed on the torso of the friar, and Du Plezier stoked the blaze with workmanlike vigour.
‘Have you nothing to confide, Brother Luke?’
‘Only that I am wronged, that I am a simple mendicant with no cares save to help my fellow man.’
‘Or to help yourself to rumour and information we wish undivulged.’ Another jab of the cast-metal poker. ‘Already your skin blisters.’
‘My spirit soars. It is beyond the reach of any furnace, or the hand of any evil-doer.’
‘I am guided by God, Brother Luke.’
‘As I am protected by Pope Innocent III.’
‘Our Reverend Lord is nowhere apparent, leaves us to our own recourse.’
‘You use your authority unwisely, Grand Master.’
It earned him a kick, an application of brute force that sent him sprawling and semi-conscious away from the source of heat. Miracles were often inexplicable. Grand Master Du Plezier knelt beside him and murmured in his ear.
‘I shall grasp your soul and tear the balls from it. I will break the Franciscan steel in your spine. You wish to learn of our intent, want to know how a simple beggar of no cares may attain above his station. From henceforth you are a galley slave. You will suffer and die to the beat of a drum and at an oar of our fighting fleet.’
January arrived as bleak and unforgiving as the month and year preceding. In the harbour of Arsur a trading-vessel sat low and heavy-laden in the water, a refugee from the Mediterranean winds migrating south out of Constantinople. Luck and high seas had kept it running hard and beyond the reach of pirates. Now, weather-beaten, battened down, it was ready to offload. Sacks were carried and barrels rolled, crew and wharfmen mingling and shouting in the patchwork patois of the Levant. Through them came passengers, a tall figure in black striding ashore and leading his followers behind. The Cathars had reached their appointed destination.
On the landing-stage, the Lord of Arsur stood to greet them. He had bided long for the rendezvous, had ordered his lookouts to scan the horizon these weeks past. The waiting was worth it. Disembarking was no ordinary visitor, but a Parfait and his band of Believers, a Perfect whose authority and command would seal the loyalty, the commitment, of an entire army of heretics. His presence was all. Of course, nothing lasted for ever, not even alliance, nor yet a promise. In time the Cathars would be dealt with, disposed of when their role was complete and Jerusalem taken. They would be handed as reward to the Templars, enslaved or butchered at will. Such were the nature and order of things. Thus were hierarchy and rule imposed. Baphomet was a cruel god.
‘You come at auspicious moment, Perfect.’
The Cathar leader halted before him. ‘We have braved much and travelled far. It is for the purpose of releasing light into the world, of seizing and levelling the religious sites our enemy the Pope and his demonic Church of Rome hold most dear.’
‘To that end we prepare.’
‘I welcome such report. We have sent many to safe exile here, thousands who escape persecution and grow strong for future return.’
‘All receive our protection and care, are now trained in the proper arts of war and true conduct of killing.’
‘For it, I am thankful, my lord.’
‘While, for their presence, I too owe you recognition. Revenge is powerful motive, is it not?’
Pilgrim Page 24
