Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  ‘You are in danger. You must believe me.’

  ‘We are in a monastery.’

  ‘It offers no sanctuary. Rather, it is a cage in which to trap you, a prison from where the children will be taken, where you and the English bowman will be slain.’

  ‘What is it you bring with you?’

  ‘Your weapons and armour, the swords and bow kept safe by a lay brother in the stable. It is not intended you see them or daybreak again.’

  His disclosure was interrupted by Otto wrenching him across the threshold. The door closed, the interview proceeding in hushed and breathless haste.

  ‘Your identity?’

  ‘A novice monk, a witness to events when they came and carried off the children.’

  ‘And who are these men?’

  ‘Not the merchants the abbot would have you deem. They were cold and ruthless souls, fully armed and rank with menace. They visit again this night.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘I vow it on my life and on the Holy Book. You must flee and put distance from this place. The abbot himself is in league with these devils, is bound in strange communion.’

  ‘Yet you aid us, forewarn us of such things.’

  ‘That is my Christian duty, the oath I took when committing to God. I must act on my belief.’ In the gloom, the young monk untied the bundle as Otto went to relight a lamp. ‘While we attend our midnight nocturns the enemy will appear and strike his blow. Remain and you will die.’

  ‘Then it is motive enough to steal away.’

  As the light flamed, Kurt stared at the wan and fearful face of the visitor. The English soldier slept on. ‘Otto, I think Sergeant Hugh is prepared to steal nowhere.’

  ‘It seems we have scarce choice.’

  That choice revealed itself in hurried retreat along a deserted passageway. Awoken, groggy, and requiring encouragement, Sergeant Hugh accompanied his charges on clumsy tiptoe. The unwelcome hour and rushed tale, the presence of a novice monk, had at first left him confused. But he had brightened at the discovery of his bow and quiver. Prospect of a fight could be relied upon to banish haze or residual annoyance. Another portal opened, the lantern lifted. The soldier muttered an oath.

  ‘Of all the places we may be stowed, monk, you bring us to a wood-store.’

  ‘Step within and you will find no ordinary chamber.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Sergeant Hugh directed his lamp, let its radiance spread across workbenches and stacked logs towards a wide and gaping archway. At the limit of the scattered beam, where the long and narrow space ended in a vertical drop, stone buttresses protruded. On them rested a large and sturdy platform.

  ‘You jest, monk.’

  ‘Neither I nor you have occasion for it.’

  The soldier rubbed his eyes. ‘This is your plan for our escape?’

  ‘There is no other. You will be challenged should you leave with horses, intercepted should you take flight from any spied-on parts.’

  ‘Better than seek flight from a mountain perch. I make a poor buzzard, monk.’

  There was a hissed call from Kurt, who had ventured out on to the jutting stage. He favoured exploration over caution. And what he stumbled upon added tremulous animation to his voice, drew the others near. Before them was an apparatus, an amalgam of axles and wheels resembling the toppled undercarriage of a giant cart. Across it stretched a thick rope, attached to which was a basket gondola.

  Sergeant Hugh had changed to scratching his head. ‘I see no bells attached, monk.’

  ‘Nor will any peal, brother. We employ it to bring up firewood from the forest ravine below, to save several hours’ ride by mule.’

  ‘Are we to act as firewood?’

  ‘That is my intent and your salvation. Often the lay brothers travel this way, their weight in one basket balanced and descent slowed by burden in the other.’

  ‘I would rather face the foe.’

  Otto was already reaching for the basket. ‘You would be wiser to face your fears, Sergeant Hugh.’

  Debate was quickly ended and the procedure described. The novice did not lie. He was near-frantic with strain and haste, willing them to move on, to get away, to heed his counsel and descend to freedom. Gingerly, Kurt climbed into the swinging pannier and gestured Isolda to join him. The brake was raised, the basket swayed and jolted and began its slide one hundred feet to the valley floor beneath.

  The whispered shout of the soldier followed. ‘Whatever occurs above, keep onward and hold to your purpose.’

  Wheels turned and the upturned faces were lost.

  Chapter 16

  The young monk had departed and Sergeant Hugh was on his own. He had lowered Otto into the blackness, had given a cursory wave as the noble youth grasped the rope and swayed downward on his fragile transport. Three delivered. There was a certain peace in being the last, a particular madness to travelling by line and basket. Plainly the Cistercians possessed a faith he did not share. Yet their abbot was treacherous, and the hour of truth close. The Englishman placed his lantern beside the door, the better to observe and to mark his target. Perhaps by then his head would clear. He glanced again towards the window and its wide balcony, felt the chill air of the January night. The abbot deserved a gentle rebuke.

  He had been right to predict the noise of feet on stairway. But it was not the patter of sandals carrying holy brothers to prayer. It was the percussive tramp of hobnailed soles bringing a party of hostile searchers to his lair. They were early. He thanked God that Otto and the children were safe beyond their reach. It would allow him to practise his craft, to create magic in the privacy and comfort of his own personal killing-range. He hummed a gentle tune, counting down while doors opened and angry cries eddied stronger through the emptiness. They were navigating in his direction. He ran his fingers along an arrowhead. The enemy were building to this point.

  A boot struck the oaken exterior. ‘Open or suffer full consequence.’ The single blow became a barrage.

  Another voice. ‘We will exact cruel punishment on all who defy.’

  ‘Throw wide this door and put up your weapons.’

  ‘You dogs will obey. We shall flay you, roast you, quarter you.’

  ‘Surrender now or for ever have regret.’

  Frustration cascaded in a torrent of collision and threat. Sergeant Hugh missed neither beat nor note of his song. His adversaries would try to break their way through, were thronging at the entrance. Such rude awakening from his rest could scarcely go unchallenged. He fitted an arrow, drew deep, and let fly. Oak splintered and the door started to bleed. He discharged a second shaft of ash, the wood surface shuddering and extracting a repeated human howl. It would occupy them for a while.

  Slinging his longbow, and without unseemly rush, Sergeant Hugh stepped out to the platform. He could only hope the contraption would hold, his companions remember to add mass to the opposing basket. Inside, axes were battering at the door. Outside, he was about to perform what he knew to be insane. Let matters commence and heavy objects fall where they might. Offering up the slightest of entreaties, he sprang into position. He sank fast.

  These were vexing times. The abbot knelt before a rough-hewn cross and tried to pray, attempted to sluice the worries from his mind. The Lord of Arsur would be angered by events, and that was not good. There had been casualties, upset, and after two nights the four fugitives remained at large. Matters were out of his hands, beyond the walls of Belmont Monastery. Yet he could still tremble at the thought of displeasing his patron and overlord. On troubled occasion he would find solace in God, would immerse himself in meditation and holy scripture. No longer. Everywhere was disquiet; every one of his monks was disheartened. They did not enjoy disturbance, were not gladdened to hold vigil for their young novice brother found dead from tragic and unexplained fall.

  He stirred from his ruminations, muttered the words of a Latin psalm. It was an hour until the bell for early-morning lauds would toll. The world slept and he mainta
ined the Faith, kept the secret of his duplicity to himself. His Saviour understood why he acted as he did. There was need for funds, for pilgrims, for crusade, for survival of this monastery and for the everlasting glorification of God. The Lord of Arsur rewarded loyalty well.

  ‘How fare you, abbot?’ Interruption was rude and unexpected.

  The Cistercian started. ‘Hugh of York.’

  ‘The very same. Alive, though somewhat bruised by swift descent.’

  ‘I believed you long departed from our care.’

  ‘Your kindness brings me back.’ Delivery was leisurely as it was ironic. ‘Survival may often depend on the unforeseen act.’

  ‘An act that is foolhardy will not prompt survival. You are a hunted man, Hugh of York.’

  ‘And what does that make you, abbot?’

  Sergeant Hugh approached the kneeling form, could see the sweat develop on the crown of the tonsure and the nape of the neck, the colour take flight from the skin. A scared man, a calculating monk who would be assessing his chances and constructing excuse. The face shifted in his direction.

  ‘I am a simple brother of Christ, Hugh of York.’

  ‘I a simpler soldier. It seems we are mismatched, abbot.’

  ‘These troubled and desperate events are no fault of mine, nor of this abbey.’

  ‘Yet you carry guilt of a criminal in your demeanour. I do not recall St Benedict promoting treachery as part of his monastic code.’

  ‘Treachery?’

  ‘Be upright and face me.’

  Timidly, with the reluctance of a man condemned and eking out remaining seconds, the monk clambered from his knees. He turned towards the bowman. The Englishman held no sword, was not poised as vengeful executioner. There was room for manoeuvre, opportunity to negotiate. The abbot forced composure into his expression. He wanted to placate, to be reasonable, to play a churchman wronged. But, like his thoughts, his gaze roved for possibilities and exit.

  ‘Misunderstanding arises, Hugh of York.’

  ‘In my quarter there is no confusion.’

  ‘Then we will surely find clear passage through such unfortunate occasion. Let us talk and make common cause.’

  ‘Your cause differs from mine, your pacts hold the stench of disloyalty.’

  ‘What I do is to the benefit of this abbey.’

  ‘What you do is harm to your faith, is in breach of your sacred covenant and betrayal of those who turn to you for succour.’

  The abbot sought to evade, to dodge the pressing company. ‘I may explain.’

  ‘You may not.’ Sergeant Hugh moved close. ‘I know nothing of church matters or affairs of state. But I recognize a worm or viper, a scorpion or grub.’

  ‘Others will come. It is nearing time for prayers.’

  ‘So begin now to speak them, abbot.’

  ‘You will be captured, will be punished for your sins in this life and the hereafter.’

  Sergeant Hugh sighed. ‘Thus is the lot of any soldier.’

  ‘Heed me, Hugh of York.’ His face panic-mottled and voice beseeching, the abbot had backed against the wall. ‘There are armed men loose, those who would do you ill.’

  ‘I am content at present to deal with one. Did I not dispatch a pair with arrows in the saw-room? Did a third pursuer not plunge to hell in a basket when I severed the ballast as it left the ground?’

  ‘May God have mercy on you, Hugh of York.’

  ‘Your need is the greater.’ The soldier reached and administered a percussive slap to the bald pate of the monk.

  ‘Unhand me.’

  ‘Or you will call out the guard, summon your garrison?’

  ‘Your action is intolerable.’

  ‘As yours is righteous, godly, true to your creed?’ The Englishman shook his head in mild disapproval. ‘Cleansing of your tainted soul will come only with repentance and confession.’

  ‘Confession? To you?’ A nerve twitched.

  ‘Be satisfied I will escape, abbot. I shall be gone with my charges and shall have reached many miles hence before you are found. Whether they discover you as breathing prelate or well-mutilated corpse rests firm in your hands.’

  Be satisfied. The abbot was far from satisfied. He was hyperventilating, his grey and marginal locks lank with perspiration. Vaguely he pondered the method employed by the maddening intruder to regain entry to his abbey. Hazily he chastised himself for his greed, for having accepted the three horses of these travelling companions as payment and prize. He was in no doubt that Sergeant Hugh would retake possession and that the soldier would carry through a threat.

  His face creased in bitter surrender. ‘You return for purpose of revenge, Hugh of York.’

  ‘I come for information.’

  ‘It is not mine to give.’

  ‘You will realize it is mine to take.’ Sergeant Hugh went eye to eye with the abbot. ‘Distinct from young Otto of Alzey, I am not of noble bent. I have a brutish and unforgiving nature.’

  ‘Please, I may not speak of the things you ask.’

  The soldier did not pause. ‘Who is behind this plot? Who sends armed killers to the monastery? Who seeks to snatch the children as he did the last?’

  ‘Identity is unknown to me.’

  ‘A name.’ Fingers squeezed tight on the scalp of the quaking Cistercian.

  ‘I cannot tell you.’

  ‘You shall.’

  Sergeant Hugh gave his most engaging grin and pulled a small knife from his belt. The abbot truly deserved his title of a white monk.

  As the chapel bell rang the opening of the day, the monks filed to their chancel pews in the early-morning darkness. They chanted and sang, responded to the invitatory prayers, recommitted themselves to God in this holy moment of matins. The abbot led their sacred entreaties. Absorbed in worship, the candle-cast shadows about them, his brethren did not notice the pallor of his skin or the nervous tremor in his hands.

  ‘Never.’

  An old and grieving regent could be a stubborn one. The Lord of Arsur regarded his ruler through the mask of friendship and concern. This poor man had lost his infant child, was poised to lose his kingdom. It was the least a trusted courtier could do but attend, to advise and console as he might. It was the festival of Epiphany, when the three wise Magi had presented gifts to the baby Jesus and revealed Him to a waiting world. In a royal apartment of Acre, the Lord of Arsur made more poisoned offering to the earthly king of Outremer.

  Again, John of Brienne thundered his rejection. ‘I will not conceive of it, will not countenance such a rash and dangerous plan.’

  ‘You agreed to parley with Saphadin, your majesty.’

  ‘Where is agreement when he takes my child?’

  ‘The more reason to reach settlement, to win back your daughter and the peace of your realm.’

  ‘Reason?’ The eyes of the regent were wild with anguished rage. ‘All reason deserts me, is consumed by the passion of hate, by black thought of vengeance on the Saracen beast.’

  ‘Be still and composed, sir. Your daughter, our queen, will be returned to you safe.’

  ‘Why do they snatch her? Why do they strike such savage blow? Why do they drive an old man to the edge of madness?’

  ‘To weaken you, sir.’

  It seemed to succeed. The Lord of Arsur watched as the regent choked back a sob. He would like to have confided that little Yolanda was seized for the single purpose of sacrifice, and that it was not at all the hand of the infidel at work. But John of Brienne would not understand, would barely appreciate as his world dissolved that its replacement formed within. He would vanish along with so many manifestations of a former age.

  ‘Is there no honour in these butchers, Arsur?’ The voice was fragile with incomprehension.

  ‘There is solely politics, sir.’

  ‘They expect me to talk when they inflict such a grievous wound?’

  ‘If you do not, the wound will be graver and the body will die.’

  ‘And now you ask that I part wi
th Lady Matilda from my court, that I offer up as hostage to the heathen my last light and solace.’

  ‘Saphadin commands it.’

  The Sultan of Damascus did nothing of the sort. It was merely further pressure on this ageing Frankish ruler, another nail to be driven home. John of Brienne would feel every impact. He was near-broken by events, his torment expressed in the jagged silence, in the deep furrows of his brow, in the balled fist brought tense to his mouth.

  His stress-bruised eyes lifted. ‘You are our constant and considerate friend. Yet you counsel me to go against my conscience.’

  ‘Kingship demands more than conscience, sir.’ The Lord of Arsur was gentle in his persuasion. ‘We have chance to pluck true and lasting settlement from these boiling waters.’

  ‘Though I scald my flesh to find it. Why does Saphadin choose the port of Jabala in Syria for our meeting?’

  For the reason that I require both you and the Sultan to be absent from Palestine when I make my move. ‘He suggests it lies within easy sail of Acre, would stay the Christian fears of surprise attack. The emir of the town holds no grudge or hostility towards us.’ It nevertheless shall not save you.

  ‘Then why such hesitation in our convening? Is it not imperative we face each other before the slow-approaching month of March?’

  ‘Waiting will not harm proceedings.’ On the contrary, it will allow me to place my forces well.

  ‘I want Yolanda back.’

  It was said with the despairing vehemence of a father. The Lord of Arsur was certain daughter and parent would be reunited soon. All that was left was fine-tuning and concluding orders and the diplomatic swap of hostages. The talks would begin, the leaders die, the army march. A string of actions leading inexorably to the purest of outcomes.

  ‘Sir, there is yet possibility for fair ending. It is why I sought out Saphadin, why I step forward as hostage with three other barons.’