The Devil in Green

by Mark Chadbourn

  ‘You’re telling me they can’t get on without you?’ He briefly entertained the fantasy that at daybreak he and Sophie could find a horse and ride away from the increasingly dangerous mess that was growing around them.

  ‘I’m sure they could get on without me, but that’s not the point. When you’re part of a tribe there are structures in place to facilitate the survival of the community.’

  ‘And you’re the wise-woman-in-waiting.’

  ‘My abilities with the Craft are important for everyone here. Melanie invested a lot of time and effort teaching me, and I accepted that role and the responsibilities that went along with it. It would be immoral to turn my back on people who are relying on me.’

  She noticed the anxiety in his features and caught herself. ‘Listen to me, going on about myself. Selfish bitch. Why are you here? Is there something wrong?’

  Her concern triggered pent-up doubts and fears that surfaced unbidden; for the first time in a long while he felt there was someone with whom he could talk honestly. ‘We’re in deep shit in the cathedral,’ he said, suddenly weary. ‘Those things have got us under siege … the food’s getting low, and I can’t see them finding a way out. There’s something else going on, too, in the background. I can’t figure out what it is, but I don’t reckon it can be any good.’ His shoulders sagged at the release. ‘I think it’s going to get really bad.’

  She forced a smile. ‘What a pair, eh? If this was before the Fall …’ She caught herself; there was no point talking about could-have-beens. Yet in her comment Mallory sensed a connection: they were a pair, two people burdened by problems who would rather be a hundred miles away. Together.

  The notion was underlined dramatically when she caught the neck of his cloak and pulled his head down to plant a firm kiss on his mouth. It was filled with passion, desperate yet restrained at the same time. It went on for a full minute, and Mallory responded in kind. After so long without female contact, he felt himself hardening instantly, but before it could develop into anything else, she broke the kiss and walked away a few steps.

  ‘That was …’ She had taken him so much by surprise he couldn’t find the words.

  ‘Life’s too short for playing stupid games, Mallory,’ she said, lighting another candle to replace one that had guttered out in a pool of wax. ‘We both know there’s something between us, despite our very obvious differences. There’s no time for flirting.’

  ‘So does that mean we’re stepping out? His irony was a reaction to the feeling that he had lost control of the situation; and he always thought he was completely in charge.

  ‘It was a recognition of what we feel, that’s all. What happens from here is anybody’s guess. Quite honesty, you might get on my tits - a likely prospect given your very unfortunate nature - and I’d be forced to curse you for all time.’

  Mallory really didn’t know if she was joking.

  ‘Now, thanks very much for the visit, but I’ve got a funeral to prepare.’ She peeked through the flap into the rear of the tent and when she looked back at him tears filled her eyes again. ‘Besides,’ she continued throatily, ‘I would think you’d be pretty much engrossed in sorting out your own crisis.’

  ‘Yeah. Any idea what’s happening there?’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly pissed off someone in high places. At least it keeps you all in one place where you can’t do any more damage.’ She couldn’t mask her bitterness.

  ‘Don’t tar me with the same brush.’

  ‘You wear the uniform. You carry the weapons, eat the food, sleep under the same roof. Don’t be naive, Mallory. You might pretend to yourself that you’re apart somehow—’

  ‘They’re not all bad,’ he protested. ‘Mostly, they’re harmless. Well meaning.’

  ‘Then you ought to do something about the ones that aren’t, oughtn’t you? I thought you knights were supposed to be the police force of the New Christian Army. Or is it one rule for you, and one for the rest of us?’

  Though hardly surprised by the strength of her response after Melanie’s death, Mallory couldn’t find any way to answer her. Instead, he peered out into the night. The red light of dawn tinted the horizon.

  ‘We might stand a chance of getting back in daylight,’ he mused. ‘If we’re lucky.’

  A startled cry followed by angry yells broke out not far away. Instinctively, Mallory knew what it was. He was already out of the tent and running before Sophie could enquire what was happening.

  His worst fears were realised as he made it back to the camp boundary. One of the travellers lay face down, unmoving though probably not dead, Mallory guessed. Worse, Gardener had Scab pinned against him, a dagger to his throat. Gardener was overcome with righteous anger.

  Mallory motioned to the angry crowd of travellers to hold back, but that only convinced them to turn their rage on him.

  ‘There’s no talking to them, Mallory,’ Gardener shouted.

  Mallory found himself herded closer to Gardener. With a sickening sense of fatalism, he saw Sophie approaching. ‘What are you doing, you Geordie idiot?’ he snapped.

  Scab rolled his eyes in abject fear. As he writhed, Gardener pricked him with the dagger as a warning and he almost fainted. ‘They offered me a drink,’ Gardener said darkly.

  ‘Good call. After that it would have been lentil stew and then we’d all be on the way to hell.’

  ‘It was a potion. The bastards were trying to put a spell on me!’

  ‘Or maybe it was just a drink.’ Mallory was shoulder to shoulder with Gardener now. About thirty travellers ranged in front of them. Some looked scared for Gardener’s prisoner; others, who had patently had their fingers burned before, were murderous.

  ‘Look at this one.’ Gardener motioned to a pentacle hanging on a chain around Scab’s neck. ‘Devil-worshippers. The moment our backs were turned, they’d have had us.’

  Mallory cursed under his breath; the false propaganda Gardener had absorbed during his evangelical background was unshakeable. At that moment, Scab decided to break free, probably driven more by fear of what might happen than any real desire to escape. He kicked at Gardener’s shins with his heels, writhed like a madman and then attempted to yank his head down through Gardener’s grip.

  In the confusion, his neck was driven on to Gardener’s dagger, or vice versa. A geyser of arterial blood arced towards the massed travellers.

  The crowd was stunned into silence. Shock locked Gardener’s face; Mallory wished he had seen some compassion there, or guilt, for his own peace of mind. Gardener took a step back, examining his crimson hands as if they belonged to someone else.

  Mallory reacted instinctively. He stepped forwards and hit Gardener so hard in the face he went down as if he’d been pole-axed. It was undoubtedly the best thing Mallory could have done, immediately deflating the furious rage that had enveloped the crowd and saving them from a lynching.

  Instead, the travellers turned their attention to their comrade who flopped like a dying fish in a pool of blood that seemed too big, too dark. Mallory knelt down to help, knowing there was nothing that could be done, but someone smacked him aside and he went over, seeing stars. When his vision cleared, Scab had stopped moving and everyone was staring at Mallory as if he had committed the murder himself.

  Sophie threw herself through the crowd, all the grief of Melanie’s death erupting in one instant. ‘See?’ she screamed. ‘This is what happens if you do nothing! Nobody has the luxury of sitting on the fence! If you don’t stand up for what you believe in, someone always pays the price.’

  There was no point in trying to calm her; he was lucky to get away with his life. Gardener was just coming around. Mallory gave him an unnecessarily rough shove that propelled him out of the camp and then collected Hipgrave, who had been slumped in a daze nearby, and dragged him away.

  He could still hear the sound of crying, even when the camp had fallen from view.

  As they hurried along the road in the ruddy light, Gardener began to say,
‘He deserved it,’ but Mallory turned on him so ferociously the words died on his lips.

  His anger evaporated as he paused at the bridge, aware of the threat that lurked on the short route to the cathedral gates. A guard waved to him from a new section of the walls overlooking the river. His voice floated down. ‘Don’t move!’

  As they waited, a group of Blues ran out on to Crane Street at the turning to North Gate. They were armed with crossbows and longbows.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ Gardener said.

  The group’s captain barked an order and one of their number moved along the ranks with a torch. As he passed, the tips of the notched arrows burst into flames.

  ‘Looks like it’s a cremation for us,’ Mallory said. ‘And I’d got my eye on such a lovely headstone.’

  Gardener grunted, ‘I think—’

  ‘I know what they’re doing,’ Mallory snapped. ‘Get your arm around Hipgrave. And I just want to say that if these are the last moments of my life, I really am pig-sick I’m spending them linked to you two.’

  There was some communication between the captain and the guard who had moved out of sight near the North Gate. A second later, the guard reappeared and shouted, ‘Now!’

  Mallory and Gardener moved as fast as they could; Hipgrave’s heels didn’t even touch the ground. The Blues raised their weapons. Mallory kept his vision trained directly ahead. The buildings on either side passed in a blur, still swathed in shadows, the dawn light only limning the edges.

  Halfway along the street, the shadows became movement on either side. Still Mallory didn’t look. Fear would take the strength from his legs, threat would deflect his single-minded purpose and there would be little point in standing and fighting. Drained from the night’s exertions, his breath burned in his throat.

  The smell of something that had lain in damp soil rose up around him. He had the fleeting sense of fluttering wings, frightened birds in flight, of red brake-lights, of a striking cobra and a dog’s snapping jaws.

  Fire rained down all around them. Heat seared past Mallory’s cheeks, brought starburst trails across his vision. The air was thick with the suffocating stink of burning tar.

  Something lashed past the back of his neck, the backwash of air suggesting great weight, barely missing him. The sense of pursuit lay heavy on his back, relentless, drawing slightly closer with each second.

  Twice he almost slipped on the slick flagstones as they turned into High Street, only righting himself at the last instant. Gardener kept pace, but Hipgrave swung wildly, threatening to overbalance them. The Blues retreated apace, still firing.

  And then they were at the gates. The Blues backed in, leaving a small tunnel at their centre. Mallory and Gardener didn’t stop until they heard the gates swing shut with a resounding clang, and then came the thunder of something heavy slamming into it.

  They dropped Hipgrave unceremoniously. Gardener bowed his head in silent prayer, but Mallory looked up to the lightening sky, breathing deeply in relief.

  But then he saw the grim faces of the Blues and the growing desperation of the brethren making their way to prime, and he realised the enormity of the trial that lay ahead for all of them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  a thorn in the flesh

  ‘Everything that happens is just and fair to the gods, but humans regard some things as just and others as unjust.’

  - Heraclitus

  October passed like the tolling of a funeral bell. In the brethren’s makeshift dormitories and the stone chambers of the knights’ barracks, the nights crept by with bone-aching cold barely kept at bay by rough blankets. The days were bright and crisp, the wind whistling through the gothic architecture lowering over them with an unsettling character that hinted at sentience. Every night the attacks on the gate continued unabated. Every day brothers would creep up to the walkway to look desperately towards the city centre, knowing things were looking back at them, daring them to venture out into the seemingly empty street beyond. And over it all hung the oppressive presence of the Adversary, felt more than seen, but unmistakably there, watching, waiting, cold and hateful.

  Within the cathedral compound, tensions rose at the realisation that the siege was not going to end, while the leaders hadn’t yet identified a suitable plan to get them out of the predicament. Rations were tightened, and although there was an ample supply of water from the river, with winter just around the corner they all wondered how long they would be able to last.

  Arguments broke out as tempers frayed, and it took all the ministering skills of the elder brethren to maintain the peace. Blaine had suggested posting the knights around the compound to keep order, but word had come down from Cornelius that he didn’t want them used against their own; the knights had to remain pure in their ideals as an instrument of the Church.

  To the majority of the brethren, Cornelius became an elusive figure, confined to his sick bed in the bishop’s palace, tended by Julian and a small band of helpers, with reports of his condition occasionally sent down as if from On High. ‘Temperature raised, but doing fine.’ ‘Fever broken.’ ‘Took the air in the palace garden this morning,’ and the like. Rumours circulated as to what exactly was the root of his illness - everything from pneumonia and cholera to a brain tumour - but they all knew at heart it was his age. Whatever the hopeful spin placed on his condition by Julian, there was a dismal acceptance that he couldn’t have long left.

  In the upper echelons of the Church leadership, meanwhile, manoeuvrings for the succession continued in some quarters with unseemly openness. Stefan appeared to be the leading choice of one faction, though he professed no interest in the job, preferring ‘only to serve’. His supporters were happy to class themselves as hardliners, culled from the evangelical communities of Southern England and Unionist enclaves in Scotland. Stefan, however, kept his own views close to his chest.

  Both Hipgrave and Miller recovered quickly under the able if curt treatment of Warwick in the infirmary. Exhaustion and hypothermia had been the only ailments afflicting Hipgrave, who had spent the days since the attack on Bratton Camp wandering randomly around Salisbury Plain. He had taken a blow to his head that had left him with a mild concussion, just enough to addle his thoughts before the weather took its toll on him. Blaine didn’t put him through the mill of the Inquisition - it would not have been right for a captain of the knights to be seen to be doubted in current circumstances - but Hipgrave had been questioned extensively about what had happened. His ordeal had wiped away many of his memories of that night, but he still found it within himself to blame Mallory, Miller, Daniels and Gardener for the failure of the mission.

  ‘They were cowards,’ he told Blaine in front of the other four. ‘They ran at the first sign of danger, left me to deal with it on my own. Whatever happened to that poor man was their fault, and they should be punished accordingly.’

  Gardener protested, but Blaine silenced him angrily. Later, however, the four of them found it telling that for such a disciplinarian, Blaine didn’t mete out any punishment. Hipgrave’s outburst managed to sour any residual sense of camaraderie they all might have felt with him after the horrific experience they had shared that night. And it was a time when Hipgrave needed them. His dislocation at the mysterious transformation of the cathedral had been acute, and he’d made a fool of himself trying to convince everyone he spoke to of the change. Even Blaine eyed him with suspicion. Yet Hipgrave couldn’t bring himself to talk to Mallory and the others for fear it would diminish his leadership.

  But a strong bond was forged amongst Mallory, Miller, Gardener and Daniels. They were outsiders in a community that was already outside of society, the only ones who could see the truth. Gardener made a grudging reconciliation with Mallory, though he ‘owed him a bloody big punch in the face’. Whatever doubts they had about each other had to be overridden if they were going to survive in a place that continually tested their sanity.

  Mallory spent much of his time attempting to piece
together some overarching mystery he was sure lay behind the scenes. The others were not convinced. ‘Hello? Are you lot blind?’ Mallory said after one particularly heated debate. ‘We were lured out of the cathedral by two ghost-clerics who disappeared the moment they’d got us where they wanted us. And then we were let back in—’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Gardener snapped. ‘We nearly got torn apart when we fetched Hipgrave.’

  ‘You’ve seen what’s out there. Do you really think they couldn’t have stopped us if they’d wanted? Jesus, they could have wiped us out in the blink of an eye. They let us back in,’ Mallory stressed. ‘They made a pretence of stopping us so we wouldn’t be suspicious, but that was it.’

  There was a long silence while Mallory’s theory washed over them. It was Daniels, fiddling with his eye-patch nervously, who spoke first. ‘Why would the Adversary want to get us out and then let us back in - all of us, because we came back on three separate occasions?’

  ‘And what’s it got to do with all the new buildings appearing?’ Miller asked. ‘There has to be a connection, right?’

  The silence lasted longer this time, and none of them had any answers. But they knew that the only way of uncovering what was happening, and what it meant for all of them, was to work together.

  It was October the twenty-eighth. Mallory and Miller had been despatched to the kitchens to see Gibson, whom Mallory had dubbed the Canon of the Pies. The place had been transformed along with the rest of the building and was now the size of half a football pitch, with a low, vaulted roof like a wine cellar supported by stone pillars. Woodburning ranges ran along one wall, drawing on the huge but limited supply of timber that had been amassed. Giant bubbling pans sent clouds of steam scented with spices and herbs drifting across the ceiling. The room echoed with the sound of clanging lids and chopping knives as twenty or more cooks and assistants prepared the day’s meals.

  Sweat beading his ruddy face, Gibson moved amongst the activity, chuckling at some joke no one else knew; his frame appeared as massive as ever despite the limited rations, nor had he lost any of his celebrated larger-than-life humour. With one podgy hand outstretched, he lumbered across the room to slap both of them on the shoulder in greeting. ‘Jolly good you could make it down here,’ he said, as if they had ambled along of their own accord. Laughter rumbled out like an avalanche as a vat of bubbling turnips steamed up his large-framed spectacles. Cleaning them on his robes, he motioned to a large door against the far wall. ‘The stores are through there, dear boys,’ he said theatrically. ‘Mr Blaine suggested you might be able to help us with the conveyance of several large sacks of potatoes. I keep my little workers here so busy, they never do find the time to do those necessary chores.’ He wagged a chubby finger at Miller. ‘And no potatoes means no hearty meals to keep you boys big and strong.’