Hill of Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  They were but an hour into their sport when Ursula, turning to follow the progress of her bird, glimpsed a man scrambling up the last few feet of the rise and onto the flat top of the hill. Soon more heads appeared, then still more, until a small crowd stood rather breathlessly on the top of the hill, heaving their packs off their backs and bending over their staves as they tried to regain their breath.

  One by one the young women turned their attention from the battle of the birds in the sky to stare at the newcomers who had so rudely interrupted their pleasure. The twenty or so people who stood gazing around the flattened hill were of mixed ages: some had grey hair, others were barely more than children. But it was plain from their patched and dung-coloured clothes, their worn shoes and filthy coarse-spun cloaks that they were not the kind of people who could afford to own falcons, much less enjoy the leisure time to fly them.

  The grooms moved swiftly in front of their mistresses, knives at the ready, in case they should be required to defend the ladies from this pack of beggars and vagabonds, but the little band made no move to approach the women.

  A man stepped a little apart from the crowd and all eyes turned expectantly to him. He flung himself down on his knees and the rest of the group followed suit. A clamour of voices rose into the hot sunshine, like some great cliff-side colony of nesting gulls, and with as little meaning in sound. Their arms were flung up to heaven, their eyes closed and their heads thrown back. They seemed to be praying with as much fervour as a man condemned to death might desperately beg clemency from a judge.

  Finally their leader rose and turned to face the kneeling crowd.

  ‘Yes, yes, my chosen ones. This is the very place I saw in my vision. I know it! I can feel it! And now God has confirmed it!’

  A chorus of, ‘Yes, it is here. Hallelujah! This is the place!’ burst out of many throats.

  Ursula edged a little closer. Her groom put a warning arm out to try to stop her, but she was used to getting her own way and moved resolutely to a distance where she could hear more clearly. Her companions, with nervous giggles, followed her.

  The leader of the band was a tall man, with high prominent cheekbones and a mass of thick black hair that hung in lank elflocks onto his shoulders. He was dressed simply in a grubby white robe that almost resembled that of a monk, save that his left shoulder and arm were bare and about his waist was a blue cord dyed to almost the same hue as the summer sky above him.

  His voice rang out once more. ‘This is the place where the legions of darkness meet the army of light. This is the very hill where demons and angels wrestle for the future of the world. Abraham and Isaac, Moses, even our Lord Himself, were all led to the hill tops and there put to the test for the very salvation of the world. We have been led here to serve a great purpose in the divine plan, a purpose that He will make known to us. Here we shall set up camp and wait for the vision to be revealed to us.’

  A great cheer went up from the crowd. Their leader turned away, firmly clasping his hands behind his back, and appeared to be contemplating the great sweep of the valley that lay below him. The crowd waited for a few minutes, but no more words came from him.

  Finally one of their number, a broad squat youth with arms like an ape, jumped up and gesticulated wildly at them. ‘Well, you heard the prophet, make camp, quickly now.’

  Everyone scrambled to their feet and, as if following a familiar routine, began their chores. Some started to dig fire pits, others gathered kindling or searched for herbs for the pot. With somewhat more reluctance, a few armed themselves with water-carriers and darted miserable glances at each other when they realised the only visible source of water was the distant river at the bottom of that very steep hill.

  Seeing some of the men arming themselves with bows and arrows and with slingshots for hunting, the falconer rushed forward with his baited lure, whirling it about his head and whistling in a desperate attempt to bring the merlins down before this pack of lunatics started firing.

  All the girls hurried back towards their horses, except Ursula, who did not move. She was still staring at the back of the white-robed figure who stood gazing out over the edge of the hill.

  ‘He’s calling you, is he?’ a voice murmured in her ear.

  She jumped at finding the little ape-armed youth by her elbow. Up close, Ursula thought, he looked even more like a monkey. His arms were covered in a thick mat of red hair and, judging by the bush escaping from the top of his coarse shirt, she rather suspected his body might be equally hairy.

  She flushed, taking a few steps back. ‘Calling me?’

  ‘I was the first disciple he called and I’ve been with him ever since. Not everyone who wants to come with him can. He knows who’s been chosen by God and only they can join him.’ He lifted his head with evident pride.

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting to join him. I should think those who haven’t been chosen are very much relieved.’ Ursula said it with every intention of wounding, but the ape-boy didn’t seem to take offence.

  ‘You might say that now, but wait till you see the miracles he performs.’

  ‘So he can do a few tricks, can he? I’ve seen conjurors at the fairs bring dead toads to life and make coins disappear.’

  ‘Ah,’ the lad said, ‘but have you seen them capture demons in front of your very eyes or pull a venomous worm from a man’s skull that was tormenting him with agonising pain. My master is a holy prophet. He was captured by a fierce band of murderous pirates that bound him hand and foot, and carried him off on their ship to sell as a slave. So he conjured a great storm that cracked the ship open on the rocks and every wicked man aboard perished, but though he was bound fast, he calmed the waves and floated ashore as safe as a babe in its cradle.’

  Ursula snorted. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I swear, on the Holy Virgin’s crown, that I saw it with my own two eyes. Stood on the shore and watched it, I did. And so did the whole village, including the priest. There’s not a man, woman or child in Brean who doesn’t know him for a holy man and prophet. I tell you, he’s been sent to save us all.’

  The young man’s blue eyes shone with such a radiance of belief that it seemed as if a candle was burning behind them. Ursula, for all that she was trying to sound unimpressed, felt her pulse quicken, as her eyes were drawn once more to the tall figure who had not moved so much as a muscle, despite all the bustle and noise behind him. The breeze tugged the folds of his robe and blew his long black hair out behind him so that suddenly he seemed the very image of a carving she had seen in a church, of Moses standing on top of the mountain holding the tablets of stone.

  ‘What is his name?’ she asked without taking her gaze from the figure.

  The youth leaned closer to her as if he was imparting a great secret. ‘His holy name is Serkan. It means leader, a leader anointed in blood.’

  It was dark now. William drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders, trying not to shiver. The sun had sucked the heat from the earth as it set, taking back the warmth it had lent it, and the breeze whipping up from the valley seemed to carry all the chill of the cold river in it. Stars, like tiny shards of ice, hung in the black sky and the blades of grass turned the colour of steel in the moonlight.

  Martin had come running as soon as he’d seen the pinpoints of orange and yellow light winding their way up the valley towards the hill. But William had already seen them. That was why he’d chosen this place. It was like having his own castle. No walls to be sure, but no forest of trees or narrow alleys where someone could lie in wait. All these weeks he’d had no sign that Edgar had followed him from Brean, but somehow that only made him more nervous, as if Edgar were lying out there somewhere, gathering his strength, waiting until William relaxed his guard before he struck.

  William felt a little safer up here, where he could see danger coming. But those lights were nothing to fear. Those torches did not belong to an angry mob. The procession was too slow and orderly. They were bringing the mad and sick wi
th them, not sticks and swords. Those giggling girls and their servants had clearly wasted no time in spreading the word in Bath about his arrival.

  He felt his blood throbbing through his body with a thrill that was almost like bedding a beautiful woman. He understood now what it felt like to be a great minstrel. There was the trepidation that tonight you might not be able to deliver, that this time your talents might fail you, but stronger by far was the thrill of anticipation, knowing that success would bring adulation.

  It was as if at first he had been only a player in costume, an actor in one of the great Mystery Play tableaux such as they had at York. But now he was becoming that very person. He no longer had to pretend to sense the demons in the bodies of those that came to him, he could feel them. In his dreams he really saw the visions of which he spoke, and almost . . . almost he was beginning to believe that all the events in his life had been leading to this. He had, after all, been saved from the raging sea; surely that meant that he had been chosen for some great task.

  He had not set out to attract a following. Nothing had been further from his mind. His only intention had been to get away from Brean as quickly as possible. But with no money to buy decent lodgings, one night he and Martin had found themselves camping on the heath with a band of holy beggars who tramped from town to town begging for themselves and the poor, with their cry of, ‘Bread, for God’s sake.’ The beggars had generously shared their food with the pair, and it was rich pickings too, for townsfolk feared the beggars’ curses as much as they desired a blessing from them that would bring them luck.

  Talk had naturally turned to where William was bound and, before he could prevent it, Martin had launched into an account of his master’s miraculous deliverance and his exorcism of the girl, both of which lost nothing in the telling. There were, of course, jeers from the more cynical beggars; after all, these men spent their lives persuading the gullible that miracles would follow if they gave generously. But others in the band, who genuinely believed in their own holy calling, were more willing to accept that William too had seen visions. And it wasn’t long therefore before William was challenged to demonstrate his powers. He obliged: plucking a stone from the head of one man who suffered headaches; convincing another that his falling sickness was caused by the menstrual blood of the Lilith, queen of demons, falling into a well from which he had drunk. And the beggar was full of gratitude when William carved on a piece of wood the names of the three angels that would henceforth protect him.

  By the time they parted company the next day, three of the holy beggars had become William’s new disciples. One was a devout young man, who might have made a good life for himself in a monastery were it not for a restlessness that always drove him onwards. The second, an old man called Alfred, claimed to be a soldier who’d lost his right hand in battle, though since both his ears had been severed too, William rather suspected he’d been mutilated for some crime. The third was Letice, a crone so filthy and bedraggled it was hard to tell her age. Like a craggy outcrop of rock, it seemed as if she had looked that way for countless generations and would remain so for countless more to come.

  Letice was something of an irritation. She would stare fixedly at you for hours at a time, but never meet your gaze. She talked constantly to herself about the people around her as if they couldn’t hear her, and saw doom-laden omens in everything, from the number of birds in a flock to the way twigs burned on the fire. But even William had to admit she was useful. As soon as they entered a town or village, she would stand on the street corner and shout about the new prophet come among them, with a boldness that not even the ardent Martin could muster.

  It was Letice who had revealed that William’s holy name was Serkan. The voices in her head had told her this. Martin had sulked for days that he had not been the one to discover the master’s hidden name, but he used it along with the others. And William couldn’t deny it had a certain grandeur to it.

  He gazed around at the motley group of followers he had assembled in the last few months. Most were hunched around the campfires, ravenously devouring the spit-roasted birds and rabbits they had caught, and hiding any food that remained. They’d no wish to be forced to share with those townsfolk who were making their way here. There were a few more women among them now, mostly those that other men had no use for: the maimed and disfigured; the ex-whore too old and scarred by pox to earn a living on her back now; the bruised and battered scrap of a girl on the run from her master. They were grateful for the company and protection, and threw themselves willingly into cooking and mending, glad for any kind word and gentle touch he might offer them.

  But why were there no voluptuous beauties among his disciples, no fallen angels, no flame-haired Mary Magdalenes to whom he could offer intimate consolation? He groaned. It had been months since he’d bedded a woman, and he ached for it so much that sometimes he could hardly concentrate on anything else.

  ‘Master, they are here.’ Martin pointed to where the torches were appearing over the edge of the hill. Sighing, William rose and prepared for his performance.

  Ursula positioned herself a little way from the crowd, who sat or kneeled on the short springy turf before the fire. She had deliberately selected a gown of white, impractical for riding, but she knew it would make her stand out in the dark, and she wanted to be noticed.

  Her parents were away for the night at the house of an old friend of her father, a wealthy farmer, and would not return until midday tomorrow, after her father’s business was concluded. Normally she would have welcomed any chance to get out of Bath. The farmer and his stolid daughters were as dull as her own parents, but there were usually some farmhands to flirt with when her father’s back was turned. But now that she’d seen Serkan, these farmhands seemed nothing more than clumsy little boys.

  So she had feigned a sick stomach and her parents had reluctantly left her at home under the care of her childhood nurse. But the old woman was now as deaf as a blacksmith’s dog, and could be relied upon to fall asleep straight after supper, especially if she was helped to a more than generous measure of her favourite wine. The groom had travelled with Ursula’s parents, but the stable boy, who constantly followed her around like an unweaned calf, was easily persuaded to saddle up her palfrey and lead it up the hill, if it meant he could spend the evening gazing at her. Even now she supposed he was somewhere in the shadows watching her, but she didn’t look. Her gaze never left Serkan’s face.

  He stood behind the fire, so that it looked as if he was speaking out of it. His white robe took on a rich ruby glow in the light of the flames and the twin fires burned deep in those emerald-green eyes. His voice rang out with thunder, and his words cascaded over the lip of the hill like some great waterfall.

  ‘. . . the city of sin and corruption, of squalor and filth, that city you call Bath, which now lies under the power of darkness, shall be changed, transformed into a city of light, it shall be filled with sweet perfumes and the song of angels. Great men shall flock to it.’

  A few of the crowd who had come out from Bath jeered in disbelief, but his disciples fervently shouted ‘Praise be’ and ‘Amen’ to the night sky.

  A woman who seemed to be one of Serkan’s disciples tottered out from the crowd. She stood in front of the fire and began to turn, her arms flung out, singing some wordless ditty in a cracked voice, punctuated with sudden whoops and barks. Her dance became wilder and more abandoned. Then, as if she had been struck down, she fell onto the ground. Her body arched, shaking violently, and her heels drummed against the turf. A cry of alarm went up from the visitors, but Serkan, raising his hand for silence, stepped swiftly between her and the crowd.

  ‘Bring me water and a scrap of leather or parchment.’

  The ape-boy ran off and just as swiftly returned with a pot of water and a torn piece of parchment. Serkan pulled a stick from the fire, extinguished the burned end, then using the charred stick as a quill, he drew something upon the parchment and held it up to the crowd. Ursula
vaguely recognised the two letters – alpha and omega – like the ones over the altar of the church she attended. Serkan stretched out his arms over the prone woman and began to speak fervently in a strange, guttural language. The orange glow of the fire haloed Serkan’s head and the very darkness seemed to vibrate with those unearthly sounds that were pouring from his lips. The hairs on the back of Ursula’s neck prickled.

  As the words died away, he dropped the parchment into the jar of water. Then, dipping his fingers in the jar, he flung water at the woman’s face. She stopped jerking and lay still. He kneeled and, cradling her head in the crook of his arm, helped her to drink. Then he laid the jar aside and extended his hand. ‘Rise now.’

  The crowd uttered soft little sighs as Serkan pulled the woman to her feet. She stood there in the firelight, swaying a little as if she was half asleep, but her face had a calmness about it that was almost beautiful.

  Ursula found that she was trembling with excitement and some strange stirring in her body that she could not immediately identify. She pressed her hands together beneath her chin, her fingertips tingling as she imagined that strong firm hand clasping hers. As if he felt it too, Serkan’s gaze suddenly turned in her direction and as their eyes met, he smiled at her – and only at her. She was quite certain of that.

  William yawned and stretched. He stood for a moment, breathing in the cool morning air. He felt more relaxed than he had done in months. He hadn’t realised how much tension there had been in his body until now. Only yesterday he had desired a beautiful girl to come to him and that very night his wish had been granted. He felt as if he only had to stretch out his hand for whatever he wanted to appear in it.

  He had known from the moment he saw her standing there in her virginal white dress, like one of those martyred saints, that she had been given to him. When the visitors from Bath had begun to depart, she had lingered and when he’d beckoned her to approach she had come joyously. Her wide fawn-eyes looked up at him from under those dark lashes, with an expression of what you might call adoration, though definitely not submissiveness; he liked that, and he was captivated by that little habit she had of tossing her head like a spirited horse.