The crowd’s attention switched abruptly to the fire, and to the escaping rats fleeting between their feet. In the press of screaming women and stamping men Bane and Havloc leaned on their staves, out of puff and sweating. Lord William plunged for the door, evading his knights who tried to stop him, and was swallowed by the smoke. His men hesitated, but leapt back as part of the roof fell in and a choking gust of smoke and blazing reeds belched from the doorway.
Sulien came running, shouting, ‘Is anyone in there?’
‘Lord William,’ cried Thibaut.
Coughing, cursing, eyes streaming and face and tunic black with soot, Lord William came stumbling out, clasping a leather satchel. With an almighty whumpf! the rest of the roof fell in, and flames leaped up to engulf what was left.
Chapter Fifty-Three
'William de Breos!’
Where the path to the shrine began its tortuous climb a man stood, with a sheathed sword in his hand.
Breos coughed sootily and spat. ‘Straccan!’ Then he grinned, teeth shining in his blackened face. ‘Julitta said you’d come.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘Dead?’ He laughed. Worse than that — in hell. What do you want?’
‘To challenge you!’
Sulien cried ‘Sir Richard! No!’
‘Get the horses,’ Breos ordered. His men ran to obey.
‘Let all bear witness,’ Straccan shouted. ‘I name you thief, desecrator, murderer, and I challenge you to single combat, here, now!’ In the stunned silence he cast down his gage: a strip of rusty black woollen cloth, knotted around two rings.
Breos glowered at it. What’s that?’
‘One ring I took from Prioress Heloise’s dead hand.’
‘I didn’t kill her!’
‘As good as. The other belonged to Robert Wace, and him you did kill! I see you still carry his brand,’ he sneered. ‘A pettifogging clerk!’ Steel rang as he drew his sword, letting the scabbard fall. What say you? Will you fight or cry craven?’
Breos recognised the sword and ground his teeth with rage. Whoever had played Judas would die for it as soon as he’d killed this meddling nobody who by rights should be dead already. His men rounded the far end of the hall in a tight bunch, their horses’ hooves raising clouds of ash, and Bevis de Rennes spurred to his lord’s side, scattering the crowd, leading Breos’s own stallion.
‘Stand and fight!’ Straccan yelled furiously, as Lord William swung into the saddle and hooked the rescued satchel over the pommel. ‘Will you ride off, coward, butcher of nuns and priests?’
‘Let me take him, my lord,’ begged Bevis, but Lord William’s blood was up.
‘No! He’s mine!’
Standing in his stirrups he shouted his battle cry, ‘Homo Dei!' Veins bulged at his temples — the medicus would have reached for his lancet had he been there — and his face was the colour of damsons. He raked spurs along his stallion’s sides so that the beast squealed and reared, dancing on its hind legs while its rider clung like a burr. Then, like a battering ram, he charged at Straccan, drawing his sword with an echoing whine and tossing the sheath away.
As the great horse rushed upon him Straccan backed up the narrow path. Its steepness barely checked the stallion’s way, but the barrel of penitential pebbles Straccan kicked over did. The horse slipped and slid, pebbles rolling under its steel-shod hooves. Scrabbling for purchase, it went down hard on its side.
For a heavy man, Breos was quick. Kicking his feet free of the stirrups he jumped away from the heavy horse and its thrashing legs. The stallion rolled right over before it could get up again, shaking itself and looking embarrassed.
‘Foul!’ Breos bellowed. ‘A foul trick!’
Straccan was several feet above him on the path. Blowing like a bellows Breos rushed at him, wielding his sword two-handed, like an axe, in a tremendous blow that would have cleft his enemy from shoulder to waist had Straccan not caught the blade on his own. Edge screeched along edge and slid away unblooded.
‘My lord! Sir Richard!’ Sulien shouted. ‘You must stop this!’ He went unheeded as a moth.
The might of Breos’s blow — he was the heavier man — jarred Straccan’s wrists and forced him back, but turning, he brought his sword round and up to deflect the next blow, driven back once more by the weight behind it.
The turn of the path took them out of sight of the watchers below. Grunts and gasps and the clang of steel on steel could be heard, growing fainter as they fought their way up the narrow track. Bevis dismounted and beckoned to two of his archers; sword in hand, with the men following, he started up the path after his lord.
Straccan had drawn first blood, a long shallow cut across his opponent’s ribs that would have done for him had he not jerked back. The gash bled freely but not enough to slow him down. Breos’s point had pierced Straccan’s thigh, but the wound hadn’t bled much. They’d done taunting each other, saving their breath instead.
Straccan had killed enemies in many battles and skirmishes, and fought for his life on dozens of other occasions, beating off the murderous attacks of outlaws, pirates and even cannibals, but seldom had he felt such loathing for a foe. The tortured corpse of Tresaint’s old priest, the cracked shell of Mother Heloise’s skull and the still face of the king’s clerk kept rising to his mind’s eye; he could not be rid of them. This butcher had killed them, he must pay. He parried another great killing stroke, and backed away uphill again. Breos came on.
Feet were pounding up the path, not yet in sight. Breos’s men were coming, and would not hold off while Straccan and their lord fought. This was what Straccan had expected, and his contingency plan was ready. Head down, he cannoned into Breos, bringing them both down and knocking Breos’s sword from his grip. Lord William lunged for it, but Straccan reached it at the same instant. Breos elbowed him in the face and snatched up his sword. Scooping up a handful of grit Straccan flung it in Breos’s face. Blinded, he lost his footing and fell on his arse.
As he struggled up, cursing, he saw Straccan disappearing round the next turn. They couldn’t be far from the shrine. He had him now! There was nowhere for the bastard to run; he’d finish him there. Suddenly there was a rumbling, rushing noise that reminded Lord William of a battle-charge, thundering hooves and the roaring of men about to kill or die. Under his feet the ground quivered and up ahead someone — Straccan, who else? — cried out in alarm. Breos charged round the last twist in the path, where the shrine had stood for six hundred years.
It wasn’t there.
The rock ledge was scoured bare. Not a fragment remained of the wicker shelter, the statue of the saint or the perpetual fire. All had gone, swept with the landslide from above into the gorge. And Straccan with them.
‘God’s name,’ he gasped, breathless and astonished, as Bevis de Rennes and his archers came panting up behind him.
‘What happened, my lord?’
‘A rockfall…’ Thank God it hadn’t happened when he was here just a few hours ago. Another sign that God had not cast him off.
‘Did he go down with it?’ Bevis asked.
‘Must have.’
They inched to the edge and peered down. Far below the debris of the rockfall looked insignificant.
‘Can you see him?’
‘Aye, there! Lying to the left of the stone.’
Where? I don’t see him.’
‘There, me lord!’
Something pale moved down there. A sheep? No, too long: a man.
‘Shoot!’ Breos cried.
They strung their bows, sighted, drew and let go. The pale shape jerked as the arrows struck. Its legs kicked. It lay still.
‘Did you hit him?’
‘Bleeding, lord,’ said one archer, seeing a spreading stain.
‘Christ, you’ve got good eyes,’ said Breos, glaring down. ‘Shoot again.’
Two more shafts whipped down, and this time the body didn’t move.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Bane reached the site of t
he shrine out of breath and with a ferocious stitch in his side. He paused momentarily on the rock ledge, bending, hands on knees to ease the stitch, eyeing the devastation with pleased surprise. He’d never thought it would work.
As soon as he had breath for it he whistled two clear notes. An answer came from further up and apparently out of the ground.
Straccan’s wounded leg had stiffened, and other cuts he hadn’t even noticed at the time had begun to burn and throb. He was huddled in a cramped hollow among wiry roots, concealed by a curtain of overhanging heather. Earth coated him, stuck to the blood on his shirt and breeches, and he crawled stiffly from his hiding place like a resurrected corpse at Judgement Day.
Bane helped him stand. Are you all right?’
‘I’ll mend. Help me down. He’s gone?’
‘Gone, yes.’
Something in his voice made Straccan stop. What?’ And again, as Bane hesitated. ‘What?
‘He’s taken Alis.’
Straccan lurched and would have fallen but for Bane’s bony shoulder.
‘God’s blood! How?’
‘Easy does it. Lean on me or you’ll have us both arse over tit.’
‘Damn it, Hawkan, what happened?’
‘That German challenged him.’ Bane panted the story as they descended the path, remembering as he told it Bruno on his horse in the gateway, a solitary plug in the bottleneck, in full mail and with lance couched. ‘Breos snatched her up in front of him, said to let him pass or he’d cut her throat, and he’d kill her if they followed. Havloc tried to stop him — fetched him a hell of a crack with his stave — but they rode him down.’ He could still see that, too: Havloc’s body tumbling under the horses’ hooves like a broken scarecrow.
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, bruised but… Well, you’ll see. Slow down a bit, it’s steep here.’
‘I must go after him, get her back.’ All this contrivance and mummery had been for nothing; he needn’t have bothered. He was going to have to kill Breos after all.
‘Mind these bloody pebbles!’
They were at the foot of the path. Many more people had swelled the crowd, staring and pointing at Straccan, and there was Havloc, arguing with Bruno von Koln, gesticulating and looking angry.
‘We heard the fall,’ Sulien said. ‘Lord William said you went down with it.’
‘That was a trick, something Bane and I set up. It all depended on whether I could get get Breos up there.’
‘But they saw your body. They shot you. And you’re hurt… Your leg.’
‘I’m all right. That was a dummy, Gamier saw to it. Havloc!’
Havloc’s face was bruised, his clothes were thick with dust and there was blood in his hair, but he seemed otherwise unhurt and shouldered through the crowd, ignoring the people who reached out to touch him, hoping a bit of his luck might rub off on them.
‘Sir Richard, he’s got Alis!’
‘We’ll get her back.’
‘He’ll kill her!’
‘She got him through the gate. After that she’ll only slow him down. He’ll drop her off after a couple of miles.’ He hoped to God he was right. ‘Hawkan, get the horses. Zingiber’s down by the lake, near the boats. I’m sorry, Sulien. I did my best, but it looks like I’m going to have to kill him after all.’
Sulien held out a wallet. ‘For the king,’ he said. ‘The ring and the letter.’
Straccan took it. ‘I burned one of your halls, wrecked your shrine and broke the laws of this Sanctuary. I ask your pardon, Sulien. If I can, I’ll make amends.’
‘You did what you had to, Sir Richard. And for all of it, except breaking Sanctuary, you had royal licence. As for burning the hall, it hardly matters.’ He looked around bleakly, saying, ‘All this will be gone soon,’ and walked away.
Straccan saw the leper-master at the edge of the crowd. ‘Garnier, you did well.’
‘It wants neither brains nor brawn to pull a few cords and twitch a mannikin’s limbs,’ Garnier said. ‘And the statue of the saint is undamaged. When it’s back in the shrine pilgrims will have another miracle to marvel at. You are going after the girl?’
‘I hope to find her unharmed. He has no reason to carry her far, still less to kill her.’
Garnier’s eyes regarded him sceptically through the holes in his hood. ‘I pray you’re right, Sir Richard.’
The crowd parted again to let Bane through, bringing the horses. Straccan took a small parchment packet from inside his belt. ‘Garnier, will you give this to Sulien? It may be he can use it to save this place.’
‘What is it?’
‘A thread from a napkin stained with the blood of Christ. It came from the Pendragon Banner.’
After all, between leaving the saint’s island and encountering Thibaut at the ford he’d had the Banner in his possession for two nights and a day and he wasn’t a man to ignore opportunity. With no apparent damage to the relic he’d managed to abstract half a dozen precious threads.
‘Why didn’t you give it to him yourself?’ Garnier put the little packet in his purse,
‘He’s a bit annoyed with me.’
‘God go with you, Sir Richard. I will pray for Mistress Alis, and for you.’ Garnier bowed and walked away.
At Straccan’s back Bruno von Koln murmured, ‘The poor devil. That is a living hell.’
Hell indeed, thought Straccan. What could be worse?But a monstrous suspicion began shaping as he watched the big cloaked figure limping away. What had Breos said about Julitta? ‘Worse than deadin hell!’
‘Oh my God!’ He knew what Lord William had done; he knew where Julitta was. Straccan opened his mouth to call Gamier back and tell him, and shut it again.
Justice had been served.
They rode hard for the first two miles, across open heath where nothing could be hidden, but after that sapling trees and thick underbrush closed in upon the road. Alis could be hurt or dead, and lying only a few feet away and no one would see her.
They slowed and Straccan began calling. ‘Alis! Hoy, Alis!’ The others took it up, stopping frequently to listen for an answering cry.
‘Alis!’
‘Hoy-hoy-hoy! Alis!’
Again and again Havloc spurred his horse into the scrub, urging it through brambles that left bloody scratches on its legs and belly. ‘Alis!’
Straccan began to despair.
Three miles from the Hidden Valley Havloc found a man and mule lurking unsuccessfully behind a clump of hazels and dragged him out, goggle-eyed with terror. Yes, he’d seen Lord William and his men. He’d prudently left the track and hidden and he’d been trying to hide again in case this lot were no better.
‘Was there a girl with him?’ Havloc demanded. ‘A young woman in a blue gown?’
‘I saw no woman.’
They rode on, calling, listening.
Lord Christ, Holy Virgin, Straccan prayed. Let her be safe! But his heart felt cold and shrunken with dread.
Bruno saw it first — something blue, hanging from a branch up ahead — and called out, pointing. With a cry Havloc plunged towards it. By the time the others came up with him he’d got it down and was rocking back and forth in grief, Alis’s blue surcote crushed against his breast. There was blood on his hands and on the gown.
Tears poured down his face as he looked up at Straccan. ‘He’s killed her! Alis, oh God, Alis!’ He pressed the gown to his face, sobbing.
‘Let me see.’ Straccan drew it gently from Havloc’s grasp. Blood had soaked the hem of the surcote but he could find no rent from knife or sword. ‘It’s whole,’ he said, ‘and look.’ He indicated two bloody smudges. ‘See here, she was kneeling; she knelt in the blood. Alis!’ He shouted, reining Zingiber about. ‘It’s not her blood.’ He shouted again, ‘Alis!’
Off to their right they heard an answering cry.
Following a track they found her sitting on the ground, cradling Thibaut’s head in her lap. His right arm was swathed in bloodstained fabric torn from the hem of h
er kirtle. He looked dead but he breathed.
‘Oh God, thank God!’ Havloc flung himself down and clasped her in his arms. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded. ‘I knew you’d come.’
Bruno knelt by the squire. ‘His arm… Vat happened?’
‘Lord William cut his hand off. I tied my girdle round it. I took off my surcote and tied it to a branch where you’d see it. Will he die?’
‘Not if we can get him back to Sulien,’ Havloc said. ‘It’s less than five miles. Captain Bruno, Alis and I will take him back if you’ll lend two of your men to help.’
‘Ralph, Villiam, go vith them. Take care of him.’
Thibaut opened his eyes and stared at Straccan. ‘My lord said… dead.’
‘A mistake he’s made before,’ Straccan said.
‘Not easy to kill,’ Thibaut whispered, and his pallid lips managed a smile.
‘What happened?’
‘His horse… lame. He ordered me down, took mine. “Judas”, he said.’ Thibaut paused, gathering strength. ‘He drew… sword. I threw my hands up. Funny, didn’t feel it, just saw… blood.’
‘They rode on,’ Alis said. ‘Lord William’s horse is here somewhere.’
‘Vere are they going?’ Bruno asked.
‘His galley,’ Thibaut said. ‘Somewhere on the Usk… beyond Abergavenny.’
‘Vunce he gets aboard ve vill haf lost him. Ve cannot follow him to Brittany.’
‘No,’ said Thibaut. ‘Bristol.’
‘Bristol? Why?’ Straccan asked.
‘He’s taking the Banner to the king.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes… In exchange for Lady Mahaut and his son.’
‘Ready to go, sir.’ Bruno’s men, capable in that as in all else, had contrived a litter from saplings and slung it between their horses. Now they lifted Thibaut onto it.
‘Where shall we rejoin, sir?’
Straccan butted in. ‘If we ride hard, Bruno, we can get to Bristol before he does.’
‘He still has the Banner,’ the German objected.
Yes, he’s doing our job for us. We’ll be there to greet him.’ Bruno thought for a moment. ‘Bristol, then.’
[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner Page 29
