by Alys Clare
It was late in the evening at the Sanctuary, and, as Josse tried to make himself comfortable in a ruined convent somewhere deep in the Lincolnshire fens, Helewise stood in the doorway, enjoying her usual few moments of peace, looking out into the darkening forest before closing the door and settling for the night.
It had been a very hard day, brightened only by a visit from Tilly and some of her children, bringing fresh supplies and staying only for an all too brief exchange of news. Since neither of them had any, there was little else to talk about.
Helewise missed Josse so intensely that it hurt.
Tiphaine had returned in the afternoon. Together they had stood over their patient. Throughout the day, Helewise reported to the old herbalist, Hadil had barely stirred, but spent the long hours in a state that might have been sleep but was most probably the coma that leads eventually to death.
‘What ails her?’ Helewise asked softly, as much to herself as to Tiphaine. ‘Her arm mends, or so I assume, for there is no inflammation and she says it does not pain her much. The blow to her head, too, appears to be healing.’
Tiphaine didn’t answer for a few moments. Then she said, ‘She’s old and tired, my lady, and a very long way from home. This mission you speak of obviously preoccupies her to the extent of obliterating all else, yet here she lies, helpless, unable to participate any further, so that full responsibility now rests on her son’s shoulders.’
‘And he does not return and sends no word,’ Helewise finished. She sighed. ‘Yes. It is enough to daunt the stoutest heart.’
A further period of silence ensued. ‘She still refuses to explain this mission?’ Tiphaine asked after a while.
‘She did undertake to do so,’ Helewise said, ‘but I fear she has forgotten. Now, I’m not sure if she will.’
She might have been mistaken but, as she said the words, she thought she saw a very faint movement of Hadil’s eyes under the closed lids.
As twilight fell, Tiphaine had muttered that she had to go, and Helewise got up to see her out.
Now, still leaning in the doorway, Helewise turned reluctantly to go back inside. She banked down the fire in the little hearth, unrolled her bedding, poured a mug of water and was about to settle down when Hadil said, ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Helewise had to think quite hard to understand what she meant. When she did she said, trying to keep her voice calm and not betray her eagerness, ‘If you feel strong enough, Hadil, I should very much like to hear your tale.’
Hadil propped herself up on her pillows, and Helewise hastened to help her. ‘I do feel sufficiently strong,’ she said and, indeed, Helewise observed that there was a faint flush in her cheeks. ‘I am ready to speak, and you shall hear my story. You’d better make yourself comfortable,’ she added, ‘for it is a long one.’
Helewise sat down on her own narrow bed, pulled up a blanket, rearranged her pillows and waited.
‘There was once a knight,’ Hadil began, ‘and he belonged to the Order of the Knights Hospitaller. He cannot have been a good or honourable member of the Order, for he had been given a severe and degrading punishment. He had been beaten and, afterwards, as soon as he had ceased to bleed, he was sent to work digging the grave pits in the Akeldama.’
Helewise had no idea what the word meant, but she had no intention of interrupting Hadil when she had only just started.
‘Oh, but there was such a need for graves back then,’ Hadil went on. ‘There was a fine new hospital, built by those knights, but it was already inadequate. The fighting was as fierce as ever and so there were always numerous dead who were taken straight out for burial, and so many died afterwards of their wounds. Also, sick men nursed in close proximity are vulnerable to disease, and many terrible maladies affected those long wards. At the height of summer and in the depths of the winter cold, as many as fifty bodies had to be disposed of daily, and the parsimonious Hospitallers, always unwilling to spend the smallest coin if they could avoid it, preferred to use their own men from the punishment detail rather than employ the local men, who they would have to pay.’
They had taken a vow of poverty, Helewise thought. It was not from choice that they saved money wherever they could.
‘So, there he was, that rogue of a Hospitaller, enduring his punishment,’ Hadil was saying. ‘They said he came from the north, and that was surely correct, for he was considerably taller than my people and fair-haired, and his eyes were blue. The punishment was harsh, but it had not been imposed in retribution for the worst of his crimes, for only a very few people knew about that one.’
‘What did he do?’ Helewise asked.
‘He raped a young woman,’ Hadil replied expressionlessly. ‘Well, she was a girl, in truth, and barely even on the cusp from childhood to womanhood. Her name was Fadila, and that means in our language “virtuous”.’ She smiled wryly. ‘That is so sad, I always think. It was a little time after that terrible deed that he was caught and tried for one of his many other crimes; two or three weeks, perhaps a month. And, in case you were about to ask, I do not know what the other crimes were. He was a thief, I do know that, and probably not unwilling to use his fists and become embroiled in a brawl at the least provocation. Perhaps he had simply taken time off without permission. That, I am told, was quite common.
‘He was digging deep in a hole, sweaty, exhausted and dizzy from the heat, without a drop of water to refresh him,’ Hadil continued. You can’t know that! Helewise thought. But she didn’t say so aloud. She was becoming entranced by the story, and if Hadil was embroidering the plain facts a little, it hardly mattered. ‘Then, all of a sudden, his spade struck something that he knew straight away wasn’t the heavy clay soil. What was it?’ Her eyes rounded and her eyebrows went up, dramatically miming the question. ‘Was it a skull? Had he inadvertently dug into an earlier grave? Mystified, intrigued, he checked that no overseer or senior knight was watching, then swiftly he bent down to investigate.
‘He had uncovered a bag; quite a sizeable bag, made of some sort of thick cloth, heavy with clay deposits. At first he thought that was the only reason for its considerable weight as it lay in his hand. Then, as he gave it a little shake, he realized he was mistaken. Crouching down in the trench, careful not to be seen, he unfastened the drawstrings and peered inside.
‘When he saw what the bag held, he knew he had found something of great value, for, even after he was aware what the contents were, still he was surprised at the weight. It was as if each of the items within was somehow more dense than it ought to have been. “What a concentration of precious metal I have found!” he said to himself, crowing silently as he rejoiced in his skill, his cunning and his luck. He knew better than to take his treasure away with him when at long last work was finished for the day, for the prisoners on the digging detail were routinely searched as they left the burial field.’
‘He went back later?’ Helewise asked.
‘He did,’ Hadil replied. ‘By good fortune, that night marked the end of his week of punishment, and he was released. He returned under cover of darkness to the place where he had been digging earlier, and found his treasure without difficulty. He brushed off the sticky clay and tucked it safely away inside his tunic. Then, keeping to the shadows, he made his escape.
‘He believed himself to be so clever, so cunning!’ Hadil’s eyes narrowed with hatred. ‘He believed himself alone, unobserved. But they were waiting for him. Three men – Fadila’s father, her brother and her cousin, the son of her father’s brother – stood concealed in the darkness. All three were tough, well-built men, and their blood was hot with fury. The honour of striking the first blow went to Fadila’s father, and, while one of the others pinned the rogue knight’s arms behind his back, he bunched up his fists and administered the sort of beating that normally kills a man. But he was fit and strong, that Hospitaller, and, despite a lashing and a week of punishment, he was strong enough to break free from the imprisoning hands and fight back. The four of them were making a gr
eat deal of noise, of course, and soon a guard came hurrying out from his post on the city walls to see what was happening. But his presence, far from calming the men, served only to enrage them further. When the father and son stood still at last, panting, sweating and bleeding, it was to discover the guard, the nephew and the rogue Hospitaller lying dead on the dusty ground.’
‘Three dead?’ Helewise gasped.
‘It surprises you, yes?’ Hadil asked. ‘It surprised the father and his son, too, and, once they came down from the terrible heights of their blood fury, they were aghast at what they had done. “Father, I cannot believe that this has happened!” the son said in a horrified whisper. “What have we done? Where did all that terrible violence come from? Oh, that guard, who only came to investigate the noise, and my poor, poor cousin!” He sobbed.
‘“I do not understand either,” his father muttered. “We came with the intention of only giving that rogue a beating, to make him pay for what he did to Fadila, and you must believe me when I tell you that murder was not in my mind.” His son assured him that he did. “But, just now, when we were fighting, it was as if … as if someone, or something, had taken me over. As if some terrible demon of violence rode me, screaming in my ears to go on, hit harder, kill, kill, kill!”
‘His son nodded. “I do believe you, my father,” he said, “for it was the same for me.”
‘Nevertheless and despite their guilt,’ Hadil continued, a shrewd look on her face, ‘they still decided to search the dead Hospitaller, for they were poor men and could not afford to pass up the opportunity. And so—’ abruptly her expression changed, and now she looked grief-stricken – ‘and so that is what he did, Fadila’s father, and by that simple action of theft, he set into motion the dreadful trail we have had to follow ever since. For he unleashed evil that night. What he took from the rogue Hospitaller should have been re-buried, as swiftly as possible, and the man and his son should have put it from their minds and forgotten all about it.’
‘But they were poor!’ Helewise protested. ‘The temptation was too great.’
‘It was, oh, it was,’ Hadil agreed mournfully. ‘And yet I believe they knew full well that something was wrong. It is always said that the very moment when Fadila’s father first held up the bag of treasure, he realized it was too heavy. And, in addition, he ought to have understood that the treasure was dishonest.’
‘Dishonest?’ It seemed an odd word.
‘Yes! Do you not see? The rogue Hospitaller had only retrieved his treasure a very short time ago, and already it had betrayed him and brought about his death.’ She leaned close to Helewise. ‘It was accursed,’ she whispered. ‘It was so very heavy because it was weighed down with guilt.’
Accursed, Helewise repeated silently. It betrayed him. It was weighed down with guilt. In the comfort and security of the little room, she felt a shiver of dread.
And this evil thing, whatever it was that had been in that bag, was still in the world. It was the reason for Hadil and Faruq’s long, long journey, and for their presence here in England.
‘Quite soon they became uneasy, Fadila’s father and his family,’ Hadil resumed. ‘They felt an inexplicable urge to rid themselves of what they had found, and so they divided the contents of the bag into five separate lots and sold them. For a great deal of money, I might add. From thenceforth, the family’s fortunes improved, and they were never again among the poorest of the city. But what a price was extracted for their new affluence!’ She sighed heavily.
‘Bad things happened around that treasure,’ she went on, not giving Helewise the chance to comment. ‘The rogue Hospitaller was dead within hours of unearthing it. The guard and Fadila’s cousin died with him. And the tale of woe went on, for the taint did not relent, and still the task does not end …’
Her voice trailed off. Helewise realized the old woman was very tired. She put out her hand, gently taking Hadil’s. ‘What a burden you have borne, you and your family,’ she said softly. Hadil’s drooping eyes opened widely again, and she shot a look at Helewise. ‘Of course I know that it’s your own family you speak of,’ she added. ‘It’s obvious from your story, and besides, although you don’t remember, you’ve already told me that it was the men of your great-grandmother’s family who beat the rogue Hospitaller. Fadila was your great-grandmother, wasn’t she?’
Slowly Hadil nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘What became of her?’ Helewise asked.
‘She was fortunate, considering what had been done to her,’ Hadil said, ‘because when she grew up a good man named Zahir was prepared to take her to wife, despite the fact that she had been violently raped and was not a virgin. They had a large family, and she lived to a good age.’
‘And from one of those children, you and Faruq are descended,’ Helewise murmured. ‘And you—’
‘I knew her,’ Hadil interrupted. ‘For the first twelve years of my life, I saw my great-grandmother Fadila at least twice a week, and sometimes more.’
Slowly Helewise nodded. What a powerful woman she must have been, she reflected; not only to have overcome the horror of rape, make a good marriage and produce a family, but also to persuade her descendants that it was up to them to put right the evil their kinsmen had unwittingly released on the world.
‘This is the very last of it,’ Hadil murmured, as if she had followed Helewise’s thoughts. ‘Once Faruq comes back and tells me it is done and he has succeeded, we can go home.’
Then, as if suddenly she had been drained of all energy, she sank back into her pillows. Her eyelids drooped. Helewise, leaving her to sleep, lay down in her own bed and tried to settle, although the vivid images in her mind suggested that might not be easy. She was just going through the tale, trying to commit it to memory so that she would be able to repeat it to Faruq, when very softly Hadil said, ‘Soon, quite soon, I shall tell you the rest.’
Not many moments afterwards, her deep, regular breathing suggested she had fallen into a profound sleep.
SIXTEEN
16 October 1216
The morning on which King John left the derelict convent in the Lincolnshire fenland and set out on his last journey ushered in a truly terrible day.
Josse, riding a little ahead of Yves and Geoffroi and only a rank behind the King, could not begin to understand how John had even managed to clamber up into the saddle, and surely he only remained sitting there by sheer willpower. After only three miles, that willpower failed. Turning to those riding nearest, he muttered something. Josse saw his face and suppressed a gasp, for the King was deathly white – his skin looked almost transparent – and he had bitten his lower lip in an attempt not to cry out.
But he was still the same old John. As the attendants leapt down from their horses and began asking their anxious questions – ‘What is the matter, my lord King? What should we do? How may we help you?’ he silenced them all with a great bellow.
‘I’m sick and in agony, you useless, unobservant bunch of whore’s bastards! I can’t ride another step!’ Then he let himself slide down out of the saddle, slumping on to the ground. The beautiful chestnut gelding, mildly curious, bent his graceful neck and gave his master a nudge, and the luxuriant ginger mane softly brushed the deathly pale face. It was the gentlest of nudges, almost as if the horse was offering sympathy, but nevertheless the King groaned in agony. Josse, hurrying over to see if he could help, saw that John, his eyes screwed closed, was sweating and panting, bent double, a hand to his stomach, and in so much pain that he could barely draw breath.
The King opened his eyes and saw the men clustered anxiously around him. ‘Don’t just stand there staring at me!’ he yelled. ‘Can’t you see what’s needed? Fashion me a litter – I’ll have to be carried. Just for a while,’ he added.
But the men who heard the command scratched their heads, at a loss to know what to do. ‘We haven’t got any wood,’ said one. Yves and Geoffroi, riding up to the little group in the middle of the road, enquired what had happened. Someone mutte
red a terse few words of explanation.
‘We’ll make a cradle,’ Yves said. ‘I’ve seen it done – one of my men at Acquin was charged by a she-boar and her tusk opened his thigh from testicles to knee. We wrapped up the wound to slow the bleeding, then a bright lad cut down two slim willow saplings and tied them together with a blanket. Or we could use a cloak, I suppose, provided it fastened all the way down the front and was made of good, thick fabric.’
Geoffroi, understanding before Josse did what Yves had in mind, drew a strong blade from his pack and ran back down the road to where a small group of willows stood bravely upright against the prevailing wind off the Wash. As he was trimming off the side branches, Josse, comprehension having dawned, said, ‘How do we carry it?’
Yves straightened up from helping Geoffroi. ‘A man at each end of the two willow poles?’
‘Aye, perhaps, but if we made the frame out of four poles rather than two, it’d form a firm square that could be tied between two of the horses.’
‘We’d move faster that way,’ one of the King’s body servants said in a low voice. ‘And we need to reach help as soon as we can.’
The hastily conceived plan was effected and put into practice. The King’s improvised bed, padded out with his men’s spare cloaks and blankets, was hoisted off the ground and secured between two destriers. The horses, however, were uneasy at this strange, unaccustomed load, and the men leading them found them all but impossible to control. The swift but smooth-paced walk that had been envisioned soon proved impossible.
And the King, the cuts on his lip bleeding again from trying not to howl in pain, finally screamed at them to stop. The litter was unfastened and the horses led away. Four of the brawniest men took their places.
