‘Do you see him?’ I whisper to Mattiolas.
‘See who?’
The stranger turns and walks back to us. His lips move as he walks, like he’s reciting something under his breath. As he moves, a mysterious thing happens. Although the crowd had largely ignored him when he first walked past, so he seemed to weave around and through groups of them, now people move aside for him, as though they can see him for the first time.
‘Him,’ I say, nodding in the stranger’s direction.
Mattiolas frowns. ‘He came from nowhere.’
The stranger reaches us. He sees me looking at him and he stops. Our eyes lock.
‘You see me,’ he says. ‘You saw me, before…’
I nod.
‘Follow me. Just you. Not your…friend.’
I turn to Mattiolas, puzzled. ‘Wait for me. I’ll come back.’
I follow the stranger past a low screen. He pauses behind a pillar and turns to face me. Once again I’m struck by the brilliance of his eyes.
‘I want to know how you see me,’ he says.
‘I want to know that, too.’
‘You don’t know?’ He tips his head to the side, golden curls brushing his shoulders. ‘You are just a mortal.’
‘I want to know who someone is,’ I add.
He narrows his strange copper eyes. ‘Who?’
I turn. The iron-caped knight isn’t too far away.
‘The man in the cape.’
The beautiful stranger barely moves his eyes before he laughs. ‘Him? You want his name?’ he demands. ‘That’s a powerful question for a human. And tell me, what do you know about names?’
The stranger talks about humans as though he isn’t one. What else could he be? Are there beautiful demons as well as ugly ones?
‘I know the names of demons are powerful,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘You know about demons? What sort of powerful?’
‘This feels like a trick question.’ I have to guess. ‘What types of power are there? The power of control.’
The smile leaves the golden stranger’s face and a shadow enters his eyes. It makes the day seem darker, but it means I gave the right answer. ‘You’ve earned the price of my name. I’m Percy,’ he says.
‘Sir Percy,’ I murmur.
His contours don’t sway as Tutivillus’s did when I said his name. There’s no suggestion of power moving in the air between us. I know Percy hasn’t been completely honest with me and that there’s more to this than he’s admitting.
‘I want to know his name,’ I say. ‘The man in the metallic cape.’
Percy laughs. ‘You know what?’ he says. ‘I’m going to tell you. Not because you deserve to know. Not because you asked nicely. But because I want to see what you do with this piece of knowledge. It’s dangerous. His name is Thanatos.’
Should I believe him? ‘Thanatos,’ I murmur, under my breath.
A breeze blows up, cold and harsh against my ankles, my knees, gustier as it circles my hips and torso, only dissipating as it rushes through my hair, separating the strands from my scalp. Thanatos pauses for a moment then shakes his shoulders and continues on his way.
It’s true. The iron-caped knight’s name is Thanatos. His name is powerful. And I no longer believe he’s simply a man.
‘He’s one of us,’ Percy says. ‘But you! Just a mortal. You’re so unexpected. I’m glad we met. This could be fun.’
‘Are you glad enough to answer one more question?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What does he want?’
‘That’s too much information. I’ll tell you what he wants today. He wants Alexios to let him take all these relics to Jerusalem.’
In the evening after vespers, camp business continues. Near shared fires, women organise food. Children play games in the dirt. Knightly training continues for many young men, who challenge each other in javelin throwing, wrestling and quarterstaff fighting. I sit outside our red and gold tent, telling Father about Constantinople: the opulent palace exterior promising hidden grandeur within; churches that might have dropped from the sky like golden hail; mosaics of precious stones and metal replicating fully dimensional creation. I describe the eunuchs who guard the palaces and sing in the choir at St Sophia. It’s the abundance of holy relics that brings a frown to Father’s face.
‘A city that turns to icons and graven images should not ask for help against Saracens,’ he says.
That night I toss and turn as though the Levantine soil is the Theodora’s deck. Thanatos. The man or demon who will kill Father. Percy said Thanatos wants to take more of these relics to Jerusalem. Thanatos wasn’t successful. The relics were still there when we left St Sophia. Things don’t always go his way. Is there a way I can use my new knowledge to protect Father? I go for a walk to clear my mind.
Thanatos is outside. I see him so soon after I leave our tent that it’s as though I’ve conjured him from my own imagination. Still draped in his long cape, he approaches Ramberti’s green and silver pavilion-sized tent. Two of Ramberti’s guards are asleep outside. I wait for Thanatos to enter the tent, but instead he leans over one of those sleeping guards. While I watch, Thanatos closes his mouth over the man’s mouth. He leans back, apparently inhaling the guard’s breath.
A thread forms, shimmering between them like the cords connecting demons to relics. Thanatos leans and sucks. The knight drifts further and further into sleep. Eventually, Thanatos backs off. The guard slumps to one side, the threads gradually losing their shine until they disappear.
What has happened? Is the guard dead?
Thanatos stands and walks away. No one moves out of his way or acknowledges him at all. I’m the only one who can see him, unless he wants to be seen.
Thanatos is a demon. He killed that man. And Ramberti is responsible for this. I remember the earlier conversation between the priest and the life-sucking Thanatos. I’m sure Ramberti made a deal that gave away the life of his knight.
I race into Father’s tent and shake him awake. He runs his fingers over his chin as he pulls himself into a sitting position and listens.
‘Luca, you can’t have seen this,’ he says, gravely.
‘You must believe me!’
‘Think about what you’re saying! Ramberti is our priest, a man of God. You’re saying he has a friend who murders men by stealing their breath. It can’t be true, Luca.’
‘You should believe me! I’m your son!’
He tips his head to the side and sighs sadly. I slap my own thigh in frustration. Until I took those vows, he had been getting past the exorcism, and was starting to trust me again.
‘Do you need to see the body yourself?’ I demand.
At this suggestion, Father’s sadness changes back into alarm. He seizes my arm. ‘Luca, we stay here where it’s safe!’
‘I need to tell someone!’
Father holds firm. ‘For my sake, Luca, you cannot speak of this. If you do, and the man is dead, it will be too easy for the blame to be placed upon you.’
In the darkness, we’re watched by pairs of red eyes.
We aren’t safe here, I want to tell Father. We aren’t safe anywhere. There’s a whole order of creation opposed to us.
I sleep eventually. Father and Narlo are both gone when I wake. It’s dark—not yet time for matins. I dreamed someone was screaming…
No. Someone is screaming, and not far away.
I grab my sword and race from the tent.
Behind the next tent, Narlo’s hauberk and chausses have been thrown into a careless heap. His arm is twisted around the waist of Drucia, Lady Bianca’s maid. Drucia’s cheeks are pink and her eyes wide.
‘No!’ she says, as Narlo presses a kiss onto the skin beneath her throat. She pushes his leather-clad chest, but Narlo is stronger. He pulls her tightly against him, the ligaments of her neck stretching white as she tries to push away. I remember the afternoon that Narlo assaulted Gemma. How many girls has he attacked?
‘Let her g
o!’ I yell. My sword rasps as I wrench it from its sheath.
Around us, demons spring into action. A small one, tethered to a knight’s saddle, flies as far from it as possible, whispering the news to a skinny green demon tethered to another knight’s discarded boot. The boot demon’s eyes glow red as it leans into an open tent where a large demon dozes beside St Anne of the Hills’ skeleton hand. Demons continue to laugh and spread the news of a fight, as far as they can.
Narlo turns, his face white. In his surprise, he lets Drucia go. She steps away, panting. Her bodice is ripped.
‘Luca,’ Narlo says, sneering. ‘Go away.’
‘I’m the future Conte de Falconi.’ I raise myself to my full height. Perhaps he doesn’t realise I’m nearly as tall as him. ‘I’ll be the head of our family. And I order you to leave this woman alone.’
Narlo grabs for the girl again, but she’s too quick and runs away. His face reddens as he strides to me. ‘You cost me my fun!’ He pays no more attention to my sword than he would to a stick of bread. ‘You need to stop getting in my way.’
‘I forbid you to treat her like that.’
Narlo pushes the tip of my sword aside with his fingertips. ‘Drucia has let me do plenty already. And I can’t wait to get to know your sister better too.’ I shake with fury. Gemma’s image floats before me, dressed in her simple white tunic, with field blossoms threaded through her hair.
‘Meet me in the jousting field at sun-up!’
‘You don’t have the courage.’
‘It’s your courage we’ll be testing!’
I stride to the field where Orestes grazes. I’ve beaten Narlo many times in practice matches. I go over these memories as the horizon turns pink. Desi arrives to attend to Orestes.
‘Sir Luca, would you like him saddled?’
‘I’ll look after that. I need you to fetch me my chainmail and shield.’
Narlo arrives to look after his own horse. His stupid and rotund friend, Sir Oderisi of Genoa, will act as his squire, and jeers from the jousting field.
‘Here’s Narlo’s baby cousin!’
‘Already here to practise falling off his horse!’ Narlo adds.
News of a fight has spread quickly. Knights who rose for matins come to the field instead. Demons dart and scurry underfoot, some pulling relics behind them. To a demon-blind eye, it must look like those loose strips of parchment or cast-off rags are caught in a stray breeze.
We are prepared before the sun is completely clear of the horizon. In his chainmail and leather, Narlo looks much larger than me. He has the breadth and swagger of a man who’s been fighting for twenty years. ‘Get ready for pain!’ he jeers.
I nod at Desi and leap onto Orestes. The charger’s grace looks effortless, despite the weight of his chainmail. ‘I’ll let my lance do the talking.’
Sir Oderisi looks after Narlo’s lance and shield while Narlo mounts his horse. Narlo and I turn to face each other. Our horses snort and a hush descends over the hastily gathered audience. Even the demons seem to quieten.
I lean forwards, Orestes’ strength and eagerness powerfully reinforcing my own as I raise my lance into the proper position.
We charge.
Narlo leans to his side; I lean to mine. In a grating metallic crash, two lances connect with two shields. The collision sends a shock of pain vibrating up the length of my arm and into my shoulder. I turn, just in time to see Narlo’s lance shatter.
I can’t believe it. Our lances were forged in the same fire. I’ve never seen one destroyed like this before.
The breakage doesn’t hold Narlo back for long. He casts the ruined weapon onto the ground and leaps off his horse. I pat Orestes firmly on the neck as I dismount. He whinnies, disappointed, when Desi comes to take him away.
Sorry, Orestes. We’ll take a walk later on.
Narlo quickly unsheathes his sword. I step backwards and nearly stumble. The nearest demon throws back his feather-tufted head and lets out a low ‘Whoop!’
I face Narlo, each of us waiting for the other to attack. Like in a dance, our feet carve a circle into the muddy earth. Narlo strikes first. Catching the morning sun, his sword flashes gold like lightning.
I deflect the blow and keep my sword raised.
‘Halt!’ The voice, rich with authority, comes from nowhere.
Startled, I spin on the balls of my feet, sword still raised.
Just behind the gate to the jousting yard, Raymond of Toulouse, instantly recognisable by the patch he wears over one eye, has ridden up on his black charger, accompanied by four knights in heavy chainmail.
I lower myself into a deep bow, aware of Narlo beside me doing the same.
‘Who authorised this joust?’ Raymond demands. I can tell from the confident angle of his head and the proud jut of his chin that he’s unaware of the demon riding behind him. Dark grey with a hint of glowing green, and tethered to the chainmail coif covering Raymond’s head, it stares around the gathering as well.
‘Who are these two men?’ Raymond asks his human companions.
‘Men?’ one scoffs, pulling off Narlo’s helmet. ‘Children. This is the de Falconi boy.’
‘Onorato’s son?’ Raymond asks.
Narlo scowls. ‘His nephew.’
‘I’m the Conte’s son.’ I take off my own helmet. My face feels hot. ‘Your highness,’ I add.
The Prince rides over to peer at me more closely. ‘Look at me.’
I look up, ashamed of being caught like this.
‘Did you not hear my command last sevennight? Did you not hear Bishop Adhemar’s command for peace among pilgrims?’
‘I—’
Raymond raises one imperious hand. ‘I won’t listen to excuses. To disobey Adhemar is to disobey the Pope. And this happened now, when you should be at matins prayers! You have led these others astray with your foolishness. There will be consequences for this. You’ll hear from your father when I’ve decided what these should be.’
One of Raymond’s messengers is leaving Father’s tent by the time I have unsaddled Orestes and returned. Father looks tired and grey and old. He should be at our villa, looking after olive groves and beehives, not obeying the orders of princes and listening to stories about my disobedience. He looks at me.
‘Narlo was abusing Lady Bianca’s servant,’ I begin. ‘I’ve seen him like that before—’
Father interrupts me. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ he says. ‘I’m shocked by your behaviour. But this is not the only news I’ve received this morning. We need to talk about what happened last night.’
Thanatos, I remember. ‘They found the dead man?’
‘Luca, it’s not safe for you here.’
‘It’s too late to send me back! I’ve sworn to be part of this!’
He closes his eyes for a long moment. ‘You’ll still be part of our campaign, Luca. But you’ll be away for a while. Narlo has lost his lance. That’s a serious consequence for him. Meanwhile, a message must be taken to Christian communities nearby. They’ve been worried about Saracens for a long while and need to know help is coming.’
‘You want me to be a messenger? I’m a knight!’
‘A messenger and translator. You excel in Latin and in Greek. Your skills are needed.’
‘If I can’t travel with you, I’ll ride with Mattiolas.’
Father shakes his head. ‘You can’t disobey Prince Raymond, Luca. Or Bishop Adhemar. He’s heard of you now and decided you should go. Vox ecclesia, vox dei. The voice of the church is the voice of God. You are to take a message to Goreme.’
Narlo’s Invidia demon might have been whispering envy into my ear as well. Mattiolas is off to Nicea while I’m off to deliver parchment. Before mid-morning prayers, Father tells me that, in order to travel quickly, all I’ll have is my sword, shield and bow. I won’t even be properly armed. Desi as my banner man will carry my sole flag on a spear, and it will be the banners of Adhemar and the red and white pilgrimage flags, not my own. This is real disgrace
.
Mattiolas approaches me in the horse yard. I find it hard to face him. The sun is shining and when I close my eyes it feels like home. I should be in a Tuscan vineyard.
‘I should fight it,’ I say. ‘I should refuse to go.’
Mattiolas tries to find the positive in my mission. ‘There might be a way to make money from this,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll come with you.’
I turn to him, open mouthed. ‘What about riches in Nicea?’
Mattiolas waves this away. ‘I want adventure! I’ll come with you, Luca. There might be riches that way, too.’
There’s a whisper somewhere, harsh and alarmed. I raise a finger over my lips to alert Mattiolas. All around us, normal conversation stills as people realise something’s going on. Demons who travel with us have picked up on the excitement too. They swing around screeching and beating their tough, rubbery wings.
‘Saracens!’ someone cries.
I shield my eyes and peer into the distance. A vast group of horsemen darkens the horizon. We’re under attack!
‘Pull together!’ comes the shout from somewhere up ahead.
The line of Saracens stretches as more enemy soldiers arrive. The first of our archers and knights on horseback move into a practised formation. Mattiolas and I run back to our tents to collect our armour so we can join the others.
Saracens wave bows and swords in the air, then, in unison, fit arrows to their shafts and pull back on their strings. We raise shields overhead, forming the best defence we can manage.
They fire. Trained for this, we hold our ground.
Arrows fall from the sky like a shower, reaching the bare ground between our armies. The Saracens are more than a bowshot away, too far to do us any damage.
‘It’s just a show of strength,’ Father says, coming up behind us. ‘The Saracens want us to go home. They’re letting us know they could attack, if they wanted.’
‘Do you still want me to take that message?’ I ask. Perhaps he’ll realise I’ll be in more danger on my own.
‘We’re servants of the Princes, Luca. Bishop Adhemar included. Neither of us has the choice. Come. The grooms are packing our ships. We leave to cross the Bosphorus before noon tomorrow. On the other side, you’ll start your own journey.’
The Book of Whispers Page 9
