The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

His father strokes his chin. ‘Sir Bottiglio was here earlier this evening with his wife. Lady Bianca is concerned about you. Don’t fall under any evil influence.’

  He looks at me.

  Is there any response that would give him reason to trust me? I am my mother’s daughter. I say nothing.

  ‘The book…’ Luca begins.

  His father rests his hand on Luca’s shoulder. His signet ring shines in the moonlight, the gold outline of a falcon visible from where I stand.

  ‘Say no more about the book, Luca. I wanted you to look after it. At home in San Gimignano. Come with me. There are things you need to learn. Soon you will be introduced to Tancred, Bohemond’s nephew. A more fitting friend than others you’ve found recently.’

  I walk away. The light is dim, my eyes ache, and Luca’s father does not want me here.

  Luca continues to spend time with me, though his father disapproves. Over the next days, as we travel to Dorylaeum, we develop a routine of sharing Orestes, following a dirt path our fellow pilgrims trample down before us.

  Two sevennights pass. The dirt gets into my clothes, my hair, my lungs. Luca buys mirrors we need from pilgrims who no longer have any care what they look like. By day, beneath hoof beats, the earth itself seems to cough up dirt. In the evenings, Luca shakes it from his chainmail.

  One afternoon, a demon’s erratic games lead it between Orestes’ legs and the horse panics, leaping back onto its hind legs and letting out a whinny that’s more like a roar.

  ‘Hold on!’ Luca says, as we slide. I grip his waist more tightly. He pulls the reins and murmurs comfort into Orestes’ twitching ear.

  Gradually, we recover our regular calm pace.

  ‘Could Orestes see the demon?’ I ask.

  Luca gives his horse’s neck another firm pat. ‘They don’t frighten him often. I think they’re mostly just a normal part of his world.’

  We ride on. Passing herbs mentioned in the book’s charms, we pick and tie them into bundles, stowing them in our leather pouches. By night, we read from the book. It reveals its secrets in tantalising morsels, time-consuming to translate. One story is about a mother with an enchantment to conceal her daughter’s beauty from a dangerous world.

  ‘People say I’m ugly,’ I say to Luca one day, as Orestes paces beneath us. We’re both nervous. The news is that we will reach Dorylaeum tomorrow.

  ‘I say you’re lovely,’ Luca says.

  I smile, sadly. I look around and see families marching together. Mothers and fathers. Younger lovers, with their arms wrapped around each other. Beautiful people, plain people, ugly people—all find love. Can I? Perhaps Luca’s idea of beauty is different from the ideas of other people.

  After noon, a passing shadow steals my attention. A group of winged demons, who usually ride behind the humans who own their relics, or drag listlessly on the ground behind horses, have taken to the sky. I have seen their images in the book. They are Keres, demons of war. Immense dragonfly-style wings waving strongly enough to raise a dust-storm, they block the sun. More demons join in, black rags flying behind them, sunlight catching their red eyes and sharp metallic daggers of teeth. Occasionally, they flash past me, trailing the stench of rotting flesh. There are dozens of them, perhaps hundreds.

  Against the western horizon, a line darkens—the Saracen army. The book predicted an ambush at Dorylaeum. Perhaps this was as close as the book could get.

  ‘Saracens!’ I yell.

  A few nearby knights look at me, shocked. But they follow the direction of my outstretched finger and quickly become more alert. I run forwards, warning as many people as I can.

  ‘Saracens!’ I cry. ‘There’s an army coming!’

  ‘Saracens?’ Luca repeats.

  I point. Luca pulls out his ivory horn and blows. Its loud bellow splits the air. Pilgrims turn at the commotion.

  ‘Saracens!’ I shout again.

  Soon other voices take up the cry. ‘Saracens! Saracens!’

  An order reaches us from a distance. ‘Form a circle! Quickly!’

  Other words are spoken and shouted, too loud, too often repeated for me to be sure who says them or from where.

  ‘Send for help!’

  ‘Let the others know!’

  ‘We’ll be safer on the marshland! Take the women, take the horses!’

  ‘Women and animals to the centre! Knights circle them, ready to fight!’

  Around us, demons have burst into flurries of gleeful excitement, spinning in the air. Only Luca and I can see them, but others are aware of shadows, unfamiliar at this bright time of day. They look up uncertainly at the sky.

  ‘Luca, let Suzan ride behind you. Take her into the circle of women,’ Luca’s father insists, riding up behind us.

  I quietly accept the hand Luca offers. Everyone is panicking. Luca’s skin is reassuringly warm and alive.

  As we ride into the middle of a rapidly organising circle, shouts and war cries sound, further afield. Then screams, as the first of our group fall victim to a shower of arrows. I watch Mattiolas run out to join the fray. He yells a battle cry as he draws his sword.

  Luca pauses, ready for me to climb off Orestes, but I grasp his arm. ‘Don’t leave me here, Luca. Don’t go.’

  Luca leaps off his charger and, turning, lifts me after him. ‘I have no choice, Suzan. You heard what happened to the women in the earlier group. I can only look after you by keeping Saracens away.’

  Tears fill my eyes as Luca rides off to the place where his father waits. If only I had a sword myself!

  Orestes stills behind a wall of shields. Luca’s spear stands as straight and unwavering as the others. I already know him so well. It’s bravery that keeps him strong and still. He knows how dangerous this is.

  War.

  Archers, safe behind that wall of shields, aim their bows over the pilgrim knights. Their arrows fall on the first row of Saracens, who scatter, but only briefly. Soon the Saracen ranks reform and their attack resumes.

  All becomes madness; madness, and the clink and clatter of swords, and the bellowing of men, and the screaming of horses. The air is alive with javelins and the ground shakes with the thumping of horse hoofs and quarterstaffs. I can’t stop staring, or wondering if dark-haired and bearded Franks are being slain by fellow pilgrims, because it’s so hard to tell who is who: lances with their identifying banners are soon broken or abandoned, and shields are soon bloody and mud-covered. The rounded Saracen helmets aren’t so very different from our own knights’ more angled ones.

  High above, cords stretched thin, demons behave as though at a wild party, dancing and swooping and patting each other on the back with great thumps of their leathery, jointed wings. They swoop as if to join in, raking their clawed feet along knights’ backs and arms.

  Keres hover over the battlefield. Their numbers grow as the fighting intensifies: the Saracens bring more with them. And Keres aren’t all they bring. Saracens travel with the same variety of demons as us.

  I join other women and children sheltering behind the carts. The men form a circle wide enough to protect us from the furthest reach of arrows. A little girl walks outside the circle of horses, crying for her father while a grinning demon touches her face, licking her tears.

  ‘Come back!’ I call, but she doesn’t hear me. Her brown curls move further away, closer to danger. Arrows split the air around her while she wails.

  ‘What’s her name?’ I ask the others near me, but no one answers.

  ‘Call her back!’ I yell. But if anyone yells, there’s too much other noise to hear them.

  In desperation, I stand. An arrow pierces the marshy soil just a body length away from the girl.

  I look up. A wave of Saracen knights pushes closer. More arrows land near us in a cloud like particles in a dust-storm.

  I duck and scramble to the girl. I’ve nearly reached her when from nowhere appears a large knight, one of ours, the red cross bright on his chest. He spins suddenly, revealing red on his back too, around the
shaft of an arrow. He’s been shot. He collapses.

  Dead? He must be. He’s so still.

  I have never seen violent or young death before.

  A tall young man in a metallic cape comes to stand beside the fallen knight. He leans over him as though to share his breath. I’m stunned. This must be Thanatos. Luca didn’t tell me how beautiful he is.

  The child collapses to her hands and knees. She’s seen the dead man and given up calling for her father. Her little face is pale and exhausted. I can’t give up on her. Turning away from the strange iron-caped knight, I drop lower as well.

  ‘Come to me!’ I call. ‘Come here! Crawl!’

  She hears at last, and turns to me. She has brown hair and blue eyes. Two lines of pale skin are visible in the dust covering her face. The tracks of tears. She doesn’t move. An arrow shrieks through the air and buries its tip in the ground a hand-span from her head.

  I have no choice. I run to the girl, grabbing her around the waist and hauling her into the air.

  I turn and run back to the women gathered beyond bowshot distance of the battle. Any moment, I expect the sudden punch and shock of an arrow puncturing my own back.

  As soon as I can, I reach the horses. To be uninjured is a miracle. I lay the girl down and examine her carefully, half-suspecting an arrow aimed at me might have got her instead. She lies quite still, shocked, but her eyes are open.

  ‘Do you hurt anywhere?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. I sit down on the ground beside her and take her hand. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  After a long moment, she says, softly, ‘I’m Claudine.’

  ‘Claudine,’ I repeat. ‘That’s a pretty name. You’ll be all right now, Claudine.’

  We’re in a tight circle of women, children, old men and horses. Surrounding us are many rings of foot soldiers and knights, facing outwards and ready to do what they must to protect us.

  ‘Did you see anything?’ asks a woman near me. ‘When you were getting the girl?’

  I shake my head. I don’t want to say what I saw. Over the hills and plains surrounding us, Saracens roar towards us like a black river of death. Far above their dark armour, javelins and swords, demons soar. They look overjoyed, like starving people at a feast. This was what the book warned. Demons live on human suffering.

  Arrows whistle in the distance. I hear the clanking sounds of sword striking sword. I’m surrounded by women and children who cross themselves and pray. Luca and his father are out there somewhere. I pray they’re safe. Faint screams tell of suffering and death.

  Demons above us circle like vultures. How many battles might they watch over like this?

  ‘Have you any dresses?’ a woman asks me.

  It’s Drucia, Lady Bianca’s maid. Standing behind a nearby stallion, she starts tearing off her clothing. When all she has left on is her white tunic, she pulls a blue floral scarf around her shoulders and combs fingers through the knots in her hair.

  ‘Have you got a dress with you?’ she asks. ‘Something pretty?’

  Has battle maddened her? I shake my head.

  ‘If you wear a veil, they won’t know how ugly you are,’ she says. ‘Show a breast instead. Take their attention away from your face.’

  I feel my mouth fall open. ‘Why?’

  ‘Saracens,’ she says. ‘If you look pretty, you have a chance.’

  ‘You want to sell yourself to a Saracen?’

  ‘I want to live.’

  I look around. The sun is noticeably lower in the sky than when alarm was first raised. No one has thought to ring a bell but it must be past time for afternoon prayers. There are still cries and grunts and the clash of metal upon metal—sword against sword, mace against shield—from the battlefield.

  Drucia pinches her cheeks to draw colour, and adjusts her scarf to what must be intended to be a fetching angle.

  ‘Our own knights can win this battle,’ I say to her. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘I won’t die if I don’t have to. Here. I don’t have much but you can take this.’

  She passes me a length of red ribbon. The charm, I think, and then, I don’t want to die.

  ‘Luca de Falconi,’ I hear a rough voice beside me say.

  It’s the black priest. Ramberti. The one who’s helping Thanatos with his charm.

  What does he want with Luca?

  ‘Girl, you hear me.’

  Dumbfounded, I nod while I push the ribbon into my tunic pocket.

  ‘I know you’re a friend of Luca’s, ugly nun. I want you to tell me where his belongings are.’

  I point at the nearest skirmish. ‘Out there,’ I say. ‘He took them with him.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Twenty-three moons

  DORYLAEUM

  Luca

  A Saracen runs towards me on his horse. He has lost his helmet and his hair flows behind him like a black flag. His eyes are wild, his teeth bared. It’s his death or mine…

  My fencing instructor said stabbing a man feels like stabbing a joint of meat. Back at home, he got me to practise with sides of beef from our butchered cattle.

  I let out a roar and meet the Saracen’s sword thrust. Orestes’ feet turn effortlessly. He’s practised for this all his life too. Those practice carcasses didn’t prepare me for the horror of this moment. Stabbing a man does not feel like stabbing a joint of meat. Stabbing a man feels like committing the most terrible sin even a demon could imagine. My sword throbs with the Saracen’s death, as though his soul moved from his body into the metal.

  And when the throbbing stops, I’m profoundly shocked. Another Saracen attacks and I defeat him. And another one. Their deaths are no easier for me to endure than the first.

  We’ve been fighting for hours and are tiring. Even Sir Tancred is on the field, fighting beneath the banner of his uncle, Bohemond of Taranto. And what is that demon soaring above us, dragging bits of itself through the sky behind it like a pauper dragging rags? What are they? Hundreds of great winged demons circle the battlefield, swooping over suffering knights.

  What are they doing? I move forwards, as though pulled by my sword. Are they drinking blood? I see one, wings folded neatly down its back like those of a bird at rest, as it leans over a young knight.

  ‘Away!’ I look up. Thanatos is walking through the fray.

  The winged creature sees him and backs off.

  Thanatos inclines his head. ‘This knight is mine,’ he says. ‘Seek your feed elsewhere.’

  The other demon squawks and spreads its wings.

  Hearing rattling behind me, I turn. Another Saracen has nearly reached me. His sword is outstretched, ready to strike. I’m just one moment away from becoming food for a battlefield demon.

  I wield my own sword with practised speed. The Saracen’s blade fights mine off. He pushes me back. A flick of his sword and he slices through my thigh.

  White heat. Despite a life with swords, I never realised how agonising a cut can feel. My leg might be on fire. I look down. I’m covered in blood, but it’s oozing, not pumping. The injury isn’t fatal, despite the pain. I ignore it and keep fighting.

  Evidently, this knight has spent as much time in training as I have. He lunges and parries. In turn, each of us gains a little blood-muddied ground, then loses it.

  All my steps are through dirt and blood-reddened mud. Saracens are as human as I am, their blood as red as mine, their fear of death as great. Demons enjoy their deaths as much as ours.

  Eventually, I find my luck. The Saracen missteps and stumbles. I lunge forwards with a mighty roar. Another death. I’m revolted, saddened, appalled. And soon, I’m busy with another enemy.

  Oh God, I have killed men. No wonder I seem to see Thanatos so often. Another Saracen attacks me with a mace. He’s younger than me and defending his home—would I not fight like this? Am I to die, as well?

  An image of Suzan’s dark hair.

  The memory of how sweet it smells in sunshine.

  I don’t w
ant to die.

  Around me, the marshland is littered with the dead and the wounded, and with demons drinking their life and pain. I use my sword to take terrible pity on a Saracen knight screaming in agony, blood pulsing from his mangled thigh. Maces are designed to break bones even when struck through chainmail.

  I fight pain myself—in my hand, where my sword has raised blisters, and in my thigh, which I bind with a strip of linen before returning to the fight.

  Blood.

  Perhaps I only imagine I’m upright and still fighting, perhaps that is me over there, half sunk into watery ground, eyes glazing over. Throat severed. Demon food.

  Blood.

  ‘Luca!’ It’s Father’s voice. Comforting and near.

  I turn to see him.

  There’s so much gore on his chainmail, it could be deliberately painted on. Another smear of blood runs down his cheek, hastily wiped from his eyes. I’ve heard tales of Father’s military prowess, but never seen him on the battlefield. Despite my exhaustion, I swell with pride.

  ‘Luca!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t tire! Remember where you are! Turn!’

  I turn. Father jumps quickly. A Saracen is running towards me, slaughter in his eyes.

  Father lunges, and savagely crunches his sword blade against the Saracen’s armour. The Saracen turns, winded, looking up. This is exactly what Father needed. He raises his sword again and brings it through the air, cleanly through the Saracen’s neck. Blood spurts from his headless body as it sinks to the ground.

  Father wipes blood from his face with the leather part of his glove. ‘Luca, you need to retreat for a while. This is your first battle. You’re no use when you’re this tired.’

  I can’t be more tired than Father. He’s not a young man. I also can’t stay and argue. He needs his full attention to be on what he’s doing. I back away, allowing him to believe I’m following his advice. A Saracen runs at him, sword raised, and Father turns with a roar, stabbing that Saracen right through his heart.

  I walk on, exhaustion settling over me like fog. Left, right, left, right, through the bloody mud.

  Suddenly, arms seize me from behind. I yell and struggle, but I’m held so tight I can’t breathe. A blade feels cold against my throat. I close my eyes and pray Father isn’t watching. I wait for steel to pierce my skin—and for death.