by Paul Doherty
Grandison pointed to a group of men dressed in brown leather jackets lounging on the starboard side of the ship, just near the forecastle.
‘They’ll be useful too,’ he said. ‘They are Cheshire archers, master bowmen.’
Sir Godfrey smiled and said that was enough and, leaving Alexander to regain his sea legs, went below decks to converse with Dame Edith.
The Star of the Sea proved to be a fine craft and Grandison a most skilful sailor. By dusk the following evening, they had sighted Whitby’s soaring cliffs and the large abbey on its summit. At Sir Godfrey’s request, three officers and two of the archers took a dinghy and rowed into the harbour. Returning two hours later they whispered to their captain, who took Sir Godfrey and Mcbain down to Dame Edith’s cabin.
‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ Grandison began, leaning against the door and watching the simple leather lantern swing on its hook. ‘Your fugitives have been seen. In fact one of them is well known in these parts – Andrew Melbray, a priest. He was with five others, one a dark hooded stranger who never showed his face. They did business in the taverns along Whitby’s quayside and hired a fishing smack with a crew of four to take them across the northern sea. They left early this afternoon.’
‘You’ll pursue them?’ Dame Edith asked.
‘I’ll pursue them,’ Grandison replied, ‘but the weather’s changing.’
‘You mean storms?’
‘No, not storms, fog. It’s already thickening. We have to go carefully. There are hidden sandbanks in these waters and we are pursuing a craft manned by people who know this sea and its cruel tricks.’ Grandison paused. ‘These aren’t common criminals, are they? I mean, for you to commandeer a king’s warship?’
‘No, they are not,’ Sir Godfrey declared. ‘And, Master Grandison, you may see things that chill your blood. But do your best, not only on your loyalty to the king, but for the good of your eternal soul!’
Grandison looked surprised, but merely shrugged and went back on deck. They heard him shout orders. The anchor was raised and the ship moved slowly out to sea.
Alexander went up on deck, drawing his cloak tightly about him. Tendrils of mist were seeping across the ship, giving it a ghostly, eerie aspect. Alexander shivered. He was confident that they would catch up with the Strigoi and he felt, deep in his heart, that all his life had been a preparation for that dreadful meeting. He went below decks, gagging and retching at the fetid, sour smell but lay down, closed his eyes and said his prayers until he fell asleep. Sir Godfrey shook him awake with a bowl of hot oats and a cup of strong wine. After that he joined the knight on deck and felt a thrill of apprehension as he saw the ship prepared for battle: the catapults were being uncovered and archers stood ready on the sterncastle, in the rigging and on the forecastle. Look-outs were high on all three masts.
Daylight came as full as it could in the mist, which boiled thick as steam from a cauldron. Alexander was about to go back down to Dame Edith’s cabin when he heard one of the look-outs shout.
‘Sail! To the north-east! Not far!’
‘How can you tell?’ Grandison shouted back through his speaking trumpet.
‘The mist cleared, captain, just for a while, but there’s a fishing smack! It’s not moving!’
‘What do you mean?’ Grandison shouted back.
‘I can’t see!’ the look-out roared. ‘Yes, yes, I can! The fog’s cleared again! It’s gone aground on one of the sandbanks!’
Grandison turned and grinned at the clerk.
‘I’ve found your quarry!’
Chapter 2
The captain rapped out orders; somewhere a drum began to sound, beating to quarters. Sailors rushed around, their bare feet slapping the wet decks, jostling and shoving Sir Godfrey and McBain aside. Dame Edith heard the excitement and came to the top of the steps leading from her cabin. Surprisingly, the mist began to break. Sir Godfrey went below and brought up his and the clerk’s weapons.
‘Come on, Alexander!’ he said. ‘We have to fight the good fight. These sailors cannot go on board that ship. We must!’
The Star of the Sea edged forward. Now and again the mist would break and they would catch a glimpse of the sea, even of faint sunlight, then it would close in again like a curtain, leaving Grandison and his officers to curse. Dame Edith leaned against the rail, hands clasped, staring into the fog banks. Alexander could see she was fervently praying. Then, as if in answer to her prayer, the mist cleared. They were in open sea and, half a mile away, a low-slung fishing smack, its one sail furled, bobbed and turned as if trapped by some giant underwater hand.
Sir Godfrey and McBain joined Dame Edith at the rail. Grandison came up behind them.
‘Can’t you get any closer?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
Grandison shrugged. ‘I dare not, sir. The fishing smack could easily break free but a ship of this size might be trapped and then pounded to pieces by the sea.’ Grandison turned and hailed the look-out. ‘What can you see?’
‘Nothing, sir. It looks deserted.’
‘Oh, Lord, no!’ Dame Edith breathed. ‘Don’t say they have abandoned it. Perhaps they met another ship out at sea?’
‘The boat’s gone!’ the look-out shouted down.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Grandison asked.
‘Burn the fishing boat!’ Dame Edith snapped.
‘No!’ Sir Godfrey breathed. ‘We can’t do that. God knows, there may be innocents on board and we have to make sure. Captain, I want your boat launched!’
‘I’ll come with you!’ Grandison declared.
‘No, sir, you won’t. The boat can only take six people. I want one of your best archers and two seamen to row us across.’
‘Are you all going?’ Grandison asked quietly.
‘Yes,’ Dame Edith replied before the knight could open his mouth. ‘All three of us began this, all three of us must be in at the end.’
Grandison shrugged, clapped his hands and shouted his orders. The boat was lowered and a rope ladder dropped down the ship’s side. Two sailors clambered down into the boat. Sir Godfrey went next then Dame Edith, carrying a flask of oil, assisted by Alexander. They were followed down by a wiry little man, his monkey face sun-tanned, his toothless mouth gaping in a grin. He reminded Alexander of a court jester; nevertheless, the longbow the fellow carried, the quiver of goose-feather-tipped arrows and the leather wrist brace proclaimed him to be a bowman. The small boat bobbed on the waves. Alexander’s stomach heaved. He wanted to retch; the sea rose on either side and the Star of the Sea now seemed like a haven of comfort.
‘God be with you!’ Grandison shouted, his words snatched away by the wind.
Sir Godfrey, sitting in the prow, nodded acknowledgement.
‘Pull!’ he ordered.
The two oarsmen began to row, the muscles of their shoulders and necks rippling as they leaned over the oars, chanting some doggerel verse to maintain the rhythm of their dipping oars. Alexander sat in the stern and put his arm around the exorcist. She felt so thin and frail, yet the tension thrilled in her body. The monkey-faced archer watched both of them curiously. He must have caught their fear for, by the time they reached the trapped fishing smack, his seemingly perpetual smile was beginning to fade.
The fishing boat, a narrow, swift-looking craft with a jutting prow and small stem, was low in the water. Sir Godfrey noticed that the sail was neatly furled but there seemed to be no sign of life on deck, empty except for mounds of canvas. The oarsmen brought their boat alongside, bobbing and crashing against the fishing smack. Alexander looked down and, through the swirling waters, saw faint traces of the sandbank.
‘We can’t stay here!’ one of the oarsmen shouted over the grinding of wood against wood and the noise of the wind-whipped waves. ‘The sandbank will trap us and the waves batter us against the smack.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Sir Godfrey shouted back, his eyes now bright with the light of battle. ‘Put me on deck, then stand off!’
‘No, you won’t!’
Alexander roared. ‘I’m coming with you!’
‘And so am I!’ Dame Edith stood up, swaying perilously in the boat. ‘Either I go on board or into the sea!’
The sailors were now shouting at them to hurry. Sir Godfrey shrugged and clambered over the side of the fishing smack, making sure his sword did not obstruct his movements. He leaned over and helped Dame Edith, then the monkey-faced archer gave a hand to Alexander and all three were aboard. They were soaked, their faces whipped by the wind, gasping for breath as the boat pulled away leaving them to stare around the silent deck of the fishing boat. They saw heaps of canvas, pieces of rope, lobster pots made out of wicker and leather buckets full of brine, but nothing seemed out of place.
‘Nothing,’ Sir Godfrey growled, drawing his sword. ‘Let’s go below!’
They edged their way forward. The fishing boat moved slightly, creaking as the waves lapped against its timbers. Now and again it gave a judder as if trying to break free from the ensnaring sandbank. Sir Godfrey started down the ladder that led to the tiny cabin. He wrinkled his nose at the sour, fetid smell that came up to him. But there was something else – a foulness that caught at his throat. He felt his way down the slippery steps. The light was poor but he glimpsed a fat, tallow candle on an iron spigot in the centre of a table bolted to the deck. He took a tinder and struck it a number of times until the flame caught and the candle flared into life. By this time Alexander and Dame Edith had followed him down.
‘God have mercy!’ Alexander breathed.
He stared at the corpses of the four fishermen, their throats slashed from ear to ear, eyes half-open, mouths gaping. They had been thrown like refuse, sprawling in grotesque positions, their blood giving the swilling sea water a scarlet froth.
‘Murder again!’ Dame Edith whispered. ‘I can feel the horror in the air. More innocent lives!’
Sir Godfrey held up his hand. The ship suddenly creaked and they heard the faint shouts of the oarsmen who had brought them over. Dame Edith cocked her head slightly and shivered.
‘Someone’s on deck!’ she said hoarsely. She wrapped her arms around the flask of oil she had taken from the cog. ‘We are not alone.’
Sir Godfrey uttered an oath and sprang up the ladder. Alexander, behind him, stared in horror. The canvas sheets had been cast aside and, in the prow of the ship, swords and daggers drawn, black cloaks swirling about them, stood the priest and his followers. Sir Godfrey had faced the charge of armoured knights but had known nothing as fearsome as these sinister individuals standing, legs apart, at the far end of that gently heaving deck. They were clad from head to toe in black, which emphasized the stark whiteness of their faces. With their haunted eyes they looked like demons from Hell, ghouls spat out from the heart of darkness. The priest stood silently forward of his companions, the fury in his eyes and the drawn whiteness of his face belying the cunning smirk that twisted his lips.
‘Is he here?’ Dame Edith asked huskily. ‘The Strigoi lord?’
‘He’s gone!’ the priest shouted, pointing into the mist. ‘Gone, but we have stayed to protect his departure and wreak vengeance on those who should have left matters well alone!’
Alexander drew his sword and dagger and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sir Godfrey. He glanced quickly over the side and saw the small boat bobbing on the waves. The archer, his bow unslung, was shouting at them, uncertain what to do. The Star of the Sea, under Grandison’s skilful direction, was attempting to draw close.
Dame Edith began to pray. ‘Jesu Misere!’ She was half-way through when the priest and his companions closed with Sir Godfrey and McBain. Alexander fought with all his skill. He was conscious of the deck heaving beneath him, white ghostly faces, black swirling cloaks and the jar and shatter of steel. His attackers retreated. Sir Godfrey and Alexander stepped back, Dame Edith behind them. The sides of the ladder leading down to the small cabin jutted up and afforded them some protection. The priest and one of his companions returned to the attack in a whirling arc of steel. McBain and Sir Godfrey parried their thrusts. Father Andrew stood away. Another took his place and the fight continued. What McBain lacked in skill he made up in fury. Sir Godfrey suddenly lurched forward. He knocked his assailant aside and, with a quick swooping movement, drove his dagger straight into the man’s belly. His writhing body blocked the path of another dark-clad figure who moved forward to take his place. Sir Godfrey then turned and with two hands drove his sword straight into the side of McBain’s opponent. The blood gushed out, carried by the sea water lapping around their feet down the steps towards Dame Edith.
‘God save us!’ the exorcist shouted. ‘They must be burnt!’
But the priest’s remaining companions were edging, like two great black spiders, towards them. Alexander heard an arrow whirl across the deck and plunge into the sea on the other side; the archer had begun to fire. But now the two Strigoi closed in, and they were more skilled and more cautious than the two who now lay dead. McBain began to tire and he realized that both he and Sir Godfrey were being forced back to the ladder behind them. Sir Godfrey lunged forward, pushing his assailant back and, as he did so, the archer shot again; this time his arrow flew true and took one Strigoi full in the neck. His companion fell back, not one whit less determined. He even smiled at the Strigoi priest, his black-garbed master.
‘They are ready to die,’ Sir Godfrey whispered, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. ‘They are here to die! To kill us and protect their master’s going.’
Alexander opened his mouth to reply and, as he did so, caught the priest’s throwing knife full in the belly. He turned, face drawn in surprise; the pain was so intense he dropped his sword, falling back on the exorcist. Both of them tumbled to the bottom of the ladder. Dame Edith sprawled in the darkness.
‘McBain!’
The clerk could only groan, conscious of the searing, hot fire in his belly, the sudden weakness in his arms and legs. He flailed around and caught the exorcist’s thin wrist.
‘The oil?’ he muttered. ‘You have the oil?’
He felt further. The exorcist was now scrabbling in the darkness around him.
‘I have it!’ she whispered.
Alexander made one last effort.
‘I have it!’ she repeated. ‘But the steps. Where are they?’
Alexander pulled her across him until one of her hands, stretching out, caught the bottom rung.
‘Climb!’ he whispered. ‘For the love of God, climb!’
Dame Edith did so, trying to ignore the bruising to her chest and legs caused by her sudden fall. She made her way slowly up. Above her Sir Godfrey was fighting for his life against two assailants, aware of the clamour and destruction behind him. He tried to pray but couldn’t. Dame Edith pulled the relic which she wore on a cord around her neck and flung it in the direction of the deck above her. The small gold casket hit the priest in the face. He screamed as if burnt and staggered back, dropping his sword. Sir Godfrey turned and, taking the second attacker by surprise, drove his sword straight through the man’s neck.
The priest staggered, his face now drained of its arrogant smirk. Sir Godfrey leapt towards him.
‘You bastard whoreson!’ he snarled. Then he slipped. He knew he was falling but couldn’t stop. He dropped his sword, the fishing smack rolled and the sword slipped farther away. Sir Godfrey looked anxiously over the rail. The Star of the Sea was closer but of little help. The archer was still firing, but the arrows whirled futilely through the air. He glimpsed a dark shape. He tried to roll, but the movement of the ship sent him sprawling. Then the priest staggered back as Dame Edith blindly flung herself at him. He shrugged her aside, sword raised, but Sir Godfrey was back on his feet. The priest turned, mouth snarling. Again they clashed, a scrape of steel, the stamp of boots. The knight knew something was wrong. The priest had not wearied but seemed stronger and more alert and the knight remembered the exorcist’s warning about how the spirits of the dead Strigoi can enter the bodies of others. He beg
an to pray.
‘De profundis . . . Out of the depths I have cried unto you, O Lord, Lord hear my voice.’
The priest grinned, his lips curling like those of a dog. He wielded his sword in scything cuts that Sir Godfrey could barely fend off. The knight was soaked in sweat, his arms felt like lead, his legs weak from the strain and shock of combat.
‘Die!’ the priest hissed. ‘Die! In the name of darkness, die!’
Sir Godfrey could only retreat further, even as he was aware of faint shouts from the Star of the Sea. He took one step back and went sprawling over one of the corpses. He looked up, the priest nicked his chest with the point of his sword, about to push the killing blow. Sir Godfrey closed his eyes.
‘Jesu Misere!’ he whispered.
Then he heard a scream and looked up. Dame Edith had launched herself at the Strigoi, her pathetic, slight body wrapped around his, dragging him away from Sir Godfrey. The priest roared with rage as Dame Edith blindly struck at his face with her nails. He pulled a dagger from the top of his boot and struck her once, twice, but she hung like a leech. Again and again he plunged the dagger. Dame Edith, screaming prayers, dragged him over, turning his body so that his back was turned to the prostrate knight. As if in answer to a prayer, the deck heaved and both fell, the Strigoi still stabbing relentlessly. At last the exorcist groaned and lay still. The Strigoi rose, just as Sir Godfrey, at a half-crouch, swung his sword back for the killing blow. The Strigoi opened his mouth but the knight’s blade sheered through his neck and sent his head bouncing across the deck. The blood shot up, a crimson fountain of gore. Sir Godfrey cursed, gave the decapitated torso a kick with his boot and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He looked around. The decks were awash with blood, flowing backwards and forwards as the fishing smack rocked on the sandy bank. Sir Godfrey crawled to where Dame Edith lay, a huddle of bloody rags beneath the rail of the ship. He picked her bleeding body up in his arms and staggered across to lay her against the mast. The bandage slipped from her eyes and Sir Godfrey thought how peaceful she looked. He saw her lips move and pressed his ear close to her mouth.
