The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  ‘The sickness is spreading?’ Haendric asked. In truth he had hardly had time to think about being a fugitive.

  Donnal sighed. ‘The docks have been closed and the priory is full of sick folk. They all have boils up and down their backs, if they live even that long. People have stopped going out’

  ‘What news from the capital?’ Haendric asked, daubing a damp cloth on a fevered woman’s head, for all the good it might do.

  ‘Castlereach has seen hundreds take ill. I don’t know how many dead, but a lot. Shipping has stopped. There’s word of whole quarters being wiped out in the Ventish capital. Sailors used to have nothing more than cock-rot to worry about.’

  Haendric was too busy to be offended. ‘What of Lord Dorand, of the watch?’

  ‘The gates are closed but for special business and His Lordship has fled to his country estate. Bishop Aldric and the reeve are running the city.’

  ‘Which means the deacons are running the city,’ Haendric chuckled sourly. ‘Fine job they’ll do. I suppose the new archbishop will have to wait now to claim his seat.’

  ‘The king has ordered all river traffic to cease; all ports closed. We turned away two boats just this morning.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The Order has been drafted in by the archdeacon. Juniper Keep has stepped up road patrols to stop any brigands taking advantage and to keep sick travelers from getting around.’

  Haendric stopped, his spine suddenly cold. ‘How do they propose to do that?’

  Donnal half turned and ran a gloved hand through his short grey hair. ‘Anyone found travelling is to be turned back; anyone that appears to be afflicted severely enough is to be mercifully put to the sword.’

  ‘They can’t do that!’ The priest was incensed.

  ‘The deacons blame the heresy. They say agents of the Underworld have corrupted the realm with false gods and…’

  ‘Go on,’ Haendric said, sensing hesitation.

  ‘And heathen books. We’re to turn any heretics over.’

  ‘So you’ve come for me?’

  ‘Of course not. But they’re still looking for books. I don’t think the archdeacon knows you have one.’

  ‘They won’t look in The Gutters, isn’t that why you brought me? This district is not known for its love of books.’ He noticed the knight looked nervously about the room.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about what they hear,’ Haendric assured him. ‘I doubt they’ll live to talk.’ Clearly Haendric was the only one so confident about his attempt at disguise and he understood that he was not a worldly man in that respect. He’d never been on the run before.

  ‘There’s more,’ Donnal said nervously. ‘Prior Algwyn is to go on trial.’

  Haendric stopped tending and stood. ‘On what charges?’

  ‘Heresy of course. Apostasy. Corruption, heathenism and buggery.’

  Haendric was enraged. ‘Buggery? For Heaven’s sake man with whom?’

  ‘His servant, the novice boy you came with - a catamite they called him.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. Heaven knows, I have known chapelmen who’ve done that in their time, but Algwyn? Never.’

  ‘They had the boy confess and I told you how persuasive they can be. He will stand witness at the trial to the dark rituals the prior performed.’

  ’Dark rituals?’ Haendric scoffed.

  ‘And the Scourge, as they are calling it,’ Donnal waved at the patients with a grimace. ‘This affliction, what else could it be but the work of dark spirits and the punishment for straying from the light of Heaven?’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know where sickness comes from, but I’ve seen enough in my days to know it strikes the innocent as often as the wicked. I don’t think you’ve had anything to do with it. Nor Prior Algwyn. I only ever met him once or twice but they say he was a good man.’

  The knight was already speaking of Algwyn as though he’d been long dead. Haendric felt tears of fear, guilt and shame welling up. His old friend defrocked and defamed; a lifelong dedication to the Chapel and the Faith ruined. And it was his own fault. He was far guiltier of reading heathen texts than the pious Algwyn: even if the prior had been somewhat liberal, it was Haendric who had constantly pushed the boundaries.

  ‘The trial will be held in public, by the Great Chapel, tomorrow,’ Donnal said quietly.

  ‘In public? A clergyman?

  ‘The reeve’s idea. Even the archdeacon wanted to have it done in the gaol.’

  ‘So the reeve is in charge? I’d have taken Livio for the more commandeering sort.’

  ‘I think he likes to work behind public officials,’ the knight said. ‘Besides the reeve argues that the King’s justice is Heaven’s justice.’

  ‘The King’s justice is swift,’ Haendric muttered. It was an old saying among the learned. ‘And they used to hang heretics, you remember yourself.’

  ‘The bailiffs have set up a block.’

  ‘A block?’ Haendric asked, as the color drained from his face. It was so much more real now it was said, but a block?

  ‘The archdeacon says that only with blood can the guilty soul be purged.’

  ‘The Strictures said that,’ Haendric corrected him.

  ‘I haven’t read in a while,’ Donnal confessed.

  ‘So Algwyn is to be beheaded tomorrow?’ The priest asked and coughing from one of the cots interrupted him. Gildreth, the woman who worked for Januth scurried over.

  ‘Do you still have cider at the chapter house?’ He asked the knight.

  ‘The best,’ Donnal replied.

  Haendric looked despondently around the infirmary and the wracked, dying bodies. The thought of his old friend’s head in a basket was unimaginable. He’d had friends die, some violently. But this, to know it was coming and be unable to stop it. Perhaps there was one way, however, and he had to steel himself.

  ‘Good. I need to drink something.’

  The morning brought a chill, damp mist over the city. Haendric had left the sick house to Januth’s care and stayed at the chapter house, under the innocent guise of Brother Handers. This had not really been his choice, but he and Donnal had drunk late into the night and he’d been forced to sleep in one of the spare chambers. Donnal was less fearful of his presence now that he was disguised and the search for him seemed ended. Or perhaps the old knight had gotten too drunk to care. It had been a wake of sorts, though for whom, Haendric was not quite sure anymore.

  Donnal and his chapter knights, bolstered by a few from Juniper Keep, had gone earlier to guard the proceedings and help the watch manage the crowds. Archdeacon Livio wanted the Chapel’s stamp on the proceeding and armed men of the Faith were a visible sign that both realms – Heaven and Earth – were in agreement when it came to the wellbeing of the kingdom.

  Haendric had returned to Januth’s infirmary, donned a peasant’s breeches and cap and gone out on his own afterward. The city seemed deathly quiet as he stepped into the street, and only became livelier as he approached the crossroads by the great Chapel, where small crowds were gathering. He noted that there should probably have been more townsfolk, but the affliction that was spreading had likely kept people fearfully indoors, yet more turned up as the morning warmed up. By the time the bishop arrived perhaps several hundred people had gathered.

  Bishop Aldric came with a gaggle of priests, a hooded executioner and the red-robed archdeacon. They were escorted by an armed phalanx of white-clad holy knights, led by the limping Captain Donnal. The knights of the order took their places to each side of the platform that had been erected and the Bishop took the stage with the Reeve as witness. Haendric noted Livio remained in the rear. Donnal scanned the crowd, but if he spotted Haendric he gave no sign.

  The Bishop raised both hands and the yapping crowd calmed, waiting for his words. Haendric was waiting too.

  ‘Good people of Bastion and citizens of Wesgard,’ he began, Today we sit in judgment of the most heinous of crimes
– that of heresy.’

  Though Aldric’s own voice was calm the word stirred the crowd and men jeered and women hissed. The guards brought forth the accused. The headsman moved his long beard-bladed axe in his meaty hands.

  Prior Algwyn was no longer dressed in his brown monk’s robes. He wore a simple long linen shirt over grey breeches. His feet were shod in rough slippers. His head had been shaved and his shoulders were hunched. He looked even leaner and more gaunt than usual. Two holy knights walked with him and his hands were manacled. His face was drawn and tired, though there were no bruises or lesions so perhaps he had not been beaten. Yet his eyes looked different to Haendric. They were cold and distant, numb even. They brought him to the platform and escorted him up. If this was a trial, Haendric realized, it would be short, for the decision looked already done.

  ‘Algwyn Caldrar, formerly Prior of Havenside, you stand accused of corrupting young minds, consorting with heathens and of dark rituals of sorcery and of deviance. How do you speak for yourself?’

  The prior remained silent, his eyes downcast. Haendric wondered if this was the result of the tortures Donnal had suggested, but then the prior’s sad eyes scanned the crowd, fixed on him a moment and returned to the boards of the platform at his feet. Haendric was sure it was no accident.

  ‘Very well,’ the bishop continued. ‘This man’s heresy and abandonment of the Faith has brought not only shame and disrepute upon the kingdom, but a scourge that even now threatens your wives and children! If any man here knows any reason this traitor should not be sentenced, let him now speak.’

  Haendric had come to speak. He had planned to turn himself in, to proclaim that it was his own pursuit of the heathen words that had brought this affliction upon them. He had planned to raise his hand, confess his deception and march right up onto the platform and take Algwyn’s place on the headsman’s block. But his voice caught his throat and his arms were suddenly as heavy as stone at his sides. He told himself it was not fear, that he had to protect the books, that he had to tend to the sick, that he could do more good alive. He knew his friend was far less guilty than he, but when the moment came he could not say a word in Algwyn’s defense all the same.

  The bishop turned now to Reeve Cerlic, who stepped forward with confidence. ‘If no man can find reason why this worshipper of demons should be spared, then I pronounce he King’s sentence upon him. For bringing disease and despair upon the realms, for corrupting the minds of the faithful, and for teaching heathen ways, Algwyn Caldrar must die.’

  The crowd hollered insults and spat curses. Haendric cast his eyes downward in disgust and shame. People were so easily swayed in times of crisis. Men were so easily made cowards when their moment finally came, he knew, but his moment had never come before, and he’d never wondered how it would be for himself.

  The knights guided Algwyn forward and pushed his shoulders. He kneeled before the headsman’s block without protest and placed his own head quietly upon it. Haendric thought he saw the prior mouthing silent prayers. The executioner stood by, awaiting his orders. The crowd fell silent.

  Haendric knew then that his courage had left him; he could neither speak nor step forward. He also understood that for whatever reason the prior had left it to him to guard the books. Perhaps he too thought Haendric the best man to tend to the growing number of sick people, though he couldn’t have known the priest was still hiding in the city.

  The reeve nodded and the headsman lifted his long axe. Haendric could not turn away or leave the crowd for he was still very fearful of being noticed. But nor could he watch, so he lowered his gaze as the axe fell, and the crowd let forth a collective shout. To Haendric it sounded for all the world like a triumphant, yet strained sigh.

  Twenty-one

  Wellstone was an isolated place and was intended to be so. The monks had built it on a promontory overlooking rough grey seas, where black gannets and herring gulls circled and few other creatures bothered to gather, save for the rock seals that barked from the violent shore below. The priory itself was made of heavy stone slabs, several large round houses with and over a dozen smaller huts stacked up the windy, seaward side of the slope and shielded with thatched dome roofs and shuttered windows. It was barren, with outdoor latrines, a few tiered gardens hemmed in by stone retaining walls, and a narrow track leading back inland to the fields where boys tended a small flock of scrawny sheep, and eventually the village of Wellstone and the road past Northwatch.

  There were few trees and only a small creek to feed the fields and provide the monks with water. The place was desolate to the Northman’s eyes and Algas could not imagine why any man would choose to shut himself away in such a prison, away from drink and song; the laughter around the hearth, and the touch of women, all for the sake of belief.

  Nor did he understand the knight Beland. Why would a warrior give his life and his sword to a cause so dull and immaterial? A man fought for more immediate rewards – silver, land, reputation and power. These were things worth fighting for, not some distant paradise in the afterlife. When he died, the Northman would die with sword in hand and go to the Hall of the Dead and drink and whore forever to the laughter of his fellow warriors. Just as he would in life, if only he could win his brother’s hearth and hall back.

  It was clear upon reflection that his cousin Gerwulf had bought legitimacy by embracing the southlander faith and paying tribute to their king. The only question that gnawed at him was whether this had happened after the battle they’d lost or whether he’d betrayed Algas and his brother Gormir beforehand. He did not believe Gerwulf had truly found religion of course. It was what men did to secure favor with more powerful lords in these times. Gerwulf might visit the chapel he was said to be building on Shorha, and he might even stop making sacrifices, but he would never bend his knee to a dead holy man. It was simply the price paid to be made rightful lord of the islands he claimed.

  Would he too have to pay that price someday to rule? His brother had refused.

  The only way to fight wealth and power was with wealth and power. Algas would need money to pay for followers, perhaps even to lure back some of his cousin’s. He still wasn’t sure how he would do that. At least for now, the pious knight was paying good coin – several coppers a day. It was not the sort of money he could have earned plundering with a good crew, and though he had neither treasure nor men for the time being he was confident that with his wits and his swords, he could someday command both. Then he would take back the hall and spear his bastard cousin and rut his women and tear down that ridiculous chapel before his entire people became as pathetic as the southlanders.

  He was roused from his thoughts by boots crunching in the stony track behind him, and he turned to find the knight approaching.

  ‘Jendry’s still in bed,’ Beland told him. ‘The brothers say the fever is higher and he’s speaking in his dreams. But they think it has peaked.’

  Algas didn’t know why they didn’t just leave the little bastard there to die quietly. ‘Have we gotten the orders you expected?’

  ‘None. We’ll go south again to Havenside, then Bastion. I can pay if you will come. The lad will probably be fit to travel in another day or two, but we need strong men too.’

  Algas thought on it a moment. He needed a change, and traveling in an armed party of locals offered security and a degree of legitimacy that he would otherwise be lacking in this land. Yet he had joined the knight’s party because it had been going north, nearer to Shorha. Not that he could have achieved much on his own, but south, to wherever the knight spoke of, was not the same direction as his islands. If it was money he was looking for however, he had nobody else offering him work at present and turning to robbery would not get him far. He was no longer sure if he was still pretending to be a sellsword or if he’d actually become one. Yet he smelled opportunity in this journey, and at least a chance to win some wealth or following, however long that might take. Perhaps the other sellsword, Galbry could be persuaded to join him.


  ‘I’ll come.’ He said. ‘How long is the journey?’

  ‘A couple of weeks at most if the weather holds. We must get back before winter sets in, but it depends how soon Jendry is ready to travel.’

  For two more nights Algas languished at the priory, eating their bland pottage and hard bread and sour wine. He was bored, lonely for ale and song and truly wished he’d spent some money on a whore at Northwatch, because he was sorely missing the warmth of a woman’s thighs. By day he sparred with Galbry, and they drank the piss-poor wine which was all the monks kept and talked of almost nothing but women and battle by night. On the first evening, they walked the hour back into the village in search of drink and female company. They would each get a whore, or, they joked if there was only one, they’d pay enough to share her between them. But when they’d gotten there, they found only a shack that passed as an ale house and it was only open for a few hours before supper. There were no young women at all in the hamlet, much less whores to be bought for a night. Instead they bought a small keg of ale and took turns lugging it back to the priory.

  On the second day, Algas climbed down to the sea to do some fishing with a pole and line he’d taken from the storehouse. The sky was cloudy and temperamental, with hard gusts of wind from the south and west that was warmish for the season, but still unpleasant in its violence. The sea roared against the rocks and great swells curled into whitecaps, but he managed to catch a few flatsides and even salmon and later made salted fish strips for the coming journey, as well as feeding himself and the other caravan guards better fare than the monks offered.

  The knight had come to this wretched place to deliver some books, along with cheese, wine and ale, and though the Northman could not read and had no use for books, the little monk who received them was an interesting fellow. His name was Brother Falric. He was slight, balding, with a lined face and Algas guessed him to be about forty, and claimed to have traveled widely in his youth. Falric was the only entertainment on offer and Algas and Galbry stayed up at night to drink and listen to his tales. He had accompanied the Army of Light against the Heathens in the east and had been there when the Holy City had fallen. He had been to Selevia, the Achos Isles, Venchy and the length and breadth of Wesgard. He was a translator and could read and write a half dozen languages, which impressed Algas because he only knew two and was unlettered in both.