[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘You know him, then?’ Straccan said, surprised.

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’ The man spoke softly, as if to himself.

  ‘Abdul Al-Hazred, of the Tribe of Ad. All those ancient tribes of desert dwellers are long dead, like the Romans who once dwelt in these parts. Irem was lost and buried in the sands for a thousand years. Yet it seems Soulis found it, and came away not only with much gold, but brought Al-Hazred out.’

  Miles looked puzzled. ‘How had the old man lived in such a place?’

  ‘God knows! There is neither meat there, nor anything that grows. There must be forgotten wells, but water alone cannot keep a man alive for long. Perhaps the wandering desert folk supplied him, although most of them would shun the place. They say it is magic, ensorcelled, and only demons dwell there now.’

  The rhythm of Bane’s breathing changed. It hitched, and caught, and after that was barely perceptible. Straccan wiped the grey face tenderly. Sir Blaise, watching him, said, ‘If we could get him to Jedburgh …’

  ‘Is there a chirurgeon there?’

  ‘A monk-physician, at the abbey. But it is a long way to carry your servant.’

  ‘My friend,’ said Straccan. Despite the fire and the warm evening, he was shivering. He grieved for Bane, who was surely dying, and guiltily suppressed the fear that the days it might take would be days lost in his search for Gilla. Once, after a siege, he had seen a man stumble away from his wife’s violated corpse, and beat his own head against the wall until he fell senseless and bleeding. Now, in his agony for Gilla and despair for Bane, he understood why. He mourned too for Zingiber; Zingiber who was only a beast and soulless, but his companion for eleven years. He sat staring into the fire, and then, blinded by it, into the gathering night outside the hut, where horses and mule were tethered. Now that the numbness had worn off, the wound above his eye felt as if it had been sewn with red-hot wire. Yet despite his fears, his nausea and the pain, he eventually slept.

  Miles stood watch until an hour or so before the dawn, when he shook Larktwist awake to relieve him.

  ‘How’s Bane?’

  ‘Still breathing.’

  ‘God save him.’

  ‘Amen!’

  Straccan woke a little after dawn and found Sir Blaise sitting beside Bane. Bane’s face was skull-like, damp and grey, the sunken eyes ringed in bruised circles. ‘He is cold,’ the old knight said, chafing the dead-feeling hands, trying to warm them. ‘I have put another blanket over him, and made up the fire.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Straccan asked. ‘How can you help me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miles, who had woken when the fire was mended, ‘and how do you know about what’s-his-name, the Arab, and the lost city, and all that?’

  Sir Blaise sighed, ‘I am the Lord of Sauchiehill. My domain lies north of here. I am an old man, as you see, so I have put my holding in good hands, and live in retirement near the priory at Coldinghame. Prior Aernald and I were squires together, years ago. He lets me live in one of the priory’s houses, for friendship’s sake. Once, long ago, I was a knight of the Order of the Temple of Solomon, in Jerusalem.’

  ‘A Templar!’ Miles breathed reverently.

  “In Outremer,’ Blaise continued, ‘I learned the legends of the desert. I spoke with the wise men of Arabia and learned much of their lore. I also learned some of their ancient languages, only to be found in old books. In short, I made a study of Saracenic magic. This was forbidden by the Church, and I was punished and disciplined for it. I “lost the Order”; do you know what that means? I was cast out, no longer a knight of the Temple, and I spent six years in a Church prison until they judged me repentant and broken to their will.’

  There was a shocked silence. After a while, Miles said hesitantly, ‘Wasn’t that heresy?’

  ‘So they called it,’ Sir Blaise said. ‘I call it knowledge. But I have told you the truth, and it’s for you to decide. If you prefer to manage without any help from me, I understand. Heresy’s a fearful word. I am bound to tell you this; it is a duty laid on me by Prior Aernald that I may offer my help, but must tell my history.’ Straccan had taken the bronze cylinder out of his pocket and was turning it in his hands. This was the thing he had given to the Countess of Arlen, and which she had said would go to the king. It had no business being at Crawgard, but she was the sister of the Lord of Skelrig, where Soulis was going … They were all connected.

  ‘May I see that?’ the old man asked. He looked closely at it.

  ‘Lord protect us,’ he said. ‘Where did you get this?’

  Straccan told him. It all seemed very long ago now: the murdered messenger, Bane’s journey north, his own visit to the lady Julitta. ‘The picture inside, she called it an icon,’ he said. The old man uncapped the cylinder and slid the rolled portrait into his palm, untied it and studied the sorrowful face. ‘Egyptian work,’ he said. ‘But the icon is nothing to do with this business. This,’ he tapped the cylinder, ‘is what matters. The case.’

  ‘Look,’ said Straccan. ‘Can we please make sense of all this? What do you mean about the case?’

  ‘I believe this came from Irem,’ Blaise said. ‘Although,’ he smiled slightly, ‘the scholars of Arabia will tell you it is not of this world at all, but came from a star.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ said Miles. The stars are holes in the floor of heaven made by God’s finger for the light to shine through, so we will know where heaven is!’

  Blaise put the icon in its case and gave it back to Straccan. ‘I have heard it said too, that all that great spray of stars in the night sky is milk from the breast of the Holy Virgin. Another view is that stars are the souls of the righteous who died before Christ was born to save mankind. Although spared the pains of hell, they may not enter paradise, where only true Christian souls may go. They are set in the sky instead, which we can only hope is some comfort to them! A priest at Canterbury told me stars were the tears of angels, weeping for the folly and wickedness of men. But I have also been told that angels are in a state of perpetual exaltation, and if that is the case they’d hardly spend time weeping. There are lots of stories about stars, young Sir, so why shouldn’t the Saracens have stories, too?’

  Miles looked unhappy and didn’t answer.

  Blaise continued. ‘They believe that demons dwell among the stars and that a sorcerer who knows their names can call them down, force them to do his will. But he must be powerful indeed, for always they seek to break free and turn upon humankind. ‘Soulis,’ he added, ‘must have studied these matters deeply, or he would never have found the City of Pillars.’

  ‘What can a man want,’ Straccan wondered, ‘enough that hell’s fires hold no terrors for him?’

  Blaise shrugged. ‘With Soulis, we may rule out love. He is a man that has no need of women. Although he has gold, he may crave more; some have a great lust for riches. Then, too, he is growing old. If he believes eternal life can be his for the asking, that might be worth any risk. Also, he is proud: he may desire to make men his puppets, command them, raise or put down kings, throw down kingdoms. In the ancient lore books of Arabia, Al-Hazred is said to speak the tongue of demons and to know their names. Without its name, no man can summon a demon or compel it to obedience. If Soulis cherishes the old madman, it may be because he believes him the key to power beyond most men’s dreams.’

  ‘Can devils give him such things?’ Miles asked.

  ‘The Church itself does not deny the power of Satan. Didn’t he say to the Lord Christ, “All the kingdoms of the earth will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me”? The summer solstice is near, a time when the old magic of this world is said to be strong. In pagan times, it was a great festival. Whatever Soulis has in mind to do, that will be the time.’

  Straccan and Miles crossed themselves. There was no scepticism. The reality of their time contained God and Satan, saints and demons, miracles and magic, angels and ghosts, priests and sorcerers, nuns and witches, castles and faery halls, heaven and earth, horses
and cattle along with unicorns and dragons, basilisks as well as everyday poultry, all as much part of existence as themselves.

  ‘I met Robert de Beauris once,’ Blaise said. ‘He was a friend of my sister’s son Martin, my pupil who died last year, God rest his soul.’ He sighed. ‘I am old, past the days of my strength, and now I have no young successor to learn from me.’

  ‘Learn what?’ asked Miles.

  ‘As much wisdom as I could push into him. I’m not a Templar any more, but I honour the vows I took: to watch and guard pilgrims in their search for Christ. Men strive to reach Him here, just as much as in Palestine, and are beset by evil here too. There are others like me throughout Christendom. While we live, we watch and guard, lest evil prevail.’

  Just then Bane drew a few fluttering breaths and seemed to stop breathing altogether for a few moments, before beginning again even more faintly than before.

  ‘He must have the last rites,’ Miles said urgently, looking at Blaise. ‘In extremity, anyone may do it.’

  Chapter 30

  Outside, full morning had come. A hind and fawn drank at the opposite bank, and faded back into the dappled shadows beneath the trees. Birds sang. The sun shone. It promised to be a fair day. Far along the road there was a little cloud of dust. Travellers approaching. Pilgrims, for as they came nearer they could be heard singing a hymn. They came slowly, all on foot, and gradually the dust cloud resolved itself into a group of odd-looking men and women in the charge of a small skinny monk. Several of the trudging singers appeared to be tied to the monk by lengths of rope attached to his belt.

  Brother Celestius, said Straccan to himself wonderingly. Striding forward to meet them he cried the name aloud, whereat the dusty gang shuffled to a halt staring at him uncertainly. The monk stepped in front of them, spreading his arms as if to hold them back.

  ‘Let us pass in peace,’ he shouted. ‘We’re pilgrims!’

  ‘Brother Celestius,’ said Straccan again. Who else could it be?

  ‘We don’t know you,’ said the monk. ‘Ain’t seen you before.’

  ‘You know Hawkan Bane,’ Straccan said. ‘He met you at Altarwell. He told me about you.’

  Celestius’ worried expression switched to one of pleasure. ‘Oh yes! We remember Master Bane. Stop that, William! You remember Master Bane. Alice? Walter? Course you do. E was kind to us.’

  ‘Raisins,’ said William hopefully. ‘He gave us raisins.’

  ‘So e did,’ said the monk. ‘You must be is master, Sir. E talked about you. What you doin ere?’

  ‘We were ambushed by outlaws, savages,’ Straccan said. ‘Don’t go on along this road, Brother; it is deadly dangerous. Bane, they have killed Bane.’

  Celestius stared at him. One of the ragged women began to cry and in moments all the tattered company was in tears. ‘Master Bane’s dead?’

  ‘Dying. He’s in there.’ Straccan nodded at the stone hut.

  ‘Brother, God will surely reward you if you will give him the last rites.’

  Celestius cast off his umbilical cords, gathering them together and putting them in Straccan’s hands. Ducking under the low lintel, he entered the beehive hut. They could hear his voice, low, mumbling, then sing-song in prayer. Silence followed. Then they heard an odd sound, a sort of hiccup, a weak cough. Bane! A few moments later the ragged monk crawled out on his hands and knees and scrambled upright.

  ‘Better get im a drink of water,’ he said. ‘E ain’t dyin. E’s feelin much better. But e’s very thirsty.’

  ‘He was dying,’ Straccan said obstinately, after the monk and his people, fortified with a little whisky, had departed by a different way. Celestius had refused the coins they pressed on him but accepted some of Bane’s private store of raisins. The sound of their cheerful singing died away in the distance. ‘I’ve seen enough men die to know!’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Sir Blaise. ‘And if that’s so, we have been privileged to witness a miracle.’

  ‘That little chap …’ Miles crossed himself. He was pale and shaking.

  ‘Yes,’ said Blaise thoughtfully. ‘That little chap!’

  Chapter 31

  They stayed where they were for two days while Bane recovered his strength. Straccan restrained his burning impatience to be on the road again. Indeed, the miracle of Bane’s healing gave him hope. God was good, surely He would safeguard Gilla. A litany of desperate prayer ran through his mind day and night: Lord, keep her safe, bring me to her, save her!

  The captive savage they kept on short commons: water twice a day, dried meat only in the evenings, like a dog. Much like a dog it ate, worrying at the food with black and loosened teeth, mostly gulping it entire. It whined a lot, dog like, when not gagged, and shivered at night, tied to a tree at some distance from their fire where its stink wasn’t right under their noses. Its only garment was a filthy old shirt, inside which infested rabbit-skins were crudely sewn, fur against flesh, for warmth. The shirt, heavy with grease and old blood, contributed a large part of the creature’s stench.

  It made no human sounds, just animal grunts when fed and squeals when frightened, and their efforts to get it to talk were useless.

  ‘Can it talk?’ Miles wondered. ‘It’s more beast than man.’

  ‘They were men before they were beasts,’ said Blaise. ‘I’m sure it can talk, though we might not understand it.’

  ‘You seem to know all about everything,’ said Miles ungraciously. ‘Have you heard of these things?’

  ‘Rumours,’ Blaise said. ‘But I can guess what happened. Once they were men, but times were hard, they were hungry and they found a simple solution to the problem. They needed meat and, after all, it was everywhere around them, but on two legs. Probably to begin with, years ago, they raided a farm here and there, a will by night, stole children as well as sheep. Then they began to waylay travellers, and grew fat. They bred and flourished. Now and then some local lord would send a troop to hunt for outlaws or wolves; they might find an outlaw or two, a wolf or two, but not these creatures. They don’t find them because they’re cunning; they lair in some hidden place where men can only scramble afoot, and no horsemen can go.

  ‘In the villages they are a tale to frighten bairns, and so it’s gone on for years because no one believed it.’

  ‘If you want it to talk,’ Larktwist said diffidently, ‘I think I know a way.’

  There had been two hares in his traps that morning, a welcome change from fish and dried meat. When he bled them, he noticed the riveted attention of the prisoner, its slobbering lust for the blood. He held the basin under its nose, and it writhed and plunged and whined, begging.

  ‘Clever,’ said Blaise admiringly. ‘The blood craving! I’d not have thought of it.’

  Bane was on his feet again and able to ride, when the savage led them to its tribe’s hiding place. It was wild country, with desolate hills and deep gorges where the sunlight never reached bottom, and streams gurgled in darkness.

  ‘Watch out for the Elven-Queen,’ said Blaise, teasing Miles.

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘This is faery country, boy. Didn’t you know?’

  Miles crossed himself. ‘No!’

  ‘Here in these hills, the elves dwell, so it’s said.’ Blaise smiled. ‘On these very paths, the fair folk ride at night, gleaming and deadly, to meet with their kin, wage their wars, seduce Christian men and women from their homes and change their own soulless birthlings for human babies, when and wherever they can. In olden times this was the very heart of their realm. These hills are supposed to be full of their gold.’

  ‘Why do they want human children?’

  ‘Because they can go about by daylight, among Christian folk, to work ill, and because they can handle iron; elves can’t abide it.’

  Now they were in a scrub-choked rocky valley. They had followed a deep-cut stream for some time through gorse and quickthorn, and when Blaise, hearing the rustle of a small animal, prodded at the bushes with his gaveloc, the
prisoner yelped and jumped up and down waving his hands, jabbering and making strange buzzing noises.

  They realised why when a cloud of wasps rose and hummed angrily about them. Before they could win clear Straccan had been stung twice on the hand, and Larktwist on the neck. Now, too late, they saw the oval whitish nests, like huge corrugated eggs, in the thorns.

  ‘Bloody nests,’ said Larktwist. ‘Let’s get out of here! My neck don’t half hurt!’

  Their guide led them, at last, in a difficult scramble up the side of the valley. No wonder the lair had never been found: it was no more than a horrid hole in the ground among tumbled boulders which screened it from anyone passing below. And even when they had clambered up they would not have noticed it, for it lay under an overhang of rock, in perpetual shadow.

  Having found it, they descended as quietly as they could back to where they’d left the horses tethered. It was late evening now, and they made a cold meal of bread and cheese while discussing what to do next.

  ‘We could only get down there one at a time, so that’s no good, and we can’t smoke them out,’ said Straccan. He itched to be on the way to Skelrig, to confront Soulis, but at least this was action, which his body craved. ‘If we dropped fire down there they could easily beat it out.’ He sucked the swollen wasps stings and then paused, looking at his hand. He laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ Miles asked. ‘Have you had an idea?’

  ‘Yes! I know what’ll do the trick!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wasps!’

  ‘You clever devil, you,’ said Miles, grinning.

  ‘How do we handle them?’

  ‘There were … what? Half a dozen nests back there? So we need as many lidded baskets, that’s all. Clip the nests off gently tonight and let them drop into the baskets ..,’

  ‘And chuck them down the hole,’ finished Miles. ‘It’s splendid!’

  ‘Wait and see if it works,’ said Straccan. ‘If it does, you can sing my praises then, and I’ll bask in the glory.’