He lay on his back, the sea lapping almost tenderly around him, waiting for the ebbing tide to retreat, and knowing that every minute that passed with him staring up at the darkening sky only served to damn the island's inhabitants all the more completely.
"The tide will turn, lad. Best to rest up so we can ride out when it's full-dark."
Alymere did not move.
"There's nothing we could have done," the knight said.
"We could have ridden harder," Alymere said bitterly. "You could have woken me instead of leaving me to sleep all night through. We didn't have to stay to burn the dead or escort the women back to the house. We didn't have to do any of those things, and if we hadn't, we could have done something."
"It is pointless to think like that, boy. We had to do all of those things. I couldn't wake you, you were dead to the world. We couldn't leave those women to mourn alone; it was our duty to protect them, and when we could not protect them, to see that they were cared for. We owed that much at least, if not more, to their dead. This conflict you feel warring within yourself is only natural. You would be no sort of man if you did not feel it. But don't talk to me of 'doing something,' boy. We did everything we could. The one thing we cannot do is turn back the tide."
But Alymere knew he was wrong; they could have done something.
Even if they had reached the coast an hour earlier, it might have been enough to beat the tide.
And for want of an hour all of those lives were lost.
Where was the justice in that?
The justice, he realised, was in the sword that hung from his hip.
He pushed himself to his feet and stood for hours at the water's edge, watching the sun leave the sky. The tide would turn. Already it was beginning to retreat, shrinking back from the beach to reveal more and more of the causeway. An hour, maybe two at the most, and it would have pulled back far enough to make the crossing safe.
The fires still burned behind the monastery's high walls. They would rage 'til dawn.
His sword was patient. Alymere rested his hand on the pommel, drawing some small comfort from it.
The reivers would not leave Medcaut.
That much he promised the dead.
He took no pleasure from the promise, but in it Alymere learned something new about himself — he was a man of his word.
Eighteen
The night was only a few hours old when the tide started to turn in earnest.
Alymere had not left his waterside vigil, despite his uncle's insistence that they rest before the coming fight. The strength of vengeance sustained him, though he would never admit it. He knew that should it come to it, his arm would not fail him. The spirits of every single one of the fallen would support his sword arm, lending him the last of their strength. Of that he was utterly sure.
The older man was certain there would be a battle, but as the hours passed Alymere became less sure. It was not that he feared the fight, no matter how many warriors waited across the water. No, the longer he watched the monastery burn the more certain he became that the reivers had not only trapped themselves on the island, but had almost certainly penned themselves inside the burning monastery, turning the high walls into their own prison. The causeway was the only way off Medcaut, and with Alymere and Sir Lowick waiting for them at the end of the road there was no way they could have escaped. There was a justice of sorts in that, Alymere thought, watching Medcaut burn.
And if the fire didn't claim them, then they would.
The knight said very little to him during those two hours. He did not seek to comfort him, but neither did he try to stoke the fires of his anger. He simply allowed Alymere to be. This too was part of his training, allowing him the space to master himself. The young man knew that how he handled himself over the next few hours would define the rest of his life — either in terms of demons he carried with him or in demons he laid to rest. What Lowick did not — could not — know was that there was only ever going to be one outcome from the night's trials. Alymere already knew the kind of man he was going to be.
So as the fire spread, he imagined it burning the raiders as well as the monks. Separated from its heat, Alymere could only watch with grim fascination and marvel at its appetite as the flames scorched the sky red.
Eventually the two men saddled up and rode out, the water still around the horses' fetlocks as they negotiated the slippery stones of the Pilgrim's Way.
It was the longest two miles of his life.
He recalled another exhausted ride he had made, this time to Camelot, looking for an entirely different kind of justice for his father. He had been wrong then, believing that the man at his side was responsible for all of the ills of the world. The king had known that, and hence his 'punishment.' He had ridden to Camelot sure he was right, sure the king would see the justice in his suit and confer his father's nobility onto him. Arthur had done nothing of the sort, of course. He had seen into the heart of the hot-blooded youth and sought to find a way to quench that fire and turn him into a man worthy of his father's nobility. He knew all of this now, but as he rode up to the monastery gates, what he knew ceased to matter. It was what he did that counted.
The horses would go no closer to the flames.
Beside him, Sir Lowick dismounted, strode up to the wooden gates and pounded upon them with his mailed fist. It was a curiously pointless gesture given the flames behind the gates, but that did not deter the knight. He called out, "Holy men of Medcaut! If you are able, open the door in the name of the king!" but the cry brought no response.
The knight drew his sword and nodded solemnly to his charge.
"Now we bring justice, boy. May your sword be true, your aim honourable. And may you live to see tomorrow."
With that, the knight charged down the door. Medcaut was not a fortress; it took Sir Lowick four blows with his shoulder to splinter the wood, and two more for him to tear the timber loose of the frame supporting it.
Alymere saw the flames through the splintered wood, dismounted and followed his uncle inside.
Left unchecked for hours, it had torn through all of the easily burnable parts of the monastery, the straw on the stable rooftops, and much of the stables themselves, twisting and charring the wooden stalls until only blackened spars remained, and even those were crumbling and breaking down. More of the monastery was ablaze: the apple blossoms looked like dying men; the stained-glass windows of the lower chambers had shattered under the heat; the stone of the great building itself was seared black, tongues of flame licking out of the broken windows. At the farthest edge of the compound, up against the wall, the Abbot's house was ablaze.
It was like something out of Hell.
Lowick crashed through what remained of the door and burst into the courtyard. He looked right then left, taking stock of the situation quickly. Alymere stepped in behind him, his own sword tip wavering as he saw the silhouette of a hooded monk in one of the upper windows of the main building.
The fire lit the air behind him, making him look, momentarily, like some shadowy angel with flames for wings.
Alymere stared up at the monk in horror, but the man seemed… at peace.
That was it, he realised. The monk was content. He could feel it from where he stood. No, not merely content, the monk welcomed the fire as it would bring him one step closer to his Lord. Alymere didn't know how he knew, but he knew. The monk simply stood at the window, drinking in the last sights of his life.
And what sights they were.
In the centre of the courtyard another of the brothers was locked in a fight to the death with two grim-faced reivers, somehow holding them at bay with nothing more than a wooden staff.
The Scots were weary; their claymore blades dragged on the dirt as they circled their quarry. Both were big men. Both were breathing hard. Despite the cold, sweat dripped down their faces.
Alymere couldn't begin to imagine how long the three men had been locked in their fight. Surely, though, it had to be for as long
as the fires had raged?
The dirt at their feet was worn smooth, no trace of any snow left, unlike much of the rest of the courtyard, which was still white where the heat hadn't melted the snow to slush.
The smaller of the two northerners, a red-head with a ruddy complexion and braided beard, licked his lips before dropping to one knee as though in exhaustion, but brought his huge blade scything round in a vicious arc, looking to cut the monk off at the knees.
The monk planted the quarterstaff in the dirt, jumped over the wild swing, landed and turned the sword aside with the staff. The impact echoed throughout the cloister gardens. He parried three more blows in quick succession as the reivers found fresh reserves of strength, and then broke away from the fight, retreating three steps and planting the staff once more in the ground between his feet.
Grateful for the brief respite, the warriors did not close the gap between them immediately. The taller of the two turned, seeing the armoured knight racing towards him, and for a moment was torn between fight and flight.
The fire effectively damned him, but that didn't stop him calling out, "This isn't your fight, laddy. Don't make me kill you."
The knight let out a short bark of a laugh. "I'm not the one who's going to die here, northerner. Throw down your sword and I might be merciful."
"Hadaway with yerself before I lose my patience and decide to feed yer your own bollocks for supper."
"You talk too much," Lowick said. "If you thought you could win this fight you'd shut up and fight me. You're trying to buy yourself a few seconds. Well, I will give them to you, as I am a just man. Mark my words for they are the last you shall hear. There are no second chances in my world. You killed people under my protection, good people. Innocent people. Women and children. That crime is upon your head, and for that crime I shall make your death every bit as ugly as your crime. You shall crawl to your heaven a ruined spirit. I shall cut your hands off, and your feet, and your manhood. But I am merciful; I shall take your head first to save myself from your screams. That is my judgement. Are you ready to die?"
Alymere saw something in his uncle's expression that he had never seen before, and in it, recognized all of the things Baptiste had claimed.
"Come and die then, you bastard," the reiver spat. He brought his claymore up to defend himself, but, exhausted as he was, he was no match for the skill of the knight.
He blocked Sir Lowick's first few blows, the sound of steel ringing out. The Scot rolled with the knight's ferocious swings, but each successive blow weakened his arms, and needing both hands to wield the cumbersome sword, it became harder and harder to defend himself.
Sir Lowick was brutal, ruthless and efficient. The broadsword in his hand became an extension of his body.
It lasted less than a minute.
The knight's thrust slipped inside the big warrior's guard, driving deep into his shoulder. The reiver wore furs in place of mail, but all the fur in the world couldn't have protected him from the knight's next blow. He twisted the hilt before pulling the blade free, opening the wound wide, then spun on his heel and, with all of his weight behind the blow, swept the broadsword through a savage arc that only ended when the edge of the blade embedded itself in the bones of the dead man's neck.
There was so much blood.
Alymere had seen men die, but not like this.
The raider's head fell against his chest, nothing supporting it, while blood gushed out of the gaping wound. For a few seconds it looked as though the dead man intended to go on fighting, and then he stumbled and went down.
The knight's sword was the only thing preventing him from collapsing at his feet. Sir Lowick planted his foot on his foe's chest and freed his sword, turning to face his next victim.
"If you have any hopes of seeing the sunrise you'll throw down your weapon," the knight said. He could have been talking to his own mother, so lightly did he speak.
Alymere crossed himself. The monk merely watched from under his cowl.
"I'm not as easy to kill as Douglas," the Scot hawked and spat onto the dirt at his feet. "So let's have at you."
Sir Lowick shrugged, equally happy to dispense justice twice as once.
They came together in a clash of swords.
The reiver had not lied — he was considerably more accomplished with his own weapon, and stronger despite his smaller build. His arms were powerful, each forearm as thick as a ham hock and his thighs like tree trunks. He planted his feet in the dirt and met the knight's charge head on.
Swords clashed, but otherwise the cloister was eerily silent.
The knight rained down three savage blows in quick succession, arcing the blade down from above, and looking to cleave the reiver's skull in two. The attack left him wide open, but the warrior was too busy protecting himself to exploit it.
Gasping, they broke apart again.
The heat from the burning buildings had sweat glistening on the knight's brow. Rivulets of perspiration ran down to sting his eyes. He blinked them back without once taking his eye off the reiver.
Now they circled each other warily, respectfully. The pair were evenly matched. Four more times they came together, trading blows without working an opening. Neither one pushed the other onto the back foot for more than a couple of blows before they parted again, breathing harder each time.
Alymere stood rooted to the spot. He might as well have been another one of the garden's dead trees. He couldn't look away from the two men as they danced. That was what it looked like to him; every movement carefully orchestrated, every feint and parry, every leap, thrust and counter.
Finally the Scot launched himself, hoping to overcome the knight with sheer strength. Their weapons came together, the momentum of the northerner's swing driving Lowick back a step before his heel dug in. He gritted his teeth as, instead of breaking away, the reiver pressed on with the blow. It took every ounce of strength the knight had to keep the claymore's razor-sharp edge from his throat.
There was neither nobility nor honour in what happened next.
The knight's arm trembled violently with the strain of holding his opponent's sword at bay. The pair remained locked like that for what seemed like forever, and then Lowick's sword arm appeared to buckle, suddenly offering no resistance.
The northerner lost his balance and pitched forward.
As he stumbled Sir Lowick abandoned all pretence of fighting fair and drove his forehead into the middle of the Scot's face.
The sound of cracking bone was sickening. Blood exploded from the reiver's broken nose, spraying both men.
He staggered back, shaking his head and trying to wipe the blood from his eyes, but the effort was pointless. Lowick's blade plunged deep into his gut, opening him up. The shock barely had time to register on the dying man's face.
"You'd do this…" he looked down at the sword still buried in his stomach and at his guts unravelling around it, "for that demon?" The reiver spat blood.
"No," the knight rammed the sword deeper, the bloody tip pushing out through the man's back. "I'm doing it for every man, woman and child you murdered on your way here."
He pulled his sword clear, but not cleanly, slicing through the man's belly as he withdrew. The northerner slumped to his knees, dropped his own blade and clutched at his stomach, as though trying to feed his guts back into the hole in his body. Sir Lowick's face was impassive. "I wouldn't bother," he said, again in that frighteningly casual tone. He wiped his sword on the fallen man's clothes contemptuously and sheathed it. "I've seen plenty of wounds like that before. There's nothing that can be done. You're a dead man. It won't be a quick or clean death. It will take an hour, two at the very most. You can feel it, can't you? You can feel death stealing into your bones already and making itself comfortable. Nothing can save you. But your passage from this life into the next could be eased, if you were to beg for mercy."
The reiver looked his death in the eye, and rasped bitterly, "I am Cullum McDougal of the clan McDougal. I will not be
g any man, never mind a sasunnach whoreson." He winced, biting back a fresh wave of pain. The blood leaked out between his fingers. His face was already deathly pale and the colour had begun to leave his eyes.
"Oh, I think you will. I think you'll beg for me to kill you soon enough," the knight taunted. "The pain isn't going to lessen."
"You want me to absolve your guilt?"
"Not particularly. I'd much rather you suffered for all the suffering you have caused my people. If you die, your pain dies with you. Where's the satisfaction in that?"
"Kill me and be done with it."
"No."
He turned his back on the dying man.
Alymere could not believe it.
The injustice of it stuck in his craw. How could his uncle allow this vile man to breathe even one more breath? He saw again what these men had done, the misshapen corpse of the burned child lying in the snow, and remembered with horror the mother dying in his arms. Something inside him snapped.
Alymere moved without thinking.
His first step, he almost stumbled, but by his tenth he was running flat out. He held his sword out in front of him and, shrieking, drove the blade through the man's back. He wrenched the blade free only to plunge it in again and again, and then froze, soaked in blood, staring down at what he had done.
Then he began to shake.
He could not stop.
Nineteen
Alymere dropped his sword.
Sir Lowick looked at him, aghast. For all his coldness, he was a pure man. He held to the tenets of the knighthood. He had sworn an oath of chivalry. An unknighted boy acting in anger, taking the life of an unarmed man — a defenceless man — from behind like that was tantamount to cowardice. "God have mercy… What have you done?"
Alymere didn't have the words, so offered his bloody hands in answer. He couldn't think. Nothing inside him made anything approaching sense. The spark of hatred had gone. In its place there was nothing — a void where hate had, so briefly, burned so brightly. Now he was empty. He strove to find the words to explain what had just happened to him, why he had just run the Scot through, but all he could think was: he deserved to die.
The Black Chalice koa-1 Page 9
