by Tony Roberts
The Frenchman nodded. He felt bad about allowing himself to be knocked out, but whoever it had been had been damned quiet and efficient. He suspected it had been something thrown because there was no way anyone could have approached him along that corridor unseen.
Casca had agreed and suspected that had been the noise that had awoken him. By the time he’d got out of bed and examined Guillaume, the intruder had stabbed de Beaucaire and taken the girl out of the window. Whoever he was, he was damned quick.
They rode for a while until the horses tired, then they slowed and dismounted, holding onto their horses’ tails, a trick Casca had learned from watching the Huns and other Asiatic tribesmen. Running behind their mounts in that manner saved the horses’ energy. They knew the route back to Kerak and where they could stop for water and rest, but they never stayed still for long; the fear of what would happen to Eleanor was too much.
They spent the night not far from Kerak, taking turns to be on guard while the other slept, and the next morning rode south-westwards towards the imposing fortress; lit up by the morning sun’s rays in the distance. It stood above the surrounding plain upon an immense mound of rock, bare of life. An outer wall ran around the top of this mound, reinforced with towers at regular intervals, and at one end stood the immense gatehouse from which an arched bridge ran, across the ditch in front of it. Inside this outer wall and surrounded by it, was an inner mound of rock and upon that was an inner wall with towers and within that sat the courtyard and the important buildings.
The two men studied it and wondered how they would get in and get the girl out. Casca turned to the Frenchman. “You’ve been in there, and it’s likely they’ll recognize you. But I haven’t been in there so they won’t know me, unless I come face to face with those templar bastards.”
Guillaume nodded and scratched his face absently. “Also there may be the others who were with me escorting my lord to the castle still alive in there – although I doubt that! Very well, my friend, let me tell you where you are most likely to find the lady Eleanor.” The Frenchman described the chambers the guests had stayed in and where they stood in relation to the courtyard at the summit of the mighty citadel.
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Deep within the walls of Kerak three women sat in one of the large guest chambers, which were lavishly adorned with the trappings of a well to do lord. The room was dominated by a large four-poster bed and rich tapestries hung from the walls to soften the harsh lines of the stonework. A few chairs lay against the walls and against the inner wall stood a fireplace but this was unlit as it was high summer. Two wooden cupboards stood along the right hand wall and set in the left hand wall were two doorways; one, a mere opening, led to a garderobe along a narrow passage. The other, a shut and locked door, led to the corridor outside.
Opposite the door the thick wall was pierced by two windows; mere openings with shutters to keep out the chill of the night. These were now open to allow the day’s light and heat to spill into the chamber. The distant sounds of men practicing their martial abilities filtered past the shutters, but other than the sounds of those within the room, nothing else intruded.
Eleanor sat on the bed flanked by her two maidservants, both of whom were weeping. They had been repeatedly raped by the guards but once Eleanor had been returned, which had been during the night by an exhausted Jarret, the two women had been dragged from their cell deep in the castle and thrown into the room to attend their mistress.
Eleanor, expecting to be a lonely prisoner, now found herself comforting the two frightened servants instead. She didn’t wish to show these peasant girls she was afraid, as she was of noble birth. Therefore she busied herself with comforting them and trying to tell them that they would be rescued shortly. Nobody, least of all herself, believed that for a moment.
“We must not show them we are afraid,” Eleanor said, her voice stronger than she believed possible in the circumstances. “We will not show these pigs our fears. Come on, dry your eyes and prepare ourselves for a journey away from this Pit of Hell.”
Since this room was where Eleanor had stayed before, she expected her clothes to be in the wardrobes as she had left in a hurry the last time. Sure enough they were, and the two servants began to busy themselves preparing their mistress, the familiarity and routine of the task comforting them, and their tears ceased, if not their terror of what may come.
They had told Eleanor that the remaining entourage, five guards, had been slaughtered and thrown off the ramparts to be picked clean by the carrion birds at the foot of the citadel. The soldiers in the castle had laughed when they retold the two women the tale, and threatened them with the same fate unless they submitted to them. Terrified they had complied, although the templars amongst the garrison didn’t get involved, having sworn a vow of chastity.
Eleanor was shocked that such outrages could be committed by Christian soldiers and wondered if this land had affected their minds in some terrible way. Even the lord of this castle seemed afflicted, and she shuddered as the thought once again came to her that she would be used by him upon his return. She felt that there was little prospect of escape but maybe God would provide some help. She prayed, and prayed too for her father, hoping he was still alive. The horrid man who had brought her back to this place of evil had informed her he had stabbed de Beaucaire when the old man had awoken suddenly. She shut her eyes, knelt by the bed and prayed and prayed and prayed.
If she knew that the only man who could help her now was the same man who had speared Jesus on the cross, she might have faltered. But nevertheless, this man, Casca Rufio Longinus, was approaching Kerak on horseback alone, having divested himself of the livery of de Beaucaire so that he now only sported the chain mail hauberk and a sorry pair of hose together with his conical helm with nose guard. He eyed the towering defenses of the mighty castle and wondered how in the name of all the gods he was going to pull this insane task off.
The gates were shut and he paused his mount at the edge of the long bridge that crossed the mighty ditch in front of him. At the far end a drawbridge stood, but this was raised. Taking a deep breath and cursing his own stupidity, he gently dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and he rode towards the drawbridge. He stopped once more at the end of the bridge and looked up at the gatehouse battlements. A face peered at him from the opening in one of the semi-circular turrets that made up the gatehouse. “Who are you and what is your business here?”
“I am a simple soldier, seeking employment with the Lord of Kerak. I hear he is eager to slaughter Muslims, something I would be pleased to join in.” He spoke coarsely, smiling as he spoke. His scarred face gave him the appearance of a really rough type, and he hoped the warden, for that was who he believed the face to be, would fall for it. One thing was certain in Outremer; good soldiers were in short supply.
“Your name?” the warden called back.
“Rufus Longue from Genoa.” Casca had visited the port on a few occasions and he was, naturally, a north Latin. He was careful not to pass himself off as north European as he didn’t really look like one and the majority of soldiers here were French or of French origin, so stating he was Italian was a safe bet.
The warden vanished out of sight for a moment, then he reappeared. “Very well,” he said, scanning the land beyond the lone rider and seeing nothing. He eyed the man below once more. “You may come in but no funny stuff. Hand your horse over to the ostler and go to the guardroom below.”
The drawbridge creaked and began lowering, shuddering and groaning as though protesting at having to be moved. Casca waited until it had touched the ground before crossing over to the imposing entrance, passing beneath the portcullis and stopping again as four men blocked his route. Three were men at arms and a fourth the handler he had to hand the horse over to. He dismounted and patted his horse before following the small squad into a side doorway set in the barbican tunnel.
He found himself in a small guardroom with a staircase leading up through an opening opposite, an
d looking out onto the ditch was an arrow slit with more in the wall behind him so the tunnel was observed. A second doorway stood in the right hand wall. The three guards stood silently, eyeing Casca with indifference.
The warden appeared from the staircase and appraised the newcomer, his dark eyes examining him carefully. To Casca’s surprise he spoke in the Langue D’Oc, a language still spoken in northern Italy and Provence. “So, my friend, where have you come from?”
Casca folded his arms and stared at the warden. Short, swarthy, unshaven. Probably from Savoy or somewhere nearby. “Jerusalem. Before that, passage from Genoa via Sicily. Things are poor in my homeland and I heard that riches can be made out here. Also there’s plenty of killing to be done. I’m your man for that!”
The warden grunted and switched back to French, having found that this man could indeed speak the local language of northern Italy. “Seen any action? You any use or do you fall over your sword like some stupid peasant?”
Casca smiled. “Show me some fool who deserves it and I’ll hack them to bits.” The three guards exchanged looks and appeared amused. Casca wondered if he’d just said the wrong thing. The warden merely looked thoughtful, then pointed out into the tunnel. “Go with these men to the courtyard. They will show you the practice equipment so we can judge your skill – or lack of it.”
Casca shrugged and allowed two of the guards to lead off into the entry tunnel. The third followed Casca and they made their way past a pair of immense open doors that were swung back against the walls, then past a second portcullis. Casca glanced up and saw a number of small square holes in the tunnel roof and grimaced; these were murder holes and useful to the defenders in throwing down onto an attacker anything they had to hand. Normally something burning and very unpleasant. That room up there was where the drawbridge controls stood. Casca noted its position and the ways up into it.
The tunnel ended with another open pair of stout wooden doors, then they were in an open courtyard. Ahead rose the inner rocky mound and Casca could see a tunnel entrance at ground level. To left and right stood the huge walls with towers along their length. High above rose the inner wall and towers, and Casca knew from what Guillaume had told him Eleanor would be up there. Somehow he had to get in there and get her out.
In the courtyard stood a number of simple wooden devices which Casca recognized. These were practice stands; one had a shield and counter weight with a swinging ball on it, another contained a few wicked spikes, and there was even a tilt rail, something the mounted knights were using in increasing numbers to practice their charging with. A few men stood or sat around, idly contemplating the newcomer.
“Right, have a go at that,” one of the guards growled, pointing at the shield-and-counterweight device. Casca sighed. This was too damn’ simple; he’d been practicing against things like this since he’d been at the gladiator school under old Corvu, a thousand years or so ago. A pang of nostalgia came to him as he stood in front of it, and ghostly voices came unbidden into his head… “iugula! Ave Caesar…. Te moritu salutas!”
He shook his head and concentrated on the shield. His sword was out and swinging, striking it squarely. As the shield swung back, the counterweight and ball came swinging for his head. Casca ducked and smacked the back of the ball as it passed. He stood upright and eyed the guards. “This is too simple. I wish to practice against a live target. One of you maybe?”
The guards looked at each other in surprise. They hesitated, confused.
Casca sighed. It really was hard dealing with morons. “I was not aware the Lord of Kerak’s men were afraid to fight one poor soldier looking for employment. Maybe they are frightened,” he said levelly as a statement, not a question.
That got to them! Two of them scowled and reached for their swords at the same time, then seeing each other doing the same, stopped. Casca grinned. “Okay, I’ll take on two rather than one. No difference, really.” He yawned.
The two guards bared their teeth in rage and armed themselves, advancing on him. One went to the left, the other to the right. The other men in the yard gathered closer, eager to see spilt blood. The warden, having just completed a note in his log book about the arrival of Rufus Longue, looked out of the rear window and opened his mouth in surprise. Groaning in exasperation, he threw down the book and dashed out into the stairwell and began tearing down the stone stairs at a reckless pace.
Casca grinned at the two men. They were ordinary men at arms and not really skilled enough to fight someone armed like Casca. They had fought against lightly armored Saracens and pilgrims, but this was hardly practice against a fellow westerner armed with a broadsword. Casca stepped to the left and the man there raised his sword, but Casca stepped quickly to the right and swung his sword in an arc from head height to waist at the other man who jumped back in surprise.
The first man, seeing Casca make the strike, realized he was open to a blow and rushed in, sword raised. Amazingly Casca pivoted on one heel and crashed his other foot into his ribcage, winding him. As he folded over, gasping, the second guard countered, aiming to hit Casca on the back. Casca rolled over to the right so the sword flashed harmlessly past, biting into the ground. The guard desperately tried to pull his sword up but Casca got there first, slamming his pommel into the man’s face, breaking his nose. The guard fell back onto his ass and sat there, blood streaming down his face.
The first man staggered round, whooping for breath and Casca turned to face him.
“STOP!” the warden’s bellow echoed round the yard. All heads turned to look at the red-faced man as he came stomping up to the scene of combat.
“Are you fucking stupid?” he demanded, glaring at Casca. “I said the fucking practice frames NOT the guards!”
“I refuse to play with children’s toys,” Casca said calmly, leaning on his pommel, the sword tip in the ground. “I want proper opponents, not this rabble.” He waved at the bleeding guard and his panting companion who was eyeing Casca with undisguised hatred.
The warden ground his teeth together. “You arrogant bastard. If you want a proper fight you’ll get one.” He turned to one of the bystanders. “Go fetch Meurtrier. Tell him there’s a soldier here who wishes to die under his blade!”
The man grinned and loped off towards the tunnel. Casca kept an eye on the panting man who had straightened. He still looked as though he wished to skillet Casca. The first man got to his feet, a little shakily, and walked off, clutching his bloody face. The warden faced Casca. “I’ll be glad to see the back of you, my friend; something tells me you’re trouble. I don’t care if you are good, I don’t want trouble, especially when the Lord is absent.”
Casca shrugged. “Your lord and master may well find me useful and he wouldn’t be happy if you had me thrown out of the castle because I’ve beaten up your ugly guards.”
The warden folded his arm. “Are you always this arrogant or is it just today you’ve decided to be a pain in the ass?”
“I’ll ignore that,” Casca replied. “So who is this ‘Meurtrier’ – killer?”
“See for yourself, he’s coming now,” the warden said, pointing at the tunnel exit. Casca looked round and saw a man dressed in a long hauberk that reached to mid-thigh, with mailed leggings and a padded gambeson underneath the hauberk. He wore a round helm that had a face-plate and around his legs flapped a rich looking cloak of deep blue decorated with golden four-petaled stylized flowers. A leather sheath hung from his waist belt and in it rested a long sword.
“Very nice,” Casca commented. “A rich boy. Daddy give him a nice inheritance?”
“He took all that from past victims, all as fucking arrogant as you.”
“So he’s lucky,” Casca replied, gauging his walk, judging he was well-balanced and looked fairly strong. Probably a tough opponent. Best go careful here with this one.
Meurtrier stopped a few feet away and removed his helmet. Casca’s eyes opened in shock. Where his right eye should be was an empty hole, and the right hand side of
his face was disfigured by a ragged scar. It made his scar pale by comparison.
“So, a fool wishes to go to hell?” The voice was another surprise, softly spoken and cultured. Casca frowned. This wasn’t your normal everyday common foot soldier. Casca began to sense this man was very dangerous indeed.
“He thinks we’re all useless,” the warden commented. “He wants a lesson in combat.”
Meurtrier gazed at Casca with his one eye. “Looks like you’ve done some fighting. Fancy your chances with me? Others have but they are all dead. You have time to turn round and flee, little man.”
Casca gripped his pommel tightly. “I won’t be the one to run. So what’s your story? You seem too educated to be with these peasants.”
Meurtrier smiled mirthlessly. “What I am and why I am here is none of your business. I merely kill. And you my friend will be the next one I will do that to. Defend yourself for the last time in your miserable life.”
The guy was confident, Casca admitted, but perhaps a little too much. His reputation awed the others watching, it was clear, for they kept a respectful distance from him. Casca felt pleased he’d provoked this man out, for it was someone like him he needed to defeat to achieve what he wanted. If he won this battle the others would respect him and make his presence here acceptable. But if he lost…
Meurtrier donned his helm and stood there, legs apart, sword gripped in both hands, waiting.
The crowd fell silent and held their breath.
Casca drew his in, and attacked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The courtyard echoed to the ringing of steel as the two blades met once again. Casca tried to break through his opponent’s guard but found it blocked at every turn. Meurtrier was one heck of a swordsman, and stood his ground no matter what. Casca had managed to avoid being cut by taking hasty jumps backwards, but every time he went to attack the blasted Frenchman just stood there and took it.
