Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said.

  ‘Was he left alone?’ Savage asked.

  The woman and manservant both nodded. ‘The physicians and servants all left him alone.’

  Savage interrupted, ‘Have you seen anyone else go into the tent apart from this man?’ he demanded, pointing at MacHuylin.

  ‘Indeed,’ the woman replied. MacHuylin smiled at Savage.

  ‘Who was it?’ MacHuylin demanded.

  The woman’s face twisted with disgust and fear. ‘Two lepers!’ she said.

  ‘Lepers?’ MacHuylin echoed, surprised.

  ‘Yes! In his tent!’ The woman’s expression showed she was obviously shocked. ‘He must have given them short shrift though, because they came out quickly and hurried off.’

  ‘Did they, now?’ MacHuylin scratched his chin.

  ‘There’s a leper hospital at Franciscan friary,’ Savage said. ‘I saw two of them earlier.’

  ‘I know. I do live here you know,’ MacHuylin said. ‘We’d better get over there quickly.’

  Savage nodded. ‘Raise the alarm,’ he told the woman and her servant. ‘Syr John Talbot’s been murdered.’

  They started to run, Savage’s aching muscles complaining the whole way. Quickly they sped across the field towards the infirmary and climbed the short rise up to the wattle-walled garden where herbs, vegetables and plants grew. In the early May sunshine the monks’ garden was a heady mixture of aromas from herbs and flowers and the gentle buzzing of bees gathering pollen. The harmonious singing of the friars drifted from the small chapel. As MacHuylin and Savage entered the garden several grey-cowled monks instantly pretended to be at work.

  ‘Where’s the hospital?’ MacHuylin demanded of one of them. The monk pointed meekly towards a low building that was joined to the small chapel.

  As MacHuylin and Savage strode purposefully towards the door, a tall, gaunt monk came hurrying across the garden towards them. His eyes were red-rimmed and they stared from his skull-like, completely bald head, which was pale and emaciated from self-starving and mortification of the flesh. He looked like he had just crawled out of one of the graves that huddled around the back of the infirmary.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ the monk demanded. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I’m Richard Savage and this is Connor MacHuylin, Commander of the Bonnaught of Ulster,’ Savage said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Abbot FitzGerald,’ the monk replied indignantly, as if Savage should have known. ‘I’m in charge here.’

  ‘We want to go to the Lazar house,’ MacHuylin told him.

  ‘We don’t let anyone into the leper colony because of the danger of infection,’ the abbot stated, putting himself between them and the door.

  ‘You let them out though,’ Savage argued. ‘What about the danger of them infecting others then, eh?’

  The abbot was most indignant ‘We do not!’ he roared. ‘Do you think we’re irresponsible? We can’t just let dangerously ill and highly infectious people out to wander around when there are so many people about. What do you think we are? Fools?’

  ‘Well some of them have been wandering about amongst the tournament over there,’ Savage insisted. ‘I saw them with my own eyes.’

  ‘Well they weren’t from here,’ the abbot replied angrily.

  ‘Come now, Abbot,’ MacHuylin growled. ‘What other leper house is there in Carrickfergus? People at the tournament saw lepers. Now are you going to let us in?’

  The abbot hesitated, then said: ‘Wait here. I’ll check for you.’

  He disappeared through the door.

  ‘Do we believe him?’ Savage wondered aloud.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know why they would let them out, particularly on a day like this,’ MacHuylin mused. ‘I, for one, don’t really fancy going in there. Leprosy is a horrible disease.’

  The abbot soon returned. ‘I’ve spoken to the monks who tend the lepers,’ he told them. ‘They assure me that no one entered or left the Lazar house today. You can come in and ask them yourself if you wish.’

  Both MacHuylin and Savage hesitated. Neither had any desire to enter a leper house.

  ‘I don’t know who it was you saw,’ the abbot said to Savage, his voice softening, ‘but those two lepers were not from here.’

  MacHuylin shrugged and he and Savage turned to head back to the tournament field.

  ‘If they didn’t come from here, where on earth did they come from?’ MacHuylin wondered. ‘Itinerants maybe? Just arrived in Carrickfergus?’

  ‘If they were lepers at all,’ said Savage. ‘They could have been disguised as lepers.’

  ‘Fake lepers? Why?’

  ‘To hide their identities,’ Savage said. ‘The lepers I saw earlier, presuming they were the same ones, were totally swathed in bandages. You could not see an inch of their faces or hands.’

  ‘No one’s going to look too closely at a couple of lepers anyway,’ said MacHuylin. ‘A very good disguise.’

  ‘Wait.’ Savage stopped. He whirled round and began striding back towards the infirmary door. The abbot had been in the process of closing it but seeing Savage coming back he once more stopped.

  ‘“Those two lepers,” you said?’ Savage glared at the abbot. ‘Neither of us mentioned how many there were, but you seem to know there were two.’

  A look of either fear or anger flashed across the abbot’s face, Savage could not decide which it was.

  ‘What is all this nonsense?’ the abbot shouted. ‘Look, if you don’t believe me then see for yourself. We have nothing to hide. This is a house of God.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ MacHuylin added. ‘Savage, I’m not going into a house of lepers.’

  ‘Can’t you see he’s counting on us being too scared of the disease to look for ourselves MacHuylin? It’s like the disguise. No one is going to want to look in a Lazar house any more than they would look beneath a leper’s bandages.’

  A look of dawning realisation mixed with anger crossed MacHuylin’s face.

  ‘I think we will look round the hospital after all,’ Savage flashed an aggressive smile at the abbot.

  22

  Still clad in his black robes and armour, Hugo Montmorency stalked through the tournament campsite like a raven. Eventually he arrived at the large tent of Syr Henry Copeland where the members of the defeated home team who still could walk unaided had gathered to lick their wounds.

  Montmorency swept open the tent flap and entered. There was a welcome coolness inside the spacious tent. The air was filled with the mixed tang of the sweat of horses and men, and the aroma of damp grass. The beaten knights were sitting in chairs or reclining on the ground, half clad in armour or stripped to their linen undergarments. Some sported black eyes or other facial bruises and their hair was matted with perspiration into unflattering arrangements. A large jug of consoling burgundy wine was being passed around.

  Montmorency hovered on the edge of the circle of knights, listening to the conversation.

  ‘We would have had them but for that man Savage.’ Syr Henry Copeland stared into his cup of wine, shaking his head a little. ‘He’s quite a fighter.’

  ‘He made the difference between the two teams today,’ Patrick de Lacy agreed, taking a long drink. ‘I heard he is originally a local man. Why wasn’t he on our side?’

  ‘He grew up in Ulster but left years ago,’ Henry de Thrapston explained. ‘He works for the king now.’

  John Bysset stood up and grasped the wine jug in a bad-tempered grab. Half his face was now hidden behind a swathe of bandages that were packed with herbs. Some green juice was seeping through the linen. ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’ He grunted. ‘A king’s emissary shouldn’t fight like that. They avoid fights, make peace, that sort of thing. Savage fought like a hardened warrior.’

  ‘That’s because he is one.’ Henry de Thrapston smiled. ‘He was a Templar.’

  An awed hush fell over the knights.

  Montm
orency’s eyes glittered and he stepped forward. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘When we were arming him, he spat on the cross his sword formed: the old Templar battle ritual,’ de Thrapston said.

  The mood of the assembled knights lifted perceptively. ‘We shouldn’t feel so bad then. I don’t mind losing to a Knight Templar!’ De Lacy grinned and refilled his goblet of wine. All the other knights laughed and the conversation started to bubble.

  Montmorency laid a hand on John Bysset’s arm. ‘We must talk. Come.’

  The Hospitaller led the young knight out of the tent. They made their way in silence through the campsite until they came to Bysset’s tent where they entered. Bysset dismissed the servants waiting inside with a derisory sweep of his hand.

  ‘I have word from Scotland,’ Montmorency said once they were alone. ‘The invasion fleet is ready and the landing site has been chosen. They will sail from Ayr and land where we suggested: Vikingsford sea lough, near Laharna.’

  Bysset nodded seriously. ‘Good. It’s the best place to land a large force near Carrickfergus. If they sail down the Antrim coast and round the Maidens islands they won’t even have to enter Carrickfergus lough. They will be out of sight of the castle the whole time and none of the garrisons will be any the wiser that the ships have landed.’

  ‘Unless a coast guard sees them,’ Montmorency said.

  Bysset chuckled. ‘That Antrim coast and the glynns are the lands of my Uncle Hugh. He will play the same trick he played when he was supposed to be hunting for Robert de Bruce. Be assured: there will be no coast guards, or if there are, they will be looking the wrong way.’

  ‘The landing site is not in your uncle’s fiefdom though. Vikingsford lough is de Logan land, watched over by the castle at Corainne point,’ Montmorency said. ‘We need to secure and fortify the site before the fleet sails. We need to clear the beaches to make sure that the Scottish army can get ashore as quickly as possible. How goes your wooing of Dame Alys?’

  Bysset smiled again. ‘We are betrothed. Soon we shall be married and then the lands will be mine.’

  Montmorency shook his head. ‘We have no time to wait for that now. The invasion is imminent. Betrothal will have to be enough. Now we must remove Dame Alys from the chessboard. That will not be hard. Everyone knows she is a witch. We will construct a suitable cause and then have her arrested. As you are engaged to marry her it will not seem strange that you take control of her lands and Corainne Castle while she awaits trial. With her out of the way we will be free to prepare the beach and harbour for the invasion.’

  ‘What about the girl? Dame Alys’s daughter Galiene?’

  ‘Kill her,’ Montmorency said. ‘The offspring of a witch is a witch too. We don’t want to leave a legitimate heir to the castle now do we?’

  Bysset nodded once more but looked slightly uncomfortable. He involuntarily touched the parcel of herbs that was bandaged to the right side of his face.

  ‘Just what is that?’ Montmorency asked.

  ‘It’s a poultice of herbs,’ Bysset explained. ‘Dame Alys made it for me. She said it would reduce the damage done in the tournament to my face.’

  A flash of pure anger crossed Montmorency’s face and he ripped the bandages off Bysset’s head, revealing the bruised and swelling cheek that Savage had smashed with his fist.

  ‘Witchcraft! Potions! You young fool – you must have nothing to do with that woman’s evil concoctions. She could be casting spells on you that twist your resolve and jeopardise this whole adventure. Trust in God alone.’

  Bysset looked at the ground, his face reddening with anger. He bit his tongue though, knowing he could not beat the Hospitaller in an open fight.

  ‘What about the earl?’ he asked, his voice thick with suppressed rage. ‘Is he with us or against?’

  Montmorency shook his head in disgust. ‘The earl still prevaricates. He is waiting until he is sure which side will win, then he will join that side. He has no backbone any more. No faith. We can no longer afford to wait to see which way he jumps. We must take action ourselves. He is a fool anyway. God has already shown us which side he favours. He has given such a clear sign.’

  ‘The Grail…’ Bysset’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Will King Robert bring the holy treasure with him to Ireland?’

  Montmorency shook his head. ‘King Robert is not coming with his brother Edward to Ireland. He is sailing to the Western Isles to subdue rebels there.’

  Bysset looked crestfallen. Montmorency laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fear, John. You may get your chance to see the holy treasure yet. The Scots need someone who knows the waters to guide their ships safely around the Maidens islands into Vikingsford lough. That man is you.’

  Bysset’s eyes lit up and the smile returned to his face.

  ‘Once we have dealt with Dame Alys and secured her castle, you must travel to Scotland and return at the head of the invasion fleet,’ Montmorency continued. ‘I am sure King Robert will reward your vital service with a sight of the holy vessel that bore our Lord’s blood.’

  ‘And what of Syr Richard Savage?’ Bysset asked. ‘We were supposed to have killed him by now.’

  Montmorency grinned like a hungry wolf. ‘He was lucky in the tournament. Who would have thought he was wearing plate armour? Otherwise the arrow would have gone straight through him. Our agents got Syr John Talbot though, so it has not been a completely wasted day. Do not worry: this news of Savage being a heretic Templar is a stroke of luck. We can use this against him and arrest him too, along with the witch.’

  ‘You will need to be careful. There is still a lot of respect for the Templars. You saw how the other knights back in the tent reacted there now,’ Bysset said.

  Montmorency shook his head. ‘By the time anyone tries to do anything about it I shall have transferred both Savage and Dame Alys out of the country and into the hands of the Holy Office of the Inquisition.’

  23

  At the friary, the abbot shook his head and began to close the door. ‘Really, this is most ridiculous. I gave you the chance to look around here and you declined—’

  MacHuylin stretched out a large hand, preventing the door from closing. ‘We’re coming in,’ he stated.

  ‘You dare speak to me like this?’ the abbot raged. ‘I am a man of God.’

  ‘Aw shut up,’ MacHuylin replied as he and Savage pushed their way through the door past the protesting friar.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ the abbot shouted, mucus bubbling on his lips and spraying with every word.

  ‘Have you something to hide, Abbot?’ Savage demanded. ‘I am an emissary of King Edward of England. I have authority to go wherever I feel I have to,’ he added. MacHuylin raised a sceptical eyebrow that Savage hoped the abbot did not see.

  The abbot’s demeanour changed. In an instant the cast of rage left his face and an obsequious smile sneaked across his lips.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I merely am indignant at this intrusion. This is the property of the Church. As for the king – well, you hardly expect the authority of a devil-worshipping sodomite to be recognised here, do you?’

  ‘You watch your tongue, monk,’ Savage said.

  The abbot continued, nonplussed, ‘We have nothing to hide here. We are simple men of God. We live in peace, doing our best to worship our Saviour and trying to help those less fortunate than ourselves. You may search where you please.’

  ‘Right. We’ll start in the Lazar house,’ said Savage. ‘Lead the way, Abbot FitzGerald.’

  The abbot nodded and preceded them across a short, barren hallway to a door that opened into the hospital. This was a long room with seven beds on each side and aromatic herbs hung around the walls. There were only three patients. One, a peasant woman with a fever, tossed and turned in her sweaty bed. A couple of beds away lay a gaunt-faced man whose leg had been amputated. The operation had perhaps been futile as he looked like he was not long for the world. On the other side of the room was a bearde
d man with an arm in splints and his chest bandaged, lying on a bed beneath a big wooden crucifix that hung on the wall.

  There was a door at the other end of the infirmary and the abbot led the way to it. This door was adorned with a crucifix and black crosses were painted on the walls around the door, each one a magic talisman to try to contain the dreaded disease that lurked on the other side.

  ‘The lepers stay in there,’ the abbot announced. ‘I have already done my duty and spent the allotted months that all we Franciscans must spend tending the lepers, so you’ll understand why I do not accompany you inside.’

  ‘Aren’t they a bit close to the other patients?’ asked MacHuylin.

  ‘This door is seldom opened,’ the abbot revealed. ‘There is another door at the other end of the Lazar house, which opens into an enclosure for them to go outside if they wish.’

  Savage turned to MacHuylin. ‘You don’t need to come in as well,’ he said. ‘I’ve no wish to place you at any more risk than necessary.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ MacHuylin consented, not without some relief. He was willing to fight anyone on earth if needs be, but there was something about the silent, invisible nature of the disease that appalled him.

  Savage took a deep breath to try to dispel the nervous feeling in his chest. He pulled his cloak up around his mouth and nose in case he might breathe in the contagion in the air, then he disappeared through the cross-marked door.

  MacHuylin waited, watching the silent abbot out of the corner of his eye, his hand never far from the hilt of his dagger. He had no intentions of underestimating how dangerous the abbot might be. Irish monks regularly took up arms and it was not uncommon for monasteries to go to war against each other.

  Almost immediately, Savage returned, his face now angry.

  ‘Just what are you playing at, abbot?’ he demanded. ‘There’s no lepers in there. The place is empty!’

  ‘You merely wished to see the Lazar house.’ The abbot smiled provocatively. ‘You didn’t say anything about any lepers.’

  ‘Don’t play games, monk,’ Savage’s ire was raised and MacHuylin noted how intimidating the flashing green eyes of the knight became when employed in an unflinching stare. There was murder in those eyes.