Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘What was that?’ Savage leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Blanquet. ‘Bruce has the Grail you say?’

  ‘So I have heard.’ Blanquet nodded. ‘God has shown He favours Bruce’s cause by delivering the Holy Grail into his hands.’

  ‘Come, come,’ Henry de Thrapston interjected, wearing a placating smile. ‘Let’s not ruin dinner by arguing religion and politics.’

  ‘There’s nothing to argue,’ Jordan stated with a sniff. ‘I am right and he knows it.’

  The meal continued, with servants struggling into the hall, laden with venison, poultry, peacocks, boar and various pies.

  As the other diners began a lively discussion on the relative merits of the food, Savage leaned closer to the “poet”, Guilleme the Rhymer.

  ‘Why exactly are you impersonating a famous troubadour?’ he whispered.

  Guilleme smiled. ‘The real Guilleme the Rhymer happens to be a friend of mine. The king gave him twenty marks last Christmas for performing for him in London. Thankfully none of these folk have ever met him though.’

  ‘What are you doing here? Isn’t it a bit of a risk?’

  ‘It is my job to gather information for the king without being noticed. Feasts like this are an excellent opportunity to hear all sorts of interesting things,’ “the Rhymer” whispered, nodding in Blanquet’s direction. ‘What better disguise at a feast for me than a famous poet from out of town?’

  ‘Well I hope you can sing,’ Savage commented. ‘How did you know the Caesar cipher, by the way?’

  ‘You are not the only former Templar in the employ of the king, brother.’ Guilleme smiled. ‘I was in the order’s commandery of Périgord when the arrests began. I escaped. Just made it to the English dominions in Gascony with the Inquisitors hot on my heels.’

  Their conversation stopped as the end of the meal arrived and Henry de Thrapston stood up to announce that the entertainment would begin. “Guilleme la Roche” bowed and joined the musicians at the top of the hall.

  This should be interesting, Savage thought to himself.

  Several other poets joined “la Roche” and they began to sing. To Savage’s surprise, “la Roche” had an impressive voice. On reflection it would have been stupid for le Poer to disguise himself as a troubadour if he could not in fact sing, but he was so good Savage began to wonder if “la Roche” was a disguise of le Poer, or vice versa.

  As the poets sang and he listened to the rich, intricate lines woven by the bards, Savage began to feel for the first time as if he had come home. The Red Earl was a great patron of poets and his court was always blessed with visits from the best of them. Whether de Burgh’s patronage was motivated by a love of their art or to annoy the Church (who wanted them wiped out as remnants of paganism) was a matter of debate. After so long away, Savage had some problems readjusting his ears once more to the subtleties of the Irish language, but he listened enthralled to the rhythms of the words and gleaned the sense of the story. The Irish sang in the same style as the Norse: each singer singing in a different voice and key, which all melded into a beautiful harmony. The poets sang a haunting romantic tale of a warrior and a princess who fell in love, but she was betrothed to the king who the warrior served.

  As the song ended, Savage turned to de Thrapston. ‘Was Alys de Logan not invited tonight?’ he asked.

  De Thrapston nodded. ‘She was. I don’t know why she didn’t come. John Bysset is not here either. Maybe they had more pressing business. Marriage planning and all that.’

  General singing soon began around the tables and it was not long before the tables were cleared, taken down and removed from the hall, while the musicians began playing carols and dancing songs. The minstrels played brass-stringed harps and lyres with stunning dexterity. No one could play music like the Irish. Even the English conceded this. The English and Welsh played in a slow, deliberate way. Irish musicians were quick and lively, their fingers dancing over the strings like sunlight sparkling on water. Even with such rapid finger work, the rhythm was maintained with unfailing discipline and despite a thousand embellishments the integrity of the tune was fully preserved throughout the song.

  Dancing soon began. Savage was surprised to find himself a bit of a celebrity, with lots of the young and some of the older ladies at the banquet beseeching him to dance with them. While flattered at this, he found himself more than a little abashed. He soon found himself quite out of breath as he rediscovered the wild abandon with which people entered into dancing in Ireland. Soon the whole hall was dancing, with the exception of Montmorency and Johan D’Athy who seemed to be deep in earnest conversation about something.

  After a few dances, the day’s exertions in the tournament began to get the better of him and Savage took a seat at the side of the hall. What he needed was some more beer to ease the stiffness of his muscles and the aches from his bruises. A pretty serving girl brought him a draught of cuirm from the earl’s brewery and Savage quickly sunk it, enjoying the feeling of warmth that it spread throughout his body. His face flushed as he watched the dancers twirl and leap before him.

  MacHuylin appeared beside him. Sweat was glistening on his forehead from dancing.

  ‘You’re not dancing, I see,’ he commented.

  ‘Too tired.’ Savage shook his head. ‘You’re doing all right, though. You haven’t sat down since the music started. You seem to have quite a harem of admirers.’

  ‘A ha-what?’ asked MacHuylin.

  ‘A harem,’ Savage explained. ‘It’s what Saracen kings call the place where they keep all their wives. I mean that there’s a lot of women seem very fond of you.’

  MacHuylin grinned wickedly and smoothed his droopy moustache. ‘Ah, well, you can’t blame them for that, can you? I’m a good-looking man. Have you no lady friends yourself?’

  Savage shook his head.

  ‘Oh sorry, I forgot,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Your fancy woman isn’t here tonight.’

  ‘My what?’ Savage was confused.

  ‘De Thrapston says you’re soft on the witch, Alys de Logan.’ MacHuylin smirked. ‘Well rather you than me, my friend. That woman is nothing but trouble. She’s already put one husband in the grave.’

  ‘I am not soft on her!’ Savage was indignant.

  At that moment an attractive woman in her early thirties danced up and tugged MacHuylin’s arm.

  ‘Come on, Connor,’ she implored, ‘come and dance.’

  ‘Oh well, duty calls.’ MacHuylin winked at Savage and swept off to rejoin the dance.

  Savage took another swig of ale and reasoned that he should really make better use of his time by having another talk with “Guilleme la Roche” or le Poer.

  ‘More ale, Syr Richard?’

  A voice interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see a beautiful young serving girl with long, braided blonde hair and eyes the colour of cornflowers, a brimming jug of ale in her slender arms. Savage was so disarmed by her wide white smile that the most intelligent thing he could think of to reply was ‘Um… Yes please.’

  The young woman obliged. As she carefully refilled his cup with sparkling golden liquid, she said, ‘His Excellency, the justiciar, sent me over to ask you to meet him outside. On the battlements of the sea wall.’

  Savage looked round and saw Bottelier was standing at the far end of the hall beside the doors. The justiciar nodded to him then left the hall.

  Savage set down his beer and set off down the hall after him. The whirling dancers impeded his progress but after a few detours he made it to the doors and left the hall also.

  Outside, the sun had long set and Savage’s sight was swamped by the dark. A chilly breeze – winter’s last breath – gripped him and made him shiver. On his right were the lights from the castle kitchens where the cook was vomiting profusely out the door.

  Savage looked around, trying to locate the steps leading to the battlements. To his surprise he saw the constable, Johan D’Athy and six men-at-arms approaching from the castle courtyard.

 
‘Just you stop right there, Savage,’ D’Athy called.

  ‘I’m on my way to meet the justiciar,’ Savage stated, noting that the men with D’Athy were all armoured and armed, one with a sword, two with spears, one with an axe and two Flemings had loaded, cocked crossbows.

  ‘You’re going nowhere, Savage,’ D’Athy replied. ‘I have just been informed that you were involved in Syr John Talbot’s murder today. On top of that I also hear that you are a Templar, and therefore a fugitive heretic. You are under arrest.’

  32

  ‘If he moves, shoot him,’ D’Athy directed the Flemish crossbowmen.

  Savage quickly assessed his options and realised he had none. The door of the hall was closed behind him, the courtyard was open and the Flemings were professional mercenaries. If he tried to run he would be shot.

  Savage raised his hands to show surrender.

  D’Athy grinned. ‘That’s more like it. Your accomplice Dame Alys had less sense. Men, take him to the tower.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Savage said. ‘What have you done with Alys?’

  ‘Take him to the north tower!’ roared D’Athy.

  ‘The justiciar is waiting to see me,’ Savage said.

  ‘Do you think I will let you near the justiciar so you can murder him too?’ D’Athy said.

  ‘What? This is ridiculous!’ Savage shouted.

  ‘Take him to the north tower,’ D’Athy repeated. ‘If he tries shouting for help, kill him. If he tries to run, kill him. He can stay a prisoner in the tower while I go to fetch the Inquisition.’

  With that, D’Athy stalked off towards the castle gates.

  ‘Come,’ one of the crossbowmen ordered in his heavy Flemish accent.

  Savage sighed and realised he would have to comply. The men-at-arms shepherded him to the stairs that led to the north tower.

  As they jostled him along, Savage saw the figure of the justiciar standing on the battlements of the sea wall about sixty yards away, his shape outlined against the sky in the bright moonlight.

  ‘Shhh!’ One of the Flemings touched his finger to his lips and raised his crossbow, warning Savage to not try crying out.

  They arrived at the door of the tower where Savage had spent the previous night. The door was opened and one of the men-at-arms shoved Savage into the room. The door slammed behind him and the key turned. Tonight there was no question if the room was a prison or not.

  Savage swore and swung a futile kick at the locked door. They had not bothered to give him any light and he was glad he was familiar with the room layout from the night before. Moonlight streamed in from the two windows, giving some illumination as Savage stalked around the room once, trying to work out what to do. He walked to the barred seaward window and looked out. The black sea churned below the window, waves crashing against the dark, unseen rocks. Far to his right he could make out the battlements of the sea wall and the figure of the justiciar still standing there waiting for him to arrive.

  ‘Sire! Over here! In the tower,’ he shouted.

  It was useless: the justiciar was too far away to hear him over the whooshing rush of the waves.

  He sighed and cursed the fact that he was once more a prisoner. What had D’Athy done to Alys? He could not simply sit here and wait for D’Athy’s return.

  Despite his situation, Savage was able to manage a grim smile. It was a stroke of luck that they had decided to imprison him in the same tower as the night before. Then he had worked out an escape plan, and this was the perfect time to implement it.

  He went to the bed and quickly stripped it. All in all there was a coversheet, a blanket and two warm woollen sheets beneath. He twisted each one and tied the opposite corners of one to another until they made a rope, just short of four times the length of a man.

  One end of his makeshift rope Savage tied to an iron torch bracket on the wall. He then swept aside the tapestry of King Arthur to reveal the wooden-seated privy. Down the hole and through the sloping gap in the wall he threw the other end of the rope. It would be a tight, very unpleasant squeeze, but he could make it out of the tower by climbing down the latrine to the rocks below.

  He wrapped the rope round himself once, then stepped up onto the ledge of the latrine. He raised the wooden seat and placed his right foot down into the hole. Bracing his back against the wall, he placed his left foot into the latrine also and began to shuffle down into the hole.

  Fortunately this was an aristocratic privy with a long drop into the sea, and thus was kept well flushed by buckets of water to stop any unpleasant odours seeping back into the room above. All the same, as Savage descended into the green-coated closed funnel of the latrine and the stench of urine became overpowering, he was glad he wore the clothes de Thrapston had lent him and not his own.

  It was a tight squeeze. His body filled the shaft completely and his face was mere inches from the disgusting slime that coated the stone walls. To his alarm the shaft also seemed to be narrowing as he descended. The lack of space was making it hard to breathe.

  Savage pushed himself down a few more feet and he could feel his feet come free of the bottom of the latrine shaft into fresh air. This would be the tricky part. Once he got out of the latrine shaft there would be nothing but sheer wall descending twenty or so feet. If he was not careful and used the rope to slow his descent he would just plummet to the jagged rocks below, smash himself on them and roll broken and helpless into the sea that licked hungry waves across them.

  He raised both arms above him to take a good grip of the rope then shoved his weight downwards, propelling his body into the bottom of the latrine shaft.

  He stuck.

  To his horror the bottom of the shaft was not wide enough to allow him out. His legs and stomach went through but his chest was squarely lodged in the narrow shaft, suspending him with his bottom half dangling in thin air. To make matters worse, the width of the shaft was like a vice around his chest. He could not breathe in.

  Panic gripped Savage. Unable to breathe in, he could not call for help. With his feet hanging in mid-air there was nothing he could get purchase on to push himself back up. He would die stuck at the bottom of this stinking shithole. Lack of air was already prompting a flurry of black specks to swirl round his vision.

  A spark of anger flared within Savage. Of all the indignities he had faced, this was the final straw. There was no way he would let himself die this way. Not if he could do anything about it.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think. The answer came to him and he knew there was only one way out. He had to do it quickly or he would pass out. He also knew that if it did not work then he was dead.

  It was against all nature. Every instinct in his body demanded he conserve the air that remained in his lungs as long as possible and hang on to each life-giving breath. With concentrated effort, however, Savage relaxed his body and deliberately breathed out, expelling the air from his lungs and reducing the circumference of his chest.

  It worked.

  Savage dropped down through the hole and his body fell into space. By luck his shoulders lodged at the bottom of the shaft and stopped him tumbling straight down onto the rocks below.

  Now his chest was free he could breathe deeply again. He sucked in a couple of lungfuls of air, not minding now that it stank of piss and his face was closer than ever to the ordure-covered walls of the latrine shaft.

  Savage pushed his arms straight above him, taking as strong a grip on the rope as he could while at the same time relaxing his shoulders so that they would fit through the gap at the bottom of the shaft.

  In a few moments he was free of the stinking latrine and hanging from his rope against the exterior wall of the castle. Above him was the tower where he had been prisoner, below him was fifteen or so feet of sheer stone wall and below that a short, steep bank on rough stone rocks against which the sea crashed violently. Even at that height above it, Savage was already getting splashed by spray from the waves breaking on the rocks.

  Quick
ly, he descended down the remaining length of the rope. The last few feet he had to be careful. It was dark and finding a footing on the uneven, slippery rocks was tricky. Eventually, however, he found himself hanging at the end of his rope and his feet were still not on the ground. He just had to let go.

  Savage fell a couple of feet then hit the rocks. His left foot hit a solid flat rock but his right landed on a sloping, slippery rock and he fell heavily, cracking his knee off a stone and banging his backside off the wall. He managed to steady himself, just as a wave crashed onto the rocks beneath him and soaked his legs in spray. The constant washing of the waves over the rocks at least meant he was not currently standing in a heap of shit from the latrine above.

  It was dark, but a bright, almost full moon bathed everything in its baleful light and sparkled silver across the sea before him. The warmth of the day had gone and a strong wind churned the water into choppy waves. Savage was standing on the rocks of the promontory that the castle was built on. Behind him the sheer walls of the castle towered up into the night. To his right the castle extended out into the sea lough, while far to his left the castle met the shore and the walls of the town of Carrickfergus. In front of him was the sea.

  Now he was out of the castle, all he had to do was get to a ship, then get out of this country and away. There was nothing he could do about the situation and there seemed to be no one who could be trusted. If he stayed here much longer he would end up dead. It was time to look after his own interests and get out of Ireland.

  33

  Alys de Logan shifted uncomfortably in the undergrowth and wished she could get a better view of what was going on in her castle. Galiene crouched, silent, beside her. It was dark now but there seemed to be no let-up in the activity that had started soon after they made their escape in the late afternoon.

  At first, she had been surprised they were not pursued. After a frantic ride inland away from the castle as fast as their stolen black horses could carry them, they soon came to realise that no one was chasing them.