Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  Wary of a trick, they continued on at a slower pace, constantly looking over their shoulders, but soon became convinced that – even allowing for the time it would take to round up the stampeded horses – no one had bothered to come after them.

  If they were not chasing them, what were they up to?

  Eventually they slowed to a halt and Alys tried to think what she should do – what she could do. She could ride to Carrickfergus and appeal to the earl, but the men who had come to arrest her had included Johan D’Athy, Constable of Carrickfergus. He worked for the earl. Would she be riding into a trap?

  The memory of John Bysset’s smiling face, beckoning to her with one hand, a look of appealing fondness on his face while his other hand reached for his dagger, made her clench her fist in anger. How could she have been so blind, so stupid as to let someone like him worm his way into her affections?

  It was as she had secretly suspected but never wanted to admit to herself that Bysset had only been after her land. She had been a fool to ever think that a young handsome knight like Bysset would have been interested in an impoverished widow like her.

  Alys sighed and again considered what to do. Nothing came to mind. She and her daughter were the last of her family. There was no one left who would take them in. While the local people came to her for potions and charms, they still regarded her with suspicion because she was a witch. The townspeople of Carrickfergus avoided her altogether. As a woman on her own, and a witch too, she was outside society.

  Over the years she had learned to survive on her own. She took pride in the fact that she had held on to the family castle and lands, and managed to scratch a living, however meagre, by using her own talents, knowledge and ability. But now she had lost her home; she had lost everything. The precarious grasp with which she had managed to hold on to the coat tail of society had been ripped away and she was alone.

  A single tear welled up in Alys’s right eye and trickled down her cheek as she gazed into the middle distance.

  ‘Why are you crying, Mother? It was only a castle. At least we are alive.’

  Alys turned to see her daughter looking at her with her solemn, bright green eyes. She wondered at the strength of the child who could go through such an experience as they just had but seemed so unperturbed. What she described as “only a castle” represented her daughter’s entire hope for the future. The child knew this, but was able to shrug it off. Her despair was quickly replaced by a deep sense of pride in her daughter, coupled with anger at what had been done to both of them. She quickly dashed the tear away. She wanted her castle back, and by Christ she was going to get it.

  The first step would be to get back to Corainne and see just what was going on. What was so important that they needed her out of the way, that they had accused her of murder and witchcraft?

  ‘I don’t know why I’m crying, Galiene,’ she said, ‘when what I should be doing is seeing just what John Bysset is up to. Come on. Let’s go back.’

  ‘Are you sad because of Syr John?’ Galiene asked.

  ‘A little. But I am more angry that I let him trick me into thinking he liked me.’

  ‘I never liked him. He always looked at me in a funny way.’

  Alys stopped and turned to face her daughter. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I don’t think I ever really liked him either. I suppose I was as bad as him. He was only after my land, and I was only after his money. Let that be a lesson to you.’

  It took them longer to get back than it had to get away. Their escape had been by the most direct route: the track that led inland from the harbour of Vikingsford and up into the woods that separated it from Carrickfergus. Now they were fugitives, Alys decided that the most sensible ploy was to take the smaller paths that shadowed the main track but were behind the tree line and so out of sight. Most of the paths were too narrow or overgrown to ride at any sort of pace, so they had to dismount and tie their stolen horses to a tree. They could come back and get them when they needed them. The big grey cat leapt down and followed at their heels as they set off on foot through the trees.

  It was a good decision. The main road to Vikingsford soon became very busy.

  The sound of drumming hooves made them halt and they crouched down behind a large holly bush near the edge of the track. A few moments later, Constable D’Athy and the Hospitaller Montmorency, having recovered their stampeded horses, galloped past on the main track, full tilt in the direction of Carrickfergus.

  Once they were past, Alys and Galiene resumed their journey homeward. Shortly the sound of hooves again interrupted their progress. This time there were more of them on the road. Again Alys and Galiene ducked under cover and watched a troop of about twenty men-at-arms, all dressed in the livery of the Byssets, thundering down the trackway, this time in the direction of Corainne Castle.

  Twice more before they reached the castle they had to halt their journey as bands of men in various liveries or in none galloped past on the main track, all going in the same direction as them. Two open wagons stacked high with wooden stakes, shovels, wood chopping axes, adzes and other tools bounced past, trundling their way to the castle as well.

  Finally Alys and Galiene arrived at the edge of the woods. There was nothing now but open ground between the tree line and the castle of Corainne. Beyond the castle was Vikingsford lough, a long, narrow natural harbour of the sea surrounded by low hills.

  Having run out of cover to hide in, Alys, Galiene and the cat sat down to watch what was going on as the afternoon wore on towards night.

  The little castle had become a hive of activity. The men who had passed them on the track were all hard at work. Most of them were on the short rocky beach beside the castle, clearing all the gorse and driftwood into big piles. Were they planning a bonfire? If so, it was a day too late. The Beltane fires from the night before were now all just smouldering embers.

  Another group of men were in the woods near them chopping down trees. These were carried back to the castle where they were worked into sharp-topped palisade stakes, planks and logs. A group of men had begun digging trenches along the inland side of the castle. The castle itself was being stripped down of all unnecessary furniture and clutter. As Alys watched she saw her flock of chickens being slaughtered. She winced as soldiers carried the corpse of her faithful old porter Peter out of the castle and dumped it unceremoniously on the dung pile outside. More soldiers pulled down rotten and crumbling parts of the palisade wall that Alys had neither the money nor the manpower to repair and strengthened the gaps with new wood. They dismantled the rickety old platform above the gate. Horses dragged four large trees from the woods and soldiers manoeuvred them up into upright positions in pits on each side of the gate, forming the base of a new, much stronger gate tower. As Alys watched, she realised that what she had originally thought were trenches were defensive ditches. The earth dug out of them was being mounded behind them to form a new earthen outer wall.

  As the sun set she spotted the sail of a small ship coming up the lough towards the castle. It beached itself in the shallows and Alys saw John Bysset come swaggering out of the castle courtyard. She ached for a bow or crossbow at that moment to cut him down with, but she had nothing and just had to watch as he paddled out into the water and hauled himself onto the boat. Sailors on the ship used long poles to shove the vessel back out into the deeper water. Once re-floated, it turned round and sailed off back up the lough, finally disappearing out of the lough mouth into the open sea.

  Darkness fell but the work continued. Torches blazed in all rooms of the castle tower and the big piles of driftwood and gorse were set ablaze, giving light so work on the entrenchments and defences could continue into the night.

  At length Alys sighed and stood up. Her castle was now stronger than it had ever been and it was garrisoned with a troop of soldiers. There was very little she would be able to do right now to get it back. She needed to think, to form a plan. She was one lone woman against a knight, his soldiers and the law. S
he needed allies but there was no one who would help her.

  Alys narrowed her eyes. There was one person who might help, but he had let her down before. Could she put her faith in him now?

  34

  Savage picked his way carefully along the bottom of the castle wall.

  If he was to get away, he had to edge his way along the ledge of rock until he reached the shore. Extreme caution would be required. Green slippery seaweed coated the rocks that at any moment his feet could slide on, sending him tumbling into the sea below. The hungry waves smashed high up the rocks and an especially big one could crash over him and suck him into the sea’s freezing black maw.

  A movement ahead made Savage pause.

  He strained his eyes in the dark. To his surprise, about thirty feet away there were some other people on the rocks at the base of the castle wall like him. The moonlight showed a couple of skin boats had been pulled up onto the rocks and a group of about ten men in heavy cloaks were gathered at the bottom of the wall. What really stunned Savage was that about halfway up the wall was another man, dressed completely in black, who was climbing up the sheer stone wall like a human spider.

  He had no idea how he was managing it, as the blocks of the wall were smooth and well pointed, leaving little or no purchase for someone to climb, yet this man was doing it.

  The moonlight glittered briefly on steel. The men at the bottom of the wall were armed. Whatever they were up to, it was probably not good.

  As he was unarmed, dressed in a tunic and supposed to be escaping from the castle, Savage decided that it would not be prudent to try to go past these men. He would have to go the long way round and climb his way right round the castle to the harbour side. What would make it even trickier was he would have to go round the exposed end of the fortress that jutted furthest out into the sea. The waves there were bound to be bigger and have a higher reach. It was, however, preferable to trying to get past a bunch of armed men.

  He was just about to set off when to his dismay he saw another band of men huddled at the bottom of the wall in the other direction. This group was much larger than the other, and another black-clad man was in the process of a similar seemingly impossible ascent of the sheer castle wall, this time on the seaward wall.

  There was only one sort of warrior Savage knew of who could attempt that sort of climb: an assassin.

  Incredible as it seemed, he had suspected since that afternoon when they had found the strange cells at the friary that there were members of the Saracen Cult of Assassins at work in Ireland.

  When a Templar, he had been taught about the various Saracen regiments, warriors and battalions he was likely to face in battle. Savage recalled Gaston, the grizzled old Templar sergeant who delivered the lecture on the assassins. Gaston had only one arm, the other lost in battle and his iron grey hair hung down over half his face to hide the fact that he had lost an eye as well. He had fought in Acre, Egypt, Cyprus and even the pagan forests of Eastern Europe.

  ‘The assassins are the one enemy you should fear,’ Gaston told the ranks of eager young volunteers in his soft West Country burr. ‘Because they don’t fear death. They are trained for murder, and they don’t care if they die in their attack. That is the one enemy you can never completely guard yourself from. You can’t hide from them either. There is a famous tale the Saracens tell of a caliph who became an enemy of the Old Man of the Mountains, the assassins’ commander. He knew assassins would be sent after him so the caliph hid himself away in a tall tower, on top of a high cliff. There was only one narrow pathway up to the tower and one door to the tower and the caliph knew he could keep it watched at all times so he would see if they came for him. He thought he was safe, but he was a fool. They didn’t take the path; they climbed right up that cliff and right up the tower and climbed in the top window. Six died in the climb but the one who made it cut the old caliph’s throat as he lay in his bed. The Old Man of the Mountains teaches the assassins all sorts of tricks for climbing, and they have special hooks and shoes for it. Can climb anywhere they can. Add to that the fact that they don’t care if they die, so they don’t care if they fall off, and pretty much any wall, tower or cliff is not a problem for them. No, lads, you can’t hide from these buggers and you should be scared of them.’

  ‘You tell us we should fear them, and we can’t hide from them, so what should we do about them then?’ Savage had demanded.

  ‘You should kill them,’ Gaston growled. ‘Bunch of bloody fanatics they are. It’s the only thing you can do with the bastards. Kill them any chance you get.’

  Now, as he watched the two men scaling the seemingly impossible climb of the castle wall he was sure that they must be members of the Cult of Assassins. It was these men who had murdered John Talbot, tried to murder him and had escaped from MacHuylin and him at the friary.

  All of them could not be assassins, though. Otherwise they would all be on their way up the wall together. No doubt the rest of the men huddled at the bottom of the wall were the same Irish troops who had ambushed MacHuylin and him in the woods so the assassins could escape.

  Irishmen he could explain, but what were two assassins doing in Ireland? He had to admit, this question genuinely intrigued him. Who was their target now?

  It must be the justiciar. Savage thought of le Bottelier standing waiting for him on the seaward battlements while these men sneaked silently into the castle and stuck a knife in his back.

  On top of that there was Alys. D’Athy said they had dealt with her in some way. Could she be imprisoned somewhere, awaiting the Inquisition? Or worse? Could he really leave her again and save his own skin?

  In that instant he came to a decision. Even though he had just successfully broken out of the castle, he must now somehow break back in and raise the alarm.

  To hell with D’Athy and whatever he was up to, the seneschal and the justiciar were the real law in the land and he would have to trust they would back him against whatever D’Athy’s mad claims were. He had to get back into the castle.

  His exit route was not available: the end of his makeshift rope of blankets hung too high up for him to reach.

  As he watched, the assassin to his left, in the shoreward side, reached the top of the wall and disappeared over the battlements. Moments later he reappeared and threw a rope down. Immediately one of the armed men at the base of the wall began scaling it.

  It would be risky, but Savage realised his best chance lay with letting them all scale the rope into the castle then hurry past to get to the front gate and re-enter that way. Hopefully they would not have time to kill the justiciar by then.

  One by one, the attackers went up the rope and climbed onto the battlements. To Savage’s relief they all went up and left no one behind on guard.

  As soon as the last man began his ascent up the rope Savage started picking his way carefully across the slippery rocks towards the shore end of the castle. He got right to the curve of the base of the gate tower before finally running out of footholds. Here the rock fell away into a steep incline that ran down into the sea.

  Savage had to lie prone and crawl his way round to the front of the tower as the waves lashed him, threatening to pull him down into the sea below. Finally he came to the edge of the wall. The castle was separated from the land by a deep ditch dug across the front of the twin-towered gate, the only side not surrounded by sea. As the tide was in, the ditch was flooded with seawater but it was also spanned by the lowered castle drawbridge.

  The ditch was too wide to jump but Savage heaved himself off the wall and landed on the side of the drawbridge. On the landward side of the drawbridge, the justiciar’s troop of cavalry were lounging around, forming an armed barrier between the town and the castle in case anyone intended attack. Little did they know the attackers had already outflanked them from the sea.

  ‘You. What the hell are you up to?’ demanded a voice from the gateway as Savage pulled himself to his feet. He looked up to see the gate guard who had challenged him th
e day before standing in the castle gateway, his spear again levelled in his direction.

  At the same time, a shout of surprise came from above them, on the first floor of the castle gatehouse. Almost immediately the shout changed to a scream of agony that ended abruptly.

  They were taking the gatehouse. Savage guessed what their next move was and he knew he had to get inside as fast as possible.

  ‘The castle is under attack!’ he shouted at the cavalrymen. ‘The justiciar is in danger!’

  He did not have time to see if they heard or heeded him as he raced across the drawbridge into the castle gateway, which was a long, narrow passage about fourteen feet deep.

  The gate guard, not knowing what was going on but assuming Savage was a threat, lunged at him with his spear. Savage managed to grab the shaft and deflect the blow but the guard followed him and they stood facing each other in the gateway, the guard looking for his chance to stab again.

  Above their heads came a sudden loud squeaking of wood and metal and Savage dived forward into the entranceway of the castle. Surprised, the gate guard looked up to see the heavy portcullis of the castle, dropping from the roof with a roaring rattle of heavy iron chains.

  The portcullis was an emergency gate. In the event of sudden attack it was designed to be released to drop into the castle entrance and seal it in less than a second. It was made of heavy wood and iron, with large, spiked feet to drive into the ground. The gate guard had no time to react before one of them thundered down into him, the massive weight of the portcullis smashing his body into a crumpled, bloody mess before he could even scream. Savage, just inside the gate, was sprayed with his blood.

  He got to his feet to see that beyond the portcullis the justiciar’s cavalry had heard the commotion and were running towards the drawbridge to see what was going on. It was no use though. The dropped portcullis now blocked their entrance to the castle.

  The attackers had taken the castle gatehouse, dropped the portcullis and now Savage was sealed inside the castle with them, while all of the earl and the justiciar’s soldiers were locked outside.