‘The messenger who delivered this: what did he look like?’ Savage asked.
De Thrapston turned the corners of his mouth down. ‘No idea. It was handed to the gate guard. You know what those fellows are like. The best I could get out of him was that it was a man. And an ugly one at that.’
MacHuylin approached them.
‘What’s this? A love letter from the witch?’ the galloglaich asked.
Savage frowned. ‘I don’t know what it is yet. I am worried about Alys though. No one seems to know where she is and D’Athy said they had gone to arrest her yesterday. Any sign of him?’
MacHuylin shook his head. ‘He’ll have disappeared down the nearest rat hole if he has any sense. Last night’s events have brought the conspiracy in support of the Scots into the light. The knives are out. The earl has ordered the arrest of anyone connected with the rebels who turned against him last night and anyone else likely to be involved. Hard questions are going to be asked, and not in a nice way.’
Savage nodded. He had no doubt of the brutality that the galloglaich mercenaries would employ in any interrogation when given free rein.
‘He couldn’t have arrested her,’ de Thrapston added. ‘She’s not a prisoner in the castle or in the town prison. As castellan, I have authority over all prisoners of the earl in either place.’
‘Maybe you should try her castle down at Vikingsford. They say that’s where she brews her spells,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Good luck in finding her. Can you come and talk to the seneschal and the earl? They have some questions about what we found in the friary yesterday.’
Savage accompanied MacHuylin up the hall to the table where the seneschal, the earl and the justiciar sat.
‘MacHuylin tells me you might know who some of these murderers loose in the earldom are.’ The justiciar sat, arms folded. ‘Saracens or something? Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.’
Savage took a moment to collect his thoughts, then asked, ‘Have you ever heard of the assassins, or rather the hashishin?’
‘What on earth’s that?’ MacHuylin screwed up his face in bewilderment.
‘Not what: who,’ said Savage. ‘Hashishin is a Saracen word that means “eater of hashish”. We call them “assassins”. Far to the east, high in the mountains of Persia, there is a valley. Young Saracen men, fervent in the Naziri branch of the Islamic faith, go on pilgrimage there. It’s an awful place – dry as a bone, nothing but stones and dust and nowhere to hide from the scorching, blazing sun that bakes and boils the very brains in your skull. Only the hardiest and toughest make it to the fortress at the end of the valley, the castle of the Old Man of the Mountains. He is the head of the Cult of Assassins and is said to be immeasurably wise and centuries old. Personally, I doubt this. He’s more likely to be the latest successor in a long line of Old Men of the Mountains. Anyway, when these pilgrims reach his fortress, the Old Man gives them food and water and reads to them from holy books. The most devout men then have visions of Heaven: a wonderful garden populated by beautiful women.’
‘How can they?’ objected Edmund Bottelier. ‘The Saracen faith is false. How can heathens have visions of Heaven?’
Savage smiled and held up the pouch he had picked up from the floor of the cell in the infirmary. ‘That’s where this stuff comes in,’ he said, passing the pouch to MacHuylin. ‘It’s the dried leaves and tender parts of the hemp plant, called hashish. It’s a herb that alters your mind but much, much stronger than beer or wine. It alters the way you perceive things, gives you visions. If you were to eat some now you may well see visions of Heaven yourself, and I’m sure you’re no saint.’
‘It’s like the magic mushrooms that the hermit priests eat, then?’ MacHuylin commented as he sniffed the herbs inside the pouch.
‘Exactly,’ affirmed Savage. ‘The food the Old Man gives the pilgrims is laced with this. When they’re out of their minds he leads them into a real garden he has within the castle and tells them they’re in Heaven. In the middle of that burning desert the garden must seem wonderful and it’s full of beautiful women. The would-be assassins of course believe that it actually is Heaven. From then on they become the slaves of the Old Man. They lose all fear of death. What have they to fear when they know for certain that Heaven exists? They have, after all, seen it with their own eyes. They live in the fortress and are trained in the art of murder, all the while being kept well supplied with hashish. They are taught that the way to ensure a permanent place in the heavenly garden is either to be martyred or to kill the enemies of God. The Old Man, either for political or religious purposes or just for plain old-fashioned profit, sends these assassins out on murder missions. They’re the most feared murderers in the world because they almost always get their target. The killer who does not care if he dies in the attempt is the hardest murderer to guard against.’
‘And it’s all a sham. The visions are false.’ MacHuylin shook his head.
‘The illusions of religion,’ Savage commented.
The justiciar frowned at his cynicism. ‘Perhaps it’s just God working in a mysterious way,’ he suggested. ‘But why do you think there are assassins here in Ireland?’
‘For a start, that,’ Savage said, pointing to the bag of hashish. ‘Then there’s the cell in the friary. That woollen rug on the floor is a Muslim prayer mat. The designs on it were Islamic writing. Every day each Muslim must kneel on one of those and pray towards their Holy City. Remember also that the cell where we found this was the only room in the whole place without a crucifix on the wall. The cross is blasphemous to Saracens because their holy book says that Christ did not die on the cross.’
A shiver ran through the assembled men at the heretical thought.
‘I saw them climbing up the castle wall last night like spiders,’ Savage continued. ‘You saw them yourselves. They appeared and disappeared into the dark like ghosts. The only warriors I know capable of doing that are the assassins.’
‘Why on earth would Saracens stay with Christian monks though,’ MacHuylin asked, ‘and why would Christian friars keep them there?’
Savage shrugged. ‘That’s a very good question. It’s something to do with the Scottish invasion, but that makes it even more confusing. Why would Franciscan friars be helping Robert Bruce? After all, he was excommunicated by the Pope. Something must bind them together. A common cause or an amazing treasure.’
‘And how did the Saracens get here?’ the seneschal wondered.
‘Montmorency,’ the earl stated. ‘He’s Knight Marshal of the Hospitallers in Ireland. The Order of St John has contacts in the east.’
‘The Hospitallers, like the Templars before them, are sworn enemies of the assassins,’ Savage said. ‘Bruce must possess something very special if he can get members of both to work together.’
‘Let’s start trying to find out, shall we?’ the earl said, clapping a hand on MacHuylin’s shoulder. ‘Connor, I think you should take your galloglaiches out to the friary and bring Abbot FitzGerald here. There are a few questions he needs to answer.’
‘Yes, sir.’ MacHuylin grinned. Savage could sense the excitement and happiness in the galloglaich. Peace was not something that sat easily on the man. Now there was fighting and the prospect of coming war he could see that MacHuylin was in his element.
‘Well I can’t stand round here chatting,’ he said. ‘Not when I’ve got monks to harass.’ Still smiling, MacHuylin strode out of the hall.
The earl waved a gesture that told Savage he was no longer required and he wandered back down the hall to rejoin Henry de Thrapston.
‘What about that message you were sent?’ de Thrapston asked. ‘What was it about?’
‘It’s in code,’ Savage said. ‘I need a bit of time to work out what it says.’
They sat down at one of the long tables and Savage began deciphering the message de Thrapston had given him. As the Templar cipher had been used again, he assumed le Poer sent it.
After some time, Savage eventually read out what he ha
d decrypted from the message: ‘Syr Richard Savage: I have discovered the truth behind the murder of John Talbot, the disappearance of Alys de Logan and the coming invasion by Edward Bruce. If you want to know what I know, meet me alone this morning at Saint Nicholas’ Church, after the bell rings for the hour of terce. Come alone or you will learn nothing.’
Both men were silent a moment.
‘You’re not going to go, are you?’ de Thrapston asked. ‘To me it looks like a trap. You can see it a mile off. You could be going to your death.’
Savage nodded. ‘It does look suspicious, but I have reason to believe I know who sent this message, and I trust them. I will go, but don’t worry; I will be under the protection of the cross.’ He smiled and patted the cruciform hilt of a dagger that was still strapped to his belt from the night before.
The justiciar and Eamonn Albanach came striding down the hall and left through the main door that was now hanging at an angle after the battering it had sustained the night before. When they had gone, the earl barked: ‘Thomas. Savage. A word in private if you please.’
Savage exchanged a glance with the seneschal who shrugged to show that he did not know what the earl intended either.
They followed the earl out of the hall into the cold morning light and up onto the battlements. It was clear the earl did not want whatever was to be said overheard. He straightened his back and looked them both in the eyes in turn, then his shoulders sagged and he looked away from them towards the sea.
‘Gentlemen, I have been a bit of a fool,’ the earl stated, much to the surprise of both Savage and de Mandeville.
‘I’m getting old and I’d lost sight of what really matters. All I cared about was hanging on to my wealth, my estates,’ de Burgh continued. ‘I have to be honest with you. I knew about the Scots’ plan to invade Ireland.’
De Mandeville visibly stiffened.
‘I could not be sure how many of my barons would support the Scots, so I could not tell who was likely to end up victorious. You saw that for yourselves last night: FitzWarin, de Lacy and Ui Cahan were all on Bruce’s side. Who knows who else? I thought I could play along with both sides until it was obvious who was more liable to win.’
De Mandeville shook his head in disbelief. ‘But, sire, we fought the Scots—’
‘I know Thomas. I know.’ The earl’s fierce gaze softened. His voice cracked and it was obviously hard for him to get the words out. ‘But there is no fool like an old fool. While I thought I was being clever, others with more devious minds than me were laying plans to remove me from the chessboard. They include my duplicitous son-in-law, his vicious bastard of a brother, and that snake Montmorency. It appears I am not as important a player in this game as I thought I was. Now I have been outmanoeuvred. Hubris, gentlemen, has been my Achilles heel. They have schemed with the FitzGeralds to get them to attack my lands in Connaught, and now I have no choice but to go south to defend them, even though I know while I am gone the Scots will begin their invasion of the north.’
‘Why are you telling us this now?’ Savage asked.
‘Because I owe this man my life,’ the earl replied, his voice hoarse. Humility did not come easily to him. ‘And I owe you an apology. Last night you had a choice, Thomas, and you chose to come back to the hall alone. You saved me and my wife. The least I can do now is tell you the truth and offer you the choice of what you want to do now. You are the Seneschal of Ulster. It is your duty to defend it from the Scots when they invade but as seneschal you are my vassal. I will understand if you decide to either join the Scots or leave the earldom to its fate and come south with me. I will hold neither against you.’
‘Leave?’ De Mandeville spoke through clenched teeth. His eyes glittered with restrained tears. Anger and bitterness churned in his breast. ‘Where would I go? Where would any of us go?’
The earl shrugged. ‘England? A man like you would be welcome in the king’s army.’
De Mandeville grunted. ‘The Irish call us English, but the English call us Irish. I don’t belong there. My family has lived here for two hundred years. This is my home. No. I will stay and I will fight.’
The earl locked eyes with his seneschal and saw the resolve that gleamed there like cold steel. He also saw the bitterness and anger at the betrayal he had worked on one of his oldest friends. De Burgh nodded.
‘Very well,’ he said, laying his hand on de Mandeville’s shoulder. ‘Then good luck to you. This I promise: if you can hold them, and if God allows me to beat the FitzGeralds, I will return with the justiciar and the army and together we’ll sweep those Scottish bastards back into the sea.’
‘We’ll do our best, sire,’ de Mandeville said, spitting the word “sire” through gritted teeth in a way that showed he no longer felt any faith or allegiance towards the holder of the title.
‘Good man. Obviously the justiciar knows nothing of what I’ve been up to and I’d like to keep it that way. Syr Savage.’ De Burgh turned to Savage. ‘I said I owed you an apology.’
Savage raised an eyebrow.
‘I wanted you dead.’ The earl smiled. ‘But you proved very hard to kill. I thought you would be a nuisance and might let the king know what I was up to. For that, I am now genuinely sorry.’
Savage could not help a resigned laugh. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said.
‘As I can’t get rid of you I’d like you to work for me. The pay’s decent enough – you can ask MacHuylin. What do you say? Will you do a job for me?’ the earl said.
‘Within reason.’
‘Find that bastard Montmorency and cut his throat.’
‘With pleasure,’ Savage replied.
‘Good.’ The earl smiled. ‘Now, let us plan for war.’
38
The promise of summer’s arrival given by the warm sunny weather of May Day proved to be a lie. The morning dissolved into a steady November-like downpour of grey rain.
Richard Savage stood in the shelter of Saint Nicholas’ lychgate with his hood up. The rain drizzled and dribbled around the graveyard, somehow seeming to wash the colour out of everything and dulling the distant final clangs of a bell that told the religious that the prayer hour of terce had arrived.
Savage had arrived early and hidden himself in the alcove of the lychgate, but no one had come or gone from the church. Now the pealing bells attested that the appointed hour had come. Savage took a deep breath, steeled his courage and stepped out into the rain. He quickly crossed the graveyard to the church door.
From the other side of the marketplace, Henry de Thrapston watched anxiously. Savage had ordered him to stay out of sight so as not to arouse the suspicions of whoever sent the invitation for Savage to come alone. With his sword arm in a sling, he would not be much use in a fight anyway.
The door opened easily and Savage took a cautious peep inside. With the grey steel of the rainy sky the church interior was gloomy and, as far as Savage could see, empty. He slipped into the small vestibule and closed the door as softly as possible.
Nothing moved in the church save the silent spiders calmly weaving their webs among the rafters. The only sounds were Savage’s breathing and the rain drumming on the roof.
He carefully drew his dagger and held it, concealed but ready, beneath his black cloak. He took another cursory glance around, then flitted quickly up the main aisle towards the altar, moving from the cover of one row of stone pillars to another, watched only by the eyes of the damned who gazed down forlornly from a big wall painting of the Last Judgement.
In the sanctuary behind the altar screen burned a single, tall candle, which was set on the bare stone altar. Its melted wax was dribbling down in miniature stalactites. The sanctuary, the area behind the screen occupied by the altar, was well-lit and mercifully free of shadows and niches in which a potential assassin could hide, so Savage slipped through the gap in the rood screen, the carved stone wall that had enough gaps carved in it to allow the poor at the back of the church to catch glimpses of the mystery of the mass.<
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Laid across the stone altar was a sword, its polished blade gleaming in the candlelight.
This was not especially strange. During the ceremony of making a new knight a sword was placed on the altar as a symbol of what the new member of the Order of Chivalry was expected to use it for: to defend Christianity. A new knight had probably been made that afternoon. Holidays were always a favourite time for young men to enter the brotherhood of knights.
Savage ran his fingertips along the blade thoughtfully, pondering the horror of where that ideal had led to: the obscenity of countless hordes of people slaughtering each other in the east in the name of God. The Saracens had charged into battle yelling ‘Allahu Akbar!’ – God is great – and the Crusaders had screamed back ‘Deus Vult!’ – God wills it.
A noise disturbed his thoughts. It was a strange sort of sound like a half-strangled hiccup. Savage froze, ears straining to catch any noise, eyes swivelling left and right. Trying to spot any movement.
Nothing.
Then the sound came again. This time Savage could tell where it came from: the small chapel in the eastern transept. He sheathed his dagger and decided to take the sword from the altar; the heftier blade would be of more use in a fight. Carefully he left the sanctuary and crept down the aisle to the crossing of the church, the transept, where aisles led off east and west from the main body of Saint Nicholas’ to small private chapels. Savage took a good look around before entering the east transept but could see no one. His nerves were starting to ache with anticipation. The constant watchfulness and expectation of attack was beginning to make him jumpy.
Savage entered the east chapel. In it the gloom intensified, despite it having its own window. There was a small altar and a large golden cross which, by a trick of reflected light from the window, appeared to glow in the dimness.
There was a figure before the cross, kneeling on the floor, head bowed in what appeared to be fervent prayer. Savage now realised what the noise he had heard was. It was being repeated constantly by the kneeling figure, but at a much lower volume.
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