by K. M. Grant
After Will had consumed the food Elric had brought, he leaned back and shut his eyes. He tried to plan, to work out what use he could make of the tunnels, since he could not leave alone. Just thinking about the reprisals if he were discovered to be missing made him dizzy. Eventually he fell into a kind of doze. When he woke, he tried to ease some feeling back into his legs, then waited and waited for Elric to reappear. He heard the horses released into the courtyard for some exercise, but still the boy did not come.
Will grew quite desperate. He dared not dig and risk a rockfall. That would mean the end of everything. He began to recite his prayers. Six times your fingers to get to the castle and back, he thought. Perhaps if I practice now, by the time I have finished, Elric will be here. He began. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum …” He said the whole thing over and over but eventually gave up in disgust.
When Elric finally appeared, two days later, Will almost cried with relief. “I’m sorry,” Elric panted apologetically. His father had made him stay and muck out the cowsheds as punishment for not bringing back the kindling he had promised. But Elric had used his time well and, between stints with the spade, had squirreled away flints, tapers, a small pickax, and meat saved from the village dogs.
Now that they could see, the digging was easier. Elric lay on his stomach and pulled the stones down while Will pitched them carefully into the cellar. Soon they had to buttress up the roof, for large boulders became dislodged, causing them both agonies of terror. They worked in silence, with Will keeping his ears open in case de Scabious’s soldiers suddenly and uncharacteristically opened the cellar door wide in the middle of the day, and also for rumblings within the rock that would warn that the tunnel was about to collapse. Elric stayed for an hour or two, then grew tired and needed fresh air, but Will did not stop, resting only when his back ached and all his nails were broken. He tried to eat the food Elric brought, but his throat was lousy with dust.
For the next six days, sometimes with Elric and sometimes without, Will worked like a madman. Every second, new terrors assailed him. Maybe, right now, de Scabious was on his way back, and Richard’s fate—and therefore Ellie’s, Gavin’s, and his own—was sealed. Then, what was happening to Hosanna? Will could not bear to think. Taking endless risks, he pushed his way farther and farther through the tunnel, crouching under the vast weight of shifting granite that at every moment threatened to descend.
He left his cell in the morning, directly after his pottage tin had been collected, and spent the rest of his time hacking, shoving, scraping, and pulling—wedging the taper where he could and calculating the passage of time by its burning. Late in the night, he would crawl back into the cellar and lie with his eyes open, too worn out for sleep. But it was worth it, for when Elric climbed up after breakfast on the seventh day, he found Will had made it through into the cave.
“I’ve done it,” Will said rather unnecessarily, “and I have pulled enough rubble up into the hole in the cellar to hide it from somebody not looking very hard, and anyway, nobody ever seems to come right in. But it’s taken us so long, I’m frightened de Scabious is just about to return. He mustn’t find the cellar empty, or who knows what he might do. When is he expected?” He was jabbering, at once exhilarated to be out and appalled by the possible consequences.
Elric shook his head in answer to the question about de Scabious. He felt suddenly shy. Will did not notice as he held what remained of his taper aloft. The tunnel before him was blackly inviting as he tried to decide what to do. In the end temptation proved too hard to resist. “I’m going to risk it,” he said. “Come on. Let’s have a quick look before I get back to the cellar. Then you must go home and try as hard as you can to find out about de Scabious’s movements.”
Elric needed no further encouragement to begin his Paternosters, and with the little flame casting huge shadows in front of them, he followed Will into the bowels of the tower.
10
Constable de Scabious did not have a happy trip on Hosanna. The ridged bit and attached chain meant that pressure on the red stallion’s tongue was intolerable, making him constantly toss his head. The delicate edges of his lips were soon a mess of pink spittle as the roof of his mouth was rubbed raw and his gums cut to pieces. Sweat poured from his two crusading scars as the constable pushed him on at speed but kept an iron grip on the reins, preventing him from stretching his neck. Up hills the strain was intense. Very quickly the muscles in the horse’s back knotted, and his normally fluid movements became jerky and stiff. But there was no letup in the pace. De Scabious sensed the horse’s discomfort and became liberal in his use of the switch, secure in the knowledge that Hosanna no longer had the strength to buck him off, even if he wanted to. And that was not the worst of it. Sitting smugly in a saddle built for a much larger horse, the constable’s lumpen weight was unevenly distributed, rubbing tender withers to ribbons within minutes. They had not made more than half a day’s journey before Hosanna’s shoulders were strained, his legs swollen, and his flanks crisscrossed with small, angry-looking red lines. His coat began to appear rough, and his heart to beat unevenly.
By the time the sea shimmered on the horizon, every step was agony. As the constable spurred him on down the uneven road leading to Whitby’s noisy quayside, Hosanna kept his footing with difficulty and shrank further and further into himself. De Scabious ignored his distress. The town was busy, and the constable’s eyes darted about as he puffed out his chest. Whoever was coming to find him on the king’s business should be in no doubt about his importance.
“Go and arrange suitable lodgings for me,” he ordered his men. “I have things to do, and I prefer to do them on my own.”
The men were only too glad to leave the constable alone. “Let’s go and get a drink,” one muttered. “As far away from de Scabious as possible. I don’t want anybody to think I am responsible for Hosanna. He looks like something a tinker would be ashamed of.”
“What’s that you say?” De Scabious’s nose for disloyalty was sharp.
“I said, we’ll go and find an inn, since after our journey we look like tinkers and don’t want to shame you,” the man said hastily.
Moored to the wooden jetties, a small commercial fleet from Genoa was busy unloading spices and cloth from the East. As de Scabious watched, a barrel of dates cracked and broke open. Immediately a group of raggedy urchins descended on it, pursued by a Jewish merchant waving furious arms. The urchins were much too quick, and the merchant eventually kicked the barrel away in disgust. The constable smirked as he watched the drama unfold. No urchins would get the better of him! He dug his spurs once more into Hosanna’s sides.
The wind blew in chilly from the sea but had lost its winter bite. Enjoying the first real intimations of spring, old men stood gossiping while small boys ran hither and thither, almost as busy as the rats scurrying down every gangplank. Gruff shipmasters shouted unloading instructions, and great bales of colored silks and velvets swung away from the decks of larger vessels nodding peacefully on the waves out in the deeper water. The bales hovered over small rowboats waiting to take the precious cargo ashore. The little craft rocked madly when the cloth thumped into them. Occasionally, the operation went wrong and a bale would spill great colored sheets on top of the boatman. Emerald green velvet or blood red silk would float like giant stains on the water, and haberdashers, seeing their profits vanish beneath the waves, would noisily berate the sailors for their clumsiness. The mishaps sometimes ended in tragedy, for the cloth was heavy; but nothing stopped the great flow of the day’s business.
Standing near one of the Genoese ships was a group of tall, dark men inspecting a line of horses of different shapes and sizes. They carried curved weapons, and their faces were haughty. De Scabious narrowed his eyes. Maybe among this group was the man he was searching for.
Kamil was looking with distaste at the horses and listening with even more distaste to the whining of the sellers.
“Only six year
s old, sir. Yours for fifty shillings, or take him and this palfrey, both for seventy shillings. A bargain, sir, a bargain.”
Both horses were fit only for the knacker. He ran his hands down the legs of another, offered for sale by a fat man, whose bulk had caused the horse to fall and break its knees. “Just ten shillings,” the man wheedled.
Kamil turned on his heel. None of these would suit him. Last in the line was a gray held by a girl whose clothes had once been rich. Overcoming his natural reluctance to approach a Christian woman, Kamil looked at the animal’s mouth and legs.
“This horse belonged to my husband,” the girl told him. “He died on crusade. I have nothing left to sell.”
Kamil had no interest in her story, nor much in the horse. It was too common for his taste, and its coat was coarse. Nevertheless, it might have to do. “How much?” he asked.
“How much will you give?”
Kamil considered. “Six shillings. That’s all.”
The girl looked disappointed and even shed a tear, but she accepted and, after kissing the horse’s nose in a fond farewell, handed it over. Kamil vaulted on, secured his pack of belongings, and began to ride away. But halfway out of the town, his conscience smote him. The horse might not be to his liking, but it was worth much more than six shillings. It was a mean, dishonorable thing he had done. He was set against going back, but then twitched the reins. If the girl was where he left her, he would make things right.
The roads were clogged, and almost stationary behind bulging carts and straggling groups of beggars, Kamil soon regretted his decision. Standing up in the stirrups, he could see the quayside, and it soon became clear that the girl was no longer there. Kamil sighed at his own stupidity. Of course she wasn’t there. Why would she hang about? He would not be able to make things right, and this would always be a mark against him.
He set off again, angry with himself, but as he turned away from the main thoroughfare his eye was arrested by something in the milling throng. It was nothing he told himself, nothing except a glimpse of color. Nevertheless, he hesitated before setting off up the road out of the town again, stopped, started, then quite suddenly pulled the gray around.
The horse, fed up, balked, refusing to move at all, and it was as Kamil was trying to coax it to go forward that he saw, mostly hidden by people and surrounded by carters and pack ponies, another horse moving slowly and uncomfortably toward the group of horse sellers. He lost all interest in the gray as his heart began to race. That’s what had caught his eye before. That color. That red color. He surely could not mistake it. He tried to reason with himself. Hal said that Hosanna was stuck in a tower somewhere, and there must be many blood red horses. But still. Kamil slipped off the gray and let it go.
Constable de Scabious rode Hosanna past the jetties, searching out foreign faces. There were many, and he gave each man every encouragement to approach him, raising his eyebrows and showing the gaps in his teeth. John had said the man would find him. Well, the constable was ready. One foreigner, winked at by the constable, made a remark that elicited laughter of a not altogether friendly kind from his companions. At once de Scabious’s eyes stopped smiling, although his teeth remained bared.
Kamil pushed through the crowd until he was so close he could almost touch Hosanna’s tail. His hand crept under his cloak to the neat red plait hanging from his belt. Now he was at the horse’s girth, now at his shoulder. Now he could plainly see the two scars, and at last he put his hand on Hosanna’s neck. Under the sweat and grime the two dents were piercingly familiar. Kamil felt light-headed and looked up to find Constable de Scabious staring down at him. He withdrew his hand and pulled his hood over his face.
The constable nodded with satisfaction. Ah! Just as John said. This must be the person. Feeling de Scabious shift, Hosanna eased the weight off one sore leg and was immediately chucked in the mouth. He gasped a little, and a teardrop of blood landed on Kamil’s shoulder. It was almost more than the young Saracen could stand. He wanted to pull de Scabious off and kill him there and then, but there were more certain and subtle ways to regain possession of Hosanna. The man who stole him was unworthy of the prize. Despite the unjust bargain he had concluded with the girl over the gray horse, Allah was still offering blessings. Hosanna was a present from heaven, and Kamil only had to find the right way to take him.
The constable cleared his throat. “I’m busy taming this horse,” he said, appearing to want to take Kamil into his confidence, something Kamil found a little surprising. “Abdul al-Baku?”
Kamil frowned, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. “You are looking for him?” he asked casually.
The constable leaned down farther. “I believe I am,” he said conspiratorially. “Can we have a word?”
Kamil inclined his head.
“Come,” said the constable. He kicked Hosanna in the ribs, and the horse grunted before limping forward. Kamil walked by his side in silence.
In a narrow lane the constable heaved himself off. Released from de Scabious’s iron grip, Hosanna’s head sank to the ground. Immediately the constable jerked it back up. Kamil winced but, nevertheless, remained in the shadows. He remembered the mercenaries, and was ready for any tricks. But there were none.
“Abdul,” de Scabious said, his eyes popping with nerves, “you are an acquaintance, are you not, of”—and the constable whispered here—“Rashid, the Old Man of the Mountain?”
Kamil’s mouth twitched as he tried not to shiver. This was unexpected, indeed. Nobody ever mentioned the Old Man lightly. He waited, wondering what was to come.
The constable grew braver. “There is a certain prisoner—an important prisoner—an enemy of your people and mine. Do you understand?”
Kamil was disgusted by the rancid smell of de Scabious’s breath and his sly calculating eyes, but he gave an enigmatic smile.
“Ah, I see we understand each other well.” De Scabious’s confidence was increasing. “We would all be better off if this prisoner—the enemy of your people and mine—if he could be, well, be persuaded, using”—the constable licked his teeth—“the ultimate in persuasion, you understand, the ultimate, not to return here. Neither, I am sure, do you want him returning to your country. Nor can he be left where he is. So he can be nowhere. Do I make myself clear?”
Kamil inclined his head again.
“We must make sure this prisoner is nowhere as soon as possible,” the constable added, “as soon as possible.” He did not wish to live in this limbo of uncertainty for a moment longer than necessary. “Do you think you can do this?”
Kamil still said nothing, and de Scabious, perplexed, felt his confidence evaporating. “Now look—” he began, yanking Hosanna’s head up once again. Then he found Kamil’s face suddenly very close to his own.
“Assassins,” Kamil said quietly. “You need the help of the Assassins to get rid of King Richard.” He hoped his disgust was not too evident.
De Scabious nearly jumped out of his skin. “Sssssh!” he exclaimed, looking over his shoulder. However, he was relieved. If the man could talk of the Assassins, he must be the real thing. Who else would be so bold? He fumbled in his purse and brought out a small pouch full of coins. “This now,” he said. “And another when we have proof that you have done your work.”
Kamil looked coolly at the money as de Scabious shook the pigskin purse as if Kamil were a performing lion waiting for a treat. There was a long pause. “No,” Kamil said. “No money.”
“No money?” exclaimed de Scabious. “What, then?”
Kamil pretended to think. Then he put his hand on Hosanna’s neck. “I have no horse,” he said. “I will take yours.”
The constable was completely taken aback. “But you will be going over the sea tonight,” he expostulated. “Get a horse in Flanders.”
Kamil shrugged. “Your horse, or I don’t do it.”
De Scabious persisted. “You can’t have this horse,” he said. “I will buy you a much better horse. Come, we will fin
d one back in the marketplace.”
But Kamil wouldn’t move. “This horse, or you must find somebody else,” he repeated.
“This horse is no good.” De Scabious, most reluctant to part with such an effective bargaining tool over Will and Ellie, grew querulous. “I can’t give him to you. I’m too fond of him.”
Kamil shrugged, and took the biggest gamble of all. “Then I go,” he said, and started to walk off.
The constable stared after him. These slippery foreigners. Why couldn’t he just take the money? Kamil had almost disappeared by the time de Scabious made up his mind. “Oh, have him!” he shouted.
Kamil forced himself to turn the corner, as if he had not heard, before reappearing. He would not allow himself to hurry, but underneath the cloak his hands were damp and shaking. The constable wondered whether to try again with the money, but one look at Kamil’s face was enough to have him hauling off the saddle.
“You keep your side of this bargain, or I’ll have you hunted down and hung,” he grumbled, angry at being thwarted, but cheering up rapidly at the thought of the gold he could now keep for himself. He would give himself a few treats, a week or so’s holiday by the sea even, before going back to Hangem. The tower was secure, and it would help pass the time until his wedding.
The saddle fell with a clank to the ground, and Hosanna shuddered, as the skin on his back was flayed away. When the constable pulled off the bridle revealing a bit stained crimson, Kamil half raised his hand. De Scabious was immediately defensive. “The horse gives a good deal of trouble,” he whined.
Kamil made no remark. He simply drew out from his bag a thin, silken rope. Deftly turning it into a halter, he slipped it over Hosanna’s head.
De Scabious smiled his oiliest smile. “I think our transaction is sealed,” he said. “I will learn if you have fulfilled your part of the bargain through a message you will send to King John. If no message comes, I am told that the Old Man of the Mountain can be relied upon to remind you himself.”