“Indeed. But you are young; you have the ability to learn from them. At the present moment, you suffer from too much humility. You feel unworthy; you take the losses personally. You have yet to learn detachment, but that will come.”
Palmer glanced over his shoulder. The sergeant caught his eye and smiled, lifting his hat and sweeping it before him in a mocking salute. “Men such as these I would shed no tears for.”
“You may be surprised, Captain. I have fought in the Low Countries. I have warred alongside men such as Lewis and yourself. You have yet to experience the true horror of warfare, which will level you and Lewis.”
“Horror? Shadrach, I have witnessed the horror of war!”
“Nay, Captain Palmer. This war is in its early stages. Men have not learned to hate each other yet. Each engagement so far has not even been a rehearsal for the true horror.” Shadrach’s clean-shaven jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed. “It takes hatred and savagery to make a real war, to make you relish the hot blood of your brother, your father, your enemy’s children, splashing into your face…at the moment, the Parliament fights against the excesses of the King’s taxation and for its rights, but soon it will lose its way. Too many zealots; the war will become a religious one. When faith turns to fanaticism, those who would preach the glory of Heaven will bring Hell to earth.”
There was no attempt to disguise the bitterness in Shadrach’s words, and Palmer marvelled at his strange companion. A man who fought as one born to the way of the warrior, who despatched his opponents with an ease – and relish – that was not so much learned or practised as…inherited, Palmer decided. This man was more than a soldier who had lost his idealism through the cauldron of warfare; this was a man who had experienced war in a way none of the mercenaries from the Continent had.
And yet has no other path, Palmer thought. He has fought in wars where both sides claim to fight with God on their side, and his demeanour tells me he suspects this to be an eternal principle of war.
“King or Parliament. Cross or Prophet. It is all the same.” Shadrach kicked his heels into his steed’s flanks. The spurs drew blood and the horse whinnied in pain, yet obeyed the cruel command. Shadrach shot forward, but Palmer hesitated. The black cloak billowed in Shadrach’s wake, momentarily masking the burning glare of the rising sun; darkness triumphant against the light. An omen of things to come.
King or Parliament. Cross or Prophet. What happened to you, Shadrach? What unholy wars have you fought?
He spurred his own horse, called over his shoulder for the dragoons to follow.
And what unholy war are you leading us into?
* * *
“They be in a hurry, Jethro.” Morton spat into the verge, and wiped the trickle of phlegm from his moustache with a gloved hand. “Do we follow their lead? Only the foolish would hasten to Fairlight.”
Sergeant Lewis smiled broadly. John Morton, like himself, stood on neither ceremony nor rank. He could not wish better company for what he had planned.
“The foolish and the greedy, John. Both o’ which applies to the King’s men who took possession.”
Morton looked unconvinced. Lewis sighed. “Shadrach and Palmer will do the hard work. They do not know it yet.”
“But the woods…” Overy began.
“Woods, be damned!” Lewis snarled at the younger dragoon. Howard Overy was scared of no man – his reckless courage on the field of battle matched Lewis’s own – but the corporal still held onto the fear of hobgoblins and devils his mother had instilled in him since birth. “We’ll burn ‘em if we have to.”
Morton grinned. “You do not believe, do you, Jethro? Mayhap that is the reason you were chosen.”
“I believe in one thing alone,” Jethro growled. “Every man has his weakness. A soldier’s duty is to find that weakness and exploit it.” He glowered at Overy, who stared knowingly at the wound in Lewis’s leg; the result of a weakness that Shadrach had found and exploited.
“That be no ordinary man, Jethro,” Morton cautioned. “And I don’t mean his fighting skills. Smythe and Boughton be no fools; they had good reason to hang this Shadrach for what he did to our mates. Instead, they offer him a share of the spoils if he goes to Fairlight! That is either desperation or foolishness.”
“Nay, John.” Jethro spoke softly as he watched Palmer and Shadrach disappear into the rising sun. “The Launceston commanders are ruthless bastards. They know what they be doing. They know ‘xactly what Shadrach means to Fairlight.”
“Which is?” Overy asked.
“Destiny, young Howard. Destiny. If I were a religious man, I’d say this was part o’ God’s plan.”
“No one would accuse you of that, Jethro,” Morton said with a dry chuckle. He coughed more phlegm and spat it at his horse’s feet.
“Smythe and Boughton be no beacons of piety or godliness, either. We are being used, my friends. They are playing a dangerous game, with our lives as the bargaining chips. ‘Tis no matter to them if we die in the days ahead.”
Morton frowned. “So why go on, Jethro?”
“Because I know more o’ Fairlight than they does. I knows enough to ensure the tables will turn and they’ll reap the whirlwind they have sown. Not us.”
Morton spat once more. “And Shadrach?”
“Leave Shadrach to me. Our comrades will be avenged, I assure ye. And I’ll light Shadrach a merry path to his death.” He smiled at the vow, and rode off. His companions, puzzled by his words, hesitated before spurring their own nags onwards.
CHAPTER FIVE
The day was over before it had truly begun. The October sun was a dying ember to their rear, bleeding its last on the mist-strewn meadows. The air was heavy, the sea breeze oppressive rather than refreshing. The aroma of salt and seaweed filled Palmer’s nostrils, but it stank of corruption and decay.
Their horses slowed as they rode into the valley. Palmer told himself it was because they had been ridden too hard, too soon after their exertions on the battlefield yesterday; but he knew otherwise. His comrades sensed it as well.
The sea mist obscured the tumbledown cottages that made up the hamlet of the fishing village; the sagging thatched roofs and crumbling masonry of the hovels resembled bloated, dead, whale-like creatures brought in from the sea and left to die. But it was the high-walled monastery that made them all pause.
The mist trailed around the base of the grey fortifications, so the structure seemed to float of its own volition: a monastic citadel, not tied to the earth by known physical laws, a fortress to strike fear into those who would dare approach it, let alone attempt to besiege it. The bell tower was unusual: angular with a tapered roof, and the windows did not reveal the brass or steel of a bell. It had another purpose than calling the faithful to prayer.
“You appear nervous, Captain,” Shadrach said in a low voice. “I would hide that.”
Palmer turned, wondering if Shadrach was mocking him. Then he saw the looks of apprehension on his troop. Even Jethro Lewis, who usually mocked the legends of Fairlight.
“No horses to be seen, Captain Palmer,” Lewis muttered, confirming Palmer’s suspicions. “Kendall’s forces ain’t been quartered in the village. They’s all gone up to the abbey.”
Palmer replied with a conviction he did not feel. “Nevertheless, Sergeant, we will announce ourselves to the village first.” It made sense; they could not ride straight to the citadel under the deception they were part of the existing force. They had to play the part of a ragged Royalist force seeking shelter from the defeat at Haverton. Every lost soldier and troop would head for the village first and seek the inn.
“Remember: we are men of the King. Make no mention of your comrades at Haverton.”
A guttural laugh from Lewis. “Rest assured, Captain. If we makes mention o’ them, ‘twill only be to say how some o’ them screamed as we skewered them.”
Shadrach interjected. “There is such a thing as overplaying your hand, Sergeant. We are beaten, defeated men, remember? Any
joy a man would have felt in the heat of battle is soon dispelled when his side is defeated.”
“Whatev’r you say, stranger.” Lewis’s grin did not fade. “I be guessin’ the folks o’ Fairlight care naught for neither King nor Parliament.”
Palmer gritted his teeth, knowing Lewis was correct. Fairlight had no strategic importance whatsoever, and any intrusion by armed forces on the villagers’ way of life would not be greeted with joy, regardless of the occupying force’s allegiance.
But what way of life could these people have with such a monstrous building looming over their village?
But then he saw Shadrach tighten the scarlet sash around his waist – the sash they all wore, falsely denoting their loyalty to the King – and returned his mind to the mission. He looked down to his waist, ensured the sash was tightly tied – and clearly visible to the villagers – and dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse.
* * *
The closer his troop got to the buildings of Fairlight, the thicker and more cloying the atmosphere became. As fog dampened the steaming flanks of their steeds, the hooves struggled with the quagmire that passed as the road. The tumbledown cottages parted their curtains of mist, but no signs of life could be seen. No woodsmoke fires that would hint at hearth and home, the promise of comfort and ease. Palmer had not held much hope of shelter here, but he had not expected a dead village. Sweat trickled through the leather of his helmet liner, and turned to icicles as it ran down his neck. Salt spray caressed his cheeks, carried inland by a breeze that further chilled him. He raised a hand and called the company to a halt.
He lifted his spyglass and scanned the buttresses and pinnacles; they seemed to sway in the dusk like the masts and spars of a ship at sea, about to founder on a deadly false harbour. Feeling nauseous, he lowered the glass and glanced at the feeble chimney stacks of the hovels and smokehouses of the village, wondering how much of the sea’s harvest past villagers had been allowed to keep for themselves after the abbot had taken the monastery’s quota.
It is medieval, he thought. The villagers’ lives must not have changed for over five hundred years. He glanced around, trying to see some other reason a monastery had been built on this godforsaken stretch of headland.
At the mercy of the winter storms which would surely batter the masonry, the breakers triumphantly smashing through rocks on the shore and pummelling the earthworks beneath the foundations; surely the building’s weight would have secured its destiny, and bring it tumbling into the salt waters the next time erosion reclaimed another piece of the headland?
The answer lay with the strange octagonal tower and its lancet windows; according to the briefing, this was an early lighthouse, and the monks would maintain an eternal fire whose light would be amplified by the glass and become a beacon, warning seafarers of the perilous rocks that formed an unseen bay of death and destruction. Yet the lighthouse had long been disused, even before the monastery was abandoned and the monks disappeared. Perhaps Kendall would relight it, a beacon to the lost remnants of King Charles’s army.
Then another enigma held his attention: there could be no room for luxurious abbey gardens with which the monks would grow healing herbs and harvest honey from beehives. The north facing grounds were clustered with trees, the naked limbs tightly packed together as though fighting each other for room in the crowded earth. Palmer frowned and wiped beads of moisture from his brow. He glanced at Shadrach.
“Trees. Is this an orchard?”
“Of a kind,” Shadrach said grimly. His eyes were fixed on the main building, scanning the apertures and windows of the nave for signs of life. Lights flickered behind coloured glass. Candlelight. Palmer leant forwards, and a passage from a long forgotten poem came to his mind.
“ ‘The fruit they bear is not for human consumption.
The leaves not green, earth-hued;
The boughs not smooth, knotted and crooked-forked;
No fruit, but poisoned thorns.’ Dante,” Palmer answered Shadrach’s questioning gaze. “Canto Thirteen of Inferno.”
Shadrach smiled. “I have read it. I know that portion well. The Wood of Suicides...let us hope none of the black dogs or harpies of Dante’s tale come for some company!”
Palmer turned back, raised his spyglass once more and inspected the twisted branches, writhing in the mist. Ancient, weather-beaten; their trunks were as barren as the branches that even in summer months could have no hope of bearing fruit. The trees were dead.
The fruit they bear is not for human consumption.
“Kendall must have taken leave of his senses,” Palmer said. “There is nothing of value here.”
“Yet it has suffered none of the destruction others suffered during the Dissolution. The walls are intact, the windows unbroken; the panes have not been stripped for lead. Small wonder legends persist of the gold and silver supposedly hoarded by the monks. If even the lead remains, why not the treasure?”
“Not even Kendall is desperate enough to believe such tales,” Palmer replied. “His own riches are far from depleted. No, there is another reason he has chosen Fairlight.”
Mayhap the same reason Launceston sent me here. Mayhap the same reason Shadrach is accompanying us.
He shivered and pointed to the larger of the tumbledown buildings. The thatched roof was not as poorly maintained, and the windows were paned, sealed against the cold. A small, irregular shaped courtyard oozed out of the gateway. Even here, in what should have been the communal heart of the village, there were no signs of life.
“Lewis. Tend to the horses. Myself and Shadrach will investigate, and then we will decide if we advance tonight or wait for dawn.”
There was little to investigate. The inn had been deserted for some time. The walls of the tavern were bare, save for the preserved carcasses of pike and carp that faced each other above the fireplace. A crumpled copy of the Royalist broadsheet Mercurius Aulicus was tacked to the far wall, a sign that Kendall’s men had sought to stamp the authority of the King in a place that cared nothing for either side.
Palmer wrinkled his nose at the stew mouldering away on the cold stove in the kitchen. He stirred the congealed contents, almost heaved at the rank smell of marine putrefaction that assaulted his nostrils. Strange starfish-shaped molluscs floated in a gruel thickened with barley and fungus. At least they looked like starfish; each appeared to only have three legs, but Palmer was not about to peer closer to confirm this. He let the ladle slide back into the pot and made his way to the taproom, where Shadrach was inspecting the barrels.
“Dry. No surprise, really. The first thing garrisoned soldiers will do is raid the ale supply.”
“They certainly did not partake of the food. Not that I blame them,” Palmer said. He sat at one of the trestle tables with a heavy sigh. The day’s ride had caught up with him; every muscle in his body ached.
Night had fallen. Shadrach had found a pair of candles and was busy with his tinderbox. When he had the wicks alight, he placed them on the trestle and sat opposite Palmer. Without a word he withdrew his hybrid-weapon and began cleaning the blade. Light glinted on the steel. Damascus steel…
“Shadrach, you said the blade attachment on your flintlock was from a…family heirloom. Is that correct?”
Shadrach did not look up. He wiped the blade with a piece of cloth in small, circular motions. “In a manner of speaking.”
Palmer drummed his fingers on the table, uneasy with the way candle light shone on the strange glyphs carved upon the blade. Shadrach took special care of them, wiping imaginary dirt from the engraved whorls and geometric patterns.
“I have read much of the Crusaders, Shadrach. I have never come across characters such as those. It is not any Arabic script.”
Shadrach paused, then looked up. His eyes were gimlet in the candle light. “The Holy Land is a mystical place, Captain. Many religions have waged war there…many have fallen by the wayside. Their battlefields were far from the castles of Kerak and Antioch. They have been righ
tfully forgotten.”
Palmer gave a rueful smile. “When I was a child, I devoured the tales of the Crusades. I believed they were true histories of good against evil, that the Saracen was the very Devil himself.”
A shadow passed over Shadrach’s face, and the light in his eyes faded momentarily, then blazed afresh, as if fuel had been fed to a hidden fire in his soul. Palmer repressed a shudder.
“And now, Palmer? Do you believe that still?”
“Of course not. I dreamed one day of going to war myself, of laying siege to a castle to fight godless unbelievers.” He smiled faintly. “Since childhood, I was fascinated by the intricate and leviathan strongholds built from timber and then stone. Entranced by tales of the Crusades, when Christian citadels were built in the Levant to put the accursed Saracens in their place.” His smile faded. “What I have seen…what I have participated in, has destroyed that dream, shattered my illusion.”
“I am pleased to hear that, Palmer. The romanticising of warfare has led many a mother’s son to an early grave or worse.”
Worse. Palmer did not ask what he meant by that. He already knew. “Castles, fortifications, they are like men. They all have their weak spots; some last longer than is good for them, refusing to accept the inevitable. Some are as cold as the stone citadels themselves, unaware of the battles fought within.”
Shadrach looked up, an appraising aspect to his scarred features. “You have a scholar’s heart, Captain. I wish more men in this war had your outlook.”
“Our glorious leaders, you mean?” Palmer smiled without humour. “When they send us on foolhardy missions such as this one, when even our opponents hole up in ruins like this monastery…I despair.”
A monastery. This would not even a proper siege. So far the only castles Palmer had seen were the fortified manor houses of country gentlemen, where a dovecote was the most strategically important part of the stronghold, and a monastery would be even easier to take. Disappointment in the failure to emulate the Christian warrior knights of Outremer, when they besieged Antioch and Jerusalem, soon turned to relief. The years of fighting against fellow Englishmen had made him glad his illusions had been shattered, for a fortified manor house was – if not easier to take than a medieval stone castle – at least less draining on men and resources. A siege that would take months battling against stone ramparts and well-fortified locations could be over in a matter of weeks at the most.
Dreaming In Darkness Page 16