Relics bp-1

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  'It is not bad: the fool hit my pectoral and scraped my ribs. I can make my own way, boy,' he said, his voice weak but determined. 'Let me away to my brothers…'

  'No! Do you want to die? I will not let you. Back to the ship with us all, now!' It was the Captain. 'Don't let him go.' He tapped Will and me on the shoulders. 'Fine work, lads. Do you know him, Will?'

  He nodded curtly at the dead man. Aye,' my friend said tersely. I began to wonder what he meant, but then the corpse gave a horrible, mechanical kick and the crowd gasped as if with one breath and surged forward. We turned and ran for it, Gilles with Adric slung over his shoulder as if the old man were nothing more than a bundle of dry twigs. We had taken no more than a dozen strides when we were brought up short by a knot of latecomers to the grisly spectacle behind us. They paid us no heed, but gave no leeway either. One of them, a paunchy burgher, halted directly in front of Gilles, craning his neck impatiently, seemingly oblivious of our burden or our haste. Will and I made ready to apply rough shoulders to this obstruction, but as we approached, and the man's arms came up in remonstration and his fleshy mouth opened to protest or scold, I heard an odd sound like two wet hands clapped together and the man staggered backwards and began to pluck at the front of his tunic. Still frowning indignantly, he dropped to the ground. His companions began screaming at one another, and at us: appeals for help, for explanation. A tall woman, her face caught between horror and tears, grabbed me by the elbows and began to shake me. I brushed her aside, and as she reeled past Will her coif seemed to leap from her head and I caught a vision of rent cloth, grey hair and hot blood that spattered my cheek before she sat down hard, mouth open in a silent, perfect O. That was enough for us and we leaped forward. As we did so, Will stumbled and fell heavily against me, his arms tangling in my scissoring legs. I fell in my turn and hit the cobbles hard, but in a moment I was up again, reaching for my friend, who I assumed had tripped over the woman. But even in the dim light I could see that something was wrong. Will's face was a gargoyle's mask of agony and he was whining through bared teeth. 'Come on!' The Captain had paused, looking back.

  I bent down, trying to haul Will upright, and as my hands sought a hold on his clothes they touched something hard and Will gave a choked, animal shriek. I realised I had hold of the shaft of an arrow, in up to the feathers in the centre of Will's back. Looking up, I saw that the woman, bent over now, her head between the knees, was bleeding hard from a deep, long gash in her scalp. Her companion, a younger man in foppish headgear, was in the act of drawing his dagger, his eyes fixed on me, teeth bared in fury. At that moment another arrow struck the wood of a nearby door with a hollow whack, and the man dropped to the ground and covered his ridiculous hat with quivering hands. 'Captain!' I yelled. Will's down! He's been shot!'

  There was a whirring in my ear, then a clatter. Then another whirr, and Gilles cursed. 'Away, boys! The swine has the light behind him!'

  'I have had my cloak shot through,' said the Captain, matter-of-factly. Will: can he walk? No? Petroc, take his legs – be quick about it!'

  What happened next is not very clear. Gilles and the Captain grabbed Will by the arms and I seized his legs and between us we ran, Adric following close behind, the body of my friend face down between us, limp and leaden. There may have been more arrows, but I had no thought but for the man I carried. The tumult grew dim behind us. Then we were back inside the Taverna, laying Will down on the table where – an hour ago? More? – I had dined on roast pig.

  'It was a crossbow,' said Gilles, cutting away Will's tunic. He slid his hand under Will's body and shook his head. The bolt, thick as my finger, had struck where Will's shoulder blade met his backbone. The feathers – no, not feathers: strange ribs of leather – were red with blood, which welled strongly around the shaft. 'A quadrello: a mankiller. And it is buried. If it was out the other side…' He tugged gingerly on the bolt and Will convulsed. 'No, no… It is barbed.'

  'For the love of God, turn me over.' Will's voice was like the wind blowing through a field of corn. Gilles looked at me. He had bitten through his lower lip. He leaned close and whispered in my ear.

  Your friend is going to die, Patch, whatever we do. I cannot pull the bolt out. He is bleeding fast, and probably much faster inside. He will not last out the night. I am… I am sorry.' 'Can we do nothing?'

  We can make him comfortable.' He looked up, and saw the innkeeper watching us anxiously. He went over to the man and whispered urgently to him. The innkeeper hurried from the room and returned a minute later with something that he handed to Gilles. After consulting the Captain, who was seated in front of the fire with a pan of hot water, treating Adric's wound, he returned to the table.

  'Farrier's shears,' he said, holding up a pair of enormous, crude black scissors. 'Hold your friend still.'

  I went to the head of the table and grabbed Will's arms above the elbow, pinning him down. I leaned close.

  'Don't worry, my brother,' I said, sounding as calm as I could. Gilles had taken the shears in both hands and now, with one motion, cut through the bolt where it met Will's flesh. There was a sharp crack and Will screamed, high and lonely like a fox on a winter's night.

  'It is done, it is done, my brave lad,' I soothed. We rolled him over as carefully as we could, Gilles taking care to bunch Will's cloak under his back so that his weight would not force the bolt in further. When we were finished, he lay, eyes wide and staring at the shadows on the ceiling, breathing like a spent horse. Sweat had soaked his hair, and his feet twitched and beat gently against the table and each other. 'Does it hurt very much, Will?' He closed his eyes as if thinking, then opened them again. There's something on my feet. Get it off, would you?' I made to look, but of course there was nothing there. 'Is it gone now?'

  'I think so. It must be. Is there a cat in here? Felt like a big cat pinning me down.' He winced. 'Listen to me, Patch. I have something to confess.'

  'I will not hear your confession, Will!' I said. 'I am no priest, and besides, you will be fine.'

  He chuckled weakly. 'I don't think so, brother. Don't worry, I'm not going to unburden myself of the sins of my flesh. I'll take those with me, thank you very much. Besides, you wouldn't appreciate them.' He tried to wink, but I saw he had lost the mastery of his face. His cheek twitched dismally, then went slack.

  'Lean close, brother. I don't have very much puff… Is one of you sitting on my legs?' I shook my head. 'Fancy that. There's a weight… now it's gone. That's better. Now listen well. You heard the Captain ask whether I knew that lad whose head you lopped off, yes? All right. I did know him. Rufus, his name was. I knew him because he was an old comrade of mine.' 'From Morpeth?' I asked, stupidly.

  Will sighed and closed his eyes. I leaned forward sharply, but they fluttered and opened again.

  'Still here, brother. They're sitting on my legs again, aren't they? Listen. When I told you I served under… who did I say? Sir Ranulf?'

  'Sir Andrew Hardie,' I said. 'The company of the Black Boar.'

  'I never could remember a lie. No. My company was the Cross of Bone, under Sir Hugh de Kervezey.'

  I shrank back as if he had struck me. 'How, Will?' I said at long last.

  He let out a long, ragged sigh. 'I was taken,' he said at last. 'I told you that lovely tale, and some was true, at least. But I did not quite make it to London. They found me in the road, beat me half to death again, and I woke up in the Bishop's dungeon. I… There is no time, is there? I must be brief. Yes – by some odd chance, Kervezey took a shine to me and the Bishop gave me to him as his slave. I am – I was bound to him by every law written and still unwritten. He made me one of his band, those who do his bidding on the Bishop's behalf. We came to Bordeaux a month and more before you with orders to wait for a ship, the Cormaran. When it came in, we were sent to spy out the crew as they came ashore and kill as many as we could. It was not my lot to ask questions.' And you followed Anna and me?'

  He grinned mirthlessly. 'No. And if I had known you we
re alive, let alone in Bordeaux, I would never…' He widened his eyes at me, pleading. 'You believe me, brother?' I nodded helplessly. 'Thank God. But that night… I had given that night up for lost. Those drunken, raddled fools I was with made me watch while they stuffed themselves all night and felt up girls. You stumbled upon us, brother. Benno was trying to sleep it off and you woke him up. I didn't know it was you -how could I have? I just didn't want those pigs to hurt anyone.' 'I thought you were dead!' I blurted.

  'Well, I knew you must be.' He drew his breath in and with a huge effort reached out his hand and grasped mine. It was cold as stone, but the grip was tight. 'Real enough, though,' he said. Why didn't you tell me, Will?'

  'I told the Captain. And he… he said keep it quiet for a while. And I said I must tell my friend Patch. And he said… he said tell him when you are ready. And. Now I am ready.' 'Oh Christ, Will!'

  Why don't you forget I came back? Perhaps that would be best.'

  'No! That is not what I meant. I was thinking about all this time on the ship… I wasted everything.'

  He squeezed my hand. 'Despite your behaviour, brother, I have never been happier than in the past couple of weeks.' Will? I'm so sorry about the things I said. About Anna.'

  He tried to laugh, but a spasm passed through him and I saw that blood was seeping from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

  'I would have been offended if you had not said them, dear brother. But the princess loves you with all her heart, I'm afraid. I never stood a chance. Do not…' and he gripped my hand again, '… do not hurt her, Patch. Do not let her go. Swear to me.' 'Of course. I swear.' 'Good, good… how strange, Patch, are you still there?' 'Yes, brother.' 'I cannot see you. Shoo that cat away, and cover me up, Patch. Later on, shall we go out, to the Crozier?' 'I would like that, Will.' 'So would I.'

  He sighed and lay still. Only then did I notice that Adric had come and knelt at the head of the table. One arm was in a sling, but he had covered his face with the other hand and I knew he was saying the prayers for a departing soul.

  We had to leave him lying there. He had not moved again, and his breathing had grown fainter until with one deep gasp he had come to his end. The innkeeper had brought candles, and Adric set one at his head and one at his foot. I stood and stared into his face. His lips had drawn back a little from his teeth, and I wiped the blood away. I told myself it was a smile, but it was not. Thin slivers of white shone beneath his eyelids. I would not leave until at last Gilles and the Captain prised my hand loose.

  We must be gone before sunrise, Petroc,' said the Captain gently.

  'I won't leave him,' I rasped. I had not cried. Instead I seemed to have dried up from the inside out. My eyes stung and my mouth was parched.

  'The master of the inn will take care of him. He will get a proper burial. I wish we could take him back to the ship… to his home. But we cannot. If we do not leave now we are all dead men, and he would not wish that.' And Adric?' I said finally.

  Adric is fine,' said the librarian. 'My wounds are not worth dwelling upon, now,' and he crossed himself with a glance at Will. 'He must have been a good man, Petroc, for he made a good death.' He shivered, and drew his cloak about him. And he died with the blessing of friendship. Now, my friend the Captain is right: we must leave here this instant, and I am coming with you.'

  They pulled me to my feet and out of the taverna, and dragged me until I started running with them. The others feared meeting the Watch, but there was no one much about, although the streets near the Taverna were still full of the stench of burning. We did not stop until the Campo, and when we had crossed it we ran again. The jarring of the cobbles beneath my feet helped keep my head empty, but as soon as we were back on the Cormaran I could not escape and stumbled away to crouch against the rail, hugging my knees, stupefied with grief. Adric was sent to he down in the cabin. The Captain was giving orders and the ship was springing to life, another shore leave cancelled, angry men taking out their frustrations on rope and wood. When everything was to his satisfaction he beckoned Adric from the cabin, and the two men came and knelt down next to me.

  'He was a good man – I had so little time to get to know him, but he had his own… his own honour, and it was very strong,' the Captain said. 'You called each other brother, but that is truly what he was to you, I think? It is hard to see a brother die.' He paused. 'That I do know.' He passed his hands across his face. 'Now forgive us – this is the last time we will invade your sorrow – but we must make you understand one more thing about last night.'

  Adric nodded. 'Do you remember Saint Elfsige of Frome?' he asked, and I looked up in surprise. 'Quite a story that made.'

  'But you were working for me that day,' continued the Captain. 'Elfsige ended up as someone else entirely, you know. He made a Flemish abbot very happy. I have known of you since you went to Buckfast, Petroc. But you will wonder, one day if not sooner, whether Adric meant for you to… to end up in this life. I can assure you that he did not. His heart was quite broken by your troubles.' 'But they were not of your making, Adric,' I said quietly.

  'Not directly,' said the librarian, 'But you were chosen by Balecester and his son because you were my student. That alone has filled me with guilt.' He studied my face. 'But you are alive. And now, it seems, we are of the same company.' He stood up leaned on the rail.- 'Now we must end this, must we not?'

  "We must,' said the Captain. He took me by the shoulders. 'Your brother Will would want us to claim the prize. And that we shall do. We are putting out this minute for the Ionian.'

  I felt as cold and lonely as the great ice-fields of Greenland. I hardly cared what these two had been saying to me. At that moment, what cared I for Adric's guilt, or the Captain's sympathy? But, like an iceberg bobbing alone on the Sea of Darkness, a thought formed itself in my mind. 'It was Kervezey, wasn't it?' I said. 'That is my guess.'

  There was nothing more to say. Adric limped off to the cabin. The Captain went back to directing the crew: a fight had broken out on the deck and the mutterings were getting louder. There would be many promises made and ruffled feathers smoothed before the men were happy again. I wanted no part of it. Feeling utterly alone, I went and stood in the bow as the Cormaran drifted out into the main channel and began to slip away down the Arno to the sea. The lights of Pisa were dimming behind us when I felt an arm slip through mine. It was Anna, and we stood like that, silent, until the sun rose and the flying fishes came out to dance back and forth across our path.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Koskino was a mountain, a slab of white rock thrust straight up out of the sea. Lush lower down, the trees thinned as the slopes became cliffs, with here and there a slash of dark green where a company of cypresses had taken hold, and then the island ended in an abrupt, stark line, seemingly flat as a table on top. It was getting dark as we drew near, and the clouds had formed out of a clear sky and were rolling slowly over the top of the cliff wall. It had seemed tiny from a distance, this place, another speck among specks in the ruffled, inky sea. We were sailing into its shadow now, and the day's heat reached us, a parching breath, along with the mad choir of insects.

  Anna was with me in the bow. We were friends again, although we had not spoken of what it was that had come between us since leaving Bordeaux. Indeed I did not want to dwell on it, for it seemed a time of sickness, as if I had been suffering from a long fever and a wandering of the mind and now was well again. That is a strange thing to say, perhaps, by one who had just seen his greatest friend suffer a bloody and untimely death. But now what troubled me most was not the manner of Will's passing – for that was pure pain and could be treated almost like a wound – but the knowledge that his life had been poisoned by Sir Hugh de Kervezey, long before Kervezey – and I did not doubt it had been his hand on the trigger – had put an end to it. The sense that Will's life had been doomed long before our last night in Balecester, in fact from the moment we had met, came back to haunt me. I found I could not even remember our first meeting –
the refectory at the cathedral school, perhaps? – and this troubled me even more. Kervezey had cursed us – not just in the trials we had suffered in our flesh, but in our souls, for whatever else I believe about the soul, I know it is there that love, and friendship, grow like bright flowers. Kervezey had blighted us, both outside and in.

  And now the anger that had so afflicted me while my friend was at my side returned in earnest. But this time, with a potent fuel, it burned like a pyre. It is strange how rage can drive away sadness, but it was as if my tears were dried up inside me by the heat of my anger. Sometimes it burned hot, like a fistful of coals aglow within my belly, and at other times it was utterly cold, and my soul felt enveloped in hoarfrost. But although I was full up to the brim with this anger, so that I feared I might at any moment vomit live cinders onto the deck, in my outward self I was calm. My mind was clear, and indeed I seemed to see everything with a clarity and a brightness that would probably have frightened me at any other time. I saw that there had been no chance in our reunion and took an obscure comfort from it. The thought that everything might have been arbitrary, that we had met and been torn apart again by some heartless, random coincidence, was more frightening than the knowledge that we had both been struggling in the same net. It is a habit of men, that we search for meaning in the deaths of those we love, and here was meaning aplenty, however cruel.

  That first morning, Anna had stood with me, silently – for hours, perhaps. The sun had risen in earnest when she reached out a cool, careful finger and touched me, feather-like, below one eye, then another. 'They are dry,' she said, puzzled.

  'There is nothing there,' I answered, my voice raspy. 'Nothing. But… I loved him, you know.'

  'I know,' she said. We stood quiet again. Then she said, 'May I weep for him, then?'