The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  The Egyptian, his face now patterned in different shades of red, answered, ‘Myself. I am come to warn you, of d’Oselier . . .’

  ‘Warn me?’ Etienne pushed the Egyptian with a finger and sent him into a dance of balance that ended once more in a humbling fall. ‘When were you to warn me? After the arrow had found my back?’

  Iterius raised his head a little, seeing two seneschals of the Order observing his familiarity with the ground. ‘He is against you,’ he managed to say, ‘he rallies men to his side . . .’

  His lord seemed to be teetering on the brink of sending his face once more into that dirt and Iterius cowered.

  ‘How comes to you this intrigue?’

  Iterius closed an eye in his wounded face in order to see one seneschal. ‘I am not alone who knows it, but I am alone in who comes to warn you of the slaughter that awaits you upon this road . . . on the orders of d’Oselier.’

  The seneschal frowned. ‘I think you a self-seeker, whose ears are pressed to doors for your own designs.’

  Iterius wore a look of amazement which he cleared by shaking his head. ‘I am a loyal dog, who will stop at nothing to save his master.’ Whereupon he smiled a bloody smile and let his head fall back into the wet dirt. Looking upward to the dome of the sky he felt a confidence, despite his hurts, in his brilliant deceit.

  In a sudden, he heard a grunt and found that it came from him since he was being grabbed by the middle and thrown upon the horse like a sack of dung. By the time his eyes came together the seneschal and Jourdain were already upon their Arabians.

  ‘Where is the snare?’ Etienne asked, pulling up his horse.

  The Egyptian swayed. ‘At the hillock near Ayios Memnon, at the ruined church.’

  The seneschal turned his back without further conversation and urged his animal forward.

  Disconcerted, Iterius, who had been left to his devices, called out after the Templar and the mercenaries, ‘Will you not turn around, Lord Etienne? Take another way?’

  ‘No,’ Etienne said without looking back. ‘We run out of time. We shall face them, warned as we are and ready, and you shall be at the head.’

  6

  THE OLD CHURCH

  Which is he that betrayeth thee?

  St John 21:20

  As promised, Etienne and his men travelled the road that followed the sea with Iterius at the head. When they neared the place where the Templars were said to be lying in wait, the men tethered their horses to low-grown bushes before a loop in the road and made their way up the sandy incline on their bellies. Etienne was first to gaze over the rise. There he saw the familiar ruins of the old church with its cavernous mouth jutting out from behind twisted, withered trees and beyond to the wider view of the barren plains of the peninsula.

  Sun daggers sliced his back and worried their way under his dark attire. Sweat trickled over his eyes and dripped wet onto the dirt, hot as an oven beneath him. He felt awkward and heavy, out of breath. His body, caught between youth and old age, clung to muscles and sinews strapped over worn-down bones. He got his breath back and looked beside him to Jourdain. The young captain was flushed and full of life. He had all his life ahead of him, such as it might be, and Etienne felt pity for the boy, seeing himself in that face. Twenty years of this would wear out his soul and his body would follow, so that he too would some day come to feel sadness when gazing into a youthful face. All that would come to him if he did not die before.

  Etienne gave a look to the Normans who were lying upon the earth with their swords beneath them, the Catalan who lay on his back relaxed, holding his axe as if it were a fine, light thing. Then he looked back at Iterius who stood behind them, trembling. His ignoble countenance was staring upwards to the cloud-free sky in a caricature, or so it looked to Etienne, of prayer.

  A sound took away Etienne’s attention and he returned his gaze to the church, whereupon he saw a man dressed not in coif and mail but in ordinary dress come out of the ruin. The man looked around, arching his back, and took to the bushes nearby. He then proceeded to pull down his breeches in order to attend to the ministry of his intestinal needs.

  Etienne thought this a fine piece of luck and made a signal for the Normans to move with stealth behind the body of the church. Gideon took it upon himself to come upon the man by surprise and after that Aubert found a position on one side of the church door while the Catalan moved to the other. Etienne then signalled Jourdain, who understood his intentions and went to fetch the horses.

  When he returned and Etienne saw that Gideon had bested the man at his bodily toils and was now preventing him from shouting out with one hand while holding a long-bladed knife to his throat, he made a sign at the Egyptian, trying to catch his eye, and had to resort to throwing a stone at him. Iterius convulsed and trembled further and nodded. Etienne motioned for him to mount a horse but Iterius threw his superior a look of misery. The seneschal’s silent regard, however, caused him to take himself over his horse in an unsteady fashion so that he almost fell. Etienne and Jourdain mounted and followed behind, putting spurs to the horses and pointing them upwards over the lip of land dotted with loose rocks in a thunder of hoofs and a clatter that made a tempest of noise. This clamour and stirring of dust in the bright, indolent heat verged on the sound of a cavalcade and, being mixed up now with the wails of terror and pain emitted by the captured man, being poked by Gideon with his long-bladed knife, it flushed out three men one after the other, two with swords and one carrying a Turkish mace.

  ‘What?’ cried one man and Etienne saw only his eyes move from surprise to horror and become fixed as his head came under Delgado’s blade. The head fell to the ground with a thud and rolled forward, and the body, still moving, stumbled over it, collapsed and was still.

  Aubert for his part took a jump onto the shoulder of the man carrying the mace. His short knife he stuck through one eye and there followed a discharge of blood from the face, accompanied by a throw of convulsions and screaming that would have sent the Norman flying off the man’s back except that his boot became entangled in the mace’s leather thong and he was drawn under as his victim’s body fell over him.

  Into this melee of tangled bodies and horses came a third man headed for Etienne. Etienne raised his sword and leant low over the neck of his horse. He took a sweep with his broadsword and felt it make a deep cut; the man spun around but did not drop his weapon, instead he gathered to him his wits and with a holler set his sights on the flank of Etienne’s horse. Jourdain saw it and made for the man, driving his broadsword into his back, but not before a blade was driven into the animal. It gave a long terror-filled cry and collapsed over the body of its assailant, taking Etienne with it. Etienne lay pinned between man and beast. The pain in his leg shot upwards, branching across his abdomen, and it was all he could do to prevent his head from falling into blackness. Jourdain came to his aid and Etienne was only able to recover his bruised leg because the body of his enemy had taken the brunt of the load.

  Now there were arrows flying through the air. One or, more likely, two men had grown some intelligence and were now shooting from inside the church. Etienne and Jourdain threw themselves behind the olive press to find that Iterius had already found refuge there and lay moaning and whimpering with a quarrel embedded in his calf.

  From their vantage point they could see that Aubert had freed his foot and was scampering among the bushes near the aperture, to the place where stood Gideon who, having long disposed of his victim, was watching the little war with interest from the sidelines. The Catalan came up behind and passed the two men with a laugh and climbed nimbly atop the roof of the church with his face all smiles and his arms extended, like those of a performer or jongleur whose task was to provide distraction from boredom.

  Jourdain had left Etienne to take what horses were not killed away from arrow fire. These he tied to a low-hung tree some way off and moved himself to the other side of the aperture to watch Delgado balancing on the roof like a cat. He smiled at the Ca
talan. ‘Eh Delgado, watch it doesn’t fall in!’

  Beneath and in front of the aperture arrows found the carcasses of men and horses that mingled in the dust. Etienne, having a thought for his shield, moved from behind the olive press on his belly, using the body of the horse as cover. The wooden shield had been thrown from his hand as he fell and he was now about to take it up and make a run into the ruined building when he heard a noise like wood splintering, then a muffled cry and more sounds of scuffle coming from within. He raised an eye and saw no Catalan upon the roof. The man, he realised, had fallen through as Jourdain had warned. He saw Jourdain rush into the mouth of the church then, and a moment later from out of the gloom there was heard a cry, a snapping and then silence. Jourdain was first to come out with a grim look, carrying a body, which he threw on the ground into the pile of dead things.

  ‘I know this man, his name is Pierre!’ he said to Etienne. ‘The blacksmith.’

  Behind him Delgado was dragging another man by the legs. The crossbow he held in his hands he threw down at Etienne’s feet. His captive’s legs were let go and they fell with a dusty thump. Etienne saw the man had an arrow through one cheek that came out at the other. The Catalan dragged him by the hair to a kneeling position and steadied him with a hand on the head, patting it and smiling.

  ‘Here is our friend, Lord Etienne – he would not die and I have left him to you, so that you may take the pleasure of it.’

  Etienne looked through the sunlight to the man, trembling and holding his jaw together with both hands. Tears came from the eyes and blood dripped from the parallel wounds on his cheeks.

  Etienne recognised him. ‘Jourdain,’ he said with a flat voice. ‘See this?’

  Jourdain came to him and looked at the man. ‘Why, if it isn’t Alphonse!’ the young captain said. ‘The disrobed scribe . . .’

  The wounded man raised his head and squinted away the tears and the sun, to look from Jourdain to the figure of the seneschal.

  ‘You are in the service of Ayme d’Oselier?’ Etienne said to him, frowning.

  There was a careful nod and a moan deep in the throat and more tears.

  Etienne made a squat and his abused leg gave a pang of dis-agreement so that he had to put the other knee to the ground and use his sword to steady him. He was now at the level of the man’s eye.

  ‘If your mother could see you now, Alphonse,’ Etienne told him, ‘she would take back all the food you gave her.’

  The man moaned and sobbed.

  ‘Listen to me . . . it is your wish that I have pity on you, am I right?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘You may not speak, but I know you can write with quill on parchment, and so you will be my messenger,’ he said. ‘Tell the marshal that if he wishes to see one more night, he will leave this day and he will not look over his shoulder. Do you understand? This day without so much as a look!’

  The man closed his eyes and nodded, for he understood.

  ‘Tell him I will not be his judge, but God in his heaven.’

  The man nodded again.

  ‘Good.’ He leant on the sword and stood, and to Jourdain he said, ‘Get his horse and let him go.’

  Jourdain dragged the man to his feet, threw him on his horse and gave a loud slap to the flank of the animal so that it bolted down the track with the man barely hanging on with one hand and holding his face with the other. It would be a painful ride.

  Etienne spat dirt from his mouth and looked around. His head cooked in the sun and his eyes hurt to see.

  Gideon had a blade in his hand and was pulling the breeches off one of the carcasses. ‘What?’ Etienne asked him.

  ‘The sacs, I will cut them out,’ he said.

  ‘Sacs?’

  Aubert smiled solicitously to Etienne and motioned to the jacket made up of patchworks of leather, which his compatriot wore over his chest. ‘See it, lord? Made of skin from the ball sacs of his enemies – there is good protection in it.’ He was all matter-of-fact. ‘Your mail is no match for it – it is magic!’

  The Catalan smiled all white teeth in a brown face and cocked his head to one side, looking to Etienne from eyes shy of the sun. ‘Gideon is a heathen,’ he said, as merry as a girl, ‘and will not meet our Lord in heaven.’

  Gideon looked up from his work and gave the Catalan a look full of malice. ‘You make fun, Spaniard, but one day I shall cut out your sacs and I shall leave them for the hawks and wolves since they shall be no good for anything else!’

  Delgado considered this with a serious face. ‘You are right, Gideon!’ he said. ‘For I shall have withered all their magic from an abundance of use!’ He looked to Aubert and to Jourdain and from him there came a laugh and he slapped his knee and laughed again. ‘But yours, my Gideon! Yours shall have good magic from lack of use because Norman women smell like goats in season and have the feel of wrinkled prunes!’

  Gideon grunted. ‘That is why I keep my magic for fighting.’ He had lost interest and was bent upon inspecting his bloody acquisitions. He shook his head and threaded the dead things onto a rope he wore around his neck. ‘They will need the sun or they will perish.’

  It did not seem fitting to Etienne to let this savage mutilate the bodies of Christians, even if they were no longer brothers, but Etienne’s head was full of strangeness. This had been an odd day, and more oddities, he knew, were sure to find him before it was over, and so he stood unable to make a resolve when a noise coming from the body of the olive press made him turn away from the spectacle. It was Iterius moaning. Etienne took hold of him by the neck and threw him to the ground at his feet, snapping one end from the arrow and driving the other full into his calf.

  The man gave a yelp and seemed to lose the power in his limbs. He let his head fall to the dirt and from that position he said in a whisper, ‘Please,’ his long face contorting into a grimace of terror. ‘I have done well, I have saved your life, will you not save mine?’

  Etienne stared into that face and put a boot on the chest. ‘So, you serve me like a labourer in expectation of your wages! Or is it from Ayme d’Oselier that you should seek payment?’

  The Egyptian shook his head and shook his head again. ‘No . . . you are my master, I will serve you and I shall ask for nothing in return, for I am useful . . .’ He paused to touch the calf lightly as if to assess what needed to be put together. ‘I alone can make the antidote for . . . the Grand Master’s poison.’

  Etienne squinted in the light. All around seemed suddenly very still, all sun, haze and heat. ‘What are you saying? What poison?’ he said with suspicion.

  ‘They must have guessed your plan . . . Lord Etienne, to remove the Grand Master . . . and they desired to poison him before he left . . . I only knew of it afterwards but then . . .’ There was an added pressure from Etienne’s boot and he continued, ‘Then . . . I didn’t know where the Grand Master had been moved to ... that is why I came to you ... He may live only a day at the most . . . without the unction.’

  Etienne narrowed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow and the corners of his eyes. ‘When did it happen, this poisoning?’

  The Egyptian panted.

  ‘Answer!’

  ‘I think it was yester-eve, after compline – they poisoned the water in the Grand Master’s cell.’

  ‘How do you know? And why have you not told me before now?’ he shouted, God’s righteous anger bearing down upon Iterius, whose pathetic effort to get away only brought the seneschal’s boot harder on his chest.

  ‘Please . . . please . . . I saw it!’ he said. ‘The stars divulged their knowing to me . . . but I did not know the accuracy of the portent until this very moment . . . when I realised I had been right about the ambush.’

  ‘You mean you do not know for certain? You are relying on the stars?’ Etienne stared and stared into those downturned eyes. ‘It is my guess that you are a liar or a sorcerer or both . . . each way I should have killed you before, so I shall kill you now!’ He took out his sword
and raised it over the man’s head.

  ‘No!’ Iterius put out his hands. ‘Please, if you do this you shall condemn the Grand Master to certain death!’

  Etienne stood poised upon this pressing thought, and began to wonder if he were once again dreaming a strange and terrible dream. He harnessed his mind. If the Egyptian was not lying, and assuming his portent accurate, which for now he must, his Grand Master could have had recourse to drink from his flask at any time after compline and before being moved to Salamis. Etienne had to calculate then, from an hour after sunset the previous night – just to be sure. That being the case it was now much past noon and they needed to circumvent Famagusta or risk meeting more supporters of d’Oselier. That would take two hours at least. All things going well it would take them a further hour riding slow in the hot sun without stopping until they reached the bay where the galley waited. In this case they had barely enough time to get to Salamis and have Iterius prepare his unction.

  There had been too many things to think of these last hours and Etienne was beginning to feel his bewilderment taking shape in the form of despair and he could find no logic in anything.

  ‘What do you need for this antidote?’ he shouted, angry at the man and at the day.

  Iterius soothed his leg and rolled his eyes in his head. ‘All I have is here.’ He patted his breast. ‘I have brought what I need.’

  Etienne kicked him in the side. ‘Take this to your profane heart, Iterius.’ He bent down with a knee extended from its hurts. ‘If I find you to be two-faced, I will see to it that you shall observe one of them resting upon the palms of your hands before you are sent to the hell that awaits you!’

  The man made a series of nods.

  ‘Catalan!’ Delgado came to him. ‘Pull the quarrel from that leg.’

  The Catalan smiled at the prospect and went to his task with a relish that made Iterius whimper like an animal begging for mercy. The Catalan turned a deaf ear and put his probing fingers to work, digging into the flesh of the man’s calf, twisting his fingers in a corkscrew fashion until they grasped at something. He pulled hard and the quarrel came out with a gush of blood behind it. The Egyptian sergeant gave so high-pitched a cry that Etienne thought it might be heard even in Famagusta, then Iterius rolled his eyes into his head and lost his senses. The Catalan threw the quarrel into the day, nodded in recognition of his fine accomplishment and, taking the cotton shirt from a mutilated body, wrapped it tightly around the bleeding leg. This additional abuse woke the Egyptian and he howled again.