The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘I do agree, it does perfectly satisfy,’ he replied with a significant look. Wang beamed.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Cathayans left – but he had their secret. It was thrilling, terrifying and overwhelming all at the same time, but he had it!

  Charcoal and sulphur he knew, but the hsiao was another matter. For this, Wang’s men had gone to an ancient camel stable and had located, then scraped away, the white frosting from under the powerfully stinking straw.

  He didn’t question their actions – if this was what had to be done, then so be it.

  He’d watched carefully the purifying and mixing, for as a master of his craft he knew that much depended on the quality of a process. Patiently he observed and everything he’d seen was etched deep into his memory.

  There was no reason to think he would be returning to the land of castles and nobles. It was much more likely that he would leave his remains in this far country – he didn’t even know for sure what it was called, still less the direction to take to find his way back.

  Home was now Tabriz, with the patient and loyal Kadrİye.

  There was plenty to do in the aftermath of the siege. A mountain of damaged weapons and armour, a sizeable pile of captured material to assess for utility and two or three spared captives claiming skills. At least this would be attended to back in Tabriz.

  The heat of summer eased gently into the cool of autumn and the red heights of the Eynali mountains became touched with white.

  But then angry word came from Sultan Ghazan that as Hetoum, King of Cilicia had shown obstinate in the matter of respect, an immediate descent on his kingdom was to be mounted.

  Jared groaned, for as far as he was vaguely aware Cilicia was away to the south-west, safely tucked behind a girdling of mountains. It would not be pleasant to return through the snows and bitter winds if the campaign went well, or worse, to stay encamped in field conditions indefinitely if there was any kind of resistance.

  The expedition set off two weeks later, long columns of camels and men-at-arms preceded by the main force – the feared Mongol cavalry. In the rear was the baggage train and with it Jared and his detachment of assorted smiths and workers, forges and supplies.

  They reached the foothills; Jared a-horse could only rein in while the clumsy ox-drawn carts made their way up the increasingly steep and ill-made roads into the mountains proper.

  The expedition was moving fast – the Mongol commander was clearly of a mind to finish the job before the snows arrived and occupied himself sending ill-tempered messages back to the laggards.

  For Jared’s detachment it was quite impossible to progress any faster. With the weight of anvils, iron tools and forge equipment the straining oxen simply couldn’t give more.

  Two days into the mountains the commander’s patience gave out. The elements at the rear that could not keep up were separated, provided with a small escort and told to follow on the main force as it made for Bile and the Cilicians.

  Four days later the red-faced escort captain was compelled to admit that they’d lost their way in the bitter winds and sleet. There was nothing for it but to make camp and endure while the escort was sent in different directions to find a route.

  It was there that the enemy found them.

  Unprepared, the remaining men of the escort fought the flood of triumphant horsemen bravely but were slaughtered to a man.

  Once again a prisoner, Jared waited in despair for his fate.

  He knew nothing of Cilicia and its people. As they were marched away, his neat and orderly blacksmithing impedimenta abandoned by the ignorant hill tribesmen, he could only think of Kadrİye and her warm devotion.

  From now on he would have nothing to bargain with for status and respect – as a common slave his future would be bleak, unpleasant and short.

  Sunk in misery he couldn’t find it in him to answer Perkyn’s increasingly anxious worries as they made their way over the passes, then, quite unexpectedly, to where the mountains fell away to the sea and a broad bay with a town nestling in a fold of the hills.

  It smelt different – the usual dog and human stink but as well a cooking odour that reminded him of long-ago Acre.

  They were herded into a colonnaded plaza of sorts, each street exit well guarded and in the centre a raised dais. Jared didn’t need to be told a slave auction was about to take place.

  The likelihood was that without a reason to keep them together, he and Perkyn would soon be parted. Instinctively he backed away to the furthest corner from the dais, where two colonnades met. Impassive guards watched as he squatted down in the dust and wretchedly waited, Perkyn off to one side.

  Numbers of people were making their way along the colonnades, viewing the stock on offer. Jared obstinately sat with his back to them.

  Their foreign babble meant nothing to him and with dull eyes he gazed unseeing into the distance. The hours passed.

  CHAPTER 34

  Cilicia, Armenia, AD 1301

  ‘Rather a poor lot, don’t you think?’ came a voice from a little distance away, behind him.

  It didn’t register at first.

  ‘Can’t see any as I’d like to see touching my victuals, by m’ lady,’ another replied.

  Jared leapt to his feet and spun about, staring, searching. Someone was speaking English!

  And as if from a hashish dream he saw two Knights Hospitallers strolling together, mildly curious at his display.

  In a frenzy of emotion he tried to call out to them – but it came out only as a croak, his native tongue buried under long years of Arabic and Turkish.

  They moved on but he couldn’t let them escape. He blundered after them, tripping over bodies and bringing curses and imprecations but he didn’t care.

  At last the words came. ‘Help me!’ he howled, nearly demented with hope.

  The knights stopped and stared at him.

  ‘Help meeee!’ he shrieked, falling to his knees.

  One came over. ‘Who are you, fellow, that you make such a noise?’

  ‘The Blessed Lady be praised!’ Jared blurted, weeping with emotion. ‘By God’s sweet passion, hear me, I beg!’

  ‘What is it?’

  Gulping, he burst out, ‘I’m Jared of Hurnwych, a pilgrim, taken at Acre by the infidels. Sold into slavery with the Mongols and now taken by … by …’

  The knight gave a bemused smile. ‘Good fellow, this is Armenian Cilicia.’

  At Jared’s wild incomprehension he added, ‘A Christian kingdom and our allies. So there’s been a mistake, they’ve no right to sell a Christian like you. I’ll have a word with the slavemaster and have you released directly.’

  He clapped Jared on the shoulder. ‘And then, poor fellow, perhaps we can see about getting you home to England – this after a pilgrimage such as you’ll remember.’

  CHAPTER 35

  Hurnwych, England, AD 1302

  As if in a dream the last mile before Hurnwych opened up before them.

  Jared walked easy in respect for Perkyn’s hobble and had time to take it all in. They were dressed as pilgrims just as they had been when they’d departed but this was from the generosity of the Order who had cared for them as sheep restored to the fold. Alms clinked in their scrip, their sclaveins plain but robust. Their staffs were stout and their broad hats were adorned by the pewter palm badge of the Holy Land pilgrim.

  They walked on. Jared was keyed up for an emotional tide of recognition but it didn’t come. The gnarled oak at the bend he remembered, but it was strangely bereft of significance – it was just there. And the gentle rolling country in all its grace and beauty was if anything startling, so deeply green with rain-washed verdancy after the arid near-desert he’d known for years.

  Villeins toiled in their strip fields, ignoring mere travellers, and a boy who drove a flock of geese only gave them a glance.

  The manor house came into view: he saw a sad shabbiness. It was so much smaller than he recalled, far less grand and imperious.


  And beyond, sitting massively on the hill was Castle Ravenstock.

  Prepared for a surge of hatred and memory, instead he saw that washed by sunlight the bluff walls had somehow lost their menace. After the great Crusader fortresses he’d seen this was very much a lesser, mediocre pile and he was strangely moved; he’d changed more than he’d known.

  Beside him Perkyn was quiet and apprehensive.

  This was the Banbury road with pilgrims a not uncommon sight and they reached the bridge and the common without being stopped.

  As they drew nearer, Jared’s heart began beating painfully. Over to the left was the rude street of his birthplace and home, for which he had so long wistfully pined. It was not far – and then he stood before the place he had left so many years ago in grief and fury.

  It was smaller and changed: was that another room added to the rear? The tavern was still there, and with a couple of early customers.

  ‘Here we go, then, Perkyn.’ He went to the door and gave a hail.

  A woman unknown to him opened it and frowned. ‘No use coming here for alms, brother. I has three bantlings and a sick husband to nurse!’

  ‘Oh. Sorry to disturb you, sister.’

  His home was now that of another.

  Uncertain, he hesitated then made for the other side, to the smithy, which from the pungency of smoke and quenched metal was in full use.

  At the open-fronted forge was the unmistakeable form of Osbert, inspecting the piece he had just worked. A young lad was at the bellows and another stood back – he knew neither.

  Osbert wheeled round to see who had come. A moment’s incredulity and he gave a hoarse cry. ‘Jared! By the God that sits above and you’re restored to us!’

  He clasped Jared tightly to him and a sob escaped.

  Himself overcome, Jared’s eyes stung as he croaked a response.

  ‘By all that’s holy,’ Osbert swore. ‘And I’ll not rest until I’ve heard your story!’ Flushed with pleasure he threw over his shoulder, ‘We’re finished for the day, you two. Get the forge down and you’ll find us in the tavern. Come, Jared – and you, Perkyn. We’ve a pile of things to talk about, I fancy!’

  It was dreamlike – so much the same, so different.

  In the tavern they sat on the comfortably dark-worn seats in the old way, but the serving maid was a stranger as were the two customers nearby who looked up curiously.

  ‘Osbert. How goes my mother? There’s a stranger in—’

  ‘Sorry to tell you, lad, but she passed on.’

  ‘She always knew you’d come back. Made us keep all your old things – they’re still here.’

  Jared blinked back tears but knew that for him the past was for ever out of reach.

  The young boy he’d seen in the forge appeared at the door. ‘Fire’s out, tools away – can I go now?’

  ‘No.’ Osbert said with an odd catch in his throat. ‘Come here, lad.’

  The boy approached Jared uncertainly. Only twelve or so he held himself well, his dark hair the same as his own and with a pleasing countenance.

  ‘As this is my apprentice and will desire to make your acquaintance. Younker, this is Master Jared.’

  He paused for just a moment then added softly, ‘And he is your father.’

  Daw! Little David – could it be …?

  The lad stood staring, his eyes wide and hands working at the cap he held.

  ‘I … I’m right pleased to see you, David,’ Jared said in a low voice. ‘How are you?’

  Their child who he’d held in his arms and …

  The youngster held back, unsure and guarded, saying nothing.

  ‘Daw, I …’

  Osbert intervened gently. ‘You can go, lad. Tell ’em there’ll be another two to sup tonight.’

  When he’d left he added, ‘A fine boy – does what he’s told and quick with it.’

  Touched by the encounter more than he could admit Jared took refuge in asking for news of the village.

  There was not a lot to tell. A new lord of the manor, an earnest churchgoer who nevertheless ensured that his dues would be met in full and on time. The miller had slipped and lost a hand to the millstones. A clutch of marriages, births and deaths and the year that the harvest was all but lost to a great storm.

  His house had been let to a family and the proceeds put away for David’s future – as an apprentice blacksmith he was doing well, liking the craft and taking to its mysteries with a will.

  ‘Jared?’ Nolly, nervous and blinking, laid eyes on his old friend. He was careworn, with lines in his features, almost unrecognisable as the jack-me-lad he’d shared frolics with in those long ago summers.

  ‘Hoy there, Nolly!’ he replied, but the carefree banter of old died in his throat.

  ‘I heard you was returned and … and …’

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ Osbert invited. ‘And you’re in time to hear of our Jared’s adventures!’

  Another ale arrived and with it Old Yarwell, seamed and aged, his knobbly stick trembling as he shuffled in. ‘Just heard o’ you back with us,’ he wheezed. ‘You’ll have a tale to tell, I told m’self, so here I is to hear it. Get on with it, lad!’

  Jared sat there, bemused. How was it possible to even begin, when not a one of those eagerly clustered around had even seen the sea, let alone the vastness of Persia. To describe a camel? A Mongol army on the move?

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘You tell it, Master Jared,’ Perkyn came in unexpectedly. ‘I … I’m going to …’

  Of course – he had his memories and friends, and after all, he’d only agreed to be a servant for the span of a pilgrimage.

  ‘Away you go, Perkyn. Mind you come back soon and I want to thank you properly, you hear?’

  His place was taken by Will Dunning, the miller’s son who he’d thrown into the pond one May Day. Mature and balding he stood until bidden to sit, his eyes wide and respectful. Others began appearing behind him – word was spreading fast in the little village.

  ‘So we set out … when was it, the seventeenth or was it the eighteenth year of our King Edward, bound for Woodstock and …’

  It was easy going at first as he told of familiar landscapes and names, but when he tried to convey the fear and torment of a sea voyage it came out as either bland or fantastical. His growing audience, however, was greatly appreciative and listened for every word.

  When he reached the point where the knights engaged him for Acre a short, burly man with an empty socket for one eye worked himself to the front. ‘Know what you mean, young fellow. Was the same when I shipped on crusade with King Richard, the Lionheart we called ’im, fine soldier, very fine. Did I ever tell you how we—’

  A chorus of cries cut him short and Jared remembered the veteran crusader archer Watkyn Sharpeye. He smiled inwardly. His own story went far beyond the tallest tales this man could ever tell.

  Evening drew in before he’d even reached Tabriz and he was suddenly overcome by a tide of weariness and promised more for the next day.

  ‘Osbert, if my house is—’

  ‘Pay no mind to it. You’ll be with us this night.’

  ‘Kind of you, Osbert, but—’

  ‘It’s the way of it – Hurnwych’ll set to and we’ll have you a new house in a week.’

  As it had always been done: if any of the tight-knit community needed to replace or build, all would lend a hand and the favour would be returned in due course. And for Jared it would meet a deeper need – he was unsure how he would face the memories alone.

  ‘I’d be grateful, Osbert. Wouldn’t want to turn out the tenants in the old place, o’ course.’

  ‘They’ll be happy to hear that. One more thing: the smithy. Will you be …?’

  Jared smiled broadly, flexing his muscles. ‘I start at once!’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve more work in hand I can jump over. Daw’s a help but the forge-hand is nothing but a thick-skulled fool of a dirt tosser, all I could get.’

  ‘Rest e
asy, Osbert. I’m sure Perkyn won’t want to go back to the fields – he’s steady enough, worked with me in Persia. He doesn’t know a ploughshare from a coulter blade but can turn in a Saracen crossbow bolt in a twinkle, should you ask kindly!’

  CHAPTER 36

  The days passed. In the forge Jared made short work of the backlog and in the process came to know a little more of his son, but Daw kept his distance from the exotic man with the extravagant fables claiming to be his father.

  Occasionally he and Perkyn would lark about and lapse into Turkish, to the exasperation of Osbert and the wonder of the boy, or turn a piece in the Arab fashion, curved and exotic, and perhaps go for outlandish compounds in quenching oils to bring up curious patterns on the bare metal.

  Father Bertrand chanced by and was disappointed that he’d been unable to visit the Holy Sepulchre and speak of it to him for he’d never been there himself.

  A little later a stiff-faced John Frauncey called, sent by the bailiff to beg him for a pair of ornamental barn hinges in the Moorish style. After only the minimum foolery and teasing of the self-important lackey Jared agreed and two days of diverting work later produced a fanciful set that had the whole village talking.

  The house was built: the only available space rather closer to the woods than he cared for but it was good to settle in to his own dwelling. He offered a place in it to Perkyn – in return for what they’d shared but also he didn’t want to be alone. Daw had decided he’d prefer for now to stay with his Uncle Osbert.

  And merciful heavens, the nightmares had not returned. His mind sometimes briefly shied at fleeting reminders, but it had been years ago now and the hurt had faded into wistful remembrance.

  Jared wanted to go forward with life but apart from Daw he had no family, no one to care for.

  He missed Kadrİye. She would have been given his share of the plunder and be comfortably off. They’d never been close, the distance from concubine to master too great to bridge, but a woman to share a life with was surely fundamental to existence.