[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘Oh, well done!’ Straccan thumped Wace on the back, making him stagger, then scrambled up after the hermit, stopping halfway to reach down and lend a hand to Wace and give Stigan a look that promised a later reckoning. You stay here,’ he said. Still grinning, Stigan settled himself in the boat to wait.

  With some difficulty they climbed up and slid down the far side of the bank of seaweed which, on its base of stone, must have been more than twelve feet high. Within this enclosure they saw the fragmentary remains of ancient buildings — humps in the ground and the outlines of storerooms — and in the centre what had probably originally been a Roman watchtower and was now the saint’s habitation.

  Only the stone stump of the tower remained, the ground and first floors; the upper wooden storeys having decayed long ago. At ground level it had been extended in a haphazard fashion with a miscellany of driftwood, bits of canvas, broken baskets, barrels and salvaged ships’ timbers. The door of this jackdaw-like nest stood open and, following the saint inside, they found it furnished with bench, table and narrow box-bed, all home-made from salvaged flotsam. A high-walled well occupied one corner, covered with a wooden lid, and a crackling fire of driftwood burned with blue and green and yellow flames in a central hearth; an impressive stack outside showed how some of the saint’s time was spent. A string of fish hanging to dry in the smoke showed another side of his industry.

  Against the back wall was a row of basketwork cages, some empty, some occupied by damaged birds in various stages of convalescence. The largest cage was half covered with a piece of sacking. A grating c-r-rawk came from its darkest corner.

  ‘Now then, Mickey,’ the saint said. He lifted the sacking to reveal the occupant, a big strong-smelling cormorant with a splinted wing. Mickey fixed the strangers with an unfriendly emerald eye and gnashed at them.

  ‘Manners,’ said the saint reprovingly. The bird yawned fishily, closed its eyes, turned its head until the wicked beak lay along its back and took no further notice of company.

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ the old man asked, glaring at them from under tangled white eyebrows. ‘I’m a busy man, and if you’re angels, I’m the Pope’s uncle!’

  ‘Ten years ago a ship was wrecked near here,’ Straccan said, wasting no time on preliminary courtesies. ‘Two young women were saved. Stigan and his brother brought them here.’

  The old man scratched his bottom meditatively. ‘There’s been lots of wrecks.’

  ‘It was a Danish ship. All aboard perished save those two. The lady’s name was Ragnhild. You gave them soup and she spoke privately with you.’

  ‘My memory’s not what it was.’ The whites of the hermit’s eyes showed all around the dark irises. He looked like a mad owl.

  ‘I believe she asked you to take care of something for her.’

  ‘She did, did she? What was it?’

  ‘A flag,’ Wace said, butting in eagerly. ‘A swallow-tailed pennant.’

  The saint stared from one to the other as if expecting something more. When neither of them added anything he lost interest and turned away to open the cormorant’s cage, lifting the piratical occupant out and cradling it carefully against his chest. ‘I can’t help you,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Go away.’

  Straccan clenched his fists, fighting the urge to take the saint by the throat and shake the truth out of him. Rage rose within him. The Banner had to be here; it was here, he knew it, he could feel it, and this mad old man knew perfectly well what he’d come for. The search for the Banner had been all of a piece throughout, baulked and obstructed at every turn, at the nunnery and then at the riverside villages. Even Wace, who was there to make sure he got the relic, knew more than he’d let on.

  The saint was stripping the splint from the cormorant’s wing. When he’d finished he put the bird back in the cage and carried it outside to a low moss-covered wall some distance from his door. The bird gnashed its beak excitedly, scenting freedom. The saint lifted it out, held it for a moment whispering to it, his eyes perilously near the savage beak, then tossed it into the air where it hung for a moment, great wings spread, before flapping away with a harsh cry.

  From the far side of the bank came another cry. Stigan’s voice, urgent and alarmed.

  ‘Raiders!’

  The saint ran up the bank like a gawky heron, Straccan at his heels. There, rounding the bend of the river, was a raiding galley, slim and deadly, sail already furled, oars driving it swiftly towards the jetty.

  ‘Too late,’ the saint said. ‘You should’ve gone when I told you, fool!’

  There were five oars a side, twelve men with the steersman and their captain in the prow, a wide-shouldered man in the full mail of a knight, with a plain surcoat over all. Although Straccan had only seen him once before and at a distance, he knew Lord William de Breos.

  ‘We can’t stop them landing. Stigan,’ he shouted. ‘Come up here! Back to the tower!’ At least there he would have a stone wall behind him. The saint was hopping up and down yelling and waving his fists, and Straccan, who saw Breos reach for a spear, grasped a handful of rags and tatters and swung the old curmudgeon off his feet like a child, down behind the bank’s brief shelter, half carrying, half dragging him — wriggling like a pilchard — back to the house.

  ‘Put me down, you whoreson!’

  Straccan shook him. ‘If you’ve anywhere to hide yourself, in God’s name get to it!’ He looked back for Stigan but he hadn’t followed. From behind the bank came the noise of men bellowing, the rattle as the oars were put up, and shrilling eerily over all the weird wavering howl of a bullroarer.

  They must have got Stigan, Straccan thought with remorse. The blame was his. God, have mercy on his soul! Christ, receive him into your kingdom!

  The saint settled his ruffled tatters about his skinny frame with affronted pride. ‘I won’t hide from the Evil One. If God wills, He’ll safeguard me. You too,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Get down on your prayer-bones, then, and pray for that man’s soul,’ said Straccan roughly.

  ‘Did they get Stigan?’ But the old man had no time for shock and grief for now the first raider was over the ridge, swinging the bullroarer. To Straccan’s astonishment a stone flung with startling accuracy by the saint struck the man on the temple. The bullroarer flew from his hand as he teetered, mouth open, then toppled backwards out of sight. The saint bounced up and down with glee.

  ‘Here they come,’ he cried, shaking his fist.

  Why had they come? Straccan wondered. What was there in this poor place, this wind-scoured desolate dot of land with nothing but a ruin and a mad old man on it? Only one thing, and how had Breos learned where that was hidden?

  Atop the ridge heads sprouted like fungus, some shaggy, some helmed; and in a howling mass the raiders came down upon them.

  Wace appeared in the doorway, his pale face crumpled with fright. Straccan just had time to shove him back inside and fling the old man in after him, shouting ‘Bar the door!’ before turning to catch the first raider’s sword on his own, stabbing upwards left-handed with his long dagger, twisting the blade to loosen the grip of the dead flesh and shoving the body back with a thrust of his knee. A man with axe upraised fell over the carcass and spitted himself on Straccan’s sword.

  The saint, who had no bar to his door anyway, heard the thrumm of Straccan’s whirling sword and the grunts and curses of the raiders and popped out again to see Straccan jump a low sweeping slash and dodge an axe that would have cleft him from neck to chine. But a blade had opened Straccan’s forearm, and the blood on his hand loosened his grip on the dagger.

  They were all round him now, a struggling mass of men, and his sword was struck from his hand by a numbing blow with an axe. He switched the dagger to his sword hand and shoved it up under someone’s chin, but the blade stuck fast and he couldn’t get it out again. Powerful arms seized him, pinioning his own. An ill-looking man with but one ear crouched at his feet, dagger ready to hamstring him, but Straccan kick
ed him in the throat and he fell over, rolling helplessly, retching and whooping for air.

  Lord William stepped in front of him. His mail coif framed a heavy-browed face with yellow eyes and a moustached upper lip that lifted in a triumphant smile with a missing front tooth. He was strong, thick-legged, with heavy shoulders and a neck like a bull.

  ‘There’s nothing for you here,’ Straccan panted. ‘No nuns to kill!’

  The smile turned to a snarl. ‘Five men you’ve cost me, Straccan, if that’s who you are. Where’s the Banner?’

  ‘What banner?’

  Breos struck him in the face with one of his mailed gauntlets. Straccan’s cheek split; he felt the icy burn of air on raw flesh.

  ‘Don’t play the fool. The king sent you to get it. Where is it?’

  The one-eared outlaw, recovered from Straccan’s kick but looking the worse for it, grabbed the saint by his long white hair and hauled him to his feet. ‘Cat got your tongue, grandad?’ he husked.

  ‘Whoreson,’ the saint said, his eyes watering. ‘God is watching you.’

  ‘Let’s give im somefing to laugh at, then.’ The outlaw hit the old man in the mouth with a sound like rotten wood breaking.

  ‘Careful,’ said Breos, with mock concern. ‘He won’t be able to talk if you break his jaw. Where’s the Banner, old man?’

  The saint spat blood and teeth. ‘Someone’s bin havin you on, you and these other pusbuckets.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Breos slipped a little knife, a skinning knife, from his belt and tossed it to the one-eared man. ‘Peel the old fool until he talks.’

  ‘No!’ Straccan plunged and struggled uselessly against the hands that held him.

  Breos pushed back his mail coif and wiped his sweaty forehead. ‘You tell me where it is, then.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. . . Oof!’ He sagged, gasping, as Breos’s fist thudded into his belly.

  ‘So why are you here? You were at the priory, asking questions about a flag… my loyal cousin the prioress told me so. You found nothing there, and now you’re here. I owe you thanks. You led me right to it.’

  There was a reedy scream from the saint.

  Straccan lurched forward, dragging his captors off balance, but only for a moment. Breos’s dagger was under his chin.

  ‘Let him go,’ Straccan yelled. ‘There’s nothing here! We came for his blessing, that’s all!’

  The old man screamed again and Breos laughed.

  ‘Coward!’ Straccan shouted. ‘Killer of nuns and old men!’

  Breos set the point of his dagger delicately just inside Straccan’s right nostril, and with a jerk of his hand slit the flesh right through, wiping the blade on Straccan’s sleeve. Blood — a considerable amount for so small a wound — and involuntary tears ran down Straccan’s face. He shook his head like a dog, spattering blood-drops.

  Breos bent over the one-eared man, now squatting by the saint’s body. ‘Losing your touch, Brun? He’s very quiet.’

  ‘E died, dint e,’ complained Brun. ‘I’d hardly started and he just died!’

  ‘Clumsy fool!’ With a growl Breos slashed his dagger across the one-eared man’s throat, sidestepping the jetting blood. The outlaw fell across the body of the saint.

  Breos turned back to Straccan. ‘So there’s only you after all. Lucky I didn’t cut your insolent tongue out. Now, where’s the Banner?’ He jerked his chin towards the saint’s tower. ‘In there? Of course, where else?’

  Straccan could hear the raiders crashing about inside. Someone threw a stool from an upper window. Breos stamped into the ransacked chamber and Straccan’s captors followed, dragging him. The meagre furnishings had been smashed to splinters, the cages crushed, their occupants with them, and the hermit’s scanty provisions trampled: a mess of flour, grain, blood, feathers and dried peas.

  ‘Here’s another one, me lord.’

  Breos stopped as one of his men shoved Wace forwards with his arms wrenched up painfully behind his back.

  ‘What have we here?’ Breos looked intendy at the clerk. ‘I know you, don’t I? Yes! You’re one of John’s damned scribblers. Let him go, he’s only a pettifogging clerk.’ He beckoned Wace forward, took him by the shoulder and pushed him outside, pointing at the bloody bodies and brandishing his dagger under Wace’s nose. ‘See that, scribbler? That’s what’ll happen to you unless you tell me where the Banner is.’

  Wace gave a cry of dismay. ‘You’ve killed the hermit!’ His face was mask-like, rigid with fear. He clutched at his own throat, as if to shield it from the slice of the knife. Then, so quickly Breos never saw it coming, the clerk pulled a stiletto on a cord from under his shirt and flung himself bodily on the rebel lord. Breos was taken by surprise, and although Wace’s blade skidded harmlessly off the links of his mail, he stumbled backwards over the bodies and fell, with Wace on top, screeching and jabbing at his unprotected face.

  Breos roared, heaved and flung the small man off. Blood streamed down his face. Wace’s stiletto had just missed his eye, glancing off the cheekbone and scoring a long jagged gash down his cheek. He dabbed at it, staring at his bloodied hand incredulously.

  Two men seized Wace, each grasping an arm. Breos got to his feet, red with blood and fury, and drove his dagger into Wace’s belly. With a soft ‘Oh!’ the clerk convulsed and hung limply from his captors’ grip. They dropped him. He fell to his knees, clutching his belly, blood running between his fingers; then toppled onto his side and lay with legs drawn up, moaning.

  Raging, blood running down onto his hauberk, Breos made for the tower again. Behind him he heard an odd sound and paused, glancing back. The clerk’s eyes were fixed on him and, unbelievably, he was grinning.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ he gasped, barely above a whisper. ‘You killed him. Serves you right. Now you’ll never find it!’

  ‘What?’ Breos glared at the clerk who now lay still, whether already dead or just near death made no difference; he was past speech. Breos stormed into the tower room to confront Straccan.

  ‘It’s here, isn’t it? That old fool hid it here somewhere.’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know,’ Straccan said thickly. His face and nose, still bleeding, felt like red-hot brands, and he spat as blood ran into his mouth. ‘He never told us. And now he can’t!’

  A horn blared — the galley’s lookout. One of the outlaws ran up the bank to see.

  A ship!’ he yelled. ‘The warden!’

  ‘To hell with him. How’d he get wind of us?’ Breos kicked at the embers of the saint’s fire, scattering them across the floor. The debris began to smoulder.

  ‘What about him?’ asked one of the men holding Straccan.

  Breos’s gaze came to rest on the well. At his gesture two men heaved the lid aside. The well gaped like a horrid mouth, breathing out cold sour air.

  ‘He’s no damned use to me. Pitch him down and put the cover back. Let’s go. We’ll come back later and take this tower apart.’

  De Lacy’s cumbersome vessel had no chance of catching the reivers’ galley; it would be clear away and tucked out of sight in a pill in no more time than it took to say a Pater Noster. Safe hidden, Breos and his raiders could outwait the warden and come back to search the island when all was clear.

  Straccan twisted and lunged desperately but had no chance. He was dragged to the well, pressed back against it, upended and tipped in.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The Lady Julitta bolted the door of her chamber, unlocked the iron and silver casket on a chain at her waist and took out a cloudy grey crystal, the size and shape of a hen’s egg.

  Holding the stone in her left hand, she traced on it the runes of summoning and command. For a moment the crystal itself appeared to be encased in a darkly glowing fine-meshed net, then the interwoven strands faded and were gone. Within the stone a dark shadow shifted and settled, waiting.

  Julitta spoke the name of the demon imprisoned in the stone. ‘Agarel…’

  Despite the fi
re, the room grew chill enough to show her breath. The shadowy heart of the crystal cleared and a reptilian face looked sulkily out at her, human in shape but lipless and scaly-skinned like the feet of a hen. The slanting eyes, all yellow without white or pupil, gleamed with malice.

  ‘Agarel, I command you!’ The yellow eyes took on a misty reddish tinge, and although there was no sound she knew he hissed with rage, hating her and her power over him. He was her prisoner and while confined in the stone must do her bidding.

  ‘Show me Duke Gaillard,’ she said huskily.

  The crystal clouded, cleared. She saw, small but distinct, a man kneeling beside a bed, a woman lying in it, bright and still as a wall-painting. The woman’s lips moved and the man took her hand, turned it palm up and tenderly kissed it. Light caught in the tears slipping from his eyes.

  Julitta smiled. Duchess Urraca still lived. Soon, though… soon… And then the duke must take another wife; no matter how greatly he loved Urraca he must take another for he had no heir. His counsellors would have a new wife picked out already for the duchess had been long dying, but they would be disappointed of their choice. The duke would marry again; his people would be dismayed, would say he was bewitched.

  They’d be right.

  She passed her hand over the crystal again. ‘Show me the great Lord William.’ Great fool! great brute… but he would serve his purpose; through him she would gain the Banner. There he was, in the prow of his galley, face and surcoat bloody. She could sense rage and disappointment boiling off him like steam.

  Mist dulled the stone, then cleared to show Agarel grinning impudently, chewing and slavering over some nasty leggy thing. Julitta sketched the rune of pain, of punishment, and watched dispassionately as he writhed and jerked, fanged mouth gaping in a soundless scream. Benoic, the Breton sorcerer, had taught her how to summon and trap such lesser demons, among other useful skills. The hellspawn must be kept confined. If Agarel got free from his cage he could turn on his captor, rip away her mind and all her powers, leaving her helpless. But she had no fear of that. Benoic had thought himself her master, he who was as wax in her hands. Much had she learned from him, and much that he had not intended her to learn, before she poisoned him.