[Sir Richard Straccan 02] - Pendragon Banner

by Sylvian Hamilton

  Impatiently Cigony waved him to a stool. ‘Sit down, man. You’ve had a long walk by the look of it.’ He poured ale and handed Straccan a cup. ‘So, what happened?’

  We stopped at a ford, to water the horses. Yesterday evening, it was . . .’

  As the thirsty beasts dipped their heads, Havloc had said hesitantly, ‘What’ll happen to me, sir, when we get to Ludlow?’

  With a pang of shame Straccan realised that not since the burning of the priory had he given any thought to Havloc or the missing cup that could still put a noose round his neck. What was going to happen to him? Short of a miracle it was unlikely that the thief or cup would ever be found, and the coroner’s animosity could make things difficult.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ he said. And he would. Of course. Somehow. If it had been left to Maurice de Lacy he’d still be in the bloody well on the saint’s island. It was Havloc who’d found him, Havloc he hadn’t wanted along. ‘Havloc—’ he began.

  The horses’ heads swung up, dripping, ears cocked forward alertly. Havloc was staring past him, shocked pale, and whatever Straccan had been going to say died a-borning.

  It was his fault. He’d been off guard. His exhaustion, the dizziness that still plagued him were no excuse. He had been criminally stupid, and if anyone under his command had been caught napping like that he’d have had the fool flogged.

  There were half a dozen crossbowmen, bolts aimed at their hearts. How the devil had they appeared, surrounding them, without a sound? Two more materialised silently from the shadows under the trees and relieved them of their weapons and horses. It was quick, efficient and wholly professional.

  No need for quiet now. Branches shook and rustled as two more men brought the troop’s horses out of hiding, several heavily laden with sacks and barrels. A foraging party. Too well accoutred to be outlaws; these were Breos’s men, of course. Straccan groaned. He should have been prepared; He should have expected something like this.

  Two at a time the crossbowmen mounted up while the rest kept their bolts trained on Straccan and Havloc. The whole business took perhaps ten minutes, not a word uttered until the captain of the band swung himself up into Straccan’s own saddle and bowed curtly, saying, ‘We need your horses, sir. I regret the inconvenience to you.’

  ‘Like hell you do! You’re no better than outlaws. Like master, like men.’

  The last man afoot tensed. ‘Shall I kill them?’

  ‘Let them go,’ said the captain. Straccan would never forget the old disillusioned eyes in that young face. ‘We’ve got the horses.’

  They had the horses and everything on them: saddlebags, cloaks, bedrolls, water bottles, provisions, weapons and the satchel that held the Banner.

  ‘Hmpff,’ grunted the constable when Straccan fell silent. ‘And Master Wace?’

  ‘Dead.’ Straccan told him how. Cigony twirled his cup in his hands, staring into it as if he saw something nasty at the bottom. ‘The king won’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t like it either,’ Straccan snarled. ‘Robert Wace was a brave man.’

  ‘A cock-up all round,’ said the constable grimly. ‘The priory burned, the prioress dead, a royal clerk dead, and the local holy man—’

  ‘No,’ Straccan interrupted, recalling his astonished disbelief at finding that bloody scarecrow still alive. ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Is he?’ Cigony crossed himself. ‘He must be a truly holy man.’

  Straccan would never forget the truly holy man’s wicked accuracy with a stone, his glee when he scored a hit, the sulphurous abuse he heaped on his tormentors, nor the fervent passion of his prayers for the slain raiders, tears pouring down his face as he begged God His mercy, Christ His mercy, and the intercession of every saint he could name for their souls’ salvation.

  A bad business altogether,’ Cigony was saying. ‘I suppose poor old Maurice de Lacy will get the blame for it.’ He paused, blinking, grimacing in anticipation of a sneeze, but none came. ‘Does your heart good though, don’t it, to hear of another Lacy in the shit! Too many Lacys, if you ask me, and their fingers in too many pies. I can’t turn round for bloody Lacys! The king’s sent Roger de Lacy after Breos now, not a day too soon. D’Athee’s been recalled. Useless. We kept running into his patrols. I told him he was looking in the wrong bloody place but he didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Have you heard where Breos is now?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, that’s no secret.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Straccan’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Holed up in the Hidden Valley, and not even the king’s men can get him there.’

  Why not?’

  ‘It’s Sanctuary, didn’t you know? Some old Welsh shrine. He’s untouchable for forty days. Poor old Roger will have to siege the place and nab him when he comes out.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s there?’

  ‘No doubt of it. We had a pedlar wailing they’d robbed him when he stopped there. Lucky chap! Anywhere else but the Hidden Valley and he’d be a dead pedlar. I’m up to my arse in claims for compensation. I’ve got the burgesses of Leominster and Hereford petitioning for troops to guard the towns. Even the outlaws are wetting their drawers, or would be if they had any. That reminds me.’ Cigony unlocked a chest in the corner and took out a grubby pouch. He tossed it to Straccan. ‘Your man’s stolen cup,’ he said, looking smug.

  Holding his breath, Straccan opened the pouch and shook out a very small shallow cup with two lug-handles and a band of irregularly stamped letters around the rim. He ran his thumb over them. ‘Cymhium Vulstani sum I he read.

  ‘Belongs by rights to Drogo’s daughters now, of course,’ Cigony said. ‘That girl Alis asked me to look after it until she goes home.’ Straccan sighed. At least something was turning out right; Havloc was out of danger, a free man. He and Alis could go home, marry, live happy ever after if God willed. Straccan hoped He did.

  He slid the cup back in the pouch. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘Got the thief,’ said Cigony, cheering up at the memory. ‘Spotted his coat of patches, like you said. Mad as a March hare! Goes on and on about the cup being haunted!’

  You haven’t hanged him yet?’

  ‘No, no! Kept him for you. He’s in the pit.’

  ‘Can I talk to him? Havloc still remembers nothing about the theft. If this man will tell us what happened it might help.’

  ‘The coroner will have to be there, I suppose,’ grumbled Cigony. ‘He still thinks your fellow got off too easily. Ha!’ He grinned at the memory of the trial and Paulet’s discomfiture, then cast a regretful look at the sunshine outside his window. ‘I did hope to get out for a while this afternoon. Still,’ he brightened, ‘if he does confess we can hang him right away.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tom was hauled up from the pit and a couple of buckets of water tossed over him to sluice off the worst of the muck. He stood between two disgusted guards who had better things to do, stinking, shivering and dripping dismally in his own puddle.

  ‘He’ll talk more readily if he’s warmed up a bit,’ Straccan said. ‘Can’t we take him to the guardroom fire and sling a blanket or something round him? I can hear his teeth chattering from here!’

  At a nod from the constable it was done, and a man sent scurrying for a cup of hot ale. The audience waited impatiently until the wretched object had swallowed it all and his convulsive shivering abated somewhat.

  ‘That’s better. Get him some bread and meat and another drink,’ Straccan said, eyeing Tom critically. ‘He’s still a bit blue.’

  The heat from the guards’ brazier, the food, the unaccustomed ale and even more unaccustomed kindness started Tom snivelling, but he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeves and the backs of his hands and needed no urging to launch into his tale.

  He and his mate Paul had snugged up for the night under the outside stairs of the Gabriel Inn. It was past curfew, the streets were empty and they were just settling down to kip when the man
, the mark, came stumbling up from the river.

  Paul flung himself on the man, who fell with a startled yelp, Paul atop him, fists pounding. Eager to help, Tom joined in, kicking the prone body with enthusiasm. He tugged off the man’s boots, unbuckled and pulled off his belt, while Paul cut the man’s purse-strings and groped in the breast of his coat, finding another purse on a string round his neck.

  They heard hooves, two riders coming, and fled.

  ‘Gold, is it?’ Tom asked, staring at the little footless cup in the early morning light.

  ‘Na,’ said Paul. ‘Brass, that, but we’ll get a few pence for it.’

  A day or two later Tom remembered it. ‘You got rid of that brass cup?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve took a fancy to it.’

  After that Tom forgot the cup, until one night Paul said, ‘Got to meet someone. E might buy that cup. But I don’t trust im. Ere it is,’ handing Tom the stolen pouch with the cup inside. ‘Keep old of it and stay out of sight ’til I see if e’s got the bunce.’

  Crouched behind a water-butt Tom waited. He heard Paul and the stranger start arguing. Then Paul said, ‘No,’ sharply and turned away. The man snatched at his sleeve. Paul’s hand dropped to his dagger but the other man moved faster. Paul folded slowly at the knees and fell, making a horrible whistling, bubbling noise, like a pig at the butcher’s.

  Flattened behind the barrel Tom watched as the murderer rummaged through Paul’s clothes, failed to find anything and kicked the body viciously several times before running away.

  Tom began to cry. He tried to stand but his trembling legs wouldn’t obey so he crawled past the huddled shape that had been his friend and hid behind a rubbish dump until dawn. He begged a ride out of town in a dung cart and eventually, as most outcasts did, made his way into the greenwood. It was not long after that that the spook first appeared.

  (‘See?’ hissed Cigony, jabbing Straccan painfully in the ribs. ‘What did I tell you? Moon-mad!’)

  Unaware of the interruption, Tom continued.

  The ghost looked just like one of the painted saints on church walls: surrounded by a nimbus of light, tall, stiff, one hand raised, equally ready to bless or smite. But the apparition talked like an ordinary man and thereafter gave Tom no peace, turning up night after night as soon as he dozed off, whingeing on and on about its bleeding cup!

  (A dream,’ the coroner said scathingly and the constable nodded. A dream, of course. What else could it be?)

  After several of these nocturnal visitations Tom was afraid to close his eyes but too tired to help it. He even put pebbles under his bum to keep himself awake but it was no use; the spook appeared just the same. He pretended not to see it but that was worse because it jabbed him in the ribs with an all-too-corporeal bony knuckle to secure his attention. What kind of dream was that?

  ‘I was a reasonable man,’ the ghost told Tom. ‘I’m a reasonable saint. Even a thief must live. Our Saviour had a soft spot for one at the end. Still, that’s by the by. About my cup…’

  Tom pulled his coat up over his head and shut his eyes tightly. He screwed himself into a foetal ball and rocked miserably back and forth, moaning.

  ‘I can see you’re not in the mood,’ the ghost said kindly, ‘so I’ll leave you to think about it. We’ll talk again another time.’ And it winked out like the spark in a candlewick.

  Tom attached himself to a bunch of outlaws, half a dozen assorted killers, thieves and rapists on the run from that bastard constable’s patrols and almost as wretched as he. For several nights the spook didn’t bother him. Then came that last night before they were caught.

  He lay sandwiched between two outlaws: one had lost a foot to justice and the other grinned like a skull even in sleep, having had his lips sliced off for uttering blasphemies. Sharing their lice and blanket but shivering all the same, Tom thought longingly of the town, where well fed people lay cosy in their beds. Fat useless sods, all lying snug, while he, Tom, who owned a gold cup, lay starved with cold.

  ‘Come off it!’ The spook’s voice was right in his ear. ‘You don’t own it. It’s mine; it’s got my name on it.’

  Tom howled and leaped to his feet, tripping over his bedmates, lurching and stumbling among the trees until he ran right into a low branch with shocking force and collapsed half stunned.

  ‘You’ll have a nasty bruise there,’ said the spook compassionately. ‘I’d put some liniment on it if I was you. Now, about my cup.’ It settled down with crossed legs beside Tom. ‘This is your last chance. Take my advice: go back to town, find a priest, tell him all about it and give him the cup. You’ll be safe then; well for a while, at least. If you don’t, I can’t stop what’s coming to you.’

  Whimpering, Tom jammed his hands over his ears but the spook had a penetrating voice and he could still hear it. He was going mad! Loonies saw things, heard voices too. He’d seen a whole bunch of loonies at York a few years ago, all tied with ropes to the belt of a weedy little monk. He’d thought they were funny then; how he’d laughed when folk threw turds at them and made them cry! But now he was a loony himself he couldn’t see anything funny in it.

  ‘I never wanted a gold cup,’ the spook was saying crossly. ‘Pretentious vanity. Common clay was good enough for Christ and His disciples. It was good enough for God to make Man. But it was a gift from the king and I didn’t like to hurt his feelings. You have no idea how touchy Harold Godwinsson could be! I never used the wretched thing. My servant would pack it when we travelled, and then the fool lost it.’

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said the spook, but its voice seemed distant and surely its image was getting misty at the edges? ‘You can’t say I haven’t tried. You weren’t much, in my opinion, but it’s not mine that matters and you’re precious to God. He’s not fussy. He’ll roll up whatever’s worthwhile in you, to use again.’

  ‘Eh?’

  But, like breath in freezing air, the shape hung a moment longer and then was truly gone.

  Just after dawn they heard the braying of the hunting horns and started the long futile run for their lives.

  ‘They goin to ang me now?’ Tom asked when he’d finished his story. Straccan nodded. ‘Can I ave a priest, then, to shrive me? I don’t want to go to Ell like them poor buggers me lord anged in the greenwood, with no priest or nothin, and ave that spook naggin at me for ever.’

  Straccan waited and watched Tom hang. Thief or no, it seemed an ill thing to let the man die utterly alone, jeered and mocked by the crowd of honest — or at least not yet rumbled — tradespeople and burgesses who found such spectacles gratifying. A friendly face, if only one, might help. Luckily for Tom his neck snapped clean, with no struggling or strangling. When he was cut down Straccan promised the chaplain a shilling to ensure the thief’s body wasn’t slung in the town ditch with the rest of the castle’s refuse at the end of the day.

  He drew funds from the Templars, paid the chaplain and arranged for the beggar Pity Me’s release and reward. Then he returned to the keep to ask the constable’s permission to stay the night. Tomorrow he’d outfit himself again and get another horse. Where had Bane got to? He should have been back by now. What was happening at Shawl? Was Janiva all right? Was Gilla safe?

  Straccan still couldn’t go to Shawl; he had to go to the Hidden Valley. The young captain who’d stolen his horse hadn’t known what Zingiber was carrying. It was just possible that he still didn’t know, and that Breos had no idea the Banner was in the Hidden Valley.

  All these matters jostled for his attention, and all the while the words on the cup were running through his head like a repetitive tune.

  Cymbium Vulstani sum, I am Wulstan’s cup.

  What had the thief’s spook said? ‘It's got my name on it.’

  It couldn’t be! And yet it was certain that Tom couldn’t read and had no idea what the inscription meant. What else had he said? 'It was a gift from the kingl and then something about Harold Godwinsson.

 
Could it be Saint Wulstan’s cup?

  As Straccan climbed the winding stair he heard feet on the steps behind him, and his name called. He looked back. ‘Captain von Koln.’

  The young German’s unsmiling eyes looked up at him. ‘Sir Richard, you vill come vith me.’

  ‘Not just now.’

  ’Ja. Now.’ The captain’s sword was in his hand and its point at Straccan’s belly. ‘Chust go on up the steps to the constable’s chamber. Don’t try anything or I’ll run you through.’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Straccan demanded, continuing up the steps. ‘What do you want?’ He entered the room, von Koln at his heels. Cigony was there, looking grim.

  The captain shut the door. ‘Vere is Master Vace?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Breos murdered him.’

  ‘Did you find the Banner?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Were is it?’

  ‘I haven’t got it. I was ambushed on the way here. Breos’s men took it.’ It sounded worse every time and the German looked as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘His grace vill be displeased.’

  ‘You don’t see me laughing, do you? God’s name, man, put that sword away!’

  ‘I haf my orders, Sir Richard, you understand. You are under arrest.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘You haf betrayed the king’s trust. You are hand in mouth vith Breos.’

  ‘Glove,’ said Straccan automatically.

  Wat?’

  ‘Hand in glove. And I’m not.’

  The German brushed aside the correction. ‘You vanted Master Vace out of the vay so you could gif the relic to Breos. He had to be killed. And the so-called ambush vas arranged too, so you vould haf a vitness, the man Hafloc.’

  Straccan looked at the constable. Cigony’s usually cheerful face was resolute and cold.