by Dan Davis
“Can it really be?” I asked, almost to myself.
“You shall see,” Antonius said, giggling. “Oh yes, you shall see when you drink from him that the Christ has come again in the form of William, the Angel of the Lord, the Destroyer.”
Adelard cleared his throat. “Should he not be slain for such blasphemy?” He could barely contain himself. “Calling this evil the Eucharist, lord? It offends God.”
“You swore you would not harm me if I spoke truth,” Antonius said, squirming away, full of fear.
“He should be slain,” I said to Adelard. “But not by us. I swore an oath.”
Adelard spat to show what he thought of that. And he was quite right but still I cut the ropes about Antonius” waist and ankles and, with Adelard’s sword at his back, he led us to a square cut into the bedrock in the corner of some ruined walls. It was the same size and shape as a grave. There was a slab beside it that Hugo must have pushed out of the way before climbing up to ambush us.
The black rectangle had rock-cut steps at the nearest edge leading down into darkness.
“It stinks,” Adelard said.
The air coming up from the hole reeked of death. I recognised the smell in the air, now, the smell I had detected as I had reached the head of the valley. It was the wet foulness of fresh blood, mixed with wood smoke. Fresh blood and the corruption of old death, too.
“What is waiting for us down there?” I asked Antonius while Adelard lit a torch.
“Death.”
Adelard stared at me, his eyes pits of inky blackness flickering with reflected yellow torch light. I felt as though I should tell him everything would be well and to trust in God but in truth I agreed with the priest. The stench of death was pouring out of from the entire hill. It stank of butchery and battlefields. My stomach churned again.
“There may be death down there,” I said, drawing that withered old creature so close to me I could smell the dried blood and stale piss on him. “But I shall bring even more.”
He grinned.
The three of us descended the steps into the depths of the mountain.
Chapter Nine - Cavern of Blood
Darkness. Our steps echoed on the stone underfoot through the long, narrow tunnel that led down into the hill.
Adelard’s torch gave off a hot light behind. He held it up close to the natural stone ceiling but still I trod into blackness with my shield raised and the point of my sword before me.
The air was smoky. That foul wind blew through the passageway, guttering the torch and carrying with it that stench of dank corruption.
My eyes played tricks with the darkness. I could see swirling shapes ahead that vanished. There were distant voices like whispers on the wind. Antonius” breath was loud behind me. Adelard’s laboured panting threatened to overwhelm any noise I might hear ahead. It was as though I could smell his fear and hear his heart clangouring against his ribs.
With every step I feared falling into a spike pit or stumbling into an ambush from the walls either side. Surely, I reasoned, they would have heard the fighting atop their lair? Surely, they would send men looking for Hugo and the others?
But William was up ahead. He had to be. And nothing was going to stop me. I was so close and all the hesitant shuffling forward seemed absurd.
I stopped and sheathed my sword.
“What is it?” Adelard hissed.
“Antonius goes first,” I whispered. “And if you know of anything waiting for us ahead, speak before we reach it or you shall die before I do.”
“I told you,” Antonius said, his voice echoing. “Only death waits for—”
I slapped the words from his mouth, span him round and pushed him before me down the tunnel. Adelard ran to catch up behind me. I hurried forward, pushing Antonius at close to a running pace, ready to drop to a knee and raise my shield at the first sign of danger.
It seemed that the tunnel went deeper, downhill, but I could not be certain. Every so often there was a whiff of cool night air from cracks in the rock or from other tunnels and shafts. We rounded bends and corners until I was utterly disoriented. I knew not what direction we walked. Nor how far we had gone. When we got further in I thought I saw doorways cut every so often passing beside me; black, cold yawning maws with no life down them.
Soon there were voices, growing louder. The smell of smoke and death was stronger and Antonius slowed.
Light ahead. Flickering lamp light on the wall of the tunnel.
I suppose I should have waited. I should have crept forward, taken my time to assess and devised a plan with Adelard. But I was certain William was close. And I was so filled with rage that I shoved Antonius onward toward it ever faster.
The tunnel ended in a sharp turn to the left and there was an arched entranceway hewn into the bedrock. Beyond was a huge cavern where the lamp light spilled from. I dragged Antonius to a halt and peeked a little way in.
The cavern was lined with ancient wooden beams and planks around the edges, presumably for holding back rock falls. The ceiling above was lost in darkness. I stepped forward toward the opening and saw deeper inside. It was as long as the nave of Acre’s cathedral church.
“Lord,” Adelard said behind me, caution in his voice.
“Watch the priest,” I said to him.
Hefting my shield and readying my sword, I strode into the huge space. And froze.
The stench hit me first. A thick, cloying taste of blood on the air; like a battlefield. Like Ashbury manor house, like my own hall, after William.
The far end of the cavern was lit up by a roaring fire in a brazier. The bonfire was at waist height, blazing upon a vast iron bowl, supported by three legs.
Men moved down there at the far end of the cavern before the fire. Many stripped to the waist or naked. Some carried fuel for the fire, others heaved bodies around a large stone cistern in the centre of the floor. More stood and watched. Chains hung down from the ceiling, clicking against each other. One of the chains ended in a terribly long hook of the sort used to hang meat or a cauldron over a fire. The floor shone with fresh blood.
The light threw everyone into half silhouette. The long space between me and them was in shadow.
A man stirred to one side down by my feet.
He had been laying by the door in the shadow. There was a lamp on an alcove above him and from the corner of my eye I saw him jump into wakefulness. As a cry of warning began in his chest I ran him through, pushing the point through his ribs and into his heart. He stared at me, astonished and offended and in utter disbelief. A poor excuse for a guard.
“Sweet suffering Christ,” Adelard muttered at my shoulder, staring down the cavern.
I turned back. My feet rooted as one man dragged a struggling figure from somewhere behind the brazier. He dragged them toward the big cistern.
They came into the light from the fire. The man was Hugh of Havering. The struggling figure was a woman. She was naked, old, begging and sobbing.
Hugh fought her, struck her senseless, got his hands on her hips and heaved her up onto the hooked chain. She writhed and groaned and tried to pry his hands from her. The huge hook pierced her back. She screamed once but the weight of her body bore her down and punched the spike through to burst from her chest and she was silent.
Another man pulled the other end of the chain from by the wall and she lifted higher up, her feet raised above head height. Blood welled out of her, ran down her skin and gushed from her toes into the cistern below her, spattering all around it. The fountain of blood was lit from behind by the fire. The woman jerked around like a fish on a line and the man who had hung her upon it reached up and tugged her down, hard. The hook sunk deeper inside her chest cavity with an audible crunch and she stopped moving again. The blood kept coming.
“Bring another one.” The familiar, dreaded voice echoed around the cavern. “One of the children, I think. I can wait no longer.”
William.
I had heard him but could not see him
down there. But knowing he was there was enough for the rage to fill me.
Before I had left Jaffa for Acre I had stopped at Alice’s tomb. I had begged her forgiveness and promised her justice for her and for her sweet children. Another oath that was no more than meaningless words unless it was fulfilled. I remembered her eyes fixed upon mine as William had sunk his teeth into her neck.
It was only when I was halfway across the cavern that I realised I was charging the men.
I had my sword in hand, my shield up before me. My own breathing in my ears, my hauberk jangling and my footsteps slapping on the ground.
God be with me, I prayed.
There were warning cries as I burst into the fire light by the cistern. A filthy man beside me leapt up in panic and tried to run away but I speared my sword through his neck and bore him down under me.
William’s men, the murderers in that cavern of blood were not armoured and most held no weapon. And yet many of them came right at me, full of mad fury and seemed ready and willing to tear me apart with their bare hands.
My sword slashed left and right and I kept moving and slamming men with my shield and stabbing them. Few were killing strokes but their naked skin split to the bone from strokes that mail would have turned away. My sword was like lightning, leaping from the flesh of one man into another. One or two men ducked through a doorway but I knew not where they went.
They were not fast. They were not lightning quick as the men up top had been. And I was faster than I had ever been and filled with a mad fury of my own.
Men collapsed, screaming, all around me and survivors laying upon the blood-soaked floor would not be long for the world. I edged through them, moving deeper in, heading towards the fire.
When I reached the cistern I stopped. The woman’s body swung back and forth above, blood still trickling down her skin from the hook wound to drip and run from her toes.
I saw William.
There, finally. Standing to one side and behind the raised brazier where he was hidden in its glare. He was smiling.
More of his men came toward me. These ones had grabbed their weapons from that that side room and were coming to kill me. A couple of them had banged a helmet onto their head but otherwise were also unarmoured. Swords, maces and spears swung and stabbed at me. Blows struck me in the shoulder and the leg and they were powerful but I kept moving around the cistern, back and forth. A man tried to trip me with his spear but I trod on it and stabbed through his loins in the same movement. A crossbow clanked and the bolt bounced from my shield to my helmet and then I killed the man who had shot from one knee.
I killed them all until just a handful remained. Those men did not rush in. There were six of them and they spread out slowly around me.
One was Hugh of Havering, William’s right hand man. Another was Roger of Tyre. These were men I wanted to kill. But not as much as I wanted to eviscerate their lord.
“Fight me yourself,” I shouted at William.
He smiled and shook his head, as if I had invited him to share a cup of ale at the village fair.
“Coward,” I shouted.
William laughed. “I feared you would never come.”
His men kept circling; two of them moving behind me. One of them, a great bearded lump of a Saracen hefted a huge two handed axe. Hugh and Roger stayed between me and William.
“Nothing could keep me from killing you,” I said.
He tilted his head. “Not even your own death, Richard?”
He nodded to his men and they charged in all together.
There is no way to defend yourself against six skilled, armed men. It is impossible.
So I attacked.
I twisted from William, from Hugh and Roger and ran at the axeman behind me. His blade crashed through my shield from the top, sending a great chunk flying and chopping down to my forearm. The impact almost broke my arm but I threw my shield wide which yanked the axe from his hands and I smashed my blade into his face as I ran by him.
The edge of my blade was dented and bent by the earlier fighting. But even a blunt sword can smash a man’s brains out if you swing it hard enough.
The next man, another Saracen, retreated from me, sensibly drawing toward the tunnel so that I would have my back to the other men.
But then Adelard was there. He cut down across the back of the Saracen. Then he impaled through the kidney the other man on that side of the cistern. The man jerked away, tearing Adelard’s sword from his grasp. Adelard threw himself back from the mace that came at him. He ducked and dodged away.
Three of them left, not counting William.
I glanced over at William. He had his eyes closed and his head tilted back as if in prayer. The brazier fire blazed next to him so his face was flickering yellow and deep shadow. I had killed almost every one of his men and yet still William did not fight me.
There was movement a little way behind him against the far wall and for a moment I feared dozens of more men were waiting to attack. But then I saw that behind the fire was not the wall but a stockade. Arms stuck through upright wooden beams, joined by crosswise planks. Hands grasped. In the gaps between I saw faces.
It was full of people.
The people of the valley along with the survivors of William’s raids.
Hugh of Havering came at me, with Roger of Tyre approaching and ready to fight with him. I felt the rage boil over and I hacked down into them one after the other, driving them down. I slipped in the blood and a sword point nicked my cheek.
I recovered but fell back. Blows rained onto my shield from both men. They moved with the same speed and ferocity as the Saracen and Hugo had upon the watchtower ruin. Their blows splintered my shield into tatters so I shook off the strap and flung it away
I blocked with my sword, trying to squirm and back off. It was hard to breathe and I was shaking. An unseen blow from Hugh or Roger got through and clanged against my helmet so hard I was sure my skull was caved in. But the good steel saved me and when my vision cleared I struck out with my foot and felt it connect with a knee or ankle. Roger fell and Hugh covered him until he got up and both backed away from the scything of my sword.
Adelard was retreating from the attack of the third man, a great bear of a fellow, and I staggered toward him.
William finally drew his sword. His face twisted in rage as he came for me. He positioned himself to cut me off from Adelard. My man got knocked from his feet, smashed down by a brutal blow from the bear knight. The bear knight raised up his mace for a blow that would crush Adelard’s dazzled brain. The cistern was between me and Adelard. Hugh and Roger blocked one way around it. William walked forward, blocking the other.
In the centre of the room the dead woman spun on the chain, suspended over the wide cistern of blood. I ran toward it, slipping but I jumped up, got a foot on the edge of the cistern and leapt for the woman. I grabbed her ankle with my shield hand. It was slippery with blood. I held on and swung myself over the cistern and landed with a crash against the man with the raised mace. We both fell. But I was on top. I got the edge of my blade across his throat and sawed back and forth, leaning into it with both hands and his blood frothed and spurted under the edge of the blade.
My breath rattled as I stood. Adelard hauled himself up beside me. We faced William and his two remaining men, Roger of Tyre and Hugh of Havering. The three of them standing together. But Adelard was puffing, exhausted and outclassed. I was at the limit of my endurance.
The three of them looked strong. They were fresh. I thought I understood why William had held himself back from the fighting. Around us came the groans of the dying.
“Why?” I asked William, hoping for a few moments with which to catch my breath. I looked at the lumpy, congealed blood in the cistern. It splashed underfoot across the floor. There were piles of fresh bodies against the far wall. The cistern held gallons of it. How many innocents had his men drained to make so much?
“At least tell me why this? What did these people do
to you?”
“Why? Why, Richard? Blood is life,” William sheathed his blade. He strode to the cistern, grabbed the edge. He plunged his face into that congealing mass. He gulped down mouthfuls and straightened again, swiping away lumpy strings of blood clots. William grinned a red smile.
“By this blood do I live. And by my blood my men gain a glimmer of my strength, my invulnerability. The Christ himself told us that unless you eat the flesh of the Christ and drink his blood, you do not have life within you. Whoever eats my body and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him. Are his words unclear, Richard?”
William slashed a tiny blade across the inside of his wrist and blood flowed and William offered out the wound out. Hugh of Havering bent over and sunk his mouth onto the wound and drank it down, suckling the blood. I could hear the fevered gulping. He stopped and smacked his lips, grinning.
A smile spread across William’s face. “And thus do we carry out God’s divine will. What is the life of some peasant compared to taking this Blessed Sacrament?” Roger of Tyre bent to William’s wrist and drank too.
“Sacrament?” I felt the rage returning. I glanced at the stockade beyond the fire where the prisoners were whimpering. “You are mad. And you have spread your madness to these other men.” Bodies still writhed and groaned all across the floor. Men I had slain in pursuit of my personal justice.
“Madness?” William laughed, echoing from the walls. “Was it madness that brought me back from the dead at Hattin? Was it madness that made me drink the blood from the bodies piled upon me? It was a sign from God, there can be no doubt. I died but I was reborn.”
I scoffed, even though I was almost convinced. “You were injured and you survived. The same has happened to me. Because of you, I died and they were going to bury me but I awoke and here I stand, ready to strike you down. I drank no blood to make it so. God gave you nothing. Your blood is not special.”
William’s smile faltered for a moment. He gestured to Hugh of Havering. “All men who take my Eucharist grow strong. If a man is injured a few drops heal his wounds. I take in the blood of women and children and within this holy vessel it is transformed into the blood of Christ. I do God’s work.”