The Devil's Cup

by Alys Clare

  Josse, his brother and his son turned as one back to the stream bank. The water was surging in now, no longer smooth, clear and sparkling, the colour of the sea, but brown, turbulent and cloudy, each powerful wave tipped with creamy foam.

  And, only a few short paces from safety, the overloaded cart that had been so closely guarded lay on its side. The high-piled contents were already disappearing under the water and, as Josse watched, the last of the stout restraining bands snapped with a loud twang. Three of the guards were attempting to rescue the crates, boxes and bags, ducking below the water for moments at a time but, again and again, coming up gasping for air and empty-handed. There was no sign of either the fourth man or the horses.

  Then one of the guards, who had splashed and blundered his way on to what appeared to be the sanctuary of a shallow sandbank not far from the middle of the stream, began to scream.

  ‘I’m being drawn under!’ he yelled, eyes wide and white with panic. ‘Help me! Fetch sticks, branches! Help me!’

  They did their best. Josse, Geoffroi and Yves linked arms and Josse tried to advance into the water. The desperate man’s companions did the same. Other men sought branches, but trees were rare on those watery margins between the sea and the land and there were none to be found.

  Still the tide roared inland. The water was deep now, and its increased volume had made the stream almost twice as wide. The men on the bank stood no chance of reaching the drowning man. He was struggling as if possessed, but they could see – in an awful, freak glimpse of a terrible sight they would much rather not have been shown – that he was rapidly sinking into the quicksand.

  And the water went on rising.

  They watched as it reached his chest. His throat. His chin. The dreadful pressure of the shifting sands that were sucking him down to his death was making his face swell, his eyes pop. The water, mixed with sloppy, choking, deadly sand, poured into his open, screaming mouth.

  His screams were cut off. He made a sort of snort through his nostrils, then his nose, too, was under water.

  The men who had known him looked away. One was muttering a prayer. One of them – not much more than a boy – was crying softly. Josse wanted to stop watching; wanted to turn his gaze on to anything but those awful, bulbous, agonized eyes.

  But the man had fixed his attention on to him. In a strange moment when he seemed to be outside himself, Josse thought he heard the dying man’s soul cry out to him. Stay with me till the end, it said.

  Josse stood perfectly still, eyes intent, not allowing himself to waver. The water and the sucking, relentless sand came up to the man’s lower eyelids, and he began a furious blinking. Then the eyes, too, were submerged. Then the forehead, then the head, hatless, hoodless, the longish hair floating on the surface like weed.

  The struggling stopped.

  The water rose higher.

  The man had vanished.

  A soft, moaning gasp broke out among the watching men. For what seemed a long time nobody spoke. Then a youthful voice said tentatively, ‘What do we do about the King’s baggage cart?’

  Somebody – an older man – said fiercely, ‘Fuck the King’s baggage cart.’

  It was an eloquent comment, Josse thought.

  But, all the same, someone was going to have to break the news to him.

  They caught up with King John. One of the senior officers told him what had happened. Instantly the King spun round, turning his horse back the way he had just come.

  ‘We must organize the recovery of my baggage,’ he shouted. ‘Straight away, before everything gets swept away. You, my guides, where have you got to?’ He stared round, eyes wild.

  The guides approached him.

  The elder one, an unreadable expression on his face, said, ‘It won’t do any good.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ shouted the King. ‘My treasures are stowed in wooden crates, carefully packed, and wood floats! It’s just a matter of time, but we need to be there, ready and waiting, when the crates bob up and reappear.’ The guide said nothing. His face purpling dangerously, the King yelled, ‘Get back to the stream!’

  But the guide bravely stood his ground. ‘Wood floats in water, aye, my lord King,’ he said calmly. ‘But we’re not talking about water. We’re talking about quicksand. The body of that poor man may reappear – it quite often happens – but the weight of your crates and boxes will work against them.’ Slowly he shook his head. ‘Your Grace has, I fear, seen the last of them.’

  King John threw his head back, opened his mouth widely and let out a great cry of anguish.

  Despite the guide’s warning words – which turned out to be quite right – the King commanded ten men to return to the stream and wait till the water fell again, whereupon they were instructed to do whatever they could to recover the lost baggage. It was as if, Josse reflected, watching John closely, he simply couldn’t accept that his treasures had gone for ever. Oh, my poor King, he thought with compassion. See the truth when it is presented to you, and give this up. Do not risk any more lives, for already men are muttering that this journey is cursed.

  He wished he could find the courage to speak the words aloud. But the King was in a strange mood: dark, angry, unpredictable. It was wisest, Josse had to conclude, to keep his distance. And keep his mouth shut.

  TWELVE

  Meggie and Faruq were hurrying to cover the long miles from March to Spalding. She was possessed now with such urgency that at first she refused utterly to stop and rest, and in the end Faruq had to take hold of Auban’s reins and physically bring him to a halt.

  ‘The horses are nearing the end of their strength, and so are we!’ he cried, his face creased in distress. ‘We have gone against our usual, cautious custom and ridden all the hours of this day, and our luck has held so far, for nobody has apprehended us or even questioned us. But we must not chance to luck any more!’ He paused. When she didn’t immediately leap in to yell at him that she didn’t care, that they had to go on, he added in a more reasonable tone, ‘The light will not last much longer. We are tired, bone-sore and hungry, or, at least, I am.’ She smiled slightly, for she was too. Seeing the smile, he grinned back. ‘So, what about making our camp on that rise over to the left, under the alder trees?’

  She nodded. He released his hold on the reins, and she led the way along a narrow little path, across a small brook flowing at the bottom of a ditch and up on to the low hill beside the track, and their night’s refuge.

  They watered the horses and hobbled them. They set out their bedrolls under the trees, in a shallow dip that would protect them if the wind got up. Meggie made a little fire and heated water for a restorative drink, and then they ate. The supplies were getting low: one more reason to hope they would meet up with the King’s party the next day.

  Meggie lay awake. She was warm, comfortable, no longer hungry or thirsty, and exhausted. But sleep wouldn’t come.

  Why not? She tried to think what was keeping her awake. She went through her plan for tomorrow, and still it seemed the best that she was going to come up with. It was more than likely that sickness, fever and injuries were afflicting the huge army of men travelling with the King, although she prayed that she wouldn’t find anything as frightening and dreadful as an outbreak of the camp fever she had mentioned to the soldier at March.

  Fever …

  With a smile, suddenly she knew what the dark, secret and ungovernable part of her mind had been trying to prompt her to do. Now that she knew, she was amazed she hadn’t realized straight away. She must, she reflected, be even more worn out than she’d thought.

  Trying to move softly and quietly – although to judge from Faruq’s snoring, he was deeply asleep – she reached under her blanket and put her hand inside her under-gown. There, inside the neat pocket she had sewn for it, was what she sought. She pulled it out, unwrapped the little piece of soft leather in which she habitually wrapped it and held it up to the light of the still-glowing fire.

  The Eye of Jerusalem was a s
apphire, the size of the top joint of a man’s thumb. It was set within a gold coin, whose edges had been carefully crimped so as to hold the jewel securely. It hung on a fine gold chain. When Meggie set it gently swinging, the brilliant blue lights that flashed from it had been known to hypnotize people. Some said it was enchantment.

  She allowed the focus of her eyes to go soft. She relaxed, breathing smoothly and deeply.

  Straight away, the images began to appear.

  She can see herself. She is bending over a sick patient: a bulky, restless figure lying on a bed. But he is in darkness and she can’t see who he is, can’t tell if he is known to her or not. But as she watches herself crouching beside him, she feels a sense of closeness. Of affection, perhaps even love.

  And then she believes she knows who this man is.

  Yes, it’s true, then. He is in danger. Deep under the spell of her vision, she recalls those fleeting images from Corfe Castle …

  There is shadow hanging round him, and she suspects he is near to death. Is she, then, too late?

  The thought is so painful that deliberately she makes herself concentrate on what sort of treatment she is administering. She has perhaps been using the Eye (there it is, hanging by its chain from her left wrist), so has she been making a fever-reducing potion? He is undoubtedly feverish, for she can feel the sweat on his skin, soaking his clothes and the sheets. Strangely, he doesn’t smell. But then he is, she knows, a fastidious man. She can see a drinking vessel on a small table in the corner of the room. She thinks at first it is a humble cup made of coarse clay, but then somewhere a door opens and a beam of light hits it. The cup seems to catch fire.

  With a start and a cry, for the image was so strange, Meggie snapped out of her trance. She kept very still, trying to recapture what she had just seen. The feverish man, dying, perhaps, the cup with flames racing round its rim …

  Then Faruq said sleepily, ‘What’s the matter? Did you hear something?’

  ‘No, all is well. Go back to sleep,’ she replied.

  She looked at him. He was lying back, relaxed and drowsy. ‘Is it nearly morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no.’ She wasn’t as sure as she had sounded, for she never knew, coming out of the trance state, how long it had held her. But, glancing into the east, she saw no sign of the soft illumination that said dawn was near.

  His gaze suddenly fixed on the Eye, still in her hand. Noticing, she wondered if she should have hidden it. But why? she thought. Why shouldn’t he know I have it?

  Then she realized, for the first time, that she trusted him.

  He said quietly, ‘What is that?’

  And so she told him.

  ‘It’s called the Eye of Jerusalem. It was given to my grandfather, my father’s father, Geoffroi d’Acquin. He was in Outremer, in the summer of 1148, where he was fighting in the Crusade. He had saved the life of a little boy who turned out to be the grandson of an important figure of the enemy camp, and the Eye was this man’s way of expressing his gratitude.’1

  She held it out to Faruq. He did not try to take it from her; he merely looked at it for several moments, then nodded.

  ‘Legend says that the Eye of Jerusalem has magical, healing properties,’ she went on. As both my grandfather and I could testify, she added silently. Josse’s stories about Geoffroi d’Acquin told how he had used his precious gift to save the lives of two companions, even as he made his slow way back home from Outremer, and Meggie herself had plenty of evidence that proved the Eye’s worth. ‘It is protector and friend to its rightful possessor,’ she continued, ‘keeping him safe from both known and secret enemies. It can be dipped in water to make a very efficient febrifuge, which will also stop bleeding. Also, it can be dipped in a cup proffered by a stranger to detect the presence of poison.’

  He was, she noticed, looking at her very oddly. She misread his expression.

  ‘This must sound quite unbelievable to you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Magic stones with healing powers, gifts from Turkish potentates to enemy knights, and—’

  He too was smiling. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said. ‘It is not its properties that astonish me so, but that you should have such a thing in your possession. I have heard tell of such jewels, you see, although not one that goes by this particular name. They are – well, they are not common, exactly, in the country of my birth, but they do exist.’ He smiled again. ‘Or so I am told, for, until this moment, in this far-distant land of cool rains and sudden sun, I had never seen one.’

  Time seemed to halt, as if she and Faruq had briefly stepped out of the normal, everyday world. Hardly daring to ask, she echoed in a whisper, ‘The country of your birth?’

  And softly he replied, ‘I come from the place you call Outremer.’

  11 October 1216

  In the morning, they set off for Spalding. They didn’t hurry, for they had only about eight or ten miles to go. They and their horses were rested, and the sun was shining.

  By late afternoon, they were on a good, wide and well-maintained road that approached the town from the south. They had been keeping up a good pace, but now, nearing the town, they encountered the tail end of a long baggage train, stretching ahead into the distance. Enormous wagons drawn by pairs of oxen struggled along at the rear, and ahead were horse-drawn wagons and mounted men. The train was well guarded, and Meggie recognized the device of the King on the pennants.

  With a private smile of satisfaction, she knew that she and Faruq had succeeded: they had caught up with the King.

  Although Faruq had maintained his policy of telling her virtually nothing, she no longer feared that he wished to harm King John. At some point during the days and nights of the journey, she seemed to have discovered that he was a good man.

  Would Faruq now take her into his confidence? They had come so far together, and, for her part, she had learned to trust him. It made sense if he could do the same for her; they were surely stronger working as a team.

  She glanced at his set face. He looked very young. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned. ‘Is this the King’s baggage train?’ he demanded. She nodded. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Come on, then.’ He spurred the black horse.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ She urged Auban to follow.

  ‘To find where the King is to lodge, of course!’ He looked surprised that she should have asked. ‘Then I’ve got to …’

  She thought for one moment that he really was about to tell her. But then, with an apologetic smile, he shut his mouth firmly and rode on.

  The procession of ox-carts, mounted men and hangers-on seemed endless. Meggie and Faruq found a vantage point from which to observe them filing slowly into the town, although so many other locals had had the same idea – and were already lining the approaches to watch, enlivening the proceedings by cheers, laughter and ribald remarks – that, as latecomers, they didn’t manage to get very close. Not close enough, really, to see faces clearly. Meggie, anxious to spot Josse, comforted herself with the knowledge that she would recognize Alfred even if she was too far away to distinguish his rider. Besides, Geoffroi and her uncle Yves were with him, and three big, broad men together ought to be unmistakable.

  Faruq must have picked up on her anxiety. He asked kindly, ‘Is anything the matter?’

  She flashed him a smile. ‘No, no. I’m sure there isn’t.’ He went on looking at her. ‘Well, I’m trying to spot my father.’

  He looked surprised. ‘And you think to find him riding with the King’s baggage train?’

  She hesitated. Suddenly it struck her as rather unfair that she was irritated with Faruq for not being open with her, when all this time she had kept back one or two quite vital facts from him.

  I felt last night, when he saw me with the Eye of Jerusalem, that I really could trust him, she reminded herself.

  She took a deep breath and said, ‘Well, in fact I do.’ And she told him about Josse’s long acquaintance with the King and his family; about how the King, badly needing loyal men a
t a time when his supporters changed into enemies and back again faster than a man could change his hose, had summoned a company of his oldest companions; how dear, loving Josse, so clearly touched by having been one of the ones singled out, hadn’t hesitated to hurry to the King’s side, taking his brother and his son with him.

  When she had finished, Faruq didn’t speak for some time. Then, somewhat to her surprise, he took hold of her hand and said, ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  She wondered if he was instantly going to try to make use of this new information. If he would suggest – demand – that, with the power of her father’s name, she should somehow clear a path straight to the heart of the King’s inner circle.

  He didn’t. Still holding her hand, he said instead, ‘This looks like the heavy baggage, which would have set off at first light in order to reach here before the King. He and his close group will undoubtedly be some distance away still.’

  It was kindly meant, for he was in effect saying, Don’t worry. She thought: I ought to have worked that out for myself. But, nevertheless, she was grateful to him. She gave his hand a squeeze, then released it.

  The last of the baggage train entered the town, and still the people waited. Time passed. More were flooding out now. As the townsmen and women finished their work for the day, they were hurrying out to line the road, bringing food and drink, turning the welcome into a party.

  And all to celebrate the arrival of the King.

  ‘He is popular here,’ Faruq said quietly to Meggie, echoing the direction of her thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed briefly.

  She didn’t want to talk. She was trying to reassure herself that there was nothing to worry about. That the King and his group had probably been late leaving wherever they had stayed last night: Lynn, she seemed to recall being told.