The Edge of the Blade

by The Edge of the Blade (retail) (epub)

  Enrique hefted Monzón’s gift to the Order, the decorated casket.

  He seemed anxious to speak to Falkan, though hesitated to do so with the bodyguards there to listen. Then, in a single, oblique remark, he said, ‘There are more traps to be avoided than those in the tunnels.’ Falkan looked at him, heard the slam of a door, turned to see the comendador mayor emerge from his chamber and make his way to a dais, the man seating himself in what would elsewhere have passed for a throne of princes, of kings.

  An arid voice, devoid of warmth or welcome said, ‘Approach and declare yourselves. And explain why your business cannot be dealt with by my servitors.’

  Falkan heard Enrique clear his throat. Heard him scuff his feet on the darkened tiles. Heard him smother a cough, suck the smoked air of the hall into his chest. He’s terrified, Falkan decided. What he said just now – he fears the Master might spring a trap to prevent his release.

  The toneless voice arrested his thoughts. ‘You are close enough. Stand where you are. And you, de Vaca. Speak out.’

  ‘Grand Master… Diaz de Quintana… I’d report the events of our journey to Compostella…’

  ‘It seems you have to be instructed more than once,’ the Master grated. ‘Reports are made to my servitors.’

  ‘Yes… Yes, but there’s more. Doña Amata, Condesa de Monzón has charged me to bring you this, a gift for the Order.’

  ‘Generous, beyond doubt,’ the voice droned. ‘But it’s not the first time Santiago’s been thanked with jewels or – what is that, a casket? Give it to one of my guards, de Vaca. And now you may withdraw.’ ‘There’s more. Two of the escort were killed in an ambush—’

  ‘You press my patience, de Vaca. Prayers will be offered—’

  Dogged now, convinced he had nothing to lose, the young Spaniard said again, ‘There is more. The last few days of our journey to Monzón… We were aided by three Englishmen… This one here, Lord Baynard Falkan of Tremellion, he and his companions. He merits our gratitude, Master. And that is not a thing done by servitors.’

  Diaz de Quintana hunched forward, peering through the smoke and shadows of the hall. Baynard could see him now; a cowled figure, cadaverous face, the skin of his jaw sunk against the bone, his all but fleshless nose pinched to a beak. More monastic than military, the comendador mayor extended a long-sleeved arm, a skeletal finger beckoning the foreigner to approach.

  I know how de Vaca feels, Falkan acknowledged. This creature’s enough to make a statue run in fright. He found that he, too, was clearing his throat, sucking air into his chest. But he went forward without hesitation, drawn by Diaz de Quintana’s hooded gaze.

  ‘I am conversant with your language, Tremellion, impure though it is. It is not to de Vaca’s credit that you were allowed in here, nor that he should need the help of foreigners on his mission. He has chosen to embarrass me, demanding I thank you in person. Very well. You have the thanks of the Grand Master of the Catalonian stronghold of the Knights of St James of the Sword, known also as the Knights of Santiago. I trust that’s enough to satisfy you, Tremellion.’

  Falkan stared back at the man, aware the bodyguards had withdrawn to the edge of the dais. He sensed Enrique beside him, Arias and the other two knights close behind. Then he thought to himself, all this way in, be a shame to waste the visit, and let his voice ring low around the walls of the half-buried chamber.

  ‘For myself, de Quintana, the grudging insincerity of your thanks is enough – to make me think I’d been stung by a scorpion. But before you dismiss us from this squat and colourless nest – there is more.’

  * * *

  The arrogance of his words sent the bodyguards’ hands to their swords. Diaz de Quintana came silently to his feet, his monkish robes swirling, so it seemed, around a shadowed framework of bones.

  ‘You seek me out, the two of you, disobedient to the running of this Order; dare to waste my time, insult my office, then tell me again – there is morel’

  Falkan snapped back at him, drowning the Master’s gravelled tone. ‘Sunk in your chamber, even in this hall, this dismal mine of a fortress, you suppose yourself to be powerful, de Quintana—’

  ‘You will call me Master! Grand Master! I am the—’

  ‘What you are, de Quintana, is buried alive in the tunnels of your own design. But the world does not know or care what happens in this cleverly planned warren. Continue to defend the pilgrims on their way to Compostella, yes, that, but don’t imagine the route from England to the East need ever pass the lapped sheets of your doorway, unless by choice. I said there’s more, and it’s this. I wish you to release the courageous and honourable Enrique de Vaca from his duties, so he may ride with us to the defence of the Holy Land, and in the name of Santiago.’

  Tension pressed against the walls of the vaulted chamber. No one spoke, the bodyguards glaring at Falkan, listening for their Master’s enraged command.

  Yet when he spoke, his arid tone seemed reasonable, his words measured, weighted with thought. ‘In view of this casket – valuable to the Order – I see nothing to prevent de Vaca employing his undoubted skills abroad. For the glory of Christendom, and Spain.’ Then he added quickly – too quickly for the Englishman to unravel – ‘But not in the name of Santiago, not that. If he goes, he goes naked. Strip him of his armour.’

  The bodyguards moved to take him, Diaz de Quintana allowing his sickly teeth to show.

  Falkan sensed movement around him, prayed he’d not mistaken Arias and the others, determined he’d not be skewered like some twitching rabbit. He drew his sword, heard the slide of metal on leather, glanced to see the Spaniards he’d been with out there on the plain – see them closing to protect Enrique, their weapons a match for the guards…

  Enrique de Vaca used his free hand to snatch something from his belt. ‘You have no call to see me stripped, Comendador Mayor. I’ve never run from conflict, nor ever will. But take this, as purchase of my release.’ Then he tossed his purse of coins at the Master’s feet.

  As did Arias de Barragan – ‘To see de Vaca safely on his way.’

  As did the other two knights, their purses chinking, the coins trapped by the leather.

  Then Falkan himself ripped Doña Amata’s pouch from his waist, held it for the Master to see, and moved against the bristling blades of his guards. ‘Attempt to have de Vaca stripped, and there’ll be blood spilled in this chamber. We are all of us armoured here, de Quintana, so you know what a long and grisly fight it’ll be. For my part, just a visitor. But for you, all of you, a skirmish between brothers. A disgrace to the name of Santiago. A stain that will spread for years across the name of Diaz de Quintana.

  ‘So I ask you, Comendador Mayor. Ignoring the rest, will you allow me to purchase the release of Enrique de Vaca, tested Knight of the Order of Santiago? And be honoured by his company in pursuit of the Christian Cause?’

  Aware that if the skeleton was to save his bony face, Falkan had no choice but to back his words. He extended his lean, gloved hand, offering his own purse of coins.

  Diaz de Quintana plucked it from his grasp. He said nothing about the casket, the other four sacks of coins on the platform, the knights who had moved to defend Enrique de Vaca. His feelings barely concealed, he told Falkan, ‘Your generosity becomes you, Tremellion. I have always held de Vaca in high regard.’

  ‘It was never doubted,’ Baynard lied. ‘You conduct yourself as a true Master of the Order, Señor Diaz de Quintana.’

  ‘You will stay for some wine, Lord Falkan?’

  ‘Kindness on kindness, Comendador Mayor. But the hour presses.’

  ‘In truth,’ the man told him, his mouth winched to a smile. ‘And our time on earth so brief. Be it here, or in the deserts of the East.’ Then he turned abruptly and, as if by accident, let Falkan’s purse fall to the dais.

  No one moved until the small side door was slammed shut. Then the bodyguards sheathed their swords and sighed with relief, desiring to be friends again with Arias de Barragan and the
others. Enrique bade farewell to those who’d helped escort the pilgrims to Compostella. Falkan said, ‘Perhaps one day in the future, señores,’ and extended his hand to Enrique’s loyal companions.

  They retraced their steps, Santiago and Tremellion, through the passageways and across the blinding yard and down past the unsprung traps of the tunnels. Along and around and out through the entranceway, where Guthric and Quillon were tossing pebbles across the path, to see who could pitch his stone nearest the wall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By late afternoon the riders had reached the hills above Tarragona. The port spread below them, the bay to the south dotted with Crusader vessels, supply craft, a variety of fishing boats, a score of Spanish traders. They could see a heavily laden raft being towed sluggishly through the water by a fan of slender rowboats. Lines of men coiled down from the beach, passing kegs and bundles through the listless surf and out to the waiting dinghies. The beach itself was an ill-planted forest of tents and shelters, pennants flying like single leaves from an array of sun-parched saplings. England was there. And France. Germans from the Holy Roman Empire. Along with these were the gonfalons of Flanders and Scandinavia, other nations as far apart as the Kingdoms of Poland and Portugal.

  A babel of languages drifted up from the camp. That, and the unifying feature of any military assembly – the stench.

  Turning in his saddle, Falkan pointed to a stretch of dunes inland of the beach. ‘Guthric. You and the safeguard find us a place along there. I’ll go with Señor de Vaca and secure passage on one of the ships. Take charge of the horses, and for God’s sake keep close to the money.’

  The constable nodded, then scanned the dunes, waiting for the knights to dismount. Above that line of sawgrass, he decided. High enough so the wind might save us from the stink. It was a vain hope, but better than the noisome odour that arose from the shoreline.

  Leaving Guthric and Quillon to lead the palfreys along the wind-piled ridge of sand, Baynard and Enrique descended the track, now surfaced with cobbles, to the overcrowded township of Tarragona.

  * * *

  They were directed to a crude plank shed at the landward end of the quay. Sailors, soldiers and civilians loitered in their path, backing away as they recognized the black-and-white garb of a Knight of St James of the Sword.

  Nevertheless, it was Falkan who addressed the Passage Master, a truculent-sounding Englishman who was clearly half-drugged with power, half-drunk on the local wine.

  He straightened somewhat in the presence of the knights, then gazed blearily as Falkan told him he had need of four berths aboard one of the Crusader ships bound for Marseilles. ‘And with stalls for our horses. On a vessel that skips along.’

  ‘Wish I could ’elp you, my lord, in truth I do. But the thing of it is, what with ships bein’ wrecked all around the coast, the ones we’ve got ’ere are filled to the point of sinkin’. ’Mongst all those men on the beach – you seen ’em? – well, there’s close on a ’undred what’ll ’ave to bide their time till—’

  ‘Check your lists again,’ Falkan suggested. ‘And here. Use these to stop the papers blowing away.’

  The coins were snatched from the wide, barrel-propped counter. Valued at a glance – the man not so drunk after all, so it seemed – and he turned away, muttering that now he came to think of it… storing up trouble for himself… but maybe he could squeeze them aboard, there being just them and their mounts… a sturdy ship out of Romney… the Gros Ventre.

  Falkan glanced at Enrique de Vaca, both men shrugging. The Gros Ventre? The Big Belly? Scarcely the name for a vessel that skipped along. But could it be any worse, Falkan thought, than Captain Gregorius Bigorre’s bucket, the wryly-named Gossamer? And with a hundred men stranded on the beach, did the knights have much choice?

  Aware he’d been cheated, and that he himself was guilty of bribery, Baynard snapped at the Passage Master, ‘Spare us your moans.’ The muttering stopped and the man returned, offering a handful of coloured wooden spills.

  ‘The reds are for you, my lords, green for the horses. Passage an’ food for everyone, far as Mares Eye. But I’ll need the names. Regulations.’ His furred tongue protruded as he added to his list in a faulty, unjoined hand. Baynard Falkan, of Tremellion; Guthric, Constable of Tremellion; Quillon, Safeguard of Tremellion…

  At which point – though a moment too soon – one of the loitering crowd retreated through the throng, quickened his pace, broke into a trot and went running to tell what he’d heard.

  * * *

  They learned the Gros Ventre would sail with the morning tide. They should be at the far end of the quay by first light. Captain Burywell would see them snug aboard.

  I very much doubt it, Falkan thought. We’ll be lucky if there’s space in which to stretch out. But at least we might get to Marseilles in time to join the main Crusader fleet. In time, God willing, to deliver my father’s treasure to King Richard.

  No matter the inconvenience or hardship, Baynard Falkan was determined to see the sixty pounds weight of gold coins tipped safe into the Christian coffers. That done, he believed, Sir Geoffrey would find eternal peace in the sanctity of Heaven.

  Meanwhile, the knights had other, more mundane tasks to fulfil. With Guthric and Quillon encamped among the dunes at the far end of the beach, it was left to Enrique and Baynard to buy food and wine, nourishment for the horses, a four-gallon flagon of water, all of which they’d see carried back to the camp. But before they rejoined the Saxon and the safeguard, they settled themselves at a table in one of the posadas, each eager to learn all he could about the other.

  They were more or less the same age, Baynard the taller, Enrique more muscular, and probably the stronger in a fight. In one other thing at least they were alike, for de Vaca’s dark skin was matched by Tremellion’s, the son of Spanish parents sharing the same pigmentation as the son of the Greek noblewoman Elena, found and wooed by Sir Geoffrey on the Aegean island of Khios.

  In other things they were different, very different, the Spaniard quick to boil, the Englishman waiting longer, simmering slow. Courage meant much to both of them, everything to Enrique, for courage and honour were intertwined, inseparable, the breath and heartbeat of his being.

  He would never, Baynard thought, rein in for fear of an ambush, or turn off the path and skirt wide of a would-be trap. I admire him for his touchy, brazen ways, this Knight of Santiago, and there may come the time when he’ll have to push me on. Pray God he won’t, but we’ll see.

  De Vaca’s view of things was different, very different, thinking the Englishman calmer, more steady in a crisis, where he himself would have struck, and gone down striking. Courage was their mutual lodestone, though somehow Halcón balanced things better. Enrique could imagine being snatched by the hem of his hauberk, arrested against his will, Baynard hissing that now was not the time. He hoped it would never happen, though suspected it might.

  The Spaniard then said, ‘Indiscreet of me perhaps, amigo mio, but I sensed what you were saying to Señor Guthric, before we descended to the town. You never move far from those saddlebags, you and your companions.’ He left the question unasked, the explanation to be offered if Halcón wished.

  Drinking the good dark wine his friend had ordered, Falkan knew if there was to be openness between them he must answer fully, without hesitation.

  He recounted the story of Tremellion. The ambush in the forest near Launceston; the death of his father, murdered by unseen archers; the culpability of Ranulf; the events at the mill of Tresset and then, concealing nothing, a description of the contents of the six leather bags.

  ‘And you brought these all the way from England? Overland from Zarueza, Señor Halcón?’

  ‘I hear things better as Falkan. Or Baynard, Señor de Vaca.’

  ‘And I as Enrique.’

  A shared expression, and the young men reached across the table, their hands clasped in a firm, dry grip. Then they eased back in their chairs, friendship confirmed, yet the bond f
ar more real than just the casual amity of travellers.

  The handshake assured the Spaniard of Guthric’s loyalty. Quillon’s too, even though the leonine poacher was a world away from the Knight of St James of the Sword. But he knew that, as he now trusted Falkan, he could rely upon the jaunty young safeguard and the scar-sealed Constable of Tremellion.

  And they, in turn, upon Enrique de Vaca.

  * * *

  Some time later, the Spaniard caught sight of a friend of a distant cousin of his sister’s husband – too complicated for Baynard to follow – and made his way from the table. As he crossed the posada its occupants saluted him, the men bowing in acknowledgement of his presence. It reassured them to see this guardian of Santiago, in town from the encomienda.

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I’m mistaken, but are you not Lord Falkan of Tremellion? I heard the name bruited about the port. Mine’s Roger Grevel. Got a seigneurie in Suffolk. All these poxied foreigners about, it’s a pleasure to meet a fellow countryman.’

  Falkan raised his eyes to see a face he recognized, thought he recognized, then told himself no, though he’s not unlike – but who? The name Grevel meant nothing to him. He knew no one from the eastern county of Suffolk. Dismissing the imagined resemblance, he nodded at his compeer. ‘I am who you say, Lord Grevel. But as for my name being bandied around the port—’

  Grevel shrugged. ‘Heard it out there on the quay. Assumed you’d just arrived in Tarragona, and thought to offer my greetings.’ He glanced at the chair Enrique had vacated.

  ‘I pray you be seated, Lord Grevel.’ Clapping his hands sharply to summon the posadero, he ordered another squat stone jar of the local wine. The man brought it quickly, together with a fresh tray of salted fish, olives and sour pickled walnuts. It pleased him to have men of standing in his hostelry, no matter if they were foreign. They gave the place a certain attraction, and they paid their bills without protest. If the Crusader vessels continued to heave up the coast to Tarragona, he’d find a new name for the inn. Maybe the Posada de los Cruzados.