The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

  She shivers. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  Mattiolas is waking. Beside him, Serafina stirs, too. Fewer than a dozen other pilgrims remain. Their clothes are reduced to rags. I stand and help Suzan to her feet. ‘There’s hardly anyone left.’

  Suzan gazes around the small group of waking pilgrims. ‘I think everyone here was either in the square, or I called their name while I played.’

  My mind flashes back to my most recent memories. I recall demons and pilgrim cannibals. And I remember Thanatos advising Suzan to use her santur.

  ‘My santur called close those whose names I played and made them share our sleep.’ She blinks, working this out at the same time as me. ‘And it let the others wake and leave.’

  ‘Thanatos planned this!’ I say.

  Sir Bottiglio sits up, looking dazed. ‘This is very irregular. We need to find the Princes.’

  Suzan

  Luca and I walk from the town square to the nearest gate. A few other pilgrims follow. The field outside is empty, most tents removed.

  ‘There’s dust over the campfires,’ Luca notices. ‘And no sign of footprints. The others have been gone a long time.’

  I’m filled with guilt and regret. ‘I shouldn’t have trusted Thanatos.’

  Luca takes my hand. ‘You had no choice.’

  Maybe that’s true. I walk closer. ‘Only our tents are left.’

  I have my pouch strapped to my back, but Luca is missing the bag he uses to carry his book. He stoops, entering his tent, and comes out a moment later, the book’s bag over one shoulder and relief on his face. He peers along the road leading south from Maarrat to Jerusalem—the direction the other pilgrims must have gone.

  I imagine the thousands of them walking away from Maarrat, with the fixed expressions and unblinking eyes of a ghost army.

  Peter Bartholomew is particularly outraged. ‘It’s Satan’s trick to keep me from the truth,’ he insists. ‘God will punish those Princes for abandoning me here.’

  ‘The horses!’ I remember, horrified. They’ll have needed food and water. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They were safe,’ Luca reminds me. ‘In a field with a pond. We’ll go check on them now.’

  ‘You do that, Luca. People here need food. I’ll use my bow.’

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  My bow performs its magic. Soon, I have a clutch of hares cooking in a large pot that Serafina found in an abandoned farmhouse near our camp. I’m turning from one of those pots when a sudden movement startles me.

  A set of sharp, wizened fingers wrap themselves around my upper arm.

  I spin, staring at a very old woman. Her skin looks like crinkled vellum. She opens her mouth, revealing oozing, diseased gums.

  ‘You did this to me.’

  Luca

  Orestes is safe in the field where I left him. But his mane is matted and he looks fatter, his flanks less muscular, than I remember. This much alteration can’t have happened over a single night…Just how long were we asleep? I’m patting him when Suzan’s scream splits the air.

  I race back to the campsite.

  An old woman is poking at her. Suzan’s face, the un-sunburned side, is white with fear.

  ‘I heard you playing!’ the old woman hisses. ‘I remember. You made us sleep, for too long! You’re evil.’

  I try to calm the old woman. ‘Suzan found you food!’

  The woman doesn’t want to be calmed. As Suzan steps away from the cooking pot, the woman follows. ‘You’re a spell-maker! You’re in league with the Devil! You’re a witch!’

  ‘She helped us!’ Mattiolas’s voice roars out from nearby. He approaches, waving his hands. The old woman scuttles away.

  Too tired and hungry for anything else, we sit and eat. Eventually, the old woman joins us. She’s still suspicious, but she’s also hungry. She eats, without once taking her eyes off Suzan.

  Afterwards, Suzan and I pore over the book for clues about what’s happened. An image gets my attention.

  ‘Go back a bit,’ I say. ‘There’s something I want to see.’

  She turns back a few pages. And there it is. The design I remember from Ramberti’s medallion. ‘What’s this?’ I ask Suzan.

  ‘The book says it’s the Seal of Solomon.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  Suzan frowns as she reads. ‘It gives the man who wears it the power to bind demons,’ she says. ‘But only temporarily.’

  ‘So that’s how Ramberti influences Thanatos.’

  ‘He’s dead, Luca,’ Suzan reminds me gently. ‘Rest now. Forget this for a while. We need to work out what to do now. It could take a while to catch up with the others.’

  Unbelievably, I need more sleep.

  The stars have come out when I wake again, to the sounds of arguments and sobbing around the campsite.

  ‘St Andrew!’ Peter Bartholomew yells. ‘St Andrew and the fallen! A ghost army! In the sky!’

  I leap to my feet.

  To our south, the horizon brightens with hundreds of demons. They glow with a strange white fire. Some shapeshift, twisting and turning and taking on the forms of Christian knights. It’s an extraordinary show. I follow Suzan as she runs towards the apparitions.

  Mattiolas also runs, open mouthed. Some new trickery allows demons to be visible to other pilgrims as well. ‘See there! St George! St Andrew! Adhemar himself!’

  In the sky, demons give off a sheen like stars as they put on a silent, phantom show. Pilgrims cry that they see the ghosts of loved ones. Demons take turns fighting, swinging from the ground and flinging themselves high in the air. They mime battle scenes and death by combat on foot and on flying horses, before their relics pull them down again. It’s a staggering display of their increasing power that goes on and on, lasting most of the night.

  Finally, the demons shrink and fade, and the world goes dark. Exhausted, the pilgrims go to sleep.

  By matins, Peter Bartholomew is ranting again.

  ‘God is angry with disbelievers! The Antioch lance is real! We get rid of ghosts by killing everyone who denies it!’

  People are listening to him. In the campground, their crazed faces turn up to Peter like a posy of diseased flowers. Even Serafina has joined them.

  ‘We have the Holy Lance!’ Peter shouts. ‘God is with us! We’ll punish the others for leaving us!’

  Mattiolas nods furiously.

  ‘You can’t believe him!’ Suzan says. ‘You can’t listen, Mattiolas. He’s suggesting murder!’

  ‘No, Suzan. We are freeing the earth.’ Mattiolas walks off to join the small group around Peter.

  ‘I’ll prove the lance is real!’ Peter raises his hands as if to embrace the rising sun. ‘God uses it to protect me! To protect all true believers! God commands me! That’s why we were held behind. So this mission would be made clear to us! When we meet up with the others, we know what we have to do.’

  I tap the shoulder of a nearby knight. ‘He’s asking for murder! Of our brother and sister pilgrims! You can’t want that!’

  The eyes he turns to me are blank, like he’s lost his soul already.

  The others turn and stare at us.

  ‘We aren’t your enemies!’ I shout. ‘Last night, Suzan fed you all!’

  ‘Don’t listen to Satan’s temptations!’ cries Peter. ‘You all know last night was too short and the day was too long! Too warm! Satan is playing tricks on us! Making winter feel like summer! Don’t be tempted!’

  I can’t let Suzan stay here, in danger. She’s wearing her pouch. We race to our tents and I grab my own. Percy’s helmet and the book are secure inside. Suzan gathers the rest of our supplies while I strap on my sword and, together, we sprint for our horses.

  Before we ride away, I turn to see the others. ‘Suzan! Wait!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We aren’t being followed.’

  Suzan turns. Back in camp, the pilgrims are watching Peter, not us. Their faces are rapt.<
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  ‘We have to rescue Mattiolas and Serafina,’ Suzan says. ‘Contact with the book protects us, but they’re being deceived…’

  Slowly, she guides Potestas back to the others. I follow on Orestes. Other pilgrims don’t look. Peter has completely captured their attention.

  When she reaches Mattiolas, Suzan grabs his tunic sleeve.

  ‘Come with us!’ she whispers. ‘We’ll ride together.’

  ‘God speaks to Peter,’ Mattiolas says, without turning.

  ‘That isn’t true, Mattiolas. Trust me. I healed you from typhoid.’ She touches Serafina’s arm too. ‘Serafina, remember that. You have to come with us.’

  ‘You don’t know how many Saracen vigilantes are out there!’ Serafina says.

  ‘We’re friends!’ I murmur. Serafina looks up at me. Perhaps friendship itself is a charm. ‘Listen to us!’

  Serafina touches Mattiolas’s arm. She’s been convinced. ‘Mattiolas, the choice is Peter or Luca. Luca is your friend,’ she reminds him quietly.

  He turns away from Peter. His attention directed at Serafina, he nods. Before he can change his mind, Suzan pulls him away.

  ‘Tancred mentioned marching to Sidon via Tripoli,’ Suzan says. ‘We should go that way.’

  We return to the tents so the others can pack their things. Then we speed away on horseback, with Serafina in front of Mattiolas and Suzan with me.

  Just once, I turn to gaze over my shoulder. The city walls of Maarrat seem to have sunk into the sand.

  Although we feared encountering Saracen vigilantes, or Bedouins less friendly than the group who guided us to Lake al-Jaboul, the roads outside Maarrat are deserted.

  ‘Perhaps Saracens have heard what happened and want to stay away,’ Suzan suggests.

  ‘Imagine Saracens being frightened of us!’ Serafina says.

  We ride on. When it should be time for vespers, we make tents from our cloaks. I sit and gaze at the western sky. Some of Peter’s mad rant is starting to make sense.

  ‘What is it?’ Suzan asks, sitting beside me.

  ‘The day is lasting too long. The weather is more like summer than winter,’ I tell her.

  ‘How long do you think we slept for?’

  ‘A long while. Many moons, maybe.’

  ‘We’ve hibernated?’ she murmurs. ‘Like the bats near al-Jaboul. How?’

  ‘Thanatos. Maybe your santur?’

  Suzan looks grim. ‘Can we still catch up with the others?’

  ‘We’ll have to try.’

  We sleep in shifts until dawn. Then, Mattiolas and I plan the day ahead. The only map we have is in my book. I can’t show that to Mattiolas. I can’t let him set eyes on its vellum pages. Seeing demons is a curse I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Instead, I crouch to draw a map in the sand. ‘You said Raymond wants to claim Tripoli? That’s over here. It’s a long detour from Jerusalem. We don’t have to go that way.’

  ‘Tripoli won’t be defeated easily.’

  ‘That’s right. It would take many moons. And even if it’s already fallen, Raymond and the others will only be leaving for Jerusalem now,’ I continue. ‘They’ll be marching slowly, still thousands of them.’

  ‘The four of us can ride far more quickly.’ Mattiolas gets excited as he understands. ‘We could reach Jerusalem before them.’

  We journey on, sleeping in makeshift tents by night and walking by day. Nature is kind to us. We keep our waterskins filled, and pass fields of vegetables and grain. Suzan’s bow provides us with meat.

  ‘I don’t know we ever had a chance of convincing the Princes. We need to use the book to stop Thanatos ourselves,’ Suzan says one night.

  ‘We have to catch up with them first,’ I say.

  The days pass into one sevennight, then two and three. The moon waxes and wanes. The four of us start to feel like a family and, in our dark cloaks, attract no more attention than any family passing through the dusty Syrian countryside. But pressure continues to mount for Suzan and me. One night, we check the book and it shows only two moons before Thanatos and the demons expect to perform their rite on Temple Knoll. We have to ride on and hope we make it in time.

  Finally, early one morning, riding along a ridge fringed with white rocks, we spot the other pilgrims. Their number has greatly reduced since the huge camps outside Constantinople. But thousands of men, women and children, hundreds of carts, goats and horses, remain, moving on their slow journey towards Jerusalem.

  Suzan and Serafina smile at each other and look relieved. We’ll all feel safer travelling with a large group. We spur our horses to gallop down the mountainside and soon reach the dirt road that pilgrims are tearing into dust with their feet.

  ‘Your cousin,’ Mattiolas says, pointing at a red and gold banner.

  We ride through the crowd and up to it.

  Narlo sees me and sneers, pulling over to the side of the road. ‘Luca, I keep thinking you’re dead. And you keep turning up with your ugly nun. It’s getting irritating. Hello, Serafina. Aren’t you beautiful? I might make you my Contessa, one day.’

  This is enough to enrage even Serafina. ‘You left us in Maarrat! You left us for dead!’ she cries.

  Narlo grins. ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘Why?’ I demand.

  He pivots towards me. ‘Because, cousin, your life means nothing to me. This morning, Thanatos showed me how to defeat a fire-breathing snake. I’ve got its flame in a water vessel. Imagine that, Luca. Conte Luca. I don’t even want to be a conte. There are far more powerful things to be.’

  Beside me, I hear Suzan catch her breath. This sounds like another ingredient the demons need, another thing that ought to be mythological and impossible to find. Another ingredient Thanatos now has in his possession.

  ‘Luca,’ Narlo continues, ‘I’d like to see you poisoned by a fire-breathing serpent. How about that?’

  ‘We’ve travelled a long way, Narlo. I know there aren’t such things.’

  ‘Of course you don’t believe in anything scary. Even your girlfriend is more of a man than you,’ Narlo says. He turns to Suzan. ‘I’ve heard stories about you. People say you slept with Ramberti. And with Sir Percy. He told me himself. Luca, you’ll like to hear this. Percy told me Suzan is a real sweet little thing, even though she’s so ugly. He said she can do things with her tongue that you wouldn’t believe—’

  Suzan raises her bow, arrow pointed right at Narlo’s lying mouth.

  ‘No!’ I step in her way. ‘Suzan, Narlo doesn’t matter. His lies don’t have to make you violent.’

  She pauses and stares at me, recognising my echo of her words in Maarrat. Our mortal enemies make vile accusations, but they don’t have to change who we are.

  ‘Narlo, you’re a fool as well as a lecher,’ I tell him, as Suzan lowers her bow.

  Prince Bohemond rides up to us, impatience carving lines into his broad forehead.

  ‘Put down your weapons, knights,’ he says. ‘There’s serious fighting to be had. We’ll be in Jerusalem by the next full moon. Until then, there will be peace. De Falconi, do you agree?’

  ‘I agree, but—’

  ‘But?’ Bohemond’s frown depends. He’s not used to being challenged.

  ‘But I want to know why we were left behind in Maarrat.’

  A strange expression passes over Bohemond’s face. He dismounts and walks beside me. I’m a conte. I have the right to an answer. ‘We’ve had many discussions about that strange day.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And why we all felt so compelled to leave.’

  ‘Well?’ I pause and face him. ‘What conclusions have you reached?’

  Raymond says, ‘Conte, I can only talk as we are walking. We can’t fall behind.’

  ‘I’ll walk so long as you answer my questions.’

  ‘You have a deal. I realise how…our departure was completely out of order. There are strange forces at work. I don’t claim to understand them. Raymond said…he says he had a dream about an angel with a dulcimer…’


  Suzan gasps.

  ‘He says,’ Bohemond continues, ‘the angel told him that to win the Tripoli crown, he had to leave immediately…’

  ‘And everyone followed?’

  ‘Not quite everyone.’ Bohemond’s glance becomes suspicious. ‘You didn’t, Conte. Peter Bartholomew didn’t. Why did God have a different message for you?’

  I have no answer for him. He mounts his horse. ‘No more fighting.’

  He speeds off to the front of the group.

  ‘My santur,’ Suzan breathes.

  But it wasn’t God who asked Suzan to play her santur back in Maarrat. It was Thanatos. He is very near his goal now.

  CHAPTER 20

  The final moon

  JAFFA

  Luca

  For days, we follow the coastal road past the crumbling ruins of Roman towns. They remind me of ruins near home. How vast the Roman empire was! With all our intense experiences on the road, life in Tuscany seems like a dream. One afternoon, pausing atop a rocky cliff, I gaze down and spot a disused swimming pool, fed by waves.

  ‘Look at that beautiful tilework,’ Suzan says, in front of me. ‘I wish we could get down there to swim!’

  The year is warming. But we march on. And on.

  The land levels towards a wide harbour at busy Jaffa, where supply ships wait for us. Once, Father would have left me with the others while he went to procure our necessities, but now I’m the Conte, and this is my job. Late in the morning, I join crowds at the shore and buy salted beef and new goats and load our carts with grain. I pass Narlo buying wine, and I know some of my meat and grain will be for him. As loathsome as he is, he’s a member of my family and it’s my responsibility to provide for him.

  From Jaffa, we all turn eastwards to march inland. More days pass as we trudge on. Finally, shortly after matins one day, a whisper begins at the front of our group and grows into a shout passed from one pilgrim to the next. Atop Orestes, I watch excitement mount into a wave washing towards us.

  ‘The scouts have seen Jerusalem!’

  ‘We’re nearly there!’

  A new expression of determination shifts the dust on the pilgrims’ faces. Knights’ banners and the skirts of fine ladies, the red crosses we all wear, have faded, bleached by sunshine and blasted with fine sand in the wind. But now even white rocks on the hilly ground start to look meaningful, for these are rocks and hills near the Holy City. These are the kinds of rocks from which Jerusalem was built. This is the destination that Pope Urban commanded us to capture. We have marched for years to reach this day.