The Elixir of Death

by Bernard Knight

  'Even as a boy, I swore to carry out my father's plea and seek vengeance, even if it took me the rest of my life. I have read that your own holy book says that the sins of the father may be visited unto the fourth generation. I cannot achieve that, so one or two generations must suffice!'

  At last Richard de Revelle found his voice, even though the tight cord made his words even more hoarse than Raymond's.

  'I have never set foot in Palestine! Why are you doing this to me?'

  The Saracen seemed to notice him at last.

  'De Revelle? Your father was a de Revelle, Gervaise de Revelle, who was at Damascus! Like this man le Calve, whose father was at Damascus! Like that Templar, Joel de Valle Torta, who was at Damascus!'

  'How can you know this, after all this time?' croaked de Blois.

  Nizam smiled, a twisted, sardonic smile.

  'My father's dying demand to me, to avenge my family and my people, never left me. I have dedicated my life to it. It is my crusade, a far more worthy one than yours!'

  He twitched his arms spasmodically and almost danced a couple of steps sideways, before continuing. 'When I was left an orphan in a burnt-out village, I wandered with a few other survivors until I was taken in by an imam of the Nizari sect of the Isma'ili. I grew up in their care and became a devoted servant of their master, Rashid el-din Sinan, in Syria. He learned of my unwavering desire for vengeance and fostered it. I became a fervent disciple of theirs and they put me to work, good practice for my vengeance. Many a Crusader has met his death at the end of my knife! Do you not recall Conrad de Montferrat, your so-called King of Jerusalem?'

  'He was murdered in Tyre by two fanatics, dressed as Christian monks. Both of them were killed,' countered de Blois.

  There were three, for I was waiting near by, in case the others failed. And in France this year, four more of your Frankish knights who were at Damascus - and two of their sons - died on our knives, like the rats they were!'

  He gestured towards Abdul and Malik, but they stood impassively, unable to understand a word of what was going on.

  'You cannot know that my father or le Calve or that Templar were involved in your tragedy in Damascus,' blustered Richard de Revelle, desperately.

  'For years, our sect has sought information on who was present in that evil enterprise,' shouted Nizam. 'Gradually facts emerged, both in Palestine and in France. Those men were known to have been at the assault on Damascus and that is sufficient for us! They must die, and if death has already claimed them, then their sons and daughters must die, just as my father's sons and daughters died! After we have dealt with you, there are three more in your other counties who must be brought to account.'

  Spittle appeared at the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled wildly as a fanatical ecstasy possessed him. 'You can never return to your homeland - or even to France - without my help!' shouted Raymond. 'You are trapped here!'

  The Arab gave an almost hysterical laugh. 'Escape! What care we about escape? We are dedicated to our task and will die joyfully at its end and pass into paradise! It is only because there were so many other rats to exterminate that we have not died with our victims, as is the usual way with our sect.'

  His mood suddenly changed and he swung round to call out to his servants in his native tongue. Abdul dropped his end of the neck cord and vanished into the next hut, reappearing with a great armful of hay, which was stored there as fodder for the horses. He threw this into the dining shack, strewing it about as tinder. Then he came out again, holding a burning pitch brand which he had lit at the cooking fire. He held this high, the light of the yellow flame dancing over the desperate group, adding a macabre glow to the last remaining light of the dying day.

  It was this light which finally guided de Wolfe to the old castle. After leaving the wounded Fleming to stumble with the villager back towards Bigbury, John, Gwyn and the smith, with Thomas trailing behind, tramped onward, trying to steer in the direction that Jan had indicated to the best of his ability. The light was fading fast, but there was enough to see the trail of crushed weeds and ferns, though where the trees were thicker there was more bare soil than undergrowth.

  Every few minutes, John would raise a hand for them to stop and they would listen intently for any sound of voices, but all was silence, save for a few birds squabbling over a perch for the night.

  After some twenty minutes, the coroner began to feel desperate. Both Matilda and Hilda were out there somewhere, but unless they could find this place that the dumb fellow had mimed, they might as well be back in Exeter.

  'Shall we split up, Crowner?' suggested Gwyn in a low voice. 'Then we could cover a wider area than if we stick in a bunch like this.'

  De Wolfe shook his head. 'If we get separated this near to dusk, we'll never find each other again, without a lot of shouting, which will give us away. Give it a few more minutes, walking straight ahead.'

  The trail of bruised weeds had now petered out - or was invisible in the failing light - but the movement of clouds glimpsed dimly through the half-bare tree-tops gave them some idea of direction. At least they could prevent themselves from walking in circles.

  A few minutes later, John was beginning to reconsider Gwyn's idea of splitting up when Thomas hissed a warning. His younger eyes had caught something away to the right.

  'I saw a flicker, Crowner! A yellow light, very faint.' They all stopped to stare where his finger was pointing. 'There it is again!'

  This time the others glimpsed a moving flare through the trees.

  'Must be a pitch brand,' growled Gwyn. 'Someone is waving it around.'

  With John in the lead, they carefully crept forward, agonising when a foot snapped a dried twig. Two hundred paces brought them to the remains of a tumbled stone wall, heavily overgrown with ivy and other weeds. Now the flicker of the torch was easily visible, reflected from trees on the other side of a large clearing. They peered cautiously over the wall and in the last light of the day, augmented by the dancing flame of the burning pitch brand, a macabre scene met their eyes.

  Before some half-ruined huts, a pair of large, scruffy men stood, one with a staff, the other holding a mace. Near them, a Saracen in a voluminous belted robe held a flaming torch above his head, while another stood clutching a cross-bow, the string of which was cranked back ready to fire. But the centrepiece was the line of captives, two men lashed together by a rope joining their necks - and two women, tied at the waist.

  In front of them was a thickset Saracen, with a green head cloth, holding high a wide, curved dagger, like a priest using a cross to exorcise demons. His voice came clearly across the narrow castle yard.

  'This was my father's knife! He gave it to me as he was dying and made me swear to avenge him and our family. It has never left me. I have slain a score of unbelievers with it, both for Sinan and myself!'

  De Wolfe's brain had been paralysed for a few seconds by the shock of what he was witnessing, but now a deep rumble of pure anger rolled in his chest and he started to rise above the tattered wall, his hand already drawing his sword.

  Gwyn urgently dragged him down, clutching the sleeve of his tunic.

  'Not yet, Crowner! For Christ's sake, wait!' he hissed. 'They could knife your wife and Hilda before you could get halfway across the bailey. And that cross-bow could kill you, too.'

  Even as he spoke, however, Gwyn was drawing his own sword.

  'We must do something!' whispered John, desperately. 'Distract them somehow.'

  'There are five of them to our three - and all we have are two swords and a blacksmith's hammer. That crossbow is the problem.'

  Frustrated beyond measure, they waited and watched the drama below. Nizam screamed some orders to his henchmen and the one with the cross-bow leaned into the hut and dragged out Alexander of Leith. He was pushed aside and the leader raised a finger, pointing at the alchemist.

  'You I am sparing! Get yourself gone and thank your God, if you have one, that I am merciful to those who played no part in shamef
ul events!'

  The little Scotsman, whose appearance was another surprise to the watchers hidden behind the wall, sidled off and then ran on his short legs towards the track that led out of the bailey. He vanished from the view of the Saracens, but from his vantage point the coroner could see that he had hidden in the undergrowth where he could observe what was going on near the huts.

  'Who the hell is that?' muttered Gwyn into de Wolfe's ear.

  'God knows! And who is that tall fellow roped to de Revelle?'

  There was no time for an answer, as events began to move fast. Nizam rattled off more instructions to his men, who closed in on the captives. He gesticulated at the two Saxons, who were now looking more than a little anxious, but they started to pull the captives towards the door of the hut.

  Richard de Revelle struggled to get nearer his sister, bellowing a mixture of prayers, obscenities and supplication, but a prod with the tip of Ulf's mace kept him moving. Then Hilda decided to come to a dead stop and refused to move, even though she was being hauled by the rope around her waist. Matilda cannoned into the back of her and then sank to her knees, sobbing on the ground.

  'Who killed my husband?' called out the blonde woman, in a high, clear voice. 'Who slew the ship-master? I am entitled to know that, even at the last, before I die!'

  This seemed to startle the captors into momentary silence, then Nizam laughed and translated her words for his two acolytes. Abdul, the one with the cross-bow, laughed in his turn. He stepped towards Hilda and indicated himself by tapping his own chest with his free hand, before bending forwards to spit in her face.

  A second later he reeled back, as a long sliver of glass, exquisitely sharp at its point, was thrust deep into his chest. He screamed, raising the cross-bow to discharge it at the woman who had stabbed him, but then a great gout of blood shot from his mouth and he fell forward, the bolt fired harmlessly into the ground.

  Pandemonium broke out, as Raymond de Blois roared defiance and charged head down at Nizam, his hands still tied behind his back. It was a heroic but hopeless gesture, as his neck was still linked to de Revelle's. The rope brought him up short and the leader of the Arabs plunged his long dagger into his belly. As de Blois fell, dragging Richard to his knees, Nizam stabbed him repeatedly, then began kicking the twitching body as it lay on the ground.

  He would have done better to look over his shoulder, as a warning cry from Malik and Ulf heralded the charge of two very large and very angry men brandishing long swords, followed by another swinging a huge hammer over his head.

  Malik threw his pitch brand at Gwyn, who brushed it aside as if it were a fly and swung his heavy blade at the side of the Turk's neck, almost severing his head from his shoulders before the man could even attempt a thrust with his long curved knife. John had gone straight for Nizam, roaring with rage at this evil creature who had dared to abduct his wife, to say nothing of his former mistress.

  The Saracen leader made no attempt to defend himself against this black shape that had appeared from nowhere, but in a desperate attempt to fulfil his father's oath, he launched himself at Richard de Revelle, who was still on the ground, crouching and still linked to the bloody corpse of Raymond de Blois. He put his dagger to Richard's throat, again drawing blood, as he screamed for his two Saxon mercenaries to come to his aid. But Ulf and Alfred were nowhere to be seen - they had melted away as soon as they saw how the battle was going and had vanished into the forest.

  John raised his sword, ready to hack off Nizam's arms one by one, followed by his legs and head. But the Arab pressed his blade deeper into de Revelle's neck.

  'Keep back or I will kill him!' he screamed, some vestige of hope suggesting that if he could stay alive long enough, he might get the sister as well. John stayed his sword-stroke in midair.

  'Kill the bastard, for all I care!' he roared. 'I'm going to cut you into little pieces, whoever you are!'

  'John, save him. Save my brother!' screamed Matilda, her tear-streaked face lifting from the crouch into which she had collapsed.

  Indecision now clouded de Wolfe's mind as the red rage began to subside. Gwyn also moved cautiously towards Nizam, sword raised, but the Turk dug the point of his dagger into Richard's neck, making the victim utter a gurgling scream of terror. With a quick slash, Nizam cut through the cord around his neck, separating him from Raymond's corpse. Keeping the knife to his neck, he began to drag the manor-lord towards his sister.

  'Stop him, Crowner!' yelled Gwyn. 'He wants her too!' But the warning was unnecessary. Suddenly, Nizam's eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, exposing the whites, and he began twitching. He dropped the dagger and fell to the ground, black blood appearing at his lips. Then he had a full-blown convulsion and a great gout of dark fluid erupted from his mouth, before he finally became still.

  There was a flurry from behind and the strange figure of the little man in the kilt and blouse rushed down from where he had been concealed.

  'It worked, thank God! I was beginning to think I was losing my touch!'

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In which Crowner John returns home

  Confusion reigned in the old castle bailey, as the survivors struggled to understand what was happening. John de Wolfe felt as if his head was bursting, as he tried to make sense of the chaotic situation, which was not helped by Matilda collapsing to the ground, alternately wailing and laughing, as she clutched his legs in an unprecedented paroxysm of gratitude.

  Hilda also slid to the floor, still attached to John's wife by the cord, but she sat bowed over, staring blankly at the bloodstained shard of glass which she still clutched in her hand.

  Richard de Revelle was bellowing for his wrists to be released and the blacksmith ran across to him to slash through the cords with his knife. Richard staggered across to John and grasped his arm like a drowning man clinging to a floating log.

  'John, where in Christ's name did you spring from? You saved my life!' Though de Revelle was wild eyed and almost incoherent, the coroner noticed that he said 'my life', typically ignoring the salvation of his sister and the other woman.

  'It seems to be becoming a habit, Richard!' he said cynically. 'Though I think this brave young woman deserves most praise.' He indicated Hilda, who was still slumped among the weeds.

  Then he bent down and gently raised Matilda to her feet, putting an arm around her shoulders, but forbearing to actually embrace her. Her almost hysterical keening subsided and she sniffed and rubbed her tear-stained face with her hand, making it even more grubby. Her cloak was soiled with dirt and bits of straw from her prison, making the contrast with her usual immaculate appearance all the more obvious. Gwyn, who sometimes showed more tact and sensitivity than his shambling appearance would suggest, took in the situation with John and his wife and went to Hilda, lifting her up and hugging her in his bear-like grasp, while he gently prised the glass dagger from her fingers.

  'Well done, brave lass!' he murmured in her ear. 'Now Thorgils can rest in peace, wherever he is.'

  Richard de Revelle belatedly acknowledged that others besides himself had survived and went to his sister, whereupon John readily relinquished her into his arms. Emotional women frightened de Wolfe beyond measure, but now he went to Hilda and rather self-consciously kissed her on the cheek. Rapidly becoming composed again, she put a hand to his cheek and said a simple 'Thank you, John!', but the look that blazed out of her blue eyes as she uttered the words was worth more than an hour's eulogy of gratitude.

  At this point, the burly blacksmith appeared, grasping a squirming Alexander by the collar of his peculiar garment. 'I don't know who this strange fellow might be,' he announced. 'He's the only one left. Those two big bastards seem to have run off and the rest are all dead!'

  Thomas de Peyne, a horrified observer who had kept well back from the recent mayhem, now came closer and pointed to the strange symbols embroidered on the Scotsman's tunic.

  'You are an alchemist, I presume?'

  'Ay, I am indeed! And sorry I am
that I ever left my chamber in Bristol to come among these madmen!' He waved at the four corpses on the ground. 'Though that gentleman was civil enough, he just fell into bad company with those Moors!'

  'How does that dumb giant with no tongue fit into all this?' demanded Gwyn. Alexander seized on the words with delight.

  'You know of Jan the Fleming? Is he alive and well?' he shrilled.

  'Certainly alive, and well enough for a man with a cross-bow bolt through his shoulder,' snapped John. 'He should survive, but who the hell was he? And who who are you, for St Peter's sake?'

  'I am Alexander of Leith, a humble alchemist, searching for the Elixir of Life. That poor man Jan is my servant and assistant.'

  Belatedly, the alchemist began to realise that his presence in this camp might take some explaining when law officers started to take an interest. This was rapidly reinforced when de Wolfe declared that he was the King's Coroner for the county and was determined to get to the bottom of whatever had been going on here.

  Richard de Revelle also got the same message and his devious mind began to plan evasive action. As he held a linen kerchief to his throat to mop up the blood still oozing from the shallow cut, he glared at Alexander, then gave him a covert wink that was not lost on the Scotsman. Both of them had the same desire to draw as heavy a veil as possible over their activities. In this, they were greatly aided by the fact that all the Saracens were dead and Raymond de Blois was also beyond providing any explanations. If possible, it would be a considerable advantage if the coroner never learned that he was French, rather than Norman.

  Richard looked down at the man's corpse, lying on its side in a pool of blood that had welled from the multiple wounds in his chest. Thomas was crouched alongside the body, making the sign of the Cross over it and murmuring suitable incantations in Latin. De Revelle, justifying his self-interest, thought it was just as well that he had been killed, as a spy found in England in the service of Philip of France could look forward only to the gallows.