by Paul Doherty
The Knight’s Tale
PART I
The cruel-beaked ravens were gorged with human flesh, their silken jet plumage tinged with scarlet as they soared and dipped above the bleak battlefield. The ravens’ usual resting place, the great donjon that soared into the sky above the river, was now engulfed in flames which roared fiercely up to the sullen clouds. Around the blazing fortress the dead lay thick as weeds. The huge siege towers that had been rolled against the donjon wall had also caught fire, their stout beams blackening and cracking into fiery cinders. The corpses lying there turned to bubbling fat and filled the air with the stench of burning flesh. In the nearby woods, an old hag-faced witch leaned against a tree; her spindly legs shook with terror, wispy tendrils of hair brushed her face as she stared at the great black cloud of smoke above the trees.
‘They’re burning the damned!’ she screeched. ‘They’re sending the demons back to their master!’
The birds in the trees on the edge of the clearing heard her cracked speech and cowered on the branches as if they sensed what was happening. The villagers for miles around also hid, terrified at this day of wrath, this awful day of reckoning. They cowered in their mean huts but, pulling back the ox-skin coverings, they saw how the shapeless bracken was turning red, how even the great oaks standing in their ploughed fields seemed to bend and twist under a wicked wind that blew the smoke and stench of battle towards them.
Sir Hugo Mortimer, Lord of Oxford, knelt helmetless with his commanders in a circle and intoned David’s psalm of praise and triumph over God’s enemies. The prayer finished, Mortimer stood, his hatchet warrior face surveying the battlefield, and felt his elation marred by black despair at the cost of his victory.
‘The widows will mourn for months,’ he whispered, ‘but at least their children are safe.’ He gazed at the great keep, now hidden by sheets of roaring flames. He turned to his squire. ‘How many did we lose, Stephen?’
‘On the siege tower, my lord, at least sixty. In the keep well over two hundred.’ Stephen wiped the bloody sweat from his face. ‘Outside, amongst the peasant levies, God knows! Perhaps three, four hundred!’
Beside Sir Hugo an old, grey-garbed Benedictine monk stood, watching transfixed a dark-hooded figure bound in chains under the outstretched branches of a great oak tree.
‘We should burn him, Sir Hugo,’ the monk murmured. ‘He comes from the bowels of Hell. He should go back there!’
Sir Hugo studied the ascetic, saintly face of the exorcist.
‘That would be too simple, Father. He deserves a slower death.’
‘No!’ the exorcist protested.
He looked at that dreadful, silent figure fettered in chains, surrounded by Sir Hugo’s best mercenaries. The soldiers had their loaded crossbows pointed at the prisoner as if daring him to move.
‘Satan walks here,’ the exorcist murmured. ‘Not with snaky hair, bloated torso, spewing mouth and glowing eyes, but in this Strigoi.’ He pointed a bony finger at the prisoner. ‘He is the living dead. He came here under false pretences with smiling eyes and honeyed mouth to drink the blood of humans and wreak his fury on God’s innocent children!’
Sir Hugo half heard the exorcist while staring blankly at the prisoner. He had captured him at last. His men had stormed the tower and forced this Strigoi, this devil incarnate, to the top of his terrible tower and given him a choice: to surrender to Norman justice or be burnt alive. The Strigoi had fought on, displaying incredible strength, seemingly impervious to any weapon except the most holy relics the exorcist had brought, which now lay in their chest in the cart guarded by several household knights. The rest of the coven had died in the flames, but the leader had surrendered, to be covered in chains from neck to toe, his face hooded lest he use his power against his captors. Now Sir Hugh had to decide what had to be done. King William had been most explicit: this diabolical stranger and his coven were to be wiped out root and branch, his terrorization of the countryside halted, his fortress burnt and a monastery built as reparation and as thanksgiving for God’s good justice. As a reward, William the Norman had given Sir Hugo the surrounding land with its woods, fields, pastures, rivers and hunting rights, a fertile domain among the forests north of London.
Hugo blinked as the wind blew acrid smoke towards him. He coughed and turned his back, still unaware that the exorcist waited for a response. The king had also wanted to know how this stranger had come to England and Hugo marvelled at what he’d learnt: apparently this devil incarnate had travelled from Wallachia in the Balkans pretending to be a man dedicated to the service of God. He had taken over the old keep and rebuilt it, posing as a servant of God dedicated to Christ’s work. At first he and his followers had been respected, even loved, by the petty knights, small landowners and villagers in the surrounding hamlets and villages. Then the terrors had begun; cadavers drained of blood were found in lonely copses, on the banks of streams or even on the king’s highway. Children who went out to play never returned. Lonely merchants, tinkers and pedlars who had tried to push their journey one mile further as the day died and darkness fell and the inhabitants of small farms or lonely homesteads would be found as corpses, their faces white as wax, throats slashed from ear to ear, and their flesh drained of every drop of blood. Petitions had been sent to the great council in London and the king’s justices dispatched with warrants to investigate. These, together with their clerks, chaplains and retainers had also been massacred, only a few miles from where Sir Hugo now stood. The king, however, had persisted, even sending his own son, William Rufus, and the cause of the depredation had been discovered, the bloody trail leading back to this awesome keep. So, the king, uttering great oaths and swearing vengeance, had granted Hugo Mortimer this wide domain and sent him to wage bloody war against these demons in human flesh. The saintly Anselm, abbot of Bec, had advised the use of England’s most holy exorcist as well as sacred relics from the king’s new abbey at Westminster.
The Strigoi, or living dead, had been trapped and now awaited punishment.
‘Sir Hugo, what are you going to do?’
Mortimer looked at the exorcist.
‘I am going to dispense the king’s justice,’ he replied.
And, cradling his helmet under his arm, Mortimer walked over to where the prisoner stood. The Strigoi’s very silence and immobility increased the aura of terror around him and even the hardened Brabantine mercenaries were nervous and cowed despite their huge crossbows.
‘You have decided, Sir Hugo?’ The voice of the hooded prisoner was both gentle and mocking. ‘You are a knight, Sir Hugo, you gave your word I would not die by fire.’
‘Burn him!’ The shout came from the exorcist standing beside Mortimer. ‘Burn him now!’
‘You gave your word, Sir Hugo. To die by fire or surrender to Norman justice.’
One of Mortimer’s squires ran up. ‘The cart has arrived,’ he gasped. ‘The casket is ready.’
Hugo Mortimer smiled bleakly. He drew his sword and grasped it under the hilt as if it were a cross.
‘I gave my word,’ he announced loudly, ‘and now I pronounce the king’s judgement. I, Hugo Mortimer, baron and king’s justice in the shire of Oxford, pronounce judgement on you, a rebel, devil-worshipper, murderer and traitor caught in arms against your sovereign lord. You are to remain chained and be buried alive in the tunnels beneath your blood-soaked keep. The tower will be razed and a monastery built on this spot, to make it holy and offer reparation to our good Seigneur the Lord Jesus.’
Even the Brabantine mercenaries who heard this awful judgement gave a gasp of horror. The chained figure moved restlessly, the links of his steel bonds grating, clinking in the silence. The exorcist fell to his knees, hands clasped.
‘He must burn,’ he murmured. ‘For God’s sake, Sir Hugo, he must die by fire!’
‘He will die a suffocating death beneath his own tower,’ Mortimer replied. ‘His body will remain manacled and it will be placed in a lead-lined casket also chained. It
will then be placed in one of the tunnels beneath that—’ Mortimer pointed to the still-burning keep, ‘and the tunnel bricked up. Let him die slowly. Let him remember his evil deeds and the innocent blood he and his followers have spilt!’
‘Sir Hugo!’ The voice spoke up, lilting, almost happy. ‘I do not acknowledge your king or he whom you described as Le Bon Seigneur. I shall return!’
Sir Hugh sheathed his sword and shook his head. ‘When the fires have died,’ he ordered, ‘let the punishment begin!’
Words between the pilgrims
‘By the cock!’ Harry the landlord growled. ‘This is a bloody tale, sir knight.’
‘More of the devil than of human kind,’ the poorly garbed village parson commented.
‘Yet he speaks the truth,’ the wife of Bath exclaimed. ‘In my pilgrimage to Cologne, as we went through the great forest, we were warned against those demons who suffer from blood madness, told how they worship the Lord Satan and spend the daylight hours in Hell but prowl the night looking for prey.’
‘Succubi,’ the pardoner interrupted. ‘They are succubi, devils in human flesh.’
‘They are as old as time itself,’ the clerk from Oxford explained, eager to show his learning. ‘The Greeks spoke of beautiful women called the Lamiæ . . .’ His voice trailed away and he peered at the knight. ‘Yes, such beings could be amongst us now,’ he murmured. ‘I have heard a strange story. . .’
Harry the taverner looked at him curiously; the clerk, so bookish and withdrawn, now appeared frightened as if the knight had reminded him of something.
‘No more, gentle sirs, please,’ Harry quickly intervened. ‘Sir knight, continue your tale and give us every detail of this great mystery!’
PART II
Chapter 1
The riders reined in their horses and peered through the pouring rain. Above them the sky was overcast, the clouds thick and heavy as palls of smoke from which the rain fell in cold, drenching sheets. A crash of thunder and jagged lightning, flashing brilliantly against the skyline like a falling angel, made their horses skitter and whinny. The riders pulled their hoods closer about their heads but the effort was futile for the drenching rain had soaked their clothes clear through to the skin. The taller of the two wiped the water from his face and turned to his companion.
‘Oxford at last, eh, Alexander?’
The younger, smaller man grinned despite the rain. The smile made his olive-smooth face boyish.
‘Dry, Sir Godfrey!’ he exclaimed. ‘Soon we’ll be dry! Yet, for soldiers like you, such weather must be an accepted part of life.’
Now the knight grinned as he stared down at the red-tiled roofs and yellow sandstone buildings of Oxford. At first he had resented the presence of the clerk, with his smooth hands, boyish face and constant good humour, but on their journey up from London Sir Godfrey had, in a rare happening in his life, discovered he genuinely liked another man. Alexander was no ordinary clerk. The illegitimate son of a northern knight and some lovelorn lady he had met while campaigning in Scotland, Alexander looked upon the world with amused eyes. He was an excellent mimic and a teller of droll stories and, despite his education in the halls of Cambridge, he always deferred to Sir Godfrey, though the knight often caught a flicker of mockery in the clerk’s dark green eyes.
‘Have you been here before?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
‘On one or two occasions,’ Alexander replied. He stretched out a hand, ignoring the water that ran down his sleeve. ‘To the east,’ he explained, ‘lies the castle. You can see it through the rain.’
Sir Godfrey followed his companion’s pointed finger and glimpsed the high turrets of the castle.
‘And there,’ Alexander continued, ‘are St Frideswyde’s and St Mary’s churches and the spire of the Trinitarian friary.’
‘It looks so peaceful,’ Godfrey murmured.
‘So it should be. A centre for learning, the home of clerks, scribes and scholars.’ The clerk flinched at the driving rain. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir Godfrey, are we to go down or sit here until we catch the ague?’ The clerk pulled back his hood. ‘Mind you, what’s the use?’ he muttered. ‘I’m as wet as a fish already.’
Godfrey stared at him. The clerk’s black hair was now a wet soggy mess and his eyes were red-rimmed, for they had ridden hard through the storm. The knight pulled back his hood and scratched close-cropped hair.
‘You should keep your hair cut,’ he advised. ‘In a fight it gives little for your opponent to hang on to and, in the rain, too little to soak.’
Alexander leaned forward. ‘Aye, Sir Godfrey, but in winter my head’s warm!’
The knight laughed and spurred his horse forward. ‘We should have taken that tavern keeper’s advice and stayed another day,’ he remarked.
‘Never!’ Alexander shouted, coming up behind him. ‘Did you see the size of the fleas in that bed? Give me God’s clean rain any time.’
The knight spurred his horse on, but the smile died on his lips and his leather-skinned face became harder. He did not wish to show it but he was frightened. Oh, he had seen battles, the storming of gates and the terrible hand-to-hand combat in the blood-drenched fields of Normandy. Nevertheless, what awaited them in Oxford was something totally different. On their journey up from London he had hardly spoken to Alexander about it but he knew the clerk had similar fear; the terrors that awaited them lay like some invisible sword between them. Sir Godfrey wiped the water from his eyes and rubbed his smooth-shaven chin. He was scarcely past his twenty-fifth year, yet he felt like an old man; recalling the sights he had seen and the blood he had spilt, he wished he could have at least some of his companion’s innocence. Alexander McBain was only a few years younger but he was a scholar, a clerk, skilled in parchment, cipher and the courtly hand, so what did he know about the real darkness of the human heart? How men could kill, stab and hack without a second thought? Or of others, more steeped in wickedness, who called on the Lord Satan and used magical arts to achieve their evil ends?
Sir Godfrey could hardly believe what the king’s chancellor had told him in London. At first he had laughed, but the chancellor’s wizened face had remained impassive as he described the terrible murders occurring in the king’s own city of Oxford. Yet worse was to follow. The chancellor, closeted in his secret chamber at Westminster, had whispered about the origin of these murders – about secret rites and ancient evils that had once again surfaced to play their part in the lives of men. Sir Godfrey’s blood had turned cold and, at first, he had refused to believe but the chancellor had been persistent.
‘I need you in Oxford, Sir Godfrey,’ he had insisted. ‘The abbess, the king’s own kinswoman, has asked for your presence and the king himself has now demanded it. In this matter we trust no other. However, you will have a companion, my young clerk, the Scotsman Alexander McBain. He will be your eyes and ears. Alexander is skilled in dealing with the subtleties and stratagems with which our good scholars in Oxford might try and trap you. Trust him. Trust him completely!’
Sir Godfrey cursed and patted his horse’s neck. After that the chancellor had refused to elaborate, simply giving him two purses of silver and a fistful of letters and warrants declaring how ‘the King’s trusted servant, Sir Godfrey Evesden, and Master Alexander McBain, clerk, had been commissioned by royal authority to investigate certain brutal and bloody murders perpetrated in the King’s city of Oxford’.
‘There will be further help in Oxford,’ the chancellor murmured, flexing vein-streaked hands over a charcoal brazier. ‘The lady abbess will tell you more; she can be trusted. And the exorcist Dame Edith Mohun will be there to assist you.’
‘An exorcist!’ Sir Godfrey had exclaimed. ‘How can an exorcist help?’
The chancellor’s rheumy eyes stared back at him. ‘You’d best be gone, sir. You are to be in Oxford by tomorrow nightfall.’
Godfrey wiped the rain and sweat from his face and dismounted as they reached the trackway leading into the city. Alexander did likewis
e.
‘What’s the matter, knight?’
Godfrey shrugged and grinned. ‘An old soldier’s trick!’ he shouted back through the rain. ‘Never enter a city by the main gate, you never know who is waiting for you!’
They skirted the city walls and entered Oxford by a postern door, then went by St Budoc’s church and on into Freren Street, which stretched into the heart of the city.
The houses on either side of the street were so densely packed that their gables met to block out the rain; the roofs of the great mansions were drenched with water, while the huts of the poor artisans, patched with reeds, straw or shingles, had turned to a soggy mess. Godfrey wrapped the reins of his horse round his wrist and stared about him; despite the heavy downpour, the market stalls against the outside of the houses were laid out, forcing him and others into the middle of the street past the sodden piles of refuse that blocked the central sewer. Behind him Alexander lifted one boot and groaned. The mud and dirt were ankle deep and the clerk looked pityingly at a group of young urchins who, despite the weather, were playing in mud which crept half-way up their legs. He would have roared his annoyance at the stolid knight trudging ahead of him, but the noise was deafening. Students, either ragged-arsed commoners or bachelors in their dark shabby gowns, thronged the streets, shouting raucously at each other over the cries of traders.
In the short distance he walked, Alexander realized that Oxford, like Cambridge, was no common town for he heard a variety of tongues – Welsh, German, Flemish, Spanish, Italian and even those of visitors from farther east. At last Sir Godfrey turned off the trackway and led his horse into the yard of the Silver Tabard tavern. Alexander joyously threw his reins to the surly ostler, who cursed quietly at being dragged out into the rain.