Praise for Clifford Beal
‘Prepare for a swashbuckling, roller-coaster unput-downable read, full of derring do, bodice ripping and political intrigue. Clifford Beal is a great story teller who keeps his readers on the edge of their seats. Note to Hollywood producers, snap this one up now.’
Terry Hayes, The Spectator
‘The past is a foreign country and Clifford Beal inhabits it like a native.’
Ben Jeapes, author
‘...the plot never stops thickening and the galloping pace keeps it from clotting... All this plus sound historical settings, terrific supernatural set pieces and walk-on parts for D’Artagnan and John Milton. What’s not to like?’
The Daily Mail on Gideon’s Angel
‘The historical fiction aspect is fantastic the use of voice and details makes this one of the most authentic I’ve come across. The text is easily readable, but rich and inflected enough to give a feeling of period, without causing confusion... Frankly, this is a stunning book in many ways, not least in the telling.’
Brian Turner, SF Chronicles
‘...I hope Solaris have signed Beal up for another book after these two, I’d really like to read the further adventures of Sir Richard Treadwell.’
The Bookonaut
‘Beal does an incredible job of finding a middle point between authenticity and readability. Raven’s Banquet sounds right. This is a wonderful work of historical fiction.’
Annie Smith at Summer Reading Project
Also by Clifford Beal
Quelch’s Gold
Gideon’s Angel
The Raven’s Banquet
The Witch of Torinia (forthcoming)
First published 2016 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-84997-920-7
Copyright © 2016 Clifford Beal
Cover art by Adam Doyle
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
To the good gentlefolk of the Barony of the Bridge, Anno Societatis IX-XXI, for recreating the Middle Ages not as they were but as they ought have been.
One
THE SECOND TIME he entered the tomb, the air was just as musty, leaden and sweetly cloying as it had been the first time. Even so, this was not why his stomach roiled and tugged, a sick taste rising in his mouth, dry as dust. His sandals scuffing the rough-hewn stone steps, he descended again into the crypt; descending for the second time ever, and in the very same day. He was one of the first living souls to take those steps into the pitch blackness in four hundred years, his ears ringing in the muffled silence. When first he had stepped down into the darkness it had been shortly after dawn. Brother Kell, an old blackrobe and a tutor of catechism to the novices, had put an arm around his shoulder as the two led the way with tallow rag torches.
“Acquel,” he had said, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “it is an honour we’ve been given—a sacred honour. Something that you will forever remember. A memory that will strengthen your faith in the Lord.” That promise had turned out to be half true. He now fervently wished he had never been chosen, never to have had the ill luck to be where he was. Never to see beyond the oak and iron door that led to the tomb of Elded the Lawgiver.
His legs were trembling even as he gripped the sputtering torch. Ten steps, then a gentle cobbled slope, then ten more steps. He remembered this from earlier in the day. Hard sharp edges rasped under his feet, for these steps had never been given the chance to soften, to round down and hollow out like those leading to the Temple Majoris far above them on the plateau of Ara.
There had been six of the brethren chosen to go down into the tomb that morning—two blackrobes and four greyrobes, including Acquel. No whiterobes were to join them. The Magister had forbidden it. It was far too holy a place to allow novices, requiring the reflection and maturity of more senior brethren. Acquel shot a glance over to Kell who was carefully shuffling down the steps, one foot at a time, his left hand gathering up the skirt of his woollen robes. Acquel could see his face in the orange glow of the torch. There wasn’t the trace of a smile on his lips now, and whatever thoughts ran through his mind were his own, in no way betrayed by outward expression. Two days before, when the tremors began deep in the bowels of the earth below Livorna, pediments and walls had come crashing down and clay tiles had showered the streets, striking man and beast alike. The great east tower of the city gates had cracked like an old walnut, leaving a gap wide enough to walk through. Mercifully, very few in the city had died and the merchants, eager to stop looters, had begun clearing the debris within the hour. The High Priest, Brachus, grew fearful that the crypt itself had been shattered by the force of the tremor. He had ordered Magister Kodoris to send some brethren down into the tomb. And that is how Acquel, a greyrobe of no particular skill, an indifferent scribe and even worse chorister, found himself chosen this morning to explore the tomb of the great Lawgiver, Saint Elded, dead for seven centuries. What they had discovered necessitated a second trip into the caves and this time accompanied by no less than the Magister himself.
Acquel looked to the faces of the other greyrobes. Worry on all of them and a mask of outright fear on one. No one spoke. It was a far cry from earlier that day when they had joked and laughed, Brother Kell even suppressing a chuckle as he scolded them into a more pious demeanour. Brother Silvio, a wise-cracking greyrobe who Acquel knew well, kept talking of ghosts that were watching them and waiting for their moment to pounce; creatures that would wrap their long bony hands about you as they sucked out your lifeblood. Anything left would be a meal for the fat-bodied cave spiders as big as your fist. Acquel had grinned in the torchlight, exchanging a wink with gap-toothed Silvio. Now their voices were silent. The echo of their footfalls seemed deafening and the only other sound was the snapping and hissing of the torches as they made their way further into the cavern.
A strong scent of mould filled his nostrils and, unbidden, a memory came to him.
He was in the market in the low town, stalking carefully among the stalls and tables. He was eleven. Crouched down, his eyes peered over a table edge as townspeople bustled around him. The skinny baker in a silly slashed cap was fumbling for coins in his pouch while he laughed with a customer. The boy’s gaze settled upon warm steaming loaves of rye bread an arm’s reach away. He had gathered two up to his face, inhaling deeply, before laughing and tearing down the alley with his prizes. Even now, in the darkness, he felt a thin smile part his lips. A hacking cough echoed on the stairs and the reality of the present pressed down upon him.
Four paces behind them was Magister Kodoris himself in his robes of burgundy, and arrayed on either side a contingent of the Temple guard. As they made their way down, the roof of the cavern changed to stone of reddish hue. They were deep underneath the Ara monastery but just how far down Acquel could not even imagine. It was a miracle that the way in front of them was not blocked by fallen stone. Somehow the passage had stayed intact. As if, thought Acquel, they were meant to find what they had found.
The air was colder and more damp. Above their heads a strange-greenish, white glow clung to the rock. Brother Kell had calmed them earlier, explaining it was only some mushroom that produced this effect, offering them a natural light along the way, a gift of God.
Acquel remembered
the awe he felt that morning when they reached the burial chamber and lifted their torches, the ceiling of the cavern suddenly soaring upwards, high over their heads, its true height lost in shadows. A flat-topped pyramid of carefully laid white limestone rose up some twenty feet high, topped by a large rectangular sarcophagus of beautiful marble, swirled black and cream white. Ceaseless dripping from the cavern ceiling had created rust red rivulets of slime down the sides of the marble, making it look as if blood had been spilt.
Even from where they stood at the base of the pyramid, they could see the great crack that had sundered the tomb of Elded. The lid was broken too, casually ajar and precariously balanced. They had all ascended the limestone stairs, the blackrobes first. The stones were slick with ooze. At the top Brother Kell went to his knees in prayer, as did the other blackrobe. Acquel, slack-jawed in wonder, was too carried by the moment to even think of prayer. He held out his torch to view the fine carvings in the marble, sinuous designs of ancient foliage, delicately worked into the stone by the master masons of antiquity. His feet carried him around the side, and here the quake had dislodged the entire end stone. A large slab lay broken, halfway down the pyramid dais.
He had knelt down, holding out his torch in front of him, moving closer to the aperture, almost forgetting to breathe. His eyes took in the sight before him, dimly illuminated. But he saw. The skeleton of the saint was laid out, feet foremost to him, wrapped haphazardly in faded cloth now tissue thin with the passage of time. Perhaps his heart should have been filled with piety then, but he had taken to monkhood in the same way as many men had to their professions whether tiler, baker, or blacksmith. He had just fallen into it. Or rather, to be more exact, his mother, a washerwoman for the Count’s household, had forced the issue a few years previously, demanding he offer himself as a novice to the church. His casual thieving in the streets of Livorna had grown less casual and more accomplished. She had told him she’d be damned if she was going to be thrown out of the palace for his sake. It was join the Church or she would call the watch to haul him off to the magistrate and from there to a hole of a gaol in low town.
The habits of the street die hard, even in an indifferent greyrobe like Acquel. And before he had even really thought about it, his hand had reached into the sarcophagus and grasped the thing that had truly caught his eye. It was a gold amulet, its chain sparkling through the dust. He thrust it into the pocket of his robe in an instant, the automatic reflex of long practice. He threw a rapid glance over his shoulder. The brethren had not come around to the foot of the tomb. The price on the market for a saint’s knucklebone was a small fortune but to have a relic from the Lawgiver himself was too tempting an opportunity to be denied. On both knees, he leaned further into the tomb, the torch nearly burning his face. The flickering light shone harshly on the mortal remains of Elded and Acquel saw how very tall he had been. He tried not to look at the skull which was turned towards him, jaw dangling in a silent cry.
“Brother Acquel! Have you found something?” It was Silvio’s hand on his back. “Can you see the Lawgiver? Let me have a look.”
And that was when Acquel saw what he had first overlooked. It struck him like a hammer blow, but only after a few moments had passed, as if his brain would not allow him to recognise what his eyes had seen. He fell backwards and into Silvio’s arms, stuttering. Brother Kell was suddenly there, shoving them both out of the way, frothing with anger over their sacrilegious foolery. Kell’s tongue-lashing died away when he saw Acquel’s frozen face. Acquel’s voice was a strangled whisper. “The Lawgiver… His body.”
Brother Kell thrust his torch into the tomb. There was cry of anguish and confusion as the blackrobe sank to his knees.
That had been some four hours ago. Brother Kell had duly made report to the Magister who had demanded to be brought to the place to see for himself. And now the whole numbed party, joined by the Magister and his guards, were standing once again at the foot of the pyramid.
This time, Acquel had no desire to ascend. Brother Kell whispered something to the Magister and the two slowly climbed the steps. Kodoris paused halfway up, knelt, and began to pray aloud. Brother Kell followed his example. The greyrobes exchanged nervous looks.
Acquel felt a tinge of sadness for Magister Kodoris. For what he was about to see. He liked the old man, and although he had never exchanged a word with the priest who ruled them all, he thought of Kodoris as though he was some aloof grandfather. He would always be given a kindly nod when he passed by and a twinkle of acknowledgement from large brown eyes and bushy brows. Kodoris rose and continued up, while Brother Kell, somewhat stooped, followed, holding aloft the torch to guide the way. Acquel lost sight of them as they reached the foot of the sarcophagus, and he looked around in the nervous silence. The five guardsmen stood in their crimson waist sashes, hands resting on the hilts of their short double-edged swords. Had they been told, wondered Acquel? Not if their bored expressions were anything to go by. One of the guards wiped his mouth and cheek with a gloved hand and pulled his cloak closer about his studded red leather jerkin to stave off the damp.
Silvio glided to Acquel’s side and leaned in to whisper, “Maybe the saint’s body was stolen years ago and they left this in its place. That must be what happened, right?”
Acquel shook his head. “Either way this will not end well. I wouldn’t want be the one to tell the High Priest.”
The blackrobe standing behind Acquel had overheard their exchange. “I saw the unbroken seals at the entrance above this very morning,” he said, his voice drained of emotion. “We are the first—and only ones—to come into the crypt. God save us all.”
Silvio started slightly, taking a half step closer to Acquel. The magister and Brother Kell had re-emerged from the sarcophagus and begun to descend the pyramid. Kell was ashen, as before, but Magister Kodoris was an absolute blank. Not just expressionless as if pole-axed, thought Acquel, but blank as if he was thinking about what to do next. Thinking like mad.
When they reached the uneven earth of the cavern floor, Kodoris, a head taller than Brother Kell, turned to him and tenderly cupped his hands about the monk’s face. He leaned in and whispered earnestly. He then stood back and looked at the others. Acquel watched as Brother Kell’s eyes welled with tears.
Magister Kodoris’s voice was strong but calm; soothing and reassuring. The grandfather Acquel had never known. “Brethren, this revelation has set us a terrible challenge, it would make you lose heart. But do not let your faith fail you. Our faith must be sustained and we must all do what must be done to preserve that faith.” Kodoris nodded, as if to affirm the correctness of what he was saying. Acquel thought that what must be done was just a polite way of saying that they would have to lie about what they had seen. But what else could the Magister say at such a moment of shocking revelation?
“Now, my brothers,” continued Kodoris, “were any others amongst you this morning when you entered the tomb?”
“No, Magister. We are all,” replied the blackrobe behind Acquel. Brother Kell’s chin had dropped to his chest. He was silent, not confirming the monk’s words. Kodoris nodded gravely and walked to the guards who stood off to one side, all attentive now that they could tell something had gone darkly wrong. Kodoris put a hand to the shoulder of one, leaning in to speak rapidly and quietly.
Brother Kell spoke up then, his voice quavering. “Brethren, to me!” He lifted both arms wide as if to gather the greyrobes to him; an act of fatherly consolation. But a street thief has a sense for the unspoken, the tell-tale movement of hand and foot as if joined by an invisible silken strand. And Acquel had not forgotten these things. The greyrobes shuffled towards Brother Kell but Acquel moved more slowly, letting the other monks move past him.
At the same time, Acquel saw the Magister step to one side, joining with the guardsmen. Without even thinking, Acquel stopped and took small steps backwards.
Silvio turned his head. “Acquel?”
That was when the cloak of the f
irst guardsman was swept aside, revealing the silver flash of naked steel. His left arm pulled in Brother Kell while his right rammed the short stabbing sword upwards into Kell’s belly, the force pushing the monk backwards. Brother Kell did not cry out, it was more of a loud exhalation, as if willing his soul to take flight. He collapsed silently, sinking to his knees and falling forward. He had let himself be the first sacrifice.
The guardsmen were on the others without hesitation. The greyrobes were frozen into terror, easy marks for wide blades that plunged past collarbones and into their hearts. Only the other blackrobe fought, pushing away the soldier that moved upon him. It mattered for nothing. He was quickly overwhelmed and dispatched. All this happened in an instant. And for an instant, Acquel locked eyes with a guard who was also caught in the terrible moment’s strange dreamlike quality. The young guardsman’s eyes were huge in the torchlight and the look he wore was one of almost nervous frenzy, poised as he was to leap forward. Acquel whirled, his long legs propelling him towards the steps leading out of the chamber. The cries of the dying greyrobes sounded like foxes screeching in the night.
A monk’s robes are not made for climbing, let alone running in, and even as Acquel made it to the second tier of steps, he could hear the footfalls and jangling harness of his pursuer closing on him. He’d never outrun him, he knew that. Halfway up the third tier of steps he turned and flung his torch at the guardsman. More by luck than design, the flaming head struck the man in the face, splashing him with burning tallow. The soldier’s hands flew to his head as his shin struck stone, and he was down. Acquel gathered up the skirts of his robe and bounded up the steps.
The Guns of Ivrea Page 1