By Sylvian Hamilton (33 page)

'Aye.
But it all went wrong and the gate was never closed. Their demon went
back where it came from but the gate is still open. It can come back
any time.'

Chapter
37

Sir
Blaise sat in the window seat of the upper chamber, turning the pages
of a great book he'd found among the Arab's magical paraphernalia. It
was the same book Straccan had seen at Crawgard, written in one of
the ancient languages of Arabia. So antique was the writing that
Blaise could only read it with difficulty. Some of it he did not
understand, but he could comprehend enough to know that this
monstrous volume was both a demonary and an instruction manual of the
evil rituals of Irem. It must be burned, but first he must learn all
he could from it.

During
his dangerous forbidden studies years ago, his teachers in the Holy
Land had spoken of Abdul Al-Hazred and of this very volume. Most had
doubted the existence of both the Arab and his fabled book, but one
gentle old mystic maintained that the book at least might still
exist, and if ever found must be utterly destroyed. He should not
read it; it should be thrust straight into the flames. But his
curiosity, that thirst for answers which had got him into trouble
years ago, could not resist. Here were instructions on the use of
colours in magical defence, something he had never heard of; and this
must surely be the ritual the sorcerer had attempted in the Nine
Stane Rig. Here were listed the names of all lesser demons, and
greater, the very lords of hell. Beside each name the Arab had
written the conjuration to raise that particular demon with the spell
to bind it to his bidding and, God be praised, the incantation to
banish the creature again. He read and reread it, puzzled and
worried. It was almost the same as that which he had learned long ago
from his teachers in Egypt and Syria, but there were differences: a
word here, the order of words there. Which was right, his version or
this? Blaise rubbed his aching eyes and wished he was twenty years
younger.

Straccan
woke soon after sunset, not that the sun had been visible, and the
rain looked like setting in for a second Noah's Flood. Gilla was
still deeply asleep, and the boy, in the straw under a blanket, never
stirred as Straccan carefully stepped over him. In the hall, half a
dozen men were finishing their supper and Bane was mending a rip in
his shirtsleeve by the light of the fire.

'Where's
everybody?' Straccan asked.

'Sir
Blaise rode out an hour or so ago and Sir Miles went after him a bit
later, and I think some of these buggers—' he jerked his chin
towards the men-at-arms, a sullen group at the far end of the hall
'—are up to something.'

'What?'
Straccan had piled cold meat and pickles on a bread trencher and had
his mouth full. He swallowed. 'Is there any milk?'

'Whatever
for?'

'For
Gilla, when she wakes.'

'Oh,
of course. Sorry! Well, there's two cows in the byre and half a dozen
nanny goats wandering round the yard, so there must be some milk
somewhere. I get the feeling it's not much in demand, though. I'll
get some for her.'

'What
did you mean when you said they're up to something?'

'They
were seriously pissed off when the witch got away,' Bane said. 'They
don't want Wotsisname to leg it as well. Soulis, I mean.'

'He's
in chains. The only place he'll go is to King William's gallows.'

'He
may be in chains but he's not gagged, and he's been carrying on
something horrible down there, so the guard says.' Seeing Straccan's
questioning eyebrows—his mouth was full again --Bane added,
'Curses, threats, and sometimes he laughs; they really don't like
that! He's got them very nervous.'

'I'll
go and have a look at him. What's in that barrel?'

'Ale.
Want some?' He held out a horn cup.

Straccan
downed it in three swallows. 'Has Soulis been victualled?'

'Buggered
if I know. Probably not. No one's exactly keen to open the door down
there.'

'And
who are you}' the prisoner demanded.

Straccan
held up his torch. Whether or not he'd been fed, at some time someone
more tender-hearted than the rest had pitchforked a few trusses of
straw into the vault which Soulis had raked together to make a couch.
Chains were fastened to an iron belt round his waist and one to a
fetter on his ankle, long enough for him to walk three or four steps,
no more. Now he sat on the straw with his arms round his knees. In
the impenetrable blackness of the vault beyond the flaring
torchlight, rats scampered and squeaked.

'I’m
Straccan.'

'Oh,
are you? Julitta said you'd be a nuisance. She thought she'd taken
care of you. She must have been quite shocked when you turned up.'

'Why
did she put that spell on me? I never did her any harm, or wished her
ill.'

'To
keep you from interfering further, or ever putting two and two
together. Didn't work. Pity. Primitive enchantments like that are
notoriously unreliable. Women's rubbish! How did you break it, by the
way?'

'I
had help.'

'Did
you? How interesting. From whom, I wonder? Someone with a little
knowledge, was it? Among your comrades, perhaps? You seem to have
wandered the country collecting misfits as you go. That old heretic
d'Etranger, how did you come by him? And that penniless youngster, so
full of futile good intentions.'

'Have
they given you something to eat?'

'No,
and don't trouble yourself, Straccan. I'll not eat while I'm a
prisoner.'

'Then
you'll get hungry.'

'Hungry?
My demon is hungry. You drove it away before it was full-fed, but it
has starved for centuries, it will be back.' He laughed shrilly. 'We
are done for, all of us. Nothing can stop it now!' He laughed more
wildly, rocking to and fro, saliva flying from his lips as his head
jerked back and forth.

'You're
mad,' said Straccan, shivering. 'Mad, a murderer and traitor both.
The king you meant to betray will have his justice of you.'

'That
old fool?' Soulis sneered, and spat in the straw. 'The Lion, they
call him, that toothless senile luckless nithing. A laughing stock
throughout Christendom. It'll be a cold day in hell before he can
harm me! Is it night yet?'

'It's
getting dark.'

'It
will get darker. You've seen the light of day for the last time, you
and your party of fools. You think you've saved your precious
daughter? I told you, nothing can save her now!' His braying mirth
sounded like something bawling in the torments of hell. No wonder it
made the guards nervous; it turned Straccan's own nerves to water. He
turned his back on the prisoner and slammed the door of the vault so
hard the draught blew his torch out.

'Sod
it,' he said with feeling and stumbled up the slimy steps. He was
still shivering and felt the unwelcome nudge of a headache.

'What's
going on?' Larktwist, clattering down the tower's irregular steps,
almost collided with Bane coming out of the hall. Outside, below in
the bailey, could be heard shouts and a woman crying.

Trouble!
The mother of that kid turned up. Saw the body before anyone had the
sense to stop her. Went crazy. You can hear her. She'd brought folk
with her—neighbours, friends--they're howling for blood.'

'I
don't blame them.'

'Nor
me. Thing is, the men here wouldn't mind seeing a bit of blood;
they've seen the kid's body. They know how Lord Robert died, too.
They feel cheated of the witch so they want to be sure of the
warlock.'

'Where's
Sir Blaise got to? He means to take Soulis to the king,' said
Larktwist.

'They
went back to the stones, him and the youngster.'

'What
the devil are they doing there?'

'Unfinished
business, the old man said.'

'What
did he mean?'

'Don't
ask me! They were up there earlier, and after they came back the old
man had his nose in that Arab's book for hours. He ought to have been
resting, he looked like death warmed up. Then he got on his horse and
was just leaving when Sir Miles came down and caught him; said he
ought to be in bed, not buggering about in that bloody circle. They
had a proper row, hammer and tongs, just like married folk. The young
un wanted to go along, and the old man wouldn't let him. Ordered him
to stay behind, he did. So Sir Miles just watched him out of sight
and then saddled up and followed.'

'It's
getting on for midnight. They should be back by now.'

The
angry noise below grew louder and more insistent. 'They mean to have
him,' said Bane uneasily.

'Let
em,' said Larktwist. 'Good riddance!'

They
had planned to leave on the morrow: Blaise to the King of Scots with
Soulis under guard, Miles to his Templar uncle, Straccan and Bane,
with Gilla, home to Stirrup and Larktwist wherever his peculiar
occupation called him. But as Straccan struggled to get his scarred
boots on, the symptoms were unmistakable. Not now! I must get Gilla
out of here. What did he mean, that devil, that nothing could save
her now? God, Christ, I can't be ill now! That lot below are
thinking of lynching Soulis, or I'm no judge. Not that I give a
damn. Where the hell has Blaise got to? I need to talk to him. The
familiar iron band screwed itself tightly round his skull, pain shot
down the back of his neck, he was cold and his legs felt watery. By
the time he found Bane his teeth were chattering.

'Pox
on it,' said Bane. 'Not now!'

'Never
mind that. Where's Blaise?'

'You
should be in bed.'

'Not
yet. Where is he?'

'Him
and Sir Miles went back to the stones.'

There
was a rushing noise in his ears, swelling, fading and returning, and
the disorienting visual effect of seeing everything apparently at the
far end of a long tunnel.

'Get
me a horse,' he said, clinging to the door frame as the floor rose
and fell and the walls advanced and retreated.

'You're
not going anywhere,' Bane protested.

'Yes
I am. They're in trouble, I know it. Something's wrong there. You
stay here. See no harm comes to Gilla.' He gripped Bane's arms and
almost shook him. 'You hear me? Look after her!' At the foot of the
hill he dismounted, but before he could wrap the reins round a branch
his horse reared, screaming, and bolted. He could see nothing that
might have spooked it and stared after the thudding hooves,
astonished.

The
pain in his head was worse now, and vertigo made him feel sick and
weak. Had the hill been this steep last night? Christ, help me, he
prayed. Christ, who guarded my girl, guard me now! He went down on
all fours, scrambling towards the stones. It felt as if he was
pushing his way through water. It was darker up there, too. Or else
it had taken him a damned long time to climb, for he'd been able to
see quite well in the lingering northern twilight when his horse ran
off. There were no stars. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

The
gaps between the stones were doorways into deeper blackness. Lord,
help me! Suddenly he thought of Janiva: her strength and courage the
day she found Julitta's ill charm; and the children, Gilla and Hob,
armoured in innocence and brave beyond reason in the face of evil.
Taking strength from their courage, he forced himself to keep moving.
The thunder was nearer now. Sweat poured from him as he stepped
between the stones. He was immediately aware of a painful pressure
which hurt his ears and made it difficult to breathe. It was pitch
dark but then lightning split the sky and he saw Blaise, fallen in
the centre, and Miles crouching by one of the stones, hacking
desperately at the turf with his dagger.

Crossing
the circle through the resisting air took for ever, as if in a
nightmare. His legs were as heavy as lead. Even his words came
slowly. And Miles's replies.

'What's
... going ... on?'

'Bury
... these.' Miles clutched the broken reliquary chain.

'One
... by ... each ... stone.' There were two left. 'This ... in ...
centre.' Gasping for breath, he shoved the last one at Straccan.

'Take!'
He fell forward on hands and knees, his head hanging. Straccan closed
his hand on the reliquary and turned to Blaise, seeking the pulse at
the side of his neck. It beat faintly, erratically, but the old man
was alive.