The Seal (27 page)

The strangeness
of the situation in which Roger found himself, between the madness of that eye
and the madness of this ill-fated quest, pinched at his scarred temples and he
mumbled, ‘So? What omen is it then? Good or bad?’

Marcus turned an
alert and sudden ear to him as if such mumblings were to be regarded as a sign
of quarrel. In this way they remained a moment, mistrusting one another until,
with a jerk of the head, Marcus straightened his back. ‘Bad! Bad! It means that
I shall not let it drown here, not in this impious sea!’ He let this rush out
of him like a roar. ‘Not in it! Because I do not know what is there, beyond
that
reef !
’ He pointed to it. ‘In that darkness! In
that deep darkness where the waves shall pound it and the seagrass shall grow
over it. I shall not bear it, and furthermore, the gold shall not bear it! It
shall not be drowned! It shall not!’ He looked up to see all men regarding him
with stares. ‘Gather the slaves . . . they can swim to it . . . they shall
bring it back, handful by handful if it comes to that. Even if it takes a
year!’ He stopped from lack of breath.

‘Listen to me,’
came Roger de Flor’s mild voice. ‘We are lucky to live, you and I and these
men, we have no choice except to leave it drown. It lies in those depths beyond
the reef. It is deep there and no man, not even the divers of Greece, would
wish to go down into that unknown blackness to find it. God has laid it to
rest. What we must do now is find a village and horses –’

‘My orders,’
Marcus said slowly, patiently, ‘were to take the gold to Scotland, not to the
bottom of the sea!’

The commander
stood upon that sand with the birthing sun making a shadow in the hollows and
ditches of his face, waiting.

For his part
Roger waited also, looking into that Templar gaze laid bare upon him. He was
hoping that below the tone of insanity lay some intelligence. ‘Then the sea of
Scotland shall be close enough.’

‘Close enough?’
The man peered down at him with wide eyes. ‘Close enough?’ He twitched and his
entire body moved as if commanded by something other than his soul. This lasted
but a moment and then something in his face changed, like a light going out in
a room to leave only greyness where colour had once been. From his mouth came
these words, ‘I go,’ and he walked away.

The afternoon
was old and the wind freshening when Marcus sat atop the cliff overlooking the
beach and the sea and the island some way off. He grieved for the gold, the
titles and the archives, and as his mind fell upon the creatures of the sea,
the grasses and the pounding waves, he prayed that they would do well by the
Lord’s treasure.

He gazed down
upon the blue expanse with his mind crowded with thoughts as still and curdled
as old milk. He told himself that green wood could bend, but that he was old
and dry and parched. Only fire could straighten him now and his fire was died
down.

Finally his
faith was spent.

Why had he not
died with a sword in the hand at Acre or at Sidon? Why had he been forced to
wait for this end of ends? With no zeal left in the hollows of his heart?

‘Ahh Jacques, my
friend! You cannot send a man on such a journey, long and miserable, to dispose
of the reason for his being, without it leaving him feeling betrayed!’ he said
out loud and it sounded to his ear like a dying animal. ‘God has betrayed me! I
shall not bear it!’

It was almost
nightfall when he came down from the rocky point.

With no eye to
the men and no word to Roger de Flor, he mounted the last pitiful surviving
animal and took himself from the beach at a gallop.

At that moment
it began to snow.

E
tienne
was once more taken up into a dream. Inside the cold tomb his body ached and
fell numb. Then, as before, the light was extinguished and he was alone.

I rise like the
sun, like the moon above the date palms. Into the light, I enter, complete.
Where there is darkness, there is none of me. I am one among the stars. I am
sworn to life and bound to death. I am the sun, a splendid eye set ablaze in
the forehead of its father. I will drink the waters of Lethe.

I have come before
you, Osiris, to purify evil.

The sphinx on
the right that supported his tomb mocked him. ‘You are forsaken by Osiris! Your
heart has been weighed and has been found wanting. Do you believe He shall find
a dwelling place in you? Your soul is full of doubt . . . Jump, and the wind
shall keep you from the ground and prove to your faithless soul that you are
saved from the abyss!’

Ye shall not
hold captive my soul. Ye shall not keep my shadow. I will lift up my mind and
advance to the uppermost limits of heaven; I know the Light-god, his winds are
in my body.

The sphinx on
the left told him, ‘
What
moves among your quelled
secrets is only a seeming of goodness that deepens not to piety but to the
illusion. You defile the cross of life and your heart is full of hate for the
Sun. Adore my darkness instead, it shall illuminate for you all things of the
world’

You who set a
seal upon the dead, and who would do evil to me, shall do no evil to me. Hasten,
oh my Lord, on the way to me. Thy heart is with thee. My Heart-soul and my
Spirit-soul are equipped; I look upon those who dwell in the uppermost limits
of the horizon to whence I have directed the Powers of the ways, the wardens of
the wide spaces, and of the Hemat House of heaven.

The chamber
resounded with a voice from the deeps. ‘You are afraid, for your bread has
turned to stone in your mouth and it shall be heavy in your belly.’

Etienne’s mind
melted into the blackness of the earth, into the crags and clefts, and he felt
himself firm, waiting for what would come.

There was day
and night behind his lids, which fluttered open and closed again. He was pulled
and dragged and suspended above the ground. There were bars all around and the
sounds of birds, but when he tried to open his eyes he could not, and when he
made to move his body a shot of pain came through his shoulders to his back and
down to his heels and he lost his strength so that his head was drawn into
nothing and away from the qualms of the world.

But a voice
spoke then . . .

‘The cock crows
twice, Etienne, once when you are descended to mortal flesh, and a second time
when you have ascended.’

Etienne felt
warmth enter into a deserted and forbidden place within him, and in this warmth
a pulsing of sunlight caused
a wakefulness
more awake
than the vision of life. This was, he knew, a moment bequeathed by grace, a
conjunction of stars in the mighty fabric of the sky, or an eclipse of the moon
or sun. He sensed a regard held fast upon him, a warrior-spirit in human form,
frown-full with a look of concentrated piety.

He recognised it
and he felt relief and hope, since it was the countenance of the Archangel St
Michael, with whom he felt at ease and whose custom had been to visit him now
and again, at such moments of trouble.

‘You sleep
long.’ The regard upon him was sad and somewhat close. ‘Were they happy
dreams?’

‘I am stabbed,’
Etienne said to the Archangel.

‘You are
stabbed, but you live.’

‘No . . .’
Etienne said, and it seemed to him strange to correct a being so mighty and
all-knowing
. ‘There is rust in my armour and it no longer
shines! The burden begins to outweigh my heart, and I shall not bear its
lightness. I am weighed down and I am weak to the Devil and to Satan who have
distinguished my dead parts and who both seek to pick at the bones of my soul!’

‘Satan is not
among us, but on earth, where his illusion dwells. The Devil is where I have
sent him, to nurse you in your earthly sleep. Your doings have me full of
attention, Etienne. I have been observing your progress and I have been in contemplation
with the being of Christ on your regard . . . He wishes to confide in you.’

Etienne felt
warmth and love and love again. ‘In me?’

‘He wishes you
to know that life will enter those lifeless parts which the adversary and his
brother seek to take for themselves. Before that there is always a death. There
is always darkness and the abyss before the eye is opened to the light of
Christ.’

‘I am dead
then?’

‘You have died
many times. Now you are alive. It is the privilege of men that when they live,
they do not know that they are dead.’

Then all was
silent.

From the night
sounds surfaced, then reached his ears and spoke of wine and women and impious
merrymaking. But it was hours before he could open his eyes and make steady his
head: hours of long listening in the crow cage hung high above the ground,
swinging in the breeze, thinking of his conversations with devils and angels.
Now all was quiet again and he looked out from the bars of wood to the compound
a moment and drew back from pain.

It was cold. The
night hung low and starless and there was snow in the breeze. With his knees to
his chin, a cramp in his thigh and the hurt in his side, he dozed again and
dreamt that they drew blood and left him for the crows to peck at his eyes.

He was awakened
by the sound of the chain and the cage being lowered. What now?
he
thought. Through the haze of pain and exhaustion he saw
the aperture open and a face in the gloom.

‘You are not
dead then, lord?’ said Gideon in a rough whisper. ‘But you have more pieces to
put together!’

The hurt in his
side made a sigh come from him as he stretched forth a shaking leg. Released
from the confines of the cage, Etienne stood a moment, unsure of his eyes and
his ears. ‘The others?’

‘Jourdain is
gone to fetch horses, Delgado went to find weapons.’

‘And you have
come to fetch me?’ He stooped forward since the world was turning and he was of
the mind to follow it. Gideon caught hold of him with one sinewy arm.

Stiff and
awkward, with the Norman holding onto him under that low sky, Etienne heard the
sound of a muffled struggle coming from the stables, then more silence.

‘I will go and
help with the killing,’ said Gideon and Etienne watched his form fade into the
blackness.

There he stood,
returned to the night with his head clouded over and his dry tongue rasping at
the roof of his mouth. A sudden sensation, an instinct was felt then. A noise
made itself known in his head and his heart, and he saw a sword or rather felt
its wind whistle past his right ear. The response was not swift but adequate:
he swung out of range.

‘Who are you?’
he said, as if it meant something.

There was no
answer.

Etienne looked
from side to side; a shape, once again an
outline,
came at him and he moved away so that his hurts were poured out over his side
and he had to stoop to get his breath back. Looking up he saw the dark shape
coming again, then the glint of steel. He did not so much move as jerk out of
the way but this time his balance was lost and he fell. He sensed a movement;
he kicked out at it and a pain struck him with such a force as to push the air
from his lungs. A sword was flung to the
ground,
he
heard the metal sound of it.

Over Etienne’s
face then came the man and a knife blade near his cheek.

There was the
blink of an eye near his. ‘Dead man, old man!’ The shape told him, ‘You will
not flee from me!’

The face was all
a-pant, staring and staring; a moment later it changed expression, the eyes
rolled upward to white and it disappeared into the dark sky without stars. A
sudden wind picked up and from the night a hand helped him to his feet.

It was Gideon.

Etienne’s head
was light and he felt his cheek and the cut wet with blood. ‘Who is it?’

‘A man.’

‘I thought it
was the Devil.’ Etienne shook his head and looked at the face in the dark.

Then he heard
Jourdain’s voice. ‘Etienne?’

‘It is I. You
are alive!’

‘I am a little
abused,’ Jourdain said. ‘You are worse. Come . . .’ He swung a deer-hide cloak
over Etienne’s shoulders, steadying him. The horses, harnessed with provisions,
stood with ears twitching in the freshening breeze. All was silent except for
Delgado, who returned with weapons: an axe and Etienne’s sword without its
scabbard. It felt good to Etienne to have it back. He took it and heavy now it
seemed to him.

‘All of them are
dead, lord,’ Delgado told Etienne, rubbing his hands. ‘The women, shall we put
them down the well?’ There was a laugh. ‘They may not fit and we shall have to
heap one over the other . . . eh, Norman? These women are like those of your
country!’ He said this and then his voice turned grave: ‘But they are not as
ugly as my sisters.’

The Norman
shrugged, unamused. ‘That is why a man must get drunk,’ he said and walked away
towards the horses.