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From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 22 Mar 2004 11:46:20 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} A Fall in Antioch (MF Hist)
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Date: Mon, 22 Mar 2004 15:10:02 -0500
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Denny, like me, is a fan of the 'Brother Cadfael' mysteries by the late
Ellis Peters. We know from the stories that Cadfael was ' forty years in the
World' before becoming a monk. So Denny asked if I could write a 'Cadfael'
story telling something of his adventures before he retired to the cloisters
of Shrewsbury Abbey. This is the first of three such stories. It isn't meant
to stand comparison with Ellis Peters' brilliant novels but I have tried to
be faithful to her character. So this one's for Denny - a very small
repayment for all his help.


A Fall in Antioch



August 1098


"God's Wounds, it's hot!"

The grizzled soldier removed his leather cap and mopped his brow with a
filthy rag. His younger companion at the sentry post nodded by way of reply.
Below their vantage point in the gatecastle, the city sprawled, baking in
the heat, although it lacked an hour to noon. Looking away to the west,
where the remains of the army's siege camp could still be seen, the air
shimmered and the distant images danced, as though upon a sea. The two
guards moved slowly along the walls. The younger man, a Welsh man-at-arms
named Cadfael, paused to drink at the water butt. It could hardly be called
refreshment, he mused, the blood-hot liquid carried the rank taste of the
vinegar added to purify it; plague was rife and one couldn't be too careful.

Cadfael stood up, rubbed his aching back with both hands and adjusted the
yew bow that was slung over one shoulder. Horseshoes clattered in the
courtyard below. A knight arriving or leaving the Council. The young soldier
sighed. It was the horses he pitied most. They, poor beasts, had no say in
the matter and too many destriers had left their bones in the wastes to the
north of Antioch. He wondered again at what had led him to this place. Oh,
it had sounded fine enough back home. The priests blessed them when they
left to join God's army. This rabble! The Normans hated the Franks and the
Italian followers of Count Bohemond hated everyone. He, a Welshman of
Gwynedd, had found himself with the English contingent under the command of
Robert, Duke of Normandy. Robert was a brave warrior but a remote and
ineffectual leader. He clung to dreams of glory, even in the face of the
squalid reality that this great crusade had become.

What had started as a great and wondrous adventure had collapsed into bitter
ashes of acrimony and mistrust. The battle cry of 'Onwards to Jerusalem' now
sounded hollow even to the most dedicated ears. The army was suffering
badly. Supplies were poor and infrequent. The Genoese merchantmen that
brought goods from Europe to the port of St Symeon had hiked their prices
fourfold. What little plunder that filtered down to humble soldiers like
Cadfael was soon spent. The hot, stony deserts had taken their toll on man
and beast and there was always the constant fear of plague that seemed to
afflict them wherever they made camp for too long. Some things never
changed, though. The arrogance of the chevaliers, for instance. Any man who
couldn't speak French was considered worthless, even though many of the
so-called 'flower of chivalry' were now reduced to foot soldiers. Most of
the knights were penniless; younger sons sent on the crusades because their
fathers' estates could not support them. Yet they still comported themselves
as if at Court. Cadfael found all of this difficult to understand for a son
of Wales.

He was short and square of build with the heavy musculature around the chest
and shoulders that is witness to many hours spent pulling on the yew bow.
His countenance might be best described as open; comely enough; a good Welsh
face with much bone and heavy brows beneath the russet-brown hair. He was
perhaps barely twenty but it was difficult to judge, his skin burnt
teak-brown by the strong sun of the Holy Land.

He was roused from his reverie by a shout; a high, panicked sound that ended
abruptly. Cadfael and his companion raced along the walls in the direction
of the noise. There was a small gap in the parapet where stones, weakened in
the recent siege, had been dislodged. The two soldiers regarded each other
with wary eyes. Both had heard the commotion yet neither wished be the first
to question the other. Cadfael stooped and examined the dusty stone
fragments by the broken inner parapet. He rose slowly and leant out to peer
over the edge. There, some forty feet below, was the body of a man. It was
clear, even from that distance, that the poor unfortunate had departed this
world. The limbs lay every which-way and the unnatural angle of the head
revealed a broken neck.

As happens when such disaster befalls, a crowd gathered swiftly. Cadfael and
his companion stared down from their vantage point until a peremptory voice,
much used to command, summoned them down from their eyrie. They made a
reluctant descent. It is not the way of soldiers to seek the company of
their betters and in this Cadfael was no exception. He would give best to no
man but rather preferred to go his own way in life. He could recognise and
submit to authority readily enough if the case demanded such but otherwise
he was content to be left to discharge his duty in a manner he thought fit,
and he was never one to shirk.

"You there! What happened here? How came this man to fall?"


The two guards regarded their interrogator solemnly with the blank faces of
those who do not understand the question or, at least, why such should be
addressed to them. The older soldier, one Godred of Gloucester, a Saxon,
merely shrugged. The nobleman was unknown to him and, furthermore, the
thought of any involvement in this event suggested blame and blame was
something Godred would avoid. Cadfael, meantime, was eyeing the corpse. He
thought he recognised the man slightly. As he looked, he could not shake the
feeling that all was not as it should be. He knelt beside the body to look
more closely.

In the time since he had fled his native hearth, and, truth be told, his
unfortunate betrothed, Cadfael had become well acquainted with death in all
its sordid and unseemly forms. What he saw now puzzled him. With a grunted
'by your leave' he turned the body over and made a low clicking sound with
his tongue. The back of the skull showed a deep, circular gash but with
little bleeding. He felt under the lank, greasy hair along the neck from the
base of the skull to the shoulder. The shattered vertebrae were obvious. He
turned his attention to the rest of the body, noting the same sort of
patched homespun as clothed most of the army. But why was the man wearing a
cloak? It was hot as Hades.

The knight grew impatient.

"Get up man, he's beyond your help."

"That he is," Cadfael replied slowly, rising from his knees. "But I can tell
you that he did not die here."

"Nonsense, man. That fall would have killed anyone."

"It would, My Lord; anyone living. This man died elsewhere. I think we are
meant to believe otherwise, mind."

"And do you say so?" There was a certainty about this young archer that
pricked the man's curiosity.

"Look here. He took this blow from the bastion as he fell."

"So?"

"It didn't bleed. My Lord, you have seen such wounds. It is not unlike that
made by a blow from a mace. Headwounds bleed freely, as you will own."

"I see. Yes, truly, there has been no bleeding. What else?"

"He wears a cloak, My Lord. On such a day in the blaze of noon? Yet we all
sweat like pigs his skin is dry. And there's more."

"Go on."

"The leather of his boots has been scuffed, not on the soles or heels, we're
all in that case. No, My Lord, look you here. The back of the boot. That's
fresh scarring to my eyes."

The knight looked down where Cadfael's thick finger indicated a fresh
looking gouge in the leather, above the heel and running straight upwards,
to the boot top. He nodded vaguely, already regretting his involvement.

"So tell me what you believe happened."

"I would say, although there can be no certainty, that he met his death last
night. The cloak was worn against the cold. Someone decided to cast his body
from the wall, hoping it would be thought an accident. The scrape on the
boot occurred when the body was dragged up the stairs or else, along the
battlements."

"A murder, then, you say?"

"No, that I do not say; only that he died last night and some place else."

"But, if not murder, why go to the trouble of playing out an accident?"

"Ah. There is that."




The assembled idlers listened to the exchanges agog. A low hum of muttered
speculation rose. The knight spun on his heel and eyed them.

"Does any here know this man?"

A tall, skinny, ill-favoured individual pushed himself to the front.

"That's Walter Veritas, groom to Sir Lionel de Blois, or was before His
Lordship died."

Cadfael nodded. He remembered then. The man had come, seeking to join the
company of archers after his master's death. The captain had refused him on
grounds of a lack of skill. "And we've no mounts to tend," the captain had
told him. Walter had made no complaint but left to try his fortune
elsewhere.

"Oh well, there's little to be done here now. Take his body to the
infirmary. And you," this to Cadfael, "attend me later. I am Mercier de
Longueval, aide to Count Bohemond. You will find me at his quarters. Come at
curfew."

Cadfael nodded stoically. He had little appetite for the task but accepted
nonetheless. Godred jerked his thumb upwards in a gesture that suggested
that they had best be getting back. He gave Cadfael a grimace of
commiseration and puffed out his cheeks.

"Perhaps it would have been better if you had let it go," he muttered as
they walked away.

"That I could not do, in all conscience. A man is dead and, whether by fair
means or foul, I cannot say. But I do know that it merits more than a
passing thought."

"So you said! Ah well, on your head be it."

The relief came late in the afternoon and Cadfael made his way somewhat
wearily back to the archers' camp. He sought the captain and explained all
that had transpired and of his summons to attend Sir Mercier de Longueval.
The captain offered no comment but signalled his agreement and Cadfael found
himself with an hour or two to kill before the curfew bell sounded. He found
his footsteps taking him into the market quarter though, God knew, he had
little enough silver with which to make any purchases. The worst of the heat
was gone and, although the air lacked that freshness of the morning, Cadfael
felt a blessed relief as he made his way down the close-packed alleys that
led to the main square. The stallholders were packing up their goods for the
night and Cadfael could see their offerings were sparse. Leatherwork and
cloth, brass pots and gimcrack jewellery with here and there a vendor of
unappetising food. The siege had gone hard with the city and no caravans had
arrived bringing spices, silks and frankincense for many months now.
Once-wealthy merchants now stood listlessly by half empty booths, hollow
eyed and ill-fed.

Cadfael turned into the Street of Sailmakers and wandered idly among the
booths. A voice hailed him by name and he advanced smiling to greet his
friend, Salah the apothecary. Salah was tall but stooped and his weathered
features bore the unmistakable stamp of the desert.

"Salaam aleikum, Cadfael. Peace be unto you."

"And to you, Salah bin Mugrun."

"And what brings you to the bazaar, my friend? You seek some remedy or
unguent, perhaps?"

"No, Salah, I was simply walking, following my feet, and they led me to your
door."

"Come then and take refreshment with me."

The apothecary beckoned Cadfael into the interior of his booth and clapped
his hands. A slim, dark-eyed girl appeared and Salah called for coffee and
sweetmeats. She made a slight bow and withdrew, her eyes regarding Cadfael
with open curiosity.

"My niece, Mariam," the older man explained and urged Cadfael to sit with an
expansive gesture. "She is learning my art."








Cadfael merely nodded and breathed in the intoxicating mixture of scents
that pervaded the interior of the apothecary's booth. Bunches of wild herbs
hung up to dry and there were shelves filled with oils and infusions, pots
of ointment, vials of powders and liquids of every hue and description. The
store never ceased to fascinate the young soldier. He had met Salah by
chance the previous month. Cadfael had been looking for some physick for an
infected cut on one foot. Salah had seen him limping and almost dragged him
into the booth. The treatment had been effective and Cadfael felt he owed
the apothecary a debt of gratitude. He had seen too many men's wounds turn
morbid and had feared the worst in his own case. He returned to Salah's
booth a few days later, bearing a gift of olive oil, and had stopped for an
hour or two to talk. Since then, he had visited the man on perhaps a dozen
occasions and, through assiduous questioning, was starting to learn the
basics of the herbalist's art. If Cadfael had a motto it would be 'nothing
learned is ever wasted.'

He recognised many of the plants used as being common weeds that grow
everywhere from Aber Menai to Jerusalem but there were more that he could
not put a name to. Salah answered all his questions with patience and
corrected many of Cadfael's misapprehensions with a ready smile.

"No, my friend, wearing a sprig of rosemary will not ward off the plague.
For that, you must drink a decoction of butterbur and the blessed thistle.
But it must stand for two days after the brewing."

They conversed easily for many hours. Salah wanted to know all about the
Western lands that sent such soldiers to his city. When Cadfael related his
tale of the crusade. Salah simply looked puzzled.

"But are we both not people of the Book? There is but one God and if you
believe that Jesus is His prophet.."

"We believe that Jesus is His son, Salah."

"But how? Surely that is blasphemy?"

"I'm no scholar, Salah, I simply tell you what we believe. Yet I have seen
more Christian charity among the supposed infidel than I have had from many
of my own kind."

"I do not understand, Cadfael, my friend. Is there not but one God? And he
is your God and mine, I think."

"So I believe."

"And yet each calls the other 'infidel.' A strange world, my friend."

Meanwhile, Cadfael perfected his knowledge of Trade Greek, the lingua franca
of the Levant, and learned a little of the language of the Syrians. He had a
facility with languages and could converse with equal fluency in Welsh and
English as well as hold his own in Langue d'Oui - the Norman tongue.

Mariam, the apothecary's niece, returned with a brass tray and set the
coffee and sweetmeats before the men. Cadfael gave her a smile of thanks and
her eyes widened slightly but she said nothing and withdrew behind a
curtained door.

"Beware, my friend. My niece is a headstrong girl. Her mother, my only
sister, sent her to me a year gone. Her husband died of the cholera. He had
no family so she returned home. It was not a happy arrangement. Mariam can
be. difficult. There was some trouble over a young man. He was importunate.
Now he walks with a limp."

Sensing Salah's unease, Cadfael smiled.

"I do believe you are trying to tell me something."

"A wise man needs no telling. I like you, Cadfael. You are an honest man and
have a subtle mind."

"But?"

"You are not of our faith or our race, my friend."

"I understand."

But as he walked towards the castle where Bohemond's banner flew in defiance
of Count Raymond, Cadfael could not quite manage to expunge the image of the
dark-eyed slender girl. He cursed himself for a fool and turned his mind to
the meeting with Sir Mercier de Longueval. He did not stop to wonder that he
had become involved. The dead man had cried out to him for justice; he could
not act otherwise. He ran through all he had seen once more; the cloak, the
lack of blood, the scuff marks on the boots. The tale they told was limited
enough. Questions formed in his mind to which he had no answers. Something
worried him, like a burr under a blanket: unseen but irritating for all
that.

Sir Mercier de Longueval did not keep him waiting. The young aristocrat
ushered Cadfael into a small chamber containing a simple wooden table and
chairs and a low bed. An hauberk of fine mail rested on a rough frame and a
costly sword lay upon the blankets. Cadfael took in his surroundings at a
glance. He guessed, correctly, that these were Sir Mercier's quarters and
wondered why he was afforded such intimacy. The knight had a harassed look
and seemed barely in control of his temper. Spots of anger suffused his
cheeks and his movements were jerky and anxious. He motioned Cadfael to a
chair, poured out two goblets of wine and drained one of them at a single
draught.

"Your name, soldier?"

"Cadfael ap Meilyr of Gwynedd."

"Duke Robert's man?"

"Of his band but I owe him no oath. I'm sworn to Eilwynn of Worcester."

"An archer, then. So tell me, Cadfael ap Meilyr, do you know how it lies
between My Lord and Count Raymond?"

"There has been some talk."

"And what is your opinion of the matter?"

Cadfael considered. Count Raymond and the other Nobles who led the Crusade
had sworn an oath to the Emperor Alexis in Constantinople that they would
return any lands of Byzantium liberated from the Turk. This, by rights,
should include Antioch. But Bohemond and his nephew, Tancred, had captured
Antioch where others failed. Further, when the Crusaders had, in turn, been
besieged within the city, the Emperor had turned his army away, refusing to
come to their aid. Although most blamed the craven Stephen of Blois for this
abandonment, Bohemond declared his oath to the Emperor annulled. He had
sworn, he said, in return for the promise of aid and succour when at need.
In this, Alexis had failed. To Bohemond's mind this very failure released
him from his own oath and the turbulent Count now clamed Antioch for his own
Kingdom, supported by Tancred. Cadfael gave a quiet sigh and replied.

"My Lord, it is one to me whether Alexis or your master rules Antioch. I
came to free the Holy Sepulchre and the other places dear to us as
Christians. The disputes of princes are beyond me to understand."

Mercier de Longueval regarded the stocky soldier shrewdly before giving a
shrug. He doubted much was beyond this man's understanding but he was
pleased by the answer. He did not doubt Cadfael's assertion that he had come
to liberate the shrines. Mercier had observed more honest piety among the
men at arms than he witnessed from those of his own rank for whom plunder
seemed the prime motivation.

"The dead man served Lionel de Blois, Stephen's vassal?"

Cadfael nodded by way of reply.

"And this same Lionel died before Stephen's desertion?"

"So I believe, My Lord."

"What else do you know of him?"

"Little enough. He came seeking a place among our band but the Captain would
have none of him. I never saw him again until today."




"Then that is where we must start. I charge with you discovering whom he
next served. That may tell us why someone thought it necessary to do murder.
And if we know the motive, may we also not find the man?"

"May I ask, My Lord, why me?"

"You chose yourself, man. Others were content to believe he fell yet you
were not. May I ask you why?"

"I cannot give you a ready answer, My Lord. It was plain to me that a dead
man fell from the wall. And whether he met his end by fair means or foul, do
we not owe him a reckoning?"

Sir Mercier gave a thin smile. "Too many of this host care less. There would
be more consternation within these walls for a horse deliberately lamed. I
laid the matter before Count Tancred and he laughed it off, saying what is
one more death to this band of butchers? Count Bohemond took notice,
however, and has ordered me to resolve it, come what may. Do you know my
lord, the Count?"

Cadfael shook his head. What he knew of Bohemond was little. The foot
soldiers held the Count in high regard as a General, careful of their lives
and shrewd in battle. Bohemond was a giant among men, his blond head stood
tall above the throng of Nobles and he must have been over a foot taller
than Cadfael. Only his nephew, Tancred, matched him in height and breadth of
chest and shoulder. It was said he had sworn a vow of chastity and was a
pious man, but he also had a reputation for an evil temper and a rough
tongue. All this was hearsay and opinion and Cadfael set little store by
either.

Sir Mercier suddenly smiled.

"He is the best of men, Cadfael; mighty in battle and merciful in victory.
Four times we have defeated the Turks and each time the victory was Bohemond
's. Raymond of Toulouse hates him for it and your Duke Robert will not stand
between them. I like it not. An army divided is an army defeated; bad blood
among our princes will ruin us all."

"Amen to that, My Lord."

"Doesn't it worry you?"

"Let us say that I think our cause has merit but falls beneath my hopes and
expectations as we stand, My Lord."

"Oh, bravely put for a 'simple' soldier! And I fear you will remain
disappointed. Raymond will go to Jerusalem without Bohemond or Tancred, I
fear. I came hence from the council. Things look bleak, Cadfael ap Meilyr, I
own it freely. Still, that is not to the matter in hand. Will you accept my
charge? I'll see you well rewarded for your pains."

"I accept, My Lord, and need no promises to fire me. We owe the man a
reckoning, I said. If I can assist, I'll do my best, but find little room
for hope and more for sorrow."

"So do we all, Cadfael. But don't be so hasty in dismissing your deserts.
Even honest men must eat and, God knows, that's difficult enough! Where
shall you begin?"

"With the man who named the corpse, My Lord. I recognised his face and
recalled the name when I heard it spoken but I fancy that man knew this
Walter Veritas well."

"A good thought. I'll bespeak your Captain to give you leave from your
duties. Send word when you have something to tell me."

"I will, My Lord."

Cadfael left Bohemond's castle with a heavy heart. He had given his word to
investigate as far as he could but doubted he would achieve much. Whoever
killed Walter Veritas had wished to hide the fact. That could be a simple
fear of retribution or something more. It was not uncommon for a brawl
between men to end in death and punishment was slow and only rarely severe.
The armies had become inured to sudden death. A man slain, face to face, was
seldom seen as murdered and, although the Church may demand a heavy penance,
the secular authorities were less inclined to pursue the matter beyond the
payment of a blood-debt. Something told Cadfael that Walter Veritas had not
perished in some squalid brawl over a woman or disputed share of plunder. He
shuddered at the implications.



Cadfael woke early the following morning and dressed hurriedly in the
pre-dawn chill. He wanted to be away from the archers' camp before the place
was stirring and thus avoid those questions he would prefer not to answer.
He marvelled anew, as he slipped out of the ramshackle assortment of huts
and tents, that he had ever allowed himself to become involved. While never
one to shirk his share of duty, neither was he such as would push himself
forward to gain attention. Yet here he was, he mused, acting the sheriff's
man in an affair that had the stench of politics about it. He couldn't put
his finger on why he thought this yet the smell assailed his nostrils
nonetheless.

The dead man had been groom to another now dead; but in life, Sir Lionel de
Blois, cousin to Stephen of Blois, who was regarded by most as a craven and
a traitor, had had a dubious reputation, that of a man who rejoiced in
spreading discord. It was Sir Lionel who had whispered against Count
Bohemond while showing that warrior a civil face. It was Sir Lionel, too,
who was said to have urged his cousin to desert but, when pressed by Count
Raymond, had denounced Stephen as an apostate, an oath-breaker and a craven.
Sir Lionel had died of wounds received in the abortive siege of Arqah and
was mourned by few. That much Cadfael knew to be fact and there was precious
little else to go on. Like attracts like, though, he mused, and doubted
Walter Veritas had many virtues to commend him.

He made his way silently around the base of the city walls in the darkness.
Only the Church of St Peter was showing lights; the torches in their sconces
threw soft shadows by the Chancel door. He alone of the city's inhabitants
seemed to be awake. Rats scurried from his quiet tread but there was no
other sound to disturb the silence. This was Cadfael's favourite time of the
day, when he had the world to himself and there was a coolness to the air
with the just the barest hint of refreshing moisture. He knew that within an
hour of the sun coming up both would vanish into the desiccated heat of the
day. If a man needed to think then this was the time to do it before the
fiery sun drew all the will from him. He made his way to a little square
built around a simple unadorned fountain and sat down upon a stone bench so
old that its surface had been polished smooth by countless backsides. It was
a favourite spot of his and one to which he repaired whenever he wished to
avoid his fellows.

He felt weary already 'though the day had scarcely begun. He recognised it
was the burden of his task that weighed upon him and resolved to cudgel his
brain into life. As he had told Sir Mercier de Longueval, he had, at least,
a place to start. Whither that might take him, he could not guess, but still
he used the time most carefully, preparing a list of questions he would ask
and also, and perhaps more importantly, a list of answers he would give to
those who questioned him.

It was full day by the time Cadfael bestirred himself and made his way to
the open camps where the men-at-arms were to be found. It did not take him
long to find the ill-favoured soldier and he sat down beside the man at his
breakfast fire.

"I recognise you. You're the one as said that Walter Veritas was dead when
he fell from the wall."

Cadfael admitted it was so.

"And what brings you now to my fire?"

"A simple question. Walter tried to join our archers' band but my Captain
would have none of him. I was wondering where he found a home thereafter?"

"Oh, there's no secret to that. He was taken on as groom by one of Count
Raymond's men. I know not his name but the device was a leopard's head over
crossed swords."

"You knew this Walter well, then?"

"Not I! I'd played at dice with him a few times but you know these grooms,
they keep themselves apart mostly."

Cadfael nodded. It was true that many of the grooms were bound to their
lords' service but considered themselves servants rather than soldiers and
few had chosen to take the cross but had been ordered to follow their
masters, not without some resentment in many instances. Such men held aloof
from the rest and hugged their grievances. This did not accord with Walter
Veritas, though. No reluctant pilgrim would look to take service in an
archers' band.

"Was he a free man or a villein, do you know?"

"Free, for what I can say. He'd taken the cross of his own choosing and
liked the life well enough, for all he said."





"When did you see him last?"

"More than a week gone, unless you count seeing him at the foot of the
 wall!"

"And you know not how he came to be there?"

"Not I! Nor care I less. He was no kin to me."

And with that the man resumed his breakfast, turning a little from Cadfael
and signifying thus that the conversation was ended. Cadfael got to his feet
with a brief wave of thanks and made his way across the city to where Count
Raymond's men were lying. The Provencals had commandeered the old Emir's
palace and surrounding houses and were unlikely to welcome anyone on a
mission from Count Bohemond's battle. The heat smote upon him as he walked
and he was sweating freely as he approached the half-ruined palace, the
scene of much looting when the city had fallen to the Crusader army. He
paused briefly to rinse his face at a fountain and regretted again that he
had taken his cloak that morning when the air was cool. Now it was nothing
but an inconvenient weight and, he thought, made him look a trifle strange
in the full heat of the day. He shrugged his concerns aside, bundled his
cloak with a piece of rope and slung it over his shoulder once more.

He hailed a passing man-at-arms and the man approached him with a curious
expression.

"I am seeking a Knight of Count Raymond's battle, one who has the device of
a leopard's head above crossed swords."

The man stared at him blankly and made some reply that Cadfael could
scarcely understand. It was clear the man spoke only the Langue d'Oc and did
not have the Norman tongue. Cadfael tried again, first in English and then
Trade Greek. The man shook his head and spat, then walked away. It was as
Cadfael had expected; outsiders were unwelcome. How then, he wondered, had a
Norman groom found service here? A sharp voice roused him from his reverie.

"You there, what do you want?"

Cadfael turned to see a short, powerfully built knight with close-cropped
dark hair. The stranger's features were heavy, almost crude, and he appeared
to be angry. He wore a long sword on one hip and what appeared to be a long
leather whip at the other. Small tags of iron were woven into the lash. The
fact that he was armed marked him as the captain of the day. Cadfael
patiently repeated his enquiry and the man stared hard at him for a moment
before replying.

"Unless you're on good terms with the Devil you're wasting your time. The
man you seek was Sir Jospin de Guise. He died some three days since and is
coffined and crypted already. Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Cadfael ap Meilyr , an archer in service of Duke Robert. I have
been charged to look into the death of Walter Veritas. I understand he had
taken service with Sir Jospin."

"Was he a Norman, then, this groom?"

"Aye, My Lord."

"I can tell you nothing. Sir Jospin died in a fall from his horse - broke
his foolish neck. I know nothing of any groom."

"Thank you, My Lord. I see I shall have to ask elsewhere."

"Try at the stables, they may know more."

"I shall, My Lord."

Cadfael followed his nose to the stables. The odour of horse sweat and
manure was unmistakeable. No matter how well they were cleaned, the stables
soon reeked like a midden in the heat. He was expecting similar brusque
treatment so was pleasantly surprised when he was greeted with a hearty '
Hello' by a strapping young man dressed in simple clothing that he appeared
to have outgrown long since. He was even more surprised to be hailed in his
native Welsh.



Cadfael replied in the same language:

"I didn't expect to find a brother in the stables of Count Raymond! My name
is Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd of Trefiw. Who is it greets me in the welcome
tongue of Cymru?"

"Morgan ap Iestin ap Ifor of Clywydd at your service."

"Well, Morgan ap Iestin, perhaps you can help me. Did you know Walter
Veritas, lately groom to Sir Jospin de Guise?"

"A little. I heard he fell from the city wall and is now with his maker."

"Dead he is but whether he fell is moot, Morgan. What can you tell me of
him?"

"Not much, to speak true. He came among us but lately. A good man with the
horses but over-fond of dicing for my taste. Still, he must have had luck,
for he always had tin in his pouch."

"Fond of dice, you say? Hmm. Are there many such in Count Raymond's band?"

"No. Mostly he played with his old comrades in the Norman battle - or so he
said. I took no interest. Dice is no game for a poor man like me. But tell
me, friend, if he did not fall from the walls, how did he die?"

"That I don't know, as yet. His neck was broken but I believe he was dead
when he fell."

"Strange! His Lord was the same, if you ask me."

"What?"

"Sir Jospin. They say he broke his neck in a fall from his horse. It's my
belief that he died otherwise."

"You say so! But why?"

"His neck was near shattered, man. It must have been broke in three or four
places. But there was no sign of a blow. And I swear to you, I saw what I
took to be bruises high on his head as if he wore a crown of thorns. I've
not seen the like and I've seen men die in many ways these past few years."

"No one saw him fall, then?"

"None who'd tell, that's God's truth. They found his horse grazing nearby,
said he must have fallen and that was the beginning and the end of it. And
you say Walter was in similar case?"

"I think so, yet I saw no crown of thorns. How did Sir Lionel wear his
 hair?"

"Cut short and shaved at the nape and ears. 'Tis a fashion among Sir Raymond
's following."

"Is there aught else you can tell of Walter?"

"He was a close sort not much given to seeking any man's company. I liked
him not yet neither did I dislike him. Sir Jospin, now, him I did detest.
Still and all, he seemed to suit Walter well enough for he never complained
of his master, as most do here."

"And who is your master?"

"Me? Why I'll have none. I'm a free Welshman and serve for wages. I'm the
farrier to Count Raymond's battle. Aye, and good at my trade though it
grieves me to see the horses in such straits. The nobles are civil enough to
me when they treat their bondsmen worse than dogs."

The two compatriots chatted a while longer and shared a jug of watered wine.
After a while, Cadfael took his leave and left. He determined to seek out
Salah the Apothecary and ask his opinion of the mysterious bruises.




He slung his bundled cloak over his left shoulder and made his way through
the alleys that ran from the Emir's Palace down towards the bazaar. There
was not a breath of air in the narrow lanes between the low, mud-brick
houses and the heat seemed to rebound from the walls and assail him on every
side. He scarcely noticed the stench any more; it was a constant companion
everywhere in the city. He adjusted the weight of the heavy cloak on his
shoulder as he turned a blind corner. That little movement saved his life.
The knife that had been intended for his back deflected off the bundled
cloak and sliced along his ribs before becoming embedded in his left arm.

He spun in shock and pain and the sudden movement tore the knife from his
would-be assassin's grip. Cadfael's soldier's instincts leapt to life and he
lashed out with his booted foot, catching the assailant a ringing blow on
the knee. The man staggered back and threw himself around the corner and out
of sight. Cadfael made to follow but his legs betrayed him and he slumped
against the wall, his head spinning. Only now did the pain begin. He drew a
heaving breath and pushed himself upright. He thought about trying to follow
his attacker but recognised he was in no fit state to do so. He still felt
dizzy and his side and arm were bleeding profusely. Steadying himself with
his good arm on the wall, he made his way slowly onwards to the Street of
the Sailmakers. He now had a very different reason for seeking Salah the
Apothecary.

Salah's booth was shuttered as was customary at this time of the day; no
customers would venture to the bazaar until the relative cool of the
evening. Cadfael pounded on the door and heard the sounds of someone
stirring within. It wasn't Salah's face that greeted him once the bolts were
shot but that of Mariam, the apothecary's niece. She was about to tell him
to come back later when her uncle returned but then she saw the spreading
stain on his side and she sprang forward to support him as his legs gave way
once more and he threatened to collapse. She slipped her slight shoulder
under his and, with a strength that belied her slender frame, heaved him
inside and assisted him to the divan. It was then she saw the knife jutting
from the soldier's arm and she hissed in surprise and concern.

Cadfael was barely conscious as she cut the blood-soaked tunic from him. She
fetched water and linen and washed the deep score along his ribs. She
frowned in concentration as she contemplated the knife. Blood still seeped
from around the edges of the wound. The blade had penetrated the muscles of
his upper arm and the point stood out two finger-widths at the front. She
busied herself preparing a poultice of herbs and a draft of poppy juice to
deaden the pain. She worked carefully and methodically, washing and drying
the wound in his side before smearing it with her herbal compound and
binding Cadfael with a bandage of fresh linen. Satisfied, she next dribbled
some of the poppy juice over the visible portions of the knife before
encouraging Cadfael to drink the rest, supporting his head as he did so. She
waited a while, closely observing the pupils of his eyes until she saw them
shrink -  a sure sign that the potion had its effect. With her patient now
numbed against the pain, she seized the knife and pulled as hard and as
swiftly as she could.

Cadfael groaned as the knife came free. Mariam noted that the blade had no
central groove to make it easy to withdraw. If anything, it appeared to have
been designed to stick fast in the victim's flesh. She noted with alarm the
fresh gouts of black blood that issued forth from the gaping tears in his
arm. She bound the limb just above the wound and pulled the bandage tight
until the bleeding eased to a thin trickle. She felt briefly for a pulse in
Cadfael's neck and, satisfied, she worked quickly to pack the wound with her
poultice before carefully sewing together the gaping lips with thread from
the Chinese worm. Cadfael stirred briefly as he felt the pull of the needle
but remained still as she worked. When she had finished, she smeared more of
the herbal mixture over the stitched wounds and bound his arm, more gently
this time. She removed the tourniquet and was glad to see that no fresh
blood marked the linen of the bandage. She fetched a light woollen blanket
and covered her patient, leaving him to sleep.

When her uncle, Salah, returned, he questioned her closely on all that she
had done.

"Arnica, gentian and yarrow for the wounds. I could do no better. And the
poppy juice?"

"Five drops to the beaker."

"Good! You have done well, Mariam. He sleeps?"

"For an hour or more now. He should wake soon."

"What will you do then?"







"Make him drink. His body needs water. And pray, of course."

"Excellent. More poppy juice?"

"Not yet. Later, perhaps, if the pain is bad, but I'd rather not. A tisane
of hyssop and vinegar might be better. It isn't as strong, but it's less
dangerous."

"I have taught you well, I see. He has reason to be grateful for your skill.
He is young and should heal swiftly, thanks to you. But who'd have thought
that robbers would be so bold as to tackle a soldier in broad daylight?"

"Robbers? I don't believe so, Uncle. Look at the knife. Have you seen its
like?"

Salah regarded the thin-bladed weapon and shook his head.

"It's not Syrian work, nor Turkish. That's a Christian blade. The sort they
call a 'poignard,' I think." And he shook his head, deeply troubled.

Cadfael awoke with a ringing head and a raging thirst. It took him a few
moments to place himself and recall all that had transpired. He made to sit
up and groaned as pain shot through him from his injured arm and side. The
noise brought both Mariam and Salah running.

"Ah, awake, I see," said Salah and smiled with concern at his younger
friend. "A bad wound, my friend, but well tended by Mariam here. You will
soon recover, insh'allah."

Cadfael thanked Mariam but she waved his gratitude away. She fetched a
pitcher of cold water and made him drink then drink again until she was
satisfied. She peered at his eyes, felt his forehead and then nodded at her
uncle.

"No sign of fever."

Salah nodded to her in return and smiled. Mariam helped Cadfael into a more
comfortable posture and made to leave. Salah motioned her to stay and she
sat obediently. Salah the Apothecary turned serious eyes on his friend, the
young Christian soldier. He quietly produced the knife and placed in it
Cadfael's good hand, watching the Welshman's face for any reaction.

"I had thought you the victim of a robbery but this knife gives that the
lie."

Cadfael raised his head and stared back at the older man.

"No, Salah, my friend. This was meant to kill."

Cadfael related the whole story, the finding of the body of Walter Veritas,
his commission to investigate and the various conversations he had,
including the last one with Morgan ap Iestin and the 'crown of thorns.'
Salah's eyes grew wide and he looked about in alarm. When he spoke, his
voice was little above a whisper.

"This is grave news indeed, Cadfael my friend. What you describe is a sure
sign of murder. Among my people there are those who kill for money. A secret
sect that have their origins in Egypt. They are forbidden to shed blood so
have devised many different ways in which to kill. The method that they most
favour is to use a knotted noose."

Salah stood and took off the rope belt that gathered his robe. He passed it
to Cadfael without comment. The belt had seven ornate knots.

"The knots denote the seven tenets of Islam. Many of us wear such, much as
you Christians wear a little cross about your necks. These killers carry a
similar belt but it is also a weapon. It can be used to strangle or, as it
appears in this case, to fit about the head of a victim. They grasp each end
and.."

Salah made a violent sort of double twisting motion with his arms.

"The result is a shattered neck; the bones breaking thrice or more times. A
very strong man can do it with his hands alone, of course, but with the
rope - it is much easier. When they kill thus it is as a punishment; a
signal to others. You walk a dangerous path, my friend."



"Do they have a name, these killers?"

"They have many names but among themselves they are simply called 'the Elect
of Hassan.' Hassan bin Jafar is their supposed founder and saint."

"A saint?"

"Hassan was a holy man from the city of Aqabar. He died perhaps fifty years
ago. It was he who vowed never to shed blood, human or animal, for any
purpose. He would eat no meat or flesh of any description. They developed
their methods of killing in this fashion - to shed no blood. It is doubtful
if he had anything to do with the murderous cult that has grown up in his
name. Evil men twist the truth to suit their own ends. Be thankful it wasn't
one of the Elect who attacked you else not even all our arts could have
saved you."

"Whoever it was came close enough."

"You did not see him then, your attacker?"

"No. He wore a cowl but I know he was a Christian without the evidence of
this poignard. He had the pilgrim's badge about his neck. I saw it clearly
as he turned away from me. That is little help for many here wear it. I
shouldn't know him again."

"But why? One man, at least, killed by the Elect. Another who may have been
and then a knife attack by a fellow Christian on you. I can make no sense of
it."

"Nor can I, Salah. At least, not yet. But I mean to."

"What will you do?"

"I have to see Walter's body again. Now I know what to look for, thanks to
you."

"But you cannot walk so far yet, my friend. Write me a note to take to this
knight, de Longueval. I will see to it. You must rest a while longer if the
wound is not to become something more serious."

Cadfael dutifully wrote a missive to Sir Mercier. He outlined what he had
discovered thus far and skated briefly over the attack on himself. Salah
left shortly afterwards and Cadfael settled down to think. He could not
believe other than that the deaths of Walter Veritas and Sir Jospin de Guise
were closely connected. He gave a moment's thought to Sir Lionel, Walter's
original master, but it seemed clear that knight had fallen as a result of
wounds received in battle. It appeared that whatever had led to Walter's
death must have its roots with Sir Jospin. He cursed his current weakness.
The walls of the room seemed to be advancing and retreating before his eyes
and he felt light-headed. He lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Soon
he fell into a troubled sleep.

Mariam went about the business of the afternoon. As it grew cooler, she
opened the shutters on the booth and saw to the stocking of the shelves with
a variety of fresh herbs. She laid out the baskets along the stall's
frontage. Salah sold fruit as well as herbs and medicines. He was firmly
convinced of the efficacy of fresh fruit as a preventative as much as of the
curative powers of his ointments, infusions and pills. She smiled grimly to
herself as she worked. Her Uncle was a good man, it was true, but her own
life was empty. She thought of her husband, another good man. He had been
some years her senior. It was never a love match but he had treated her
well; she had grown fond of him in the two years of their marriage. She had
not been blessed with a child and supposed herself barren.

She found the presence of her uncle's friend, the infidel soldier,
unsettling. She knew her uncle to be a good judge and therefore the soldier
was probably a good man also. There was something energetic about him, a
sense of purpose. With his dark looks he could pass as one of her own
people, not at all like those pale northern Lords with their white hair and
skin, pink and peeling when exposed to the strong sun. There was nothing
excitable about him either. He exuded a sense of calm self-containment.
Everything he said and did had the appearance of having undergone careful
consideration. The scars on his muscled body bore witness to his harsh
profession but there was a mildness about him also that showed in his eyes.
She shook her head in annoyance; these were not seemly thoughts and yet, why
not? She was a widow - not a blushing virgin.


She stole quietly back into the room where he slept and looked down at him.
Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and she fetched a bowl of
water and cloth and sponged him down. She felt his temperature and regarded
him with a critical eye. Was that the pallor of fever under his tan? He
stirred in his sleep, muttering. It sounded like a name but she couldn't be
sure, as the tongue was unknown to her. Perhaps he called for his mother;
men did when in distress, she knew. And yet that didn't ring true. More like
he was saying his lover's name. She felt an unreasoned flash of jealousy at
this thought and was moved to laugh at herself. Why not admit it? She found
the infidel attractive; had done so since that first visit when she had
watched him from behind the curtain, initially out of simple curiosity but
soon for other, deeper reasons. She felt his forehead again. Maybe he was a
little hotter than before but it was not bad - at least not yet. She would
keep a close eye on him. It would be better when the day cooled towards
evening. Even there in the shade of the booth it was stiflingly hot - hot
enough to make any man sweat. Cadfael stirred again, opened his eyes and
smiled weakly at her before drifting back to sleep. That was a good sign,
she thought. At least he appeared to recognise her and showed no anxiety as
to where he was.

Salah returned late in the afternoon, hot and agitated. He slipped into the
booth with a wary backward glance and bolted the door behind him.

"Mariam!"

She answered his call, noting his worried frown.

"What is it, Uncle? What troubles you?"

"It might be nothing but I had the very certain feeling that I was being
followed. We will not open this evening. Keep the shutters bolted and don't
answer the door to anyone."

Her eyes widened in alarm and he saw the look, feeling wretchedly guilty.

"I'm sorry, child. It is probably the imaginings of an old fool but better
to be safe, I think. How is Cadfael?"

"I think he may now have a slight fever but nothing to concern us at the
moment."

"Tough as ox-hide, that one. Is he awake?"

Cadfael's voice sounded from the other chamber.

"He is now! Come through. Tell me, did you see Sir Mercier? What did he say?
Did he give you a letter for me?"

"No, no letter. We went together to see the body of the man who fell from
the walls. The marks were there, my friend, the same as on the other."

"So we know how Walter Veritas died if we don't know why."

"That is so."

"What can it mean, Salah? Two men murdered - apparently by this mysterious
Brotherhood. I feel if we understand the 'why' then we will also learn the
'who' of it. I confess that I am at a loss to know how best to proceed. And
why attack me? It lacks wit. Such an action could only draw attention when
in aught else they have been taking pains to conceal their deeds. I find no
sense in it."

"You look for reason in the doings of such men? To kill at all is blasphemy,
my friend; to murder - that is another plane of evil. But I doubt you are
wrong in thinking that to guess the motive is but a short step from naming
the man."

"Did Sir Mercier have any other news to tell?"

"He said only to say that Sir Jospin was not best loved despite finding the
Holy Lance."

"That was Sir Jospin?"

"So said Sir Mercier."

Cadfael cast his mind back to the events of the previous June. A strange
individual named Peter Bartholomew had suddenly revealed that he had
received a visitation from the Holy Virgin. He claimed the Lady had told him
that the very lance that pierced Christ's side was buried beneath the floor
of the Christian church in Antioch. Bartholomew was not trusted and was
viewed by most as a liar and a fraud. Then another priest, of more
trustworthy reputation, claimed to have received a similar visitation.
Raymond of Toulouse had been enthusiastic at first and had ordered his men
to excavate. Nothing had been found and Raymond had given up in disgust. At
that point, a Knight had jumped down into the cavernous pit and 'discovered'
the holy relic. It now appeared that the fortunate searcher had been Sir
Jospin de Guise.

The crusader camp had been divided as to the authenticity of the 'lance.'
Some had believed implicitly and, when led by the allegedly holy artefact
they had routed a vastly superior Turkish force, belief had become
widespread. Some remained sceptical, Cadfael among them. From what he had
been able to make out, the thing wasn't really a lance at all but the head
of a standard or flagstaff. The controversy had raged for a while and
matters had come to a head when Peter Bartholomew had defiantly demanded the
right to prove his veracity. A biblical trial by 'fiery furnace' was agreed
and the deluded visionary had willingly submitted himself to the ordeal. He
emerged horribly burned and died shortly afterwards. His supporters claimed
that he had first come through unscathed and had been thrust back into the
flames by his detractors, but the majority considered the matter resolved.
The 'lance' was a fake.

That now left Cadfael with the odd sensation that he had found the cause of
the murders if not the actual reason; nor the perpetrator, come to that. Who
could possibly gain by inventing the story? Certainly not the crazed Peter
Bartholomew, so who, then? His head ached and his mouth was dry and he
became aware of Salah's close scrutiny.

"I see that your thoughts have been running on a similar path to mine," the
apothecary said. "It cannot be just a coincidence that this great treasure
was discovered by a murdered man."

Cadfael nodded slowly. He was unwilling to commit himself as yet. Too much
was unexplained. He needed to think some more. The manner of the murders was
so odd. There was nothing to link the Elect of Hassan to the Holy Lance and
yet he could not see past Sir Jospin's role in the finding of the relic. Of
course, Cadfael had not been present when the lance had been discovered. He
had heard the story often enough, though. The searchers had dug all night
and had been on the point of giving up when suddenly, a Knight had jumped
down into the hole and, shortly after, given a great, joyous shout. It had
sounded too convenient at the first time of asking; now, it sounded simply
too contrived. Sir Lionel had come into money shortly afterwards. Walter
Veritas had no shortage of silver for his dice games. Now they were both
dead. Somehow, and to his great disappointment, making the connection had
not taken him any further forward.

Mariam came in and chased Salah away, saying Cadfael needed to rest if he
was not to suffer a fever. She fed him a bitter decoction to help with the
pain and checked his dressings. All this she did in silence and avoided his
eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her and blushed deeply but still would
not look directly at him. Knowing he was looking, imagining the frank
admiration in his eyes, disturbed her. It engendered feelings that she had
sought to avoid since her husband died. He caught her hand as she was
leaving and brought it to his lips, brushing it with a light kiss. She
looked away as he murmured a single word in Trade Greek. "Eucharisto." Thank
you.

Cadfael awoke the next morning to the voice of a muezzin calling the
faithful to prayer. He lay back and listened to the low hum of Salah's muted
devotions and closed his eyes. After a little, Mariam entered and began to
change his dressings. Her hands seemed to tremble slightly as she worked;
her touch soothing and gentle.

"Mariam?"

She did not look up.

"Mariam, do I disgust you so much that you can't bear to see me?"

Her hands fluttered in confusion and she fled the room. Cadfael stared
miserably after her.

He spent the next three days at Salah's booth, recovering his strength and
thinking. Mariam ceased to tend to him and he endured Salah's rougher, but
no less expert, ministrations. He tried to ask Salah what was bothering
Mariam but the older man waved away his questions and shrugged, an unhappy
look on his face. Salah was aware of the tension between the two young
people and had guessed, correctly, at its cause. He could not and would not
intervene. His friend was an infidel, his niece was of the faith; it was not
a relationship that his conscience could sanction. So, and with a heavy
heart, he did his best to avoid the subject and discouraged Cadfael's every
enquiry.

It was with some relief to them both, therefore, when the day came that
Salah pronounced him well enough to leave and Cadfael returned to his own
quarters. The heat of the day lay like a coarse blanket over everything.
There was not a single breath of wind to bring relief and the young soldier
was sweating freely and feeling a little weak by the time he rejoined his
fellows. He was amazed to see everyone up and busying themselves with
obvious preparations to move out. Cadfael's captain, Eilwynn of Worcester,
greeted him heartily.

"So! You are still among the living then, it seems. And just in time. We
march upon Jerusalem in two days. Are you fit enough?"

"That I am! And this is glad news indeed, for I'd heard none of it. What has
wrought this change?"

"Count Raymond is resolved upon it."

"And Bohemond?"

"Not him! The King of Antioch remains here with his following. Our own Duke
Robert is with Raymond, though, and we must follow on. I'll not be sad to
leave this pestilential burgh, Cadfael, I freely do confess."

For his part, Cadfael had very mixed feelings. He had come to the Holy Land,
like most of his humbler fellows, to free the Christian shrines from the
infidels. Yet, he could honestly say, he had made as a good a friend among
the unbelievers as he had ever had. And there was the girl. He was not
without experience of women but she confused him. To top all of that, he had
yet to resolve the problem of Walter Veritas. He had some ideas but these
were little more than vague notions, half-formed and insubstantial.
Nonetheless, he set to and helped with the preparations for the coming
march. Eilwynn rapidly summed up his physical state and assigned him to
clerking: making a tally of weapons and supplies and similar tasks, for
which he was grateful.

After the evening meal, he made his way reluctantly to renew his
acquaintance with Sir Mercier and report on his progress - or rather the
lack of such. The knight greeted him cordially and bade him sit while wine
was brought.

"I had not thought to place your life in danger when I put this charge upon
you. Else, you must believe, I would have undertaken it myself."

Cadfael waved away Sir Mercier's protestations. He sipped some of the sour
wine and gave a full account of all he knew but stopped short of voicing his
suspicions. Sir Mercier was silent for a little while before heaving a sigh
and running one fine-boned hand over his head.

"I can make no sense of it, I do confess. A secret sect? But why? I cannot
make a connection."

Cadfael took a deep breath and replied.

"I believe the Holy Lance is the connection. I freely own that I cannot see
why the Elect of Hassan should take such an interest in a Christian relic.
There is still much that is confusing and unclear and I must to Jerusalem
with the rest of Duke Robert's battle."

"I fear we'll have no answers, then."

Cadfael started suddenly. He asked Sir Mercier a single question. The knight
replied without hesitation.

"Oh, curse me for a fool! I have it now! At very least, I believe I have our
murderer, although I don't yet know his name."

"You say so! And what has wrought this change, my friend?"

Cadfael shook his head.

"It was there before me all the time and yet I didn't see it. Come with me
now, My Lord, and I think we shall see an end to it."

Cadfael led Sir Mercier across the darkened city to the Emir's palace and
asked for Morgan ap Iestin, the Welsh farrier. Once again, he was directed
to the stables.

"Ho, countryman, what brings you back?"

Cadfael carefully explained. Morgan looked thoughtful.

"The man you describe is Sir Giles de Plaincourt. Not a man to cross, I
 say."

Cadfael nodded.

"I believe I have already felt his ire. Is he within?"

"For what I know. But if you mean to accuse of him something, it would best
that you went armed. That man can take an insult when none is meant and is
ever free with his fists - and worse."

Morgan offered Cadfael the dagger from his belt but he refused with a smile.

"I think not. Better, lend me a staff. If naught else, I feel the need for a
little support."

All the while Sir Mercier stood in silence, a puzzled look on his face.
Cadfael motioned him to follow and, thanking Morgan once more, made his way
out of the stables to the main palace doors. He enquired civilly of the
man-at arms if Sir Giles de Plaincourt could be summoned. The man shot him a
frightened look but hurried away. Sir Mercier could no longer contain
himself.

"What is this all about? I could not follow one word of your conversation
with that farrier."

Cadfael chose his words with care.

"It all started with the dispute between your lord and Count Raymond.
Raymond of Toulouse believes himself the leader of this Crusade but Bohemond
was winning the victories. The Provencal faction grew jealous of this
success. They decided that something was needed to redress the balance."

"So they invented this mummery with the Holy Lance?"

"So I do believe. Sir Jospin's task was to place the relic within the Church
of St Peter - or, at very least, to 'discover' it. Once the Provencals had
it, they thought to call the tune. Only that poor fool Peter Bartholomew
cast all into doubt with his trial by fire."

"But why kill Sir Jospin?"

"It is my guess that he talked too much. Else he threatened to do so. I
think Count Raymond knew nothing of this."

"And the groom, the man who fell from the wall?"

"Walter Veritas. Somehow he caught wind of the deception. I suspect he
demanded money in return for silence."

"Ah, blackmail! But tell me, Cadfael, what brought you to this now."

"That!"

Cadfael turned and pointed. Sir Mercier saw before him a powerfully built
knight whose face was suffused with purple rage. He followed the direction
of Cadfael's pointing finger and saw the leather whip with its iron tags
upon the stranger's hip.



"By Our Lady! I can see you're right!"

Sir Giles de Plaincourt let out an animal roar. The whip snaked from his
side and whistled towards Cadfael's head with the speed of a striking viper.
At the same instant, the butt of Cadfael's staff slammed into Sir Giles de
Plaincourt's groin with all the Welshman's force behind it. The knight
subsided to the flagstones, the whip falling from his fingers as he made to
clutch at his injured parts.

Cadfael reeled back in agony as the whip struck but recovered swiftly enough
to plant his staff firmly in the prostrate de Plaincourt's stomach. The air
rushed out of the injured man with a great whooshing sound and he lay,
gasping and groaning by turns, at Cadfael's feet. A small cockleshell badge,
the mark of a pilgrim of St James, clattered on the flagstones beside him.

The commotion summoned other knights, Count Raymond among them. He surveyed
the scene. Before him lay one of his own knights rolling in agony while a
short, stocky man-at-arms with thick russet curls was leaning against a
pillar, unwinding a wicked-looking leather whip from about his brow. The
austere nobleman arched an eyebrow towards Sir Mercier de Longueval who
stood mutely shaking his head.

The long explanations were received at first with incredulity and then with
rising anger. At length, Raymond of Toulouse spoke with slow and icy
clarity.

"I charge you, Sir Mercier, to report everything that has happened this
night to your master. Tell him also, that I sanctioned none of it."

He motioned to the figure of Sir Giles, who was by now struggling to his
knees.

"Take this wretch away. Let him be stripped of his demesne. I will reserve
my justice for the morning."

With that, and a haughty stare at Cadfael, the Count departed followed by
his retinue, who talked urgently together in hushed whispers.

Sir Mercier crossed to Cadfael. The young Welshman was rubbing his head
ruefully. A line of livid bruises was starting to appear on his forehead
like a crown of thorns.



Two years later

The sun was but a half hour from setting as a tired traveller entered
through Antioch's west gate and made his way wearily through the city to the
Street of Sailmakers. Cadfael ap Meilyr ap Dafydd of Trefiw, once a soldier
of the Cross, had returned to make good a promise.

He smiled in recognition at the dark-haired young woman standing in the
apothecary's booth. She looked up and her eyes grew wide in surprise before
an answering smile lit up her face. He stopped and drank her in. The
shapeless black robe and plain head covering that custom demanded that she
wear in public could not entirely conceal the taut slimness of her body and
a tangle of unruly dark hair was forever escaping from its confinement.  As
he gazed at her in a mixture of wonder and admiration, he cast his mind back
to the night of his departure, some two years previously.

Then he had gone to say his farewells and to tell Salah all that had
transpired. The Apothecary had been amazed and then relieved as the story
unfolded.

"But how did you know, my friend, how came you upon the answer?"

"I had thought too much upon the Elect of Hassan. I missed the whip that de
Plaincourt wore. Then I remembered your belt. Seven knots for the seven
tenets of Islam."

"I don't understand."

"It all became clear when I asked Sir Mercier about the bruises on Walter
Veritas. I asked how many there were. He told me upwards of a dozen. It was
then I knew it was not a fanatic's belt but something else, and saw in my
mind that whip with the iron tags."

"Still, you had no proof."

"As things turned, I needed none. Sir Giles tried to attack me in the same
way. And then there was the pilgrim's badge at the last."

"And now you are leaving?"

Cadfael nodded slowly but his sharp ears caught the sound of a sudden intake
a breath from behind the screen. Mariam had been listening, as he had hoped
and suspected. Salah gave Cadfael a hard look and read the quick flash of
elation on the latter's features. He sighed inwardly and rose.

"I must go out, my friend. I have a patient to visit. Stay here a while and
we will talk some more on my return."

Cadfael accepted the invitation with a glad heart. He stood and saw the
older man to the door. When he returned, Mariam was there, standing with
downcast eyes.

"Mariam, I leave for Jerusalem on the morrow."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Cadfael took her hand, felt the
slight trembling there and something else; a warmth seemed to crackle
between them at the contact. She raised her head and looked into his eyes.
In the dim glow of the lamp, Cadfael was convinced he could see the slight
gleam of a tear starting at the corner of one eye. He said nothing but
pulled her to him. He hugged her close, feeling the softness of her pressing
against his chest. He could smell the sandalwood scent of her hair. Still
they did not speak. His mouth searched for hers. Their lips touched and all
the aching yearning that she felt was assuaged in the instant of that first,
sweet kiss.

They sat together on the divan talking. It was as though a dam had burst
inside her and the words came flooding out. She told him of her life; how
she had married, been widowed, of the emptiness of her days. He responded in
kind. He related how he had fled his native Wales, the familiarity of tref
and maenol, the certainty of his place in the world, to follow, firstly, a
wool merchant, and later to take the cross. He told of his betrothal to and
abandonment of a young Welsh girl. He spoke also of his regret and shame and
yet, somehow, the inevitability of his chosen path. She drew it all in
without comment or censure. He felt a sense of absolution, but also one of
hopelessness. In a few short hours he would march away. Ahead lay battle,
hardship and the possibility of death.

He made the promise then. He would return. He could not promise more, nor
could she ask for it. Their doom settled over them like a cloak and they
grew quiet. Salah returned. His glance took in the twinned faces, the mix of
joy and sorrow. He nodded briefly.

"Do not ask for my blessing, that I cannot give you. I have set my
countenance against this folly but I see I am in vain. No blessing then, my
friend, but I will not oppose you more."

Now, as the sun set, he had returned. The intervening years had not dimmed
his passion. Mariam took his hand and drew him into the booth. It was cooler
inside and she lit a lamp to cast its soft glow upon them. Their first kiss
was fierce, full of pent-up longing. When they broke apart, flushed and
gasping, she told him that her uncle had retired. Salah had gone back to his
native village, taken a young woman to wife and was content to see out the
remainder of his days in tranquillity. The apothecary's booth he gave to
Mariam. She was happy now and would not leave. This fell between them like a
weight.

She brought him cheese and olives and fresh cold water to drink. He washed
away the dust of his journey wrapped in bittersweet thoughts. He knew, then,
that Antioch could not hold him but a part of him would remain with her
forever. He pushed away the remnants of his meal and gazed at her in
silence. She stood and slowly eased the robe from her shoulders. The
lamplight threw soft shadows on the swell of her breasts and the gentle
curve of her slim hips.

"We shall have this night," she said.

She undressed him then. She kissed each scar upon the muscled body. Her
fingers flowed over him. She took sweet-scented oil and worked it into his
chest and shoulders. Her hands were trails of fire across his skin. She
cried out sharply when he entered her. He felt her fingernails dig into his
back and the fierce passion that arose within her like a sudden summer
storm. He seemed to be tumbling into the well of her body as the night
receded from his consciousness. There was only Mariam as the world vanished
from his ken. He reared above her, driving to his climax and she cried out
once again as he reached his fulfilment.

He stayed fast within her. Began again, a slow, soft movement that fired her
to the core. Pleasure lapped at her in mounting waves. She felt the
lightning building and rolled her hips to meet him. She was suspended
somewhere above the Earth. She was shuddering now, she could feel his body
on her and everywhere their skin touched was a tiny nexus of heat. It was as
though she embraced pure flame. Then she was lost, soaring towards some
great lightness. The world spun around her and her heels drummed upon the
sheets. She heard him cry out, as though at a great distance, and warmth
suffused her, sweeping over her being and carrying her onwards as the stars
exploded in her head.

They lay together afterwards, clinging together in the wreckage of her bed.
Twice more that night they tested their passion, each time leaving them
still insatiate. Dawn found them intertwined. Cadfael rose with a heavy
heart and washed. Mariam regarded from the tangle of the bed, her mute eyes
wide but unreadable. He made to speak but she stilled him with a finger upon
his lips.

"Say nothing, Cadfael. We have no need of words. My uncle was right. We
could neither be happy in the other's world. Have no regrets for I have
none. Go with God but, please, go now and quickly. But should you chance
this way again."

He trudged through the burgeoning heat of the morning towards the port of St
Symeon with ashes in his soul. The day wore on and he stopped to find shade
around noon. Gradually, his mood lightened. Sorrow was slowly replaced by
gratitude. He had known real love, albeit briefly. Mariam was with him in
his heart. Who knew? One day he might return and, if so, he would have at
least one true friend in Antioch. In the meantime, the World waited for an
adventurer.



The End

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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