The Black Rood (50 page)

Abbot Demitrianos entered while we were eating and joined us at table, helping himself to bread and cheese and joining in with the brothers. I liked him for his easy, unassuming ways, and his disregard for rank and ceremony. In this he reminded me of Emlyn, and I found myself wishing I was long since on my way home.

After the meal, the abbot took us to the scriptorium and introduced us to two of the senior monks who had the charge of the work of the monastery.

“I present to you, Brother Ambrosius,” the abbot said, indicating a small, round-shouldered monk with sparse white hair—the monk with whom I had shared a bench during prayers the night before. “…and Brother Tomas, our two most skilled and experienced scribes. If anything can be done for you, they will know.” The two bowed in humble deference to one another, and invited us inside. The room was small, but airy and light; a number of wide windows along the south wall allowed the sunlight to illumine the high worktables of the monks. Most of them were still at their morning meal, so we had the scriptorium to ourselves for the moment.

“My brothers,” said Padraig, “we come to you with a problem, begging your help. You have heard me speak of Lord Duncan's captivity among the Muhammedans.” The two nodded enthusiastically. “As it happens, he used the time of his imprisonment to make a record of his experiences. Unfortunately, that record has been damaged.” Padraig went on to explain about the papyri and my escape through the underground canal.

When he finished, the abbot said, “I have already warned our friends that there may not be any remedy for them. Nevertheless, I will let you decide.”

“Please,” said Brother Ambrosius, “might we see the papuri in question?”

“It will be easier to make a determination once we have completed an examination of the documents in question,” added Brother Tomas.

“By all means,” said Padraig. I brought out the bundle, laid it on the nearest table, and began to unwrap the still-damp sheepskin.

Brother Ambrosius stopped me at once. “Allow me,” he said, stepping in and staying my hand. “Let us see what we have here.” He bent to his work, holding his head low over the skin as he carefully unpeeled the wet leather. Brother Tomas joined him on the opposite side of the table, and in a moment the two of them had exposed the tight roll of papyrus scrolls.

They gazed upon the soggy mass of slowly rotting matter as if at the corpse of a much-loved dog, and clucked their tongues sadly. There was a green tinge along the edges of the rolls, and the papyrus stank with a rancid odor. The two monks raised their eyes, looked at one another, and shook their heads. “I fear it is as the abbot has said,” Ambrosius told me sadly. “There is nothing to be done. The papuri can never be restored. I am sorry.”

Even though I was already resolved to this prospect, I still felt a twinge of disappointment.

“I am certain you are right,” replied Padraig quickly, “and we anticipated as much. But perhaps you could tell me if I am right in thinking that these pages could be copied?”

This request occasioned a second, closer inspection, and a lengthy discussion between the two master scribes. They carefully pulled apart one section and carried it to the nearest window where they held it up to their faces and scrutinized it carefully. “It could be done,” Tomas allowed cautiously. “Each leaf of the papuros must be dried very slowly and flattened to prevent it from cracking to pieces.”

“Then,” Ambrosius continued, “it might be possible to in
scribe what was written thereon. Although it is Latin,” his voice took on a rueful tone, “the hand is fair and open, the marks, however faint, could be traced and copied.”

“It would be a very great undertaking,” suggested Tomas, looking to his superior. “But it could be done.”

“Truly, that is good news,” the abbot said. “However, I fear we will not be able to shoulder this admirable labor for you. We are but a small community, and the pressure of work already begun is such that we would not be able to contemplate any new endeavors, however worthy, for a very long time.”

“I am prepared to pay you,” I offered. “Such a service requires great skill and effort, I know. I would be more than happy to pay whatever you deem appropriate.”

“Please,” said Demitrianos, raising his hands in protest, “you misunderstand me. I was not fishing for payment. It is not your silver I am after; I am telling you the truth, my friend. As much as I would like to help you,” he spread his hands, “but—”

“Forgive me, abbot,” said Ambrosius, speaking up. “Something has just occurred to me. A word?”

He led the abbot a little apart and the two of them spoke to one another quietly for a moment. I heard the abbot say, “Very well.” And then he turned and smiled, and said, “Our brother has just brought a matter to my attention which I have overlooked. He insists there may be a way we can help you—provided you are agreeable.”

“I assure you I am most agreeable to anything—within reason,” I allowed, “and the limits of my purse.”

“The work we do here is not only for ourselves, but also for the wider world—for edification and learning, for posterity, for succeeding generations. This is why we take such great care—so that those who come after us will enjoy the benefit.” He made a gesture toward the elderly monk, who stood looking on hopefully. “Brother Ambrosius reminds me that what you have written of your sojourn in the Holy Land might well prove a unique, and therefore valuable, reflection of our perishable age. He suggests that we should honor your request.”

“Indeed,” I said, pleased with the turn the thing had taken. “I am glad to hear it.”

“There is just one stipulation,” Abbot Demitrianos said, raising a hand to check my eagerness. “That we should be allowed to make not one, but
two
copies.”

“One copy for you, of course,” said Ambrosius, unable to restrain his eagerness, “and one for our use.”

In truth, it had not occurred to me that my scribblings would be of any interest to anyone save myself and those of my family who cared about what had happened to me. While there was nothing in the papyri of which I was ashamed, I was not sure I wanted anyone else to read my mind and heart.

Before I could decide, however, Padraig nodded enthusiastically and said, “An excellent solution. Of course! Nothing would please us more than to know that Lord Duncan's work might continue to serve in this way.”

“There is one other thing,” suggested the abbot, in a slightly embarrassed tone. “I am reminded that the scriptorium is in need of a new roof. Needless to say, it would greatly contribute to our work if we did not have such a burden hanging over our heads as it were.”

“I understand completely,” I replied. “I would be happy to stand the cost of a new roof for the scriptorium.”

Brothers Ambrosius and Tomas both clasped their hands in delight and praised the Great Creator for his bounteous provision. We thanked the brothers for the consideration, and arranged for a time to return and collect the finished copy; then, before the sun had quartered the sky, Padraig and I were on our way back to Paphos.

We arrived the evening of the next day to learn that Yordanus was gone.

“H
E WENT WHERE
?” I said, disbelief making my voice harsh. Anger blazed up bright and hot as the sun beating down on my head, though I tried my best to quench it.

Sydoni bit her lip. She knew I was displeased, and was loath to withhold the truth from me—though it meant betraying her father's purpose. “He went to Famagusta,” she said timidly. “He took Wazim with him. I know you said—”

“When?” I demanded. “How long has he been gone?”

“He departed the same day you left for the monastery. I suppose you are right to be angry. But he is only trying to help.”

“It will be no help to any of us if the Templars find us here.”

“He promised not to do anything without your consent,” she said halfheartedly.

“Then he should not have gone at all!” I snapped.

“He only went to see to his affairs—nothing more.” She was growing defensive. “Never fear, my father will not betray your precious secret.”

“It was a foolish thing to do!”

“Peace!” said Padraig, entering the courtyard just then. “The entire island will know of our business if you do not desist.” He cautioned us to leave off squabbling, and went to see that the rood was still safe in its box beneath his bed.

As much as I might have wished otherwise, Yordanus was gone and there was nothing to be done about that now. Still, I fussed and fumed, and finally Padraig sent me down the road to walk away my frustration. I stumped along in the hot sun, and felt the heat on my skin; soon I was sweating and tired, and though angry still, I had neither the will nor the strength to maintain it any longer. I stopped and looked around, and found myself at one of the many ancient ruins that occupy the hilltops in that part of the island.

Little more than an overgrown mound now, with wild olive trees and bramble thickets, there were still a few sun-bleached sections of toppled columns to be seen, an arch and part of a wall—rising from the surrounding wrack like the enormous bones of a monstrous creature. My anger finally subdued, I sat down on the carved capital of a ruined column in the shade of a half-dead palm tree to rest and collect myself. I could see the bay from where I sat, and watched a few boats returning from the day's fishing, but there was no sign of the ship.

Padraig and I had arrived back in Paphos at midday and, upon coming in view of the shallow bay, I had suddenly become agitated. By the time we descended the hill overlooking the harbor, I knew what it was that disturbed me:
Persephone
was missing; the ship was not in the harbor, and nowhere to be seen.

We had hurried on to the house to be met by Sydoni, who took one look at my distraught expression and guessed what had caused my distress. She explained that she had told him not to go, but her father insisted he knew what he was doing, and anyway, he would be back before we returned.

In fact, he did not return until two days later.

I spent the intervening time stalking the hills and muttering about the ruins, waiting for Yordanus to return. I was sitting in my accustomed place in the shade when I saw a ship round the far headland and enter the bay just before sunset. I watched with growing expectation until I was certain it was the
Persephone
, and then I hurried back to the house to alert Sydoni and the others that Yordanus had returned.

While Sydoni and Anna fluttered around preparing food and drink for her father's return, the old trader stood in the
courtyard and professed his trip to have been eminently successful, and that any worries I might have had were completely unfounded. Wazim stood with him, and the two of them assured me that nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Padraig and I listened to their feeble justification for their disobedience.

“I know you instructed otherwise,” Yordanus allowed, “and I did not lightly go against your wishes, believe me. Even so,” he raised his hands in appeasement, “the day is soon coming when we must send word to Commander de Bracineaux at Antioch. I have instructed Gregior to begin making the necessary preparations for that journey. Also,” he added with a touch of self-righteous vindication, “I needed to replenish my purse. Silver does not multiply of its own accord, you know, and travel is a costly business.”

There was no point in berating the man. “Well, it is over and done now,” I said as graciously as possible. “We will speak no more about it.”

“Very wise,” agreed Yordanus. Just then Anna came into the courtyard carrying a tray laden with bowls of food and baskets of bread; Sydoni emerged behind her with a tray of cups and a jug of wine. They placed the trays on one of the benches beneath the fig tree, and the four of us sat down to eat.

“I am anxious to learn about your trip to the monastery,” Yordanus said. “Were the monks able to help you?”

“They were indeed,” replied Padraig. He told about the monastery and the agreement we had made to allow the papyri to be copied. “They were only too happy to do it once they learned they could make a copy for themselves.”

“
And
a new roof for the scriptorium besides,” I said. The words came out sounding far more caustic than I intended. Both Padraig and Yordanus looked at me curiously.

“You seemed to find the agreement satisfactory at the time, brother.” Padraig scowls only rarely; thus, it speaks all the more eloquently of his displeasure. “You have made a fine deception of hiding your disapproval until now.”

“I beg your pardon,” I muttered. “I have misspoken. Forget I said anything.”

Sydoni joined us after awhile, and she and Padraig began discussing the hill country to the north and the many monastic settlements to be found in that part of the island. Yordanus meanwhile undertook a lengthy and pointless story for Wazim's amusement—all to do with some poor farmers in the hills near Paleapaphos who recently unearthed a treasure trove buried in a field they were plowing; the find apparently consisted of several gold bands and an onyx chalice which they assumed was Roman, but which, upon examination by the Bishop of Paphos, turned out to be Greek. It was thought the items had once belonged to a potentate who had owned one of the ruined palaces in the area.

“I suppose they will be made to give up their find,” I remarked innocently. “As always everyone else has a better claim on the treasure than those who discovered it.” Once again, my tone belied my true intent. The others regarded me with rank displeasure. “What? Am I not allowed an opinion?”

After one or two more abortive attempts at joining in the conversation, I finally gave up, lapsing into a disgruntled and fidgety silence. As the evening dragged on, I found it increasingly difficult to sit still and listen to the idle prattling of the others. I sipped my wine and munched salty olives, all the while sinking deeper and deeper into a peculiarly fretful melancholy. When at last I could no longer endure the prattling, I stood so quickly I spilled my cup. I grumbled an apology and excused myself, saying my head hurt from too much sun and I was going to bed.

And that is where Padraig found me some while later; he had sat up talking with Sydoni and Yordanus and came in to find me still thrashing around, unable to sleep. He stood over me for a moment, and even though I could not see his expression in the darkness I could tell by his prickly manner that he was disgusted with me. I did my best to ignore him.

“I know you are not asleep,” he said at last, his voice sharp with disapproval.

“Is it any wonder? If you mean to stand over me all night neither one of us shall get any rest.”

“It is not myself keeping you awake. For a certainty, it is your own guilty conscience.”

His unjust accusation brought me upright. “Guilty! What have I to feel guilty about?”

“You know what you did,” he said. “Your own heart condemns you.”

“I have done nothing—unless treating everyone with the utmost courtesy is now become cause for reproach.”

“If I reproach you,” said Padraig with unmerited disdain, “it is because you well deserve it. Every time Yordanus opened his mouth, you jumped down his throat. What were you thinking? The man is our host and benefactor. He has helped us in a thousand ways, and asks only for our friendship in return. Yet, you treat him like the lowest filth beneath your feet.”

“What cause has Yordanus to complain?” I replied petulantly. “I was not the one who went behind
his
back and disobeyed
his
orders. Anyway, did I not forgive him? Why are you throwing this back in my face?”

“Listen to you now…
disobeyed my orders
—who are you to issue commands to everyone else? Duncan the High and Mighty lifts his leg to fart and the whole world must dance to the tune—is that it?”

“You twist my words, disagreeable priest!” I growled angrily.

“Do I?” he sneered. “Do I, indeed?”

“You do.”

“Perhaps they were twisted to begin with.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Think about it. Look you long and hard into your soul and repent of your vile and sinful conceit. It does you no credit, my lord.”

He turned away, leaving me to stew in my own bitter bile. His rebuke stung—all the more because I knew he was right. Though I was loath to admit it, the shrewd priest had read my soul aright. Proud as I was, I begrudged Yordanus his efforts on my behalf—not the least because I feared his meddling would result in my having to surrender the Black Rood
to the Templars. Nor was that all. I resented having to depend on anyone—especially one I deemed less reliable than myself. In truth, in my long captivity I had grown used to trusting no one and relying only on myself to the extent that I now resented the intrusions of others into my affairs however well-intentioned, and viewed their small failings as wilful defiance of my authority.

These unhappy reflections kept me from my rest. I lay awake long into the night, staring into the darkness, restless and rankled, unable to sleep. Dawn was but a whisper away when I finally abandoned the effort. I rose from my troubled bed and went out, thinking to find some solace in the cool darkness of the quiet courtyard.

Lest I disturb the sleeping household, I crept as quietly as I could through the house, lifted the latch and slipped out through the half-open door, closing it silently behind me. I paused for a moment and looked up at the sky. The moon was down, and the stars were beginning to fade with the approach of daylight. The air was still and fine, and from some unseen corner, I heard the chirrup of a cricket…and something else: a sliding plop, followed by a rapid dry scrabble across the bare earth.

The sound put me in mind of a rat scurrying back to its nest, but if so, it was a rat the size of a donkey. I stood motionless, listening, and when I heard the slow scrape of iron against wood, I moved slowly to the corner of the house and looked toward the gate.

A figure dressed all in black—little more than a shadow in the deeper shadow of the wall—stood at the gate, lifting the iron bar away. I started for the gate, moving as swiftly and silently as I could, and wishing I had some of Murdo's legendary stealth. I crossed to the fig tree, and as I stooped to crouch beneath it, I caught the faint whiff of the scent I had last smelled in the tunnels beneath the hareem in Cairo: the unmistakable tang of hashish.

My mind froze.

Fida' in!

There was no mistake. Pungent and sweet, with a musty, metallic odor, once smelled, the scent is not forgotten. I
picked up one of the benches from beneath the tree and darted forward.

The intruder heard me as I closed on him. He stepped back from the gate, swinging the iron bar as he turned.

I threw the bench before me, catching the iron bar as it came around, and forcing it back against his chest. I drove in behind the blow, slamming the bench hard against his chin. The Fida'i's jaw closed with a teeth-shattering clack as his head snapped back against the timber door just as his comrade on the other side started to push through. The door banged shut and the Arab intruder tried to squirm away. I heaved the bench into his chest, driving the air from his lungs; he slumped to the ground, his back to the door.

I dropped the bench and snatched up the iron bar. “Padraig!” I shouted. “Padraig, help!”

The Fida'i on the other side of the gate pressed hard against the door and succeeded in getting a hand and arm through the gap. The hand gripped a knife that sliced at me as I tried to force the iron bar back into the carrier. Seeing that I could not bar the gate with the intruder's arm in the way, I stepped back, and then hurled myself against the door. The attacker's arm snapped with a chunky pop like wet kindling.

“Padraig!” I shouted.

The howling Fida'i pulled his broken arm out of the way and I pressed the door closed with all my might. I shouted for Padraig again. At the same instant, there came a tremendous thump on the door as someone on the other side drove into it, trying to force it open once more.

There came a rush behind me. I spun around and caught the dull glint of metal streaking toward my neck. I threw my hands before my face and dodged away. The blow was ill-judged and hurried, catching me on the meaty part of the shoulder as I turned. The blade went in—it felt as if a red hot poker had been applied to my flesh.

Flailing with my fists, I stumbled backward, falling over the body of the unconscious intruder on the ground beside the gate, and pulling the weapon from the grasp of my attacker as I went down. He leapt on me, straining to retrieve
the blade still buried in my flesh. As he bent forward, I kicked up hard into his groin—once, and again. He gave out a groan, staggered unsteadily, and collapsed onto his knees, holding himself.

Swift footsteps sounded on the earth beside me. My hand closed on the handle of the knife. I yanked it from my shoulder and made a wide, awkward swipe to keep my new assailant off balance. The man cried out, “Duncan! It is me!”