The Vault of Bones (25 page)

Yes?' he asked. I shrugged tightly.

'All right’ I said. The mare wheeled and I managed to get her feet set. The boar's head swung towards me, then back to Rollo.

'Come on, you fat cuckold!' Rollo yelled. 'Come
on!'
The swine did his stiff-legged dance again, as if overcome by gleeful, murderous anticipation. Rollo waved his dagger. With a squeal, the pig made his decision and launched himself at Rollo. At that moment I yelled at the top of my lungs and charged. The boar saw the horse bearing down on him and paused. The horse saw the boar pause and hesitated in mid-stride. Still holding the spear and the reins I flew clean over the horse's head and before I could even blink, landed with a crash across the bloody shoulders of the boar. With a bellow he rolled over on top of me. I was aware of a hideous, crushing weight, and then the world vanished in a whirl of sparks chasing through my skull.

I opened my eyes a long instant later. There was bloody, matted pig bristle an inch from my face, and the sharp reek of slaughterhouse and sty burning my nose. I was sure my ribs were snapped like chicken bones. The boar gave a lurch. If he thinks I am dead, perhaps he will ignore me, I thought. Instead, I felt the boar's own ribs heave, and a mighty sniffing, like pease-porridge sucked in and out of a giant pair of bellows, came from somewhere near my right shoulder. Then, quick as lightning, the brute rolled away from me and came to his feet. I saw those seething eyes and the yellow bone of tusks, and I screwed my eyes shut and prepared to die. But instead of goring me, the boar gave a final, defiant sniff, pirouetted on his hooves and bolted for the trees. Before I had even released what had almost been my final breath he had vanished.

I lay, still as a carving, hardly daring to breathe lest my ribs crumble. The sun was almost overhead and was lancing down through clouds of dust. I heard laughter, and Rollo's face appeared above me, pale as milk but contorted with mirth. He still held his dagger.

‘Petrus! Christ above, Petrus! What did you say to him, the beast? Christ's blood and bones, he took offence, all right! What did you whisper in his ear, eh?'

I could not even find the strength to reply. Instead I looked past his face at the swirling motes, and wondered vaguely if I had shit my breeches. Rollo was almost doubled over with laughter. He was prattling on, and every word seemed to make him laugh the harder.

'Something nasty about his old sow, what? Or his daughters, eh? Eh? How—'

The babble halted in mid-flow. As Rollo's face came into focus through the sun's glare, I saw that mirth had vanished. His eyes were very round and his lips had gone quite white. He dropped the dagger, which chinked into the ground an inch from my hip.

What ...?' I began, as he straightened up and swatted at something behind his back. Then there was a hiss and the grey feathers of an arrow appeared, like a grotesque sleight of hand, under his armpit. With a sound like the snapping of fingers another arrow transfixed his cheek, and two more struck his side. He scrabbled at the bright snakes' heads of metal that jutted from his belly, and our eyes met. They were full of the most intense concentration as though he sought for some answer in my own, and his face was grave and strangely noble, despite the horrible adornment it had received. Then a great belch of gore spewed from his pierced mouth and his eyes went blank. Slack-limbed, he toppled backwards. The arrows splintered loudly as he hit the ground and lay still.

Chapter Eighteen

I had still moved not so much as a muscle since coming to my senses, and although my first impulse was to leap to my feet, I did not. Through the shock of Rollo's sudden demise came filtering, like the dust motes that drifted above me, the realisation that whoever had shot my companion had not tried to shoot me. Therefore he - or they, for there must be at least two bowmen - supposed me dead. Was there the slightest chance that they might leave me alone, having killed Rollo? My mind was in a mad whirl. They must be robbers, I thought. That being the case, they would now move in to rob the dead bodies. If I moved now, they would shoot me from their hiding place. My only hope was to let them come up to me. I had my knife. If there were two men, and they both came out, I might have a small chance. If there were three or more, I was a dead man. Christ. Where was my horse? Could I draw my knife easily? Ah, holy Mother of God, I still held the boar spear, of course. My right arm was throbbing horribly. I fervently prayed it was not broken.

As these and a legion more thoughts gabbled inside my brainbox like a drunken conclave, I was struggling to keep still. All my reasoning could not blot out the very real chance that the bowmen might decide to put a couple of arrows into me, just to make sure. So I was almost relieved when I heard footsteps padding towards me. But now something was tickling my neck: a fat fly, drinking my fear-laced sweat. I must not twitch. Not now. The footsteps came closer, closer. More than one pair of shoes, I thought. There was whispering, hissed words I could not make out. Shoes were crunching on gravel very close to my head. Through slitted eyes I could see a man to my right, just a dark blur against the sun. He walked up to Rollo and kicked him. Then he bent quickly and slit his throat - or so I guessed, for it is a sound I have never been able to erase from my memory, and I recognised it all too well now. Straight away someone kicked me in turn, a hard blow to my left kidney. Knowing what would be next, I opened my eyes. A man's swarthy face, all hawk's nose and straggling eyebrows and framed with greasy black ringlets, was looking down at me. As he gave a start and began to bend towards me, I sat up, and in the same movement rammed the blunt end of the spear into his throat. It struck his Adam's apple with a jolt: not a terrible blow, but he was so startled that he lost his balance and sat down hard. As I tried to get my legs under me, an arm grabbed me around the neck. At once I threw my weight backwards, dropping the spear, and tried to stand; and if I had been able to feel astonishment at that moment I would have laughed aloud, for the man behind me was standing so firmly that I slid upright against the length of his body. I fumbled for my knife. There was an endless, infernal second during which my fingers felt only cloth, then they touched the cool steel ball of the pommel. Feeling his arm tighten and imagining the knife-hand that I could not see, I stamped down with all my might on the top of his feet and spun as his grip loosened minutely, my flesh cringing in expectation of the thrust of steel. My face came around into the hollow beneath his chin, all beard and garlic-sweat, and I shoved him away with both hands. He stepped back and raised his arm. He held a small sword, not a knife, and that had saved me, for he had not been able to bring the shorter blade to bear at close-quarters. His face was twisted horribly, and dumbly I realised I must have stabbed him as I fended him off. The sword came down and I stepped inside the arc of the blade and punched my blade into his guts again and again, perhaps five times, perhaps many more. He shrieked into my ear and dropped, writhing, to my feet.

I spun round. The other man had stood up, although he was stooped and was looking sour enough to let me know I had hurt him, however slightly. He leered evilly, his knife held straight out, point aimed unwaveringly at my face. I saw that he wore an odd sort of costume, something like a Saracen rag-picker: Moorish trousers, a loose-sleeved shirt and a waistcoat- of filthy, painted leather. The shirt hung open to reveal a great black serpent tattooed on the man’s dark chest. He smiled, revealing black and yellow teeth. Then he glanced to his left and held up his left hand. I had been about to run as fast as my feet could carry me, but now the logic of battle, all the training dinned into me over the past two years aboard the
Cormaran,
took over. There was another man, probably a bowman. He would not shoot me while I was so near his comrade. Or the snake-man was bluffing, and he had stupidly given me an opening. That was a better thought, and acting upon it I dropped my knife and lunged for the boar spear, which lay in a spreading pool of Rollo's blood. I came up with it as the snake-man turned back to me, and his smile vanished.

If you are extremely good at fighting, or just exceptionally lucky, you will very rarely find yourself with the upper hand and with the clarity of mind to choose your next move. I was no more than adequate in a fight but fickle luck had come over to my side and suddenly I was the master of an unequal struggle. The spear I held was a good six feet long, tipped with a long, razor-edged blade. My enemy held only a long dagger. Keeping my eyes fixed on his face I carefully stepped over Rollo's corpse and circled, forcing him to put himself between the bowman, if he even existed, and myself. I have said my mind was clear, but into that clarity anger now poured like burning tar. This man had meant to slaughter me, and I was suddenly disinclined to forgive him. My natural instinct, perhaps, would have been to let him run for it if he cared to, but I was so overcome with rage that instead of making my own bluff I began to jab at him, edging closer until he was parrying the spearhead with his knife. He did not look scared, however, in fact his smile had spread to reveal more rotten teeth. This merely fuelled my anger, and as rage makes a fair proxy for courage, I ignored what Dimitri my fearsome teacher had told me over and over again - keep your head - and lunged.

The man side-stepped and slashed. His blade slid down the haft of the spear and I parried it away. I lunged again, and again. He was still not afraid, still giving me his foul smile, but I was backing him up, keeping out of his reach but near enough that his friend with the bow - if he was real - would not shoot. I lunged, and he gave ground. Now we were picking our way among the corpses of Rollo's dogs, one of whom still kicked feebly. The man tripped slightly. We both glanced down. It was the spear I had dropped while charging the boar. Desperately I lunged again, but the man dodged, knocked my spear aside and flung his dagger at my face. His aim was perfect but I was too close, and the handle struck me crosswise across the bone of my nose. I heard it snap and felt blood begin to gush instantly. I staggered back, and through hot tears of pain I watched the snake-man snatch up the fallen spear.

You bastard!' I yelled. I was still furious, but now I was frightened too, and barely able to breathe. In this confusion of rage and fear I leaped forward as the man was straightening up, and stuck my spear into his shoulder. It went deep, up to the cross-bar, and I yanked it out and thrust again. This time I missed, for he had lurched sideways. His own spear came up. I charged again: again my spearhead missed and I slammed into him. We stood for a moment, and then, overcome with blind panic I shoved him away and he shuffled backwards, grunting in pain. I pushed again and again, shoving him back. We were like two drunkards fighting in front of some tavern: both clumsy, both exhausted. But I was younger, and he was wounded, and in a turmoil of sweat and gasping breath I drove him across the clearing and into the river. His feet went backwards into the wet mud and his face went slack with horrified understanding as he slipped and fell.

There was a mighty splash, and the man vanished full-length beneath the water. My own momentum carried me forward and my own heels struck mud. I landed hard on my bum and slipped down the little bank. As the man surfaced, spluttering, I levered myself up with my spear. I felt a moment of calm, a fragment of victory, for my enemy was down and unarmed, and perhaps this thing was over. But his arm came up with the spear and as he floundered, trying to find his feet, the long, wicked spearhead caught the sun. I swallowed blood, waded into the river and stabbed him full in the chest with all my might. I jerked it out and stabbed again, and again, until the man was meat and rags in the water.

I found myself sitting on the bank, head in my hands, which were filling with blood and snot like a chalice. There was a pounding in my ears, and I felt transparent, as if the sun were shining right through me. My legs were in the water, and dark ropes of blood were twisting like leeches about my calves. I retched: nothing came up, but I felt less incorporeal.

Raising my head at last, I saw the river, and standing in the middle of the stream, my mare, pale and grave. She dipped her head and delicately sipped the water that ran in crystal ropes around her knees. The man with the snake tattoo was nowhere to be seen.

Whether there had been other men in the trees waiting to finish me off, I will never know, for at that moment I heard the blast of a horn, and then another sounded in answer, not far off. Then, with an eruption of baying, the whole pack of alaunt hounds burst into the clearing behind me.

Feeling as if carved from ice, I wandered out into the river and took the mare's reins. We walked slowly back to the clearing. Rollo was still dead, the broken arrows making him look like a great seagull carcass, some strange flotsam thrown up on a beach. The man I had stabbed lay face up, eyes staring and filmed with dust. His tunic - the same Saracen rags as his comrade - was torn open and an alaunt hound was hungrily lapping the blood that pooled there. Sickened, I kicked it aside, but noticing something, I knelt down beside the corpse.

The dog’s tongue, as it drank the man's blood, had dragged across the tattooed snake that writhed across his chest. Except it was not a tattoo, for it had smeared. I bent down and, despite my revulsion, took a corner of tunic and rubbed. The snake came away, leaving a faint, dark stain. Lampblack, or something like it. Thinking hard, I dipped my finger in more blood and rubbed it across the man's stubbled cheek. It left a lighter trail across the dark skin. What had they called them, these snake-men? Athingani. This man was no more Athingani than was I, on that I would wager the Crown of Thorns itself. There was a clatter of hooves and, on some impulse that was not entirely clear to me, I quickly rearranged the tunic to hide the man's chest. Staggering to my feet, I found Aimery and the rest of the hunt standing in a crescent around me, pale and gawping.

This is a charnel house. Dear Jesus, is that Rollo?' Aimery rasped finally.

Aye’ I said.

Who ...' another man began. I held up my hand to shut him up.

'I don't know,' I said. 'No. Those, you know. Those Egyptians. With the snakes.'

Aigupti? You mean the Athingani attacked you? But they do not...' It was the man with the crossbow.

'Shut your mouth, Eudes,' snapped Aimery. 'They are savages and thieves. They despise us and now they have spilled good French blood.' He jumped down and knelt beside Rollo. 'Good Christ! Rollo, dear Rollo!'

'He did not suffer,' I said. 'Believe me when I say that he died laughing.'

Aimery gave me a cold look. 'But he killed this one?' He prodded the dead Athingani.

'Nay, it was I. Whether this man shot Rollo I cannot say. He had a companion.'

'There were two? Where is he?'

'Dead, in the river.'

'The Englishman killed two men?' one of the hunters said, admiringly. Aimery stared at me, his eyes even colder than before.

'But you could not save Rollo,' he said, bitterly. Why did they not shoot you?'

‘I was down. There was a great boar ...' Suddenly I felt weak, and sank to my knees. 'The boar did for the dogs and Rollo's horse. The boar, mark you, Monsieur Aimery, the boar had sense enough to fuck off. Men hunting boars, boars hunting men, men hunting other men ...' Then everything went silver and black, and when I opened my eyes again I was lying on a pallet of folded cloaks under an olive tree. The man with the crossbow was holding a flask to my lips, and gratefully I slurped at the wine.

'Good man’ he said. We thought you were done for. But it's just your nose, eh? Took a knock to the head, did you not?'

'One or two’ I said, and tried to sit up. He restrained me gently but firmly with a hand on my chest.

'Stay there a while’ he said. 'The other chaps are putting Rollo on a horse. Poor bloody Rollo. Aimery and he were like brothers.'

'Aimery does not like me’ I said.

'Aimery can be a bastard, but we just found your other dead man, and he will give you some respect now, you can be sure. Why did you not tell us you were such a warrior?'

'Because I am not’ I said. But the man's face wore the sort of stupid grin that men wear when some act of bestiality or foolishness has impressed them. I could already see the day's carnage spun into some hero's golden tale. Sure enough, they handed my knife back to me as if it were Excalibur and I some vainglorious fool from the pages of Chretien de Troyes; when later we rode back towards the city, Rollo's flopping corpse tied over a saddle, the company seemed more interested in the fight than in their dead friend. I was used to fighting men by now, but on the
Cormaran
we tended to rate survival above heroics. These men, though, were knights or sons of knights and they seemed to value life somewhat cheaply. Doubtless Rollo would be missed, but he was not mourned, not yet at least.

Save by Aimery, who alone amongst the merry huntsmen rode silent, pale and slit-eyed. He had been closest to Rollo, I understood that much. The tall man was as sombre as the others, and led our procession, head bowed. But I had not been stunned enough to miss the surprise with which he had greeted my survival. He had hidden it well, but the tall man had expected to find Rollo alive and me dead. I had received a thorough apprenticeship in the ways of deception and falsehood, and if I had not been able to read a lie like the one that had played over his face I should not have deserved my berth aboard the
Cormaran.
I was feeling sick in my flesh and in my heart, my nose throbbed horribly, and stars were still drifting across my vision, so I did not ponder these matters in any thorough way. But I reasoned that, if there was some plot against my life, it was known only to a few, or else I would have been slain by the company as soon as we had left Constantinople. It was easy to suspect the tall man, but now I began to wonder whether Rollo too had been a party to it. Why had we been paired together? And if Rollo were so dear to Aimery - for if there were a plot, surely they were all in on it - would he have been sent into danger so heedlessly? But then again, why had Rollo not killed me himself, and blamed the boar, or the Athingani, or whomever he pleased? Nothing was clear, save that three men were dead, and that I could very easily have been bumping along like Rollo, lashed to a horse's back, my head lolling against its flanks like a turnip. I ignored the excited chatter of the others as we rode through the lengthening shadows, the air starting to grow chill, towards the crumbling walls of the city, for my ears could hear nothing save the toe, toe, toe of Rollo's skull as it knocked against an empty stirrup.