The Elixir of Death (44 page)

In front of them was a thickset Saracen, with a green head cloth, holding high a wide, curved dagger, like a priest using a cross to exorcise demons. His voice came clearly across the narrow castle yard.

'This was my father's knife! He gave it to me as he was dying and made me swear to avenge him and our family. It has never left me. I have slain a score of unbelievers with it, both for Sinan and myself!'

De Wolfe's brain had been paralysed for a few seconds by the shock of what he was witnessing, but now a deep rumble of pure anger rolled in his chest and he started to rise above the tattered wall, his hand already drawing his sword.

Gwyn urgently dragged him down, clutching the sleeve of his tunic.

'Not yet, Crowner! For Christ's sake, wait!' he hissed. 'They could knife your wife and Hilda before you could get halfway across the bailey. And that cross-bow could kill you, too.'

Even as he spoke, however, Gwyn was drawing his own sword.

'We must do something!' whispered John, desperately. 'Distract them somehow.'

'There are five of them to our three - and all we have are two swords and a blacksmith's hammer. That crossbow is the problem.'

Frustrated beyond measure, they waited and watched the drama below. Nizam screamed some orders to his henchmen and the one with the cross-bow leaned into the hut and dragged out Alexander of Leith. He was pushed aside and the leader raised a finger, pointing at the alchemist.

'You I am sparing! Get yourself gone and thank your God, if you have one, that I am merciful to those who played no part in shameful events!'

The little Scotsman, whose appearance was another surprise to the watchers hidden behind the wall, sidled off and then ran on his short legs towards the track that led out of the bailey. He vanished from the view of the Saracens, but from his vantage point the coroner could see that he had hidden in the undergrowth where he could observe what was going on near the huts.

'Who the hell is that?' muttered Gwyn into de Wolfe's ear.

'God knows! And who is that tall fellow roped to de Revelle?'

There was no time for an answer, as events began to move fast. Nizam rattled off more instructions to his men, who closed in on the captives. He gesticulated at the two Saxons, who were now looking more than a little anxious, but they started to pull the captives towards the door of the hut.

Richard de Revelle struggled to get nearer his sister, bellowing a mixture of prayers, obscenities and supplication, but a prod with the tip of Ulf's mace kept him moving. Then Hilda decided to come to a dead stop and refused to move, even though she was being hauled by the rope around her waist. Matilda cannoned into the back of her and then sank to her knees, sobbing on the ground.

'Who killed my husband?' called out the blonde woman, in a high, clear voice. 'Who slew the ship-master? I am entitled to know that, even at the last, before I die!'

This seemed to startle the captors into momentary silence, then Nizam laughed and translated her words for his two acolytes. Abdul, the one with the cross-bow, laughed in his turn. He stepped towards Hilda and indicated himself by tapping his own chest with his free hand, before bending forwards to spit in her face.

A second later he reeled back, as a long sliver of glass, exquisitely sharp at its point, was thrust deep into his chest. He screamed, raising the cross-bow to discharge it at the woman who had stabbed him, but then a great gout of blood shot from his mouth and he fell forward, the bolt fired harmlessly into the ground.

Pandemonium broke out, as Raymond de Blois roared defiance and charged head down at Nizam, his hands still tied behind his back. It was a heroic but hopeless gesture, as his neck was still linked to de Revelle's. The rope brought him up short and the leader of the Arabs plunged his long dagger into his belly. As de Blois fell, dragging Richard to his knees, Nizam stabbed him repeatedly, then began kicking the twitching body as it lay on the ground.

He would have done better to look over his shoulder, as a warning cry from Malik and Ulf heralded the charge of two very large and very angry men brandishing long swords, followed by another swinging a huge hammer over his head.

Malik threw his pitch brand at Gwyn, who brushed it aside as if it were a fly and swung his heavy blade at the side of the Turk's neck, almost severing his head from his shoulders before the man could even attempt a thrust with his long curved knife. John had gone straight for Nizam, roaring with rage at this evil creature who had dared to abduct his wife, to say nothing of his former mistress.

The Saracen leader made no attempt to defend himself against this black shape that had appeared from nowhere, but in a desperate attempt to fulfil his father's oath, he launched himself at Richard de Revelle, who was still on the ground, crouching and still linked to the bloody corpse of Raymond de Blois. He put his dagger to Richard's throat, again drawing blood, as he screamed for his two Saxon mercenaries to come to his aid. But Ulf and Alfred were nowhere to be seen - they had melted away as soon as they saw how the battle was going and had vanished into the forest.

John raised his sword, ready to hack off Nizam's arms one by one, followed by his legs and head. But the Arab pressed his blade deeper into de Revelle's neck.

'Keep back or I will kill him!' he screamed, some vestige of hope suggesting that if he could stay alive long enough, he might get the sister as well. John stayed his sword-stroke in midair.

'Kill the bastard, for all I care!' he roared. 'I'm going to cut you into little pieces, whoever you are!'

'John, save him. Save my brother!' screamed Matilda, her tear-streaked face lifting from the crouch into which she had collapsed.

Indecision now clouded de Wolfe's mind as the red rage began to subside. Gwyn also moved cautiously towards Nizam, sword raised, but the Turk dug the point of his dagger into Richard's neck, making the victim utter a gurgling scream of terror. With a quick slash, Nizam cut through the cord around his neck, separating him from Raymond's corpse. Keeping the knife to his neck, he began to drag the manor-lord towards his sister.

'Stop him, Crowner!' yelled Gwyn. 'He wants her too!' But the warning was unnecessary. Suddenly, Nizam's eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, exposing the whites, and he began twitching. He dropped the dagger and fell to the ground, black blood appearing at his lips. Then he had a full-blown convulsion and a great gout of dark fluid erupted from his mouth, before he finally became still.

There was a flurry from behind and the strange figure of the little man in the kilt and blouse rushed down from where he had been concealed.

'It worked, thank God! I was beginning to think I was losing my touch!'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In which Crowner John returns home

Confusion reigned in the old castle bailey, as the survivors struggled to understand what was happening. John de Wolfe felt as if his head was bursting, as he tried to make sense of the chaotic situation, which was not helped by Matilda collapsing to the ground, alternately wailing and laughing, as she clutched his legs in an unprecedented paroxysm of gratitude.

Hilda also slid to the floor, still attached to John's wife by the cord, but she sat bowed over, staring blankly at the bloodstained shard of glass which she still clutched in her hand.

Richard de Revelle was bellowing for his wrists to be released and the blacksmith ran across to him to slash through the cords with his knife. Richard staggered across to John and grasped his arm like a drowning man clinging to a floating log.

'John, where in Christ's name did you spring from? You saved my life!' Though de Revelle was wild eyed and almost incoherent, the coroner noticed that he said 'my life', typically ignoring the salvation of his sister and the other woman.

'It seems to be becoming a habit, Richard!' he said cynically. 'Though I think this brave young woman deserves most praise.' He indicated Hilda, who was still slumped among the weeds.

Then he bent down and gently raised Matilda to her feet, putting an arm around her shoulders, but forbearing to actually embrace her. Her almost hysterical keening subsided and she sniffed and rubbed her tear-stained face with her hand, making it even more grubby. Her cloak was soiled with dirt and bits of straw from her prison, making the contrast with her usual immaculate appearance all the more obvious. Gwyn, who sometimes showed more tact and sensitivity than his shambling appearance would suggest, took in the situation with John and his wife and went to Hilda, lifting her up and hugging her in his bear-like grasp, while he gently prised the glass dagger from her fingers.

'Well done, brave lass!' he murmured in her ear. 'Now Thorgils can rest in peace, wherever he is.'

Richard de Revelle belatedly acknowledged that others besides himself had survived and went to his sister, whereupon John readily relinquished her into his arms. Emotional women frightened de Wolfe beyond measure, but now he went to Hilda and rather self-consciously kissed her on the cheek. Rapidly becoming composed again, she put a hand to his cheek and said a simple 'Thank you, John!', but the look that blazed out of her blue eyes as she uttered the words was worth more than an hour's eulogy of gratitude.

At this point, the burly blacksmith appeared, grasping a squirming Alexander by the collar of his peculiar garment. 'I don't know who this strange fellow might be,' he announced. 'He's the only one left. Those two big bastards seem to have run off and the rest are all dead!'

Thomas de Peyne, a horrified observer who had kept well back from the recent mayhem, now came closer and pointed to the strange symbols embroidered on the Scotsman's tunic.

'You are an alchemist, I presume?'

'Ay, I am indeed! And sorry I am that I ever left my chamber in Bristol to come among these madmen!' He waved at the four corpses on the ground. 'Though that gentleman was civil enough, he just fell into bad company with those Moors!'

'How does that dumb giant with no tongue fit into all this?' demanded Gwyn. Alexander seized on the words with delight.

'You know of Jan the Fleming? Is he alive and well?' he shrilled.

'Certainly alive, and well enough for a man with a cross-bow bolt through his shoulder,' snapped John. 'He should survive, but who the hell was he? And who who are you, for St Peter's sake?'

'I am Alexander of Leith, a humble alchemist, searching for the Elixir of Life. That poor man Jan is my servant and assistant.'

Belatedly, the alchemist began to realise that his presence in this camp might take some explaining when law officers started to take an interest. This was rapidly reinforced when de Wolfe declared that he was the King's Coroner for the county and was determined to get to the bottom of whatever had been going on here.

Richard de Revelle also got the same message and his devious mind began to plan evasive action. As he held a linen kerchief to his throat to mop up the blood still oozing from the shallow cut, he glared at Alexander, then gave him a covert wink that was not lost on the Scotsman. Both of them had the same desire to draw as heavy a veil as possible over their activities. In this, they were greatly aided by the fact that all the Saracens were dead and Raymond de Blois was also beyond providing any explanations. If possible, it would be a considerable advantage if the coroner never learned that he was French, rather than Norman.

Richard looked down at the man's corpse, lying on its side in a pool of blood that had welled from the multiple wounds in his chest. Thomas was crouched alongside the body, making the sign of the Cross over it and murmuring suitable incantations in Latin. De Revelle, justifying his self-interest, thought it was just as well that he had been killed, as a spy found in England in the service of Philip of France could look forward only to the gallows.

Gwyn was still comforting Hilda, but he gestured to the brawny blacksmith to drag the four corpses into one of the huts. The man pulled the three Saracens unceremoniously by their heels into the kitchen hut, still strewn with the hay that was to have started the conflagration that would burn their captives alive. Their turbans had come off in the grass, revealing lank black hair coiled into plaits. When Thomas had finished shriving the Frenchman, the smith was more circumspect in handling his corpse, fetching a horse blanket from the stable. He wrapped it around de Blois to smother the blood, then lifted it into his arms and staggered back to the stable with it.

For the moment, de Wolfe's priority was the well-being of the two women, his wife and his former mistress. As the fire of conflict died down and his mind began to function more coolly, he wondered how to manage this matter of Matilda and Hilda. He was aware that his wife knew the identity of the blonde woman, and in view of her caustic sarcasm and constant hostility over the past few years, he thought it best to separate them as soon as possible. He laid a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder.

'Richard, there is much to be explained about this sad affair, but I feel that your sister needs rest and the solace of your home and wife until she is recovered.'

He was not being deliberately sarcastic in his allusion to the Lady Eleanor, though he was well aware that the two wives did not enjoy very cordial relations. 'Your manor is not that far distant and I have already sent Matilda's maid Lucille back there. She also had a bad experience when those bastards dragged Matilda from the chapel, so the bailiff of Ringmore has taken her to Revelstoke, where she can care now for Matilda's needs.'