A Fall in Antioch

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.