A Fall in Antioch

"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.