King's Men

KING'S MEN

  by Karen de Lange

  Copyright 2012 Karen de Lange

  KING'S MEN

  1. The Monastery

  The wind whipped across the mountainside, howling like a demon. There were no trees to impede it, only straggling gorse bushes clinging low to the ground, and against it Mick's heavy woollen coat may as well have been thin cotton. He huddled in on himself, aware of his companion doing the same. Their ponies seemed unaffected; shaggy-haired little beasts with sure feet, far more sensible than long-legged horses on this kind of terrain.

  For nearly a week of travelling they had been lucky with the weather. It had been cold but fair, helping them gain back some of the two days they had lost picking their way through a saturated bog. Now the dark clouds congregating overhead threatened a soggy end to that good fortune. Mick hoped they could reach the monastery in time to avoid a soaking. He clicked at his pony, encouraging it to pick up the pace as they climbed towards the pass that cut through the ridge above them.

  Aidan rode up beside him just before they crested the rise. 'How much further?' he asked, his cheeks ruddy.

  'Not far,' Mick reassured him. He glanced up at the sky. 'I hope.'

  Aidan snorted. 'Bloody ridiculous, living in the middle of nowhere.'

  'I'm told monks like it like that.' Mick knew that Aidan would pick up the teasing note in his voice; they had known each other for years. With their similar looks – thick black hair, black stubble, square jaws – people often mistook them for brothers.

  'Godfrey had better be pleased to see us.'

  'He will be,' said Mick. 'I don't imagine the last two years have exactly been the most interesting in his life.'

  They crested the rise, and the world opened up before them. They were at the head of a valley, steep-sided and deep, as though some god had dealt the earth a mighty axe-blow, splitting it like dried wood. A lake filled the bottom, so black and still that there was no telling its depths. At the far end of the lake, a mile or so distant and partially concealed by what had to be the only trees for miles, was a cluster of stone buildings. Beyond them the land fell away again to a broad plain, and the grey sea in the distance.

  Mick started down the slope, out of the wind into blessed silence, but Aidan reined up and squinted ahead.

  'Something's wrong.'

  'What?' Mick followed Aidan's gaze but could see nothing unexpected.

  'There, and there, see? At the monastery. There's been a fire.' Aidan turned to Mick with a lopsided smile. 'Young eyes see better than old, I guess.'

  'Call me old again and I'll beat you to a pulp.' Mick returned none of the other man's humour. He tugged absently at his earring as he tried to make out the details of the distant buildings. 'You're right, something's wrong. And here we are prancing about on the skyline like idiots, just like in Dema, and you remember what happened then. Get moving.'

  The closer they got to the monastery, the more apparent the devastation became. Most of the wooden roofs had gone; the outbuildings were nothing more than piles of charred wood. Black soot stains outlined every smashed window. In places, grey smoke still curled up, reaching for the sky.

  Mick dismounted at the edge of the trees; the monastery's small orchard. He tied his pony up to a low branch of an apple tree, signalling to Aidan to follow suit. He made sure that both his weapons – his gun for speed, his long knife for silence – were within easy reach, and held a hand up for caution as they continued on foot. The smell was terrible, burned wood mixed with other burned things that Mick didn't even want to think about.

  The first fat drops of rain began to fall as they walked in among the grey buildings. The smell of smoke here was almost overpowering; Mick heard Aidan cough, and it was only through an effort

  of will that he managed not to do the same. The silence was just a precaution; it seemed that there was nobody left to hear them.

  They reached the central cloister unchallenged, and took shelter from the rain under the intricate arcade.

  'What do we do now, boss?' asked Aidan. 'Get out of here sharpish, I say.'

  Mick shook his head thoughtfully. Several cold drops of water dislodged themselves from his hair and ran down inside his collar. 'We came here to find Godfrey. We can't leave without him. Split up, search everywhere. If you find anything, shout. There's nobody else to hear but us.'

  Mick took the closest door, stepping into the refectory. Wooden benches had been kicked everywhere before they had been torched, leaving the floor dotted with precarious charcoal structures. He was just beginning to pick his careful way through them when he heard Aidan's wordless shout.

  Backtracking quickly and following the sound, he found Aidan in the chapel. It was a small building, no more than an isolated monastery required. The narrow stretch of grass separating it from the cloister had saved it from the fire, but not from desecration; the pews were all overturned, and the murals on the walls defaced. Aidan was at the top of the nave by the altar, kneeling over a prone figure dressed in a brown robe. Mick ran up beside him.

  'He's still alive,' whispered Aidan. 'Barely.'

  Mick knelt on the cold stone floor and touched the man's shoulder. He was elderly, with wild white hair that reminded Mick of nothing so much as a puff of cottongrass. The front of his robe was dark with blood. Mick made a guess.

  'Father Clement?' he asked softly. 'Father Clement, can you hear me?'

  The man stirred and opened bloodshot blue eyes. He opened his mouth to speak and his throat worked, but no sound came out.

  'Aidan, fetch a water bottle and a blanket.'

  Aidan left the chapel at a run.

  While he was waiting, Mick took off his coat and tucked it behind the old man's head, all the while speaking quiet reassurances.

  'Are you Father Clement?' he asked, when he thought he had got the man as comfortable as possible.

  The abbot nodded. Mick nodded back, and stayed there, holding his hand, until Aidan returned.

  'Here.' Mick uncorked the water skin and let a trickle into the abbot's mouth, a bit at a time, until Clement signalled he was satisfied. Aidan laid the blanket gently over him.

  'Who are you?' croaked the abbot.

  'My name's Mick Donohue. What happened here?'

  'Mick Donohue.' Clement thought for a moment. 'The mercenary... a friend of Brother Godfrey's.'

  'Not today. Just an errand boy. King's errand boy. We came for Godfrey.'

  The abbot smiled ghoulishly, each of his teeth outlined in blood. 'And they came for you. You were supposed to be here yesterday, they said. They were here for you and Godfrey. When I couldn't produce you, they...' His voice trailed off, and he flapped a hand towards a barred door to one side of the altar.

  At a glance from Mick, Aidan went over. He lifted the bar from the door with difficulty and pulled it open, drawing a loud creak from its tired hinges. The most awful smell washed over them in a blast of warmer air, and Aidan gagged. Mick covered his nose with his sleeve.

  'They burned them.' Aidan's voice shook. 'They locked the monks in the crypt and they burned them.'

  A tear escaped from the corner of Father Clement's eye. 'I tried to open the door.' His voice was hoarse. 'I tried, but...' He gestured down at himself, his hand trembling.

  'You did all you could,' said Mick quietly. Turning to Aidan, he mouthed, 'Godfrey?'

  Aidan spread his hands helplessly. 'No way to tell,' he whispered. 'Not any more.'

  'Who were they?' Mick tried to keep his voice gentle as he addressed the dying man, but he still noticed the edge to it.

  'King's men. They were the king's men, king's errand boy. Come for you and Godfrey. I sheltered Godfrey for two years at my king's command, let him live his masquerade among us, kept him safe, and I was happy to do se
rvice for my king, but this?' He shuddered as he stopped for breath. 'This is...' He trailed off into silence and his eyes fluttered shut.

  'Clement? Father Clement?' Mick touched the abbot's shoulder, and drew his knife. When Clement opened his eyes again, Mick showed him the sharp blade. 'I can make it quicker for you, Father. A clean end. Just say the word.'

  Clement smiled his gruesome smile again. 'No, my son. There are too many murders on your soul already. I would... not have one more added, not for my sake. I... am an old man. I can wait a little longer to die.' He closed his eyes, his breath rough and uneven.

  The abbot died a little over an hour later, as the dusk was closing in and the rain pattered steadily down on the roof. Between them, Mick and Aidan wrapped the abbot in the fine linen altar cloth and laid him on the altar.

  'D'you think it's true?' asked Aidan. 'They came for us?'

  Mick gathered up his jacket from the floor and reached for the letter kept safe and dry inside it. 'The king gave me this, to give to Father Clement the morning