The Winter Knight Read online

  The Winter Knight

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Historical Note

  The Knights Templar

  Copyright

  For Paul and Lou, always and forever.

  A man apostate, a man unprofitable, is he who goeth with a wayward mouth; he beckoneth with eyes, he trampeth with the foot, he speaketh with the finger, by shrewd heart he imagineth evil, and in all time he soweth dissensions. His perdition shall come to him anon, and he shall be broken suddenly; and he shall no more have medicine.

  Six things there be, which the Lord hateth; and his soul curseth the seventh thing.

  High eyes

  A liar tongue

  Hands shedding out innocent blood

  An heart imagining full wicked thoughts

  Feet swift to run into evil

  A man bringing forth lies, a false witness

  And him that soweth discord among brethren

  My son, keep the commandments of thy father; and forsake thou not the law of thy mother. Bind thou those continually in thine heart; and encompass to thy throat. When thou goest, go they with thee; when thou sleepest, keep they thee; and thou waking, speak with them. For the commandment of God is a lantern, and the law is light, and the blaming of teaching is the way of life.

  Proverbs 6:12-23

  The door to the castle’s great hall slammed shut somewhere far back, and the greasy smoke and dancing orange flames of the three torches along the corridor walls each guttered and flared momentarily, throwing eerie demonic shadows around the grey stonework. For a heartbeat the flittering illumination picked out details in the great tapestry that hung on the wall opposite, a treasure from the time of his great grandfather, the story of the fortress and his family.

  A flare: Henry the Lion with sword raised, heroic and larger than life as he stands alongside the fearsome beast that is his namesake, the pair facing the dread crimson wyrm as it breathes its fire at them in great billowing clouds. Guttering back into darkness.

  A flash: Burkhard von Zollern in his mail shirt with a sword large enough to cleave giants, standing atop a rock in the shape of a curled dragon, his new castle rising strong and noble behind, imposed against a bright sky. And then darkness.

  A flicker: Hildiger von Ehingen de Rottenburg standing between Frederick the One-Eyed and a young princeling the family proudly claimed to be Frederick Barbarossa. A trinity of steel-clad warriors and nobles representing the great power of the Hohenstaufen dynasty and their allies.

  The angry figure stomped past the tapestry and its glorious scenes, past the torches as they once more settled into a quiet guttering, sinews of black smoke rising to add to the sooty coating of the ceiling, hiding its once rich, now faded paintwork. The torches entirely failed in any aspect of their purpose. The light they gave off did little more than highlight how gloomy the corridor was by throwing small patches of it into clarity, and any heat they produced was immediately smothered by the bitter cold, carried along the passageway on a wind that cut like the talons of a wyrm.

  Anger. Anger and frustration. Anger over the rifts that were endemic in the family, over the idiocy of the argument that had led to his storming out, over the pig-headedness of the old man, refusing to accept that there could be any view but his own. Anger over a world where such a noble family could be brought so low, low enough that arguments over minutiae shattered the peace, when they should be above such things.

  Frustration that his own manner was so impulsive and hot-headed that he had so readily failed to keep control of his temper in the face of the argument. He should have been able to rise above, but he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. He was a man of fire, like his father, not one of ice, like his uncle.

  Would that Lütolf was here now…

  Trudging along the corridor, still aswirl with anger and regret, he made for the square of blue-white ahead, the open door into the courtyard, passing through into the antechamber on the way. Two more torches entirely failed to illuminate this small room between the wide corridor and the courtyard exit, the bottom of a spiral staircase presenting a black maw to the left; to the right was bare stonework with pegs for cloaks. Half a dozen thick robes hung there, and he made his way towards them.

  Through that doorway the world was a wintry blue-white. So cold that the world felt as though it might snap or crack. The blizzard had stopped for now, and the moon had put in a rare appearance, lending the world a silvered glow. The dazzling light on the white landscape below made the world as bright now as it could ever hope to be on the sunniest of days. White-blue and perfect.

  He reached up and grasped the thick fur collar of the hooded cloak on the end peg – the fleecy thick wool garment rich burgundy in colour, picked out with silver thread designs, a grand garment for a once grand family. His fingers, becoming raw with the cold already since leaving the comfort of the great hall with its roaring fires, closed on the fur.

  He was aware of the movement behind him for just a fraction of a second before it happened. Something hard came down on the back of his head, scattering his wits in a flash of terrible pain. His hand went instinctively to his waist, fingers wafting across the pommel of the dagger as he tried to grip it to defend himself against this sudden and unexpected threat. Nothing happened. The fingers danced on, twitching, uncontrollable. Years of martial training rendered ineffective by a critical blow to his head. His mind was a blur of pain and panic. If he’d been able to think, to move, to react to the blow, he’d have reached up and tested his scalp. He felt sure even in the swimming nausea of agony that he would find the skull cracked and loose, blood welling up into his thick lion-mane of hair.

  He fell forward as if poleaxed, almost putting his eye out on one of the cloak pegs as his face slammed into the stonework, a blow that would have been painful in itself if he could have felt anything over the agony in his scalp.

  Warm blood ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He tried to blink it away, tried to think, tried to move. His body felt useless, as though it belonged to someone else. Even every ounce of will he could summon, which was almost nothing, could not even lift his finger. He slipped. He felt certain he should be falling, but seemed to be being supported. Someone was lowering him to the ground.

  Thank the Lord. Thank you, kind friend.

  He was on the floor now, but not on the hard cold flagstones of the antechamber. He was lying amid the comfortable folds of the cloak, the fur of the collar under his head, soaking up the blood flowing over his face. It was in his eyes, in his nose and mouth. He choked and coughed out the viscous liquid of his life, groaning and shaking.

  The figure was there, just a silhouette. A darker shape within the hellish gloom of the chamber. It was probing him, moving him. It was in his garments now, feeling, pushing, grasping. What was it doing?

  He tried to shout, his wits slowly returning. He had been almost knocked out completely by the blow, but he was made of hardy stuff and already he was beginning to recover from the shock, master the pain. His fingers gripped into a fist, gathering a fold of the cloak in them. T
he other hand went feeling for the hilt of the dagger once more, groping wildly in his slow recovery, but now they found only the empty mouth of the sheath. The blade had been removed. Blood sprayed from his lips as he tried to speak, but a hand was suddenly clamped over his mouth. He struggled. Panicked.

  He was recovering his wits and even his mastery over his limbs, but not his strength. The pain and the nausea were still there and were a combination far too powerful for his potency to override them. He had been a strong man and deadly with a blade, but the suddenness and well-placed violence of the attack had unmanned him in an instant. Now he was weak, at the mercy of the figure. As he struggled and tried to rise, tried to slip out from under the gagging hand, he felt his head lifted slightly and then smacked back against the stone floor.

  The thick fur beneath his skull did little to dampen the blow, and once more he felt his wits scrambled with fresh waves of pain. He threw up, the bile seeping through the fingers of his attacker, adding volume to the blood coating his face and the cloak upon which he lay. The figure was no longer probing. No longer searching, prodding, testing. The hand came away from his mouth, but he couldn’t shout or scream now anyway. His mouth was full of blood and vomit and his mind was awhirl with pain and confusion.

  What was happening? What had he done?

  Lord help me!

  But the Lord was not helping him tonight. The Lord’s gaze was elsewhere.

  He was being half-lifted, half-dragged, on the cloak. Where was he being taken? He could do little more than moan now, as they paused at that entrance to the wide, white world. What were they waiting for? There was silence. No movement. Nothing. Just the frantic beat of his heart and the laboured breathing of his otherwise silent attacker.

  Then they were moving again. From the gloom of the antechamber they suddenly emerged into the dazzling silver world outside. The icy cold hit him like a wall, immediately driving deep into his marrow, through his hose and shirt, filling him and adding to the twin miseries of pain and nausea. His eyes blinked away blood and were blinded with the sudden light as he stared up at the moon in its blue-purple sky.

  He was still moving. His feet bounced and skittered on the stone. No fleecy white snow cushioned him, for the servants had recently shovelled the drifts away and brushed the courtyard, clearing it for passage between the various doors. They were moving quickly now. There was no one else here, just attacker and victim.

  He tried to cry out. Perhaps someone would hear. The Lord had forsaken him, but perhaps someone might yet hear. The pain, the confusion, the weakness and the thick, tin-tang of blood in his mouth made it impossible to utter more than a moan or a gurgle.

  They stopped again.

  He realised now that they were at the centre of the castle courtyard. He looked around desperately. No lights showed at the windows, each shuttered against the cold and the threat of fresh snow. Only the chapel shone, its windows high and largely impenetrable to more than that quiet glow, formed of small coloured panes between lines of lead. There was no one.

  He was being lifted again. God, no. Not that.

  Fresh nausea and more blood as he was rolled onto his side, still half-wrapped in the sodden cloak. He felt the stone of the well top, jagged and unforgiving under his shoulder and ribs, eyes blinking away blood and treating him to a view of the terrifying black maw of the well. He could see nothing but blackness in there, and the frost-coated line of the rope descending deep into the earth.

  He managed just a gurgling noise that was supposed to be a plea. But he was not to be simply abandoned. To be tipped into that deep mausoleum was not to be his entire fate, for something else happened first.

  He saw the flash out of the corner of his eye as the moonlight caught the blade, which then moved with a hunter’s speed. His own dagger, for the love of God! The pain and nausea he’d already suffered he thought could not be matched, but he was wrong. Fresh agony and terror assailed him as the blade dug in close to his ear and then cut across his throat, catching here and there in its passage.

  He could hiss now and nothing more, though it made no difference. He was a dead man already, just counting the heartbeats until he passed. He would have no last rites. No service. No mourners. No comfort. Just agony and cold eternity.

  He felt his shuddering, bleeding body being pushed.

  He was falling now, plummeting into the darkness.

  Would it all be over before he hit the bottom?

  Chapter One

  Rourell, Catalunya, November, 1208 AD

  Arnau de Vallbona stepped back. The sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, and he reached up, brushing it away with his forearm. The air was still temperate for the time of year – comfortable, if a little chilly at times – but the exertion of training made him as hot and tired as he would have been in the heart of the Aragonese summer.

  He coughed, the dust cloud from their latest bout settling slowly.

  Arnau’s gaze rose to the gateway of the preceptory. Balthesar and Ramon stood beneath the arch, their white mantles with the red crosses stark against the honeyed stonework of the monastery walls and the brown of the parched earth around them. Both men looked faintly amused, which irritated Arnau intensely. Why couldn’t they find something useful to do and leave him alone?

  ‘You’re still dropping your guard, Felipe,’ he said. ‘Your attacks are better every day, you’re fast and accurate and intuitive, but you simply cannot rest upon your laurels after an excellent strike. The chances of you disabling an opponent with that one blow are ridiculously small, and unless you do, stepping back and taking stock is just opening yourself to a counter­attack, as you should now be very well aware.’

  The young man in the black surcoat rose from the dirt, coughing in the dust and swaying slightly, using his blade to support his weight as he rose.

  ‘And don’t do that to your sword. Think of the damage the stony ground will do to the tip. You’ll have to sharpen it very thoroughly this evening, and you really don’t want to break the blade.’

  His face a picture of chagrin, Felipe staggered straight. Arnau sighed. He’d hurt the lad’s feelings now. Honestly, it was like having a puppy, and whenever he had cause to bring Felipe up on anything it was a little too like kicking a puppy for comfort.

  ‘Like the brother at Montpellier,’ Felipe said sheepishly. ‘The one who broke a sword and was sentenced to losing his habit.’

  Arnau nodded, trying hard to remember what rule that was. Two hundred, he thought. The young squire spent every free moment studying his copy of the Rule, as intent on following every stricture as he was with the Bible, though unlike the Good Book, which sat in grace in the chapel, Felipe had his own copy of the Rule. It had surprised Vallbona that the young man had his letters at all, as a poor farm lad, even if he only spoke Aragonese.

  ‘Give the boy a chance, Vallbona,’ Ramon said from the gate. ‘His attacks are improving, and you can’t expect him to learn everything at once.’

  Arnau shot the older knight a look loaded with irritation. ‘Do you mind, de Juelle? Have you nothing better to do? And anyway, I was expected from the start to learn everything at once.’

  Memories of the repeated instances of landing flat on his backside in the dirt with the severe figure of Brother Lütolf looking down at him disapprovingly swam into his memory. How many times had he struggled before he could even hope to hold his own against the man?

  ‘You were expected to learn everything at once because you were already a knight, Vallbona,’ Balthesar replied. ‘You’d had years of training, in bad habits admittedly, but you were passing competent with a mace and had tasted the bitter fruit of battle. Felipe is years younger than you were, with no training behind him. Go easy on him.’

  Arnau threw a look of warning at the older knight, who shrugged his indifference and fell silent.

  Felipe was steady now, standing well, feet braced a step and a half apart, one foot forward slightly, both hands on the hilt of his heavy sword, a
sword that had once belonged to Matteu. A good soldier’s weapon.

  ‘Perhaps if I had a shield?’ the young man said hesitantly.

  Arnau sighed and stepped back, eying the young man. Felipe was perhaps sixteen summers now, hopelessly enthusiastic and over-helpful in everything he did. In truth, he was already an excellent squire with only three months of experience. And they were lucky to get him.

  Political manoeuvrings were once more troublesome in the region. Following a period of prosperity when they had brought a ‘relic’ back from the Moorish island taifa, when they had afforded to rebuild the damaged preceptory and attract new brothers, things had begun to tail off once more. At least their lands were well-worked and profitable, but the popularity of Rourell began to descend once more, and it took some investigation and pulling of strings to discover that the Baron Castellvell was once more in residence in his homeland and stirring up trouble. Some fresh dispute between he and Preceptrix Ermengarda had led to him doing what he could to blacken her name afresh.

  But still they received the odd donat or associate brother. Felipe’s parents had died in a landslip on the farmstead they worked near Vilaverd during the previous winter, when the floodwaters of the Francoli had carried away a sizeable part of their farm. The young boy had been sent by the local landowner to Rourell, penniless and broken. Perhaps it said much about Rourell and its unconventional mistress that a stray waif might be assumed to be taken in by them. Perhaps it spoke of the preceptrix’s charity and humanity, of her adherence to the Order’s raison d’être as a force to protect and shelter the needy. Or perhaps that they were simply seen as a gaggle of eccentrics who might take in a charity case. Either way, Felipe had come, hands wringing, and Ermengarda had seen something in him, enough to take him in.

  Certainly he had the muscle for a warrior, grown through early years of labour, and his instincts seemed good, even in wild grief. Voices had been raised in concern, but the preceptrix had overridden them and set the task of convalescing the lad. It had taken months to heal his spirit, to the stage where Felipe had latched on to the preceptory and decided that Templar life was for him.