Sallowed Blood

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Book excerpt

Southern France, 1244

The three men came down from the walled town using the secret path, which the one leading had told the others about only hours before. Blood caked his torn, black habit, and his right arm hung useless, broken at the elbow. His eyes were set straight ahead, in a face grim with pain. The eyes of the lost; empty, resigned to his fate. They had beaten him and he refused to disclose the whereabouts of the treasure, until they threatened him with death. Oblivion. Even his faith was not enough to prevent him from telling them everything they wanted to know. And now, here they all were, the citadel looming over them, the screams echoing across the mountainside. Hell had opened its gates and sucked them all inside.

As the first rain fell, the priest reined in his old nag and waited, chest heaving, every bone and fibre of his body aching. He twisted in his saddle and watched the two knights drawing closer, their faces scowls of contempt. Big, burly men, encased in chainmail, their open helms buckled and rusted where numerous sword blows glanced off the thick metal. Fighting men who had travelled far, fighting and killing their way through southern France, instruments of a jealous French king, intent on crushing the Albigensians and taking from them whatever he could. The Pope would rub his hands in glee and both would be damned. Did not Jesus say a rich man could not enter the Kingdom of God? So, how could they justify their actions. How could they justify the destruction of a way of life, the countless deaths?

Simon squeezed his eyes shuts, kneading his forehead with thumb and finger. Pain pulsed through his skull, the mailed fist cracking his jaw, another breaking his nose.

“Are we here?”

The voice, cruel, flat, laced with danger, caused him to blink and stare into the knight who caused him so much agony. So much ignominy. Simon eased the nag around to face the mountainside and let his eyes run up the steep sides, the outcrops of rock sharp, seemingly unscaleable. “It is,” he managed through swollen lips and chipped teeth.

“If you're lying, I'll cut off your head and then—”

“I'm not lying,” hissed Simon, without facing the knight. “Wait here.”

He slipped from his mount, groaning with the effort, and when his feet hit the ground, he buckled, almost fell, a hand flaying out wildly to grab hold of the nag's rein and prevent himself from collapsing. He wheezed in a few breaths and slowly straightened again.

“You have to move to the side,” he said, voice straining with the effort and he took a few tentative steps forward until he reached the rock face, put out his hand and curled his fingers inside a blackened crack. “The sunlight hides the entrance, the angle of the rocks casting an almost impenetrable shadow. But, if you know …” He sidestepped to his right, emitted a low moan and disappeared inside the mountain itself.

They brought torches with them, knowing from what the priest told them, the cavern would be black as night. A sudden flash of flint on steal and the packed wadding crackled into fire. Held aloft, they gave off a weak, flickering light, but enough to pick out the details.

Simon sat on a boulder, head between his knees, breathing erratically. For the umpteenth time since he regained consciousness from the third bout of beating, he checked his side and winced, gritting his teeth to prevent himself from yelping. It was as he suspected – he was bleeding inside. Soon the strength would leave him completely and he would curl up and die, perhaps in this dreadful place; alone and forgotten. Even by God, whom he had betrayed by bringing these despicable men here.

Simon watched them, sweeping the broad cavern with the torches, trying to find their bearings. The cavernous roof yawned above them, too vast for the light to penetrate the void. Ahead, also, the space loomed blacker than jet, the occasional glitter of quartz or some other mineral glinting alluringly, bringing some relief from the almost uniform darkness.

“There's nothing here but rock,” spat the first knight and he crossed to the priest before Simon could react, took him by the throat and shook him, a knife appearing from nowhere, “Tell us where the treasure is, or I'll kill you here.”

Simon fought down the urge to swallow, the knife-edge pressed against his throat. He did not want to die here, but the strength was leaving him, the hopelessness overcoming even his fear. “If you kill me, you will never be able to find your way out of here.”

The knight went rigid, eyes growing wide, the dancing light from the torches seeming to make them dance, livid red. He arched his back and he threw his head back, an animal-like guttural growl rumbling from deep within. He went into a sort of spasm and threw the priest to the ground, his breath coming short and jagged. “Damn your eyes,” he rasped, “you brought us here to die with you.”

Simon said nothing and lay in the dirt, looking up to the endless chasm above him. It was wrong to kill, he knew as much, but perhaps this was a fitting retribution? For these men to die here, in this filthy, awful place, as punishment for the horrors they had inflicted upon his brethren. So many deaths. So much suffering. Damn them to hell. They deserved no better.

“Dear God,” said the second knight, voice little more than a whisper. “Will you look at that, Theo.”

The first knight, the one called Theo, with the back of his hand pressed against his mouth, turned and followed his companion's out thrust finger.

Simon followed too.

A light, spreading wider with every second, illuminated the far end of the cavern and there, wedged between a scattering of boulders was a huge, twisted and mangled piece of metal. It shimmered as if made from silver and within its centre, the object itself as wide and as tall as a townhouse, stood a woman.

No one spoke, no one breathed. All three of them gaped in disbelief.

She studied them for a moment before moving forward, gliding effortlessly over the rocks as if from a dream for she was far lovelier than any had ever seen.

And then she smiled.

Chapter One

Present Day

Dead people can't speak.

At least, that's what I used to think.

Just that very morning, Daniel's teacher had told him the difference between a journal and a diary. A journal was something to write in whenever the urge for creativity arrived, holding no pressure to commit thoughts and recollections onto paper on a daily basis. The problem was, he didn't see the point. Up until recently, nothing seemed worth putting down so he contemplated his bookshelf, the journals, gifts from his aunty Flo, standing in a neat row, all of them empty. No doubt, he would receive another one from her this Christmas. If she knew nothing ever gripped him, how life had become one long, endless journey into despair … He pulled one down and sat on his bed, weighing the book in his hands. And something stirred.

He gave himself up to an irresistible urge to write something meaningful. This had never occurred before and he had no idea where it came from now. A culmination of everything that had recently happened, more than likely; with Dad, and Mum …

Daniel reached over to his bedside cabinet and picked up a pen. He didn't know how to start even though he had so much running around in his head, so many thoughts and questions. He had no one to talk to, no one who would listen, least of all Dad. Drinking took up most of his time now. Daniel started there…

'Dad is drinking again. More than ever. I wish we could go back to the beach house again, with Mum.'

He stopped. Thoughts of his mum made it difficult to carry on. He missed her, missed her more than anything, and for a moment he almost slapped the book shut. What is the point, he thought. Nothing is going to bring her back. It was a horrible accident and I have to try to get on with my life without her. Daniel put his face in his hands. The minutes crawled by as he fought with his emotions, desperate to hold back the tears. In the end, he simply didn't want to, and he sat there and cried.

Much later, he opened up the journal again. Daniel held the pen between his fingers, poised above the page. He didn't think he could write anymore. It all seemed so unfair. But he had to put down how he felt, make some sense of the world around him.

'I miss that place,' he continued writing 'the sea crashing against the rocks, the call of the gulls. It was good for Dad, his paintings better than ever. He'd even sold some to a gallery down in London. But not anymore. He doesn't paint anything anymore.'

He remembered last night, how Dad had come in, late as usual, standing forever in the hallway, counting out his change from his pockets. Always the same ritual, clinking the coins, fumbling around as if he were lost in the dark, his breath stinking. Daniel could smell it from the other end of the hall. He wanted to run up to his dad, tell him that he loved him, that he wanted him to stop, that none of it was doing any good. I know you're in pain, I am too … Mum has gone. We have to get on with our lives… Instead, his courage seeping away, he turned and went back to his room and pressed the door shut.

'I want Dad to start painting again. I want it all to be like before. Why doesn't he understand that I miss her, too, that the only way we can get through all of this is by being together?'

A noise outside Daniel's room made him sit upright and he quickly slipped the journal under his bedclothes. He glanced over to his bedside clock. Yes, it would be Dad stumbling in, breathing hard, and drunk again no doubt. Daniel didn't know what would happen next. Often there would be shouting, lots of shouting. Sometimes, very late at night, Daniel would hear his dad answering the telephone, always sounding angry. His dad blamed the whole world for what had happened. When Mum died, devastation followed, and Dad had almost fallen apart. Then a few months later, Gran followed.

Daniel had stopped crying over Mum by then. Only a dull, empty ache remained. Then news came of Gran, who was so horribly ill, wasting away. It was still a shock, knowing she was gone. Everything dies, but the loss hurts so much. He knew he shouldn't feel so sad for Gran. She was old, eighty-seven. What an age! If he stopped to think about it, she'd had a fantastic life. The stories she used to tell. He'd sit at her feet, listening for hours while she recounted tales about her childhood in southern Germany, how the War had brought everything to an end, how the soldiers had come–

The door opened and Daniel held his breath. Dad stood there, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes dull and lifeless, like beads. “We have to go to Truro,” he said without any preamble. “For the reading of your Gran's will,” he sniffed. “Waste of time, but we have to go. We've been summoned!”

“When?”

“Wednesday.”

He turned to go but Daniel quickly said, “Do we have to?” He had visions of spending hours inside a sweltering car, alone with his dad. What would they say to one another?

His dad stopped and frowned. “Apparently.” He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket and peered at it. “We have no choice. It says, 'It would be in your best interest – and that of your son – to attend the reading of your late mother's last will and testament.' So … Wednesday.”

And with that, he shuffled out.

Daniel gave a little groan. Truro. That meant returning to Cornwall, with all its memories, memories he didn't want. He waited until he was sure Dad had gone to his own room, then pulled out the journal and carefully replaced it on the bookshelf. He'd written enough, dredged up too much pain. Wednesday would dredge up even more, perhaps.

They'd found the office easily enough, after having driven down to Truro the night before. At a little hotel they had managed to eat a late supper and then gone to their room. Daniel didn't say anything, but he was happy that his dad had barely touched any alcohol. The following morning, however, Daniel became nervous, recalling the words his dad had read out, 'It would be in your best interest – and your son's – to attend…' Why would it be in his dad's best interest?

Stepping inside it all appeared very prim and proper, shiny metallic furniture and black cushioned chairs. The receptionist shone too. One of those incredibly efficient looking people, nipped nose and glasses, hair scraped back in a bun so tight that her face probably wore a permanent expression of alarm. Daniel couldn't stop staring at her, fascinated by her nails. The longest and brightest red he'd ever seen. Her strong scent of lavender and talcum powder made his stomach churn.

The office of 'Mr. B.W. Spencer, solicitor' stood at the top of a narrow flight of stairs and each step creaked as Daniel and Dad made their way up behind the grim receptionist. The large, imposing and cold room lay in sharp contrast to the one downstairs. A massive table dominated, and the wood paneled walls were punctuated with hunting scenes.

Dad looked at them with disgust. “Eighteenth century kitsch!” he said in a quiet, scathing voice.

The receptionist, who had led them in, motioned for them to sit, which they did, then offered them both drinks. Dad refused, but Daniel wanted a Coke. She didn't seem to like that answer and flounced out. Dad's legs splayed out before him, his fingers drumming on the arms of the chair. He looked angry, gnawing at his bottom lip, breathing hard through his nose. He had been like that during most of the journey down and Daniel thought he knew why. Dad probably saw this as a useless waste of time. He'd said as much in the car, “What's the point in us being there? I haven't spoken to the old girl in years, didn't even know she was so ill.”

“Dad, last time we saw her she was as thin as a stick. And, she was eighty-seven!”

“She never had any time for me – it was always you, inviting you round for tea and God knows what else.”

“Stories, Dad. She told me stories, of when she was young. Some of them didn't make sense, but they seemed to cheer her up. Like she was watching old movies. She always asked about you, how you were getting on, what you were painting … I told you, Dad. Every time I got back. I told you what she said, but you never remember, you were always …” He clamped his mouth shut, knowing he was close to the danger zone. He looked away.

“So? Makes it all the more pointless, doesn't it? What are we going to find out about an old woman that we didn't already know before?”

Daniel expelled air hard through his nose and wished this damned meeting were over. He shuffled nervously in his seat and peered over at the wall clock. The hand was moving far too slowly.

In the end, they didn't have to wait long. The door flew open in a grand sweep and a weedy little man, with no hair and a thick moustache, stood to one side to allow three others to enter. A tall and silent man and woman, both smiling sheepishly also came in. The third person to come in looked very different. He was built quite heavily, like a nightclub bouncer with a square, flat head, and he exuded confidence. Daniel couldn't take his eyes off him. They all nodded briefly towards Daniel and his father.

The little man, a huge bundle of papers and folders tucked under his arm, sat down in a large, grand type of chair on the other side of the desk. Very theatrically, he spread the papers out over the table and sorted them into different piles. Daniel watched him, fascinated, as the little man kept checking and rechecking each piece. Dad seemed restless, shifting uncomfortably, obviously not enjoying any of it. The couple didn't make things any easier. They'd brought with them an unsettling energy; they were nervous, anxious, eyes darting around, feet tapping with impatience. The big man, in contrast, sat stoic and grim. Daniel looked at them all, not sure what to expect. It was all very intriguing, and just a little disquieting.

Suddenly, in another dramatic entrance, the receptionist returned with the Coke. She slapped down a small, cork coaster and planted the glass of sparkling drink on top of it. She glanced at the others and smiled without even a single twinge of pleasantness and then left.

A silence fell upon the assembled group after that. Daniel wanted something to happen. To break the tension, he gulped down his drink to give himself something to do. His stomach knotted with dread, like being in one of the most awful places in the world – the dentist's waiting room! Often, when faced with really difficult situations, Daniel would ask himself, 'Is this worse than the dentist's?' The answer was invariably 'no' and this always gave him a curious surge of confidence and reassurance. This meeting, however, played differently. For the first time in his life, he began to suspect that there might be worse things than a visit to the dentist.

Like death, for instance.