“Hey, you’ve let go of Dad.” Alex protested. “Ah! Fuck, that hurts!”
Blackbird gouged the sharp bone fragment into Alex’s thumb. “Don’t flinch, girl, or I’ll make a mess of it.” Blood welled up in the jagged gash in Alex’s thumb. Blackbird released her and Alex immediately stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked, looking resentful.
Blackbird took Niall’s limp hand and did the same, gouging a deep hole in Niall’s thumb that welled red. “Now mix your blood with his,” said Blackbird. “We need to reinforce the connection.”
“That’s gross,” said Alex.
Blackbird unceremoniously seized Alex’s wrist and tugged her towards the bed. “Do it,” she said.
The expression on Alex’s face as she pressed her bleeding thumb to her father’s was close to revulsion. Pressing their thumbs together opened the cuts and as she withdrew it left a trail of red spots on the white quilt. Alex’s eyes widened and she went pale.
“Bathroom!” said Blackbird, “Quick!”
Alex ran for the bathroom and there was the sound of retching as she threw up noisily in the sink. After a moment there was the sound of running water. She emerged, holding a wet facecloth tight around her wounded thumb.
“Better?” asked Blackbird.
Alex nodded slowly. “You’d think after all I’d seen, a little blood wouldn’t bother me.”
“Come and sit the other side of him,” said Blackbird. “I’d ask you to hold his hand, but I don’t want you throwing up on the bed.”
“I’m OK now.” She sat on the other side of the bed and held her father’s other hand, but her eyes avoided the spots on the quilt.
“Ready,” said Blackbird. “Once we begin, we’re committed. You can’t let go, no matter what.”
Alex nodded.
Blackbird used the tip of her finger to wipe a fat drop of blood from Niall’s thumb. Alex’s eyes went so wide that Blackbird could see a ring of white around them. Blackbird lifted the drop carefully and then licked it slowly from her finger. Alex paled — now was not the time to throw up.
A stillness settled in the room. Alex licked her lips unconsciously. The air felt heavy and dense as if it were about to thunder. Blackbird’s words sounded slow and thick, even to her own ears.
By his blood I bind him,
By his seed I summon him,
By his flesh I find him,
Niall Petersen, it is time to come home.
The temperature in the room dropped and the atmosphere shifted. There was a sense of opening, as if someone had thrown all the windows wide and let the air in. Niall’s eyes opened, but he did not see them.
“Niall?” said Blackbird. “Where are you?”
The passage was dark and smelled of damp stone overlaid with wood smoke. Dim light outlined where it ended as I shuffled forwards, stooping to ease under the low arch to where the flares in wall-sconces illuminated a room. The table in the centre had a man standing before it. Six arches formed the dome of the ceiling and five other passages led away into the gloom. At the peak, lantern windows let the smoke from the flares out into the night.
The man stepped back from the table. He wore a heavy cloak against the damp, and his clothes were woollen, though not of a style I recognised. His breeches stopped short at his calves over heavy socks and he wore leather boots which had been in mud up to the laces. His hair was pulled back in a silver clasp. In front of him arranged in a circle on the table were six massive horseshoes. Even from the passage I could feel the presence of the heavy iron. It made my bones ache to be near them.
He glanced at each of the passages nervously. Even though I stood in plain sight at the head of the passage, he did not see me. I looked at my hands. I looked real enough. Was I invisible?
The sound of heavy footsteps approaching drew his attention. He eased back his cloak, revealing a sword pommel, burnished by constant handling.
“Le Brun?” the newcomer called out. “It’s me.”
Le Brun let his cloak fall forward again, while the newcomer entered the room.
“Montgomerie,” said le Brun, “Are the others on their way?” His question was answered by another arrival. “Here’s Giffard,” said Le Brun. “We’re just waiting for Mowbray, FitzRou and De Ferrers.”
The other men arrived as one.
“It’s a foul night,” said FitzRou.
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?” asked Le Brun.
“You’d be hard pressed to follow a doxy in a dress in that weather,” said the man.
“Watch your language, De Ferrers,” said Le Brun, darkly. “We’ll swear before anything else. Are you set?”
They nodded, moving to stand in a circle around the table. De Ferrers and FitzRou removed their gloves. As one they each picked up a horseshoe from the table, holding it in their bare fists before them where the others could see it. One by one they swore.
“I am Walter Le Brun, Knight and Templar. I serve God and the King.”
Each stood with the heavy iron in their hands and swore likewise to his name, his God and his King. Only when they were all sworn did they replace the horseshoes on the table.
“Well and good,” said Le Brun. “What news?”
“The ceremony is set,” said Montgomerie, “The venue has been moved again. They’re nervous — after last year…” He let that sentence trail away.
“What about the knives?” said Le Brun.
“De Ferrers and I will ride them in at the last minute,” said FitzRou. “They are well hidden until then.”
“What have we here?”
The voice came from one of the passages. As one, the men turned, drawing back their cloaks and reaching for their swords, but within seconds the passages were thundering with boots, and men with short spears held the knights at bay, gleaming points held ready to run them through. Every exit filled with men. I was forced into the room or else be trodden under by them. I stood unnoticed at the side, while the knights stood with their backs to the table.
A tall man in an expensive embroidered cloak entered behind his men. He stood opposite me, surveying the scene. “What treachery is this?” he asked.
“There is no treachery here, Aimery” said Le Brun. “We serve the King’s peace.”
“And what manner of the King’s peace requires you to meet in secret and count horseshoes? Six shoes and six men; it is a pretty number.”
“Stand by!” came a new voice. “Stand in the name of the King. Make way for King John.” A new man entered the room, pushing aside the soldiers and forcing them into the room. His face was narrow with a deep scar that ran down his cheek into his beard on the left side. He moved with natural authority. He was followed by two other uniformed knights that pushed the soldiers out of the way with little regard, sowing confusion among the men who looked to Aimery for support. The two uniformed knights cleared a space, forcing the men back down the passages. A large, thickset man with a short beard who wore a cloak, black as sable, followed behind them. On his breast were embroidered three gold lions, one above the other. The knights knelt as one, causing a ripple of unrest in the remaining pikemen.
“Order your men to stand down,” said the King in a deep voice.
“But, my Liege,” said Aimery, “they are…”
“At once,” said the King, quietly.
Aimery looked crestfallen. “Stand down,” he ordered. The tips of the spears fell. “My Liege, if I have done wrong I beg your pardon. It was done with the best of…”