There are eight of us, and each has at least a dozen battles notched on his sword. We have blood on our hands, scars on our faces and prices on our heads. We are not men you would want to meet on the road — as those monks found to their cost. But we all fear Malegant. He stands a head taller than any of us and everything about him is black: his hair and his eyes; the stone in the hilt of his sword; the screaming eagle painted on his shield. Even his armour has been alloyed black.
He pulls out his hunting knife and slices his habit open from neck to hem, as if eviscerating himself. It makes it easier to shrug off the disguise when the battle starts. We all do the same. The sound of tearing cloth rents the silent sea air.
A shadow appears in the mist ahead. I can hear the lap of water on land. The shadow grows over us. A bittern starts its mournful cry. The castle is built right against the sea here, extruded from the rock itself. We’re close enough now that I can see mussels and barnacles stippling the walls. Sticks poke out of the water to mark the lobster pots.
We follow the birdcall and find a stone ramp sloping into the sea by a water-gate. The gate has been opened: a Carthusian monk in a robe the colour of mist stands by it. He has his hands cupped over his mouth and is honking like a bittern.
He drops his hands. He has the youngest, cleanest face of all of us: he makes the most convincing monk.
‘Did they suspect anything?’ Malegant asks. Even his voice sounds black, as dry as soot.
The Carthusian shakes his head. ‘The count’s in his chapel at prayer.’
We scramble out — our feet get wet, but we daren’t risk scraping the boats on the landing. I take out my sword and unwrap it from its binding. The monks we killed had books with them, and parchment keeps the water out. I drop the pages in the water and watch them float away. The rain tries to drown them.
‘Guard the gate,’ Malegant tells the Carthusian. ‘When the fighting starts, no one escapes.’
He ties his belt in a loose knot over the habit. The pommel of his sword bulges at his waist like an obscenity. We all pull up our hoods and file through the gate.
It’s barely dawn, but the castle’s already awake. Grooms carry steaming buckets of manure from the stables to the kitchen gardens. Servants sweep out the rushes from the great hall and take them to the bakery to burn. Somewhere, falcons mewl as their keeper brings them fresh meat. A woman in a white dress leans out from a balcony in the keep. I turn my head to see her from the folds of my hood, but the mist wraps itself around her, making her insubstantial as an angel.
For a moment my imagination insists it’s Ada. I think I see a red cord tying back her hair, dark eyes brimming with laughter and the brooch, my gift, at her throat.
Don’t look, I beg her. Wherever you are, avert your eyes. There’s no question of asking her to pray for me.
The woman is not Ada. I pull my hood forward so that she disappears from sight.
The chapel’s a dark, sunken chamber, half-stone and half-rock. Many feet have worn the floor smooth. A lancet window pierces the rear wall and looks out to sea; three red roundels stain the glass like wounds. There is an altar under the window, and on the altar two branched candlesticks and a reliquary box, all gold.
The count kneels at the altar. He’s smaller than I expected: a thin, wrenlike man, with receding white hair and apple-red cheeks. He reads from a bible on a low lectern, while two rows of monks — real monks — face each other and sing the liturgy over his head.
Have mercy on me, Lord, sinner that I am.
I feel dizzy. I wish I could change my fate. Malegant strides across the room, the cloak slipping from his shoulders. There’s no challenge. His sword taps the count on his shoulder like a lord dubbing a knight, and as the count’s head turns he smites him.
The weight of the blow slices open the count’s collarbone all the way to his lungs. Blood fountains; his head lolls on his shoulders like a pig’s bladder on a string. Malegant puts his boot against the dead count’s back and pulls his sword free. Blood spills across the book as the count topples forward. One of the monks runs to the altar and smothers the reliquary with his body, but Malegant slits his throat and pulls the corpse away.
Shouts and footsteps sound behind us. Too late, the count’s guards have woken to the danger. Malegant picks up the reliquary and holds it aloft like a chalice. His face shines with triumph, while the others butcher the remaining monks.
And I? I know I should draw my sword, perform the service I’ve been hired for. At least protect myself. But a higher power has me in its grip. I remember the oath I took half a lifetime ago.
To defend the church, my lord, and the defenceless.
How have I come to this?
III
Lemmy Maartens knew he had the easiest job in the world. A bank inspector in a tax haven — the toughest part of his day, he liked to joke, was choosing where to have lunch. But right now, the job wasn’t so easy. Right now, he was sweating.
‘You would like more coffee?’
The secretary had reappeared with a cafetière. Lemmy put his cup on the table and pushed it across so she wouldn’t see his hand trembling. The cup was fine china — Villeroy & Boch. Lemmy had checked the underside of the saucer while the secretary was out of the room.
‘The manager will be with you directly.’
All his life, Lemmy had known that the world owed him more than it gave him. His job, rubbing shoulders with the international financial set, oozing wealth and arrogance, only reinforced the grievance. He wanted the expensive German saloons he saw in the car park; the Italian suits that brushed past him in the corridors. And, he believed, he deserved them.
So Lemmy went freelance. In other countries, regulators were bribed to turn a blind eye. In Luxembourg, turning a blind eye was pretty much Lemmy’s official job description. But he was also paid for his discretion — and that was definitely negotiable. Nothing serious, but if you wanted to know whether a rival company was having trouble making its payroll, or if a subsidiary was losing money and ripe for acquisition, Lemmy could find out for you. It earned him a tidy ten thousand euros a month on top of his salary, all carefully hidden where no one would find it. But every time, he sweated for it.
He read the sign on the wall again. Monsalvat Bank SA. Even working for the ministry he’d never heard of them, but that didn’t surprise him. There were more than a hundred and fifty banks in Luxembourg, attracted by the low taxes and regulators like Lemmy who didn’t ask too many questions. Most of the banks didn’t extend to much more than a nameplate and a telephone number.
A woman came out of the inner door. She wore a grey pencil skirt and a white blouse unbuttoned to her collarbone. She must be approaching fifty, but with her fine bones and slim figure she had a commanding beauty that the twice-divorced Lemmy could appreciate.
‘Christine Lafarge.’ She shook his hand. ‘I am the manager of this office. I wasn’t expecting a visit from your department today.’
‘A random inspection,’ Lemmy assured her. ‘A formality. The new climate, you know. We must be seen to be active.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Your director usually telephones to alert us. A courtesy, so we can prepare our files.’
Lemmy spread his hands and hoped she didn’t notice the sweat on his palms. ‘I can only apologise.’
The secretary fetched the printout he needed, a list of accounts. Lemmy scanned it and pretended to choose one at random.