For a moment nothing happened. Then, with a creak that sounded as old as the stones themselves, the doors swung in.
XXX
The town is packed: All Souls was two weeks ago, and the Cold Fair is in full swing. Merchants have come from all the corners of Christendom to trade their wares. The Count of Champagne has built vast warehouses on the edge of the town to accommodate the trade; his guards are everywhere in their blue and white livery, shepherding the money as it changes hands. You can buy furs, wool and linen cloth, pepper and spices, leather and silk — anything you can imagine.
It’s also a good place to buy men.
The square in the centre of the town has become a cockpit. Four rings have been roped off, where squires and serjeants take turns testing their strength in combat. I manoeuvre my way to the front. A fat man in a leather cap and armour is taking on a young squire, whose face is a mask of concentration. The boy dances and skips, jabbing and parrying. The fat man barely moves, content to swat and bat the boy back. On the far side of the ring, I can see a one-eyed, grey-haired man in a black coat trimmed with gold. He’s watching the fight, but he looks bored.
With a sudden movement that belies his size, the fat man darts forward. Two strokes and the boy’s clutching his hand in agony, his sword on the ground. He reels away, towards a girl who looks as if she’s having second thoughts.
The crowd applaud; money changes hands. While they’re talking, I duck under the rope and pick up the fallen sword. The weight feels good.
The fat man looks at me. ‘Did you lose your armour?’
I shrug. If I were more extravagant, I’d make some bragging retort.
The crowd are getting interested. There’s nothing they like more than an entertaining mismatch. A proven champion in leather armour, against — what?
They’re waiting to see if I’m just a fool who’s drunk too much, or if I can surprise them.
I stand as stiff as I can and take a couple of awkward, artless strokes. The fat man relaxes. Another novice, he thinks. I retreat from his attacks, skittering around the ring like a frightened fawn. The fat man follows, taking his time. The crowd bay encouragement. From the corner of my eye, I see the man in the black coat watching intently. He’s not deceived.
I start to slow down. The fat man sees his moment and comes in for the kill. He’s agile, but he’s got a lot of weight to carry — and I’ve watched how he does it. I see him coming and drift back. He lands heavily and staggers forward, off balance. I get inside the reach of his blade and grab his arm. I twist it until it’s about to snap, then chop down the hilt of my sword against his wrist. He drops his sword: he’s trying to pull away, but I won’t let go. I knee him in the gut, and for good measure, slam the pommel of my sword into his nose. I don’t think I’ve broken it, but I’ve made it bleed. The crowd like to see blood.
Another man gets in the ring. He’s taller and leaner, full of confidence. I don’t waste time with this one. Inside a minute, he’s lying on his back with my sword at his throat.
I’ve made my point. I clamber out of the ring and wipe the blood off my hands.
‘If anyone wants my services, I’ll be in the Black Bull,’ I announce.
There’s a tournament at Ressons in a week, and somebody will be looking for a lance. I’ll fight under a borrowed standard, take my winnings, then disappear again.
This has been my life for five years.
I feel a hand on my sleeve and spin about. It’s the one-eyed man who was watching the fight, a grey face in black and gold livery. He doesn’t ask my name. Perhaps he knows I wouldn’t give it to him.
‘You fought well.’
I nod, accept the compliment.
‘I work for a man who rewards good fighters.’
He opens his hands, making me an offer.
‘I don’t have a horse. Or arms.’ I lost them in Hainault, fighting a brutal little border war for a count who never paid me.
‘The man I work for can provide them.’
‘For a tournament.’
‘For …’ He weighs his words like a spice merchant counting peppercorns. ‘He can tell you himself.’
He brings me to a goldsmith’s shop. At least, I think, he’ll be able to pay me. A black eagle hangs on the sign above the door, its greedy claws outstretched. While I wait, I eye up the cups and plates that line the room, dull gold behind iron bars. I wonder if I could steal one.
I remember the story my mother told about the man who stole a cup from an enchanted land. His punishment was that he could never leave. When I was young, I thought it was a cruel ending, but at least I thought it was an ending. Now I understand that the story continued. I think of that knight, trapped in the underground kingdom. Every day, he must have woken thinking, Perhaps this will be the day. Devising ever more elaborate plans, straining for the roof of his world, piling frustration on misery. Always out of reach.
Death is the only ending, and I crave it. Sometimes, especially in darkness, I run my finger down the blade of my sword and think how easily I could do it. It would be a sin, but no worse than others I’ve committed. I think how sweet the release would be.
But I’m not ready to die. Every morning, I wake and think, Perhaps this will be the day.
At the front of the shop, three clerks sit behind a table facing the square. I watch the coins move across the chequered tablecloth, like pieces on a chessboard. Men bring them, rearrange them on the table, take some back. Gradually, I begin to see the patterns. Many of the customers are merchants from the fair who want to change their own coins for the livres of Troyes. A group of Italians bring him twenty of their silver coins, and receive a gold livre in exchange. But when an Italian who’s going home brings him his own gold livre, he gets only eighteen silver coins.
Do they know they’re being cheated?
I lean forward on the edge of my seat, fingering the hilt of my knife. Surely a fight’s going to break out when one of the merchants notices. But there’s no complaint, no argument.
The steward comes out of a door at the back of the shop and beckons me in. I expect him to take me upstairs: instead, we descend. At the bottom of a tight stair, he lets me in to a low crypt. The stones are cold, the room lit only by candles. Ironbound boxes line the walls. At the far end, a hunched figure sits at a table, though I sense him more than I see him. He’s robed in darkness. A silvered mirror hangs on the wall behind him, reflecting back the candlelight like a moon.
A pale hand seems to beckon me forward. Closer as I come, I can still barely see him. He’s wrapped in a black cloak, black wool with a sable fur collar. The skin’s been taken off the animal in one piece, so that the toothy snout and tiny claws clasp around his throat. All I can see of the man is his face: a high forehead, a hooked nose and stringy white hair poking from under a black cap. His skin is pale as scraped parchment, and shrunk in on itself like a plum left to dry in the sun. The only colour comes from his eyes, which are blue as a May sky. They stare at me so hard I wonder if he’s blind.
For the first time in five years, I feel afraid.
‘You are a fighter?’ His voice is strong, granite hard.
I nod, but I can’t meet those eyes. My gaze drifts downward to the table, a beautiful thing. It’s the chequered tablecloth from upstairs made solid, ebony and ivory inlay.
‘I’m assembling a group of fighting men.’ He twitches his hand. It makes an unnatural, rasping sound as it moves across the table. I look, and see that it isn’t skin: it’s silver, metal wrought in the shape of a hand blistered with black gemstones. It looks like a reliquary.