small boy, fist to his mouth, dark eyes rounded in a pale face.
‘Otto!’ He clasped his brother. ‘Otto!’
He felt his brother’s arms but his brother stared impassively back.
‘Look at me, Sir Raymond! Stare into my eyes!’
The Hospitaller did so, his heart skipped a beat, his blood ran cold. The hair, the face, the arms, the body, these were his brother’s - but those eyes! The same hateful stare as that Byzantine princess.
‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You!’
He would have collapsed but the hermit helped him to sit on the cushioned kneeler of the prie-dieu.
‘You have been hunting me,’ the hermit declared. ‘Otto has gone. I am here. I see through his eyes. I speak through his tongue and his heart beats for me.’
Sir Raymond turned away.
‘How?’ he asked weakly.
‘Have you not read your Scriptures?’ the hermit mocked gently. ‘How the demons can enter a man and make their home there?’
‘But why?’
‘That is not for you to know.’
‘No, why do you hate us?’
‘I do not hate you, Sir Raymond. Truly, I thank you. You rescued me from the vault but then you failed me. You broke your pledge and let me be taken. What is worse, you pursued me and sent others hunting me along the highways and byways of Europe. I will not be interfered with!’
Sir Raymond saw the fury blazing in the hermit’s eyes.
‘I am not some rabbit or fox to be hunted. Always remember, Sir Raymond: when you declare war on Hell, Hell declares war on you.’ Lifting his finger he brushed some of the blood from Raymond’s face and licked it carefully.
‘Here in God’s house!’ Raymond felt his courage return. ‘You dare to come into God’s house!’
‘Have you not studied your Scriptures, Sir Raymond?’ the hermit taunted again. ‘Read the Book of Job. Satan is allowed to come before the throne of God and, according to the Gospels, even into the presence of Christ.’ The hermit gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘Do you think we are like that, Sir Raymond? Dirty little imps with the faces of monkeys and the heads of goats? Don’t you realise we are pure spirit, powerful, brooding for all eternity? We have not withdrawn from Heaven, Heaven has unjustly withdrawn from us.’ He would have touched Sir Raymond’s face again but the Hospitaller flinched. ‘Heaven and Hell are the same. Think of that before you die.’
‘And the boy?’ Sir Raymond asked. ‘Another of your victims?’
‘More sacred than life itself,’ the hermit replied. ‘He is nothing to you.’
The Hospitaller got to his feet, refusing to be cowed.
‘There are others,’ he said.
‘Ah, you mean the Preacher?’ The hermit shrugged. ‘I will take care of him as I have taken care of others. Once he is dead the hunt will end. Farewell, brother!’
The hermit, turning on his heel, walked back through the shadows and collected the boy.
Sir Raymond went back to his prayers. He felt cold as if his heart had turned to stone. He did not care about his companions or their endless speculation. Instead he prayed, preparing himself for death. When the Yorkist captains returned later in the day with warrants for their arrest, Sir Raymond did not struggle as the others did, but allowed his hands to be lashed behind his back. He was pushed out of the main door, blinking at the strong afternoon sunlight.
Just beyond the abbey close a great table had been set up, covered by a green baize cloth. Behind the table soared a black-draped scaffold. On it stood the executioner, his face masked, a huge two-sided axe in his hand, one foot resting on the block and, beside that, a great wicker basket. The townspeople thronged about, held back by a line of archers wearing the royal livery. Each prisoner was taken before the table, Somerset first. Two men were seated there. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his henchman John Howard of Norfolk, their faces still bearing the marks of recent battle. They shouted questions,
‘Otto!’ He clasped his brother. ‘Otto!’
He felt his brother’s arms but his brother stared impassively back.
‘Look at me, Sir Raymond! Stare into my eyes!’
The Hospitaller did so, his heart skipped a beat, his blood ran cold. The hair, the face, the arms, the body, these were his brother’s - but those eyes! The same hateful stare as that Byzantine princess.
‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You!’
He would have collapsed but the hermit helped him to sit on the cushioned kneeler of the prie-dieu.
‘You have been hunting me,’ the hermit declared. ‘Otto has gone. I am here. I see through his eyes. I speak through his tongue and his heart beats for me.’
Sir Raymond turned away.
‘How?’ he asked weakly.
‘Have you not read your Scriptures?’ the hermit mocked gently. ‘How the demons can enter a man and make their home there?’
‘But why?’
‘That is not for you to know.’
‘No, why do you hate us?’
‘I do not hate you, Sir Raymond. Truly, I thank you. You rescued me from the vault but then you failed me. You broke your pledge and let me be taken. What is worse, you pursued me and sent others hunting me along the highways and byways of Europe. I will not be interfered with!’
Sir Raymond saw the fury blazing in the hermit’s eyes.
‘I am not some rabbit or fox to be hunted. Always remember, Sir Raymond: when you declare war on Hell, Hell declares war on you.’ Lifting his finger he brushed some of the blood from Raymond’s face and licked it carefully.
‘Here in God’s house!’ Raymond felt his courage return. ‘You dare to come into God’s house!’
‘Have you not studied your Scriptures, Sir Raymond?’ the hermit taunted again. ‘Read the Book of Job. Satan is allowed to come before the throne of God and, according to the Gospels, even into the presence of Christ.’ The hermit gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘Do you think we are like that, Sir Raymond? Dirty little imps with the faces of monkeys and the heads of goats? Don’t you realise we are pure spirit, powerful, brooding for all eternity? We have not withdrawn from Heaven, Heaven has unjustly withdrawn from us.’ He would have touched Sir Raymond’s face again but the Hospitaller flinched. ‘Heaven and Hell are the same. Think of that before you die.’
‘And the boy?’ Sir Raymond asked. ‘Another of your victims?’
‘More sacred than life itself,’ the hermit replied. ‘He is nothing to you.’
The Hospitaller got to his feet, refusing to be cowed.
‘There are others,’ he said.
‘Ah, you mean the Preacher?’ The hermit shrugged. ‘I will take care of him as I have taken care of others. Once he is dead the hunt will end. Farewell, brother!’
The hermit, turning on his heel, walked back through the shadows and collected the boy.
Sir Raymond went back to his prayers. He felt cold as if his heart had turned to stone. He did not care about his companions or their endless speculation. Instead he prayed, preparing himself for death. When the Yorkist captains returned later in the day with warrants for their arrest, Sir Raymond did not struggle as the others did, but allowed his hands to be lashed behind his back. He was pushed out of the main door, blinking at the strong afternoon sunlight.
Just beyond the abbey close a great table had been set up, covered by a green baize cloth. Behind the table soared a black-draped scaffold. On it stood the executioner, his face masked, a huge two-sided axe in his hand, one foot resting on the block and, beside that, a great wicker basket. The townspeople thronged about, held back by a line of archers wearing the royal livery. Each prisoner was taken before the table, Somerset first. Two men were seated there. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his henchman John Howard of Norfolk, their faces still bearing the marks of recent battle. They shouted questions,
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