Bookweirdest Part 15

"He told you what?" It was still dark, but Norman could feel her eyes glaring at him. He'd forgotten all about it. Last time Norman had come to San Savino, he'd told Jerome that the adult Meg was married, then lied to cover his slip of the tongue. He wasn't as good at this as either Kit or Meg.

"I'm not betrothed to anyone," Meg said defiantly. "It goes to show that you can't believe Norman or Kit." She seemed more than normally aggravated by the thought. "I swore long ago never to marry. Once I realized I couldn't marry you, I swore I wouldn't marry anyone else!"

n.o.body in the cellar knew what to do with this declaration, least of all Jerome. It was clear he was in love with this strange girl who visited him in the library. Hearing that she wanted to marry him left him speechless.

Norman was just as dumbfounded. His brain refused to handle the idea. His mother loved his father, and that was the end of it.

Malcolm returned with an armful of figs, cutting short any more uncomfortable conversation. He made three more trips, foraging through the cellar for bundles of figs and olives, Jerome's coffee beans and skins full of water. When they had as much as they could carry wrapped up in burlap sacks, they followed Meg's lead deeper into the far reaches of the cellar.

"Help me with this," she demanded as she put her shoulder against one of the barrels in a far corner.

Jerome and Norman rushed to help her manhandle the heavy barrel out of its spot. The trapdoor it concealed was not obvious at first.

"Are you sure it's here?" Jerome asked.

"I think so," Meg replied, sounding none too certain. "That's an apple barrel, right? It's supposed to be under an apple barrel."

"But barrels can be stored anywhere. Maybe the barrel was moved since you last used it," Jerome suggested. "What part of the cellar were you in?"

"No, she's right. It has to be an apple barrel." Norman didn't want to explain it either, but obviously Meg hadn't actually ever used the trapdoor. She knew about it only because she'd read it in the book, and in the book it was an apple barrel they moved to get at the tunnel.

"It's here," Malcolm reported. His sharp woodland eyes had picked out the seams around the old door. Years of dirt had filled the crevices. He scratched at them now with the tip of his sword, finding the corners, but if there was a handle, it had long ago been snapped off or deliberately removed.

"Do you still have that giant rabbit broadsword?" the stoat asked.

Norman reached carefully into his knapsack's outer pocket to retrieve the weapon. It made a deadly snick sound as he removed it from its wooden scabbard.

"See if you can pry it open with that," Malcolm suggested.

It seemed a shame to use such a well-made weapon as a crowbar, but Norman did as Malcolm said and began to pry at the edges of the square. The stoat kept at the other edges, gouging out as much dirt as he could with his own sword, but the seams were tight and unyielding. Above them, they heard the stomps of feet marching in numbers.

"Hurry," Meg urged them. "The duke's troops are getting closer."

Sweat now began to drip down Norman's brow. He wasn't getting anywhere with this door, and they were going to be found out. Half a dozen kitchen maids had seen them duck down the stairs into the cellar. If Nantes's men charged in, there would be half a dozen fingers pointing to the cellar stair. In frustration, he jammed the sword into the crevice and stomped on its hilt like a garden spade, but the door still did not move.

"When was the last time this door was opened?" he asked between gasping breaths as he tried to wrench out the sword he'd just stuck into the seam. n.o.body answered him. He was regretting standing on the hilt. The sword seemed well and truly stuck.

"Need some help with that?" Meg asked solicitously.

Frustrated, Norman snapped, "No!" He fought with the sword for a few more minutes, straining to pull the blade straight back out, his arms trembling now until he lost his grip and slipped backwards onto the wooden floor with an inglorious thud.

"Give me a hand," he told Jerome, as if no one had suggested it before.

Jerome was quick to leap to his side. Each boy grabbed a side of the hilt and pulled. The archivist was taller than Norman and stronger. Try as he might, Norman could not put the same pressure on his side, and the sword started to twist. There was no difference at first, and then they began to feel the wood s.h.i.+fting under their pressure.

"Press down a bit," Norman said through gritted teeth.

The planks beneath them began to creak. The blade shuddered but did not snap.

"Keep going. You're moving it," Meg encouraged them.

They both leaned into it, but the boards only groaned and resisted-until without any warning the hatch flung open, sending Norman and Jerome tumbling in a pile like the winning team in a tug-of-war. The sword sprang into the air with a tw.a.n.g. It seemed to spin above them forever as they all watched helplessly. n.o.body moved. n.o.body breathed. Finally it fell straight down through the hole it helped to create in the floor. They heard it land with a clatter on the stone below.

"We're going to need a torch," Malcolm said. In a crisis like this, the little king could not help taking command.

Norman dug into his knapsack and removed the flashlight he'd stowed there back in the Shrubberies. "This is probably not the kind of torch you mean," he said sheepishly.

Meg rolled her eyes. "Do you have no respect for history?" she hissed.

Jerome did not understand, nor did he have time to ask. They were all interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the cellar stairs. The children froze. Only Malcolm had the good sense and fighting instincts to conceal himself. The others just looked at each other with wild, questioning eyes. Should they run? Should they close up the trapdoor to conceal it? In their hesitation, they did nothing.

"Jerome?" a familiar voice called.

"Sir Hugh?" Jerome asked hopefully.

"Ah, you are all here," he said, surveying the cellar. "Even our two interlopers." He nodded with satisfaction. "I don't know who told you about this pa.s.sage, but it is just as well that you made your way here. The duke's men are moving through San Savino like rats through a s.h.i.+p's hold. It's not safe for you here, Jerome. It is time to begin your journey to England."

"But Brother G.o.dwyn ...?" Jerome protested. In the heat of their pursuit he hadn't thought about the next step, but the idea of leaving now without his mentor suddenly frightened him.

"Brother G.o.dwyn will live a little while longer at least. He'll have a few more seasons of herbs to cultivate, but he will not be travelling anywhere."

"Then how?"

"Take the pa.s.sage as you had intended. I do not know where these two strangers came from. Perhaps they were sent by your-" He stopped himself before finis.h.i.+ng his thought. "I don't know where they came from, but they seem to know enough about this fortress's old pa.s.sages to get you out. The tunnel leads to the old well and the single palm."

"Do you know the route through the tunnels?" he asked, looking to Norman. Norman could only look hopefully towards Meg.

"We keep to the left," she replied confidently.

"Correct," the old Crusader said. "The one who calls himself Prince Reynard will meet you when you emerge. I will do my best to catch up with you farther along in the journey." He placed a rea.s.suring hand upon the boy's shoulder. "This will not be the last time we speak."

"Don't be too sure of that." The new voice was low and threatening. They hadn't noticed anybody creeping down the stairs. Their heads all snapped round now to see, but they didn't have to look to know who it was. Black John took a step towards them. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his left hand. In his right, he brandished his sword.

Behind him somewhere, Norman heard a whispered stoat curse: "Badger breath, wrong hand!"

Sir Hugh turned and drew his own sword in a single motion that looked well practised but may have been executed more rapidly in the past.

The man in black tutted as if he were disappointed, but as he edged closer, his mouth revealed a cruel smile. "Don't be a fool, old man. Give me the boy and have done with it. I've no desire to see you dead today."

Sir Hugh s.h.i.+fted his feet, tracking the duke's movements as he circled, always keeping himself between Black John and the children.

"You seemed to want to see me dead last night, when you sent a hundred fiery missiles over the walls." He still held his sword before him warily, but with his other hand he was waving the children towards the trap door. Escape, he was telling them. I'll buy you some time. Even in the dim light of the cellar, however, Black John followed his movements. His grin became even wider, and he moved to block their escape route.

"Oh, Hugh, a trapdoor? The Vilnius brat is going to escape this, is he?" he asked mockingly. "I think not."

Black John stepped forward slowly, thrusting the tip of his sword towards them, his bandaged hand held casually behind his back. He moved gracefully, more like a dancer than the murderer he was. Sir Hugh parried these experimental thrusts and edged backwards again.

Norman scanned the dark cellar for the only real help Sir Hugh would get in this fight. Even he could tell that Sir Hugh was too old and too slow to win this fight. Norman's own weapon lay on the ground in the tunnel beneath the trapdoor, and he doubted that he could do much with it against the duke's obvious fencing skill anyway. Where was that stoat? He had been somewhere behind them when the duke barged in. Sir Hugh would be blocking his shot. He'd have to circle around the cellar to get a clear view of his target.

They had to distract the duke. They had to delay this duel until Malcolm was in position.

"Hey, Little John!" Norman shouted. In the schoolyard, fights never got much beyond name-calling. "How do you know which kid you want?"

"I'll take both," he replied, unconcerned. "One, two." He punctuated his reply with two swishes of his sword in an X across Sir Hugh's body. The old knight parried the first blow, but the second caught him glancingly on the shoulder. He grunted and winced in pain.

"Not now," Norman heard Meg whispering to herself. "This can't happen now." She had seen a duel like this before, in another part of the book. She knew better than Norman just how it was going to turn out.

"How do you know Vilnius had a son?" Norman asked, more desperately. "Maybe a daughter was brought to San Savino."

"What do you think you are doing, boy?" Sir Hugh growled. He didn't turn to say it, but it was enough distraction that he was slow to react to Black John's next attack, which came in a whirl of slashes and thrusts. Sir Hugh staggered as he parried each blow, backing them all deeper and deeper into a corner of the cellar. Black John started to laugh, getting louder and more sinister with each blow. He was toying with Sir Hugh and enjoying it.

The next attack would be the final one. Norman knew it.

"Johan of Vilnius still lives!" he shouted, desperate to buy Malcolm more time.

"Norman, no!" Meg protested.

"What?" the two swordsmen asked, one outraged, but both disbelieving.

"You had him. You had him all this time in your own prison in Jerusalem and you never knew, and now he's escaped. He's on his way here now. He's coming to get you."

"Norman, stop!" Meg pleaded. "They can't know these things. It's not time."

"These are the fantasies of a lost boy, mourning his rebel father," Black John snarled. "I think we can see which brat I need. Now say your prayers, old man. Your time has come."

Sir Hugh didn't wait for the next attack. He seized the initiative, charging forward furiously, lunging and slas.h.i.+ng. Black John edged back, parrying to take the sting out of each blow. Hugh grunted each time metal met metal, and each blow came more slowly than the last. Black John would just let him tire himself out.

If Norman could see it, Sir Hugh had to know it too, but he fought on desperately, slas.h.i.+ng wildly now, his sword making deep swoos.h.i.+ng noises as it sliced the air. He was fighting to buy them time, hoping to prolong this contest long enough for them to escape, but to do so, he had to free a path to the trapdoor.

Hugh seemed to take a deep breath, then he aimed one last sweeping slash of his sword at his a.s.sailant's arm. The duke parried it professionally, turning and twisting his own sword in such a way that it took all the momentum. Sir Hugh's weapon went flying from his hand, landing with a thud somewhere among the food barrels, but their protector did not stop his charge; he continued hurtling towards Black John, his bare fist now aimed squarely at the duke's chin.

The blow caught the duke by surprise. Norman heard the jarring sound of teeth clas.h.i.+ng together, and the duke turned away to protect himself. Hugh made to grasp him in a bear hug, but the younger man twisted away from his grip and sent Hugh tumbling to the floor.

Black John stepped back and looked down at his fallen opponent. The old soldier struggled to rise, but his a.s.sailant kicked Hugh's arm from beneath him, sending him sprawling again. The duke smiled and spat blood on the floor beside his fallen opponent. "You fool," he declared bitterly.

Norman could see that there was more than just the duke's blood on the floorboards. Hugh had been caught again, in his last attack, and he was bleeding heavily now. Black John saw it too, and he raised his sword high over his head.

Just then, something cut through the stale air of the cellar-a short, sharp breath of something. None of them saw it, but Norman guessed what it was.

One moment Black John was standing there, his sword held aloft in triumph, ready to deliver the final blow. The next he was staring at his empty hand, wondering what that piece of wood was sticking out of it.

"Should have got that hand the first time," they heard Malcolm mutter to himself.

But it wasn't over yet. Even without the use of his hands, the Duke of Nantes was still dangerous. He could still issue commands. "Guards! Guards!" he bellowed in pain and rage. "Down here in the cellars."

Norman and Jerome didn't wait for him to get another word out. They moved at the same time, seemingly with the same impulse. Jerome aimed high, lowering his shoulders as he charged towards their pursuer's chest. Norman went low, aiming to tackle his ankles.

Their tormentor antic.i.p.ated the blow, but he could not escape it. They caught him as he twisted away, sending him off balance. He staggered once, then again, but this second time his foot found the edge of the trapdoor. His momentum carried him backwards and he fell, plunging into the hole in the floor. There was no scream as he fell. The only sound he made was when he landed-just a grunt and a sort of sigh.

Jerome rushed to the side of his fallen protector, flinging his arms around the stricken governor.

Norman and Meg rushed to the trapdoor opening and peered down into the dark pa.s.sage. They were all so stunned by what had just happened that even when Norman picked up and flicked on his flashlight, no one objected and no one declared it a miracle. The beam of light illuminated the p.r.o.ne body of the Duke of Nantes, twisted and motionless below them. Had he been knocked unconscious by the fall?

Norman lit the way for Malcolm to climb down into the pa.s.sage. The stoat drew his sword as he carefully examined the body. Still Black John didn't move. Malcolm crouched low over his face and pressed his tiny ear to the duke's mouth to check his breathing. He listened for a while, then looked up and shook his head.

"But how?" Norman asked.

Malcolm stepped gently around the body and finally found the cause of his death. He pointed to the dead man's chest. Norman aimed the flashlight. The tip of his rabbit sword could be seen protruding from Black John's black velvet doublet.

Meg put her hand over her mouth and turned away.

Norman had seen death before, had even played a part in battles. It made no difference that the "people" were wolves or humans or that they had been trying to kill him. It still made his stomach churn and his limbs cold.

They stood and stared in silence until a sound behind them snapped them out of it. Jerome. It was a low moaning sound, like the keening of a sad animal. He was crying. The boy archivist knelt beside the body of the man who had been his protector all these years. The old governor lay where Black John had left him, one hand raised to clasp the hand of the boy who knelt over him.

Meg pulled away from Norman's side and crouched down beside her friend, putting a consoling arm around him. Norman stood and watched, feeling more than ever that he did not belong here, that he was intruding.

"I'm sorry." Malcolm had appeared back at the edge of the trapdoor. "I was too late. They kept moving ..."

Norman shook his head. He didn't blame the stoat for a moment.

Beside the fallen warrior, Jerome continued to sob and Meg consoled him silently. The old knight struggled to make himself heard.

"I've had a good life," Hugh croaked. "And a good death, if it saves yours."

At the word "death," Meg too started to sob.

"I have seen such marvellous sights-the golden cities of Europe, Jerusalem. I have fought what seemed to be the good fight. I have tried to do G.o.d's bidding." He coughed, struggling to continue. "My only regret was that I never had a son. Since you came to this little outpost in the desert, that regret has vanished."

His voice fading, he pulled the boy closer to him.

"Go now, save yourself. Live your life," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

"But I can't," Jerome protested, tears now streaming down his face. "Not now. Not with you like this. And Brother G.o.dwyn ..."

The old man wheezed and took a deep breath, summoning the energy for his final words. "Let old men finish their lives as they choose. You have your own to live."

With that, he let out one final sigh and closed his eyes. He was dead, Norman was sure of it, but it was not like the other deaths he'd witnessed. Sir Hugh had called it a good death. They'd said that about the demise of Malcolm's father on the field of Tista Kirk-that for a warrior it was a good death to die in battle and in victory. Norman didn't believe it. Death was death. It was better to live. It would be better for all of them if Sir Hugh still lived.

He stood and watched helplessly a little while longer. Meg and Jerome eventually ran out of tears. Norman did not dare disturb them. He didn't know how long they waited for Jerome to say his silent goodbyes, but finally the archivist stood, bowed his head and said a prayer in Latin. When he was done, he made the sign of the cross and they said amen in unison.

They let themselves down slowly into the tunnel, with Norman leading the way and Malcolm following to close the trapdoor behind them. Meg had regained enough of her composure to frown when Norman lit up his flashlight, but she said nothing, not wanting to disturb the solemn silence of Jerome's mourning.

They stepped around the fallen duke's body, no one giving it more than a glance except Jerome, who stopped and said a little prayer for the man who had hunted him down and murdered his protector-the man who would have killed him too had Sir Hugh and Malcolm not intervened. The others did not protest. They waited for him to finish, then stepped into the gloom of the tunnels.

Norman had expected a short walk to a hidden exit not far beyond the fortress walls, but the tunnels were much deeper and much longer than he'd imagined. They turned and twisted, winding their way around boulders and outcrops, following the cracks and seams in the bedrock. Every now and then, the pa.s.sage widened into a cave. Scratched pictures on the walls and piles of broken clay indicated that these caverns had been inhabited long before the coming of the Crusaders. They followed Meg's directions, always taking the left pa.s.sage when faced with a choice, like the instructions for a maze.

The silence was difficult for Norman. He wanted to talk about what had happened back in the cellar. He wanted to make sense of it for himself. The distant look on Jerome's face worried him. His eyes were open, but they were focused somewhere within, in what thoughts Norman could only guess. He was merely stumbling along.