Bernard Knight - The Elixir of Death

This provoked another round of rapid-fire speech among the Saracens.

'What are you saying, man?' demanded Richard irritably. He turned to Raymond de Blois for enlightenment.

'Do you understand any of this heathen gibberish? Have they got gold to show me or not?'

Nizam, whose grasp of French was obviously far better than he had previously admitted, must have picked up the last words, for he beckoned to the two knights with a crooked finger as he placed the crucible on his bench and picked up the large stone pestle and mortar in which Abdul had been grinding something. The two Turkish acolytes crowded closer as their master offered the heavy bowl for Richard and Raymond to inspect.

'Here is your just reward, at last!' he said, triumphantly. As the two men bent to look into the mortar for their gold nuggets, Nizam suddenly lifted the club-shaped granite pestle and struck de Blois a heavy blow on the forehead. The Frenchman fell as if pole-axed, as Richard de Revelle was seized by the two assistants, who had sidled alongside him and now grabbed his arms in an iron grasp. As he struggled and yelled, Nizam drew out a wide, curved dagger from under his flowing robes and held the edge to Richard's throat, drawing a thin line of blood.

'Keep still or you die now!' hissed the Turk, his face contorted in hate. The victim's yells of mixed rage and terror were silenced as Abdul slipped a noose of plaited red silk over his head and tightened it around his neck. Richard's cries were transformed into gurgles and gasps and his face became red, then blue. He began to sink towards the floor. With an expert twist, the two men threw him down alongside de Blois, tying his wrists together with another length of the red cord.

As if long-rehearsed, de Revelle, now only half conscious, was dragged roughly across the floor and, under the horrified gaze of Alexander and his Fleming, thrown through the other small door at the end of the crypt. After further shouted instructions in their language, Abdul came out with de Revelle's sword and dagger, which he threw contemptuously into It corner, then they lashed the wrists of the inert Raymond de Blois and dragged him off to keep Richard company. Slamming the storeroom door shut, Malik Shah tossed the Frenchman's weapons on top of Richard's and padded with Abdul back to Nizam, to await further orders.

Hilda was dirty, dishevelled and despondent after a number of days locked in her dismal chamber. Once a day, she had been brought some food and water, and twice Alfred had taken her wooden bucket away to empty it. She attempted to ask him questions and offered him money to help her escape, but he refused to speak to her, even in their common tongue. It was obvious that he was afraid, because when she increased the number of silver pennies she would give him, his eyes revealed temptation, but then with vigorous shaking of his oafish head he would back out and look over his shoulder to see whether any of the Turks were within sight. There was no chance of her overcoming him, as he was built like an ox — and in any case, there was his fellow Saxon, Ulf, the Frenchman and the three Arabs between her and any dash for freedom, as well as the other two peculiar people she had glimpsed on her way in, whose role in this set-up was beyond her understanding.

Hilda had long given up kicking and screaming, as not the slightest notice had been taken of her. She now sat either on her mattress or the crate, sunk in despair. Her hair was matted with dirt and straw from the floor; she had lost weight after the sparse diet of rough bread and a few lumps of tough, cold meat that was grudgingly provided. Her only company was a large rat who lived behind the boxes and a few mice who rustled through the straw that had escaped from the crates.

Listening at the crack in the door had also become pointless, as the Saracens were away most of the time and the small man with the strange accent talked only of his experiments. He never received a reply and Hilda began to be convinced that the other man must be unable to speak. All this changed with dramatic suddenness when Sir Richard de Revelle appeared for the second time.

As he entered the crypt, Hilda crawled listlessly to the spyhole, expecting to hear nothing more than fragments of conversation about whatever they were doing with all the apparatus near the hearth. But within minutes there was a commotion outside, cries and shouts and the sounds of a scuffle. All this was outside her slit-like field of view, but protestations from the small man were drowned out by cries of fearful outrage from the former sheriff, and soon the sounds of a body being dragged came nearer. She heard another door being opened, then violently banged shut. Muffled shouts of protest went on for some time, and Hilda gained the impression that de Revelle must have been thrown into a nearby chamber similar to hers.

The stone walls were so thick that no sounds came directly; only a faint murmur of noise 'percolated through the two stout doors. Much later, when she judged that no one was in the crypt outside, she tried calling out to attract the attention of whoever was in the other dungeon, but there was no response.

Dejected and now almost resigned to dying in this foul chamber, Hilda lay down on her thin pallet and tried to sleep.

Richard de Revelle tired himself out shouting and kicking against the inside of the door. His arms were firmly pinioned behind his back, but he was able to get to his feet to assault the thick planks, which he soon accepted to be a waste of time, as there was no reaction from outside. His throat ached from the effects of the ligature, and though the cut on his neck was very shallow, he could feel the sting and the stickiness of the drying blood against the collar of his tunic.

The ghostly green light that managed to percolate down a narrow shaft was just enough for him to see that the small chamber was empty, apart from the form of Raymond de Blois lying in the centre of the mildewed floor. At first the Frenchman was breathing in short, noisy bursts, his lips puffing out at each exhalation, but after half an hour he became quieter, and de Revelle wondered whether he was dying. He had little sympathy to spare, as he was utterly fearful for his own life. Confused, frightened and furious by turns, he could make no sense of what had happened. Why had these strange foreigners turned against him? Could John de Wolfe be right in suggesting that this was some form of revenge for his father's actions in Outremer? He had supplied all that these men had asked for — food, horses, materials for their alchemy. They had been commissioned and presumably well rewarded by Prince John to come and perform their miracles with Devon tin, so why suddenly assault de Blois and himself? Richard, though a knight and a former sheriff, was no fighting man and often wished that he had been allowed to follow his inclinations as a youth, in becoming a lawyer or a court official. His father, however, an enthusiastic campaigner and Crusader, insisted on his only son following in his footsteps and a reluctant Richard was trained in all the martial arts, becoming a page, a squire and then a knight, and sent off to the Irish wars, where he was fortunate enough to avoid any serious fighting. He managed to ingratiate himself with several of old King Henry's ministers and eventually landed the post of sheriff, until his thrice-damned brother-in-law snapped at his heels until he was ousted.

His canny sense of politics had persuaded him that Richard the Lionheart was an eventual loser and so de Revelle had attached himself to the cause of Prince John — which had now led him into this unexpected and highly dangerous predicament.

Nervously biting his lip, he gave up shouting and hammering on the door and slumped to the floor, his back against the wall. Though it was cold, he was sweating with fear and trepidation. Spasms of shivering racked his body as he contemplated the end of his life at the hands of these Saracen maniacs. Would Eleanor mourn him? he wondered. He doubted that she would be crippled with grief, as their marriage had never been an affectionate one. In recent years, she had grown more and more impatient with him, content only when she was spending money on fine clothes and trinkets. He had more expectation of his sister Matilda grieving for him, even though her previous admiration had been tainted and diminished in recent months, thanks to the interference of her damned husband.