Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

Geoffrey was too exhausted and too shaken to put this information to good use, other than the casual thought that John, Guido and the monks had possibly died because they had stumbled upon this great cache of black-market goods. Was this what Dunstan had blackmailed Melisende about? Her smuggling career? Geoffrey wondered how she could justify being morally harsh with Maria, when her own personal life was so deeply embedded in crime.

Melisende began to deliver orders to her men, who scurried about like ants across the uneven floor of the cavern. Celeste eyed Geoffrey with suspicion.

“What do we do with him now?” The Benedictine shook his head. “It would have been better for everyone-including him-if we had dispatched him in the street.”

Geoffrey, recalling the terrifying journey-and with his stomach sick with anticipation of worse to come, was inclined to agree.

“Even if we had succeeded in killing him without being seen and had successfully hidden the body, it would have been found eventually,” said Melisende, shaking her head and regarding Geoffrey dispassionately. “Imagine the reprisals there would have been had we been suspected of killing the Advocate’s man. Geoffrey Mappestone is a nuisance, but Uncle will know how to deal with him.”

The way she said it, “Uncle” was a sinister title. Geoffrey imagined some small, fat Greek merchant sitting surrounded by his illegal goods in an underground palace somewhere, issuing a continuous stream of orders to hundreds of scurrying servants.

“How will you manage him?” asked Celeste doubtfully, looking Geoffrey up and down like a piece of suspect meat.

Melisende laughed, her voice ringing about the chamber to be thrown back as echoes. “Him?” she said with disdain. “He will be no bother! Look at him!”

Geoffrey was sure he was no longer the picture of sartorial elegance he had been when they had started this journey to hell, but he was still a knight and still larger and stronger than any of Melisende’s motley crew. He began to cough again and then sneezed. Celeste nodded.

“I see what you mean. But you should tie his hands.”

Melisende agreed, and Geoffrey’s arms were tied behind him with unwarranted enthusiasm by Adam, who, judging from the time he took, was determined to do a thorough job.

“Thank you, Adam,” said Melisende, when the young soldier had finally finished.

“I do not trust him,” said Adam, moving toward Geoffrey belligerently, displaying exceptional confidence now that the knight was helpless. “He might overpower you or attempt some trick.”

“There is little he can do,” said Melisende. “Even if he managed to break away, he would never find his way out. And what would he do with no light and no food? Anyway, he does not present a threat to me. He is a thoroughly miserable specimen.”

Celeste and Adam went off to attend their own business, while Melisende turned to Geoffrey.

“Now. We have another little trip to make, you and I. You heard what I said to Adam. It is perfectly true. You are most welcome to run if you like-it would certainly make matters easier for me-but if you do escape from me, you will die here without question.”

He nodded understanding, and Melisende peered at him closely. “You do not like these caves, do you?”

“I have been in more pleasant places,” responded Geoffrey carefully. He did not want to provide her with ammunition with which to torment him on their next journey by telling her there was little that could unnerve him like a dark cave.

“You are quite white,” she said, turning him roughly to face the light, so she could see him better.

“I am quite cold.”

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “It is more than that.”

“I have not slept well for days; I have been locked in a burning stable; I have been in several fights; half of my scalp has been left on that tunnel roof; and I have had two baths,” he said. “Perhaps that explains it.” He did not mention the sickening discovery that one of his closest friends was a murderer, or that being underground came second to nothing on his personal list of horrors.

She grinned. “Typical Norman,” she said. “Soft. Now, you go first, and I will follow. I will use this dagger without hesitation if I think you are up to no good. We are going to see Uncle.”

Geoffrey forced his icy limbs to move, and Melisende directed him across the cavern to the other side. He was uncertain whether to be relieved or afraid that they were to take another route. She directed him to one tunnel of several in a row, and they set off, the light from her lantern creating monstrous patterns on the dripping walls. Unlike the last journey, this one appeared to require some navigating. Every so often, the passageway would fork, and Melisende would pause before making her choice. Geoffrey forced himself to concentrate on what she was doing, and quickly grasped the pattern she was following: at each tunnel entrance, a series of letters in different alphabets was carved, and Melisende merely chose the passages whose letters spelt the word “Kristos” in Greek.

He trudged wearily ahead of her in a variety of directions, which had him wondering whether they were travelling in circles. The passageways all looked the same to him: slender narrow cylinders of roughly hewn rock, some natural, others created by people, but all damp, cold, and airless. At one point, his tiredness led him to select the correct tunnel before Melisende had finished reading the letters, and she eyed him with distrust.

“That did not take you long to work out,” she said with grudging admiration.

“But it will do me no good,” he said, “for I do not know where we are going.”

“To see Uncle,” she said brightly, grabbing his arm and pushing him on.

“But I do not know whether I will like Uncle.”

She laughed behind him. “No. You probably won’t.”

Geoffrey banged his head once again on the low roof, and then slipped in the slime that seemed to grow in all the tunnels Melisende chose. He noticed that the cave walls were becoming narrower again. Melisende bumped into him when he paused, and he skidded a second time. It was difficult to retain his balance with his hands behind him, but he was determined to avoid the indignity of being helped to his feet by the appalling Melisende.

The walls of the passageway were clearly converging, and the roof only just cleared the top of his head. He was forced to turn sideways; and then that too became tight, and he was in the unpleasant position of having one side brushing his face and the other scraping at his hands. Ahead, the tunnel narrowed into a black slit of nothingness, and he stopped. The air was still, damp, and had the chill of the grave. He wondered how long it had been there, unrefreshed from outside, and breathed again and again by the smugglers who used the tunnel. He had heard of poisonous air in caves, and he began to wonder whether the staleness he detected might be attributed to deadly fumes. On cue, he began to cough. He lost his footing and slipped forward, plunging between the narrow walls. He found himself jammed tight, the combined bulk of surcoat and chain mail wedging him so firmly he could not move at all.

He began to struggle, panic sweeping in great waves as he realised he could neither move forward nor backward. Behind him, Melisende insulted, urged, threatened, and finally pleaded, but her voice was a mere babble to him. Finally, she took a handful of his hair and pulled it hard.

“Take a deep breath,” she ordered. “Close your eyes, and count to ten or something.”

He did as she directed, and felt the passage walls recede slightly, so that they no longer felt as though they were crushing him.

“Good. Now take a step forward.”