Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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had been laid waste – the place and all its people. Houses had collapsed like burnt-out bonfires. Vivid flames still licked amid the heaps of blackened timber, but mostly there was just the smoke and stench. The sewer stench of battle, like a cesspit full of blood.
Appalled, he stumbled closer. His sandals squelched through the yellow mud. Everywhere he looked, he saw destruction. People had been hacked and burned to death. There were no bodies here, just lumps of bodies. Skinny dogs were scavenging along the littered road.
A dusty-looking group of men had gathered in the square. Lean and vicious as the dogs, and scavengers like them. Routiers, the Frenchmen called them. Restless thieves and killers on the road.
‘In Christ’s name, what is this?’ the Preacher said – so horrified, he spoke in his own language.
One of them was an Italian, too: a smiler in a grimy leather coat. He looked towards the newcomer, and shrugged. ‘The will of Holy Church. An end to heresy.’
His voice was harsh – the smile, a scar. As if the man was maimed inside; disfigured by the things which he had done.
The Preacher looked from face to face, in anger and dismay. The youngest were like old men now, their features smoked and callused. Souls had withered; eyes had lost their colour. Two or three of them were drunk, and glowered stupidly. The rest just stared in unrepentant silence.
And how did he appear to them? A poor friar, made sterner by his eyes and greying hair. Presence enough to give them pause? Or was he just a beggar among wolves?
The silence grew around them, except where flames still crackled in the background.
‘You can’t speak for Holy Church, and murder men like this.’
The other’s smile became a sneer. ‘It’s you who preached the judgment, friend – you dogs of Dominic.’
They knew him by his clothes, of course. The travel-stained white habit and black cloak. A Friar Preacher on the road – as rootless as themselves. He’d railed against the heretics at every market cross. But how could he have driven men to this?
‘Dominic came to reason with these people – not to burn them.’
‘How can someone reason with the enemies of God? Kill ’em all, says Holy Church: the Lord will know His own.’
The Preacher braced his staff against the ground: the gesture like a challenge to their daggers and their swords.
‘The poor are His own people. You kill them, and they cry out for revenge.’
The smiler’s eyes grew narrower. ‘Spare us the sermon, brother dog. You’d better get along – or stay and join them.’
Mirthless chuckles drifted round the square. The Preacher closed his fist around the staff. He gave each routier a last, accusing glance; then strode on through them, following the road.
One of the men called out in French: his tone was coarse and taunting. The last words made the Preacher turn his head.
Chevaliers de charogne.
‘What did he say?’
The smiler shrugged. ‘There are mercenaries fighting for the heretics. Carrion Knights. Black English.’ His smile didn’t flicker, but he quickly crossed himself. ‘Try preaching them your sermon … Domini Canis.’
The Preacher didn’t rise to that last insult. He turned, and tracked his gaze across the hills. A sombre stillness lay upon the landscape. But after the briefest pause, he kept on walking.
The whispers of the murdered followed him.
He heard them now, like dying breaths: still murmuring against him. Eight centuries had passed, but they would let him have no peace. The prison-house still echoed with their sighs.
Dominicain’s eyes grew focused once again. The crawling shadows on the page congealed into words.
I have come to set fire upon the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled.
He let the sentence sink into his heart. Then he took a cigarette, and put it in his mouth.
Someone came and lit it without waiting to be told.
4
Claire found Martin lying on the sofa: slouched there with his feet drawn up, the TV handset busy in his hand. Cricket flickered on, and off; now Neighbours; now a game-show – each fleeting image zapped into oblivion.
She watched the jerky montage, feeling sick. ‘Hi,’ she said. He barely glanced around.
A solid lump had grown inside her stomach. ‘Had a good day?’
He stretched his arm out – ‘Nope’ – and brought the cricket back again. He had his jeans and T-shirt on. She watched his biceps flexing, tanned and smooth.
How long since he had given her a squeeze?
She moistened her lips and waited, but he showed no further interest. After a minute, she glanced round at the wall. ‘Hello, wall. Would you like to hear my news?’
Martin didn’t bother to respond. She stared at the screen; then walked around in front of it, and switched the TV off. ‘Hey!’ he snapped. She turned, to find him scowling up at her.
‘I was watching …’
‘No, you weren’t.’ She gazed into his sullen face – the face she thought she loved. Clean-cut features, deep, dark eyes; high cheekbones, chiselled nose. A face for magazines and films … except he looked too boyish. Too cheeky when he smiled, perhaps. Too moody when he didn’t.
She felt a sudden rush of fear. He seemed unreal, too far away to touch.
He settled back. ‘Okay, so what’s your news, then?’
She came and knelt in front of him. He was still pointing the handset at the TV; she took his wrist, and aimed it at her midriff.
‘I’m pregnant, Martin. Here. Try zapping that.’
1
Again they’d clubbed him down with their narcotics; but in his dreams he rose again, and wandered through the corridors of Hell. The colony appeared in ruins, its gateways overgrown. Owls were hooting from the chimney-tower. The shadows were unquiet, full of whispering and sobs.
Dominicain advanced into the labyrinth. A creeping fear came over him – as if this were some giant spider’s lair. But something brushed his face, and drew him onward: a summons as elusive as a sigh.
He saw a light ahead of him – unfolding in the darkness like a flower. The glow was pale, unhealthy, and he wavered for a moment; then started down the passageway towards it. As he glided closer, it resolved into a face: a deathly visage, hanging in the gloom. The eyes were like two windows on the inky dark beyond.
They watched him come, those empty eyes. And then the phantom spoke.
Be patient in your cell, devoted friend.
The term of thy imprisonment is done.
Await the man of power whom I shall send.
The language was Italian – the Tuscan dialect he spoke himself. He didn’t recognize the lines, and yet they were familiar. Their richness and arrangement made him think of Dante’s work.
Not quoted this time, though. They spoke to him.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded hoarsely.
The white face didn’t answer that; instead