The House of Shadows

like pieces of soot to the ground below. The hideous song of the mangonels, catapults, the ominous battering of the rams, the creak of siege towers and that chilling climb to the parapets... Sir Laurence had been there, one of the first, eager to seek the absolution promised, in the heart of the fight, all around him the hiss of the sword, the clang of the axe and the dire music of those arrows let loose against the fiery sky before dropping like a deadly rain. On either side of Sir Laurence men went down as they fought to advance the great white banner with its red cross further along the battlements. They were all maddened, the noise of battle pulsing fiercely through their blood, made worse by the fever brought on by the pitiless heat and myriad flies. Their opponents, men in turbans and billowing cloaks, fell like scythed corn before them, blood splattering out.
    Sir Laurence opened his eyes. Even now he could recall their snarling faces as well as those of the innocent, cut down as the Crusaders advanced deeper into the city: the young, the women, left broken with sightless eyes and blood-dripping mouths. Sir Laurence would never forget the exquisite beauty of those fountain courts, all awash with red water. Gardens, heavy with scent, turned into battlefields, the blood-chilling screams, and afterwards? Sitting on ebony-inlaid chairs, sleeping on low-cushioned divans, drinking sherbet and wine, stuffing his mouth with dried dates, and clothing himself in the soft fabrics found in the chests of the treasure houses of their enemies. Sir Laurence sighed deeply. Whatever the bloodshed, he, and the other Knights of the Golden Falcon, had taken that victory as a sign of God’s favour. They had all survived, returned home to enjoy the fruits of their endeavours.
    Sir Laurence stiffened at the knock on the door. He pulled himself up and swung himself off the bed. He walked across the room. He was about to draw the bolts when he glimpsed the scrap of parchment pushed beneath the door. He snatched it up, read it quickly and paled at what was written. He strode across and swiftly pushed the small scroll deep into the brazier, losing it amongst the burning coals. For a while he paced up and down, wondering whether to rouse the rest, only to reject this idea. The note had been quite explicit, promising to reveal the truth behind Chandler’s death and warning him to come alone. Sir Laurence pulled on his boots, fastened on his war belt, took his cloak and went out down the stairs. The passageways were fairly deserted. The tap room had yet to fill for the evening revelry, whilst it would be some time before he and the rest of the knights gathered in the solar for a feast of roast swan and whatever other delicacies the taverner could offer.
    Sir Laurence paused. He stared across the tap room, watching a scullion mop at a table. All pleasure had gone out of this visit, with Chandler’s death, and that olive-skinned Dominican and his harsh remarks about sin and absolution. He reached the cellar door, lifted the catch and went down into the musty darkness. Candles glowed in the gaps between the old red brickwork. It was still frighteningly dark, made worse by the scampering and squealing of vermin. Sir Laurence reached the bottom step; all was dark, except the candle which was glowing at the far end. He screwed up his eyes,- was it a lantern or a lamp? He could make out the tuns and vats stacked at either side, and the wine-soaked path between.
    ‘Who’s there?’ His voice echoed. His hand fell to his dagger. Perhaps he should go back? The cellar had now fallen very silent. The rats and mice were cowering in the dark, as if they too were aware of what evil might lurk there. Sir Laurence stepped down, and his booted foot hit something hard. In a few heartbeats he heard a click, a snap, and his leg shattered as the cruel claws gripped and dug deep. He screamed as tongues of pain shot up his leg, forcing him back, coursing like flames through his body. He tried to move but could not, and in his agony he recalled the lush papyrus groves along the great river near Alexandria , those huge water beasts with their long snouts and cruel teeth which could drag a man down, sever a limb with a snap of their jaws. Was this happening? Sir Laurence found he couldn’t move at all. The pain was intense. That dreadful chill, the words of the Dominican echoing about sin... Had the past leaped forward like a panther to punish him? Sir Laurence