The House of the Red Slayer

himself. ‘We feared nothing. We had each other and we always shared. Now there was a revolt in Alexandria. Our leader, Bartholomew, was hired by the Caliph to join his satraps in suppressing the uprising.’ Fitzormonde stopped and gulped from the cup. ‘It was a bloody business but eventually a breach was forced in the defences and Bartholomew led us through.’ The hospitaller’s eyes caught Athelstan’s. ‘We hacked our way through a wall of living flesh. Do you know, the cobblestones couldn’t be seen for the blood which swilled like water? The Caliph’s armies followed us in and the real killing began. Men, women and children were put to the sword.’ Fitzormonde paused and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘That, too, Father, I confess, though we were not party to it. Bartholomew led us away. We found a merchant’s house full of treasure.’ Fitzormonde licked his lips and closed his eyes tightly, trying to remember events in that sun-drenched city so many years ago. ‘Now the Caliph’s rules were strict,’ he continued. ‘As mercenaries we were allowed no plunder, so most of the treasure was useless to us, but Bartholomew found a heavy purse of gold.’ The knight stopped speaking and pointed to the cord tied round Athelstan’s waist. ‘Think of that ten times thicker, Father. Two heavy pieces of leather sewn together and stuffed with money. Every coin was of pure gold. A king’s ransom in a leather belt. There must have been thousands.‘
    Fitzormonde paused again. He was back in time, standing battered and blood-stained, gazing open-mouthed at the belt Bartholomew had found hidden beneath the tiled floor.
    ‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked.
    Fitzormonde smiled. ‘Bartholomew did a brave thing. He said he would wait to see if the Caliph would reward us for forcing the breach. He didn’t so Bartholomew kept the purse.’
    ‘Why was that brave?’
    ‘Well, if he had been caught, Bartholomew would have been sliced from neck to crotch, his genitals ripped off and stuffed into his mouth, and his decapitated head placed on a spike above the city gates. Now Bartholomew agreed to conceal the purse on condition that he had half the treasure whilst we shared the rest. We agreed, and by night fled the Caliph’s armies and crossed the sea to Cyprus.’
    ‘Is that the connection with the ship?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Oh, no. We reached Cyprus safely but the Caliph sent assassins after us. These were the Hashishoni, the followers of the Old Man of the Mountain, skilled killers who came by night. They were so confident they even sent us fair warning of their arrival.’
    ‘A flat sesame seed cake?’ Athelstan interrupted.
    ‘Yes, but Bartholomew was waiting for them. One night they crept into our house but he had arranged for us to sleep on the roof whilst through a crack he could watch our sleeping chamber. Do you know,’ Fitzormonde said in a dream-like voice, ‘Bartholomew showed no fear? He trapped all three in that room and killed them.’ Sir Brian’s voice broke. ‘He was the best — Bartholomew, I mean — honourable and fair. I have never met a more redoubtable fighter, yet we murdered him!‘
    Athelstan rose, took the wine jug and refilled the man’s cup.
    ‘Continue, Sir Brian.’
    ‘Bartholomew wanted to go home, return to his manor at Woodforde. His wife was sickly and he also feared for his young son’s life. At the same time he had difficulties with Sir Ralph Whitton.’ Fitzormonde glared into his wine cup. ‘Ralph was the canker in the rose. I think he was secretly jealous of Bartholomew. He began to object to the way the treasure was being shared out, but Bartholomew failed to take him seriously. He said a bargain was a bargain; he had found the treasure, he had risked the Caliph’s wrath, and he had killed the three assassins. However, he said he trusted his blood brothers and left the treasure with us when he took ship from Cyprus.’ Fitzormonde stared at Athelstan and the friar began to suspect the true reason behind the drawing on the pieces of parchment.
    ‘What happened to that ship, Sir Brian?’
    The knight emptied the wine goblet in one gulp. ‘A few days later we learnt Whitton had sent a secret message to the Caliph.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest is obvious. The ship Bartholomew was travelling on was intercepted and sunk.’ Athelstan whirled round as the door crashed open. Cranston stood there, foul-faced and bleary-eyed.
    ‘What’s the bloody