The Champion Read Free Page A

stairway.
    In the flickering glimmer from a wax taper, Alexander found himself looking into the battered, vindictive features of Brother Alkmund, the sub-prior, and knew that his doom was sealed. He tried to run, but he was trapped on the stairs and seized. They twisted his arms behind his back and bound his wrists with rawhide cords. Then they cast him into the dank cells beneath the priory latrines, there to await his punishment.
    He stood accused of the attempted murder of the sub-prior, and he knew that no one would believe that he had struck out in self-defence. He possessed a reputation that would preclude all mercy. Past crimes included stealing and drinking the infirmarian’s store of medicinal ginevra, writing secular love poems in the scriptorium and singing them in the cloisters. Then there had been two attempts to escape, and gross insubordination to the rule when captured, resulting in a severe scourging. The list damned him out of hand. They had shown him lenience before. The raised pink and white welts on his back were a testament to how lenient they could be.
    The fetid, musty smell of damp stone invaded his nostrils. He felt as if he had been buried alive. Faces leered at him – skulls clothed in cowls. Skeletons clattered out of the walls and performed the dance of death before his eyes, urging him to caper with them. In blind terror he ran towards the door, but his escape was barred by Brother Alkmund, a hoop of keys taunting on his forefinger.
    Alexander felt bony arms close around him from behind and draw him towards the oozing prison wall. He screamed and resisted, striving to free his wrists of the cords while they bit deeper and deeper.
    ‘Ah, Christ,’ swore one of the skeletons irritably. ‘How am I supposed to sleep with you making so much noise?’ It shook him by the shoulder, and its foul breath filled his face, making him gag.
    ‘Alex, you purblind fool, it’s a dream, only a dream!’ The shaking grew more agitated. One by one the skeletons rattled into the wall and vanished, dragging Brother Alkmund in their wake. On a huge gulp of air, Alexander surfaced from the nightmare like a swimmer too long underwater.
    In the light from a tallow cresset lamp, Hervi’s face loomed anxiously over his. Alexander felt the fierce pain of fully fleshed fingers digging into his shoulder.
    ‘God’s eyes!’ Hervi swore. ‘You were screaming fit to rouse the dead!’ There was fear in his voice and his eye whites gleamed.
    Alexander laughed weakly at his brother’s choice of words, but there was little humour in the sound. Sweat-drenched, he lay back against the lumpy bracken pillow. ‘You’re hurting me,’ he protested.
    The fingers relaxed their pressure. A moment later the rim of a goblet was rested on his lips. Remembering the ginevra he hesitated, but when he realised that the liquid was nothing more threatening than cool, watered wine, he took a long, grateful drink.
    ‘Do you want me to leave the light?’ Hervi asked awkwardly.
    ‘It doesn’t matter … won’t make any difference.’
    ‘Then I’ll leave it.’
    Alexander turned his head and saw that his brother had assembled a makeshift pallet beside the one that should rightfully be his. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he apologised.
    ‘You could have fooled me.’ Hervi lay down again, thumped the rolled-up tunic that was serving as his pillow, and hunched his cloak around his shoulders.
    For a while Alexander stared at the canvas roof of the tent, watching the flicker of lamp shadows. Beside him, Hervi snored. The sound, the surroundings, despite their squalor, were oddly comforting. Alexander’s eyelids drooped, and before long, he was deep in an exhausted slumber.

C HAPTER 2
     
    It was well beyond noon of the following day when Alexander woke up. At first he did not know where he was and it took him a while to gather his sleep-scattered wits. His head felt muzzy and his limbs were weak. He held one hand up in front of his