He recognised it and he felt relief and hope, since it was the countenance of the Archangel St Michael, with whom he felt at ease and whose custom had been to visit him now and again, at such moments of trouble.
‘You sleep long.’ The regard upon him was sad and somewhat close. ‘Were they happy dreams?’
‘I am stabbed,’ Etienne said to the Archangel.
‘You are stabbed, but you live.’
‘No . . .’ Etienne said, and it seemed to him strange to correct a being so mighty and all-knowing. ‘There is rust in my armour and it no longer shines! The burden begins to outweigh my heart, and I shall not bear its lightness. I am weighed down and I am weak to the Devil and to Satan who have distinguished my dead parts and who both seek to pick at the bones of my soul!’
‘Satan is not among us, but on earth, where his illusion dwells. The Devil is where I have sent him, to nurse you in your earthly sleep. Your doings have me full of attention, Etienne. I have been observing your progress and I have been in contemplation with the being of Christ on your regard . . . He wishes to confide in you.’
Etienne felt warmth and love and love again. ‘In me?’
‘He wishes you to know that life will enter those lifeless parts which the adversary and his brother seek to take for themselves. Before that there is always a death. There is always darkness and the abyss before the eye is opened to the light of Christ.’
‘I am dead then?’
‘You have died many times. Now you are alive. It is the privilege of men that when they live, they do not know that they are dead.’
Then all was silent.
From the night sounds surfaced, then reached his ears and spoke of wine and women and impious merrymaking. But it was hours before he could open his eyes and make steady his head: hours of long listening in the crow cage hung high above the ground, swinging in the breeze, thinking of his conversations with devils and angels. Now all was quiet again and he looked out from the bars of wood to the compound a moment and drew back from pain.
It was cold. The night hung low and starless and there was snow in the breeze. With his knees to his chin, a cramp in his thigh and the hurt in his side, he dozed again and dreamt that they drew blood and left him for the crows to peck at his eyes.
He was awakened by the sound of the chain and the cage being lowered. What now? he thought. Through the haze of pain and exhaustion he saw the aperture open and a face in the gloom.
‘You are not dead then, lord?’ said Gideon in a rough whisper. ‘But you have more pieces to put together!’
The hurt in his side made a sigh come from him as he stretched forth a shaking leg. Released from the confines of the cage, Etienne stood a moment, unsure of his eyes and his ears. ‘The others?’
‘Jourdain is gone to fetch horses, Delgado went to find weapons.’
‘And you have come to fetch me?’ He stooped forward since the world was turning and he was of the mind to follow it. Gideon caught hold of him with one sinewy arm.
Stiff and awkward, with the Norman holding onto him under that low sky, Etienne heard the sound of a muffled struggle coming from the stables, then more silence.
‘I will go and help with the killing,’ said Gideon and Etienne watched his form fade into the blackness.
There he stood, returned to the night with his head clouded over and his dry tongue rasping at the roof of his mouth. A sudden sensation, an instinct was felt then. A noise made itself known in his head and his heart, and he saw a sword or rather felt its wind whistle past his right ear. The response was not swift but adequate: he swung out of range.
‘Who are you?’ he said, as if it meant something.
There was no answer.
Etienne looked from side to side; a shape, once again an outline, came at him and he moved away so that his hurts were poured out over his side and he had to stoop to get his breath back. Looking up he saw the dark shape coming again, then the glint of steel. He did not so much move as jerk out of the way but this time his balance was lost and he fell. He sensed a movement; he kicked out at it and a pain struck him with such a force as to push the air from his lungs. A sword was flung to the ground, he heard the metal sound of it.
Over Etienne’s face then came the man and a knife blade near his cheek.
There was the blink of an eye near his. ‘Dead man, old man!’ The shape told him, ‘You will not flee from me!’
The face was all a-pant, staring and staring; a moment later it changed expression, the eyes rolled upward to white and it disappeared into the dark sky without stars. A sudden wind picked up and from the night a hand helped him to his feet.
It was Gideon.
Etienne’s head was light and he felt his cheek and the cut wet with blood. ‘Who is it?’