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Raymond automatically begins counting all the monks’ bodies in the aftermath of the ambush. He already knows he will have an absurd number of sins to confess the next time he bothers going to the priests, and doesn't relish the thought of that chore. During his time in Constantinople, there had been times when he had ordered far more deaths than this. None of those executions had involved monks, however, and the church could get very vindictive when outrages were committed against their own. (One had only to look at some of the punishment King John’s own father had endured to know this.)
At least this time his actions have had some tangible benefit. Raymond almost smiles when one of his men confirms that the Gaels did retrieve the relic.
“But just the relic. The bastards ran off with the reliquary. We also can’t seem to find the mute brother.”
Raymond’s omnipresent, years-long headache intensifies immediately. Any slight satisfaction at a job well done scatters to the wind.
“Ah, so I’m left with a stone that could be picked up anywhere.”
“There does appear to be something like a bloodstain on it.”
“You touched it?”
“Well… No. None of us did.” Raymond’s man has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “There’s a general reluctance to do so.”
“Including from you I take it.”
“It is a risk, sir. The monks-” a flurry as the cross is drawn over the man’s chest “-well, they did talk about how it would destroy the unworthy.”
“If I smash it over your head, then there will definitely be a bloodstain left behind.”
It would also be very fresh looking, unfortunately. King John is manifestly incompetent, but even he would notice that key detail and become rightly suspicious.
“Is there anything else I should know?” Raymond adds.
“Yes, the Gaels were also successful in taking custody of the youngest monk. But he might not be an ideal fit for your purposes, currently.”
“What, precisely, do you think those purposes are?” Raymond hardly knows himself, save that the lad’s obvious disdain for him itches like an old, deep scar. There had been something sharp and rancid about it, and it had contrasted incongruously with the gentle mist on the early morning air. It hadn't helped matters when the monk had handed him Christ’s Blood, looking as though he wished to be administering poison.
“Do you really want me to be precise?” Raymond’s man keeps his face carefully neutral, and that feels more damning than leering or glaring.
This isn't a particularly interesting battle, so Raymond changes course. “Is he about to die?”
“No, not any time soon. Although he fought back more than they anticipated. He probably got his shoulder dislocated in the process.”
That’s both interesting and rather surprising. “Did he fight back well?”
“Not at all. Does he look like someone who can?”
If the young monk does have ties to aristocracy, then his family haven’t trained him adequately. He could also be an indifferent pupil who had been sent away far too young. His being a spy does seem increasingly unlikely, but taking him captive may make his people reveal themselves.
And if he’s just some poor soul with terrible luck… Well. Then he’s like so many other people in this world, and there could still be some use for him.
Raymond asks a few more questions and gathers all the information he can. It turns out the monk had been deposited into Raymond’s tent, and no one had bothered to restrain him. Apparently, most men couldn’t go very far in his condition. Raymond pulls the flap aside just to confirm this. Indeed, his captive has sprawled on the floor in an ungainly way. It must be the least painful stance for him. His shoulder is bent in an unnatural angle, and the relic is on the ground just above his head.
Raymond gets down on the ground with him, putting his hand in the monk’s hair. He turns the monk so that they’re face-to-face. The monk’s eyes are cloudy with pain. He doesn’t seem to see Raymond at all.
“It’s an unpleasant situation, isn’t it. Are you pretending to be one of those saints that was broken on the wheel?”
“Saint Catherine.”
“Excuse me?” Raymond says that in French before he catches himself, but the monk catches the meaning if not the words.
“The only one I know who was martyred on the wheel. Where are my brothers?”
It’s almost nostalgic, watching over a wounded captive that’s begging to know if his relatives are alive. Raymond and the mute both know something about that.
“Dead if they’re lucky. Still dying if they’re not. Now, let’s see if you’re hurt badly enough to join them.”
The monk has been grimacing, either from pain or despair or both. He starts when Raymond lightly touches his shoulder blade.
“Don’t.” He tries to move out of the way, but doesn’t get very far. The monk gasps when he collapses back onto his stomach. His mouth opens and shuts like a fish pulled out of the river.
“Struggling will only make matters worse, you know.” Raymond catches the monk with ease. He genuinely attempts to use a gentle hand while examining his captive, because he can't see any reason for doing otherwise. He simply studies the damage, and the monk occasionally lets out quiet cries that he starts stifling with his hand. Sometimes he flinches so hard that Raymond wonders if he’s trying to slide away again.
“What’s your name?” Raymond asks.
Silence.
“Your name, little monk.” He’s still being careful with his touches, but he’s evidently hit on one of the most badly injured spots because it induces a sound just short of wailing. “Yes, I know, this sort of thing is terrible. Indulge my questions and distract yourself.”
“Brother Diarmuid.”
“Very good. Where are you from?”
“My monastery," Diarmuid says unhelpfully. Deliberately.
"Which is where? There are too many of those in the world."
Diarmuid breathes in distractedly but seems to answer without guile. And so Raymond asks his questions and Diarmuid replies just like someone trained from birth to follow a call and response. The pain must be very great, because he seems to be answering to the best of his abilities. The effort of speaking must be sapping Diarmuid of strength. He stops shying away. This means Raymond can ascertain that it’s a clean dislocation, rather than one of those half-way measures that often leave a man in pain forever. Diarmuid’s hand is warm, too, which is an even better sign. For some reason, if a man’s arm became very cold after such an injury, he wouldn’t be very long for this world.
“You should be treatable.”
“Really?” Diarmuid’s voice is quite hoarse, and there’s a feverish hope to his face. Right now he wants nothing more than for the pain to stop. He doesn’t have a thought for his dignity or his relic. The agony may be so great, in fact, that he still can’t think about the loss of his brothers. Raymond wonders what might happen if he chose to be rough rather than gentle. Could he make Diarmuid forget Christ Himself?
The temptation is almost unbearable for more than a few heartbeats.
“Yes, but you won’t like it at all.”
Diarmuid may be an unexpectedly tough little thing, but his body wasn’t the most trustworthy in the face of unwelcome sensations. In other circumstances, Raymond might extract a great deal of entertainment from that, but that’s likely to prove tedious for the next step. He nearly calls in some of his men to help restrain Diarmuid but decides against it. Instead he balls up a scrap of cloth to shove into Diarmuid’s mouth. It doesn't matter if Raymond's men hear Diarmuid screaming, but it will help to have something to bite down on. Raymond then uses a spare rope to lash Diarmuid’s legs together to discourage kicking.
Raymond kneels astride Diarmuid after that, mindful to not bear down with too much of his weight. Following this, there’s nothing else to do but guide Diarmuid’s arm back to where it’s meant to be.
There are men in this camp who can do this so slowly that it causes no pain or disorientation at all. Raymond has never had the patience for that, and he’s not sure he would even make the attempt for Diarmuid if he did. There’s something gratifying about Diarmuid’s muffled shouts and how he uses his good hand for a white-knuckled grip on one of Raymond’s wrists. Maybe Raymond should go slowly, to draw this out a bit longer. That would certainly make a point. He decides against this, though, because he doubts it would be particularly gratifying in practice.
He knows he’s accomplished resetting the bones when Diarmuid abruptly stops shouting. He just lies there, panting rapidly. Raymond pats the side of his face, and Diarmuid actually leans into the touch. Relief could make people do peculiar things.
“Good job.”
Silence again. Silence, as always.
Diarmuid’s also been crying with pain. Some tears carve trails down the dirt on his face. It’s counteracted by the return of his disdain, plain as the bright red of the veins in his eyes.
Raymond just undoes the ropes, tugs the gag out, and offers Diarmuid some water. While he gulps it down, Raymond gets his dagger out. Diarmuid has more mobility and nearly attempts to run, but he’s easy enough to pin down before he can get anywhere at all. Raymond cuts some fabric off from the hem of Diarmuid’s habit. He repurposes it into a sling for Diarmuid’s shoulder.
“Are they really dead? All of them?” Diarmuid asks, as though his shoulder had been fine from the start.
“I’d have no reason to lie on that matter.” They still hadn’t found the mute’s body, but Raymond also has no reason to reveal that.
“I suppose you wouldn’t. You didn’t have to kill them to take the relic.”
“Of course I did.” There were too many of them, and Geraldus is- had been- the type who would run right to the pope to whine and whine and spread all sorts of tales. “I should have killed you, too.”
“Why didn’t you?” Diarmuid’s dull voice contrasts with his sharp eyes.
Because I had half-formed plans to ravish you. Raymond almost says this aloud, mostly because he thinks that would shock the hostility right out of Diarmuid. Then again it might not. Monasteries were well-known for their constant sodomy. If Diarmuid’s home had been one of those, then that threat would have little impact. He would have seen it all already.
“I had my suspicions that the Gaels would abscond with the reliquary. And so they did.”
Diarmuid has been trying to sit up. He manages it just as Raymond reveals the fate of the reliquary, and he blanches in response. It’s impossible to know if he’s pale due to lingering pain or shock at seeing the relic out in the open. “Yes, that’s right, the reliquary’s likely gone for good. My men will try and find our former allies to get it back but you should hope they do not succeed.”
Diarmuid lies back down but stretches out his good arm. He strokes his fingers over the relic, using a light touch. The wrath of God does not come down on Diarmuid.
“Why?” he repeats.
“I still mean to take the relic to King John. You can attest to its provenance.”
The ever skeptical King John may be more inclined to believe in the relic if it is offered up by such an austere, unremarkable monk. Currently, though, Diarmuid looks more like an ancient believer that the Romans would have fed to the lions. That, alone, may be a better testimony to the relic’s veracity than any pearls or gold.
The more Raymond works through this idea, the more it starts to feel like this had been his plan from the beginning.
“You think I will cooperate with this scheme?”
“Of course you will.” Raymond nearly says that he will kill Diarmuid, otherwise, because that’s the plain truth. But that would make things too easy. “You are far from your monastery and all of your allies are dead. That particular band of Gaels still wander these woods and I can promise you they will not be generous enough to involve you in a scheme that will win you the favor of a king. They will either slit your throat or use your body until they grow sick of it. If you escape that particular group, this forest is teeming with others exactly like them. Even if you make it back home, you will have to admit to your grievous failure for the rest of your life.”
Diarmuid hears him out, then he turns his head to face away from Raymond. The gesture enrages Raymond so much that he crouches down, fully intending to pull the rock away from Diarmuid. And then… what? Would he martyr Diarmuid with it? His hands hover over its stony surface, and he can’t make himself pick it up. Why, he can’t say. The relic has to be a fraud. During his crusade, he had seen enough pieces of the True Cross that they could have been pieced together to make a small house. This rock looked even plainer than that.
But what if Raymond is wrong? What if this object is real? Then he would surely be struck down by God, and he hasn’t even confessed to today’s deaths yet. Raymond would have to test the Lord’s magnanimity at a later date.
Touching Diarmuid’s shoulder seems almost as daunting as touching the relic, but Raymond manages it anyway. Diarmuid is silent, but he’s definitely still awake.
“Do you wish to pray about this matter?” Raymond asks.
“Yes.” Diarmuid takes a moment to respond, which indicates that prayer had not been his instinctual response to his predicament. Interesting.
“I will give you until dawn, but then you must let me know how cooperative you will be.”
Diarmuid makes a quiet noise of assent, and Raymond decides to leave him alone with his misery for now. Just before he leaves the tent, he takes one last look over his shoulder. Diarmuid has pulled the relic in closer, practically curling around it. God stays silent on the matter, and Raymond returns to the rest of his duties here on earth.