Refuge (3 page)

                Kester’s Theology degree had made him question a lot of things, but fortunately it had also given him access to the great University’s library. He spent hours reading through thick, gilt-edged, leather-bound tomes researching the creature. He knew it had it had to be a vampire of some kind – there were many such creatures in folklore, and just as many ways of destroying, or, at least, confusing them. Grains of rice scattered before them to distract them, silver crosses, charmed amulets...the list was endless. One particular item caught his imagination – a fabled silver dagger, studded with diamonds and allegedly blessed by Holy Men in the twelfth century. The whereabouts of the dagger were unknown and rumours abounded about it. Kester traced his forefinger over ancient, yellowing paper, reading and re-reading the information. 

                The dagger had been lost during the Crusades, the scholars said: taken to the Holy Land in the keeping of the Knights Templar. Part of the Templar’s secret initiation ceremony, the scholars implied, was to learn the art of Vampire Slaying. The reason the Templar had been disbanded in 1312 they suggested, was because they were failing to carry out their duties efficiently. The false confessions tortured out of the men during the 1307 arrests in France had nothing to do with the Crusades. It was an elaborate hoax to fool the public – and to hopefully fool any vampires that had been enlightened to the Templar’s real purpose in life. The date the French arrest warrants had gone out was significant – Friday, October 13th, 1307.
Dieu n'est pas content, nous avons des ennemis de la foi dans le Royaume
-
God is not pleased. We have enemies of the faith in the kingdom
– they were told. The scholars had surmised that this was only relevant to the vampire slaying part of the Templars’ oath.

                Kester sighed. The dagger was obviously lost somewhere abroad; its end as hazy as its beginnings. He closed the book and became aware of whispering behind him in the library.

                ‘Scott’s
Marmion
!’ said a young man’s voice. ‘What fool decided to enforce that upon us? I’m inclined to agree with Jeffrey’s thoughts in
Edinburgh Review
. The whole poem is flat, tedious and a vehicle for Scott’s historical knowledge. It’s a damned shame I have to read this. Listen.’ He began to quote from the poem. ‘This is the man droning about Lindisfarne:

Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface
Of staves and sandalled feet the trace...
’

Kester caught his breath. He knew a little about Lindisfarne. He knew it was located off the Northumbrian coast and deemed a place of pilgrimage. He also knew there was a Priory on it and that the lime merchant, William Nicoll from Dundee, was in the process of building some lime kilns up there. Kester’s father had written to him, mentioning all sorts of recent industrial achievements. His father still hoped Kester would opt for a more manly career, taking pride in the estate he would eventually own. Kester’s father didn’t know it, but Kester planned to sell the house and estate once his parents were no longer alive. It held nothing for him but those horrific memories of his sister. As he listened to the young man behind him, his gaze was drawn to a sketch of the dagger. The artist had faithfully reproduced all that he knew about it: the dimensions, the number of diamonds on the hilt, the curlicues moulded into the silver handle. Kester stared at the picture, then quietly slipped a small knife out of his waistcoat pocket. With one, neat slice, the page came away in his hand and was transferred into his pocket. He envisaged a trip to London rather soon. Then maybe a trip up to Lindisfarne – to Holy Island. If the dagger could have been produced once, who was to say it could not be replicated? He had plenty of money – surely, a jeweller of some note could not refuse a young man such a request? He would have to consider carrying out some sort of blessing at Holy Island, perhaps. And after all, was it not possible that a Theology student might want to make a sort of pilgrimage up there? Really, it was all going to be surprisingly simple when he thought about it logically.

***

Kester pushed open the door to the jeweller’s workshop in Clerkenwell. The door creaked on its hinges, and Kester found himself in a small room, devoid of human occupants. The only sound emanated from a clock on the mantelpiece and a ginger cat gazed listlessly at him from in front of the fireplace. Kester moved towards the counter and tried to see into the back rooms. The cat unfurled itself and padded through the dividing door, waving its tail elegantly in the air as it moved.

                ‘Good morning!’ Kester tried. ‘Is anybody here?’ No response. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. ‘I say, gentlemen! Is there anybody here?’ Silence. ‘I have a commission for you – this may work to your advantage...’

                A moment passed, and the dividing door opened slightly wider. The cat slunk back through and resumed its office at the fireplace. Kester allowed himself a small smile. Between them, the cat and Kester had clearly caught someone’s attention.

                ‘Hello?’ he said again. The door opened further and a small, dark man appeared. He wore round glasses and a dark suit. This, then, decided Kester, must be Mr Goldschmidt. A very appropriate name and one which was emblazoned above the shop window outside.

                ‘Good morning,’ the man said. ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ His heavy accent seemed to be European.

                ‘Mr Goldschmidt?’ Kester asked.

                ‘Solomon Goldschmidt at your service,’ said the man. He bowed slightly.

                ‘My name is Kester Lawson. Mr Goldschmidt, I wonder whether you would be able to help me? I’m looking for someone who can make me a copy of this.’ He took the paper out of his frock coat pocket and unfolded it. He pushed it across the counter and Mr Goldschmidt leaned over the picture, pushing his spectacles back on his nose.

                ‘
Oy, oy, oy!
’ he spluttered. ‘What do you mean by this young man?’ He stepped back from the counter and stared at Kester. ‘Do you know what this is?’

                ‘I do, Sir,’ said Kester. ‘The original is missing, I believe: therefore I would like a copy.’ He stared back at the jeweller.

Solomon Goldschmidt sucked his breath in. ‘This dagger you show me, young man. It was used by highly skilled individuals. This area of London is drenched in Templar blood. Our Priory has links to the Knights Hospitallers, a religious order founded by The Blessed Gerard to provide medical assistance during the Crusades – I myself was party to certain instructions when I set up my business here. The Priory may now be part of St John’s church, but the crypts still remain...’

                ‘Sir,’ interrupted Kester. ‘I really do not think I need a history lesson from you. I have asked you to do a job for me. You will be well paid. What is the problem?’

                ‘Forgive me, Sir, but you have not been trained in the ways of the Knights Templar. You cannot hope to utilise this item correctly, Sir.’

                ‘Who said I was going to use it?’ asked Kester. ‘Can I not simply have a replica of this item because I appreciate the workmanship? Because I want to display it at my family home?’

                The jeweller was silent for a moment. He looked at Kester, trying, it seemed, to read the hidden meaning behind the bland words. Eventually, seeing no way of breaking the young man’s façade, he relented. ‘Very well, Sir,’ Goldschmidt said quietly, shaking his head. ‘I cannot turn away trade, I am not a rich man and do not have the luxury of choosing my clients and refusing work. Therefore, I will do as you bid.’

                ‘Excellent.’ Kester drew the paper towards him again. He stared at it, memorising it. ‘I suppose you will want to keep this. I must request, however, that it is returned to me with the finished product.’

                ‘Of course, Sir,’ bowed the little man. ‘I shall aim to have it ready in two weeks.’

                ‘Two weeks?’ asked Kester. ‘Are you certain about that? I was hoping for it a little more quickly.’

                ‘Two weeks,’ reiterated Goldschmidt. ‘Even that is generous. There is an incredible amount of work to be done on it: the curlicues alone, Sir, not to mention the diamonds. The materials all need to be sourced and crafted...’

                ‘Very well,’ said Kester. ‘I can see there is nothing else to discuss.’

                ‘Except the price, Sir,’ the jeweller reminded him.

                ‘The price is no object,’ said Kester. He unfolded another piece of paper and handed it to the man. ‘That, Sir, is the maximum I am willing to pay. I trust that will suffice.’

The jeweller’s eyes widened as he read the figures. He bowed again. ‘Young Sir is very anxious to have his decorative dagger,’ he said.

                ‘Yes, I am. I shall see you in two weeks,’ said Kester. ‘Please ensure it is ready for me.’ He bowed slightly to the jeweller and turned on his heel. He left the shop, and stepped out onto the bustling streets of Clerkenwell. ‘Templar blood, indeed,’ he muttered to himself. There was only one sort of blood he intended to see the streets running with. Then he thought for a moment. Did vampires bleed? Probably not. He shook his head and turned towards St John’s church. While he was here, he may as well take a look at it. If he sat quietly enough in the church, God might give him the strength and the wisdom to avenge his beloved sister.

***

Two weeks to the day, Kester returned to the jeweller’s. This time, Solomon Goldschmidt was sitting at the counter, concentrating on polishing up a pocket watch. He lifted his head as the door opened and smiled at Kester.

‘Welcome back, Sir,’ he said. ‘I trust you are well?’

                ‘I will feel better when I see that my request has been complied with,’ Kester answered. ‘Am I to be disappointed, Mr Goldschmidt, or is it ready?’

                ‘It is ready, Sir,’ said the jeweller. He left his seat at the counter and went through the door into the back rooms. Within a few moments, he returned, clutching an object wrapped in soft, black velvet. He placed it on the counter and reverently unfolded the coverings. Kester, hardened as he was against the world and emotionless to everything except his drive to avenge Summer, could not stop his eyes widening at the sight of the dagger.

A small sound escaped his lips. ‘It is beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘perfect, in fact.’ Kester reached out and ran his fingertips over the curlicues, feeling the smooth silver shapes undulating beneath them. Golden light from the small fire in the room caressed the blade and reflected back a hundredfold in the immaculately cut diamonds studding the hilt. ‘How much?’ he asked, unable to tear his gaze away.

                ‘Ah, Sir, it is a work of art. It took me so long to make. It is from the heart, Sir, from the heart. I am afraid it cost, well, it cost more, but I am happy to accept the maximum you offered me...’ said the jeweller.

Kester was vaguely aware of the tremble in the man’s voice as he chanced his arm on the bill. ‘Take it, Goldschmidt,’ he said, throwing a bundle of notes onto the counter. ‘It is yours. You have earned it.’ Kester picked the dagger up and weighed it in his hands. He curled his fingers around the hilt and swung it through the air. It made a barely audible whoosh. He brought the dagger down in a stabbing movement and he smiled. ‘Perfect,’ he repeated and wrapped the dagger up in the velvet. ‘Thank you for your assistance.’ Goldschmidt nodded and smiled, and Kester turned to leave the shop. The door opened as he reached it, and he stood to one side to let a young woman walk in. She looked up at Kester and smiled her thanks. Kester bowed and left the shop, his precious package held close to his chest. It was only when he was halfway down the street, that he realised he had left the original engraving of the dagger behind.

                ‘Damn!’ he muttered, and turned back. He had expressly asked for that picture back. Well, he couldn’t blame the jeweller, he supposed. He had given him the dagger and it was Kester who had left after that. No matter, he would go back and retrieve it. But first of all, he ducked into an alleyway and paused for a moment. He pulled a small bottle of Holy Water out of his pocket, gathered from the font in St John’s church two weeks ago. He was going to Lindisfarne, no question about it. The dagger needed to be blessed properly at the Priory, but this would suffice in the meantime. He made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes, bowing his head. He murmured the Lord’s Prayer over the dagger and sprinkled the Holy Water onto it. Whether it would work or not, he did not know, but he felt the strength and determination grow from within him. He could do this. He could avenge Summer.