I glimpsed that the door was double, with a chamber between. A metallic ramp slid forth like a tongue, three yards downward until it touched the earth. I raised my crucifix while Ayes pattered from my lips like hail.

One of the crew came forth. Great Cod, how shall I describe the horror of that first sight? Surely, my mind shrieked, this was a demon from the lowest pits of hell.

He stood about five feet tall, very broad and powerful, clad in a tunic of silvery sheen. His skin was hairless and deep blue. He had a short thick tail. The ears were long and pointed on either side of his round head; narrow amber eyes glared from a blunt-snouted face; but his brow was high.

Someone began to scream. Red John brandished his bow. “Quiet, there!” he roared. “’Steeth, I’ll kill the first man who moves!”

I hardly thought this a time for profanity. Raising the cross still higher, I forced limp legs to carry me a few steps forward, while I quavered some chant of exorcism. I was certain it would do no good; the end of the world was upon us.

Had the demon only remained standing there, we would soon have broken and bolted. But he raised a tube held in one hand. From it shot flame, blinding white. I heard it crackle in the air and saw a man near me smitten.

Fire burst over him. He fell dead, his breast charred open.

Three other demons emerged.

Soldiers were trained to react when such things happened, not to think. The bow of Red John sang. The foremost demon lurched off the ramp with a cloth-yard arrow through him. I saw him cough blood and die. As if the one shot had touched off a hundred, the air was suddenly gray with whistling shafts. The three other demons toppled, so thickly studded with arrows they might have been popinjays at a contest.

“They can be slain!” bawled Sir Roger. “Haro! St. George for merry England!” And he spurred his horse straight up the gangway.

They say fear breeds unnatural courage. With one crazed whoop the whole army charged after him. Be it confessed, I, too, howled and ran into the ship.

Of that combat which ramped and raged through all the rooms and corridors, I have little memory. Somewhere, from someone, I got a battle-ax. There is in me a confused impression of smiting away at vile blue faces which rose up to snarl at me, of slipping in blood and rising to smite again. Sir Roger had no way to direct the battle. His men simply ran wild. Knowing the demons could be killed, their one thought was to kill and have done.

The crew of the ship numbered about a hundred, but few carried weapons. We later found all manner of devices stored in the holds, but the invaders had relied on creating a panic. Not knowing Englishmen, they had not expected trouble. The ship s artillery was ready to use, but of no value once we were inside.

In less than an hour, we had hunted them all down.

Wading out through the carnage, I wept with joy to feel the blessed sunlight again. Sir Roger was checking with his captains to find our losses, which were only fifteen all told. As I stood there, atremble with exhaustion, Red John Hameward emerged. He had a demon slung over his shoulder.

He threw the creature at Sir Roger’s feet. “This one I knocked out with my fist, sire,” he panted. “I thought might be you’d want one kept alive awhile, to put him to the question. Or should I not take chances, and slice off his ugly head now?”

Sir Roger considered. Calm had descended upon him; none of us had yet grasped the enormity of this event. A grim smile crossed his lips. He replied in English as fluent as the nobleman’s French he more commonly used.

“if these be demons,” he said, “they’re a poor breed, for they were slain as easily as men. Easier, in sooth. They didn’t know more about infighting than my little daughter. Less, for she’s given my nose many hefty tweaks. I think chains will hold this fellow safe, eh, Brother Parvus?”

“Yes, my lord,” I opined, “though it were best to put some saints’ relics and the Host nearby.”

“Well, then, take him to the abbey and see what you can get out of him. I’ll send a guard along. Come up to dinner this evening.”

“Sire,” I reproved, “we should hold a great Mass of thanksgiving ere we do anything else.”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Talk to your abbot about it. Do what seems best. But come to dinner and tell me what you’ve learned.”

His eyes grew thoughtful as he stared at the ship.

I came as ordered, with the approval of my abbot, who saw that here the ghostly and secular arms must be one. The town was strangely quiet as I picked my way through sunset streets. Folk were in church or huddled within doors. From the soldiers’ camp I could hear yet another Mass, The ship brooded mountainous over all our tiny works.

But we felt heartened, I believe, a little drunk with our success over powers not of this earth, The smug conclusion seemed inescapable, that Cod approved of us.

I passed the bailey through a trebled watch and went directly to the great hail. Ansby Castle was old Norman work, gaunt to look on, cold to inhabit. The hail was already dark, lit by candles and a great leaping fire which picked weapons and tapestries out of unrestful shadow. Gentlefolk and the more important commoners of town and army were at table, a buzz of talk, servants scurrying about, dogs lolling on the rushes. It was a comfortingly familiar scene, however much tension underlay it. Sir Roger beckoned me to come sit with him and his lady, a signal honor.

Let me here describe Roger de Tourneville, knight and baron. He was a big, strongly thewed man of thirty years, with gray eyes and bony curve-nosed features. He wore his yellow hair in the usual style of a warrior peer, thick on the crown and shaven below — which somewhat marred an otherwise not unhandsome appearance, for he had ears like jug handles. This, his home district, was poor and backward, and most of his time elsewhere had been spent in war. So he lacked courtly graces, though shrewd and kindly in his fashion. His wife, Lady Catherine, was a daughter of the Viscount de Mornay; most people felt she had married beneath her style of living as well as her station, for she had been brought up at Winchester amidst every elegance and modern refinement. She was very beautiful, with great blue eyes and auburn hair, but somewhat of a virago. They had only two children: Robert, a fine boy of six, who was my pupil, and a three-year-old girl named Matilda.

“Well, Brother Parvus,” boomed my lord. “Sit down. Have a stoup of winesblood, this occasion calls for more than ale!” Lady Catherine’s delicate nose wrinkled a bit; in her old home, ale was only for commoners. When I was seated, Sir Roger leaned forward and said intently, “What have you found out? Is it a demon we’ve captured?”

A hush fell over the table. Even the dogs were quiet. I could hear the hearth fire crackle and ancient banners stir dustily where they hung from the beams overhead. “I think so, my lord,” I answered with care, “for he grew very angry when we sprinkled holy water on him.

“Yet he did not vanish in a puff of smoke? Hah! If demons, these are not kin to any I ever heard of. They’re mortal as men.”

“More so, sire,” declared one of his captains, “for they cannot have souls.”

’I’m not interested in their blithering souls,” snorted Sir Roger. “I want to know about their ship. I’ve walked through it since the fight. What a by-our-lady whale of a ship! We could put all Ansby aboard, with room to spare. Did you ask the demon why a mere hundred of ’em needed that much space?”

“He does not speak any known language, my lord,” I said.

“Nonsense! All demons know Latin, at least. He’s just being stubborn.”

“Mayhap a little session with your executioner?” asked the knight Sir Owain Montbelle slyly.