The Jealous God

by Brendan Carroll

  “That is a lie.” Il Dolce Mio’s face grew dark. “I assure you, if my father tried to kill the King of England, the King would be dead.”

  “Vanni,” Selwig intervened gently and touched his friend’s arm. “This is not a proper conversation in front of the young lady. Your Grace.” He bowed slightly to the King. “You would frighten Miss Greta.”

  Il Dolce Mio frowned and then looked at Greta. She did, indeed, look a bit perplexed.

  “I am terribly sorry, my lady.” The King bowed to her. “As soon as I am able, I will bring up the subject of a visit to my father, the King. When you have seen what my kingdom has to offer, I am sure you will join me in my efforts to make good a betrothal that would unite my father’s house to your father’s house.”

  “I’d rather just practice right now,” Greta told him and sat back down at her dulcimer.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Il Dolce Mio agreed. He sat down again and took up his drum.

  “Hmmmp!” Vanni sat down again and picked up his own drum. Selwig settled himself down in front of them with his pipes, and they began to play another of their energetic tunes.

  Chapter Eleven of Fifteen

  Surely oppression maketh a wise man mad; and a gift destroyeth the heart

  “I dunna understand it!” Luke Matthew blurted and was off again. Armand de Bleu watched the Knight as he tromped up and down the platform behind the ramparts of the inner bailey wall. His boots clunked loudly on the ancient wood. Armand leaned against the rocks of the battered wall with his arms folded over his chest. Mark Andrew sat in one of the daps with his legs hanging over the edge. “Ye didna ’ave t’ kill them on my behalf, Brother.” He slapped one gloved hand against the other. His eyes were wild with a mixture of disbelief, horror, and regret. “Ye didna ’ave t’ do it.”

  Mark Andrew had given up trying to justify what he had done. Luke Matthew would have none of it. His brother didn’t understand the importance of protecting the Royal Blood that flowed in his own veins. Stephano and Planxty had understood it. They had died willingly, in fact, they had been almost happy to die in Luke’s place. Mark understood their last thoughts. Mark understood the underlying warrior will that had prompted both of them to volunteer for the sacrifice. It was the same undying loyalty to the Order, and to the perpetuation of the Order, and the Holy Blood Line to which they had devoted their own lives. It was the same sense of need that made the Martyrs. The same inner acceptance of death that put it in its proper perspective and released the soul from fear of death.

  Only those with something to fear, feared death.

  Planxty and Stephano knew the Ancient Evil could do nothing to them. They knew a life well spent and death well met, at the proper moment, was all anyone could ask of life. In spite of Planxty’s propensity to ramble, he had never betrayed any of the real secrets of the Order to anyone. The two former apprentices could not have wished to have died a more honorable and noble death. He had read their last thoughts and had been very pleased to know, they were sincere in their joy at having at last become martyrs for the cause. Mark Andrew did not necessarily approve of the notion of martyrdom, but he understood how it sometimes became necessary to become one. Luke would never understand it. He would never equate what the two aging Templars had done for him to what he would have done for them had the tables been turned. Mark also understood, his brother’s rage and grief. He would wear it out eventually and accept it, but he would always strive for the satisfaction of avenging his dead Brothers until the bitter end. Mark Andrew would do no less of his own accord.

  “He could have let them kill you,” Armand said quietly. “And then what? They would have still killed Planxty and Stephano and Gil, and then, all four of you would have been dead. Would that have served the Order?”

  “The Order!” Luke Matthew stopped in his tracks. “Damn the Order! We are talking about two friends! Two very dear friends. Brothers, bloody hell! Surely, there was another way.”

  “Name it,” Armand told him simply.

  “We could have simply fought for our lives and died together as in the old days!” Luke began his pacing again. “I cannot live with myself. It is too much to bear.”

  “You can bear it, and you will,” Armand said as he pushed himself off the wall. His long, golden curls jingled with numerous silver and gold ornaments. His pointed ears peeked through the ropy lengths of his golden hair and sparkled with studs and decorations that would have made any barbarian chieftain green with envy. He wore tattoos on his bare arms and even had some curious designs on his left cheek under his eye. He was barely recognizable as the former Knight of the Order in his elven clothes and jewelry. He wore soft, lace-up boots on his feet, and his clothes were a shimmery greenish-yellow buckskin.

  “Look at me, Brother. Look at what I have become. Do you think I am proud of myself? I was a dreamer! I dreamed myself into oblivion. I thought, I knew everything. But, I knew nothing, know nothing! Even when my dreams came true, and I was brought here to become the Royal Alchemist, I was unhappy. I was a fool, but I have come to terms with my folly. I can never go back, but I serve the Creator in my own way and by His Will. Every man comes to his just rewards, Brother. You will be king, and I will be the Royal Alchemist of the House of Ramsay.”

  Luke stared at him in confusion. Armand’s words made no sense to him.

  “You still don’t understand,” Armand said quietly. “I was in love once.”

  “Love has nothing to do with this,” Luke shook his head, and his own silver ornaments tinkled in his hair.

  “Love has everything to do with it,” Armand almost laughed. “Your brother loves you. He could not let you die. He could never let you die. You know that. You are only angry because you loved your Brothers and could do nothing to help them, but they did not need your help. I would have done the same thing, in Sir Ramsay’s place. In your place, I would be as angry as you are. On the other hand, had I been Stephano’s place, I would have done what he did. You cannot go back. We can never go back. We all have our burdens to bear, and our duties to God.”

  “God?” Luke frowned and looked up at Mark Andrew. “God has played a dirty trick on us. Why should we be made to suffer so? Why do those we love, die in front of our eyes? Why? To what end?”

  “The end has always been in front of us, Brother,” Armand told him and shrugged. “God provides the plan, and we provide the means. Simple.”

  Luke made a noise of disgust, but he seemed to be a bit calmer.

  “How long do we have to stay here?” he asked his brother.

  “A bit longer.” Mark Andrew looked up at the sky. They had buried the two Templars in the sunny expanse between the inner curtain wall and the outer, crumbled ruins, piling mounds of loose rock over them and erecting stone crosses to mark their graves. If the world lasted long enough, he would come back and move them to the crypts on St. Patrick or in Lothian, if possible. “There is still the matter of the skull of Bran.”

  “And thot’s anoother thing thot bothers me,” Luke had calmed down enough for his brogue to reassert itself. “Wattar we goin’ t’ do with th’ things? Thot’s wot oll this is aboot anyway. He wants th’ skulls. When air we goin’ t’ go aftar ’im?”

  “We are waiting for John Paul,” Mark reminded him.

  Luke’s shoulders drooped. “And wot aboot Merry and th’ oothers? Do ye not think thot th’ gud King, William Henry, will nae go to th’ oilands t’ search fur us? Wot will ’appen t’ them?”

  “We will be going there very soon,” Mark Andrew said and then slid off the wall. He dusted off the seat of his pants and frowned. “We will be there when he arrives. I had hoped to see Il Dolce Mio before we left.”

  “The King has been spending a lot of time on your island,” Armand told him.

  “How so?” Mark Andrew asked in surprise.

  “He goes there to visit with Vannistephetti. He misses him. And I believe you may have a bit of a problem when you go back,” Armand said with a smile.

/>   “Wot anoother one?” Luke demanded.

  “Yes. The King has decided, it is time for him to take a Queen. He wants to marry a human girl,” Armand told them blandly.

  “Saints presarve us!” Luke threw his head back and looked up at the sky.

  “Has he found someone in particular?” Mark Andrew seemed a bit amused by the idea.

  “Yes. He has,” Armand said and Mark’s slight smile faded. “Greta d’Ornan.”

  “She’s only a child,” Mark said. He was flabbergasted.

  “Oui`, but your son does not seem to mind. He said, she could come here and learn to be an elf. When she is old enough, he will marry her, but she must come now so she doesn’t grow taller than the king. That would not be proper. I don’t envy you that problem, Brother.”

  “Saints preserve us!” Mark Andrew repeated his brother’s words.

  “Speaking of saints and preservation…” Armand said over his shoulder as he started off down the catwalk.

  The former Knight even walked differently than they remembered. He jingled with each step he took as he hurried lightly down the stone steps without making any other sound. Without his ornaments, he would have been perfectly silent.

  A small caravan of ponies had entered the bailey under the care of a small faery that looked very much like Paddy’s old friend, Bart. He wore a bent, black hat covered with dust and a long, black beard that fell over his vest. He wore brown knickers, striped knee socks, and heavy, leather boots with shiny buckles. In his gnarled hand, he carried an equally gnarled stave much taller than himself. His four heavily laden ponies walked one behind the other carrying lumpy red bags.

  Armand hurried to meet him as several bean tighes and brownies emerged from the doors of the keep, rolling small wooden casks across the grassy sward.

  “Ho, Grenwed!” Armand greeted the Knocker. “You are faring well, mon ami?”

  Grenwed drew up short and pushed back the brim of his pointed hat. He squinted at the French elf from deep, dark eyes in a weathered brown face.

  “Well enou’,” he answered gruffly, and then perked up at the sight of the casks rolling toward him. “Ye’ll be wantin’ maire noo doubt.”

  “Of course.” Armand patted his back and dust flew into the air. “As much as you can manage.” Armand turned back to Mark Andrew and Luke, who followed more slowly. “Grenwed of Garon, I would like you to meet my very dear friends, Mark Ramsay and his brother, Luke.”

  The Knocker took off his hat and bowed deeply to the brothers.

  “O’ thee I’ve heard much, King Ramsay. Welcome!” He straightened up stiffly.

  “I am no longer king, Grenwed.” Mark bowed slightly in return, and Luke nodded stiffly to the little creature. “Is that gold I smell?”

  “O’ aye. Ye have th’ noose fur it, d’ ye?” Grenwed asked and presented them with a snaggle-tooth smile. “P’raps ye wud loike t’ comp’ny me on me digs? We cud use anoother sniffer.”

  “Perhaps some other time, friend,” Mark declined politely.

  The bean tighes and brownies swarmed upon them and began to unload the ponies. The unmistakable clink of gold sounded as the heavy bags were lowered carefully to the ground.

  “Come on inside, Brothers.” Armand waved to them. “Grenwed, there will be plenty of ale and bread for you, when the transaction is complete.”

  Mark and Luke followed their former Knight of the Throne into the keep. The castle had changed remarkably. Vines and flowers grew in profusion. The fireplace glowed with a blue light, and an old woman was slowly cranking half a lamb on an iron spit over the flames. The smell was inviting as the juices dripped into the fire, sizzling and smoking. The old table was covered with a white, frilly cloth; and there were many gold goblets, and silver bowls, and copper plates, and pewter cups, and brass candlesticks, and other beautiful items made of hammered metal, amidst baskets full of flowers in glorious colors.

  Liliwyn, Armand’s wife, emerged from a door in the rear of the great hall carrying another basket of freshly baked loaves of brown bread. She smiled at them and waved. Armand hurried across the room and kissed her on the cheek. He bowed his head to her and smiled.

  “You remember Liliwyn?” he turned and asked them brightly. His face fairly glowed with joy.

  “Of course. A pleasure to see you again,” Mark nodded to the beautiful faery.

  “And you,” she said and curtsied to him. “My Lord.”

  “Come. Come,” Armand said and almost ran back to where they stook and then led them down to the lower region of the keep.

  They entered the lab, which had been much improved by the addition of many oil lamps in elaborate black iron fixtures.

  “Here I have been working at the King’s bidding,” Armand told them with some measure of pride as they looked about.

  A large oven had been constructed in one corner and a real wood fire burned there. Smoke rose up from the chimney and wafted away into a dark hole in the ceiling. Glowing coals could be seen at the bottom of the oven and in the midst of the fire was a great red iron kettle hanging on a spit.

  Mark Andrew sniffed the air tentatively and frowned.

  “Look!” Armand said and waved one hand toward the far wall. Many cloth sacks lay stacked on shelves. Each one neatly tied off at the corners like old-fashioned flour sacks. “I have been busy, no?”

  “What are you doing, Armand?” Mark Andrew asked him as Luke prodded one of the sacks with his finger.

  “No. No. No,” Armand said and grabbed Luke’s arm. “Do not do that. You will crush them.”

  Luke drew back and stood frowning beside his brother.

  “I have been making the white gold of the philosophers.”

  “Holy Mary!” Mark Andrew blinked at him. “Why?”

  “Because, the King says you will need it,” Armand shrugged. “Hey, I only do what I am told. Here!” He turned to a silver basin on the work table and picked it up. “Try it. See if you approve of my methods.”

  “I cannot.” Mark Andrew stepped back in alarm.

  “Oh. I am sorry.” Armand frowned and held out the bowl for Luke. “Perhaps you would care to taste?”

  “Taste?” Luke looked at Mark. “What is this, Mark Andrew? What is he doing?”

  “The white gold of the philosophers,” Mark Andrew repeated was almost speechless for several long moments. “It has not been seen in many years. It is what Jethro made on the Mountain of Fire in the Old Testament. It is the food of the gods. Manna!”

  “Manna?!” Luke gasped and stumbled backwards from the silver bowl.

  “Yes. Yes. Manna. White gold. It is all you need,” Armand told them. “Go on. Test it. I assure you, it is an experience you will never forget.”

  Mark regained his composure and nodded to his brother. “Go ahead.”

  Luke reached for one of the large, thin flakes in the bowl and picked it up gingerly. It seemed almost weightless like a feather. He could see it between his fingers, but he could not feel it.

  “Taste!” Armand encouraged him.

  Luke stuck out his tongue and brought the stuff to his mouth very slowly. When it touched his tongue, it seemed to dissipate and disappear immediately. Luke blinked in the light of the oil lamps and then licked his lips. He put the rest of the flake in his mouth and then closed his eyes. He seemed to shudder from head to toe.

  “What do you think?” Armand asked him after a moment.

  “It is… it is…” Luke opened his eyes and reached for another piece, popping it into his mouth and smiling in wonder. “It is wonderful. It reminds me of that spun sugar concoction Meredith bought for me in America. Cotton candy, she called it… though this is not so sweet and it has a honey taste.”

  “Yes,” Armand agreed and took a bit for himself. “You can eat it all day and never feel full. But you will never feel hungry either.”

  “Why would Il Dolce Mio have you making this?” Mark asked the elf. “Why?”

  “He says you will need it,” Armand told hi
m again. “I don’t ask questions, Brother. I am here for this purpose. It is the Will of God.”

  The simple statement put Mark Andrew in mind of Lucio, and he wondered what the Italian might be doing at that moment.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Lucio clutched his bottle of Italian beer in his hand as if his life depended on it. As much as he wanted to enjoy this increasingly rare treat, but he barely tasted it. The journey ahead of them and the experience in Sicily had completely unnerved him. Normally, he would have enjoyed a trip to Switzerland, under any circumstances, a joyful occasion. As he looked around the grim faces gathered around him, his spirits grew gloomier and gloomier.

  Konrad von Hetz’ father’s chalet had not been built to accommodate great numbers of guests, nor had it been constructed to host meetings. Ten Knights, one apprentice and one administrative assistant sat jammed in the quaint kitchen while Konrad bustled about, trying to satisfy everyone with a variety of after dinner beverages. The chalet had lain empty for quite some time, looked after by a seasonal caretaker Konrad had hired years ago.

  The larder had been kept stocked, at his instruction, with non-perishable foods, and the wine cellar had provided them with a variety of wines, ales and beers, but there was a distinctive lack of fresh items such as bread, milk and eggs. The war had even reached as far as Switzerland, and there were shortages of basic staples in the surrounding countryside. Konrad’s caretaker had managed to procure a leg of lamb for their supper and a chicken, but there was no cheese or butter to be had. They had dined on chicken soup, roast lamb, pasta from cans, and some awful little wafers, that were supposed to be crackers, but tasted like cardboard boxes.

  The after-dinner fare was much more palatable as Konrad broke out his best reserves. He even found a bottle of Slivovitz for the Master and Simon, and a bottle of Dom Perignon ® for Louis and Lavon. The others satisfied themselves with a variety of imported wine, beer and a precious supply of Swiss chocolate candy, the caretaker had also managed to bring them. It was actually the best meal they had shared, since leaving New Babylon.