Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  BOOKS BY SIGMUND BROUWER

  Merlin’s Immortals

  The Orphan King

  Fortress of Mist

  FICTION

  Broken Angel

  The Canary List

  Flight of Shadows

  Evening Star

  Silver Moon

  Sun Dance

  Thunder Voice

  Double Helix

  Blood Ties

  The Weeping Chamber

  Pony Express Christmas

  The Leper

  Out of the Shadows

  Crown of Thorns

  Lies of Saints

  The Last Disciple

  The Last Sacrifice

  The Last Temple

  Fuse of Armageddon

  Devil’s Pass

  Dead Man’s Switch

  MARTYR’S FIRE

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Sigmund Brouwer

  Cover design by Mark Ford

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company.

  WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959–

  Martyr’s fire / Sigmund Brouwer.—First edition.

  pages cm.—(Merlin’s immortals; book 3)

  Merlin’s immortals is a revised and expanded version of The winds of light series.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-73209-5

  [1. Druids and druidism—Fiction. 2. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. 3. Civilization, Medieval—Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—Medieval period, 1066-1485—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B79984Mat 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013019561

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eightteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  SPRING, NORTHERN ENGLAND—AD 1313

  The man that Isabelle faced was wealthy. And handsome, except for the stub where his left ear had been, now half-covered by hair. She could tell by the shift of his shoulders and the intensity of his gaze that he was enthralled by her, as indeed were nearly all men. Yet he was not Thomas. She spent hours dreaming that one day, Thomas, too, would be enthralled.

  The man before her now had been on his horse, crossing a pasture that overlooked the town of York, clustered behind the high stone walls that protected it. With occasional clouds throwing brief shadows as they crossed overhead, she’d waited in sunshine, knowing that this was along his regular path to York from hunting in the moors. She’d been sitting on a blanket like a woman of leisure, dressed in fine silks, a basket beside her.

  He was tall and slim, wearing the clothes of a nobleman. He’d dismounted and looked around, as if wondering where her servants might be. She had risen from the blanket and now lifted the basket with food.

  “If you’ve been riding long,” she purred, “you must be hungry. And I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She set the basket on the ground and leaned down to lift out a piece of thick buttered bread and pieces of rich cheese.

  As she expected, he took it without hesitation. “You know who I am, then?”

  “Of course,” she answered.

  He smiled with pride.

  He was Michael of York, the son of the earl who had enlisted Thomas’s army to prevail against the Scots not so long ago. As he tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth, he looked around again. Not with the eye of a man wary of a trap, but with the sharp glance of a predator. She was in front of him and so alone. And he was a rich and powerful man, accustomed to being offered what he wanted—or to taking it whether it was offered or not. Obvious on her neck was jewelry that was worth a year’s wages for a working man. If he had the heart of a thief, and she knew he did, his mind would have been on her apparent helplessness.

  Since no noblewoman should be alone in a field because the dangers were too great, the apparent helplessness should have made him suspicious. But men were fools.

  “Mead?” she asked, holding up a chalice.

  He took it without a word, as if he were entitled to it. He rammed some cheese into his mouth first, then washed it down with the honey wine.

  “You’ve been waiting for me,” Michael said, with a grin that came too close to a leer.

  “With a message from those who watched you cut off your own ear.”

  His smile froze, just for an instant. Then he laughed.

  “From anyone but a lady as lovely as yourself, I would take that accusation as an insult. And I would answer it accordingly.”

  “It is a dangerous accusation,” she agreed. “If your father ever had proof that you severed your own ear to force him to attack Magnus, you would be thrown in prison and disinherited.”

  “You are very alone here.” He gestured at the open pasture. “You would be wise not to anger me.”

  He placed his right hand on the hilt of his knife, hanging from a sheath on a gold-studded belt.

  “And you would be wise to listen to me,” she said. “After all, your father already questions your loyalty, does he not? After the trial by ordeal, did he not leave Magnus believing that Thomas is an ally and that you had deceived him?”

  Michael’s face pinched. He was beginning to suspect a trap. But his next words suggested that he believed the trap came from the earl.

  “I will speak to you as I have repeatedly spoken to my father: I do not know the men who attacked me and cut off my ear. All I know is that I was given a message to deliver and told it was from Thomas. Obviously, those who cut off my ear were the ones deceitful about Thomas. Not me. Go back to my father and tell him this.”

  “You
r father did not send me,” she said. She tossed him a heavy ring. “Look closely at the symbol. Those of the symbol are the ones who sent me.”

  He caught it in his left hand and studied it. He glanced at her and closed his fist around the ring. He kept his right hand on the handle of his knife.

  “I don’t believe you.” His words were certain enough, but not the tone.

  “Let me repeat what you were told by those of the symbol. You were promised that if you delivered a letter to your father, along with your ear, pretending it was a letter from Thomas, that your father would go to war and take the castle of Magnus. And that Magnus would be yours.”

  Isabelle knew this was truth. She’d been hidden behind trees, watching the discussion, seeing greed cross this man’s face as he calculated what small price it would cost for him to obtain a kingdom—his deception and his ear.

  “Lies,” he said, smiling.

  “The man who made you that promise,” she said, “was my father. Richard Mewburn, who ruled Magnus until Thomas took it from him.”

  She watched his smile fade as he thought through the implications. This was not something that a person could guess—proof to him that she knew for certain. And if she knew of that secret conversation, then she likely knew much more.

  Michael lifted his hand away from his knife. “Please tell Lord Mewburn that I had no intention of harming you.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “We are just having a conversation. So tell me. If my father were to deliver York to you, would you, in return, help him secure Magnus?”

  “York cannot be mine while my father is the earl,” he answered. It was an oblique answer. Nothing in it openly suggested disloyalty. Yet it was an invitation to continue.

  “A man who is willing to cut off his own ear is a man hungry for power,” Isabelle said. “This time, however, what we ask of you will be far less painful.”

  Michael’s face reflected obvious relief before once again contorting into dismay. “But I was already promised that Magnus would fall. It did not. The trial by ordeal that Thomas faced and survived—”

  “Nothing will be asked of you until Magnus falls,” Isabelle said. “But believe me, it will. Very soon.”

  Each morning, the guards on the castle walls expected Tiny John to appear shortly after tierce, the ringing of the bells that marked the nine o’clock devotional services. By then, Tiny John would already have visited half the shopkeepers’ stalls in Magnus.

  The guards had good reason to watch for him; few were those who had not been relieved of loose coins by the rascal pickpocket. A temporary loss of silver—because Tiny John would return it without fail the next day—meant nothing. It was the ribbing of other guards that always left the victim red faced and huffing with indignation. After all, how could any military man keep self-respect if robbed by a boy?

  None, however, were guards who could carry a grudge against Tiny John. He had been in Magnus since Thomas’s arrival the previous summer. The lopsided grin that flashed from his smudged face was welcomed like the bright colors of a cheerful bird in every corner of the village, especially throughout an exhausting and long winter.

  And, even without the charm of a born rascal, Tiny John was always safe within Magnus. The lord, Thomas, considered him a special—if untamable—friend, and that gave Tiny John immunity within the kingdom.

  Before the bells of tierce stopped echoing in the spring morning air, Tiny John had already scampered from the first castle wall turret to the next. He dodged between the two gruff guards like a puppy whirling with glee among clumsy cattle.

  “ ’Tis a fine kettle of fish, soldier Alfred!” Tiny John shouted through his grin at the second guard. “All the tongues in town waggle about the sly looks you earn from the tanner’s daughter. And with her betrothed to a mason, at that!”

  Tiny John waited, hunched over with his hands on his knees, ready for flight after the delivered provocation.

  “Let me get a grasp a’ you,” soldier Alfred grunted as he lunged at Tiny John, “and then we’ll see how eager you might be to discuss these matters.”

  Tiny John laughed, then ducked to his right. And made a rare mistake. He misjudged the slipperiness of the wet stone below his feet and fell flat backward.

  “Ho! Ho!” A moment later, the soldier scooped him into burly arms, grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and the back of his trousers, and hoisted his head and shoulders over the castle walls.

  “Scoundrel,” Alfred said, laughing, “tell me what you see below.”

  “Water.” Tiny John gasped. A weak spring sun glinted gray off the waves of the small lake that surrounded the castle island.

  “Water indeed. Perhaps you’ll find that fine kettle of fish you mentioned?”

  “Wonderful jest,” Tiny John managed, though still obviously winded. “ ’Tis easy to understand why the tanner’s daughter would be taken with a man such as yourself.”

  “Aargh!” Alfred grunted. “What’s to be done with you?”

  “A reward, perhaps?” Tiny John asked.

  Alfred set him back down on his feet. “Reward indeed. Be on your way, and be glad I don’t reward you with a cuff across the ears.”

  “I speak truth,” Tiny John protested. “Because of me, you shall be the first to sound the alarm and, in return, be rewarded for your vigilance.”

  “Eh?” Alfred squinted as he followed Tiny John’s pointing arm to look beyond the lake.

  “There,” Tiny John said firmly, “from the trees at the edge of the valley. A progression of fifteen men. None on horseback.”

  It took several minutes for Alfred to detect the faraway movement. Then he shouted for a messenger to reach the sheriff of Magnus.

  Moments later, Alfred shouted again. This time in disgust at his now-empty pouch.

  Tiny John, of course, had disappeared.

  Rich, thick tapestries covered the walls of the royal chamber. Low benches lined each side, designed to give supplicants rest as they waited each morning for decisions from their lord.

  Thomas leaned casually against the large ornate chair that served as his throne. He waited for the huge double doors at the front to close behind the man entering. His sheriff, Robert of Uleran.

  Thomas’s last glimpse beyond, as usual, was of the four guards posted out front, each armed with a long pike and short sword. And, as usual, it irritated him to be reminded that double guard duty remained necessary to protect his life, here in his own castle.

  “The arrival of fifteen men?” Thomas asked to break their solitary silence.

  “Exactly as Alfred spoke,” Robert of Uleran replied to his lord. “Although I confess I am surprised by his accuracy and the earliness of his warning. He is not known for sharp eyes.”

  Thomas pulled one of the long padded benches away from the wall and sat down. With a motion of his hand, he invited Robert to do the same.

  “Have the visitors been thoroughly searched?” Thomas asked.

  Robert of Uleran froze his movement halfway to his seat and frowned at Thomas.

  The mixture of hurt and surprise in Robert’s wrinkled, battle-scarred face caused Thomas to chuckle soothingly. “Ho! You’d think I had just pulled a dagger!”

  “You may as well have, m’lord,” Robert of Uleran grumbled. “To even suggest my men might shirk their duty.”

  Thomas clapped the man on the shoulder. “My humblest apologies. Of course they have been searched. I grow accustomed to covering obvious ground in this chamber.”

  Mollified, the big man finally eased himself onto the bench. “We searched them thrice. There is something about their procession that disturbs me. Even if they do claim to be men of God.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  Robert of Uleran nodded once. “They carry nothing except the usual travel bags, a cart with a large wrapped object, a sealed vial, and a message for the Lord of Magnus.”

  “Could the wrapped object be a weapon?”

  Robert let out a breath.
“That occurred to me too. But it seems more like a statue. I don’t see how that might be considered a weapon.”

  “A vial?” Thomas repeated. “Any danger in that?”

  “Only for the superstitious.” Robert of Uleran scowled. “They claim it contains the blood of a martyr.”

  Thomas snorted. “Simply another religious spectacle, designed to draw yet more money from even the most poverty stricken. To which martyr does this supposed relic belong?”

  The sheriff stood and paced briefly before spinning on his heels. He looked directly into the eyes of Thomas, lord of Magnus.

  “Which martyr?” Robert of Uleran repeated softly. “ ’Tis said to be the blood of St. Thomas the Apostle. The Doubter.”

  Normal chaos reigned in the large hall opposite the royal chamber. The huge fire at the side of the hall crackled and hissed as fat dripped from the pig roasting on a spit above. Servants and maids scurried in all directions to prepare for the upcoming daily meal. Already, the table across the hall, high upon a platform, was set with pewter plates. Rough wooden tables running the entire length of the hall, still empty of any food, were crowded with people. Some rested as they waited to see Thomas, while others merely absorbed the liveliness of the hall. There were men armed with swords, bows, and large wolfhounds; women both in fine dress and in rags.

  Standing to the side of all this activity, aloof to the world, were fifteen men garbed in simple brown robes. They did not bother to look up when the doors opened. When summoned by Robert of Uleran, two of the men broke away from the group. Thomas crossed his arms beneath his purple cloak and awaited their approach.

  He said nothing as his guards closed the doors, leaving the four of them alone in the chamber.

  The silence hung heavy. Thomas made it no secret that he was inspecting them, although their loose clothing hid much. Thomas could not tell if they were soft and fat, or hardened athletes. He could only be certain that they were large men, both of them.

  The first, who stared back at Thomas with black eyes of flint, had a broad, unlined forehead and a blond beard, cropped short. His nostrils flared slightly with each breath, an unconscious betrayal of heightened awareness.