Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Not even the enthusiastic puppy that had helped Thomas discover Katherine’s and Isabelle’s deceptions during the siege on Magnus was enough of a distraction during these terrible days.

  Thomas reached down and scratched the puppy’s dark head. “Haven’t I fed you enough in repayment for your services? Surely you have better things to do than spend hours of your day searching for me.”

  In the previous months, Thomas had asked for Robert of Uleran’s help with an experiment. Robert would take the puppy anywhere in Magnus and release it, and then Thomas would go on his way. The pup would reappear, sometimes in minutes, sometimes in a few hours, sometimes the next day. Robert found it amusing; Thomas found it perplexing. He had not asked for the dog’s loyalty and in fact was even reluctant to give it a name.

  Still, he had to admit, he’d been growing fond of the animal’s presence and persistence, even as he wondered if that was a sign of weakness. And weakness was not something he dared show. Ever. To anyone, save one man.

  A man with a calming and gentle wisdom. It took no time at all for Thomas to decide that this day required a visit to this man.

  “Five days of nonsense about the Holy Grail!” exploded Thomas. “A statue that weeps. And the blood of a martyr that clots and unclots as directed by prayer! I am at my wit’s end, Gervaise. It is almost enough for me to sympathize with the priests of Rome.”

  Gervaise knelt in the rich dirt of the church’s garden, weeding with peaceful precision. “Then the matter must be grave.” The elderly man chuckled without looking up from his task. “Brave would be the man to gamble that you ever side with Rome.”

  Thomas paced two steps past Gervaise on the stone path that meandered through the garden, then whirled and paced back. “Jest if you will, but do not be surprised if you find yourself without gainful work when the priest you serve is cast from this very church.”

  Gervaise hummed in the sunshine beating down upon his stooped shoulders. His gray hair was combed straight back, as usual, and showed no sign of sweat. His voice was deep and rich in tone, and matched in strength the lines of humor and character etched in his face. He had thick, gnarled fingers, as capable of threading the most delicate of needles as of clawing among the roots of the roughest bush, which he did now with great patience.

  Among wide, low shrubs stood carefully pruned bushes, almost ready to bloom. The greatest treasure for Gervaise among these were his roses. Each summer, he would coax forth petals of white, of pink, of yellow. All were considered prizes of delight by the noblewomen of Magnus.

  Gervaise gently loosened another weed from the roots of a rosebush. He placed the weed atop a rapidly drying pile an arm’s length away. “The sun proves itself to be quite hot these days,” he said in a leisurely tone. “It does wonders for these precious plants. Unfortunately, it also encourages the weeds.”

  Thomas sighed. “Gervaise, do you not understand what happens here? With these ridiculous miracles, the Priests of the Holy Grail have practically wooed the entire population of Magnus.”

  Gervaise straightened with effort, then finally turned to regard the young master of Magnus.

  “I understand it is much too late to prevent what surely must happen next. The horse has escaped the stable, Thomas. Therefore, I will not worry about closing the gate.” Gervaise swept his arms in a broad motion to indicate the garden. “So I shall direct my efforts where they will have effect.”

  Thomas stopped halfway through another stride. “So you agree with me about the dangers,” he accused. “And what do you believe will happen next?”

  “The Priests of the Holy Grail will replace those within the church now,” Gervaise said mildly. “Then, I suspect, from the pulpit they will preach sedition.”

  “Sedition?” Thomas exploded again. “Impossible. To set their hand against the church is one thing, but to rebel against the royal order is yet another!”

  Gervaise wiped the dirt from his knees and walked to a bench half-hidden by overhanging branches.

  Thomas followed.

  “Impossible?” Gervaise echoed softly as he sat. “Last summer you conquered Magnus and delivered all of us from the oppression of our former master. Yet how have you spent your winter? Relaxed and unafraid?”

  Thomas sat alongside the old man. He did not answer immediately. Around them, the spring birds joyfully caroled, oblivious to the pressing matters of state at hand.

  “You know the opposite,” Thomas said slowly, knowing where his answer would lead. “Day after day, each meal, each glass of wine tested first for poison by giving tiny amounts to mice. Each visitor searched thoroughly for daggers or other hidden weapons before an audience with me. Double guards posted at the door to my bedchamber each night. Guards at the entrance to this garden, ready to protect me at the slightest alarm. I am a prisoner within my own castle.”

  “Thus,” Gervaise said, with no trace of triumph, “you are no stranger to rebellion. Why, then, do you persist in thinking it may not come from another source?”

  “Yet these are priests against priests, Holy Grail against those from Rome, each seeking authority in religious matters, not matters of state,” Thomas countered.

  Gervaise shook his head and pursed his lips in a frown. “Thomas, these new priests carry powerful weapons! The weeping Madonna. The blood of St. Thomas. And the promise of the Holy Grail.”

  Gervaise paused, then added, “Thomas, tell me: Should the Priests of the Holy Grail become your enemy, how would you fight them?”

  Thomas opened his mouth to retort, then slowly shut it as he realized the implications.

  “Yes,” Gervaise said, “pray these men do not seek your power, for they cannot be fought by sword. Every man, woman, and child within Magnus would turn against you.”

  Thomas leaned on the ledge near the window and waited until Robert of Uleran had entered and closed the door to the bedchamber.

  “Attack, my beast!” Thomas called out. “Attack!”

  With a high-pitched yipping, the puppy bolted from beneath a bench and flung himself with enthusiasm at Robert’s ankle.

  “Spare me, m’lord!” cried Robert of Uleran in fake terror. “Spare me from this savage monster!”

  The puppy had a firm grip of the leather upper of Robert’s boot, and no shaking could free him.

  Thomas laughed so hard he could barely speak. “Tickle him behind the ears, good Robert. He’s an easy one to fool.”

  Robert of Uleran reached down, then stopped and glared at Thomas with suspicion. “He’ll not piddle on my boot instead?”

  “You guessed my secret weapon,” Thomas hooted.

  “Bah.” Robert reached down, soothed the puppy with soft words and a gentle touch, then scooped him up and quickly dropped him into Thomas’s arms.

  “Go on,” Robert said to the puppy. “Now discharge your royal duties. Then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

  “Rich jest,” Thomas said, cradling the dog in the crook of his right arm. He rubbed the top of the puppy’s head thoughtfully. “Would that all of Magnus could be tamed this easily.”

  Robert of Uleran nodded, then spoke above the panting of the puppy. “You seem far from ill, m’lord. The reports had led me to believe I would find you half-dead beneath the covers of your bed.”

  Thomas smiled but sobered quickly. “Do not let the rumor rest. It serves our purpose for all to believe the fever grips me so badly that I cannot leave this room.”

  “M’lord?”

  “Robert, three days ago—with the miracle of the weeping statue—the Priests of the Holy Grail won the mantle of authority in the church of Magnus. They preach now openly from the pulpit, and the former priest has been banished. It is not a good sign.”

  “It cannot be bad,” Robert protested. “Let the religious orders fight among themselves.”

  “I wish I could agree,” Thomas said. The puppy chewed on the end of his sleeve and sighed with satisfaction. “But I must be sure there is no threat to the rest of Magnus.
”

  Robert raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

  “All winter,” Thomas continued, “we have been hidden in these towers, away from the people. Aside from the servants in this keep and those who request audience, I have seen no one. I have almost been a prisoner.”

  “The Druids, m’lord,” Robert of Uleran said in a whisper. “You cannot be blamed for precautions.”

  “Perhaps not. But now I have little idea what concerns these people in everyday life. I hear their legal problems in the throne room, but little else.”

  “But—”

  “How do they feel about these new priests?” Thomas interrupted. “Someone must go among them and discover this.”

  Robert of Uleran straightened. “I will send someone immediately.”

  “A guard?” Thomas asked. “A knight? Do you believe such a man will receive the confidence of housewives and beggars?”

  Robert of Uleran slowly shook his head.

  “I thought you might agree. Therefore, someone must spend a day on the streets, perhaps disguised as a beggar.”

  “But who, m’lord? It must be someone we trust. And I am too large and well known for such a task.”

  “Who do I trust better than myself?” Thomas countered.

  “You could send Tiny John,” Robert said.

  “Yes, I thought of that. But he is known for his loyalty to me. Anyone speaking to him knows it will be like speaking directly to me. So again, I’ll simply be told what people believe I want to be told.”

  Robert scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I can think of no one, m’lord.”

  Thomas smiled brightly. “Good, then we are in agreement.”

  Robert frowned. “M’lord?”

  “I shall have to do it. Let us waste no time in preparing my disguise.”

  Thomas felt a degree of freedom that surprised him.

  Gone was the long purple cape he wore publicly as lord of Magnus. Gone were the soft linen underclothing, the rings, and the sword and scabbard that went with his position.

  In their stead were coarse, dirty rags for clothing, no jewelry, and—as Thomas had copied from his long-departed knight friend—a short sword ingeniously hidden in a sheath strapped between his shoulder blades. To pull the sword free, Thomas would only have to reach as if scratching his back.

  With Robert of Uleran’s help, Thomas had dyed his skin several shades darker with the juice of boiled bark. This, he hoped, would give him the rough texture and appearance of a person who spent too much time outside in the bitter cold wind or the baking sun.

  Thomas had cut his hair short in ragged patches and scraped dark grease repeatedly with his hands to impact the filth beneath his fingernails. He planned to spend at least two days among the peasants of Magnus, and only the blindest of fools would fail to notice clean hands on a street beggar.

  But how should he disguise his features?

  Robert of Uleran had suggested an eye patch. Many in the land were disfigured or crippled, and many of those by necessity were forced to beg or die. True, it was not common, yet it was not remarkable for a beggar with one eye to appear among the poor.

  Thus disguised, Thomas let his shoulders sag and added a limp as he slipped unnoticed through the great banquet hall among the crowds of morning visitors.

  As he forced his way through the dizzying noise, smells, and sights, he felt a degree of shame for how quickly he’d begun to believe that he was above all those in the shadows of his castle.

  “Step aside, scum!” bellowed a large man guiding a mule loaded with leather. When Thomas did not react fast enough for the man’s taste, he was shoved back into a crowd of people on the side of the street.

  “Watch yourself!” another shouted at Thomas. Hands grasped and pulled at him, while other hands pushed him away in disgust. One well-placed kick to the back of his knee pitched Thomas forward, and when he stood upright again, he knew he’d no longer need to fake his limp.

  Thomas moved ahead, handicapped by the lack of depth of vision forced upon him by using only one eye.

  Still, he refused to be downcast. He’d entered Magnus as a penniless orphan and had felt no shame for it. In fact, the experience served as a reminder that he needed to be true to himself, not to what the trappings of lordship gave him.

  The scene, of course, looked identical to his first time in Magnus. Shops crowded the streets so tightly that the more crooked of the buildings actually leaned into neighboring roofs. Space among the people who bustled in front of him was equally difficult to find.

  Thomas did not let his renewed sightseeing stop him from carefully placing each limped footstep. Avoiding the mess of emptied chamber pots and the waste of sheep, calf, or pig innards thrown out by the butchers demanded one’s full attention.

  Pigs squealed, donkeys brayed in protest against heavy carts, and dogs barked, all a backdrop of noise against the hum of people busy in the sunshine.

  Thomas sighed and turned backward to squint against that sunshine as he gazed at the large keep of Magnus that dominated the center of the village. If he didn’t return, would it matter? What if he walked away, lived as a fighting man, and traveled across the land? Magnus would continue to exist. People would continue living as if he’d never been.

  He had enough silver to travel. To confirm that, Thomas reached for his hidden pouch containing two silver coins. Beggar or not, he did not relish going hungry in the eve or on the morrow—

  Thomas groaned.

  Only five minutes away from the castle and he had been picked as clean as a country fool by those grasping hands in the crowd.

  “ ’Tis our good fortune the weather holds,” the old woman cackled to Thomas. “Or the night would promise us much worse than empty bellies. The roof leaks horribly in any rain at all!”

  Thomas grunted.

  The old woman chose to accept his grunt as one of agreement. She moved herself closer to Thomas and snuggled against his side in the straw.

  Which was worse—the cloying barnyard smell of the dirty stable straw, or the stale, unwashed odor of the old woman who sought him for warmth? His skin prickled; already he could feel, or imagine he felt, the fleas transferring from the old woman to him. The piece of fat he wore around his neck in a tiny cage to lure the biting bugs would be covered in no time.

  Besides, Thomas did not know if he agreed with her or not. It had been so long since he had felt hunger he thought he might have preferred a rainy, cold night for the sake of being fed.

  He stared into the darkness around him. Vague shapes moved; those horses, at least, were content.

  The old woman burped, releasing a sour gas that did little to improve the immediate situation.

  “I wonder,” he asked, “why there are not more of us seeking shelter here in the stables. Do others fear the soldiers of Magnus?”

  Thomas, however, knew well they did not. As lord, he had commanded his men not to harry the poor who commonly used the stables as a last resort. So why were they empty?

  The old woman snorted. “The others choose the church as sanctuary.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said. He maintained his role as a wandering beggar, freshly arrived in Magnus. “I had heard the priest of Magnus would give food and a roof to any who pledged work the following day.”

  Thomas smiled quickly to himself as he finished his words. After all, he and Gervaise had set that policy themselves, to allow the penniless their pride and to stop the abuse of charity by the lazy.

  Much to his surprise, the old woman laughed cruelly. “No longer! Have you not heard? That priest has been replaced by the men of the Holy Grail.”

  “Indeed?” Thomas asked.

  “Indeed. They brought miracles with them—a weeping statue, if you can believe it, boy! The people of Magnus fell all over themselves to see it and the blood of St. Thomas the Apostle. The Priests of the Holy Grail banished the former priest from his very own church!”

  “I understand little, then,” Thomas admitted. “You
say the former priest is not in the church. Where, then, do the less fortunate stay each night, if not here in the stables or at the church?”

  The old woman shifted, heedless of the elbow that forced a gasp from Thomas.

  “I did not say the church was empty,” she told him. “Only that the poor need not pledge a day’s services in exchange for food and lodging. Instead, the Priests of the Holy Grail demand an oath of loyalty.”

  “What!” Thomas bolted upright and bumped the woman solidly. He almost forgot himself in his outrage. He forced himself to relax again.

  “Lad,” the old woman admonished, “give warning the next time. My old bones cannot take such movement.”

  “I beg pardon,” Thomas said, much more quietly. “It seems such a strange requirement, pledging an oath.” He fought to keep his voice curious instead of angry. “I had thought that an oath of loyalty could only be pledged to those who rule.”

  The old woman cackled again. “Are you so fresh from the countryside that your good eye and both your ears are still plugged with manure? These priests have promised the Holy Grail to those who follow. With such power, how could they not soon rule?”

  Once again, Thomas fought frustration at the invincibility of his opponents. When he felt he could speak calmly again, he pretended little interest.

  “What do you know of this Grail?” he asked casually. “And its power therein?”

  The old woman clutched Thomas tighter as the evening chill settled upon them.

  “Had you no parents, lad? No one to instruct you in common legends?”

  She reacted instantly to his sudden stillness.

  “It is my turn to beg pardon,” she said softly. “There are too many orphans in the land.”

  “ ’Tis nothing.” Thomas waved a hand in the darkness, as if brushing away memories.

  She patted his chest as if to soothe him before speaking again. “The Holy Grail,” she repeated. “A story to pass the time of any night.”

  Her voice became oddly beautiful as it dropped into a storytelling chant. As Thomas listened, the stable around him seemed far away. He no longer sucked the air carefully between his teeth to lessen the stench. The straw no longer stabbed him with tiny pinpricks. And the burden of the woman leaning against him lessened. Thomas let himself be carried away by her voice, back through lost centuries to the Round Table of King Arthur’s court.