Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “It’s peculiar. When I said that, the assistant told me that’s exactly why he needed the horse.”

  Katherine knew Hawkwood had no appreciation for foolishness, so she waited an hour to ask her question. By then they had traveled five miles along the road to York. By then she had sifted through enough of her thoughts to know which question to ask. Even if she would not start with it.

  “We have not reached nor passed Thomas yet,” she began. “This means one of two things.”

  “Yes?” Hawkwood asked in good humor. Katherine knew it lifted his spirits when she applied her training.

  “Either he mounted his horse as soon as he was out of sight of the town and has ridden it fast enough to keep the distance between us as he travels to York. Or—”

  “How do you know it will be the second and not the first?” Hawkwood interrupted.

  Katherine smiled. “Because he wants to appear as a lowly monk’s assistant leading a master’s horse from one town to the next. He doesn’t dare ride, because too many travel this road, and many would wonder at someone dressed so poorly mounted on such a fine horse. Since we have not yet reached him, he does not first travel to York.”

  Hawkwood clapped approval. “Instead, he has …”

  “Thomas has undoubtedly returned to the abbey to retrieve what he needs from the cave, to fill those saddlebags.” Katherine paused at the thought and what it meant. “He is arming himself.”

  “Yes, my friend.” Hawkwood said nothing more, and they passed the next hundred yards with only the clop-clop of the horses’ hooves to break their companionable silence. A breeze at their backs kept the dust from rising, and Katherine let it lull her thoughts away from her question.

  She turned her gaze downward as the minutes passed. Not for the first time did Katherine stare at the road and wonder at the Roman soldiers who had set the stones more than a thousand years earlier, even before the time of Merlin himself. York had been an outpost in the wild interior, Hawkwood had explained five days previous as they had departed Scarborough. Scarborough, forty miles northeast, had been the coastal watch post, and from its high cliffs, the Roman sentries could easily spot enemy ships. The efficient road to the interior made it easy to shuffle legions of soldiers back and forth between Scarborough and York. And now, hundreds of years later, it carried the everyday traffic between the towns along that route.

  “Katherine.”

  She pulled away from her thoughts.

  “What question do you have?”

  “You can read me that well?” Katherine said.

  “You had no need to impress me with your guesses. Except that I am sometimes impatient with meaningless prattle, and it seemed as if you sought to discuss Thomas more.”

  Katherine felt her face color as she noticed Hawkwood’s tiny grin of comprehension and the twinkle in the old man’s eyes. He knew too well her thoughts of Thomas.

  She also knew Hawkwood did not like false modesty or coy games, so she simply asked her question with no further hesitation.

  “Why York?” she blurted. “Thomas knows, as do all, that the Priests of the Holy Grail rule it as surely as they rule Magnus. Why enter the lions’ den?”

  Hawkwood spoke so softly she could barely hear. “I’ve wondered that myself. Perhaps he has decided if he frees the Earl of York, they will swear a pact of allegiance and together fight these Holy Grail priests. Perhaps he simply wishes to observe the priests without fear of recognition by the townspeople as would happen to him in Magnus. After all, he knows, as do you, the first maxim of warfare is simple: ‘Know thine enemy.’ ”

  Another hundred yards.

  The riders swayed to the rhythm of the slow plodding. With less urgency now than during their previous travels, there seemed little purpose in taxing the horses.

  The leaves of the oak trees lining the road had already burst from buds. Dappled shade covered them as they moved steady along the road. Soon the leaves would be full and the road would be entirely sheltered from the sun.

  Had only four seasons passed since Thomas first entered Magnus? Only four seasons since she had first spoken to him in a candle maker’s shop? Only four seasons since his long-predicted arrival had captured her heart?

  Another thought haunted her. In another four seasons, would Thomas still be alive and the battle continued?

  “Your face is an open book, my friend.” The gentle voice once again took her from her thoughts.

  “Even if Thomas frees the earl,” Katherine blurted, “or if Thomas knows the Priests of the Holy Grail as well as they know themselves, how can he prevail against their miracles? Blood of the martyr. The weeping statue.” Katherine resisted the urge to cross herself as peasants did to speak of such sacred things.

  “The blood and statue I can explain easily,” Hawkwood said shortly after. “How he is to prevail, I cannot.”

  “Please,” Katherine said quietly. “I have great curiosity.”

  “Simple,” Hawkwood said. “The blood that clots and unclots is nothing holier than a mixture of chalk and the water from rusted iron, sprinkled with salt water.” He snorted. “Those false priests pray for the congealed blood to turn to liquid, but they help their prayers by gently shaking the vial. That’s all it takes. And when it settles, it appears to be thickly clotted blood.”

  “And the weeping statue?”

  Another snort. “Those stone eyes only weep water when brought from the warmth into the coolness of the church. More sham and trickery.”

  “Thomas could expose those tricks for what they are!” Katherine said. “Surely, if enough see the truth, the priests would be known as frauds and lose their power to rule.”

  “No, Katherine. There is only one Thomas, and thousands upon thousands to convince, even if he could. People treasure their misconceptions, cling to them, and never look beyond. Besides, how long could Thomas travel as a free man during his demonstrations against the priests?”

  Katherine puzzled for several moments. “An army, then. Thomas will observe the Priests of the Holy Grail, discover their weaknesses, and muster an army to strike as he sees best.”

  The old man shook his head. “With what money might he raise an army? With what allegiances? Moreover, the priests now maintain rule because all believe they are the spokesmen for God. What man, what knight dares raise a sword against the Almighty with false miracles plain to see and so eagerly believed?”

  They traveled much farther before Katherine spoke again. “There seems to be little hope for him. For us.”

  Hawkwood snorted. “Perhaps Thomas is not meant to prevail. I repeat, we still have no certainty to which side he belongs. They must know he is watched by us, even if they do not know the watchers. An apparent defeat of Thomas will lead us to trust him, and with trust, we might impart to him the final secrets they need so badly.”

  Katherine could only set her chin stubbornly as a means to hold back a sigh of sadness.

  The never-ending logic of argument.

  She closed her eyes and spoke to the sky. “This waiting is a cruel game.”

  Their wait at the massive gates to the town wall was rewarded as the bells rang sext to mark midday.

  Unlike Magnus, the walls around the entire town of York did not have the advantage of a protecting lake. Because of that, they were much thicker to better protect against battering rams. Indeed, so wide were these walls that atop were large chambers built from equally massive stone blocks.

  Katherine and Hawkwood were so close to the west gate of York that almost directly above them, and built into the high arch above the entrance to the town, was one of the prisons of York.

  An open window had been cut into each of the four walls of the prison, hardly large enough for a small boy to crawl through. Despite that restriction, and despite the sheer thirty-foot drop to the ground, iron bars had been placed into the windows as a final barrier to prisoners with dreams of escape.

  When Katherine looked up, she imagined the occasional dark shadow
of movement through the window closest to her. She did not look up often, however. Imbedded into the stone walls were iron pikes. Upon three, the heads of three men were impaled, staring their silent horror upon the town as warning to those who might also become rebels.

  Mostly, then, Katherine watched a stream of peasants and craftsmen enter the town beneath those gateway prisons. The air was noisy with marketplace shouts and curses.

  This steady stream disappeared quickly once inside York as the cobbled road twisted and turned its way inside to dozens of side streets. Those new to the wonders of York stopped almost immediately at one of the shops on the side of the road. The more experienced and unwilling to be fleeced continued toward the markets.

  They stood among the jostling people bartering for the wares in the cook shop, positioned to sell to the impatiently hungry. The aromas of the food did not make their waiting easy. Katherine could smell roasted joints and meat pasties—all at a price double what one could expect to pay closer to the town center.

  They had taken their spot the previous afternoon, abandoned it with reluctance at sunset when the gate closed, and resumed it at dawn. To amuse herself as she waited, Katherine tested her powers of observation by scanning the crowd for pickpockets.

  She saw two. One particularly clever thief played the role of a drunk. He staggered and bounced into people, enduring their abuse and leaving with the coins he had filched during the confusion created by his falling against them.

  Yesterday, juggling men tossed whirling swords and flames so adeptly a half hour passed seemingly in the space of a drawn breath. Katherine hoped they would return. Even Hawkwood beside her had coughed admiration and thrown small coins in their direction.

  Or perhaps the man with the wrestling bear would entertain again. What a treat that had been. Of course, she told herself, sights such as these were to be expected in York. After all, with its ten thousand inhabitants, only London exceeded it in size.

  Katherine lapsed into her favorite daydream, the one where she was able to explain as much as she knew to Thomas. She formed an image of his face and tried not to hear his last words to her as he banished her from Magnus. She tried to picture his smile as he finally understood why she had withheld the truth …

  Hawkwood nudged her just as the last of the sext bells rang.

  “He approaches,” came his whisper. “Hide your face well.”

  Thomas went no farther than the town gates.

  They were close enough to see the expression of surprise on his face as the guard shrugged and pointed upward. They were close enough to see the discreet transfer of a gold coin from Thomas’s hand to the guard’s. They were close enough to hear Thomas’s instructions to a boy standing just inside the town walls.

  He left the boy holding the horse’s reins and guarding it just inside the town gate. Thomas then spun on his heels and half-sprinted back to the guard beneath the arch of the town wall.

  The guard nodded upon his approach, brought Thomas to the side of the arch, and led him through a door.

  “Can it be?” Hawkwood said in hushed tones from their viewpoint in the shadows at the side of the cook shop. Then conviction entered his voice. “It must. Why did I not realize it before?”

  “Yes?”

  He pointed upward. “The Earl of York is held there.” He pointed upward. “Not in the sheriff’s prison. I, too, should have asked the same question he did upon entering York.”

  Katherine caught the trace of self-doubt. “No,” she said as she patted his arm, “you should not have asked. We did not want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  Hawkwood sighed. “Of course.”

  His sadness disturbs me, Katherine thought as they resumed their watch in silence. He has never allowed me to see it before.

  Following that sigh, none of her former distractions seemed enjoyable, and the waiting and watching passed very slowly.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Thomas stepped outside again, nodded at the guard, and returned to his horse. He took the reins from the boy, and without looking back, led the horse into the center of York.

  Even before Thomas was lost to sight in the swirling crowds, Hawkwood pressed two coins into Katherine’s hand.

  “One to bribe the same guard he did,” he explained. “The other to bribe the guard above.”

  He spoke with renewed vigor. Was it an effort to restore her confidence?

  She, of course, did not comment. Merely waited for more instructions.

  “Reach the earl,” he said next. “We must hear what Thomas plans.”

  “If the earl does not speak?” Katherine asked.

  “Tell him it is the only way for him to remove the curse from his family.”

  Katherine paused. “I do not understand.”

  “He will,” came the reply. “All too well.”

  Damp stone steps led upward in a dim, tight spiral. The guard’s leering cackle still echoed in Katherine’s mind as she began to climb.

  “ ’Tis money poorly spent for an audience, my sweet duckling,” he had said. “The earl’s as powerless as a newborn babe.”

  Knowledge is power, Katherine told herself firmly, and if the earl shares his, it will be worth every farthing.

  She reached the open chamber at the top of the stairs. The ceiling was low, and the only furniture was a crude wooden chair for the upper guard as he watched the doors of the four cells that opened into the chamber.

  As she arrived, the guard was unlocking one of the doors.

  It startled Katherine. How does he know I wish to visit the earl? I have not yet placed a bribe in his hand nor stated my request.

  Her silent question was answered within moments as she saw a prisoner step through the low opened doorway. That prisoner was not the Earl of York.

  “You’ve done well,” the prisoner said to the guard. “It is no surprise that Thomas—”

  He stopped suddenly as he noticed Katherine. The guard turned too, and they both stared at their quiet visitor.

  The black eyes of the prisoner studied her sharply. His cheeks were rounded like those of a well-stuffed chipmunk. Ears thick and almost flappy. Half-balding forehead, and shaggy hair that fell from the back of his head to well below his shoulders. A thoroughly ugly man.

  And she recognized him.

  His name was Waleran. He had once shared a dungeon cell in Magnus with Thomas, placed there as a spy to hear every word he spoke. Katherine had been there too, but as a visitor, disguised beneath a covering wrap of bandages around her face.

  Katherine bit her tongue to keep from blurting out her surprise at his presence.

  Waleran being here meant Thomas had already been discovered, within the hour of arriving in York!

  If she, too, were now discovered …

  Katherine reminded herself that with her face exposed, she had nothing to fear. This man had seen her only when she was bound in the filthy bandages across her face.

  Still, Katherine fumbled for words. “I’ve brought this for the … the former earl,” she said, extending the wrapped food as proof that Hawkwood had insisted she carry. “To repay a kindness he once did my father.”

  Would Waleran believe her? Katherine bowed her head in a humbleness she hoped hid her flush of fear. In the brief pause as she waited, her heart pounded a dozen times.

  How can I warn Thomas? If I leave now, they will suspect me!

  The prisoner finally spoke to the guard. “Help this pretty creature. I need no escort. And time presses me.”

  It is Waleran who orders the guard!

  The guard grunted agreement and began to unlock the adjacent door.

  Katherine let her pent breath escape slowly as Waleran brushed past her and began to descend the stairs, without a doubt on his way to inform Michael, the new Earl of York, that Thomas was near. She willed herself to move forward slowly, despite the sudden extreme urgency.

  The guard blocked her movement. Her heart leaped into her throat. But then the guard held out a
grimy hand, and she understood. She had forgotten the bribe. With concealed relief, she placed a coin into his palm. He bowed mockingly and made room for her to enter the prison cell.

  Before the door had latched firmly behind her, she started in a rushed whisper.

  “My good lord,” she began, “there is—”

  The former Earl of York no doubt understood why she halted her words.

  He touched his face lightly with exploring fingertips of his left hand. “The penalty of losing an earldom. It appears much more terrible than it is,” he told her. “There are days I do not feel any pain, and without a reflection …” The earl shrugged.

  This was not the proud warrior who had stood beside Thomas in battle against the Scots. This was not the confident man of royalty who had later decreed that Thomas surrender himself and Magnus. Gone was the trimmed red-blond hair that spoke of Vikings among his ancestors. His face was still broad but no longer remarkably smooth. The blue eyes that matched the sky just before dusk were now dimmed. And gone was the posture of a man at ease with himself and the world he commanded.

  Instead, his face was crisscrossed with half-healed razor cuts, so that it appeared a giant eagle had raked him repeatedly with merciless talons. His right shoulder hung limp at an awkward angle, popped loose from its socket. And his feet were still in splints, wrapped with bandages mottled gray and red from filth and long-dried blood.

  “Please, my dear, smile,” he encouraged her. “It would be a small gift well received.”

  Katherine did so, hesitantly.

  He waved her to speak. “You had something to impart, and it seemed with great speed.”

  Katherine nodded. She did not yet know if she could trust her voice. She swallowed a few times, then spoke, softly, afraid that her voice would carry to perhaps another prisoner spy.

  “Your visitor, Thomas,” she said.

  The earl leaned forward with a suddenness that made him wince in pain. “You knew the monk’s assistant was Thomas of Magnus?”

  “Yes, m’lord. Do you see him as an ally still?”

  “Yes, of course. I am in this prison because my son betrayed me. And it was my son who fooled me into trying to take Magnus from Thomas. It is a truth that has no comfort in its coldness.”