Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Hawkwood sprang forward over the fire and grabbed Thomas by the elbow.

  “I advise discretion,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “Your hostage is still a danger to you.”

  How many times have I done this? Katherine wondered as she stirred her gruel over the open fire. The small pot before her was dented from dozens of similar mornings over dozens of similar fires during her previous travels with Hawkwood.

  Only this morning was different.

  Across the fire, instead of Hawkwood resting in thoughtful contemplation of the day, the captured daughter of a powerful lord sat, staring at her with open hostility.

  Katherine smiled to herself. At least she was not the only one who received those angry stares. Thomas, too, was marked for hatred by Isabelle’s sullen rage.

  Not for the first time since rising with the sun’s light did Katherine glance at Thomas as he rested against a tree. Even in the lowly clothes of a monk’s assistant, he still appears as noble as the lord of Magnus he once was.

  She quickly turned her head back to the fire. Stupid child, she told herself, appearances are deadly illusions.

  She absently tried to lift the pot away, then sucked in a breath of pain as the hot metal punished her for her lack of concentration.

  How much did Thomas now know? If only Hawkwood had not insisted on speaking with Thomas privately last night. If only Isabelle had not been nearby so that they had been forced to walk far from camp and leave her behind as guard over the lord’s daughter.

  Katherine consoled herself with the thought that it would all be explained later, when Thomas was fully in their control. For as Hawkwood had promised, a surprise for him, that cold-hearted deceiver truly did wait ahead.

  “The girl is expensive baggage,” Hawkwood said as Thomas began to roll up the blankets of camp and pack his saddlebags.

  “I agree.” Thomas snorted. “However, it was your decision to travel with Katherine. And mine to depart from you both.”

  He looked sideways and grinned to see if his jest had struck the mark. Katherine said nothing but doubted she could hide the tiny flushed circles of anger that she felt burning on her cheeks.

  Isabelle laughed, but a dark look from Thomas cut her short.

  “Merely as a hostage,” Thomas said, answering Hawkwood’s original question, “the lord’s daughter is worth a fortune. To me, however, she is even more valuable. Small as the chance is, her captivity is my only hope to reclaim Magnus.”

  “Oh?” Hawkwood queried politely.

  It was a deceptive tone, for Katherine had discovered often his mild words were only a prelude to slashing observations that would destroy the most carefully laid argument.

  “Soon she will tire of her silence.”

  “Oh?”

  “Her father rules York through Michael, only by permission of the Priests of the Holy Grail, so I am not fool enough to believe that the possibility of her death will frighten the priests into relinquishing power. But she has knowledge of those priests and knowledge of the secret circle of Druids. Not until Isabelle tells me all can I find their weakness or a way to begin to fight.”

  “Alone?”

  “Despite what you said last night, I have been counseled not to place my trust in anyone.”

  Hawkwood shrugged. “You still need help. Help that we can give.”

  “I prefer to trust no one. After Isabelle speaks, she will then be ransomed for gold. That, along with what I have now, will fund a small army. And, as you know, I am not without hidden sources of strategy.”

  “She is still expensive baggage,” Hawkwood commented. “Whatever knowledge she gives you is useless. Whatever army you build is useless. And whatever means of fighting you devise is useless.”

  Thomas tied down the last saddlebag. “For what you told me last night, I am grateful, if indeed it was truth. As for your advice this morning, I thank you too, but, with deference to your age, I must respectfully disagree.”

  He pulled Isabelle roughly to her feet and tied a rope from her bound wrists to the saddle.

  “I am to walk?” she asked in disbelief.

  “There are times when chivalry must be overruled by common sense,” Thomas said. “You once planned to kill me. I hardly intend to let you control the saddle while I walk.”

  Thomas swung upward into his saddle. They were ready to depart. Thomas looked at Hawkwood and studiously ignored Katherine.

  “Thomas,” Hawkwood said, “no amount of force will defeat the Priests of the Holy Grail. Not now. As kings receive their power because all people believe they have a divine right to rule, so now do these priests begin to conquer the land. By the will of the people, they deceive.”

  Thomas froze, only briefly, but enough to show he had suddenly comprehended.

  “Yes,” Hawkwood continued. “Is it not obvious? Think of how Magnus fell. By consent of the people inside. None dare argue with signs that seem to come from God, no matter how false you and I know those signs to be. First York, then Magnus. Word has reached me that four other towns have been infiltrated, then conquered by these priests. Soon all this part of England will belong to them. How long before the entire land is in their control?”

  Hawkwood paused.

  What had they discussed last night? Katherine wondered. This sounded like a plea for Thomas to return to them, to join with them and learn the truth behind Magnus, to help in a final battle against the Druids.

  Katherine did not discover the answer.

  A loud trumpet shrilled through the forest, and within moments, the trees around them were filled with the movement of dozens of men, on foot and on horseback, crashing toward them with upraised swords.

  She relaxed.

  The surprise has arrived as arranged, she thought in triumph. Thomas will now be our pawn, regardless of his answer.

  Then she cried with horror. These were not the expected visitors! The attackers plunging toward camp wore the battle colors of York.

  Two lead horses galloped through the camp, scattering the ashes of the fire in all directions. Each rider reined hard and pulled up abruptly beside Thomas and Isabelle.

  Within moments, the rest of the camp seemed flooded with men. Some in full armor. Some merely armed with protective vests and swords.

  Katherine felt rough hands yank her shoulders. She knew there was little use in struggle and quietly accepted defeat. A man on each side held her arms.

  Her attention had been on Thomas.

  Now she squirmed slightly to look around her for Hawkwood.

  The slight movement earned her an immediate prod in the ribs.

  “Pretty or not, m’lady, you’ll get no mercy from this sword,” came the warning voice in her ear.

  Katherine stared straight ahead and endured the arrogant smile that curved across Isabelle’s face. Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but the knight interrupted.

  “Greetings from your father,” the first knight said to Isabelle. “He will delight to see you safe.”

  “And you, I am sure, will delight in the reward,” she said scornfully as her attention turned to the warrior on his horse.

  The knight shrugged.

  “Shall my hands remain tied forever?” Isabelle asked.

  The knight nodded to one of the men on foot, who stepped forward and carefully cut through her bonds.

  Thomas, still in his saddle, had not yet spoken nor moved. His eyes remained focused on Katherine.

  Rage and venom. She could feel both from Thomas as surely as if he had spoken those two words.

  Yet it was she who should be filled with venom and rage. He had lured them here and sprung this trap to capture them. But the shock of the sudden action had numbed her, and she was still far from the first anger of betrayal. A part of her mind wondered about Hawkwood somewhere behind her, surely just as pinned and helpless as she.

  Their capture might end what hopes there had been to defeat the Druids. Would Hawkwood see this as a total defeat? Was he, like her, just beginn
ing to realize the horror that waited ahead? For neither would reveal their secrets willingly. And both knew well the cruelty of torture that delighted the Druids. Katherine prayed she would die quickly and without showing fear.

  “We have them all,” the second knight grunted to the first knight beside him. “The girl and her old companion.”

  He then spoke past Katherine’s shoulder. “Someone see that the old man reaches his feet. We have no time to waste.”

  Reaches his feet?

  This time Katherine ignored the point of the sword in her ribs and turned enough to see a heap of black clothing where Hawkwood lay crumpled and motionless.

  “Sire, he does not breathe!” protested a nearby foot soldier.

  “Who struck him down?” the second knight roared. “Our instructions were—”

  The first knight held up a hand to silence him.

  “It was I,” the first knight said quietly. “He leaped in my path, and my horse had no time to avoid him. I believe a hoof struck his head.”

  No! Katherine wanted to scream. Impossible!

  For until that moment, she still had held no fear. Hawkwood had been her hope. He would devise a means of escape, even from the most secure dungeon. He cannot be dead. For if he is, so am I.

  The second knight dismounted, walked past Katherine, and knelt beside Hawkwood. He leaned over and checked closely for signs of life.

  “Nothing,” the knight said in disgust. “We shall be fortunate if our own heads do not roll for this.”

  He straightened, then glared at the men holding Katherine. “Bind her securely,” he said. “But harm not a single hair. Her life is worth not only yours, but that of every member of your family.”

  Katherine could not see beyond the blur of her sudden tears. Rough rope bit the skin of her wrists, but she did not feel the pain. Within moments, she had been thrown across the back of a horse, but she was not conscious of inflicted bruises.

  Hawkwood was dead. And Thomas and Isabelle were to blame.

  “Sit her up properly,” barked a voice that barely penetrated Katherine’s haze of anguish. “She’ll only slow our horses if you leave her across the saddle like a sack of potatoes.”

  Fumbling hands lifted and propped her in a sitting position and guided Katherine’s hands to the edge of the saddle. She was too far in her grief to care, too far to fight.

  Her mind and heart were so heavy with sorrow that when her tear-blinded eyes suddenly lost all vision, it took her a moment to realize that someone had thrown a hood over her eyes.

  Totally blind, she now had no chance to attempt escape on the horse they had provided her.

  Then came a sharp whistle, and her horse moved forward slowly. Each step took her farther away from the final sight she would carry always in her mind, that of Hawkwood silent and unmoving among the ruins of camp.

  Eventually, the tempo quickened and the steady plodding of her horse became a canter. Katherine had to hold the front edge of the saddle tight with her bound hands and sway in rhythm to keep her balance.

  She could hear her own breathing rasp inside the hood as she struggled to keep her balance in the total darkness that blinded her.

  By the slow drumming of hooves, she knew other horses were now beside her, instead of front and back, and from that she knew the trail had widened. Soon, they would be at the main road that led into York.

  How far, then?

  She and Hawkwood—she felt sharp pain twist her stomach to think of him—had walked several hours along the main road yesterday. That meant less than an hour on horseback to York. There … She shut her mind. To think of what lay ahead was to be tortured twice—now and when it actually occurred. And once would be too much.

  Would she have a chance to make Thomas pay for his treachery? Even if it was only an unguarded second to lunge at him and rake her nails down his face? Or a chance to claw his eyes?

  The cantering of the horses picked up pace.

  Her own anger started to burn like venom.

  Thomas had arranged this. He had trapped them and led Hawkwood to death. If only there might be a moment to grab a sword and plunge it

  —Without warning, the lead horse screamed.

  Even as the first horse’s scream died, there were yells of fear and the thud of falling bodies and then the screams of men.

  Because of the hood over her head, Katherine’s world became a jumble of dark confusion as her own horse stumbled slightly, then reared with panic. The sudden and unexpected motion threw Katherine downward to the ground at the side of the horse.

  A roar of pounding hooves filled her eyes, and she felt something brush the side of her head.

  The horses behind her! Would she be trampled?

  Dust choked her gasp of alarm. More thunder of hooves, then a terrible crack of agony that seemed to explode her head into fragments of searing fire.

  Then nothingness.

  The light tickle of a butterfly woke Katherine as it settled on her nose. By the time she realized the identity of the intruder, it had already folded its wings shut.

  Despite the deep throb in her head, Katherine suppressed a giggle. Her eyes watered from the effort of crossing them to focus on the butterfly, and even then, the butterfly was little more than a blur of color a scant inch away.

  In any other situation, this would be a delight. Such a gentle creature honors me with its visit.

  Her memory of the immediate past events returned slowly as the terrible throbbing lessened.

  Hawkwood, dead. The procession of horses back toward York. Then a terrible confusion. Her fall. Unconsciousness. And now—

  And now she could see. The hood no longer covered vision.

  Katherine turned her head. Slowly. Not because of the resting butterfly on her nose. But because dizziness filled her stomach at the slight movement.

  She discovered she was sitting. Rough bark pressed against her back. Her hands … her hands were free.

  She brought them up, almost in amazement at the lack of pain biting tightly into her wrists. That movement was enough to startle the butterfly into graceful flight.

  “The woman-child wakes,” a voice said. “And with such prettiness, it is no surprise that even the butterflies seek her attention.”

  Katherine tensed. The voice belonged to a stranger behind her. Before she could draw her legs in to prepare to stand, he was in front of her, offering a hand to help her rise.

  “M’lady,” he said. “If you please.”

  If the man meant harm, he would have done it by now, she told herself. But what had occurred to bring her here in such confusion?

  When she stood, aware of the rough calluses on the man’s hand, she saw the aftermath of that confusion, beyond his shoulders, on the trail between the trees.

  Two horses, unnaturally still, lay on their sides in the dust. Several others were tethered to the trunks of nearby trees. She counted four men, huddled at the edge of the trail. Their groans reached her clearly.

  “It’s really just an old trick,” the man confessed modestly, snapping her attention back to him. “We yanked a rope tight across the bend. Knee-high to their horses. These fools were traveling in such a tight bunch and at such a speed that when the leaders fell, so did all the others, including you. I offer my apologies for the bandage across your head, but it was a risk we had to take. And we did not know you would be hooded.”

  Katherine gingerly touched her skull and found a strip of cloth bound just above her ears.

  “It was not serious,” the man said quickly. “The bandage is merely a precaution.”

  “Of course,” Katherine murmured.

  The man shrugged and grinned at her study of his features.

  His eyes glinted good humor from beneath shaggy dark eyebrows. His nose was twisted slightly, as if it had been broken at least once, but it did not detract from a swarthy handsomeness, even with a puckered X-shaped scar on his right cheek. His smile, even and white, was proof he was still young, or had once
been noble enough to enjoy a diet and personal hygiene that—unlike the diet and hygiene of the less fortunate—did not rot teeth before the owner had reached thirty years of age.

  Indeed, traces of nobility still showed in his clothes. The ragged purple cape had once been exquisite, and his balance and posture were that of a confidence instilled by money and good breeding. His shoulders, however, were broad with muscles born of hard work, and the calluses on his hands had not come from a life of leisure. Altogether, an interesting man.

  He interrupted her inspection.

  “Your friend Hawkwood, I presume, escaped?”

  His smile faltered as a spasm of grief crossed Katherine’s face.

  “That,” he said gently, “is answer enough.”

  Katherine nodded. She was spared the embarrassment of showing a stranger unconcealed tears because of someone calling from behind them.

  “Robin,” a man cried. “Come hither.”

  He beckoned her to follow and turned to move to the voice. Together, they moved deeper into the trees and moments later entered a small clearing.

  Katherine blinked in surprise. The remainder of the enemy’s horses were gathered here. Isabelle sat on one, the two enemy knights on others, and Thomas on the fourth. Each was securely bound with ropes around their wrists. A dozen other men—not of the enemy group—stood in casual circles of two or three among the horses.

  “Robin, it is high time we disappeared in the forest,” the same voice said.

  Katherine identified its owner as an extremely fat and half-bald man in a brown priest’s robe.

  “Yes, indeed,” Robin replied. “The lady seems fit enough to travel.” He paused. “Those by the road. They have the ransom note?”

  The fat man nodded. “Soon enough they will find the energy to mount the horses we have left for them.”

  “They’re lucky to be alive,” spat another man. “I still say we should not bother with this nonsense about the lord’s gold.”

  Robin laughed lightly. “Will, the rich serve us much better when alive.” Robin motioned at Isabelle, who sat rigidly in her saddle. “The daughter alone is worth three years’ wages.”