The War of the Grail Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Geoffrey Wilson

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part Three

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Four

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part Five

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgements

  By the same author

  Land of Hope and Glory

  The Place of Dead Kings

  About the author

  Geoffrey Wilson was born in South Africa, grew up in New Zealand and then backpacked around the world before eventually settling in the United Kingdom.

  He studied Hinduism and Buddhism at the University of Canterbury, New Zealand, and has been fascinated by India since travelling there in the early 1990s.

  He worked in IT for several years, eventually starting a web development business with three friends.

  The War of the Grail

  Geoffrey Wilson

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2013 Geoffrey Wilson

  The right of Geoffrey Wilson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 9781444721171

  Hardback ISBN 9781444721164

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For my London family: Helena, Anita, Blue, Molly, Jet and little Griff

  Prologue

  The Evil One walks in these woods.

  Noel Miller shivered as he recalled what the old man had said. He’d been trying to forget about it all day, but now that night had closed in and the forest had clenched itself tightly to either side of the road, those words kept worming their way into the back of his head.

  The Evil One walks in these woods.

  Noel’s horse nickered and shook her head. He leant forward in the saddle and whispered in her ear to calm her.

  Forester Warwick, riding alongside Noel, snorted. ‘Your horse senses her rider’s nerves.’

  Noel quickly sat up straight again. ‘I’m not nervous.’ Thinking he might have spoken too abruptly, he added, ‘Master.’

  Warwick grinned, the silver stubble on his cheeks glinting in the moonlight. Thick lines furrowed his face and his skin was like aged leather. He’d been a forester for nearly thirty years and had spent most of that time living outdoors, battered by the wind and rain. ‘Don’t you worry, boy. Shawbury’s not far off now. Your mother won’t have to fret for much longer.’

  Noel felt his cheeks redden. Warwick was always making fun of his mother. But she did have a way of embarrassing him. On the very first day of his apprenticeship with the Earl of Shropshire’s foresters, his mother had come running after him with a pair of mittens he’d left behind. She’d rushed up to him, puffing and panting, and insisted on trying to push the mittens over his hands herself. Noel still winced at the memory of the other young apprentices bellowing with laughter.

  He took a deep breath, circled his shoulders and straightened his back. He might only be fourteen years old, but he was an apprentice forester. He had to make sure he at least acted the part.

  But his eyes kept straying to the whorls of shadow and foliage all about him. The wind changed and the trees creaked and rattled. He caught a whiff of rot from the marshes that speckled the countryside in this part of Shropshire. Frogs chirped and cawed and the night insects shrilled.

  Hills swept up to his right, only barely visible against the black sky. A ruin crowned one of the summits, the moon casting the ancient stonework pale and spectral. He’d heard the building had once been the fortress of a mad sultan who’d ruled these lands long ago. Now crazed djinns were said to haunt it. Hardly a comforting thought.

  There was a rustle in the undergrowth and a dark form shot out of the woods. Noel jumped in his saddle, but then saw it was only a boar. The creature slipped like a sprite across the track and then disappeared into the trees again.

  Warwick shook his head. ‘God’s blood, lad. Calm down.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘It’s just the woods. You telling me you never been out in them at night?’

  ‘Course I have, sir.’ Noel hesitated for a moment. Should he tell Warwick what was on his mind? ‘It’s just …’ His voice trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to speak about it. He was certain Warwick would only laugh.

  ‘You’re not thinking about that old blind fool, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Noel heard an owl hoot nearby. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That man was a simpleton.’

  ‘He sounded sure of himself.’

  The incident had happened earlier in the day. Warwick and Noel had been sent to Drayton to investigate a claim of illegal woodcutting. As they were on their way back, the old man had staggered out into the road, babbling that the Devil himself was hiding in the forest.

  ‘He killed a man yesterday,’ the old man had said, drool running down his chin. ‘I was near, but I hid myself. But the Devil it was.’

  Warwick gave a wheezy laugh. ‘That old man was blind. How did he even see the Devil?’

  ‘Said he smelt the brimstone on his breath,’ Noel replied. ‘Said he heard him growling.’

  ‘Boy, the Devil might be at work in these lands. Perhaps his hand is behind our Rajthanan enemies even. But he won’t be hiding out in a forest to frighten old men. What purpose would that serve?’

  ‘Suppose you’re right,’ Noel mumbled. For a moment the darkness seemed less threatening and the shadows less thick. He cast his eye over the branches swaying all about him. Of course Warwick was right. The Devil wasn’t lurking in these woods …

  ‘Wait.’ Warwick stopped his horse abruptly.

  Noel’s heart quivered and he dragged at the reins to pause his mare. ‘What?’

  Warwick pointed into the mottled darkness to the right of the path. ‘There.’

  Noel peered into the blackness. What was Warwick talking about? Then he spotted it – a tiny, greenish li
ght winking in the gloom. ‘What is it?’

  Warwick pursed his lips. ‘Must be poachers.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘That light’s right in the middle of the forest. There’s no track. Only poachers would go out there at night.’

  ‘But … would they light a fire?’

  Warwick rested his hand on the pommel of his arming-sword. ‘They must have made camp for the night.’

  ‘Couldn’t it be bandits? Outlaws?’

  ‘Haven’t been many of them in these parts for a few years.’ Warwick turned his horse towards the light. ‘It’s poachers. I’m certain of it.’

  Warwick set off along an animal track that wound through the trees. Noel nudged his mare and followed. The branches knitted together about him and twigs scratched at his face. Spots of moonlight lay scattered like coins across the ground. Occasionally, through the leaves, he caught glimpses of the pallid ruins hovering on the crest of the nearest hill.

  He swallowed hard. If poachers were out here, he and Warwick would have to confront them. After all, one of the main jobs of the foresters was to prevent hunting in the earl’s woods. In theory, he and Warwick would have to capture the poachers and take them to Shawbury for trial. But that would prove difficult if there were many men and they decided to resist.

  Noel had been training hard with his arming-sword, but so far he’d never had to use it.

  He whispered a Hail Mary under his breath. With any luck, the poachers would scatter and disappear into the night.

  The trail petered out and the horses were forced to wade through brambles and bracken. The ground became uneven as the base of the hills drew closer.

  After perhaps two minutes, Warwick raised his hand to call a halt.

  Noel rode up beside him. ‘What now?’

  ‘Quiet,’ Warwick hissed. ‘They’re not more than two hundred yards away.’ He nodded ahead to where the green light glimmered between the tree trunks. ‘We’ll go on foot from here.’

  They both dismounted and tethered their horses. Warwick drew a pistol from his belt, flexed his fingers about the handle and then led the way ahead. They crept through the trees, treading as silently as they could. Noel winced each time the bracken crackled beneath his boots.

  They passed through moonlit arcades of trees. Vines draped down from the branches and mosses furred the trunks. The sound of the frogs and crickets throbbed constantly.

  Noel’s heart beat faster. He found his fingers sliding around the pommel of his sword. He’d sharpened the blade that morning, before they’d set out. He was certain it would do some damage if he landed a good blow. But would he be able to land a good blow? It was one thing to train, quite another, he was sure, to use a sword in a real fight. What if he lost his head and made a mistake? What if he found himself up against a more seasoned fighter?

  What would it be like to feel a blade slicing into his stomach?

  His heart raced and he panted softly. He had to calm himself. Get himself under control.

  He shot a look at Warwick. The grizzled older man had a sword at his side and the pistol in his hand. The firearm’s polished metal glowed softly in the dim light and Noel could just make out the ornate designs engraved along the side plate. Not many people had a pistol like that. Although some crusaders had been issued muskets, a pistol was a special prize. It could fire six shots without reloading. You could kill a group of men before they even got near to you. Like magic.

  Noel took a deep breath. He was with Warwick, who’d been a forester for years. The old man knew what he was doing. Noel would be quite safe while he was with him.

  He squinted ahead and studied the light. Now that the radiance was closer, it looked as though there were in fact two separate lights standing close to each other. Two fires? Was that it?

  And something else was bothering Noel. It had been lurking at the back of his mind since Warwick had first spotted the light.

  ‘Sir,’ Noel whispered.

  ‘What?’ Warwick said without pausing or even turning his head.

  ‘If that’s a campfire up there, why’s it bright green?’

  Warwick muttered something that Noel couldn’t hear.

  ‘What, sir?’

  Warwick drew to a halt and spun round. His eyes burned in the darkness. ‘You listen here, boy. You’d better shut your mouth and start doing what I tell you to.’

  Noel gulped. What was Warwick so angry about? ‘But, sir, I just meant the fire’s a strange colour—’

  ‘I said, shut your mouth.’ Warwick grasped Noel’s tunic at the neck and twisted the material tight. ‘You and your bloody talk about devils.’

  Noel’s breath was shivery. ‘Didn’t say nothing …’ Then he noticed the wild gleam in Warwick’s eyes. It was as though the man were crazed.

  Or afraid.

  Noel’s heart quickened. Warwick. Afraid.

  He glanced in the direction of the light and then gasped.

  The glow had vanished. He could see nothing but the patchy gloom in all directions.

  ‘What the devil?’ Warwick had noticed too. He let go of Noel’s tunic and scanned the surroundings.

  ‘What happened?’ Noel asked.

  ‘Some sort of trap, I’ll warrant. Guard my back.’

  Noel drew his sword and stood with his back to Warwick, as he’d been taught to do many times before. He gripped the hilt tightly, but couldn’t stop his hand from shaking. The moonlight flowed and rippled over the blade as it moved.

  He scoured the woods, staring into the caverns and passages formed by the trees. The wind tugged at the branches and sent the shadows shifting and weaving. He kept thinking he saw figures moving in the dark, but each time he concentrated on them they vanished.

  There was a soft crunch off to his right. It sounded like vegetation breaking. He jumped slightly and stared into the gloom, but saw nothing but shadows.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Keep watching my back,’ Warwick hissed.

  Noel nodded. His hand was shaking so much now that the sword was waggling like a silver eel.

  There was another crunch, accompanied by a thud. It sounded as though something had struck the earth.

  Cold fingers crept up Noel’s spine and his scalp crawled. His breathing was short, ragged and so loud it echoed through the forest.

  Warwick pointed the pistol towards the source of the sound.

  There was another thud. Then the shuffle and rustle of something moving through the undergrowth. Another thud. And then a great cracking, thrashing and groaning, followed by a thump that shivered through the earth. A tree had fallen somewhere in the dark.

  ‘By Saint Mary!’ Noel shuddered.

  ‘Keep to my back.’ Warwick was breathing heavily and his voice sounded strained.

  More threshing in the undergrowth.

  Noel’s breath came in short gulps. Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked in order to stop his sight becoming completely blurred. He thought of his mother for a moment, pressing the wretched mittens over his hands. He’d been furious with her for embarrassing him. Only now he felt ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t have been angry. She’d only been trying to look after him as she’d always done …

  ‘Run,’ Warwick said hoarsely.

  It took Noel a moment to understand the words. The crashing in the forest was growing louder. And now he could see the two green lights again. They were hurtling towards him and Warwick.

  Noel’s stomach dropped. Something warm ran down his leg and he realised he was pissing in his hose.

  Warwick was already charging off into the woods and disappearing through a curtain of vines. Noel spun round and sprinted after the older man, trying to catch up. Behind him he heard a contorted howl that sounded like iron breaking. Sweat ran down his face and tears welled up in his eyes. He was wailing now and couldn’t stop himself.

  To his left he heard more slashing and crunching. He caught sight of the green lights flickering through the netting of bran
ches.

  What was it? The Devil? Could it really be the Devil?

  He was sobbing. What else could it be? It had to be the Devil.

  Twigs and leaves slapped him in the face. He flailed through thickets of shrubs. He was dimly aware that he’d thrown his sword aside at some point. What a stupid thing to do. Now he had nothing to fight with. Although, what good was a sword against the Devil anyway?

  He tripped on a stone, went flying through the air and skidded across the ground. As he scrambled back to his feet, he heard bellowing and roaring up ahead. He paused for a second, squinting into the dark. He couldn’t see anything, but he heard more howls and the crack and thump of a tree falling. Someone shouted – he was certain it was Warwick. There was a pop, and a flash lit up the forest for a second. Warwick must have fired the pistol.

  And then there was silence.

  Almost complete silence.

  Noel could hear his own ragged breathing, the sizzling of the night insects and the cackle of the leaves in the wind. But that was all.

  ‘Warwick,’ he whispered.

  There was no reply.

  He swallowed, tasting salt from his tears in the back of his throat.

  ‘Warwick,’ he said more loudly, his voice shaking.

  Still nothing.

  A chill crawled across his skin.

  His mind clouded for a moment and he couldn’t think what to do. Should he try to hide somewhere? Should he go back the way he’d come? He quickly realised he had to go forward, had to find Warwick. If he could.

  Cursing the fact that he’d thrown away his sword, he sneaked ahead. The stench of the rot was stronger now and at one point his foot sank into a shallow pool. He must be near to the edge of the marshes.

  Then he heard a splash and a slurping sound behind him. Something had dropped into swampy ground.

  He froze. He had the strange sense that there was something near to him. He spun round and crouched slightly, panting hard. Who was there? What was there?

  He saw nothing but tangled branches dripping with moss.

  He waited for a moment, searching the alternating patches of light and dark. Then he sensed a tiny shift in the air, as if a door had closed at the far end of a long hall. Something had moved in the dark. But he couldn’t tell whether it was just ahead of him or further away.