The War of the Grail Read online

  And now he noticed a new smell cutting through the scent of the bog. It reminded him of coal smoke mixed with perfume. The hair shot up on the back of his neck. Was that smell brimstone?

  Shaking, he turned and jogged ahead. He tried to go quietly at first, but then a metallic wail erupted behind him. His heart spiked and he charged forward, smashing aside bushes that got in the way. He was whimpering involuntarily. Tears smeared his eyes.

  A branch smacked him in the face, but he ducked underneath it. He staggered through a mesh of vines and then came out in a clearing. Something lay glinting in the grass. As he ran closer, he saw it was a pistol.

  Warwick’s pistol.

  He grasped the firearm. His hand shook so much he thought he was going to drop the weapon. He’d never shot a pistol before, but he’d seen them used often enough to know what to do. You just pointed the thing at the target and pulled the small lever at the bottom – a ‘trigger’, it was called.

  A roar boomed behind him. He swivelled and pointed the pistol at the shadows. He heard a thump and further crashing through the undergrowth. But he still saw nothing.

  Heart smacking hard, he turned again and ran to the far side of the clearing. As he reached the trees, he almost tripped as his foot struck something lying across the ground.

  He looked down.

  His skin seethed and bile rose in his throat.

  It was a human arm, severed from its body and its end a bloody stump. Worse, he recognised the material of the sleeve that still covered it. It was from Warwick’s tunic.

  Noel stifled a cry.

  There was a thud behind him and a shriek so loud it made the air shiver. A blast of hot air scorched the back of his neck and smoke billowed about him.

  His heart bashed in his chest.

  The Devil was right behind him.

  His only hope was to shoot with the pistol. But would that even have any effect? Could the Evil One be harmed by a firearm?

  He had to try.

  Trembling, crying, he turned round.

  A gigantic form towered over him, silhouetted against the moonlight. Two green fires glowed where he imagined the Devil’s eyes must be.

  He gasped and raised the pistol. But the Devil lunged straight at him.

  Piss flooded his hose and his bowels emptied. For a second he caught a glimpse of a monstrous face. He tried to pull the trigger but he’d already been whipped off his feet and swung into the air. Steam and smoke whirled about him. He felt himself being stretched apart. And then a great weight slammed into his chest.

  As he slipped away he could think of one thing only – his mother weeping with worry as she pressed the mittens over his hands …

  PART ONE

  1

  SHROPSHIRE, 621 – RAJTHANAN NEW CALENDAR

  (1856 – EUROPEAN NATIVE CALENDAR)

  Jack Casey stood before the great portcullis as it groaned and rattled upwards. The chains and pulleys squealed so loudly he thought they would break and send the ironwork slamming back into the earth. This was the first time he’d seen the portcullis in use since he’d arrived in Clun Valley. Clearly it was in need of repair.

  Indeed, much of Lord Fitzalan’s castle was in need of repair. When Jack glanced up at the walls and towers, he spotted many broken battlements, chipped turrets and cracked stones. Once the castle would have been a grand fortress, with banners flying above the keep and archers lining the walls. But that was all long in the past now.

  The portcullis clanged into place and Jack strode through the arched passage beneath the gatehouse.

  Constable Henry Ward stood waiting for him on the other side. The large man had his hands on his hips, and his eyes glinted from within his bearded face. An arming-sword hung at his side and an ornate rotary pistol was stuck in his belt. As always, he wore a white surcoat emblazoned with the red cross of St George – the mark of the Crusader Council of Shropshire. Three guards stood just behind him, also wearing crusader surcoats. Lord Fitzalan had long been one of the Council’s staunchest supporters and now few in his service even wore the Fitzalan sign.

  Jack raised his hand. ‘Greetings.’

  Henry narrowed his eyes and looked Jack up and down, his mouth twisting with distaste. Jack and Henry had never seen eye to eye, but over the past seven months, since Jack had returned from Scotland, their disagreements had become even more heated.

  ‘What is it you want, Henry?’ Jack held his hands open to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  Henry’s expression soured further. ‘I don’t want anything from you. I’d be happier to see you run out of that little enclave of yours. I can’t understand how you were ever appointed reeve of that village in the first place.’

  Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘It was you who summoned me. If I’m not needed—’

  ‘Wait.’ Henry scowled. ‘It’s the master who wants to speak to you. It’s urgent.’

  Jack followed Henry and his men across the bailey, through a set of double doors and into the great hall. The chamber was silent and all the shutters were closed. A handful of sputtering torches tried feebly to hold back the gloom, but most of the hall remained draped in shadows. Jack could only just make out the lord’s chair standing on the dais at the far end of the room.

  Henry led the way up a set of corkscrew steps. The silence was so complete Jack could even hear the guards’ scabbards tapping against the wall of the stairwell.

  When Jack had visited the castle in the past, the place had been bustling with men-at-arms, servants and courtiers. Where was everyone?

  Henry reached a landing at the top of the stairs and paused beside a door. He turned to face Jack, his features lit only by a streak of light from an arrow slit in the wall. ‘You must not speak to anyone about what you see beyond this door.’

  Jack blinked. This was a surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘You must not speak of it,’ Henry hissed, his cheeks flushing. His gaze was so intense that Jack couldn’t think of anything to do but nod his agreement.

  Henry placed his fingers on the ringed door handle and paused for a moment as if deliberating whether or not to proceed. Then he pushed the door open and ushered Jack into a small but richly decorated chamber. The walls were plastered, painted dark red and adorned with tapestries. Two ornate chests stood against one wall and a wooden chair was lodged in a corner. Fresh rushes and herbs lay strewn across the floor, filling the room with a heavy sweetness.

  A large four-poster bed dominated the chamber. The curtains around the bed had been pushed back and Jack could see Lord Fitzalan lying within, propped up against the pillows and enveloped in quilts and coverlets. The lord was so thin his cheeks sank inwards and there were deep hollows between the tendons in his neck. His skin was a greyish white and his face was smeared with sweat. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell unevenly.

  Jack needed no explanation. His wife, Katelin, had died of fever twelve years ago. The memory of her lying on her deathbed, feebly raising her hand to him, was seared in his memory.

  Henry closed the door and stood with his back to it, his huge frame seeming even larger in the small room.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Four days,’ Henry replied. ‘Only a few know. It could … upset the people if it got out.’

  Jack nodded. In the present climate, news of Lord Fitzalan’s illness could cause panic in Clun Valley. The Rajthanans’ forces had been massing at the border of Worcestershire for months. Their advance into Shropshire had stalled when troops were diverted to quell an uprising in al-Saxony. But everyone in Clun knew the invasion could come at any time.

  ‘We’ve tried to treat him,’ Henry said. ‘One of the monks from Clun Abbey has been visiting. But the fever has taken a strong hold and won’t let go.’

  Suddenly Lord Fitzalan’s eyes sprang open and he began babbling in a weak voice.

  ‘My lord.’ Henry rushed to the bedside and placed his hand on Fitzalan’s arm.

  Fitzalan
stared at Jack and grasped at something on the bed beside him. It was only now that Jack noticed the sword lying half hidden beneath the quilts. With great difficulty, Fitzalan managed to grasp the sword’s hilt and drag the blade out from under the bedding.

  He began speaking agitatedly. ‘They’re here. I knew they would come.’

  ‘You must rest, my lord,’ Henry said.

  Sweat coursed over Fitzalan’s brow as he tried to lift the sword. ‘Bring me my armour. My steed. I will defend this manor.’

  ‘My lord, please.’ Henry grasped Fitzalan’s arm more firmly. ‘It’s not the heathens.’

  Fitzalan’s forehead creased. ‘Not the heathens?’

  ‘No, my lord.’ Henry eased Fitzalan’s arm down so that the hilt rested on the bed once more. ‘It’s Jack Casey. You called for him, remember?’

  Fitzalan’s jaw worked silently for a moment. His eyes swam as they searched the room. He seemed uncertain where he was. Then he jolted and pointed at a corner of the chamber. ‘The land is cursed! The King is dead and I am fading!’

  Jack flicked a look at Henry. The ill news that King John had died had filtered back to Clun a week ago. The King had passed away peacefully in his sleep, it was said. But his heir, Prince Stephen, was barely seven years old. The Raja of All England, General Vadula, had appointed the Earl of Norfolk as regent. However, the earl was almost as hated in England as Vadula. He’d sided with the Rajthanans during the First Crusade and would do whatever Vadula commanded.

  Fitzalan’s eyes focused on Jack. ‘There is pestilence. The animals are dying. It is as in the days of King Arthur. We are sick with enchantment. Only the Grail can free us. Galahad found it long ago. Then Oswin during the war against the Caliph. We must find it once again.’

  Spittle foamed from Fitzalan’s mouth and he raved unintelligibly, trying to grasp at the sword again.

  Henry spoke quietly to the lord, as if soothing a distressed child. Finally, Fitzalan slumped back on the pillows and slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  Henry looked across at Jack. ‘I don’t know how long he can last.’

  Jack pursed his lips. ‘Looks bad.’

  ‘He’s right about the Grail. It’s our only hope now.’ Henry looked at Fitzalan. ‘His only hope. The Grail can cure the sickness sweeping over us. And defeat our enemies.’

  Jack took a deep breath. He was starting to understand now why he’d been summoned. ‘We’ve tried to find it. You know that.’

  ‘Not hard enough. We have to go back to Scotland.’

  ‘Sir Alfred said—’

  ‘Alfred’s not here now.’ Henry’s voice was sharp, and he stepped over to Jack.

  Jack paused. The expedition he’d led to Scotland had failed. There’d been some talk amongst the Crusader Council about going back, but Sir Alfred had ruled against that for the time being.

  But Henry was right. Alfred was now at the front, at the border with Worcestershire, and was unlikely to be back soon.

  ‘There’s no point,’ Jack said. ‘What we found there, it was a meeting point of sattva streams. It was strong sattva, but not much else. I don’t know if that’s the Grail – and I don’t know how we can use it, if it is.’

  ‘We’ve only got your word for that.’ Henry’s eyes glinted in the dim light.

  ‘Saleem was there too.’

  ‘That little Mohammedan? He’s one of your followers. He’ll say whatever you tell him to.’

  ‘Alfred said we can’t spare the men. We have to be ready to fight. I agree with him.’

  Henry pointed at the prone lord. ‘And then he’ll die. Is that what you want?’

  ‘He could survive—’

  ‘Look at him.’ Henry’s eyes glimmered. ‘He could go at any time. The whole of Clun will fall apart if that happens. He has no heir.’

  ‘I can see the problem. But going to Scotland won’t help. Let’s send word to Alfred, or wait for him to come back.’

  Henry’s face seethed. Suddenly, he lunged at Jack and grasped his tunic.

  Jack was caught off guard and knocked back against the tapestried wall.

  ‘You will go.’ Henry brought his face close to Jack’s. ‘I order it.’

  Jack gripped Henry’s wrist. ‘Let go of me.’ He didn’t want a fight if he could help it. But he’d hidden a knife in his undergarments before entering the castle, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if he had to.

  ‘You will do it, or I’ll march my men into Folly Brook and take it. And then I’ll put that Rajthanan witch you have hiding up there to the torch.’

  This mention of Sonali made Jack’s face go hot. Sonali had been living in Folly Brook village since she’d arrived in Clun. She was under Jack’s protection and he wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her.

  The blood pounded in Jack’s ears. But still, he held back. If he fought Henry, the guards on the landing outside would rush in. He couldn’t fight against so many with just a knife.

  ‘I said, let go of me,’ Jack hissed, staring at Henry. ‘Now.’

  Henry was breathing heavily and his eyes were wild. He looked like a madman.

  Jack removed one of his hands from Henry’s wrist and went to grab the knife.

  Then Lord Fitzalan groaned. Henry looked back at the bed and eased his grip on Jack’s tunic. Jack wrenched himself free and slipped over to the door. As he left, he snatched a look over his shoulder. Henry was standing beside the bed again, and Lord Fitzalan was muttering and reaching up feebly.

  Henry lifted his eyes to meet Jack’s. ‘I’ll be coming for you. You’re a traitor. Always were.’

  Jack eased the door open and slid out on to the landing. The guards looked startled to see him alone, but they parted as he pressed forward. He brushed past them and clattered away down the steps.

  He wasn’t sure what Henry would do next. In theory Folly Brook was safe. Sir Alfred was the leader of the local arm of the Crusader Council and he’d always sided with Jack. But with Sir Alfred away and Lord Fitzalan ill, there was no telling what Henry might try. Jack hadn’t liked the crazed look in Henry’s eyes.

  Jack reached the bottom of the stairs. It was best he got back to Folly Brook as quickly as he could.

  ‘It doesn’t look good, Jack, sir.’ James, a tenant farmer, scratched the stubble on his face.

  Jack squatted down beside the dead sheep. Flies were already buzzing about the carcass, although the animal couldn’t have been lying there for more than a few hours. Its eye stared up at the overcast sky and its mouth hung slightly open.

  ‘Found her here just a few minutes ago,’ James said. ‘Came straight to find you.’

  Jack rubbed his chin. The ewe looked emaciated, but it was clearly her hind leg that was the problem. The limb was swollen and when he touched it, the skin seemed to crackle beneath his fingers. He’d seen this in sheep and cattle before. One or more legs became infested with disease and the animal soon succumbed.

  ‘Must be the plague they’re all talking about,’ James said quietly. ‘Heard it’s all over Clun Valley. Sheep and cattle dying in their hundreds.’

  Jack drew back from the carcass. ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. It’s one dead sheep.’

  He didn’t want to cause alarm in the village. He’d heard of the animal plague, but so far Folly Brook had been spared. He could only pray it stayed that way.

  He stood up. ‘Best burn it. And don’t spend too much time around it either. The contagion could spread.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ James removed his woollen hat and shook his head. ‘Pity. She was one of my best ewes.’

  A shrill cry rolled across the field from the direction of Folly Brook. Jack frowned and searched the row of white-walled huts. There was another scream, and this time his heart jolted. He recognised that voice. He would be able to pick it out from a busy crowd.

  His daughter. Elizabeth.

  He sprinted across the recently ploughed field, slipping and sliding in the deep furrows. He reached the edge of the village and skidded
round the corner of Elizabeth’s cottage. He drew to an immediate halt, James running up beside him.

  Elizabeth was standing outside her doorway. She appeared well enough, but her face was red and she was waggling her finger and shouting at Sonali. ‘You took them, I know it!’

  As always, Sonali was an improbable sight, an Indian woman in the midst of a European village. She wore an English dress and cloak, but this did little to make her blend in. With her tasselled earrings, numerous bangles and dark eyeliner, she was like a being from another world.

  Sonali scowled at Elizabeth and drew her cloak more tightly about her. ‘I took nothing.’

  ‘You’re a thief,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘Always have been.’

  Several villagers began gathering to watch the confrontation.

  Jack stepped forward. ‘Elizabeth, what’s going on?’

  Elizabeth turned to Jack and pointed at Sonali. ‘There were three eggs missing from my cottage today. She took them.’

  Jack frowned. Eggs were highly prized in a poor place like Folly Brook, but stealing was unheard of. A thief would quickly be caught in such a small village. Furthermore, he was certain Sonali wouldn’t steal anything. If she wanted eggs, she would ask him for them. If there were no eggs available, she would accept it. If she were tired of living in the impoverished conditions here in the village, she would return to the Rajthanan-controlled lands. She could go back any time she wanted.

  ‘Why would she take eggs?’ he said to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. ‘You know why.’

  Jack stood still. The gathered villagers went silent.

  You know why. Elizabeth’s words had been hostile, said in an icy whisper. She’d never spoken to him like that before. Not in the nineteen years since she was born. He and she had rowed, of course, but she’d never said anything to him with such … contempt.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he asked.

  Elizabeth stared back. ‘She makes those potions with eggs, doesn’t she? She’s always making them.’