The Place of Dead Kings (11 page)

‘Tell Henry I’m grateful for his message,’ Jack said.

‘That’s all, sir?’

Jack frowned. Had the squire been told to expect something? ‘What more do you want?’

‘No, sir.’ The squire paled. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Go on. Get out of here.’ Jack waved the lad away.

The squire scurried off and Jack turned back to the House of Sorcery. Mark stood in the doorway, his face gleaming white. How much had he heard? Jack would tell him the news anyway. The rumours would spread quickly through Clun Valley and it was only a matter of time before everyone knew.

The Rajthanans were coming. Vadula was coming.

J
ack walked with Brother Michael down the aisle in the centre of the monastery library, the monk’s habit rustling in the silence. To either side of them stood lecterns and shelves clotted with books. Monks sat hunched as they studied manuscripts, while the slightly sweet and fruity scent of ancient parchment hung in the air.

‘Here it is.’ Michael stopped, reached up to a shelf and took down a heavy tome. The chain attached to the front cover clinked as he lowered the book on to a lectern.

He looked at Jack, his face gaunt and his eyes shrouded in folds of grey skin. He prodded the book with a thin finger. ‘
The Annals of the Holy Grail
, written by the Good Knight Sir Bartholomew. There are only five of these in existence.’

Jack stared at the ornate leather cover. This was the first time he’d ever sought wisdom in a book, given that he couldn’t read a word of English, or any other language. ‘Thank you for this.’

Michael stared at him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to proceed. Then he opened the cover and leafed through vellum pages inscribed with Gothic text and fading illuminations. Finally, he stopped at a page with an illustration of a shining, golden chalice sitting on a table covered in a white cloth.

‘The Grail?’ Jack kept his voice low so as not to upset the quiet.

‘Yes.’ Michael touched the edge of the page. ‘Some say it is a sort of goblet, like this. Others call it a platter or a tray. There are different theories.’

‘Does it say anything about its powers?’

Michael turned a few more pages, the parchment crackling. ‘Ah, yes. Here it is. The Grail is said to possess great healing properties. Sir Bartholomew recounts how it cured one of the kings who guarded it. The king had a deep wound inflicted through some kind of magic, and it would never heal. But then Sir Galahad discovered the castle that housed the Grail – Corbenic was its name. When Galahad touched the Grail, the king was miraculously healed.

‘There’s more. The Grail, in a sense, had the power to heal the whole land. Britain was in the grip of a sort of curse back in King Arthur’s day. The countryside was sick. But the Grail . . .’ Michael paused in reverence. ‘The Grail cured the land.’

‘What about war? Was the Grail a weapon?’

Michael gazed into Jack’s eyes. ‘This is a question many have asked.’

Michael turned a handful of further pages and stopped at a picture of a set of armed knights standing on a hilltop. At the base of the hill gathered a mass of men brandishing scimitars and wearing flowing robes and turbans. ‘The Battle of Garrowby Hill. This was where King Edward V made his final stand against the forces of the Caliph of England. At the same time as the Caliph’s men came up the hill, a knight called Sir Oswin discovered Castle Corbenic once again. Like Galahad, he was completely pure of heart, and therefore he could touch the Grail. When he did this, a power flowed out from the Grail. This aided King Edward’s army and they defeated the Caliph.’

‘How did the power help?’

‘The book doesn’t say exactly. Sir Bartholomew writes: “The power was with them and so Edward’s army that day was victor-ious.” That’s how he describes it.’

‘The power was with them? What does that mean?’

‘No one is certain. These things happened more than two hundred years ago.’ Michael turned the page and revealed an illustration of a man, surrounded by winged angels, floating in the sky. Michael smiled for a brief moment – the first time Jack had seen him smile. ‘Sir Oswin, taken up to heaven by the angels after he touched the Grail. The same happened to Galahad. They both went directly to our Lord.’

‘Does the book say where the Grail Castle is?’

Michael frowned. ‘No. The exact location of Corbenic is not important. Only the pure in heart will ever find the Grail. Unless you are pure, you could pass right by the castle and not see it.’

‘I heard it was in the north.’

Michael folded the book closed. ‘Ah. That comes from a small manuscript called
The Tale of Sir Oswin
. It relates the journey of Sir Oswin to Corbenic and the adventures that befell him along the way. There is a passage that refers to him travelling in the north of Britain. Shortly after that, he finds the Grail.’

‘Where exactly in the north?’

‘It doesn’t say.’

‘You have the book here?’

‘No. There is no copy anywhere in Shropshire.’

‘So, the Grail could be in Scotland?’

‘That is possible, I suppose. Then again, it might not be.’

Jack stared at a shaft of sunlight, watching motes of dust weave within it. ‘There seem to be more riddles than answers.’

‘That is true. It always seems to be the case with the Grail. As Sir Bartholomew says, it is mysterious and elusive.’

Jack paused on the hilltop and glanced over his shoulder at the imposing stonework of Clun Abbey. A pallid sunset tinted the walls and the bell tower golden. He turned and gazed across the valley coiling away below. Knots of trees bordered the river and lines of rising smoke marked out where the villages stood. The shadows were deepening and smothering the bottom of the valley.

Was the Grail real? Were any of the stories about it true? The Church might believe in it, most of his countrymen might believe in it, but Jhala had told him the tales were nothing more than myths. Jhala had lied to him, though. His guru had said Europeans couldn’t develop any powers beyond those of the Europa yantra, and that wasn’t true. Jhala had also told him to use the first power he’d learnt, which had led to him becoming a blocked siddha. Could he trust anything Jhala had told him any more?

He should have asked Kanvar about the Grail. Perhaps the Sikh knew something. But Kanvar was gone now and wouldn’t be back for several weeks. If he even came back at all.

Jack’s eyes wandered across the valley and over to his right, where the hills rolled away into the lands of the Lord of the Marches. The mad Welsh ruler was said to be even more cruel than Vadula and a willing puppet of the Rajthanans. So far he’d left the Crusader Council alone, but what if the Rajthanans marched into Shropshire? Would he join forces with the army?

Jack gazed into the south, squinting as the last of the light pierced his eyes. Down there, miles away in Worcestershire, Vadula’s army was massing. The Mahasiddha had gradually been annexing native states where the crusade was still strong. Leicestershire was gone, so was Warwickshire, and now Wiltshire too. It looked as though Shropshire would be next.

Clun Valley seemed surrounded by enemies. How long could it hold out? Weeks? Days? His people weren’t strong enough to withstand an onslaught by the Rajthanans. He’d always known that. But he’d hoped that somehow they would find a way to defend themselves.

He pulled his hair back and retied his ponytail.

He’d seen what the Rajthanans were capable of. He’d been at the Siege of London. And he’d heard the stories about what had happened afterwards, with scaffolds erected in every quarter of the city and bodies left dangling for the crows.

Vadula would show no mercy to the crusaders of Shropshire.

For a moment Jack had a vision of Folly Brook burning, but he pushed the thought quickly out of his head.

He remembered the day he’d made a promise to William. To atone for his sins, he’d made an oath to continue the crusade as best he could. Had he done enough? He’d been training siddhas, but that was all. Should he be doing more? If William were here now, what would he expect Jack to do?

With his thoughts still swirling, he set off down the hill. The dusk thickened and shadows shrouded the forest to his left. Folly Brook was two hours’ walk away and it would be dark by the time he got back. He and Saleem were staying temporarily with Elizabeth and Godwin, while Saleem’s mother and sisters slept in Jack’s hut. Elizabeth would have already lit the fire and would probably be wondering where he was.

He walked more quickly, following the path as it wove its way down the incline. He felt fit and well, but he was aware that the sattva-fire still throbbed softly in his chest. He would most likely die before the Rajthanans arrived, and then Elizabeth would be left on her own to face the invaders.

Damn his illness.

His illness . . . Brother Michael had said the Grail was a healing power. It had cured the king with the mysterious wound. Could it heal sattva-fire injuries? Was that possible?

He shook his head. Look at him, clutching at vain hopes and fanciful tales. There was no Grail. If there were, the Rajthanans would have found it years ago. Jhala hadn’t lied.

Something flickered in the woods to his left. He froze and was instantly a tracker and a soldier once again. Was someone following him?

He crouched instinctively, despite the fact that he was completely exposed on the slope. He peered into the tangled shadows of the forest, but saw nothing.

Had he been mistaken? Was it a trick of the light?

But then he spotted the flicker once again, a white will-o’-the-wisp that slipped between the tree trunks and then vanished. He stared harder, focusing his abnormally good eyesight on the place where the shape had been.

And then he saw it, still for a moment in the forest – a white hart.

The ghostly creature turned and gazed at him for a second, before it bounded off into the shadows, visible for a moment, then fading to a white shimmer, then vanishing completely.

‘I’ll do it.’ Jack tossed his knife on to the table in front of Henry.

Henry widened his eyes and pushed aside his plate of chicken. He stood, wiped his greasy fingers on his tunic and offered his hand to Jack.

Jack clasped Henry’s palm and shook.

A grin slid across Henry’s lips. ‘Sir Alfred will be pleased.’

‘I have some conditions, though.’

Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘Conditions, you say.’

Jack stepped over to the open window and gazed out at the bailey of Lord Fitzalan’s castle. A couple of men-at-arms were training with swords, and a laundress was washing sheets and tablecloths in a trough. The outer wall loomed ahead and the giant square-shaped keep rose to his left.

He turned back to Henry. They were in the refectory, which was empty save for a row of trestle tables. A hookah stood in one corner, but it couldn’t have been used for months as there was no tobacco to be found anywhere in Clun.

‘I want to choose the men who’ll come with me to Scotland,’ Jack said.

‘Very well. We have some volunteers already, but you can take whoever you want.’

‘Good. And I want to appoint a temporary reeve for Folly Brook.’

Henry rubbed his beard. ‘It’s not your right to do so. The Council chooses the reeves.’

‘This is just for while I’m away.’

Henry took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure it can be arranged.’

Jack looked back out of the window. The sky was heavy with dark cloud and the cold pressed against his cheeks. ‘One last thing. There’ll be no witch burnings in Folly Brook.’

Henry went silent. When Jack turned back, he saw the man’s face was contorted and reddening. Henry gritted his teeth and, seemingly with a great effort, nodded. ‘As you wish.’

‘Then you have a deal. When do we leave?’