Martyr's Fire (2 page)

The guards had good reason to watch for him; few were those who had not been relieved of loose coins by the rascal pickpocket. A temporary loss of silver—because Tiny John would return it without fail the next day—meant nothing. It was the ribbing of other guards that always left the victim red faced and huffing with indignation. After all, how could any military man keep self-respect if robbed by a boy?

None, however, were guards who could carry a grudge against Tiny John. He had been in Magnus since Thomas’s arrival the previous summer. The lopsided grin that flashed from his smudged face was welcomed like the bright colors of a cheerful bird in every corner of the village, especially throughout an exhausting and long winter.

And, even without the charm of a born rascal, Tiny John was always safe within Magnus. The lord, Thomas, considered him a special—if untamable—friend, and that gave Tiny John immunity within the kingdom.

Before the bells of tierce stopped echoing in the spring morning air, Tiny John had already scampered from the first castle wall turret to the next. He dodged between the two gruff guards like a puppy whirling with glee among clumsy cattle.

“ ’Tis a fine kettle of fish, soldier Alfred!” Tiny John shouted through
his grin at the second guard. “All the tongues in town waggle about the sly looks you earn from the tanner’s daughter. And with her betrothed to a mason, at that!”

Tiny John waited, hunched over with his hands on his knees, ready for flight after the delivered provocation.

“Let me get a grasp a’ you,” soldier Alfred grunted as he lunged at Tiny John, “and then we’ll see how eager you might be to discuss these matters.”

Tiny John laughed, then ducked to his right. And made a rare mistake. He misjudged the slipperiness of the wet stone below his feet and fell flat backward.

“Ho! Ho!” A moment later, the soldier scooped him into burly arms, grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and the back of his trousers, and hoisted his head and shoulders over the castle walls.

“Scoundrel,” Alfred said, laughing, “tell me what you see below.”

“Water.” Tiny John gasped. A weak spring sun glinted gray off the waves of the small lake that surrounded the castle island.

“Water indeed. Perhaps you’ll find that fine kettle of fish you mentioned?”

“Wonderful jest,” Tiny John managed, though still obviously winded. “ ’Tis easy to understand why the tanner’s daughter would be taken with a man such as yourself.”

“Aargh!” Alfred grunted. “What’s to be done with you?”

“A reward, perhaps?” Tiny John asked.

Alfred set him back down on his feet. “Reward indeed. Be on your way, and be glad I don’t reward you with a cuff across the ears.”

“I speak truth,” Tiny John protested. “Because of me, you shall be the first to sound the alarm and, in return, be rewarded for your vigilance.”

“Eh?” Alfred squinted as he followed Tiny John’s pointing arm to look beyond the lake.

“There,” Tiny John said firmly, “from the trees at the edge of the valley. A progression of fifteen men. None on horseback.”

It took several minutes for Alfred to detect the faraway movement. Then he shouted for a messenger to reach the sheriff of Magnus.

Moments later, Alfred shouted again. This time in disgust at his now-empty pouch.

Tiny John, of course, had disappeared.

Rich, thick tapestries covered the walls of the royal chamber. Low benches lined each side, designed to give supplicants rest as they waited each morning for decisions from their lord.

Thomas leaned casually against the large ornate chair that served as his throne. He waited for the huge double doors at the front to close behind the man entering. His sheriff, Robert of Uleran.

Thomas’s last glimpse beyond, as usual, was of the four guards posted out front, each armed with a long pike and short sword. And, as usual, it irritated him to be reminded that double guard duty remained necessary to protect his life, here in his own castle.

“The arrival of fifteen men?” Thomas asked to break their solitary silence.

“Exactly as Alfred spoke,” Robert of Uleran replied to his lord. “Although I confess I am surprised by his accuracy and the earliness of his warning. He is not known for sharp eyes.”

Thomas pulled one of the long padded benches away from the wall and sat down. With a motion of his hand, he invited Robert to do the same.

“Have the visitors been thoroughly searched?” Thomas asked.

Robert of Uleran froze his movement halfway to his seat and frowned at Thomas.

The mixture of hurt and surprise in Robert’s wrinkled, battle-scarred face caused Thomas to chuckle soothingly. “Ho! You’d think I had just pulled a dagger!”

“You may as well have, m’lord,” Robert of Uleran grumbled. “To even suggest my men might shirk their duty.”

Thomas clapped the man on the shoulder. “My humblest apologies. Of course they have been searched. I grow accustomed to covering obvious ground in this chamber.”

Mollified, the big man finally eased himself onto the bench. “We searched them thrice. There is something about their procession that disturbs me. Even if they do claim to be men of God.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

Robert of Uleran nodded once. “They carry nothing except the usual travel bags, a cart with a large wrapped object, a sealed vial, and a message for the Lord of Magnus.”

“Could the wrapped object be a weapon?”

Robert let out a breath. “That occurred to me too. But it seems more like a statue. I don’t see how that might be considered a weapon.”

“A vial?” Thomas repeated. “Any danger in that?”

“Only for the superstitious.” Robert of Uleran scowled. “They claim it contains the blood of a martyr.”

Thomas snorted. “Simply another religious spectacle, designed to draw yet more money from even the most poverty stricken. To which martyr does this supposed relic belong?”

The sheriff stood and paced briefly before spinning on his heels. He looked directly into the eyes of Thomas, lord of Magnus.

“Which martyr?” Robert of Uleran repeated softly. “ ’Tis said to be the blood of St. Thomas the Apostle. The Doubter.”

Normal chaos reigned in the large hall opposite the royal chamber. The huge fire at the side of the hall crackled and hissed as fat dripped from the pig roasting on a spit above. Servants and maids scurried in all directions to prepare for the upcoming daily meal. Already, the table across the hall, high upon a platform, was set with pewter plates. Rough wooden tables running the entire length of the hall, still empty of any food, were crowded with people. Some rested as they waited to see Thomas, while others merely absorbed the liveliness of the hall. There were men armed with swords, bows, and large wolfhounds; women both in fine dress and in rags.

Standing to the side of all this activity, aloof to the world, were fifteen men garbed in simple brown robes. They did not bother to look up when the doors opened. When summoned by Robert of Uleran, two of the men broke away from the group. Thomas crossed his arms beneath his purple cloak and awaited their approach.

He said nothing as his guards closed the doors, leaving the four of them alone in the chamber.

The silence hung heavy. Thomas made it no secret that he was inspecting them, although their loose clothing hid much. Thomas could not tell if they were soft and fat, or hardened athletes. He could only be certain that they were large men, both of them.

The first, who stared back at Thomas with black eyes of flint, had a broad, unlined forehead and a blond beard, cropped short. His nostrils flared slightly with each breath, an unconscious betrayal of heightened awareness.

The second appeared slightly older, perhaps because his skin above and under his scraggly beard was etched with pockmarks. His eyes were flat and unreadable.

Tight skin gleamed at the tops of the men’s skulls, suggesting a very recent shave.

Thomas fought a shiver. Something about their unblinking acceptance of his impertinent appraisal suggested arrogance, like the smugness of a cat, indifferent to the struggling mouse trapped within its paws.

Thomas set his features as cold as the North Sea only thirty miles to the east. And waited. Sarah’s wisdom was never far from his mind. She alone had prepared him to rule Magnus, and thus far, her teachings had not failed him.

Finally, the younger of the two monks coughed.

It was the sign of weakness for which Thomas had been taught to wait.

“You wished an audience,” Thomas said.

“We come from afar, from—,” the younger man began.

Thomas held up his hand and slowly and coldly stressed each word. “You wished an audience.” Normally, he was not this arrogant. Normally, he wasn’t concerned about protocol and appearing to be the ruling authority just below the level of a king. But something about the fifteen men suggested a small army, and he didn’t want to show the slightest hesitation in bringing to bear his entire power.

The older man coughed this time. “M’lord, we beg that you might grant us a brief moment to present our request.”

Thomas turned his back on the men to show his lack of concern, knowing Robert would let nothing befall him as walked to his throne. He took his time settling into the seat and heaved a sigh before speaking. “Granted. You may make your introductions.”

Something about this felt like the moments just before battle.

“I am Hugh de Gainfort,” the dark-haired man said, attempting to take a step closer, only to be stopped short by Robert’s tree trunk–like arm.

“Lord Thomas can hear you fine from there, my good man,” Robert said patronizingly.

Hugh reddened slightly but continued as though nothing unexpected had occurred. “And my fellow clergyman is Edmund of Byrne.”

Thomas leaned forward and steepled his fingers in thought below his chin.

“Clergymen?” he said. “You appear to be neither Franciscan nor Cistercian monks. And representatives of Rome already serve Magnus.”

Hugh shook his head. “We are from the true church. We are the Priests of the Holy Grail.”

“Priests, I presume, in search of the Holy Grail.”

Hugh’s next words chilled Thomas. “No. We guard the Holy Grail.”

Robert of Uleran’s laugh rang through the stone chamber. “Ho! And I suppose we’re to believe you guard King Arthur’s sword in the stone as well!”

For a moment, Hugh’s eyes widened.

Yet the moment passed so quickly that Thomas immediately doubted he had seen any reaction.

“The Grail and King Arthur’s sword have much in common,” Hugh replied with scorn. “And only fools believe that the passing of centuries can wash away the truth.”

Robert of Uleran opened his mouth and drew a breath. Thomas held up his hand again to silence any argument.

“Your procession brings a saint’s relic,” Thomas said, ignoring Hugh’s outburst to reestablish authority. “Have you come to squeeze profit from my people with the blood of St. Thomas? Or have you requested audience to siphon directly from the treasury of Magnus?”

Edmund clucked as if Thomas were a naughty child. “Those who leech blood from the poor shall be punished soon enough for their methods. No, we are here to preach the truth.”

“Yes,” Hugh continued. “Our only duty is to deliver our message to whomever hungers for it. We have coin for our lodging in Magnus, so we
beg no charity. Instead, we simply request that you allow us to speak freely among your people during our stay.”

“How long do you plan to grace my land with your … truth?”

“As long as they will have us.” Something in Hugh’s tone caused the hairs on Thomas’s neck to stand.

“If the people are not fooled?” Thomas asked.

“Are you, too, a doubting Thomas?”

Thomas rose to signal the audience was over. “And if permission is refused?”

Hugh bowed in a mocking gesture.

“Let us put aside these games of power, shall we, young man? We both know that your villagers have heard rumors of the martyr’s blood and the miracle to come. You dare not refuse now.” The priest’s voice became silky with deadliness. “For if you do, our miracles will become your curses.”