The War of the Grail (7 page)

Jack couldn’t help breathing out sharply. It was hard to pretend now that the plague hadn’t reached Folly Brook.

James made the sign of the cross. ‘Had to happen. Why should we be spared?’

Jack nodded grimly. ‘Best burn them quickly. We might still hold off the contagion.’ Even as he said the words he knew they were unconvincing.

Before James could reply, someone called out behind them. When Jack turned, he saw a squire running across the field, stumbling over the furrows. The young man was shouting something, but Jack couldn’t make out the words. By the time the squire arrived, he was panting so heavily he was unable to speak.

Finally, he managed to catch his breath enough to say, ‘It’s started.’

‘What’s started?’ Jack asked.

The squire wheezed. ‘The heathens. They’ve marched into Shropshire.’

Jack felt a chill. He’d been expecting this moment, and yet the news was still a blow. Now it was real. The thing they’d all been dreading for months was finally happening.

James stood up straighter and crossed himself several times.

‘Constable Ward’s asked to see you,’ the squire said to Jack.

Jack mulled this over. Henry wanted to see him? That made sense. He and Henry had to put their disagreements aside and work together now, for the good of Shropshire.

‘All right,’ Jack said to the squire. ‘I’ll ride back to Newcastle with you.’

J
ack walked along the top of the castle wall to where Henry stood alone, staring out at the open fields. The big man held his hands behind his back and his cloak flicked in the wind. He remained impassive and didn’t even turn as Jack drew up beside him.

Jack stood in silence for a moment and looked out over the parapet. He found himself gazing at a darkening world. Iron clouds had swept across the sky and the wind carried the scent of rain. In the fields immediately below, five mounds of dead sheep and cattle were burning, sending up columns of black smoke that blended into the clouds. Further away up the valley, more carcasses were smouldering and Jack counted at least twenty cords of rising smoke. To his left, the town of Newcastle-on-Clun crouched behind a line of trees. Just beyond the buildings stretched the cluster of ragged tents and bivouacs that housed many of the refugees pouring into the valley from other parts of England. Vadula’s forces had crushed the rebellion everywhere but Shropshire, and those fleeing the fighting and the brutal reprisals had no choice but to come to this native state. There was even a large contingent of Mohammedans in the camp – a strange sight in Clun.

Henry breathed in, his nostrils flaring. ‘The land is dying. Just as Lord Fitzalan said. I hear rumours of enchantments. A beast is said to stalk north Shropshire.’

Jack frowned. Enchantments? Beasts? Henry was caught up in Fitzalan’s madness and ancient superstitions. But there was no time for all that now. It would only serve as a distraction, when the people of Clun needed to be fighting the enemy.

‘What’s the news from the front?’ Jack asked. ‘Your messenger said—’

‘My messenger was sent to get you this one last time. In our hour of need, will you now help us?’

‘Of course. I’m here to fight.’

‘No!’ Henry turned to Jack. His mouth was twisted and his eyes blazed. ‘The Grail. I have called you here to ask you to find it.’

Christ. Jack rubbed his forehead. ‘Look, I haven’t come here for another argument. I want to help. But I need to know what’s going on at the front. What news do you have?’

‘News?’ Henry turned back to the parapet and stared into the distance. ‘Nothing but ill news. The rebellion in al-Saxony is failing. More enemy troops arrive in England every day. General Jhala’s men have marched north from Worcestershire. Our forces have fallen back to Ludlow and for the moment are holding their own.’

‘Ludlow. That’s only a few miles across the border.’

‘Aye, the army have not got far yet. But they are on our lands and many doubt we can hold them back now.’ Henry placed his hands on the battlements. ‘They are but two days’ march from us. At the most.’

‘And Herefordshire?’

‘The heathens have only a small force there. They have remained where they are.’

‘We should go to the front. Our comrades need support.’

Many men from Clun Valley had already been assigned to the front, but there were still plenty who could be rounded up to serve as reinforcements.

‘We will go nowhere,’ Henry said. ‘The Council have sent word that we are to stay here.’

‘Stay here? Why?’

‘The Lord of the Marches is mustering an army. If his men advance on Shropshire, we will be the only bulwark against them. If we cannot hold them, they will be able to sweep all the way to the earl, in Shrewsbury.’

A gust of icy wind buffeted Jack, plucked at his ponytail. More bad news. The Lord of the Marches ruled the region of Wales immediately to the south-west of Clun. He had long been an ally of the Rajthanans, and his men would no doubt have been told they were free to loot as much of Shropshire as they pleased.

‘How long before the Welsh get here?’ Jack asked.

‘They are not on the move yet. We don’t know when they’ll come. It’s likely to be more than a week before they’re ready to march.’

‘How big is the force?’

‘They are still mustering. They’ll probably reach three thousand.’

‘How many men do we have left in Clun? A thousand?’

Henry snorted. ‘Five hundred more like.’

‘Then we’ll have to fight with five hundred, if it comes to it.’ He looked along the wall. Rajthanan serpent-headed guns had been set up at various intervals. They looked to be only nine- and twelve-pounders, but they were better than nothing. They must have been captured from the army during the First Crusade. ‘We have artillery here. Do we have ammunition? How about Clun Castle further up the valley?’

Henry faced Jack, his face seething and his hair whirling in the wind. ‘All these questions. That’s not why I called you here. Lord Fitzalan is dying. The kingdom of England is dying.’

‘Lord Fitzalan’s still ill?’

‘Worse than ever. The news is out now too. The whole valley will know soon. Only the Grail can save us.’

‘Only fighting can save us. We have to prepare—’

‘We cannot win if we are cursed. There are ten thousand heathens just south of us. The Lord of the Marches and his men are in the west. Yet another army of men under General Vadula himself are massing to the east, in Staffordshire. Shropshire is caught in a vice.’

‘Staffordshire? I hadn’t heard.’

Henry stepped closer. The clouds roiled behind his head. ‘And all you do is sit in your village toying with your black magic. Still you refuse to do the one thing that could help us the most.’

‘I will do all I can—’

‘You must go in search of the Grail. Now. I order it.’

Jack tensed. Once again, he’d come to the castle without a firearm but he still had a knife hidden under his tunic. ‘We’ve been through this countless times. I’ll wait for word from Sir Alfred.’

Henry gave a wheezy laugh, then stared at Jack. ‘Alfred’s wounded. Near death.’

Jack went silent. The light seemed to darken and the air grow colder.

Henry laughed again. ‘Alfred was caught in the fighting. They say he won’t survive.’ His eyes gleamed wildly. ‘Changes things, doesn’t it?’

Jack kept his hand at his side, ready to grasp the knife if he needed to. ‘It changes nothing.’ He tried to speak firmly, but it was difficult to still the shake in his voice. Henry was right. Alfred’s death would change things.

‘You keep believing that. If Alfred dies, no one will take your side. I will claim control of Folly Brook myself. That will be the end of your little kingdom up there.’

‘This arguing serves no purpose.’

Henry shoved his finger in Jack’s chest. ‘You mark my words. Your days as reeve are numbered.’

Jack gritted his teeth. He didn’t like to back down to anyone, least of all Henry. But he was achieving nothing at the moment by staying.

Without saying anything further, he turned on his heel and marched back along the wall. He didn’t look back, although he listened carefully for any sign that Henry was following him.

But the big man stayed where he was and instead shouted, ‘Coward! Traitor! I always knew that’s what you were!’

Henry continued bellowing even as Jack reached the stairs down to the bailey. Jack looked back along the ramparts before descending. Henry was a lone figure beside the battlements, his cloak whirling in the wind and his hand raised in a fist.

They all went silent. Elizabeth, Godwin and Saleem all stared across the fire at Jack, their eyes wide and their faces wavering in the light from the flames.

Jack had just told them the news from Henry.

Outside Elizabeth and Godwin’s hut, the wind moaned and worried the window shutters. Rain hissed in the thatching and gurgled as it trickled from the eaves. A storm had rolled across the village not long after Jack had returned from Lord Fitzalan’s castle. It had grown ever stronger as the evening progressed.

‘What should we do, Father?’ Elizabeth said softly.

Jack stared into the fire. That was a good question. One he found difficult to answer.

Cecily, lying wrapped in a blanket near to him, began whimpering and wriggling. He reached across and lifted her up. She gazed back at him, her eyes shining and her skin traced yellow by the firelight. She reached out to him with her tiny, perfect fingers. When he smiled, her eyes flashed with excitement and she gave him a huge grin.

For a second Jack felt a wave of painful happiness. His four-month-old granddaughter was a miracle. But a dangerous world swirled outside the walls of the hut. How would he protect her? How would he protect any of the people sitting with him now?

He gently placed Cecily back on her blanket. He looked up at the others, who were still watching him, still waiting for his response.

‘We have to stay here,’ he said. ‘With the Lord of the Marches mustering an army, we have no choice.’

Godwin shifted his legs as he sat on the earth floor. ‘It seems hard to leave our comrades at Ludlow. We’re abandoning them.’

‘We won’t be helping them if we let the Welsh in through Clun Valley. Henry was right about that. Our friends would be encircled or attacked in the flank.’

‘What about this army in the east, in Staffordshire?’ Saleem said quietly.

Jack found himself squeezing a clump of rushes that he’d picked up from the floor. That news had been a particularly bad blow. ‘There’s nothing we can do about that from here.’

They all went silent again. There was little point going over their situation further. Jack knew they could all understand that Shropshire faced foes to the east, west and south. Fleeing to the north was the only way to escape. But where would they flee to? They would be pursued – and, anyway, they would be fleeing back into Rajthanan lands, back into virtual slavery.

‘Perhaps the rebellion in al-Saxony will spread,’ Saleem said.

‘I’d like to hope so,’ Jack replied. ‘But Henry said it’s failing.’

‘But it hasn’t yet failed.’ Saleem looked at his hands and toyed with a piece of straw. ‘I was speaking to one of the imams at Newcastle the other day. He’s heard others of my faith will rise up in Europe.’ Saleem looked up. ‘If we join forces with them, we would be stronger.’

‘Join forces with Mohammedans?’ Godwin snorted, then quickly added for Saleem’s benefit, ‘Mainland Mohammedans, I mean.’

‘We all want the same thing.’ Saleem’s cheeks reddened and a nervous smile crossed his face. He stared more intently at his hands. ‘We all want to be free.’

‘Aye,’ Jack said. ‘Strange as it may seem, the Mohammedans could help us if they rise up. The Rajthanans will have trouble fighting in several regions at the same time. But if the Mohammedans are going to rise up, they’d better do it quickly. Al-Saxony is not enough.’

Elizabeth lifted her chin and said in a clear voice. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll stand firm and we’ll fight.’

Jack managed a tight smile, but there were tears forming in his eyes. Once again, he was proud of his daughter. It was she who’d first sided with the crusade. If it hadn’t been for her, he might never have joined the struggle.