Martyr's Fire Read online

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.”

  The Priests of the Holy Grail waited until the middle of the afternoon on their second day to demonstrate their first miracle.

  The low, gray clouds of the previous week had been broken by a sun so strong that it almost felt like summer. To the villagers of Magnus, it was a good omen. These priests, it seemed, had banished the dismal spring chill.

  Now the streets were hectic with activity. Men, women, and children were anxious to be out of doors and in the bright sunshine. Shopkeepers shouted good-natured abuses at one another across the rapidly drying mud streets. Housewives joyfully bartered down to the last farthing so as to enjoy the heat of the sun on their shoulders for a bit longer. Servants shook bedding free of winter’s fleas and dirt. Dogs lay sprawled at the sides of buildings, the promise of summer leaving them too lazy to nose among the scrap heaps.

  The Priests of the Holy Grail were quick to take advantage of the joviality.

  There were only five now, speaking at the corner of the church building that dominated the center of Magnus. The others rested quietly in nearby shadows. They took turns in shifts, constantly calling out and delivering selected sermons, answering questions, and warding off insults from the less believing.

  Hugh de Gainfort was leading this group of five into the hours of the early afternoon. His brown robe made him swelter in the heat; that much was obvious by the beads of oily sweat that dotted his shaven skull.

  Still, he spoke with power, certainty, and charisma. It was not unusual for twenty or thirty villagers to be gathered at any given moment.

  He looked beyond the crowd, into the shadows of the church, then nodded so slightly that any observer would have doubted the action had been made.

  “Miracles shall prove we are the bearers of God’s truth.” Hugh raised his voice without interrupting his sentence as he completed that slight nod. “And as we promised upon our arrival, one shall now appear!”

  The crowd buzzed with murmurs.

  “Yes!” Hugh shouted. “Draw forward, believers and unbelievers of Magnus! Before the none bells chime, you shall witness the signs of a new age of truth!”

  Hugh swept his arms in a circle. “Go,” he urged the crowd. “Go now and return with friends and family! Bring back with you all those to be saved! For what you see will be a sure sign of blessing!”

  The other four priests, all garbed in brown and with skulls shaven, began chanting. “The promised miracle shall deliver blessings to all who witness. The promised miracle shall deliver blessings to all who witness.”

  For several seconds, no one in the crowd reacted.

  Hugh roared, “Go forth into Magnus! Return immediately, but do not return alone! Go!”

  An old man hobbled away. Then a woman with a small child and swaddled infant. Finally, the rest of the crowd turned, almost in unison, and spread in all directions. Some ran. Some stumbled as they looked back at Hugh, as though afraid he might perform the miracle in their absence.

  Almost immediately, Edmund of Byrne left the shadows. He carried a statue nearly half his height and set it down carefully in front of Hugh.

  “Well spoken, my good man.” He patted the top of the statue. “Remember: wait until they are nearly frenzied; then deliver. It is the only way to be sure that Thomas of Magnus will suffer the same fate as the once-proud Earl of York.”

  Edmund smiled savagely as he finished speaking. “After all, is there not a certain sweetness in c
asting a man into his own dungeon?”

  A great, noisy crowd had filled the small square in front of the stone church. The promise of unexpected entertainment broke life’s monotony and struggle.

  Hugh de Gainfort raised his arms and silence fell. Beneath bright sun, his pockmarks became pebbled shadows across the skin of his face.

  “People of Magnus!” he called. “Many of you doubt the Priests of the Holy Grail. Some of you have ridiculed us since our arrival two days ago. Because we are kind and compassionate, we forgive your insults, delivered in ignorance. But know this: After you witness the miracle of the Madonna, such insults will not be forgiven. After today, none of you will be excused for not following our truth!”

  Excited and angry murmurings issued from the crowd.

  Hugh lifted the statue and, with seemingly little effort, held it aloft.

  “Behold, the Madonna, the statue of the sainted Mother Mary!”

  The noise stopped instantly. All in the crowd strained for a better view.

  The sun-whitened statue was of a woman with her head slightly bowed beneath a veil. A long flowing cape covered most of her body. Only her feet, clad in sandals, and her hands, folded in prayer, appeared from beneath the cape.

  Few, though, ever remembered the details of folded hands or sandaled feet. The Madonna’s face captivated all who looked, such were the carved details of exquisite agony. The Madonna’s eyes were even more haunting than the pain etched so clearly in the plaster face. Those eyes were deep crystal, a luminous blue that seemed to search the hearts of every person in the crowd.

  “Mother Mary knew well of the Holy Grail,” Hugh said in deep, slow words as he set the statue down again. “She blessed this statue for our own priests, thirteen centuries ago. Our own priests, who already held the sacred Holy Grail. Thus, she established us as the one true church!”

  A voice from the entrance to the church interrupted Hugh. “This is not a story to be believed! This is blasphemy against the holy pope and the church of Rome!”

  Hugh turned slowly to face his challenger.

  The thin man at the church entrance wore a loose black robe. His face was pale with anger, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Ah!” Hugh proclaimed loudly for his large audience. “A representative of the oppressors of the people!”

  This shift startled the priest. “Oppressors?”

  “Oppressors!” Hugh’s voice gained in resonance, as if he were a trained actor. “You have set the rules according to a religion of convenience! A religion designed to give priests and kings control over the people!”

  The priest stood on his toes in rage. “This … is … vile!” he said in a strained scream. “Someone call the Lord of Magnus!”

  One of Hugh’s men slipped through the crowd and placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder and squeezed the priest into silence.

  No one else moved.

  Hugh’s smile did not reach his cold black eyes. “The truth shall speak for itself,” Hugh said gravely. He turned back to the people. “Shall we put truth to the test?”

  “Yes!” came the shout. “Truth to the test!”

  The priest’s eyes widened like a trapped animal’s. Hugh could see the fear that drained the priest’s face of color. In total, there were fifteen large men, and who knew what arms they carried beneath their cloaks? Obviously, the priest was in no position to defy such a large crowd.

  Hugh held up his arms again. Immediate silence followed.

  “What say you?” Hugh queried the priest without deigning to glance back. “Or do you fear of the results?”

  More long silence. Finally the priest croaked, “I have no fear.”

  Hugh smiled at the crowd in front of him. He noted their flushed faces, their concentration on his words.

  “This Madonna,” he said with a theatrical flourish, “blessed by the Mother Mary herself, shall tell us the truth. Let us take her inside the church. If the priest speaks truth, the Madonna will remain as she is. However, if falseness against God resides within, the Madonna will weep in sadness!”

  Even as Hugh finished speaking, those at the back of the crowd began to push forward. Excited babble washed over all of them. None wanted to miss the test.

  “And,” he thundered, “when the truth is revealed, the new and faithful followers of the Priests of the Holy Grail will soon be led to the Grail itself!”

  At this, not even Hugh’s upraised arms could stop the avalanche of shouting. The legendary Grail promised blessings to all who touched it!

  Hugh took the statue into his arms and turned to face the church. He marched forward.

  Without pausing to acknowledge the priest, he walked through the deep shadows of the church’s entrance and into the quiet coolness beyond, until he reached the altar at the front. He cleared the lit candles and set the statue down, making sure it faced the gathered people.

  Soon the church was full. Every eye strained to see the Madonna’s face. Every throat was dry with expectation.

  “Dear Mother Mary,” Hugh cried to the curved ceiling above, “is this a house worthy of your presence?”

  The statue, of course, remained mute. So skillful, however, was Hugh’s performance that some in the audience leaned forward as if expecting a reply.

  Hugh fell to his knees and clasped his hands and begged at the statue’s feet.

  “Dear Mother Mary,” Hugh cried again, “is this a house worthy of your presence?”

  For a dozen heartbeats, he stayed on his knees, silent, head bowed, hands clasped high above him. Then he looked upward at the statue, and moaned.

  He stood in triumph and pointed.

  “Behold,” he shouted, “the Madonna weeps!”

  Three elderly women in the front rows fainted. Grown men crossed themselves. Children shrieked in terror. And all stared in horror and fascination at the statue.

  Even in the dimly filtered light at the front of the church, water visibly glistened in the Madonna’s eyes. As each second passed, another large drop broke from each eye and slowly rolled downward.

  Thomas made it his custom to greet each dawn from the eastern ramparts of the castle walls. At that hour, the wind had yet to rise on the moors. Often, mist rose from the lake that surrounded Magnus, and behind Thomas, the town would lay silent as he lost himself in thought and absorbed the beauty of the sun’s rays breaking over the tops of the faraway hills to cut sharp shadows into the dips and swells of the land.

  There, on the ramparts in the quiet of a new day, Thomas found great solace in silence that was a near prayer. It was here, and not in the rituals intoned by priests who insisted they alone could mediate between God and man, that he felt closest to accepting that a loving Creator had fashioned this world. There were moments he could almost hear a call to open his heart, to accept this, to believe that God listened to each man and woman who called upon His name.

  Even in those moments, which seemed to him like the natural hesitation that a deer might show as it surveyed open and dangerous ground that sloped to a stream of pure waters, he could not overcome his suspicion.

  Thomas well knew three classes comprised society: those who work, the peasants; those who fought, the nobility; and those who pray, the clergy.

  Since praying was easier than work and safer than fighting, a life in the church was an attractive career. Because of this, many abused their positions of power. Like the monks who abused him as a boy, leaders in the church were as prone to glut themselves off plates of gold and silver as the nobles. The hard-earned money of their peasant charges bought jewels and rings, fine horses, and expensive hounds and hawks.

  It was not difficult to claim shelter in the wings of the Roman church. A test for clerical status was simple: because literacy and education were so rare, any man who could read—or memorize and recite, as was more often the case—a Latin text from the Bible could claim “benefit of clergy.” This was especially valuable if one had committed a crime. Common thieves to cold-blooded murderer
s were given complete exemption from the courts of the land and tried instead by the church. And, since the laws within the church forbade mutilation or death, and since it was too expensive for the church to maintain its own prisons, it relied on spiritual penalties as punishment. At the very worst, a cleric might face a fine or a light whipping.

  Thus, Thomas lived in uneasy alliance with the church in Magnus. No matter how powerful the ruler, the power of the church was equal. More dreaded by an earl or king than a sieging army was the threat of excommunication. After all, if the people believed that a ruler’s power was given directly by God, how could that ruler maintain power if the church made him an outcast? Though he had been coolly accepted by the priest of Magnus, Thomas still felt outcast in his own kingdom. Each morning and each night, when Thomas found himself alone with his thoughts, the questions that haunted him rose to the surface of his consciousness, in empty hopes that they might one day be answered.

  The old man who once cast the sun into darkness and directed me here from the gallows where a knight was about to die, falsely accused–who was he and how did he know of my secret dream and duty to conquer Magnus?

  William, the valiant and scarred knight who befriended me and helped me win the castle that once belonged to his own lord, departed suddenly and without explanation. Why? Where could he have gone?

  The foul candle maker, Geoffrey, and Isabelle, the beautiful and treacherous daughter of the vanquished Lord Mewburn, were both found to be Druid spies. I captured and imprisoned Geoffrey in the dungeons of Magnus, and yet he escaped. How?

  The midnight messenger, Katherine: she spent all those years in Magnus disguised beneath bandages as a scarred freak. Was she, too, a false sorcerer, seeking to win Magnus from me? Or was she truly my friend, now banished unfairly, by my command, from this kingdom?

  What is the secret of Magnus?

  The early rays of sun that warmed Thomas on the eastern ramparts had never replied to these silent questions.

  On this day, less than a week after the arrival of the Priests of the Holy Grail, Thomas now had other urgent problems to occupy him as he walked the ramparts.