“One thousand years after the chalice disappeared, it was found again. But first, we must go back several decades, to the Holy Land. The Templar Knights were searchers after power, any power that would give them something to fight the strength of the Pope with whom they were always at odds with. And they found it, there in the desert, protected by a sect of crazed monks— the severed head of the Baptist, a head that still dripped fresh blood a millennium after it was struck from his body at the whim of a woman. And from that moment on, the return of a Blood King was inevitable, if not so simple to achieve.
“Some say that the head spoke then, promising them dominion; others say that they had access to centuries old occult lore from the old man of the mountain that let them access its latent power. However they managed it, they discovered the whereabouts of the chalice, buried deep beneath an ancient chapel in Southern France. As you have seen in your dream, they brought it up out of the ground. And they collected the blood of the Baptist, and mixed it with their own. And then they drank it from the chalice, and no more were they men and only men. The Others had come back into the world.”
The old man stopped talking as Campbell returned with a pitcher of ale and some mugs. They were all silent as the ale was poured. For a second, in the dim light, it looked like the Scotsman was pouring blood from the pitcher, but the illusion soon faded as the Thane continued. Campbell sat behind the old man, idly pushing chess pieces around the board, taking regular gulps from his mug, and regular refills from the pitcher.
“The Baptist had promised them dominion, and for a while they had that, their power growing nightly, their dark shadow stretching over much of Southern France. But they grew too bold too quickly, for it was difficult for them to keep their true nature secret from men and only men. In time they came to the attention of the Pope and the French King. And again there was great slaughter in the southern mountains. Many of the Others were slain, and many more taken to deep cells within the Vatican, where they were tortured in silver chains until they revealed their secrets. But neither the chalice nor the head of the Baptist was ever found.”
The Thane paused to take a drink.
“Now we come closer to how the tale intertwines with our lives,” he said, and was about to continue when Martin put up his hand to stop him.
“I believe I know some of the next part,” he said. “The Bruce gave them sanctuary, and they helped him win at Bannock Burn.”
“I see your education was not totally wasted, then,” the old man said. Martin felt himself blush, and caught a broad wink from Campbell over his father’s shoulder.
“Aye. And after Bannockburn, when St Clair, the oldest of them, was made Steward, and the thirty had already become three thousand, the Baptist’s head whispered to them of caution and of the need for a royal bloodline to cement their authority in years to come. And Bruce gave the Others lands, around the old fort at Edinburgh, and the prisoners from Edward’s army as slaves and as food.
“And over the years the Others grew stronger, but they could not find a royal line to bind them to the throne. They had dominion over most of the land north of the wall, but they yearned for more, for fresh conquests, fresh blood, for the birthright they felt was their due. After Bruce’s death, St Clair declared himself Stuart, and king, and there were none left who would rebel against him. He built a great castle on Edinburgh rock, a symbol of his power, and he had a dark temple built there to house the twin treasures of his brotherhood. It is said that dark deeds were practiced there, but the Blood King, the creature that St Clair had become, yet had no heir.
“And finally, the Baptist who is known amongst the Others as Baphomet, announced that they were strong enough, that the time was ready. St Clair took to wife a young girl whose offspring would have claim, not just to the throne of Scotland by right, but that of England as well. Of course the lineage of the father was deliberately confused, as England would never accept an Other as their sovereign, and Mary, Queen of Scots, was never accepted in England in her own lifetime, but nine months later, Charles Stuart ripped himself out of his mother’s womb to claim his birthright.
“But here is the part that concerns us. It is written that after she had conceived, Mary was thereafter in thrall to the Blood King, and she had no life of her own save that which he gave her. It is also written that the child must not be turned before its eighth month, lest it kill the mother too early.”
“So there is a chance to save her, then?” Martin said.
It was Campbell who replied.
“A chance. Aye. But that’s all there is. It seems that the Blood King drives her even now, for how else would she have returned here? He has called her, for he needs to keep her safe for the ceremony.”
“That is twice a ceremony has been mentioned.” Martin said, remembering his dream. “Has it anything to do with the chalice?”
“It has everything to do with the chalice,” the Thane said. “That is the source of all that they are. It is said that the chalice was forged in the days of Moses, and that the first Others were in the exodus but refused to take the commandments. However they started, though, they need the chalice for the ritual.”
“Aye,” Campbell said bitterly. “And a dark ritual it must be. It is said that the Blood King turns the babe with the aid of the chalice and the head of the Baptist. But there is no man and only man who has ever been present. Whatever is done, it will happen in yon temple in Edinburgh, of that I’m certain. And unless the Boy King can be defeated, it will happen in March of next year.”
“Can we not do something?” Martin said. “Can the doctor not get rid of the babe?”
“Get rid of the babe? And kill the mother? No. She can be restored—that was the reason I brought her here—the other I could have done myself weeks ago if that were an option.”
Martin suddenly noticed that the Scotsman was drunk, and that the pitcher of ale was rolling empty on the floor beneath him.
He spoke softly to the man.
“As I am your friend, I swear to you that the Boy King shall not have her. I will die first.”
Campbell moved over to Martin’s side, weaving slightly, and clasped him by the good arm.
“If it comes to that, we will die together,” he said. “And we will take Charles Stuart’s pup with us.”
Martin turned to his father.
“And what happened next?” he asked, then realised he already knew. Every schoolboy was told of the coming of the Stuart King, of his cunning in hiding his true nature, of his eventual betrayal of his position and how the Old Protector overthrew him and had him staked in front of the populace at the tower.
And every schoolboy told tales, ever enlarging the facts, of the Boy King who had been left in waiting, Charles Stuart’s insurance, and the heir to the vacant throne. The story of his first attempt to reclaim it, when he was stopped only by the burning he received in the Great Fire, was a popular one around all fires in England.
Many were convinced that the terror had perished there in London, but there had been persistent rumours that he was gathering his twelve again, and would make another attempt on the throne. It seemed that the rumours had been right.
“So what do we do now?” Martin asked. The Scotsman had sat done again and was slumped back in his seat looking ready for sleep, and the Thane had his head in his hands.
The old man looked up at Martin, and was about to speak, when the room echoed to the sound of the great bell in the tower above and the castle was suddenly full of the sounds of rushing footsteps and screams.
They heard footsteps running up the stairs, a messenger coming to tell them the news that Martin already knew.
The Boy King had come to reclaim his bride.
Chapter 7
2nd NOVEMBER, 1745 FAR SAWREY, LAKE WINDERMERE
Sean awoke with a splitting headache and the taste of dead leaves in his mouth. He had to wet his left eye with spittle to clear out the gum that held it closed. His back felt like it had taken several
sharp kicks from a man in heavy boots and the soles of his feet were like red-hot irons.
The sun was only just up, and he had managed a mere four hours sleep, all that he would allow himself before setting out on the trail again. He was leg weary, and sore from numerous aches and pains as he started on the third day of his chase.
In that time he had slept only ten hours, and his body was beginning to rebel. When he had set out from Garstang he was sure that he would catch her quickly, and once, on that first night, he had caught a glimpse of her in the distance, her white dress standing out in the moonlight. But then the sound of hoof beats had sent him off the path, and he had been forced to wait in hiding as the Warden and his men passed. By the time he was back on the path, she was long gone.
The Warden had not found her either, for he had spotted him and his men less than an hour later, camped out on the trail. He had passed them in a wide circle and kept moving north, and since that first night, he had not seen or heard the officers. He hoped they had given up, but the Warden did not seem like a man who would take kindly to losing a prisoner, particularly one who had killed one of his own. He feared that he would be seeing the big man again.
Neither had he any further sight of Mary Campbell, although he had spoken to people who had marked her passing. Only last night he had met a family travelling south from Carlisle who had seen her—far off and on a hilltop—still heading north. They had taken her for an apparition, and the wife of the family he spoke to had prayed all through the conversation.
He had met many people travelling away from the wall. Rumours of the Boy King’s return were rife; he had an army of Others recruited in the American Colonies; he had gained great supernatural powers through a pact with Satan; his father had returned from the true death to fight with him; the French Navy had landed at Arbroath; the Protector had fled the country. But none of the rumours affected him so much as the thought of what had been done to Mary Campbell—the single tangible bit of evidence he had that proved to him beyond doubt that the Boy King was evil incarnate.
Last night he had fallen asleep, dead on his feet, with little or no regard for his surroundings. He had only stopped when he realised that he had been walking but asleep for a good two hours. He remembered moving off the road and finding a secluded spot, then he had fallen like a man shot and was asleep in seconds. On awakening, he took his bearings, and was surprised to see that he was less than two hundred yards from an inn. That proved to him something he had suspected during the night—he had strayed from the path he was following. The girl seemed to be returning the way they had come, and they had not passed such an inn on the outward journey. He dimly remembered a crossroads some ten miles back, but he had been so tired then that his feet had carried him on the easier downward track rather than upwards to the high tops they had travelled before.
Too much time had been lost—he had to get back on her trail soon, or she would be over the wall and gone before he could catch her. And catch her he would. He vowed it on all that he held holy. He stretched and popped out the pains in his spine before stepping back onto the road.
The inn sat square on a crossroads near the edge of a large body of water which Sean knew was one of the lakes, but had no idea which one.
One arm of the road led down to a small jetty where boatmen were already loading passengers and goods onto small boats, but making little impact on a queue that was growing steadily.
The other arm of the road wound away from the lake and steadily up a long hill into the distance. Even though it was still early in the morning, there was a great deal of traffic, all of it heading South.
The inn looked a prosperous one, and one doing good trade for so early in the day at that. Outside the whitewashed walls three high passenger carriages were drawn up, their roofs piled with trunks and hand baggage—some of the more well off denizens of Carlisle making their escape, no doubt. Beside the carriages were the simpler transports of poorer folk, cattle, donkeys and ponies overburdened with goods, rickety carts which had seen better days carrying all the worldly possessions of their owners. Small children, bemused and afraid, were running beneath the wheels of the grander carriages, and a well-dressed man was trying to keep them away, making ineffectual swipes at them with a riding crop.
Local hawkers had already spotted the potential of a new market, and there were small stalls set up on makeshift tables selling pies, bread and sausages. Although it was just past dawn, the inn looked to have been in business all night, and there was a group of ruddy-faced individuals gathered in the doorway, already much the worse for drink. Sean noticed too late that they had spotted him.
He realised what he must look like to them. He had been walking for two days, trudging through muck and briar, and he’d had no thought for cleanliness. His legs were caked with mud up over his knees and his clothing, what remained of it, hung in tattered scraps from his body, which was now a good deal thinner than it had been just a week ago. He had not shaved during that week, and the new growth of beard felt dirty and itchy. He had run his hand through his hair just seconds before, and knew that, amid the tangles, there were small twigs, reminders of bushes that he had pushed his way through in his attempts to stay hidden from the road. He smelled rank, although his nose had long since adjusted to it. He had become a person that a week ago he would have averted his eyes to avoid.
The drunkards however had no such scruples.
“Hey, lads. Here comes a right one.” This from a man who himself had only one tooth left of his upper set, and a wart so large on his cheek that it looked like he was growing a second nose. Sean refrained from the obvious comment. He didn’t want to inflame them—at least, not until he got closer and found out whether they were armed.
“Look at the state of him. What do you say? Shall we give him a bath?” another said, and they all laughed in that too-loud way that comes with a surfeit of ale.
“Aye. I think a trip to the lake is called for—it will take that much water to get him clean.”
The group found this uproariously funny, and brayed with laughter again. They reminded Sean of a group of piglets at a trough.
Five of them moved away from their positions in front of the inn and started coming down the road towards him. Two were none too steady on their feet, but there was one, a big fellow with a mass of red hair, whose eyes were clear and bright with the excitement of a fight. He had met this one’s type before—William Barnstable being a prime example—big and full of bluster in a crowd, always a ringleader when he knew there was someone to back him up. Sean knew just how to deal with him.
He hunched down, as if cowering, and affected a high-pitched whine to his voice.
“Spare me a penny, good sirs. A penny for a loaf of bread to sustain me on this fine morning.”
The red-haired man was by now standing just in front of Sean, hands on his hips—he obviously thought of himself as a dispenser of wisdom and justice, lord of his own tiny domain.
“A penny, is it? Well, beggar, we have got something much more valuable for you—we have a lesson to teach you,” he said, and swung a huge fist at Sean’s head.
Sean ducked under the blow and grabbed the man’s arm by the wrist, using his opponent’s momentum to swing him round and, at the point furthest into the swing, gave a sharp tug. He smiled to himself as he felt the man’s shoulder come away from the joint, accompanied by a loud squeal of pain, but he didn’t have time to gloat, for two more were on him quickly.
The first, a short, squat fellow, grabbed Sean in a bear hug. Sean almost recoiled from the smell of stale beer that emerged from the man’s mouth, but even before his opponent started squeezing, Sean dug his thumbs into the man’s eyes and twisted, hard. He saw blood spurt under his fingers before the pressure released and he was dropped, the man falling away from him, squealing and sobbing, runnels of red running from between the hands covering his face.
The third man managed to throw a punch while Sean was still recovering his balance, and
it knocked him to his knees. His attacker moved in closer and aimed a kick at Sean’s head, but Sean turned and in one smooth movement grabbed the man’s ankle and twisted, pulling his attacker to the ground where it was an easy matter to put him out of commission with a swift rabbit punch to the head.
Not even out of breath, Sean stood and looked for the other two. He had nothing to fear there— one was being violently sick at the roadside, and the other stood, like a rabbit hypnotised by a stoat, his eyes staring at Sean while his hands twitched and trembled like a marionette in the charge of a drunk puppet master. Sean took one step towards him and he ran, heading off down the road away from the inn.
The red-haired man was in retreat, heading for the jetty, his right arm hanging strangely loose by his side, and the one whose eyes he had gouged was sitting in the middle of the road, mewling like a baby. The fifth was still out cold on the ground at Sean’s feet.
“They have been spoiling for a fight all night,” a voice said from the side of the inn. “And I’d say they’ve found one.”
Sean turned to see a stocky figure watching him. The man was totally bald, his head almost perfectly round. His belly hung over the top of his trousers as if trying to escape from his vest, but his shoulders were broad and his chest deep. A single gold earring glistened in his left ear and he had a small, neatly trimmed beard, clean-shaven at the cheeks. His eyes were a deep sea blue, and there was no guile there as he scrutinised Sean.
“I’d say you’re a bit more than the beggar you seem,” he said.
He held a mug of ale in his right hand. Of his left, there was only a stump, the remaining skin puckered and scarred from a severe trauma. He saw Sean looking and held the stump up.
“Lost it in the Carib. Some bastard Corsair blew it off with a musket at close range.” He came forward and handed Sean the mug of ale.
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