Martyr's Fire

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Long ago,” she said softly, “at Camelot, there was a fellowship of knights so noble …”

  The Holy Grail, she told Thomas, was the cup that Christ had used at the Last Supper, the night before He was to be crucified. This cup was later obtained by a wealthy Jew, Joseph of Arimathaea, who undertook to care for Christ’s body before burial. When Christ’s body disappeared after the third day in the tomb, Joseph was accused of stealing it and was thrown into prison and deprived of food.

  “It was in that prison cell that Christ Himself appeared in a blaze of light and entrusted the cup to Joseph’s care! It was then that Christ instructed Joseph in the mystery of the Lord’s Supper and in certain other secrets! It is these secrets that make the Holy Grail so powerful!”

  “These secrets?” Thomas interrupted.

  “No one knows,” she admitted. “But it matters little. How can these secrets not help but be marvelous?”

  Only because people want them to be marvelous, Thomas thought.

  She told him the rest of the legend in awed tones, as if whispered words in the black of the stable might reach those priests of power.

  Joseph was miraculously kept alive by a dove that entered his cell every day and deposited a wafer into the cup. After he was released, he was joined by his sister and her husband and a small group of followers. They traveled overseas into exile, careful to guard the cup on their journey, and formed the First Table of the Holy Grail.

  “This table was meant to represent the Table of the Last Supper,” the old woman said with reverence. “One seat was always empty, the seat of Judas, the betrayer. A member of the company once tried sitting there and was swallowed up!”

  Thomas marveled at the woman’s unwavering superstitious belief.

  “Go on,” he said gently. “This takes place long before King Arthur, does it not?”

  “Oh yes,” she said quickly. “Joseph of Arimathaea sailed here to our great island and set up both the first Christian church at Glastonbury and, somewhere nearby, the Grail Castle.”

  She sighed. “Alas, in time the Grail Keeper lost his faith, and the entire land around the castle became barren and known as the Waste Land, and strangely, could not be reached by travelers. The land—and the Grail—remained lost for many generations.”

  The woman settled deeper against him. Her silence continued for so long that Thomas suspected she had fallen asleep.

  “Until King Arthur?” he prompted.

  “No need to hurry me,” she said crossly. “I had closed my eyes to see in my mind those noble knights of yesteryear. Too few are pleasant thoughts for an old, forgotten woman.”

  Then, as if remembering the impatience of youth, she patted Thomas’s arm in forgiveness. “Yes, lad. Until King Arthur. At the Round Table, the Holy Grail appeared once, floating in a beam of sunlight. Those great knights pledged themselves to go in search of it.”

  Thomas settled back for a long story. Many were the escapades of King Arthur and his men, many the adventures in search of the Holy Grail, and many were the hours passed by people in its telling and retelling.

  Thomas heard again of the perilous tests faced by Sir Lancelot, and his son, Sir Galahad, and Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and the others. Thomas heard again how Sir Percival, after wandering for five years in the wilderness, found the Holy Grail and healed the Grail Keeper, making the Waste Land once again flower. Thomas heard again how Percival, Galahad, and Bors continued their journey until reaching a holy city in the East, where they learned the mysterious secrets of the Grail and saw it taken into heaven.

  She told it well, this legend that captured all imaginations. But she did not finish where the legend usually ended.

  “And now,” she said, “these priests offer to us the blood of a martyr of ancient times, blood that clots, then unclots after their prayer. They offer us the weeping statue of the Mother Mary. And they speak intimately of the Holy Grail, returned rightfully to them, with its powers to be shared among their followers!”

  Thomas felt his chest grow tight. Indeed, these were the rumors he had feared. “These followers,” he said cautiously, “what must they do to receive the benefits of the Holy Grail?”

  The old woman clucked. “The same as the poor must do to receive shelter. Pledge an oath of loyalty, one that surpasses loyalty to the Lord of Magnus, or any other earthly lord.”

  These were the rumors that had not yet reached him, the rumors he had sought by leaving his castle keep. How much time, upon his return, did he have left to combat these priests?

  Another thought struck Thomas.

  “Yet you are here,” Thomas said into the darkness to the woman curled against his side. “Here in the stable and not at the church. Why have you not pledged loyalty to this great power for the benefits of food and lodging?”

  The old woman sighed. “An oath of loyalty is not to be pledged lightly. And many years ago, when I had beauty and dreams, I pledged mine to the former lord of Magnus.”

  “Y-yet”—Thomas stammered suddenly at her impossible words—“was that not the lord who oppressed Magnus so cruelly, the one whom Lord Thomas so recently overcame?”

  “You know much for a wandering beggar,” she said sharply. “Especially for one ignorant of the Holy Grail.”

  “I have heard much in my first day here,” Thomas countered quickly.

  “So be it,” the old woman agreed, then continued. “I did not swear an oath to that tyrant. No, my pledge of loyalty was given to the lord who reigned twenty years earlier, a kinder lord who lost Magnus to the tyrant Lord Mewburn.”

  Thomas marveled. This woman showed great loyalty to the same lord Thomas had avenged by reconquering Magnus. Yes, Thomas thought, I will reward this old woman later, when I leave off this disguise and resume the duties of the lord of Magnus.

  He was given no time to ponder further.

  The nearby horses stamped nervously at a sudden rustling at the entrance to the stable.

  “Hide beneath the straw!” the old woman hissed. “We’ll not be found!”

  She began to burrow.

  While Thomas did not share her fear, he wanted to maintain his role as a half-blind beggar, and a half-blind beggar in a strange town would do as she instructed. So he burrowed with her until they were nearly covered.

  Many moments passed. Strangely, a small whimpering reached them.

  Straw poked in Thomas’s ears and his closed, uncovered eye. Despite his curiosity, he held himself perfectly still.

  Somehow, a patter of light footsteps approached their hiding spot directly and with no hesitation. From nowhere, a cold, wet object bumped against his nose, and Thomas nearly yelped with surprise. Then a warm tongue found his face, and Thomas recognized the intruder was nothing more alarming than a friendly puppy. Thomas could not help the name that leaped into his mind.

  Yes, it was Beast.

  Beast wriggled with joy and whined as he pushed up against Thomas.

  “Thomas?” a voice called.

  Tiny John! What meaning did this hold?

  Thomas sat up and shook the straw free from his clothes. He held Beast away from him so that the licking would cease.

  “I am here,” Thomas said from beneath the straw. He ignored the surprised flinch of the old woman. “What urgent business brings you in pursuit?”

  “I followed the puppy,” Tiny John explained. “And he found you exactly as Robert predicted in his last words to me.”

  Thomas stood quickly and with a cold lump of fear in his stomach.

  “His last words? What has occurred?”

  Tiny John’s voice trembled. “The castle has fallen without a fight, m’lord. Few were those who dared resist the Priests of the Holy Grail.”

  “That … cannot … be,” Thomas uttered. His knees felt weak.

  “I recognize you!” the old woman cried as she stood beside Thomas.

  “The deception could not be helped,” Thomas muttered as his mind tried to grasp the impossible.

 
; The old woman clouted Thomas. “Not you, ragamuffin! The boy. Dark as it is, I know his voice. Tiny John. He is a friend of the Lord of Magnus! And a friend to the poor. Why, more than once he has raided the banquet hall and brought us sweetmeats and flagons of wine. The boy could pick a bird clean of its feathers and not wake it from its perch. Why, he …”

  The old woman’s voice quavered. “Wait. What deception? You spoke of deception?” Then a quiet gasp of comprehension. “The boy called you Thomas! Not our Thomas? Lord of Magnus?”

  “Aye, indeed. I am Thomas.” He pulled of his eye patch and flung it into the straw. “And by Tiny John’s account, now the former lord of Magnus.”

  The old woman groaned and sat heavily.

  “M’lord,” Tiny John blurted, “the priests appeared within the castle as if from the very walls! Like hordes of rats. They—”

  “Robert of Uleran,” Thomas interrupted with a leaden voice. He wanted to sit beside the old woman and, along with her, moan in low tones. “How did he die?”

  “Die?”

  “You informed me that he spoke his last words.”

  “Last words to me, m’lord. Guards were falling in all directions, slapping themselves as they fell! The priests claimed it was the hand of God and called for all to lay down their arms. It was then that Robert of Uleran pushed this puppy into my arms and told me to flee, told me to give you warning so that you’d not return to the castle.”

  Thomas shifted Beast into the crook of his left arm and gripped Tiny John’s shoulder fiercely with his right hand. “You know not the fate of Robert of Uleran?”

  “No, m’lord. There was great confusion. I’m sorry.”

  Thomas relaxed his grip. “You needn’t apologize, John. You did right by finding me. Now we just have to hope that no one else does.”

  The shadows of the castle spires had hardly darkened with the rising sun, yet already the news was old.

  Magnus has fallen to the Priests of the Holy Grail!

  Some rejoiced, almost in religious ecstasy. After all, there had been the miracles of the weeping statue and the blood of the martyr! And now, stories of how the guards had fallen without a fight! Surely the Grail must appear next!

  Others were saddened. Wisely they did not show this emotion, for who could guess the intentions of Magnus’s new masters? Yet they grieved for the loss of Thomas, who, they were told, had mysteriously vanished as the castle fell to the priests. These mourners knew that Thomas had ruled with compassion and intelligence. They were still grateful to Thomas for releasing them from bondage to a cruel lord less than a year before.

  And few, although too many, were those whose eyes glinted with greed to hear that Thomas had been disposed, or that the Priests of the Holy Grail had offered a brick of the purest gold to the man who might capture him.

  Thomas limped along the edge of the streets. It took little effort to add that limp to his step; yesterday’s brutal kick was this day’s growing bruise, and a sleepless, chilled night had stiffened his leg considerably. He’d put his eye patch on again, meager protection though it was.

  Beneath his rags, he carried the puppy in the crook of his left arm. There was comfort in the warm softness of the animal against his skin. Occasionally, Beast would lick Thomas’s arm, a solace that never failed to elicit a small smile, despite his troubles.

  The smile did not reach anyone, however. Thomas kept his gaze lowered on each halting step along the street. Whispers of the massive bounty placed upon his head had reached his ears. If the wrong pair of sharp eyes recognizes me despite the rags and eye patch … if the old woman does not keep her vow of secrecy … if Tiny John is captured by bounty hunters …

  Yet Thomas could not remain hidden, cowed in a dark shadow somewhere within Magnus. If he were to survive, he must escape the castle island. To escape, he needed help from the one person he trusted and hoped was still alive.

  And to reach that person, he must enter the lions’ den. So Thomas shuffled and limped to the edge of the church building and prayed no Holy Grail priest would inquire too closely about the business of a starving beggar.

  At the rear of the stone building, Thomas followed the same garden path he had walked—was it only two days before?—so proudly in his purple cape as lord of Magnus.

  He rounded a bend of the path and saw the familiar figure of Gervaise, kneeling in the soil, pulling weeds with methodical delicacy. Thomas almost straightened and cried aloud in relief, but something stopped him.

  What was this strangeness?

  Not weeds piled in neat bundles beside Gervaise, but the rosebushes, roots already wilting in the sun. The most precious plants in the garden! Why would Gervaise root them out so diligently?

  Thomas sucked in his breath. Was this a message?

  It disturbed Thomas so much that, instead of a joyful call, he continued to limp slowly toward the old man.

  “Good sir,” Thomas croaked, “alms for the poor? I’ve not eaten in two days.”

  Gervaise yanked another rosebush free from the soil and did not look up.

  “Gervaise,” Thomas hissed, “it is I!”

  The old man laid the bush on the nearest bundle and shuffled sideways on his knees to an unworked patch of soil.

  “Of course it is you, Thomas. And not a moment too soon,” Gervaise grumbled without looking up. “Removing these roses has robbed me of five years of toil. This price counts little, however, for you noticed and took it as warning.”

  Gervaise paused, then said, “Ask your question again, as if I were deaf. And add insult to your words. We must appear strangers to each other.”

  Thomas hesitated a moment, then raised his voice. “Are you deaf, you old cur? I’ve not eaten in two days.”

  “Do as the other beggars,” Gervaise instructed loudly with acted impatience. “Enter the church and pledge allegiance to the Priests of the Holy Grail.”

  Thomas stopped abruptly as Gervaise turned his head to look upward in response.

  The mangled right side of the old man’s face was swollen purple. Lines of dried blood showed the trails of cruel, deep slashes. His right eye was swelled shut, and his nose was bent and pushed sideways at an angle that made Thomas gag.

  “The Priests of the Grail know you and I are friends,” Gervaise said calmly, without moving his head. “This was done to encourage me to deliver you into their hands. And as you may have guessed, they observe me now from the church windows and from the trees behind you.”

  Thomas blinked back tears.

  “If you do not go into the church shortly,” Gervaise continued in a low voice, “those watchers will suspect you and hunt you down. They may be within hearing distance. Ask me now which priest to see. Do not forget the insults.”

  Thomas hoped his voice would not choke as he forced the words into a scornful snarl. “Worthless donkey! Instruct me well the priest to seek, ere I add to the scars on your face!”

  “Enter the church without hesitation,” Gervaise commanded quietly. “You must reach the altar. Then—” Gervaise looked past Thomas, then back at Thomas. Gervaise bowed his head as if afraid.

  But his voice continued strong but low. “Thomas, the panel beneath the side of the altar that holds the candles—kick it sharply near the bottom. Twice. It will open. Use the passage for escape.”

  “But—”

  Gervaise then looked Thomas squarely in the eyes. Exhaustion and strain marked the other side of the old man’s face. “After sixty steps, you must make the leap of faith. Understand? Make the leap of faith. You will find the knowledge you need near the burning water.”

  Thomas began to shake his head. “Burning water? What kind of madness do you—”

  “You must reach the altar. If they suspect who you are, Magnus and all its history is lost.”

  “Gervaise …,” Thomas pleaded.

  Gervaise sighed and turned toward his digging. “If I speak more to you, they will surely suspect. Walk away.”

  Thomas shifted his balance.<
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  Thomas then limped onward, toward the entrance of the church.

  He kept his head low as tears rolled from his eyes.

  At the wide doors to the church, Thomas discovered some of his fears had been unfounded. Instead of being a lone and highly noticeable figure, he was only one of many entering the building.

  Once inside, he stopped to let his swimming eyes adjust to the sudden dimness.

  Gervaise, Thomas sorrowed, what evil has forced itself upon us?

  Men and women stood in a long line down the center of the nave, the main chamber of the church. At the front of the church, in the chancel that held the altar, stood a priest who briefly dipped his hands in a vessel from a stand near the altar, then touched the forehead of the person bowed below his hands.

  “Move on, man!” a fat man growled at Thomas from behind. “This is no place to daydream. Not with blessings to be had.”

  Thomas told himself he could not spare any thoughts of grief, only thoughts of action. He fell in behind two women and slowly limped toward the front of the church.

  The measured pace of the line gave Thomas time to look around the structure he’d seen so many times before. This time, however, he looked with the anxious eyes of stalked prey. Vaulted stone ceilings gave an air of majesty and magnified the slightest noise, so that all inside only spoke in careful whispers. The nave where Thomas stood was, of course, clear of any objects except support pillars. While rumors had reached Magnus that London churches contained long bench seats called pews for the worshipers, no person bothered believing such nonsense. People had always stood to worship, and that was the natural order of the Lord’s Day.

  There were at least four Priests of the Holy Grail posted throughout the church—one at the front and three on the sides of the nave. Thomas tried to study their movements without betraying obvious interest.