Henry stopped walking and squinted at Jack. ‘What gives you the right to question our age-old customs? We have lived according to these laws for hundreds of years. And yet here you are, in your arrogance, deciding which laws to follow and which to ignore.’
‘If something’s wrong it doesn’t become right just by being an ancient custom,’ Jack said. ‘We need to change. Learn. We’ll never defeat the Rajthanans otherwise.’
‘Learn, eh? That’s what you do here, isn’t it? Learn the secret ways of the heathens. What do they call it? Yoga. Well, I call it something else.’ He fixed his gaze on Jack. ‘I call it black magic.’ A piece of spittle flew from his lips.
One of Henry’s men roared and unsheathed his sword, the blade ringing.
Jack heard clattering and rustling behind him. Glancing back, he felt a surge of warmth in his chest as he saw the villagers drawing together and lifting what weapons they carried.
They weren’t going to back down. They were still with him.
Jack faced Henry again. ‘You raise your arms against common folk?’
Henry scowled and his face reddened. He gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening.
Everyone went silent. The only sound was the rustling of the trees.
The wound in Jack’s chest tightened and he fought not to wince.
Henry’s eyes blazed for a moment, but then he gestured at the soldier who’d drawn the sword. The man stepped back and slid the blade into its scabbard.
‘I’ll be speaking to Sir Alfred,’ Henry said.
‘Do so,’ Jack said. ‘And send him my good tidings.’
Sir Alfred was the leader of the local arm of the Crusader Council. The old man was an ex-soldier, like Jack, and had risen to Sergeant Major in the Rajthanans’ European Army. After serving with the Indians for so many years he was more open to Jack’s ideas than most. Jack was certain he still had Alfred’s blessing.
Henry’s face twisted, then he spat, wiped his mouth and turned away. He and his men trudged back across the grass towards their horses, their burning brands dwindling in the dark.
Jack breathed out as a wave of pain swept through his torso. He grimaced. He would have to get back to his hut and meditate in order to get the injury under control again.
‘Father.’ Elizabeth strode over to him, her long cloak swishing around her. Her nose was red from the cold and her dark hair was pulled back beneath a bonnet.
Jack cleared his throat and quickly suppressed any expression of pain in his face. Despite living with his injury all these years, he’d managed to keep it hidden from his daughter – and almost everyone else.
Elizabeth gazed at the disappearing figures and gave a small smile. ‘Didn’t take much to scare them off, did it?’
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps I should have left them to you?’
Elizabeth flashed him a wider grin, then her features turned more sombre. ‘You think they’ll come back?’
‘We’ll deal with them if they do.’
Godwin strutted across the grass with one hand on the pommel of his longsword and the other on his belt, as if he were a lord surveying his castle. ‘We saw them off, make no mistake.’
Jack stiffened. Why had Elizabeth married an idiot like Godwin? He nodded at Godwin’s blade. ‘You sharpened that?’
Godwin faltered and swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let me see it.’
Gingerly, Godwin drew the sword and handed it to Jack, who inspected it in the faint moonlight. Jack wasn’t a swordsman – he’d only been trained to use a musket in the army – but he knew enough about blades to pass judgement. The sword was well balanced, but heavy and cumbersome. He was more used to the Rajthanans’ scimitars, which were lighter, faster and designed to be wielded one-handed from horseback. A longsword was largely a weapon for smashing your foe with brute force, while a scimitar was for deft cuts and parries.
The blade gleamed softly – it was well polished. But when Jack passed his thumb along the edge, it drew no blood.
‘Blunt.’ Jack handed the sword back to Godwin.
Godwin slammed the blade back into its scabbard, lifted his chin and stared into the distance. ‘I sharpened it today, sir.’
‘Then you made a bloody hash of it.’
‘Father.’ Elizabeth slapped Jack’s arm gently, then turned to her husband. ‘Godwin, ignore him. I’ll see you back at the cottage.’
Godwin pursed his lips and sniffed. ‘Very well. I’ll see you there.’
He turned on his heel and strode away, the longsword swinging at his hip. The other villagers were also dispersing and making their way back to the white-walled huts of the hamlet. The young woman from Newcastle was being led away, stumbling as though she felt faint.
‘Godwin’s a good man,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I’m happy for you,’ Jack muttered.
‘He’s trying his best.’
‘Is he?’
‘Father, be nice to him.’
‘I’m nice.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Jack put his hand on her shoulder. The pain was streaking down his left arm now and darkness frosted the lower rim of his vision. He knew he had to meditate soon in order to save himself. ‘Let’s get inside.’
He walked back with Elizabeth, smarting at the pain but keeping it hidden. He was reeling by the time they reached his small, thatched cottage and he had to place his hand against the wattle-and-daub wall for a moment to steady himself. He strode through the door and entered the single room. A fire smouldered in the centre, the smoke floating up through a hole in the roof. The beaten-earth floor was strewn with fresh straw and his few possessions had been carefully put away in two chests and a wooden crate. A pair of knife-muskets hung on one wall, the ornately engraved metal quivering in the firelight.
He turned to his daughter, who still stood in the doorway. ‘Good night, Elizabeth. God’s grace to you.’
‘Father.’ She stepped into the room and the fire tinged her features yellow. Her face was serious. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’
Another pulse of pain beat in Jack’s chest and sweat broke out on his forehead. He needed to meditate. Now. ‘If it’s about Godwin—’
‘No.’ She stepped closer. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Jack stood up straighter. He’d been expecting this news one day but this had still taken him by surprise. A smile slipped across his face. ‘Elizabeth.’ He embraced her. ‘That’s wonderful news.’ He looked her in the face again, holding her by the shoulders. ‘How long?’
‘About three months.’
‘And you’re sure?’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Mary said it’s certain.’
Mary was the village wise woman. She wasn’t a Rajthanan doctor, and Jack was sceptical about many of the herbal treatments she prescribed, but she knew about childbirth, having delivered many of the children in the village.
He embraced Elizabeth again, held her tight. Although she was eighteen, she was still his little girl. It was strange and miraculous to think she was going to be a mother. The only thing that darkened his happiness was that Godwin was the father.
His injury flared again and rippled down his left arm. He gritted his teeth until the sensation passed.
He let go of Elizabeth. ‘You’d better rest.’
She smiled. ‘I’m not ill.’
‘All the same. You get back to Godwin. I’m sure he’ll want you with him.’
She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. ‘God’s grace to you, Father.’ Her eyes went glassy.
‘Go on.’ He waved her away before things got too emotional.
Once she’d left, he shut the door, leant against it for a moment, pulled back his hair and retied his ponytail.
He shook his head in amazement – he was going to be a grandfather.
Then pain split his chest. He grunted, doubled over and slumped to the ground. Wincing and fighting off the darkness threatening to overwhelm him, he cross
ed his legs and sat up as straight as he could.
He shut his eyes.
Another wave of pain flooded through him but he did his best to ignore it.
He inhaled and concentrated on the air passing through his nostrils.
‘Your mind is like a rippling pool.’
These were the words all the yogins spoke. His drill sergeant had said it to him when he’d first joined the army. His guru, Captain Jhala, had repeated it when initiating him into the secrets of the siddhas, the ‘perfected ones’ who developed supernatural powers.
The mind was like a rippling pool and it had to be calmed to a still, mirror-like surface, free of thoughts, confusion, doubts, passions, images, sensations. This was the only way to use a power.
The wound in his chest throbbed. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness for a moment, but managed to pull himself back.
He had to focus. If he couldn’t enter the trance, his injury would undoubtedly kill him. He sensed the sattva-fire burning in his chest. Tentacles of blue flame licked around his heart.
He brought to mind a yantra, an intricate, circular design that unlocked a power. He pictured the dense tangle of lines, triangles and curlicues that writhed within the circle, trying to recall every part of the design, every minute shape. He remembered Jhala saying to him, ‘You must be able to hold the entire image still and perfect in your mind, without any other thought intruding. Only then will you be able to use the power.’
But this was no simple task. Whenever you tried to keep a yantra steady, other thoughts would inevitably well up, or you found yourself concentrating on a single part of the design rather than the whole.
Memories flickered in his head.
He remembered Jhala the last time he’d seen him, before his old guru had died. Jhala had looked frail and tired after struggling for years with his own sattva-fire injury. Jack’s throat tightened. Jhala had betrayed him, had threatened to kill Elizabeth.
Then he saw his wife, Katelin, on her deathbed, her Celtic cross necklace rising and falling with her chest and her weak hand reaching up to him. She’d died eleven years ago, leaving him to raise Elizabeth alone.
And he pictured his old friend William, who’d been a rebel leader and had died at the Siege of London when Jack had betrayed him.
So many dead people.
Finally, he managed to get the yantra squarely in the centre of his mind’s eye. It glowed white on a black background. As the pain bubbled in his torso, he held on to the image, fought to keep it in place.
With his mind, he reached out to his surroundings, sensing the soft, grainy throb of sattva all around him. He was in a strong stream – he’d specifically chosen this hut because of the large amount of sattva coursing through it. He drew the sattva towards him and smelted it in his mind, the familiar perfumed scent filtering into his nostrils.
The spirit world drew close.
Suddenly the yantra froze, glimmered, then burst into brilliant light. Fire shot up his spine and radiance roared around him. He felt as though he were hurtling upward into the stars. A grand, holy space opened in his head and the worlds of spirit and matter touched.
He remained in the trance only for a moment. But by the time he released his focus and slipped back to the material world, the pain in his chest had subsided and his breathing had eased.
He’d used a power – a healing power that fought off sattva-fire injuries. Usually it eliminated the effects of his wound completely, but over the past few months the results hadn’t been as good. Tonight he still felt the fire crackling near his heart, although it was subdued and no longer as great a threat.
Every day his injury seemed to worsen, and every day his power became less effective.
He sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The embers of the fire throbbed and breathed, holding back the chill of the night. A breeze rustled the thatched roof and shook a loose window shutter.
Wearily, still wincing at the pain, he crawled across to a bed of straw, wrapped himself in a blanket and tried his best to sleep. Beneath his discomfort, buried within him, was the warm know-ledge that Elizabeth was pregnant.
Three years ago Elizabeth had almost died. Now she was with him in Shropshire, safe, happy and soon to be a mother.
He clung to this thought as he drifted off.
Jack paused before leaving his hut and rubbed his chest through his surcoat. Pain still streaked through him and his breathing was shallow and wheezy. On waking that morning, he’d meditated immediately, but his power had only had a limited effect. Now he felt as if he hadn’t used the yantra at all.
But still, he had to get on with the day’s work. People would wonder where he was if he stayed in his hut any longer.
He took the deepest breath he could. Would the healing power stop working completely one day? If it did, he would die. And now he wanted very much to live, to protect Elizabeth and his grandchild.
He pushed open the door and squinted in the morning sunlight.
‘Sir.’
A voice to his left startled him. His hand reached involuntarily for a weapon, but he wasn’t carrying one. He was about to lash out with his fist when he saw it was Godwin, standing close to the door with his longsword drawn.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jack asked.
‘Sorry, sir. I wanted to show you this.’ Godwin moved the sword in Jack’s direction.
‘Put that down, you idiot. The next time I find you outside my hut with a weapon you’ll be on the end of my boot.’
Godwin lifted his chin and stared into the distance, as if he were some high-minded martyr. ‘I sharpened it today, sir. For your inspection.’
‘Inspection?’ Then he recalled the night before. ‘For God’s sake. Get out of here. Go and do something useful for once.’
Godwin dithered. Was he expecting something more? Something about the baby?
But Jack was in no mood to talk and instead strode off towards the village green, still wincing at the pain lancing him. What Elizabeth saw in Godwin he would never know. He’d given the lad a chance – he’d tried to be pleasant, tried to understand him, tried to act as a father-in-law should. But the boy was simply a fool and there was no getting around it.
He would have to say something to Godwin about the child at some point, but that wasn’t going to be today.
He walked down the rough road through the centre of the village. Tom, the blacksmith, was already at his forge, beating a strip of glowing metal. Mary, the wise woman, waved good morning from the door of her cottage. James, a tenant farmer, nodded as he strode past, his dog yapping around his feet.
For the moment everyone seemed to have forgotten the confrontation of the night before. And everyone still saw Jack as their reeve, still acknowledged the authority of his white surcoat.
He crossed the green, went down to the brook, splashed across the ford and walked through a short stretch of woods. The leaves on the trees were already turning gold, and shimmered in the breeze.
He came out at the secluded glade that contained the hut known by many as the House of Sorcery. It was easy to imagine the building stood apart from the rest of the village because no one wanted to live close to a place where strange, possibly infernal, practices were carried out. But in fact Jack had chosen the spot because it was right in the path of the strongest sattva stream in the area.
A ripple crossed his skin as he passed into the invisible stream. A faint trace of perfume tickled his nose. He shut his eyes for a moment and sensed the sattva flowing around him, tiny whorls and eddies forming about his body.
The stabbing sensation in his chest brought him back to the material world. Forcing himself to ignore the pain, he pushed open the hut’s door and entered the dimly lit interior. As his eyes adjusted, the single room came into focus. The window shutters were closed and the only light came from the fire in the central hearth. A large banner displaying an intricate yantra hung across one wall, the image trembling in the firelight. About a dozen y
oung men sat cross-legged on the earth floor, staring up at the design. Two others sat scratching yantras into boxes of wet sand, and a third meditated with his eyes closed.
Jack had ‘discovered’ all these young men. Most had been sent to him from elsewhere in Shropshire when it became known that he was looking for people who experienced second sight, saw ghosts, or suffered from fits. Many who arrived were simply mad or ill, but a few, a very few, turned out to be sensitive to sattva.
A handful of women had even shown up. That had surprised him and he suspected some might even have been sensitive enough to become siddhas. But it was of course out of the question to train women in the secret arts. It wasn’t right to get them involved in something that could be dangerous, especially as his aim was to develop siddhas who could eventually fight the Rajthanans.
Mark, a tall lad who was slightly older than the others, walked across to Jack, carrying a stick he’d taken to using like a drill sergeant’s cane as he led the meditations. ‘Morning, sir.’
Jack tightened his face as a pulse of pain crossed his chest. ‘Any progress?’
‘Afraid not yet, sir.’
Jack nodded. It was a long, difficult process training siddhas. It was almost a year since he’d started teaching and so far Mark was the only one who’d mastered a yantra. Jack didn’t know why the success rate was so low. Was it normal? Did the Rajthanans face the same problems? Or were his training methods wrong?
The difficulty was that he didn’t know nearly enough about yoga. He’d only been given the basic training by Jhala and had only ever seen three yantras – only two of which he’d been able to use. In truth, he was a disciple himself rather than a guru.
A disciple who’d lost his own guru.
‘Any of them finished memorising the native yantra at least?’ He motioned to the banner strung across the wall. It was the first yantra he’d learnt and the first one he taught his students.
‘Not yet.’ Mark looked down. It was the same news every morning. ‘Stephen’s not far off, I reckon.’
Jack rested his hand against the door frame for support. Black specks danced before his eyes. ‘Ah, Stephen. Promising lad, I thought.’
The Place of Dead Kings Page 3
