Blades of Valor

by Sigmund Brouwer

  His father’s pride and approval, coupled with his concise explanation, dissipated all the rage, confusion, and hurt Thomas had carried for so long.

  Thomas cleared his throat, tightened with emotion, and moved to embrace his father. “Thank you. I am glad I have not disappointed you.”

  Lord Hawkwood’s eyes reddened with unshed tears as he enveloped his son in his arms. “Never. You are a delight and a worthy heir. I hope my answer has satisfied you and that you can finally put to rest the memories of her treachery that haunt you.”

  Thomas pulled away and nodded. “I believe now I can. It is quite amazing how the truth can unburden man. I scarcely even knew the weight of my own anger. But now that it is lifted, I feel …”

  Thomas burst into laughter. “I feel joy. Freedom. A lightness I’d all but forgotten.”

  Lord Hawkwood chuckled. “I’m glad to see you in such a jovial mood. Perhaps it will help you solve the last mystery before we depart for Magnus.”

  “Ah, yes! What is it that remains for us here?” Thomas tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps a weapon?” He cocked a brow playfully.

  “Indeed, a weapon would be most useful for those engaging in battle,” Lord Hawkwood conceded.

  “And what,” Thomas asked, “is the single most powerful weapon available to men?”

  “Not swords.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Not arrows. Not catapults.”

  Thomas nodded again.

  “Not any physical means of destruction. For with the invention of each new weapon, there will be a countering defense.”

  “So …” Thomas bantered.

  “So, as you full well know, my son, our greatest weapon is knowledge. In warfare. In business. In the affairs of our own lives. In the defense of our faith. Without knowledge, we are nothing.”

  Thomas pointed at the tiny window high on the abbey wall. “Were we to wager today on my odds of answering your question, I would have an unfair advantage. For last night, as I puzzled yet again what might draw so many Druids to this valley, I returned to the bedchamber of my childhood.”

  Lord Hawkwood straightened with sudden interest. “You have not discovered …”

  Thomas grinned mischievously. “Ho, ho! The student knows something the teacher does not. Surely you speak truth that knowledge is power!”

  “Thomas, tell me!”

  Thomas bent to scoop pebbles into his hand. One by one, he began to toss them into the tiny river.

  “Thomas …” Lord Hawkwood warned.

  “In the Holy Land,” Thomas said, “Sir William informed me that I held the final secrets to the battle. Yet”—Thomas pointed his forefinger skyward for emphasis—“I had no inkling of what he might mean.”

  Thomas tossed two more pebbles into the water before continuing. “Sir William returned from exile in the Holy Land to spend time in Magnus with me,” he said. “Had the final secrets been there, he would have claimed it then. Moreover, had this mysterious object of great value been there, the Druids, who held Magnus for a generation, would have claimed it. Instead, since my departure from this abbey, both sides—Druid and Immortal—have been intent on learning the secret from me, a secret I did not know I possessed. I can only conclude that whatever it is, it has lain here at the abbey.”

  Lord Hawkwood nodded.

  “Indeed,” Thomas continued, “if you yourself did not know where at this abbey it is located, I must conclude that it had been sent to Sarah, along with the books she chose to hide in the cave.”

  Again, Lord Hawkwood nodded.

  “Whatever this secret was,” Thomas concluded, “Sarah hid it before her death. Whatever this secret was, the Druids were willing—no, desperate enough—to each undertake a journey from their separate parts of England.”

  Thomas smiled. “Returning here to the abbey brought back to me some of my first memories of Sarah. How she would sit beside my bed and help me with my prayers or sing quiet songs of knights performing valiant deeds. And every night, her final words as I fell to sleep never differed.”

  His focus shifted from the edge of the valley hills to his father’s face.

  “Sarah would say, ‘Thomas, my love, sleep upon the winds of light.’ Each night, she would simply smile when I asked what that meant.”

  Lord Hawkwood began to smile too.

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “Your words to me at the gallows—now it seems so long ago—as a mysterious man, hidden beneath cloak and hood, were almost the same.”

  “Bring the winds of light,” Lord Hawkwood’s voice was almost a whisper, “into this age of darkness.”

  “Knowledge,” Thomas said. “The knowledge accumulated by generations of Immortals.”

  “Yes, Thomas,” Lord Hawkwood said. “Merlin himself founded Magnus as a place to conduct our hidden warfare against the Druids. Yet he destined us for more. To search the world for what men knew. And to save that knowledge from the darkness of the destruction of barbarians.”

  Lord Hawkwood’s voice became sad. “Time and again throughout history, gentle scholars have suffered loss to men of swords. Great libraries have been burned and looted, the records of civilizations and their accomplishments and advances wiped from the face of the earth. Few today know of the wondrous pyramids of the ancient Egyptians, of the math and astronomy of the ancient Greeks, of the healing medicines of—yes!—the Druids, of the aqueducts and roads of the Romans.”

  In a flash, Thomas understood. “Immortals of each generation traveled the world and returned with written record of what they discovered … ”

  “When Magnus fell,” Lord Hawkwood said, “it was more important than our lives to save the books that contained this knowledge. That is why so many of us died. Your mother and I, Sir William, and a few others escaped with the books of these centuries of knowledge, while the rest gave their lives. Why did each Druid willingly undertake a journey here when given the message by Waleran? Each assumed, rightly, there would be spoils easily divided. Books beyond value. One, two, perhaps more books for each. Books that can only be duplicated through years of transcribing.”

  “Father,” Thomas said quickly, because now, seeing the worry on the older man’s face, he found no joy in prolonging his news, “the books you sent to this abbey are safe.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sleep upon the winds of light,” Thomas said. “What better place to hide something than in the open? My mattress was placed upon a great trunk, placed so that its edges hid the sight of the lid of the trunk. A passerby, or even a searcher, of course, would think it only a convenient pedestal to keep a sleeping child away from nighttime rats. But within that trunk … each night I truly did sleep upon the winds of light.”

  Fifty-Three

  On the grassy grounds of the Church of St. Katharine, Isabelle knelt beside a little girl. She winced as the child vomited and began crying anew. Some of the contents of the girl’s stomach splattered onto Isabelle’s hands.

  “Mary, Mary,” Isabelle said in a soothing tone, “we’ll find a way to stop your stomach from hurting.”

  Isabelle always kept buckets of water nearby. She dipped a clean cloth into the bucket, then wiped Mary’s face. Almost as an afterthought, Isabelle wiped her own hands.

  Isabelle stood and faced Mary’s sister, who coughed several times. The older girl was about Rowan’s age, and inevitably, Isabelle’s thoughts wandered. She hadn’t seen the boy since he walked away from her at the carriage. Every night she prayed for his safety.

  “Elizabeth,” Isabelle said, “don’t you worry either. Mary will be better by nightfall.”

  Elizabeth wiped her nose. “I have no money to pay you. My sister and me, well, we find a way to live on the streets.”

  “That’s of no matter,” Isabelle said.

  Isabelle had a shrinking pile of coins, and when she came to the end of it, she’d worry about what to do next. In the meantime, it gave her satisfaction to know that the silver and gold that had been entrusted to her
in pursuit of Thomas would be put to better use.

  She found it ironic to be nearby a church named St. Katharine, knowing that the young woman of the same name had won the heart of Thomas. But she’d also realized that her own feelings for Thomas had been more about possessing yet another object in a life where she’d been given anything she wanted.

  The Church of St. Katharine was also the most famous hospital in London, and the poor and hungry gathered at its doors every day, allowing Isabelle to offer help where she could.

  In this case, it was obvious to Isabelle that little Mary had internal worms.

  Isabelle reached into the large sack she hefted around the hospital grounds each day and extracted a smaller bag.

  “For Mary,” Isabelle said to Elizabeth. “This herb is what will stop her pain.”

  It was bog bean and grew in marshy places. Its white flowers made it easy to find, and Isabelle was grateful that she had it in good supply and didn’t need to use silver or gold to purchase it from an apothecary.

  Isabelle ground up the herb with a small mortar and pestle, then sprinkled it into a cup and added water.

  “Drink this,” she told Mary. “But it’s bitter, so plug your nose as you swallow.”

  Isabelle smiled as she watched the little girl grimace.

  “I feel better already!” Mary proclaimed.

  Isabelle knew that wasn’t from the herb. She never failed to be amazed at how people could begin to heal just by believing in the steps given to make them well. But by nightfall, the digestive problems would be almost gone for Mary.

  “She’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Isabelle told Elizabeth. “And the day after. We can only give her a little at a time.”

  “Thank you!” Elizabeth said.

  “And for you,” Isabelle answered, as she searched through her sack. “Chew on this tiny piece of root; it will help your cough.”

  The huge smiles on the faces of both girls were enough reward for Isabelle.

  “Off you go,” Isabelle said.

  As they walked away, holding hands, Isabelle saw past them. To a boy with red hair and a huge smile.

  Rowan!

  Isabelle hurried toward him. As she reached him, he knelt on one knee, and then rose and spoke with his usual gravity and earnestness.

  “M’lady, I have returned to serve you.”

  She laughed. “I’m a far cry from being a knight’s lady. But if you still want to pretend you are a knight, I’ll pretend to be a lady. And if you want to serve me, well, many are the sick and frail on these grounds.”

  “I wonder,” he said, “if you could be convinced to serve the sick and frail farther to the north?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been looking for you for days,” Rowan said. “Everywhere in London, I asked if there was a young woman who served as a healer. But I was right, wasn’t I? You were brave enough to leave the prison of a castle and power and wealth.”

  “Rowan,” Isabelle said, “I’ve never been happier. I’ve learned that a person can ask forgiveness from the Almighty and that a heart can be changed.”

  “Thomas?” Rowan asked. “His heart is changed?”

  Isabelle laughed. “I speak of myself! As for Thomas, I’ve learned that a person should not live a life of envy or longing. Truly, I am happy.”

  Occasionally, she’d see a handsome nobleman and wonder if someday there might be a husband for her. But she knew that whatever was ahead, it was far better than living a miserable life with a man she detested.

  “And when your silver and gold is gone?” Rowan said. “How then will you continue your work?”

  “I live in the present day,” she answered. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “What if a family of wealth became your benefactor? Could you then continue?”

  Isabelle snorted. “Certainly. But that will happen when pigs fly.”

  “I suppose that would be possible if I threw one from the ramparts of my family’s castle,” Rowan said. “But why would a lady so good in heart as yourself wish me to inflict cruelty on an innocent animal?”

  It took a moment for Isabelle to realize the implications. “Your family’s castle?”

  “I am, after all, Rowan Harcourt,” he said grandly, with a bow and sweep of his arm. “At your service.”

  “You must jest.”

  “Never! If you would be kind enough to follow me back to the carriage where the Harcourt footmen await, I’ll tell you the story as we travel to the castle.”

  Rowan smiled. “You are willing to help the sick and frail there too, are you not, m’lady?”

  Epilogue

  Thomas thrilled to the touch of the sword atop his shoulder.

  It was a private and quiet ceremony in the uppermost chambers of the castle of Magnus, with Sir William, Lord Hawkwood, and, of course, Katherine, who held the sword.

  “This is our own form of knighthood,” she said softly. “An unseen badge of honor.”

  “It is enough,” Thomas replied as he rose. “Worth more than the knighthood granted by Queen Isabella, more than this kingdom officially given us by her royal charter.”

  Thomas felt a sorrow, however, for the continued existence of the Immortals needed to be kept hidden from many of those who waited below in the great hall to begin a feast of homecoming for him:

  Tiny John, now more a young man than the rascal sprout he remembered before exile.

  Robert of Uleran, the valiant sheriff of Magnus who had survived his imprisonment and resisted all promises of the Druid priests.

  The Earl of York, joyful to be reinstated to his seat of honor.

  Gervaise, a man of simple faith who had oft comforted Thomas and provided him escape from Magnus at the price of a barely survived beating by the Druid priests.

  Even the puppy, Beast, that had traveled across half the world, then back again, was present at this most surreal reunion of Thomas’s loved ones.

  “Our task is not complete.” Lord Hawkwood interrupted Thomas’s thoughts. “For I cannot believe that the Druid circle will not somehow, sometime, begin to rebuild.”

  He smiled. “But I believe we, as Immortals, will now be able to continue our task. Searching out and keeping the treasures of knowledge. And passing on that task to future generations.”

  “This is why we call ourselves Immortals?” Thomas asked. “For the battle will always continue?”

  “No, Thomas. It is far more important than that. Each of us is born into a mortal body, but our souls are immortal. The choices we make in the mortal body have eternal consequences, for truly, all humans are immortal.”

  “Nothing more than that?” Thomas asked.

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “In a sense, I am,” Thomas admitted. “What a great and glorious name: the Immortals. As if, perhaps, we have a secret herb that extends our lives. Or a water that—”

  “Stop!” Lord Hawkwood was stern. “You are about to make the mistake that diminishes any of us who cannot look beyond the daily drudgery. You are immortal. Give thought to that. You are a creature of this universe, designed to first live in a human body—a body that is just a cocoon for something great and glorious that will emerge after your last breath on earth. But during each breath you do take while alive, give heed to the understanding that you are eternal. When you truly understand this, you will wake each day and celebrate how this world is merely a transition into the journeys that await us beyond.”

  Thomas closed his eyes. He reached out with his mind in a prayer, and for a moment, it felt as if his soul had joined angels in a chorus of joy, as if for that moment, God had opened a window to give him a glimpse of eternity.

  Yes! He was immortal.

  He opened his eyes, and something in his gaze must have given Lord Hawkwood an indication of a new and heightened awareness of identity.

  Lord Hawkwood smiled. “Each of us is eternal. But in this world, we still serve to help the cause of good. This was Merlin’
s directive. To recognize that we—like all humans—are immortal creatures, but in calling ourselves Immortals, we also vow to serve all of humanity.”

  His voice resonated with growing passion. “There will be a day,” he said, “when a renaissance, a rebirth of the sharing of ideas will take all of us forward into the dawning of a better age. Until then, let us ensure that Magnus stands quiet, unknown, and on guard against the age of darkness.”

  Sir William, unexpectedly, began to laugh.

  “Well spoken, Lord Hawkwood,” Sir William finally said through a broad smile. “But first we need future generations. And I will not see our task complete until you and I become grandfathers.”

  Katherine giggled.

  Thomas felt his jaw gape open. To be sure, he thought in confusion, Katherine and I have pledged marriage, but we have not yet spoken of children.

  Then another thought struck him.

  “What is this of which you speak?” he blurted to Sir William. “If—”

  “When,” Katherine corrected.

  “When,” Thomas corrected himself, “our marriage results in … in … little ones, it strikes me that Lord Hawkwood alone will become a grandfather. Who is it that you, Sir William, expect to arrive with a babe in swaddling clothes to provide an heir?”

  Lord Hawkwood’s laughter boomed in great gales. Sir William joined him, then Katherine.

  Thomas fought bewilderment. Finally, he roared his words to be heard above the laughter.

  “What is it?”

  Sir William found his voice.

  “Thomas,” he said, “you showed such insight into the untangling the past, we all assumed you already knew.”

  “Knew what?” Thomas snapped. Mirth had reddened all their faces, and he did not enjoy being the source of their amusement.