"Perhaps, my son. If God wills it."
It was after midnight when Martin was called before the President. He was rushed past the President's guards outside his chambers and found himself standing before the President. He was in his cups at his table and his cheeks were flushed with wine. Remnants of his supper still lay strewn across the table and he picked absently at it. Martin looked about the room and recognised he was alone.
"You called for me, Lord Healy?"
"President Healy."
"My apologies, President Healy."
"Of course I did. You met with Brent. What did you speak about?"
"His execution, as you ordered."
"How'd he take it?"
"As well as can be expected. He is close to death already. He is wracked with infection. His execution will be a mercy."
Healy laughed and took a large swig of wine. He swallowed and wiped his red-stained mouth angrily with his sleeve. "Mercy? Do you think so? Perhaps. What else did you talk about?"
"Nothing, we..."
"Bullshit. You were in there for over fifteen minutes. You talked about more than his execution. What did he ask and what did he say?"
Martin fumbled mentally for a response. "He asked after his friend, James."
"Yes, yes. Captain James Dixon. Killed by Gillespie, he tells me. Drowned in Portsmouth."
"He was upset to hear the news. More so than word of his execution."
"Really? How interesting. We should have kept James alive to use against him. Gillespie was always short sighted. Not too smart that boy."
Martin stayed silent.
"What else?"
"He told me he had been tortured by Kevin Balfour. Is this true?"
"Yes. He has information we need."
"Information?"
"Yes, about the druids. About Lord Windthrop."
"I see," said Martin. He doesn't speak of the gold. How interesting.
Healy grew quiet and then rose to pace the room. "How is the Church?"
Martin was caught off guard by the new direction of questions. "As I said before, I am merely a vicar. The bishops would be better..."
"I don't want to hear about the bishops. They were all complicit in the machinations of the Archbishop. I can't trust them. You, I trust. As if I could ever trust the Church. Answer my question, what is happening with the church?"
"The people are worried. They see a foreign army on our land and question what it is God has in store for them. The villages and towns have become more open to the Church and they gather to discuss what is happening. They look to you, our President, to provide guidance as the head of the Church."
"And now I am asking you for that guidance."
Martin did not respond.
Healy returned to the table and refilled his goblet and then held Martin with a long look. "Keep them in line. I need the people passive as sheep. We are on the verge of greatness in the Realm. A land away from Kings and other nonsense. A land free of druids and their evil. I started this with the former Archbishop and I mean to end it. Faith would have you agree."
"Sir, I do not think you a man understanding of what faith is."
"I'm not. Foolishness, all of it," Healy moved away from the table and stopped by the great fireplace and stared at the cold hearth. "I wish we could return to yesterday sometimes. Simpler times when I was a mere council member. Then I recall the idiocy of the King and the terrors of his rule. He had no clue. He tore the land apart. Allowed religion to openly compete with the Word. It had no chance to survive. Then the horrors of the Revolution. The attack against me by demons. Insanity. All of it."
Martin kept his mouth closed. He had heard the alternate tale of events from Brent back in Portsmouth. It could be true that the druids had tried to protect the President from an attack from the Archbishop, but Martin could find no truth in the words. It was not possible that the Church could commit such acts.
"I'm a puppet."
Martin blinked at the words. Alcohol was letting Healy talk freely. Was this what is meant to be the Church advisor? To hear the confessions of those in power? Martin had no idea but nodded his head at the words. Healy was not even looking at him and paced further through the room waving his goblet.
"I've invited Mushir Adham into our land and I think I may have kicked a wasp's nest. There are powers. Powers beyond my understanding that forces my hand. We may need this God of yours in the end. I need to know I can count on you."
"Count on me?"
"Are you loyal? Are you loyal to me, Vicar Martin? I need to know you have my back. I need the people to side with me."
"I am loyal to God first, my Lord. I answer his call. I am sworn to this and to protect the souls of the people. But I will always give you honest council."
Healy stopped his pacing and turned to stare at Martin. "Not good enough. I need men loyal to me and my cause. I will burn this land to the ground if I must. There can be no weakness."
"My Lord, I am with the Church. My compass is the tenants of morality. I urge you to follow them if not through faith then through the compassion they are intended to bestow. I tell you the people are uncertain. They are scared for their lives and livelihood. Strange armies patrol the streets and people wonder what will happen next. They look to you for guidance. The churches are crowded with people looking for answers. The Word can't provide answers to these problems. Only faith can."
Healy stared at Martin for a long time. The silence grew uncomfortable and Martin feared for his life knowing that he had perhaps said too much. Healy growled. "Get out."
Martin bowed once and fled the chambers, knees shaking.
At two in the morning, Martin found himself talking quietly with the turnkey in his small room at the entrance to the dungeons. He had spent the last few hours in the Church praying for guidance. The silence that followed his prayer had led to his thoughts wandering and an idea had occurred to him. At first he had dismissed the idea as insane, but it soon grew in him and took hold. His thoughts had turned again and again to Brent in the dungeon. A man guilty only of wanting to bring justice to a land that needed it. A land that he could see was hurting deeply. Faith was fast rising in the small villages. The Word could not provide comfort to those lying huddled in their homes while armed military men walked the streets and grabbed anyone thought capable of working against the President and the Realm.
The Church did not have the leadership required to keep the people calm and fear was running rampant throughout the Realm. Having Healy as head of the Church was not sitting well with anyone. The bishops in Munsten felt helpless. The loss of the Archbishop had hurt them greatly.
Martin had prayed for guidance on the Sect. Over the last few days, he had spoken to the bishops and they had refused to discuss the Sect. Martin recognised the Church knew what atrocities had been committed in its name and still chose to suppress the information and do nothing about it. He felt betrayed. More so, Kevin Balfour was known and openly ignored as he moved freely through the castle and church. He was seen entering Healy's chambers many times and the castle knew he had replaced Seth Farlow. He had claimed the old office of the Archbishop and would disappear for days. Martin hated the man and prayed for forgiveness for the strength of his hatred.
He thought again of Brent and knew he felt no such hatred. There was something about the man. A calm that caused Martin to seek his side as a ship might seek the safety of a cove from a storm. Brent had such open conviction of faith that Martin felt small and inadequate beside him. He spoke to the bishops about him but again they turned their backs on the subject. They were afraid: afraid to see more change, afraid to right the wrongs that piled up around them, afraid to fight for the souls of the Realm.
After all these worries he had asked in prayer for guidance and the silence of response led him to think of something he normally would not do. Something that made him very afraid. Is this the answer to my prayers? Is this how God responds to me? He didn't know and instead listened to his hear
t and tried to push the fear away to better hear the answer. In truth he knew there was little he could do but he knew in his heart there was one thing he could do. Something that would assuage his heart and conscious. And perhaps allow him to return to his faith. He had so little left.
His steps had taken him to where he now sat with the troubled gaoler. Martin had seen the man routinely enter the Church to pray and they had spoken on occasion. This was how Martin came to realise the gaoler was a man torn. He was pulled between his sense of duty and the injustice of the men gaoled in the cells who did not deserve their fate.
The single thought that had occurred to Martin during prayer was to convince this poor man to go against his duty and release the prisoners. The gaoler was now muttering non-stop trying to find reasons to do as he was being asked and Martin let him talk.
Martin felt sick to his stomach. His fear rose bile in his throat. His guilt threatened to overwhelm him and force him to flee. The fate of this gaoler was in his hands. Once the deed was done the President would not be kind to the man. He was sentencing this man to death and he knew it. So did the gaoler. This moment in this small chamber will haunt me the rest of my life, he thought. Please God, forgive me.
"Jergins, in cell four?" the gaoler said and looked up to Martin to confirm this as true and Martin, who had no idea who Jergins was merely nodded. "He haes a guidwife 'n' three wee ones. He's a god-fearing man lik' me, vicar. He's ne'er dane a ill thing in his life, he hasn't. A've known him fur years. Shared food 'n' dram wi' him. He spoke tae me o' th' hings he wanted fur his family. A better life fur thaim. He spoke o' th' Bairstows, he did. We a' did. Th' Bairstow brothers! Thay teuk care o' us. Real kind lik'. General Brent, th' younger one, him thats in th' cells now, he dane gie Jergins a gold crown once. A full crown! Fur his youngest wha teuk a sickness awfy ill. Paid fur th' chirurgeons 'n' medicines. Ne'er asked fur it back. A month's wages. Handed it ower lik' 'twas nuttin'. We a' stared at that shiny coin. Passed it round 'n' held it tae feel th' weight o' it. Whit man wha does that deserves tae be murdurred fur it? A dinnae ken, vicar. A dinnae ken whit tae dae."
Martin swallowed. "Release them, my son."
"Vicar! Ah can't dae that! Ye ken whit that means!"
"You must, your heart tells you it is the right thing to do. Doesn't it? God speaks to me in my thoughts. Tells me through my heart that these men and women are honest and God-fearing. Release them."
The man hung his head and sobbed. "Vicar, I'm nae tough enough fur that. I'm frightened! Please don't ask me tae dae this!"
"Give me the keys then. I'll do it. Just hand them over."
The man doubled over and cried for a moment and Martin lowered his head in shame. He looked up when he heard the jangling of keys. The gaoler held the keys up over his head but wouldn't look at him and stayed the way he was. His hand shook and the keys rattled. Martin took a quiet breath and took the keys and then clasped the man's hand before he could pull it away. "God forgives you for breaking your oath to your duty. Your duty to God and the tenants come first and you are true to them, my son. If you can, flee. You needn't stay. God has demanded all he will from you."
"Ah won't leave mah post, vicar. Thanks fur yer wurds. Please, dae it quickly 'n' quietly. Mah replacement is due in two hours. Ye mist be lang gaen by then."
Martin promised and let go of the man's hand. The gaoler sat there bent over and rocked back and forth. He open his mouth to speak again, but changed his mind and hurried down the stairs to the lower level. His heart thudded hard and painful in his chest as he opened the first cell door and spoke quickly to the occupant. The woman nodded in surprise, but quickly took the keys and started working her way down the hallway unlocking the cells. The released men and women emerged blinking but silent into the hallway and gathered together and hugged and some quietly wept. Martin told them to stay quiet and rushed over to Brent's door. The woman turned the lock and pushed the door open.
"We'll need a litter. He's in bad shape and..." Martin stammered to a halt, backed away, and fell to his knees in a cry. The others sucked air in sharply and grasped one another.
Brent strode out of the cell, naked, and hale of body. The cuts on his skin were nothing but faint scars that gleamed red in the torchlight. His muscles rippled with strength and his eyes gleamed with joy. "Vicar Martin! Well done!" He strode over and pulled the man to his feet and embraced him.
The men and women in the hallway looked at one another. The former head of the Guard, naked as the day he was born, was on his feet and healthy, and hugging a vicar. They could see the faint scars but could not explain the healing. They had seen him dragged to his cell and the state he had been in. "General Bairstow, sir? How are you all right?" one asked.
Brent released the dumbfounded vicar and laughed. "I'm right as rain, Corporal Kingsbury. Right as rain, thanks be to God. I need armour, a sword, and a bloody way out of this cac hole!"
"Where to, sir?"
"South, we join the army of the Baron of Turgany. Free and gather the rest of our men and women."
"But, sir. How will we get out of Munsten? They won't just let us leave."
"They will with the General leading us out."
"What?"
The sound of boots on the stairs leading to their floor had the released prisoners spinning toward the sound. Two men dressed in hooded dark clothes burst through the door. The nearest prisoner to the door reached out to grab the first through. The man intercepted the lunge and threw him to the floor. He looked up and saw the prisoners all standing still and watching, poised for action. The man behind him was clearly a chirurgeon and this caused a pause. The man straightened and threw back his hood. "It appears I'm a little late to this party. Where's the wine?"
"James?" shouted an incredulous Brent and he pushed forward through his soldiers to stand in front James. "You're supposed to be dead!"
"Exaggerations, I'm sure," said James before being engulfed in a breath stealing embrace. "Do you know you're naked?"
Less than an hour later, General Sean Gillespie woke to the cold of a blade pressed against his throat. His eyes snapped open and he lay as still as he could. He glanced to his right but the bitch he had been sleeping with was being held to the side with a hand over her mouth by a soldier he knew should be in cells. He looked up and was shocked to see a healthy Brent Bairstow grinning down at him.
"Morning, Major Gillespie. Time to rise and shine. We have a full day ahead of us. Time to get dressed."
What followed for Gillespie was a nightmare. He was forced to lead the escaped hundred and fifty men and women out the side gate and into the late dark of the early morning. His orders were never questioned once by his own men and he cursed their stupidity. How could they not sense that I am being forced out of the city by men who should be in gaol? He promised mentally to have them drawn and quartered once he got out of this mess.
Brent did not speak to him other than to tell him what to say and when. Brent rode beside him with a drawn but hidden sword and he kept his face hidden from the sentries. On all sides, he was hemmed in by more of Brent's men and women. Escape was impossible. The threat of a sword through his heart kept him silent. He could raise the alarm, but he would die in the process. That was not an option, he thought with anger.
They rode through the dark until the sun rose slowly in the east. Gillespie tried on numerous occasions to try and get Brent to talk. How had he healed of his wounds? Where was he going? What did he hope to achieve? But Brent answered each time with a cut across his cheek and so he stopped asking. He hung his head and cursed his luck.
They crossed a couple of small bridges and in time they approached what looked like the burnt-out ruins of a mansion. Recognition flickered at the edges of Gillespie's memory. As they pulled up and stopped outside the remains of a wall and gate he recognised where they were.
"This is Bill Redgrave's old house!" he exclaimed.
Brent grinned at him. "Yes, it is. Fancy that."
Gillespie was
confused. What did Brent want with this old place? It had stood vacant for decades. People in the area believed the site haunted by the ghosts of Redgrave and his family and stayed clear. "There's nothing here. It's abandoned."
"Perhaps," replied Brent and told Gillespie to dismount. Brent told four of his men to accompany him and asked James, the chirurgeon Edward, and the vicar Martin to join them. Martin looked bewildered but agreed. James grinned and let Edward go before him. They walked carefully through the overgrown lawn, thick with weeds and small trees. Buried throughout the overgrowth was the charred remains of wooden beams and flooring. Rains and weather had long since removed the soot and burnt ends, but the evidence of fire damage was everywhere.
The mansion was fully collapsed. Little of what remained was recognisable as a house other than the stone and mortar foundation. Brent led the way past the house and then continued down to a small stream that ran behind the building..
James spoke quietly to Brent. "Redgrave survived this?"
Brent nodded.
"Do you mean to drown me like James?" challenged Gillespie. He hated the sound of fear in his voice but hoped to get a rise out of Brent. "Do you?"
Brent refused to take the bait but Gillespie saw his shoulders tightened and he smiled at the small victory. "He didn't even put up a fight, he didn't. Out like a light." Edward scowled at him and Gillespie grinned back.
Brent said nothing but stopped beside a small rise next to the water's edge. He turned and Gillespie could see the anger in his face. He smirked, but Brent ignored him.
"Gents, right there," he pointed at the rise. "You'll find a grating behind the tall grass. Pull it free, would you, please?"
Two of the men moved forward and Martin joined Brent and looked toward the rise. The other men kept their short swords at Gillespie's back and turned him to face the rise.
Gillespie was sweating now despite the cool breeze. "What is this? Eh? What are we doing at this traitor's place? It's a ruin. Wasting our time. Give me a sword and let me fight you, you bastard. Give me an honourable end."
Stoc (A New Druids Series Book 3) Page 21
