Chalice of Roses

by Jo Beverley

  “Then maybe you’ll understand when I say this day has been like science fiction.” Sinclair frowned. “I guess it started when I got two weeks’ leave. First time off I’ve had since before the fighting got bad last summer. I hadn’t seen much of Britain, so I decided to visit Scotland to see what my ancestors left behind.”

  “Since you’re a Sinclair, are you related to the Earls of Caithness?”

  “Maybe, though it would be a long way back. My branch of the Sinclairs sailed to Canada a couple of hundred years ago.” He took a biscuit and demolished it in two bites. “I knew most of the clan territory is way north, but there’s a Sinclair castle near Edinburgh, and this morning I decided on impulse to take a day trip there to see it.”

  “Roslin Castle?”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t go in the inhabited section, of course, but I poked around the old ruins, which were pretty interesting. Then I decided to look at the chapel. As I was going inside . . .” He hesitated. “This is where the science-fictiony stuff starts. I felt something like a . . . a cloud engulf the chapel. Not a real black cloud, but a sort of . . . of darkness of the soul.” He laughed with embarrassment. “Sorry to be so melodramatic.”

  “This was Rosslyn Chapel?” Jane asked, beginning to get a terrifying idea of what might have happened.

  “Yes,” he said with surprise. “You know it? I guess you would, Scotland being so small and all. Anyway, I felt as if there were an invisible flood of tar drowning the place. I could barely move. In fact, I wanted to howl like a hunting hound. Then I heard a scream, like someone being murdered. Which is exactly what was happening.” His fingers whitened on his tea mug.

  “Carry on,” she said briskly. “What happened next?”

  “I ran toward the scream, which came from a side chapel. A man lay crumpled on the floor and a tall, dark guy stood over him. The attacker saw me and ran off before I could get a real look at him.” Sinclair frowned. “I didn’t really see the guy run. It’s more like he just . . . disappeared. It was very strange.”

  “What about the man who was struck down?”

  “He was pretty old and dressed like maybe a gardener, but he had a face like a saint,” the wing commander replied. “There was blood all around him. Somebody had stabbed the poor old guy. But he looked up at me with this amazing smile and said something like, ‘God be praised, you’re here.’ As if he recognized me.”

  “Perhaps in a way, he did,” Jane murmured.

  “I knelt beside him to see if I could help, but he just shook his head and said, ‘No matter about me, lad; my time has come. But you must save it.’ ” Sinclair took a deep breath. “I’ve seen plenty of death in the war, but never murder. This was . . . wrong. Evil.”

  “Very wrong,” Jane agreed. “Did you ask what you were supposed to save?”

  “Yes, but he was almost gone by then. He whispered, ‘You’ll need help,’ and caught my hand. And this is where things got really weird. I felt as if lightning were burning through me. It didn’t precisely hurt, but I felt . . . rearranged inside.”

  “Rather like the sizzle of energy when you took my arm at the railway station?”

  The pilot looked startled. “Sort of, but different. Stronger. With you, I thought it was just because you’re so beautiful.”

  To her disgust, Jane found herself blushing. “It was not merely attraction when you touched me. Did the old man say anything more?”

  “While I was trying to gather my wits, he gasped, ‘You must move quickly. Take my car, behind the chapel.’ And then he was gone.”

  “Did you call for help?”

  “This is more of the weirdness. Ordinarily I would have called the police, but this time, I just stood and went outside and found his car. It was the only one there. The key was in the ignition, so I started driving. Or . . . or maybe I was being driven.”

  He shook his head. “It was the strangest feeling. I knew who I was, but I felt compelled to head north into the wilderness. I drove and drove, never hesitating, always knowing which turn to take. I ended up at that railway station just as your train was pulling in.” His gaze was penetrating. “If you don’t think I’m crazy, can you tell me what this is about?”

  Unfortunately, Jane could. It was disaster. “Brace yourself, Wing Commander. You have just been given the responsibility of recovering the Holy Grail.”

  Chapter 2

  David’s jaw dropped as he stared at the cool, impossibly lovely young woman who sat opposite him. With her tailored trousers, auburn hair tied at her nape and well-worn leather flying jacket, she looked like a sleekly sexy Hollywood pinup girl. Not someone who spoke of the Grail as if it were real. He stammered, “Th-the Holy Grail?”

  “I’m not nuts, as you so quaintly put it. Nor am I reading your mind.”

  “You sure seem to be,” he muttered. “You are a very scary woman, Jane Macrae.”

  “I’m rather harmless,” she said in her lovely crisp British accent, as if she hadn’t just said something outrageous. “The scariness lies in whoever stole the Grail from Rosslyn Chapel.”

  “The Holy Grail is a myth,” David scoffed. “Where I grew up, there are legends about the Templars fleeing to Nova Scotia, but I always figured that was only because Canadians wanted a piece of the story. What does a medieval legend have to do with an old guy being murdered in a chapel?”

  “Was the power that sent you roaring north to a railway station a myth, or did it seem real?” she asked mildly.

  He hesitated, remembering the intensity of that power, and how compelling it had been. “It seemed real, but I’m not ruling out the ‘nuts’ hypothesis.”

  She smiled, her grave face transformed. “If you remember the White Queen from Alice in Wonderland, she regularly practiced believing impossible things. It was good advice.”

  “She worked her way up to six impossible things before breakfast, as I recall.” David’s mother read Lewis Carroll to the Sinclair children. Maybe that was where his taste for science fiction began. “Is the Grail one of the impossible things I need to believe?”

  “Yes, but it’s not the first. Better to begin with a simpler impossibility.” She frowned, as if wondering where to start. “All people have at least some power that seems a little magical by the standards of daily life. It might be called intuition or the Sight or a hundred other names. This ability might show itself by a person knowing when a loved one is in danger, or by giving someone a vision of the future. My brother Jamie says the best fighter pilots have a sixth sense that enables them to stay a half step ahead of the enemy. Am I making sense so far?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “It’s an uncanny knack, other pilots say. I have it; your brother has it. Any pilot who survived the Battle of Britain probably has it. Though it may not be enough if you get into a dogfight with a German who has the same talent.”

  “I come from a family where such gifts are very strong. There are many such families, and we call ourselves Guardians.” She caught his gaze, willing him to believe. Her eyes were a soft, perceptive gray. “Centuries of ‘magical’ practice and marrying other Guardians have made our powers much stronger than average.”

  “Surely magic isn’t just British?” he asked, skeptical.

  “No, there are Guardian families all over the Continent. Other parts of the world have similar magical families, but the flavor and style of magic varies. The British Guardians are what I know.”

  “What kinds of powers do Guardians have?” he asked, intrigued despite his doubt.

  “Healing. Clairvoyance. Hunting. Illusions. The ability to pass unnoticed. Most Guardians can do a range of things, but will have one particular skill that is much stronger. The Macraes are known for producing the best weather mages in Britain.” She smiled wryly. “My father and oldest brother both work for the royal weather service. They would be better able to control the weather for us if the Nazis didn’t have weather mages of their own fighting for control of the skies.”

  “No wonder the weath
er around this little island of yours is so changeable,” he said, hoping to see her smile again.

  “It’s said that the best weather mages come from Scotland because it’s so easy to practice here. No one ever notices when the weather changes.” There was a glint in her eyes, but not a proper smile.

  “Are you a weather mage?”

  Jane shook her head. “I have only a touch of talent. It’s generally a male ability. All my brothers are better at weather magic than I am.”

  “So what do you do?” Something impressive, he was sure.

  Her gaze moved away from him. “My work is so secret that it’s hard to talk about, but . . . these are extraordinary circumstances. Officially, I’m a secretary in Whitehall. A useful but anonymous shuffler of papers.”

  “What is your real work?”

  “I’m very good at seeing patterns in bits of data. I’m also talented at filling in blanks when information is sketchy. So I spend my days putting pieces together.” She made a wry face. “I’m accused of being clairvoyant, telepathic or a snoop, but really, it’s just that I’m good at seeing the whole picture. This makes me . . . very useful in Whitehall.”

  “Military intelligence,” he said flatly.

  She nodded. “Yes, and I believe that is why you and I were brought together. My particular talent might help you fulfill your mission.”

  “So we’re back to the Holy Grail.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, thinking of how peacefully he’d started this morning at his Edinburgh bed-and-breakfast. It seemed a very long time ago. “You’re convincing, but I still have trouble believing in your Guardians. They’re too much like a story in a pulp magazine. If you folks have all this power, how come you aren’t ruling the world?”

  “Any Guardian who tried would be stopped by Guardian enforc ers. When we come into our powers in adolescence, we take an oath to serve our fellows.” Her mouth twisted. “On the whole, we would rather not be noticed than make attempts to rule the world. Think of all those witches who’ve been burned over the centuries.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in these powers, but if they’re real, are you even human?” Maybe her not being human would explain why she was so impossibly beautiful.

  Jane laughed, which made her even lovelier. “Guardians are entirely human, and we all make the mistakes to prove it. Since you don’t yet believe in this particular impossibility, I’ll give you a demonstration.” She snapped her fingers. The lamps dimmed dramatically. “I enhanced the lamps when I lit them. Now I’ve removed that extra power. See the difference?”

  David gave a soft whistle. He hadn’t realized how unnaturally bright the lamps were until they dimmed to the level usual with kerosene lamps.

  “I like strong lighting, so I used mage light to make the lamps burn brighter. I’ll restore it now.” She snapped her fingers again, and the room became twice as bright.

  “Isn’t this the sort of trick Victorian mediums used to do to impress the customers?” he asked warily.

  “Yes, but this is no trick.” Another finger snap, and a sphere of light glowed on Jane’s palm. “Is a separate mage light more convincing? Here, take it.”

  If he didn’t believe in magic, why was he so reluctant to take the sphere? Reminding himself that he was a swaggering, fearless fighter pilot, David extended his hand. Jane poured the light onto his palm. It buzzed against his skin, a faint but not unpleasant sensation.

  Delighted, he tossed the bright sphere in the air and caught it with his other hand. “I still don’t know if this is real, but it’s sure fun. Do you do white elephants?”

  “I could try,” she said thoughtfully. She drew her brows together and concentrated. Light appeared on her hand again, this time shaped like an elephant.

  “Good Lord, it’s Babar!” he exclaimed.

  She handed him the glowing shape. “The fact that mage light doesn’t fade when you hold it suggests that you have a fair amount of Guardian magic yourself.”

  “I am not the least bit magical.” Nor did he want to be. Yet his gaze remained on the mage lights in his hands.

  “Your encounter at Rosslyn probably enhanced your native abilities,” she mused. “Or perhaps magical power goes with becoming a Grail warden?”

  “But why me?” he asked, baffled. “Surely if the Grail wants a keeper, it can do better than drafting the first guy to come by.”

  “There was nothing random about your choice. I’d swear an oath on it.” Jane frowned. “I wish I knew more about the Grail. My mother is a professor at the University of Edinburgh—a historian specializing in folklore. She says that the Grail is a myth masked in magical mystery—and that can be a form of reality.”

  “Since my knowledge of the Grail is based on reading Arthurian stories when I was a kid, anything she told you is probably better than my knowledge,” he pointed out as he reached for another biscuit. “What’s your best guess about what’s going on?”

  “My mother believes that the Grail exists in a sacred space that lies next to the world we can see. Certain places are gateways to that space. Glastonbury is one such gateway. Rosslyn Chapel is another,” Jane explained. “The Grail can be called forth into our world by powerful magic, so portals are guarded by Grail wardens.”

  “The old guy who was murdered was a Grail warden?”

  Jane nodded. “He was probably employed as something like a gardener at the chapel, but his real task was guarding the portal. He surely had significant power, so greater power would be required to overcome him.”

  “I’m no expert on matters spiritual,” David said, “but if that’s what Grail power looks like, the thief who murdered him and took the chalice must be a monster.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re right. They say Hitler employs black sorcerers and has looked for other holy artifacts.” She bit her lip. “It’s quite possible, even likely, that he sent a sorcerer to Britain to steal the chalice.”

  “Wouldn’t theft be more likely from a spy who was already here?”

  “Perhaps, but a very powerful mage would be required to overcome the Grail warden and draw the chalice into our world.” Jane rose and moved to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to look out over the wild, uncanny landscape. “As you deduced, I work in military intelligence. Two days ago, Rudolf Hess flew to Scotland. He parachuted from his Messerschmitt near Glasgow, broke his ankle on landing, and was captured and imprisoned.”

  “Rudolf Hess?” David said incredulously. “The deputy führer?”

  “None other.”

  “Why the devil did he fly to Scotland?”

  “He claims he hoped to make a secret peace treaty with the Duke of Hamilton, whom he thought to be a Nazi sympathizer.” Jane turned from the window to regard David. “At least, that’s his story.”

  “Hamilton is a famous aviator and RAF officer!” David said, even more stunned. “Isn’t he in charge of Scotland’s air defenses? Surely he’s no Nazi!”

  “No, the duke and all three of his brothers are in the RAF. There is absolutely no reason to suspect any of them of secret Nazi sympathies. Hamilton is the one who called the authorities after he met Hess and identified him. My colleagues in London have been speculating that Hess is mad, but now that you’ve told me what happened at Rosslyn, I think there’s another explanation.”

  Jane pulled the draperies shut, then leaned back against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. “The real purpose of Hess’s trip might have been to fly a black sorcerer to Scotland to steal the chalice and take it back to Germany. Hess was losing favor with Hitler. Perhaps he thought that volunteering for a mission like this would redeem him. Hitler has already seized the Holy Spear in Vienna. If the spear and the chalice are united . . .” She shook her head, her expression worried.

  David was beginning to wish he’d studied history instead of engineering when he went to university. “The Holy Spear is the one that was allegedly used by a Roman centurion to stab Jesus in the side during the crucifixion?”

&nb
sp; “Yes. If the two sacred objects are brought together, their power will be multiplied. Perhaps enough for Germany to win this cursed war.”

  “The Nazis are doing too damned well even without the Grail,” David said bluntly. “We’re barely holding them at bay now.”

  “Then we’d better see what we can do to stop the chalice from leaving Britain.” Jane’s lips tightened. “If it’s not too late already. But since the theft took place today, it’s probably still in Scotland.”

  If the fighting got any worse, Britain might go down in defeat. Any chance of the Nazis being strengthened had to be stopped. “You said you didn’t think it was random that I showed up at the chapel when I did. If not chance, then what was it?”

  “My mother says that an object that has been venerated for so many centuries becomes almost sentient. My guess is that that the Grail—divine power, magic, whatever you wish to call it—sent out a call to anyone in the vicinity who was qualified to help preserve it. You were closest.”

  “What would make a person qualified?” David asked, incredulous.

  Jane shrugged ruefully. “There’s the so-called sacred blood. One legend says that Joseph of Arimathea brought the chalice to Britain, where he and a group of followers established Glastonbury Abbey. Some tales say he married into an ancient pagan line of priests and priestesses. Their descendants could include anyone in Britain or of British descent, like you. The idea fits nicely with my mother’s theory that the Christian Grail absorbed the even more ancient power of the Celts. The chalice is said to have qualities similar to the sacred Celtic cauldron—healing and fertility, for example.”

  “Sacred blood. Right.” He shook his head. “What are the other qualifications?”

  “The Celts attributed mythic power to being a seventh child, or better yet, the seventh child of a seventh child.” Her brows arched. “Are you by any chance . . . ?”

  “Actually, I am,” David said, taken aback. “The youngest of a family of seven, and my mother is a seventh child, too.”

  “That puts you in a very small group,” Jane said thoughtfully. “The last qualification is to be a good person.”