In the end he was disappointed. Although he managed to hold the yantra still in his mind, and it glowed white to confirm he’d got it right, he didn’t develop any power. He guessed what Jhala had said was true – Europeans couldn’t learn the higher powers.
Over the years, he tried the yantra from time to time, but it never worked . . .
And, of course, there was no point in trying the yantra again now. Why would it suddenly start working?
But he found himself focusing on it all the same. He wasn’t strong enough to sit upright, so he just lay there, doing his best to calm his mind. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the fever roaring within him.
He recalled all the details of the yantra easily enough and eventually it blazed brilliant white in his head.
And then . . . nothing.
Just as he’d expected. The meditation had been a pointless waste of energy.
He gazed up at the sky, but his sight blurred and the stars gummed together and the earth whirled beneath him.
Sunlight warmed his face and he forced open his heavy eyelids. He was still alive.
Everything was bright, painful to look at. He was still lying beside the pond and the water was fiery from the sun. He rolled on to his back, ignoring the pain from his broken rib.
He smelt a trace of woodsmoke. He sat up slowly and looked around, his eyes adjusting to the light now. He couldn’t see any sign of the track, but a finger of blue smoke rose above the trees, perhaps a mile away.
He walked around the clearing and managed to find his own tracks leading back into the forest. He considered following them to the path, but he knew he couldn’t continue for much longer. The fever was too severe. And he would need more food soon – the dry rations were almost finished.
He started off in the opposite direction, towards the rising smoke. The ground was flat and the trees far apart. After a few minutes the pain in his side worsened, darkness swirled around him and the ground rushed up.
He opened his eyes and found he was lying on the forest floor. He picked himself up and leant against a tree. He coughed and sneezed, pain crippling him. He somehow staggered on, stopping each time he felt faint and resting until he gained the strength to continue.
He didn’t know how long it took him to walk the short distance to the smoke. It seemed like hours. Eventually, the trees parted and he came out on to an open plain that stretched for as far as he could see in all directions. He felt giddy with the sense of space after the confines of the woods.
A village of white-walled cottages stood less than half a mile away. Nearer to him was a single house, set apart from the others, with smoke rising from a hole in its roof – the smoke he’d been following.
He walked unsteadily towards the cottage, the ground seeming to bounce about in front of him. Outside the building, a woman was bent over with a hoe, tending a small vegetable plot.
As Jack came closer, the woman looked up, narrowed her eyes and pointed the hoe at him as if it were a spear. ‘You keep away. I’ve got my husband indoors and I’ll call for him if you come any closer.’
‘I need food.’
‘You be on your way.’
‘Please.’ He took a few steps forward.
The woman shook, her eyes bright with fear. ‘Keep away. One step closer and I’ll—’
Everything spun in front of him. The woman, the cottage and the vegetable plot raced up to the left of his vision. He heard the woman shriek as he fainted and fell forward.
PART TWO
THE CRUSADE
10
Jack heard a grunting sound near to him. Snuffling. Squeals. The sound of pigs.
He opened his eyes. It was dark, but not pitch black. He was lying on his side on a bed of straw. In front of him was a wall of wooden slats, and through the gaps he could smell the stink of the pigs.
He rolled on to his back, eyes adjusting to the light. Above him stretched rafters and a thatched roof, and about him were rough wattle-and-daub walls with shuttered windows. He was in a peasant hut – a single room with an adjoining pigsty. He was instantly reminded of his parents’ cottage, of being a child.
An open door let in grey light from outside and a fire glowed in the centre of the room, the smoke rising through a hole in the roof. The smell of the smoke was everywhere and the thatching was black with soot.
He tried to sit up, but his arms were too weak to even support him.
‘You be careful there.’ A woman stood in the doorway – the woman he’d startled when he first appeared out of the forest. ‘You need to rest.’
She came bustling over to him; she was thin and might have seemed frail if it weren’t for her gleaming eyes and firmly set jaw. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked about Jack’s age – late thirties.
‘Where?’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Lie back down.’ She knelt beside him.
‘What am I doing here?’
‘Lie down, you fool.’
He made a sound halfway between a laugh and cough and eased himself back. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Two days.’
‘Two days!’
He tried to sit up again. William and the rebels would be well ahead of him. He had to get back to the trail.
But he couldn’t even raise himself into a sitting position.
‘Lie down,’ the woman said. ‘You’re going nowhere at the moment.’
He lay back with a sigh and stared up at the dark beams and the indistinct roof. The thought of Elizabeth cloyed his throat. Two days. That meant it was . . . nine days since he’d left Poole. Eighteen days until Elizabeth was executed. He tried to keep his eyes open, but they were painfully dry and he had to close them.
‘That’s right,’ the woman said. ‘Rest.’
He drifted in and out of sleep for he didn’t know how long. He was aware sometimes of other people in the room, but didn’t open his eyes to look at them. He was too weak to move. Sometimes it was light, sometimes dark. Sometimes everything was silent and black and at those times he briefly wondered if he were dead.
Memories of Elizabeth . . .
He saw her again as a child running across a meadow towards him, her dark hair flowing behind her in the wind . . .
Elizabeth sitting beside him as he told her the story of King Arthur. And her asking for him to retell it again and again . . .
Elizabeth running away to find the Grail. And him racing through the night looking for her and hearing her voice on the wind and finding her in the forest . . .
Then walking with her down a country road last year, the sky heavy with cloud. She’d just turned fifteen and he’d come back to the village to see her. They’d visited Katelin’s grave and left two bunches of wild flowers.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’m definitely going into service.’
‘We’ve already talked about it,’ Jack said. ‘The answer’s no.’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ve been offered a job, in Dorsetshire.’
Jack stopped. So Elizabeth had gone against his wishes. ‘Listen, you’re too young.’
‘I can’t stay at the Jones’s for ever.’
After Katelin died, Arnold and May Jones had taken in Elizabeth, as she couldn’t stay with Jack at the Goyanor estate.
‘Elizabeth, you’ll do as I say,’ he said.
She hung her head, then looked up again, took his arm. A dry breeze braided her hair. ‘I’m not a child any more.’
Jack had been away for a year and it was true, she looked more grown up now. But underneath that outer appearance wasn’t she still the same girl who’d run off to find the Grail?
‘I know what you think,’ she said. ‘But I’m not like I used to be. I’ll prove it.’
He searched her face. She seemed serious and thoughtful, different from the headstrong child he’d always known. ‘Maybe.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you.’
‘I said maybe.’
‘I’ll prove I
can look after myself.’
He smiled and shook his head. But he was beginning to believe Elizabeth really had changed. Perhaps this new Elizabeth could manage on her own. Perhaps he had to let her try.
He put his hand on her shoulder for a moment as they walked on. And they were silent as they made their way back to the village, as the light slowly bled out of the sky.
When he woke, the woman was squatting beside the fire, stirring a blackened pot. The door was open and he could see it was light outside. He heard chickens clucking, but the pigs were restful, only grunting occasionally.
‘How are you today?’ The woman glanced at him, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Jack thought about the question. He found he was strong enough to sit up. He felt well, alert. The pain of his broken rib had gone and the fever had lifted. ‘Good . . . hungry.’
She gave a small laugh. ‘I’ve got some pottage on the boil here. It’ll be ready in a minute.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Anne . . . Anne Carrick.’
‘I’m Jack. Thank you. For everything.’
‘Well, what’s the world come to when we don’t help those in need. You were in a terrible state when you showed up here.’
Jack recalled arriving at the cottage and seeing Anne standing outside with her hoe. ‘Where’s your husband?’
‘Husband?’
‘When I got here you said you’d call him.’
‘Oh, I only said that to scare you off.’ She turned back to the pot. ‘He died a long time ago.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Life goes on.’
Jack thought of Katelin. ‘It does.’
He watched her stir the pot for a moment. The sleeves of her dress were frayed, the elbows patched and one shoulder had a tear in it. It would be hard for her without a husband. With his army salary, Jack had always ensured Katelin had new clothes when she needed them, and the cottage they’d rented was far larger and better built than Anne’s hut, with several separate rooms.
Anne soon came over with a steaming bowl of barley, peas and beans. He inhaled the scent of the bland soup laced with onion and bacon fat.
She sat on a stool and watched him eat. Within minutes he’d finished and wiped the bowl clean with his finger.
‘You must be feeling better,’ she said with an amused smile.
He half smiled back. The food glowed in his stomach, but with his hunger satisfied he again thought about William. ‘So I’ve been here two days.’
‘Three. You slept another day.’
He felt a quiver of anxiety. William had estimated it would take three days to get to London by horse. If that were true, the rebels would be there already. ‘I need to go.’
‘You need to rest.’ She put her hand on his chest and looked at him for a little too long, then seemed to get embarrassed and removed her hand. ‘Anyway, you can’t leave without meeting my son. He’ll be back soon.’
Jack braced himself to stand, but paused when he heard the scrape of a boot outside and the chickens cackling as they scurried out of the way. A figure appeared, silhouetted in the doorway.
Anne stood. ‘He’s woken up.’
The figure stepped into the room. It was a man in his early twenties, with long sandy hair and bright eyes. His features were smooth, with a trace of youthful fat. He wore a European Army uniform – dark-blue tunic, brass buttons, light-grey trousers – but had a patch with a red cross on a white background sewn on to the left side of his chest: a St George’s cross. No soldier would normally deface his uniform in this way – the punishment was a minimum of thirty lashes. It had to be the mark of a rebel.
Jack would have to be careful what he said.
‘This is my son, Charles,’ Anne said.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Charles smiled as he walked across to shake Jack’s hand.
‘Jack Casey.’ He sat up straighter, with his back against the wall. ‘Pleased to meet you too.’
Charles sat on a stool and his mother brought him a bowl of pottage, which he slurped slowly as he spoke. ‘Just got in the other day. Bit surprised my mother’s taken in a lodger.’
‘I’ll be gone by nightfall,’ Jack said. ‘I’m much better.’
‘You wait until you’re completely well.’ Anne was tidying the pots and bowls on a set of shelves.
Charles grinned and winked at Jack. ‘Think she’s taken a shine to you.’
Anne slapped him across the top of the head and he laughed as he raised a hand to fend her off.
‘Seriously, though,’ Charles said, ‘you stay here as long as you like. You’re welcome.’
As Anne stepped outside, Charles pulled his stool closer and said more quietly, ‘Pleased there’s someone here to look after her, to be honest. She’s on her own. I’m leaving again in a couple of days.’
‘I’d like to stay, but I can’t.’
‘That’s a pity.’ Charles drew back. ‘Where you headed?’
Jack paused, thinking quickly. ‘London.’
‘London? Well, that’s where I’m . . .’ Charles looked at Jack more closely. ‘You’re going there to fight?’
Jack cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’ An idea was forming in his mind. ‘How are you getting there?’
‘Mule cart.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Charles shook his head. ‘You’ll never get better in time.’
‘I’m better now. I’m fine.’
A grin slipped across Charles’s face. ‘You’ve been out for days and now you’re fine?’
‘Yes. Listen, I used to be in the army—’
‘Is that right?’ Charles leant forward. ‘Which regiment?’
‘The 2nd Native Infantry.’
‘By St Mary. I’m with the 12th. So you’ve switched sides as well, then?’
‘You could say that. I left the army nine years ago.’
‘Injured?’
‘No . . . just had to leave.’
Charles put his spoon down. ‘Nine years ago. You must’ve seen a few battles.’
‘A few.’
‘What campaigns were you in?’
‘Poland, Dalmatia, Ragusa—’
‘You were at Ragusa?’ Charles’s face lit up.
‘What’re you two gabbling about?’ Anne came back into the hut with a large pot between her arms.
‘You didn’t tell me we had a war hero here,’ Charles said. ‘Jack was at Ragusa.’
Anne put the pot down in a corner of the room and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘There aren’t any heroes in war. Just dead people.’
‘Mother, please.’ Charles turned back to Jack. ‘Don’t mind her.’
‘That’s right,’ Anne said. ‘What do I know?’ Anne looked at Jack and pointed to her son. ‘His father was in the army. Died fighting in Macedonia.’
‘And he got a commendation for it,’ Charles reminded her. ‘His captain came to this village, this very hut, to give it to us. I remember it.’
Anne retrieved something from a shelf, blew dust off it and held it up; it was a circular metal brooch embossed with three lions. Jack recognised it straight away – a Special Commendation, a great honour.
‘That’s all we got.’ Anne’s jaw was locked and her eyes misty. ‘Thirteen years’ service and that’s all we’ve got left of him.’
‘Mother, it’s all right.’ Charles stood and put his arm on her shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s put that away.’
She sighed and placed the medal back on the shelf. She wiped her eyes on the edge of her sleeve and turned back to Jack. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just hard to see your men going off like that.’
‘I know.’ Jack remembered all those times he’d said goodbye to Katelin.
‘Anyway,’ Anne said, ‘I’m going down to the village. You stay where you are, Jack. You’re in no fit state to go anywhere.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Charles said to her.
She put on a bonnet and stepped outsi
de. She looked at Jack as if about to say something, but then changed her mind and walked off.
Charles opened one of the window shutters and stood looking out. From where Jack was sitting all he could see was the white cloud covering the sky.
‘You know, I’m back here rounding up men for the crusade,’ Charles said. ‘We need as many as we can get. They say the Rajthanans have a huge army.’
‘How big?’
‘Don’t know. I heard forty thousand. There’re lots of rumours.’
‘It’ll be tough. They’ll fight hard.’
‘Of course.’ Charles seemed to brood on this until his face brightened. ‘But we’ll fight harder. The Grail will help us.’
‘The Grail?’
‘Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s saying it. The Grail’s coming back.’
‘Yes . . . of course.’ That rumour hadn’t made it to Poole. Did the rebels really believe this? The Grail was just a legend, a superstition. ‘Let me come with you. I’m going to London anyway – you don’t want to make me walk.’
Charles grinned and pointed out of the window. ‘You see the village over there?’
Jack stood and hobbled unsteadily to the window. Half a mile away was the cluster of cottages, dominated by a stone church.
‘There’s an alehouse down there,’ Charles said. ‘Tomorrow, at midday, I’m speaking to everyone there. Trying to get them to join the fight. If you can walk down on your own and drink a pint of ale, I’ll take you to London.’
Jack drank ale from an earthenware mug. He was sitting on a bench in a corner of the alehouse, elbow on a trestle table. All around him were men from the village in their dusty clothes and drooping cloth hats. They drank and talked loudly, some puffing on the hookahs that gurgled and smouldered on each table. Soft tobacco smoke floated through the room.
The building was a simple longhouse with numerous windows letting in the watery midday light. Chickens and dogs ranged about the earth floor and the high thatched roof harboured sparrows and starlings that watched the proceedings with their glossy eyes. Like all the buildings in the village, the alehouse was in need of repair. Even Jack’s tiny hut at the Goyanor house was in a better state.
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