The War of the Grail (2 page)

He squinted ahead and studied the light. Now that the radiance was closer, it looked as though there were in fact two separate lights standing close to each other. Two fires? Was that it?

And something else was bothering Noel. It had been lurking at the back of his mind since Warwick had first spotted the light.

‘Sir,’ Noel whispered.

‘What?’ Warwick said without pausing or even turning his head.

‘If that’s a campfire up there, why’s it bright green?’

Warwick muttered something that Noel couldn’t hear.

‘What, sir?’

Warwick drew to a halt and spun round. His eyes burned in the darkness. ‘You listen here, boy. You’d better shut your mouth and start doing what I tell you to.’

Noel gulped. What was Warwick so angry about? ‘But, sir, I just meant the fire’s a strange colour—’

‘I said, shut your mouth.’ Warwick grasped Noel’s tunic at the neck and twisted the material tight. ‘You and your bloody talk about devils.’

Noel’s breath was shivery. ‘Didn’t say nothing …’ Then he noticed the wild gleam in Warwick’s eyes. It was as though the man were crazed.

Or afraid.

Noel’s heart quickened. Warwick. Afraid.

He glanced in the direction of the light and then gasped.

The glow had vanished. He could see nothing but the patchy gloom in all directions.

‘What the devil?’ Warwick had noticed too. He let go of Noel’s tunic and scanned the surroundings.

‘What happened?’ Noel asked.

‘Some sort of trap, I’ll warrant. Guard my back.’

Noel drew his sword and stood with his back to Warwick, as he’d been taught to do many times before. He gripped the hilt tightly, but couldn’t stop his hand from shaking. The moonlight flowed and rippled over the blade as it moved.

He scoured the woods, staring into the caverns and passages formed by the trees. The wind tugged at the branches and sent the shadows shifting and weaving. He kept thinking he saw figures moving in the dark, but each time he concentrated on them they vanished.

There was a soft crunch off to his right. It sounded like vegetation breaking. He jumped slightly and stared into the gloom, but saw nothing but shadows.

‘What was that, sir?’ he asked.

‘Keep watching my back,’ Warwick hissed.

Noel nodded. His hand was shaking so much now that the sword was waggling like a silver eel.

There was another crunch, accompanied by a thud. It sounded as though something had struck the earth.

Cold fingers crept up Noel’s spine and his scalp crawled. His breathing was short, ragged and so loud it echoed through the forest.

Warwick pointed the pistol towards the source of the sound.

There was another thud. Then the shuffle and rustle of something moving through the undergrowth. Another thud. And then a great cracking, thrashing and groaning, followed by a thump that shivered through the earth. A tree had fallen somewhere in the dark.

‘By Saint Mary!’ Noel shuddered.

‘Keep to my back.’ Warwick was breathing heavily and his voice sounded strained.

More threshing in the undergrowth.

Noel’s breath came in short gulps. Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked in order to stop his sight becoming completely blurred. He thought of his mother for a moment, pressing the wretched mittens over his hands. He’d been furious with her for embarrassing him. Only now he felt ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t have been angry. She’d only been trying to look after him as she’d always done …

‘Run,’ Warwick said hoarsely.

It took Noel a moment to understand the words. The crashing in the forest was growing louder. And now he could see the two green lights again. They were hurtling towards him and Warwick.

Noel’s stomach dropped. Something warm ran down his leg and he realised he was pissing in his hose.

Warwick was already charging off into the woods and disappearing through a curtain of vines. Noel spun round and sprinted after the older man, trying to catch up. Behind him he heard a contorted howl that sounded like iron breaking. Sweat ran down his face and tears welled up in his eyes. He was wailing now and couldn’t stop himself.

To his left he heard more slashing and crunching. He caught sight of the green lights flickering through the netting of branches.

What was it? The Devil? Could it really be the Devil?

He was sobbing. What else could it be? It had to be the Devil.

Twigs and leaves slapped him in the face. He flailed through thickets of shrubs. He was dimly aware that he’d thrown his sword aside at some point. What a stupid thing to do. Now he had nothing to fight with. Although, what good was a sword against the Devil anyway?

He tripped on a stone, went flying through the air and skidded across the ground. As he scrambled back to his feet, he heard bellowing and roaring up ahead. He paused for a second, squinting into the dark. He couldn’t see anything, but he heard more howls and the crack and thump of a tree falling. Someone shouted – he was certain it was Warwick. There was a pop, and a flash lit up the forest for a second. Warwick must have fired the pistol.

And then there was silence.

Almost complete silence.

Noel could hear his own ragged breathing, the sizzling of the night insects and the cackle of the leaves in the wind. But that was all.

‘Warwick,’ he whispered.

There was no reply.

He swallowed, tasting salt from his tears in the back of his throat.

‘Warwick,’ he said more loudly, his voice shaking.

Still nothing.

A chill crawled across his skin.

His mind clouded for a moment and he couldn’t think what to do. Should he try to hide somewhere? Should he go back the way he’d come? He quickly realised he had to go forward, had to find Warwick. If he could.

Cursing the fact that he’d thrown away his sword, he sneaked ahead. The stench of the rot was stronger now and at one point his foot sank into a shallow pool. He must be near to the edge of the marshes.

Then he heard a splash and a slurping sound behind him. Something had dropped into swampy ground.

He froze. He had the strange sense that there was something near to him. He spun round and crouched slightly, panting hard. Who was there? What was there?

He saw nothing but tangled branches dripping with moss.

He waited for a moment, searching the alternating patches of light and dark. Then he sensed a tiny shift in the air, as if a door had closed at the far end of a long hall. Something had moved in the dark. But he couldn’t tell whether it was just ahead of him or further away.

And now he noticed a new smell cutting through the scent of the bog. It reminded him of coal smoke mixed with perfume. The hair shot up on the back of his neck. Was that smell brimstone?

Shaking, he turned and jogged ahead. He tried to go quietly at first, but then a metallic wail erupted behind him. His heart spiked and he charged forward, smashing aside bushes that got in the way. He was whimpering involuntarily. Tears smeared his eyes.

A branch smacked him in the face, but he ducked underneath it. He staggered through a mesh of vines and then came out in a clearing. Something lay glinting in the grass. As he ran closer, he saw it was a pistol.

Warwick’s pistol.

He grasped the firearm. His hand shook so much he thought he was going to drop the weapon. He’d never shot a pistol before, but he’d seen them used often enough to know what to do. You just pointed the thing at the target and pulled the small lever at the bottom – a ‘trigger’, it was called.

A roar boomed behind him. He swivelled and pointed the pistol at the shadows. He heard a thump and further crashing through the undergrowth. But he still saw nothing.

Heart smacking hard, he turned again and ran to the far side of the clearing. As he reached the trees, he almost tripped as his foot struck something lying across the ground.

He looked down.

His skin seethed and bile rose in his throat.

It was a human arm, severed from its body and its end a bloody stump. Worse, he recognised the material of the sleeve that still covered it. It was from Warwick’s tunic.

Noel stifled a cry.

There was a thud behind him and a shriek so loud it made the air shiver. A blast of hot air scorched the back of his neck and smoke billowed about him.

His heart bashed in his chest.

The Devil was right behind him.

His only hope was to shoot with the pistol. But would that even have any effect? Could the Evil One be harmed by a firearm?

He had to try.

Trembling, crying, he turned round.

A gigantic form towered over him, silhouetted against the moonlight. Two green fires glowed where he imagined the Devil’s eyes must be.

He gasped and raised the pistol. But the Devil lunged straight at him.

Piss flooded his hose and his bowels emptied. For a second he caught a glimpse of a monstrous face. He tried to pull the trigger but he’d already been whipped off his feet and swung into the air. Steam and smoke whirled about him. He felt himself being stretched apart. And then a great weight slammed into his chest.

As he slipped away he could think of one thing only – his mother weeping with worry as she pressed the mittens over his hands …

J
ack Casey stood before the great portcullis as it groaned and rattled upwards. The chains and pulleys squealed so loudly he thought they would break and send the ironwork slamming back into the earth. This was the first time he’d seen the portcullis in use since he’d arrived in Clun Valley. Clearly it was in need of repair.

Indeed, much of Lord Fitzalan’s castle was in need of repair. When Jack glanced up at the walls and towers, he spotted many broken battlements, chipped turrets and cracked stones. Once the castle would have been a grand fortress, with banners flying above the keep and archers lining the walls. But that was all long in the past now.

The portcullis clanged into place and Jack strode through the arched passage beneath the gatehouse.

Constable Henry Ward stood waiting for him on the other side. The large man had his hands on his hips, and his eyes glinted from within his bearded face. An arming-sword hung at his side and an ornate rotary pistol was stuck in his belt. As always, he wore a white surcoat emblazoned with the red cross of St George – the mark of the Crusader Council of Shropshire. Three guards stood just behind him, also wearing crusader surcoats. Lord Fitzalan had long been one of the Council’s staunchest supporters and now few in his service even wore the Fitzalan sign.

Jack raised his hand. ‘Greetings.’

Henry narrowed his eyes and looked Jack up and down, his mouth twisting with distaste. Jack and Henry had never seen eye to eye, but over the past seven months, since Jack had returned from Scotland, their disagreements had become even more heated.

‘What is it you want, Henry?’ Jack held his hands open to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

Henry’s expression soured further. ‘
I
don’t want anything from you. I’d be happier to see you run out of that little enclave of yours. I can’t understand how you were ever appointed reeve of that village in the first place.’

Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘It was you who summoned me. If I’m not needed—’

‘Wait.’ Henry scowled. ‘It’s the master who wants to speak to you. It’s urgent.’

Jack followed Henry and his men across the bailey, through a set of double doors and into the great hall. The chamber was silent and all the shutters were closed. A handful of sputtering torches tried feebly to hold back the gloom, but most of the hall remained draped in shadows. Jack could only just make out the lord’s chair standing on the dais at the far end of the room.

Henry led the way up a set of corkscrew steps. The silence was so complete Jack could even hear the guards’ scabbards tapping against the wall of the stairwell.

When Jack had visited the castle in the past, the place had been bustling with men-at-arms, servants and courtiers. Where was everyone?

Henry reached a landing at the top of the stairs and paused beside a door. He turned to face Jack, his features lit only by a streak of light from an arrow slit in the wall. ‘You must not speak to anyone about what you see beyond this door.’