The Place of Dead Kings (9 page)

‘How about what?’

‘The mission to Scotland. We want you to lead it, of course.’

‘Me?’

Henry grimaced and stared at the water. ‘It wasn’t my idea. Sir Alfred insisted.’

‘Why?’

‘Like I said, you know about black magic. No one else around here does.’

‘You want me to go looking for something I don’t believe in?’

Henry’s face reddened. ‘You may not believe in it, but others do. Why else would the Rajthanans march into Scotland? Why would they bother?’

That was a good point. The Rajthanans would only send a force into the wilds if they had a reason. There had to be something behind the stories about Mahajan, even if it wasn’t the Grail.

But all the same, why should Jack get involved? After William had died, he’d promised before God to keep up the fight against the Rajthanans, and he’d done that. He’d spent the past year training siddhas to the best of his ability. He’d done what he could to support the crusade. He didn’t have to do more, especially now that he would be dead within two months.

‘You really think the Grail’s up there in Scotland?’ Jack asked.

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Henry looked down. ‘It’s worth a try. The omens are good. A white hart’s been seen in the hills. You heard that?’

Jack hadn’t heard, but then he had little time for his countrymen’s superstitions. ‘You take that as a sign the mission will succeed?’

‘Some say that.’ Henry gazed up the hill, as if searching for the creature amongst the trees. ‘A white hart is rare. It must mean something that one has come now.’

‘Look, Henry, I appreciate this offer. Tell Sir Alfred I’m honoured. But I can’t go. I have my work here. That’s how I can best serve the crusade.’

‘Sir Alfred will be disappointed.’

‘He’ll understand.’

‘You afraid? Is that it?’

‘You won’t convince me like that.’

Henry’s face twisted. ‘You’re a traitor after all. I knew it.’

‘If you wish.’

‘You don’t want us to find the Grail.’ Henry’s eyes glinted as he pointed his finger at Jack’s chest. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You want us to fail. I see right through you, Casey. You should go back with your Indian friend.’ He waved his finger in the direction of the village. ‘Go back to the Rajthanans. You’re their servant, after all. They’ve warped your mind.’ He tapped his finger against his temple.

Jack held up his hand. ‘Henry—’

‘Sir Alfred won’t be happy when I tell him about this. You can be sure of that.’ Henry’s lips sprayed spittle. ‘You’ll be out of here in no time. And you can take your little sorcerers and devils and witches with you.’ He pushed back his cloak and flexed his fingers around the handle of his pistol. ‘I ought to shoot you now and be done with it.’

Jack tightened his hands into fists. He wasn’t carrying a weapon and there was no one nearby who could help. He could probably jump at Henry and knock him back before he had a chance to get out his firearm.

Probably.

His heart spiked. Should he do it? Now?

Henry was breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring. His fingers clasped the pistol . . . and then released it again. He pushed up his bottom lip so that his chin puckered. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

He turned and marched back towards his horse, his arms swishing to either side of his huge frame and his cloak swirling behind him.

Jack breathed out. It was hard to know how far Henry would take things. He and Jack had been having these confrontations for the past year, with Henry regularly threatening violence, but so far it had always come to nothing. Henry had a short temper, though, and there was no knowing what he might do if he were pushed too far.

Jack strolled back through the willow trees, up the slope and on towards the village. Henry’s story was a strange one. A Rajthanan called Mahajan becoming a Scottish chieftain. The Holy Grail. Demons. What to make of it all?

It was best for him to just put it out of his mind. There was little he could do to help. He would soon be dead – and he was no expert in sattva or powers or the Grail. He was just an ordinary siddha.

Or was he?

Kanvar had said he had a special ability. And Kanvar knew more about these things than Jack.

Elizabeth, Godwin and Kanvar stood waiting for him at the edge of the village.

‘What did he want?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Nothing.’ Jack patted her on the shoulder. ‘Just the usual complaints.’

‘Why did he want to talk in private, then?’ she said.

Jack shrugged. ‘Forget about him. Come on, let’s get back.’

Kanvar’s horse stood on the edge of Folly Brook, snorting and gouging out chunks of earth with its hooves. The villagers gathered twenty feet away and stared at the impressive, pure-white charger. Many of them had come out simply to marvel at the animal’s gleaming coat, straight back and well-formed legs.

Kanvar held the bridle and patted the horse on the neck.

‘You really have to go?’ Jack asked as he stood beside the Sikh.

‘Yes, I must speak to my commander. I have already been here too long.’

‘Will you be safe travelling through Shropshire? People will think you’re a Rajthanan.’

‘I made it here safely, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. How
did
you do that?’

Kanvar smiled. ‘I have my ways.’

‘When will you be back?’

‘As soon as I can. Within a month. I will teach your pupils more yantras then.’

‘A month. Suppose I’ll still be here.’

Kanvar patted Jack’s arm. ‘I am certain you will be. Keep trying Great Health.’

‘I will. I don’t hold out much hope, though.’

Elizabeth called out as she jogged over from the village, waving her arm.

‘You must tell her,’ Kanvar said.

‘I will.’

‘You only have two months—’

‘I said, I’ll tell her.’

Elizabeth ran up to them and threw her arms around Kanvar, almost knocking him over. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

Kanvar, a little startled, took a step back and Elizabeth released him.

‘And you’ll come back, won’t you?’ Elizabeth asked.

Kanvar bowed his head slightly. ‘Soon. But now I must go.’ He looked past Jack and Elizabeth and waved at the onlookers. Then he swung into the saddle, gave Jack a final parting nod and nudged his horse into a trot. He bobbed away along the track, his bright orange turban shining against the green and gold of the trees.

A cold wind plucked a handful of leaves from the ground and scattered them across the grass. Jack glanced at Elizabeth. Kanvar was right – he would have to tell her soon. But she wouldn’t take the news well.

And how would she fare once he was gone? He needn’t worry. She was old enough to look after herself now. And she had Godwin, who was better than nothing.

He gazed along the track and saw that Kanvar had almost vanished into the distance.

He would die, but Elizabeth and his grandchild would live on.

J
ack squinted down the road. It twisted off along Clun Valley, between hills that rolled away to either side. In the distance he made out a column of people on foot, wispy dust rising behind them.

‘Can you see them?’ Elizabeth asked. She knew her father had uncannily good eyesight.

Jack nodded. ‘About a thousand of them.’

A gust of wind tugged at the edges of Elizabeth’s bonnet. ‘So many.’

Jack stayed silent. A thousand was indeed a lot of people to have walked all the way from Wiltshire, but it was only a small fraction of the tens of thousands said to have fled from the army.

He glanced about him. Along the road, at various points, people from the surrounding villages had assembled to provide what support they could to the approaching refugees. A large contingent from nearby Newcastle stood on a slope on the opposite side of the track. Amongst them was Henry, his hands on his belt and his black cloak flicking in the breeze. Henry cast his eyes down at Jack and his mouth twisted with disgust for a moment before he looked away again.

Beside Jack stood Elizabeth, Godwin, Mark and six others from Folly Brook. They’d brought a mule cart bearing all the parsnips, turnips and carrots they could spare. This wouldn’t go far, but it would at least give a few hundred people a decent meal. There wasn’t much more Folly Brook could offer.

The refugees began arriving in small groups. Their clothes were dishevelled: hose torn, sleeves ripped, dresses and tunics stained, and bonnets grey with dust and sweat. Their faces were sallow and gaunt, and many had weeping sores or blisters on their exposed skin. A few bore sacks of possessions and one man even pulled a small cart behind him, but most appeared to have nothing more than the clothes they were wearing.

The villagers handed out food as the refugees passed.

A group of five women stumbled over to Jack. Elizabeth and the others offered vegetables, which the women wrapped up in pieces of filthy cloth.

‘God’s grace to you all,’ one of the women said in a wavering voice, her hand shaking as she accepted the food.

The women limped away up the road, their feet bare and bloody, save for one who wore a pair of boots so broken they flapped open with each step.

Jack felt Elizabeth grip his arm.

‘We should take them back to Folly Brook,’ Elizabeth said.

‘And what about the rest of them?’ Jack motioned to the column of people further down the road.

‘We should help some of them at least.’

‘Your father’s right.’ Godwin put his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘We can’t help them all.’

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and shot her husband a withering look. He coughed, lowered his arm and suddenly became interested in his boots.

The refugees streamed on, a thin haze of dust drifting around them and the wind dragging at their tattered clothing. The groups became larger and clusters of as many as thirty people staggered past. Parents carried their children on their backs and a few old people, who’d somehow survived, limped past using branches as walking sticks.

Jack stared into the distance and could only just make out the end of the train. He and the others from Folly Brook had already given away half their vegetables, and there were more than five hundred refugees still to come.

Then he thought he recognised someone in the crowd. Someone he’d known three years ago.

No, it couldn’t be. He was imagining things.

And yet . . . he found himself hunting through the throng once more, just to be sure. His gaze settled on a young man striding up the road with an elderly woman and five girls. The women were Mohammedans – Jack could tell immediately by their head-scarves and loose black dresses. But it was the young man who interested him most. Jack made out the lad’s white skullcap, locks of ginger hair and thin beard. He knew that face. There was no mistaking it.

Saleem.

Jack whispered a prayer under his breath. The boy had lived. Thank God.

Jack had met him on his way to London three years ago. They’d travelled together and eventually reached the city, all the while Jack pretending to be a crusader, when really, at that point, he was hunting William. He’d locked Saleem in a cellar when the Rajthanans attacked London. He’d done it to save the boy, but Saleem wouldn’t see it that way. No doubt Saleem would view him as a traitor. And Saleem wouldn’t be far wrong about that.

Jack stepped back and turned his face away from the road. What to do? He wanted to greet the lad, but what would Saleem’s reaction be? Would he call Jack a traitor in front of everyone? Jack couldn’t risk that. It didn’t matter if he were publicly shamed – in many ways he deserved it. What mattered was Elizabeth. He didn’t want life made difficult for her after he was gone.

‘Back in a moment.’ He set off down a short slope towards the woods nearby.

‘Where’re you going?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Just have to sort something out,’ he said, without turning.

He strode into the trees, walked a few yards and then paused, leaning against an elm.

He shook his head slowly. Look at him, skulking around in the forest like a coward. Saleem was just a young man. Jack should be prepared to face him. But he had no choice.

‘Father?’ Elizabeth came walking down the slope.