The War of the Grail
Read The War of the Grail Online
Authors: Geoffrey Wilson
Table of Contents
Land of Hope and Glory
The Place of Dead Kings
Geoffrey Wilson was born in
South Africa, grew up in New Zealand and then backpacked around
the world before eventually settling in the United Kingdom.
He studied Hinduism and Buddhism
at the University of Canterbury, New Zealand, and has been
fascinated by India since travelling there in the early 1990s.
He worked in IT for several
years, eventually starting a web development business with three
friends.
Geoffrey Wilson
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2013 Geoffrey Wilson
The right of Geoffrey Wilson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 9781444721171
Hardback ISBN 9781444721164
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For my London family: Helena, Anita, Blue, Molly, Jet and little Griff
T
he Evil One walks in these woods.
Noel Miller shivered as he recalled what the old man had said. He’d been trying to forget about it all day, but now that night had closed in and the forest had clenched itself tightly to either side of the road, those words kept worming their way into the back of his head.
The Evil One walks in these woods.
Noel’s horse nickered and shook her head. He leant forward in the saddle and whispered in her ear to calm her.
Forester Warwick, riding alongside Noel, snorted. ‘Your horse senses her rider’s nerves.’
Noel quickly sat up straight again. ‘I’m not nervous.’ Thinking he might have spoken too abruptly, he added, ‘Master.’
Warwick grinned, the silver stubble on his cheeks glinting in the moonlight. Thick lines furrowed his face and his skin was like aged leather. He’d been a forester for nearly thirty years and had spent most of that time living outdoors, battered by the wind and rain. ‘Don’t you worry, boy. Shawbury’s not far off now. Your mother won’t have to fret for much longer.’
Noel felt his cheeks redden. Warwick was always making fun of his mother. But she did have a way of embarrassing him. On the very first day of his apprenticeship with the Earl of Shropshire’s foresters, his mother had come running after him with a pair of mittens he’d left behind. She’d rushed up to him, puffing and panting, and insisted on trying to push the mittens over his hands herself. Noel still winced at the memory of the other young apprentices bellowing with laughter.
He took a deep breath, circled his shoulders and straightened his back. He might only be fourteen years old, but he was an apprentice forester. He had to make sure he at least acted the part.
But his eyes kept straying to the whorls of shadow and foliage all about him. The wind changed and the trees creaked and rattled. He caught a whiff of rot from the marshes that speckled the countryside in this part of Shropshire. Frogs chirped and cawed and the night insects shrilled.
Hills swept up to his right, only barely visible against the black sky. A ruin crowned one of the summits, the moon casting the ancient stonework pale and spectral. He’d heard the building had once been the fortress of a mad sultan who’d ruled these lands long ago. Now crazed djinns were said to haunt it. Hardly a comforting thought.
There was a rustle in the undergrowth and a dark form shot out of the woods. Noel jumped in his saddle, but then saw it was only a boar. The creature slipped like a sprite across the track and then disappeared into the trees again.
Warwick shook his head. ‘God’s blood, lad. Calm down.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s just the woods. You telling me you never been out in them at night?’
‘Course I have, sir.’ Noel hesitated for a moment. Should he tell Warwick what was on his mind? ‘It’s just …’ His voice trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to speak about it. He was certain Warwick would only laugh.
‘You’re not thinking about that old blind fool, are you?’
‘No, sir.’ Noel heard an owl hoot nearby. ‘Maybe.’
‘That man was a simpleton.’
‘He sounded sure of himself.’
The incident had happened earlier in the day. Warwick and Noel had been sent to Drayton to investigate a claim of illegal woodcutting. As they were on their way back, the old man had staggered out into the road, babbling that the Devil himself was hiding in the forest.
‘He killed a man yesterday,’ the old man had said, drool running down his chin. ‘I was near, but I hid myself. But the Devil it was.’
Warwick gave a wheezy laugh. ‘That old man was blind. How did he even see the Devil?’
‘Said he smelt the brimstone on his breath,’ Noel replied. ‘Said he heard him growling.’
‘Boy, the Devil might be at work in these lands. Perhaps his hand is behind our Rajthanan enemies even. But he won’t be hiding out in a forest to frighten old men. What purpose would that serve?’
‘Suppose you’re right,’ Noel mumbled. For a moment the darkness seemed less threatening and the shadows less thick. He cast his eye over the branches swaying all about him. Of course Warwick was right. The Devil wasn’t lurking in these woods …
‘Wait.’ Warwick stopped his horse abruptly.
Noel’s heart quivered and he dragged at the reins to pause his mare. ‘What?’
Warwick pointed into the mottled darkness to the right of the path. ‘There.’
Noel peered into the blackness. What was Warwick talking about? Then he spotted it – a tiny, greenish light winking in the gloom. ‘What is it?’
Warwick pursed his lips. ‘Must be poachers.’
‘You sure?’
‘That light’s right in the middle of the forest. There’s no track. Only poachers would go out there at night.’
‘But … would they light a fire?’
Warwick rested his hand on the pommel of his arming-sword. ‘They must have made camp for the night.’
‘Couldn’t it be bandits? Outlaws?’
‘Haven’t been many of them in these parts for a few years.’ Warwick turned his horse towards the light. ‘It’s poachers. I’m certain of it.’
Warwick set off along an animal track that wound through the trees. Noel nudged his mare and followed. The branches knitted together about him and twigs scratched at his face. Spots of moonlight lay scattered like coins across the ground. Occasionally, through the leaves, he caught glimpses of the pallid ruins hovering on the crest of the nearest hill.
He swallowed hard. If poachers were out here, he and Warwick would have to confront them. After all, one of the main jobs of the foresters was to prevent hunting in the earl’s woods. In theory, he and Warwick would have to capture the poachers and take them to Shawbury for trial. But that would prove difficult if there were many men and they decided to resist.
Noel had been training hard with his arming-sword, but so far he’d never had to use it.
He whispered a Hail Mary under his breath. With any luck, the poachers would scatter and disappear into the night.
The trail petered out and the horses were forced to wade through brambles and bracken. The ground became uneven as the base of the hills drew closer.
After perhaps two minutes, Warwick raised his hand to call a halt.
Noel rode up beside him. ‘What now?’
‘Quiet,’ Warwick hissed. ‘They’re not more than two hundred yards away.’ He nodded ahead to where the green light glimmered between the tree trunks. ‘We’ll go on foot from here.’
They both dismounted and tethered their horses. Warwick drew a pistol from his belt, flexed his fingers about the handle and then led the way ahead. They crept through the trees, treading as silently as they could. Noel winced each time the bracken crackled beneath his boots.
They passed through moonlit arcades of trees. Vines draped down from the branches and mosses furred the trunks. The sound of the frogs and crickets throbbed constantly.
Noel’s heart beat faster. He found his fingers sliding around the pommel of his sword. He’d sharpened the blade that morning, before they’d set out. He was certain it would do some damage if he landed a good blow. But would he be able to land a good blow? It was one thing to train, quite another, he was sure, to use a sword in a real fight. What if he lost his head and made a mistake? What if he found himself up against a more seasoned fighter?
What would it be like to feel a blade slicing into his stomach?
His heart raced and he panted softly. He had to calm himself. Get himself under control.
He shot a look at Warwick. The grizzled older man had a sword at his side and the pistol in his hand. The firearm’s polished metal glowed softly in the dim light and Noel could just make out the ornate designs engraved along the side plate. Not many people had a pistol like that. Although some crusaders had been issued muskets, a pistol was a special prize. It could fire six shots without reloading. You could kill a group of men before they even got near to you. Like magic.
Noel took a deep breath. He was with Warwick, who’d been a forester for years. The old man knew what he was doing. Noel would be quite safe while he was with him.
