What can stand against a man whose heart it is unbroken?
All characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional, although, by pure coincidence, they may actually have happened- such is the nature of stories.
The author acknowledges that Rosslyn Castle and Rosslyn Chapel are probably different places, and are not as depicted in the story; and that The Knights Templar may not be linked to The Illuminati (and apologies to The Knights Templar if, in fact, they are not evil).
This declaration will now end before it spoils the plot…
The First Part.
The time is 22.30 on the 2nd of January, 1849.
In the previous year; The Pre Raphaelite Brotherhood was established, a Mr Karl Marx, formally of Germany, published The Communist Manifesto, Edgar Allen Poe was engaged to a Miss Sarah Helen Whitman, and is soon going to die, and The Glorious Revolution swept through Europe in a wave of barely noticed futility.
The Romantic Period is dead. The Post Romantic Period has begun.
The place is O’Marley’s Tavern, White Chapel, London.
Three gentlemen sit at a table. One is dressed several decades out of fashion; a Dandy with long blonde hair and far too much lace about his neck and wrists, too large a buckle on his belt, very substantial boots and grey greatcoat that would probably have looked better on The Duke of Wellington. That is James George Harry Hunter, Esquire. The second man wears a tight fitting, black and white pin stripe three-piece suit, a black shirt and black leather gloves, which is how he dresses every day. That is Mr John Black. The third man wears a top hat and tails. He has no name.
“So you are telling me that, after three months, you have still not caught Spring Heel Jack?” say the third man.
“Aye,” says Black.
“Have you anything to show for yourselves?” the third man says.
“Indeed,” says Hunter. “We know that he is most often seen in Highgate Cemetery, between the hours of one and three in the morning, that he has claimed twenty-three confirmed victims so far, and that he is distinguished in a crowd by his glowing red eyes.”
“And why then, knowing all this, have you not caught him?” asks the third man.
“The thing about Spring Heel Jack,” Black says dryly,” t’is that he has springs on his heels. He can jump very high, very fast. I am sure that you can see the problem.”
The third man grunts.
“He really can jump rather high,” says Hunter.
“Cretins,” say the third man. “I do not know what we pay you for.”
“Perhaps if you paid us more, we might have more success,” says Black.
“You are lucky that I pay you anything. If you do not finish the mission soon, there will be consequences.”
“Am I suppose to fear you, sir?” asks Black.
“Do not test me sir. You will finish the mission, there will be no more pay, and if you fail -”
“To hell with this,” says Hunter, finishing his glass of sherry and standing. “I am going home to make love to the serving maid!”
With that Hunter collects his silver tipped walking cane from beside his table and storms out off the tavern. The third man’s face turned red with rage.
“Damned moody Dandy,” the third man growled. “Bloody soft idiot fop.”
“Don’t talk about me brother-in-law that way,” said Black, his accent becoming more recognisably that of his native Northumbria, as it always did when he was angry.
“Or what?” the third man said, standing and reaching into his coat.
“You don’t want t’ do that, sir,” Black grunted.
“Why not?”
“Because t’ Landlord ‘as a musket pointed at your ‘ead.
It is true. From behind the bar the Landlord, a stout Irishman called Mister Paddy O’Marley, has his finger on the trigger of what appeared to be a musket looted from the French in the Napoleonic Wars long ago. The third man knows better than to turn around to look, or to test his luck, instead he puts both hands where they can be seen and walks quietly out of the tavern and down the filthy street.
“Thank you Mister O’Marley,” said Black
“Not a problem, Mister Black.”
“That fellow was an idiot, Mister O’Marley.”
“So he was, Mister Black.”
“As is Hunter.”
“So he is, Mister Black; so he is, t’ be sure. Another pint of the usual?”
“Aye, keep them coming, Mister O’Marley. Keep them coming.”
The next morning, Black wakes at dawn in his room above O’Marley’s Tavern, dresses, shaves, packs a large wooden trunk with all of his possessions, eats a quick breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and a pint of stout, orders a carriage, and goes looking for Hunter.
He knows where to find him: The Laughing Horse Inn, Westminster; where Hunter always enjoys a leisurely breakfast of chocolate cake, grapes and sherry.
“We must leave London now,” Black greets Hunter.
“For God’s sake man, try to act like a gentleman, be civil!” Hunter declares.
Despite knowing the need for haste, Black also knows that he will not get anywhere unless he plays out the game he has to play most days. He sits down. Yet he is unable to hide his frustration.”
“I am a gentleman,” he says to Hunter.
“No, sir, you are a Northerner, and the son of a coal miner, who married into money and was discharged in disgrace from the Grenadier Guards…”
“And still more of a gentleman than you…”
“Be civil.”
“Good morning James Hunter.”
“That is better. Good morning, Mister Black.”
“I trust that you had a pleasant evening?”
“Indeed, t’was making love to the serving maid all night.”
“She has a name.”
“She is my serving maid.”
“Her name is Miss Molly Wine.”
“I believe that you are right. What is your point?”
“I am getting a drink.”
The bar maid, a tall, slender girl with big, wide eyes, is already at their table with a pint of stout ready.
“Thank you, miss,” said Black, taking a large swig from the glass.
“I really must get round to making love to her,” says Hunter.
“What?”
“The bar wench, I must make love to her. Did you see the way she was looking at me?”
“Beth?”
“You know her name? What is it with you and girl’s names?”
“Respect.”
“You are turning into a Socialist.”
“And you are turning into a dog.”
“Better an Cambridge Educated Dog than a Northern Socialist… Besides, I am not a dog; I am a spiritual warrior, one day I shall ascend! Enough of this, what was it you were saying when you so rudely came in? Some nonsense about leaving London?”
“Aye, we must leave London immediately. The gentleman from last night will have sent assassins after us by now. A carriage is waiting outside.”
“Must we leave now? I need time to pack.”
“There is no time.”
“I see. We shall go to my estate in the country. I shall order my possessions sent to me.”
Black downs his pint and goes outside. A moment latter, Hunter finishes his sherry and cake, blows a kiss to the bar maid, picks up his cane and follows him.
They climb into a small black carriage with a one eyed cab driver and pulled by two grey mares.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.
“Hunter Manor, Suffolk,” Hunter replies.
“Right you are, sir,” the driver says as he cracks his whip.
Moments before leaving central London, a man in a black trench coat and a black flat cap pulled down low over his head jumps out into the path of their carriage. The man in black pulls two revolvers from his coat pockets; one aimed at Hunter and one at Black.
Before the man has chance to fire, Hunter, with lightning speed, draws a huge Smith and Western pistol from his greatcoat and shoots him down. One bullet from Hunter’s revolver sends the man flying back across the road, killing him instantly.
“A little faster please, driver,” Black says.
The carriage reaches the gates of Hunter Manor as the sun begins to set. The ancestral home sits atop a hill surrounded by impeccable gardens; a vast pile of towers and arches. The carriage slows.
“Keep going driver, a mile further down the road, then turn right down the lane,” Hunter orders the driver.
“A diversion?” Black asks.
“We are hardly going to stay in my family home, that is the first place that they would look for us. We are staying in my other home in the country.”
A few minutes latter they reach their destination.
“You can’t be serious!” Black exclaims. “This isn’t a home, it’s a Folly.”
“Indeed it is, and a dashed good Folly if I do say so myself.”
The carriage stops beside the Folly and they dismount. The Folly is designed to look like the ruin of some building half way between a Greek temple and a medieval wizard’s tower. Stone steps lead to a arched door surrounded by columns, there is a stone floor, rows of columns on the right wall, half a stone wall at the back and on the right the ruins of a tower with steps leading to the first floor and sharply arched windows.
“It’s not even got a proper roof,” Black exclaims.
“There is a hidden trap door to the cellar, it is quite sheltered there. We shall make ourselves quite comfortable, you shall see… Besides, you ought to be comfortable in a ruin underground, shall remind you of the pits back home in The North”
“Bloody stupid if you ask me.”
“Well nobody did. No one will look for us here, and we only need stay a few weeks till things cool down in London. Now, lets light a fire, t’is getting cold.”
They gather firewood and light a fire by the back door. Black begins brewing tea. Before long an elderly man rides over on a large white horse, he has a pistol in his belt and a large leather satchel. He is Hunters butler, Mister Johnson.
“Good evening masters,” the butler greets them.” I saw the fire and suspected that you might be paying a visit.”
“Good evening,” Hunter replies. “We shall indeed to staying here for a few days.”
“Very well sir, I have brought you and your companion sandwiches, blankets and candles. Shall bring I breakfast in the morning?”
“Thank you Mister Johnson,” says Black.
“Indeed,” says Hunter. “We shall breakfast at ten. Have some of my possessions from London brought here tomorrow, you will know what I require… And one other thing, we may have unexpected guests at the manor tonight, ensure that the hounds are released when you get back.”
“Yes master.”
Then the butler rides away.
“Good fellow, that Johnson,” Black remarks. “Very thoughtful.”
“He knows his place,” replies Hunter.
Black is in no mood for an argument, so he keeps his mind to himself.
They eat sandwiches and drink tea. Then they retire to the cellar, where, in candle light, Black reads John Ruskin’s latest book and Hunter writes poetry before sleeping.
The next morning is cold and damp, and Hunter wakes up freezing despite his greatcoat. Shivering, he ascends the stairs and finds Black sitting beside a fire drinking tea.
“Good morning Hunter,” Black greets him. “Tea?”
“No, thank you. I could not face anything before my sherry. Where is my butler?”
“Mister Johnson will be here in half an hour.”
“Dash it! This is intolerable! I need a change of shirt, and that cellar is dank!”
“T’was your idea to stay here.”
“I know, and I stand by it. But I shall feel a great deal better once I get a hot meal, a change of clothes, and some of my possessions beside me…. T’is all right for you, being a northerner, you are used to cold and privation.”
“T’is true. I bet you never woke up cold at Oxford, or Eton, or you father’s posh manor.”
“I did not go to Oxford and Eton, damn you, I read at Rugby and Cambridge. I suppose that t’was dashed cold at The University of Northernhamton.”
“Northumberland. And I did not do to university, as you well know.”
“I did not know. You truly are a ruffian, Black, I cannot believe that they made you an Officer.”
“I can read, I can fight, that was enough…And we had far colder nights out on campaign… How long do you reckon we will be out here?”
“Untill I hear news from London that things have cooled down, or until I hear from my butler that my hounds have eaten a sufficient number of assassins.”
Soon after, the butler arrives with breakfast, but no news of the hounds having caught anyone. The butler arrives again at lunchtime with bottles of ale, a cooked chicken, cheese and bread. In the evening the butler appears a third time, and this time he is accompanied by a large coach drawn by six white horses - Hunter’s coach. From the coach comes three large trunks (mostly containing Hunters clothes), a bottle of brandy, ten bottles of sherry, two glasses, an armchair, a feather mattress, several thick wool blankets, several pillows and a Miss Molly Wine. Miss Molly Wine looks puzzled- which is a marked contrast with her usual look of seductive innocence.
“Good evening, serving maid,” Hunter greets her. “Tidy things up downstairs will you, supper will be served shortly.”
Still looking puzzled, Molly dutifully descends into the cellar. Only when she is out of sight does Black show his rage.
“A word, sir, if I may,” Black growls.
“Of course.”
“Over ‘ere.”
They walk a few yards from the Folly.
“Why did you bring ‘er ‘ere?” Black growls.
“I require her services. Don’t look so shocked, old boy, I said I would bring my possessions, did I not?”
At this point Black would very much like to punch Hunter, but he knows that it will achieve nothing.
“Ridiculous,” Black grunts. “T’is not safe for ‘er, nor decent. Where will t’ poor lass sleep?”
“With me, of course.”
“Indecent.”
Indecent or not, that is what happens. Black, Hunter and Molly Wine all sleep in the cellar that night, although Hunter is able to restrain his more base appetites. In the morning Black helps Molly light a fire and brew tea, then the butler arrives with breakfast.
When the butler arrives with lunch, he brings news.
“Good day, master. News from London; a gentlemen wishes make an urgent appointment with you, five o’clock tomorrow evening at The British Museum, Politics Section, Book Case X… And you may also wish to know that this morning one of your hounds was found chewing what looked very much like human bones beside a ripped black cloak and a discarded dagger.”
“Jolly good. We shall meet the gentleman, have my coach here at breakfast tomorrow.”
“It could be a trap,” warned Black.
“That is a risk we must take.”
The next morning Hunter’s coach arrives, and Hunter, Black, Molly and all of their other possessions are loaded into it, and they are driven to London.
In London the sun is setting and the smog rolling in. It is 4.51 p.m. when they reach the steps of the British Museum. Molly Wine stays inside the coach, and Hunter and Black climb the imposing steps into the colossal bastion of Imperial knowledge.
They stride purposefully along vast corridors, past stuffed beasts of all kinds, jars containing pickled things and endless shelves of dusty tomes. Hunter grips his cane tightly in one hand whilst his other hand holds the pistol in his inside pocket. Black’s eyes drift right and left as he strides, like an eagle searching for prey.
They pause only when they pass by an elderly man, whose huge beard and long hair give him the appearance of a greying lion, sat writing at a desk in a dark corner.
“I say!” Hunter exclaimed. “Is that the Infamous German Exile, Revolutionary Hobgoblin, and Communist Trouble-Maker Karl Marx?”
“That is indeed the Great Socialist Patriarch of whom you speak,” Black replied.
“Indeed… Get a job, you lazy Hun lout!”
With that they proceed upon their way until they reach the politics section and find Book Case W, where a tall, thin bearded man in a tweed suit waits for them.
“Good afternoon, gentleman. You are late,” the bearded man greets them.
It is 5.03 p.m.
“Good evening sir,” says Hunter. “Pray forgive us, we had a long journey.”
“So I gather, Mr Hunter, so I gather. You were not to be found in any of your usual dwelling places. May I ask where you are currently residing?”
“In a secret location,” replies Hunter.
“In a bloody cellar under some ruins,” said Black.
“How novel.”
“Times are hard,” says Black.
“I am sorry to hear that,” says the bearded man. “I may have to arrange more appropriate dwellings for you.”
“You have us at the disadvantage, sir,” says Hunter. “You seem to know much of us, but we know nothing of you. May I enquire as to your name, and as to how we may serve you?”
“Well spoken, Mr Hunter, what a charming chap you are,” the bearded man says dryly. “I am Sir Bernard Livington. I cannot speak of your mission at present. May I suggest that we go elsewhere. I have a suite booked for you at The Queen’s Head Hotel, under the names of Lord and Lady White and Mister Carter. I am afraid that you shall have to play the part of a manservant, Mr Black, and, Mr Hunter, your serving maid shall have to pose as your wife… That way we are less likely to get unwanted guests, what?”
“Quite,” says Hunter, who is amused by the situation.
He knows too much about us, thinks Black.
“Come now, gentlemen, my carriage awaits.”
They follow Sir Livington outside where a small carriage with a large, scarred driver, is waiting. Black and Livington mount the carriage, as Hunter instructs his driver to follow, before joining them.
“This is Armstrong,” says Livington, indicating the driver. “He will be close by you for quite some time.”
“Evenin’ me lords,” grunts Armstrong.
“Good evening Armstrong,” replies Black, who instantly recognised the driver as an Ex Serviceman by his straight back and the hard, distant look in his eyes.
“Evenin’ sir,” snaps Armstrong, who makes the same realisation.
Armstrong cracks his whip and the carriage sets off. Within half an hour they reach the hotel. Black and Livington go to the reception, Armstrong and Hunter’s driver unpack Hunters coach, and Hunter goes to brief Molly.
“We will be staying here for a few days,” he tells her. “For the purpose of secrecy you name is Lady White, and we must pose at husband and wife. Do you understand?”
“Are we then to argue more and make love less?” she asks innocently.
“No, you are to hold my arm in public, and speak as little as possible.”
With that he takes her hand and helps her down from the carriage. Then they link arms and walk into the hotel.
“Good evening, Lord and Lady White,” the receptionist greets them. “Your suite is prepared, room 23 on the third floor. May I be of any further service?”
“No, my good man. We shall dine at eight. Good bye.”
They climb the lushly carpeted staircase and enter their suite. The first room is a large lounge where Livington and Black are sat on leather sofas before a log fire. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the huge bay windows give an excellent view of the Thames.
“Make yourself busy in the bedroom, we have things to discuss” Hunter says to Molly, as he takes a seat.
“Beats the hell out of your Folly,” comments Black.
“It is a pleasant suite, although my Folly had its charms. Now to business; Sir Livington, our mission, if you will?”
“I charge you with the task of finding The Holy Grail.”
Hunter is speechless.
“How much are you paying us for this?” Black asks.
“I do not think that you understand. I said, The Holy Grail. I do not want you to find it for me, I merely charge you to find it. It shall be its own reward.”
“I see. Why?” Black asks.
“Others are looking for it. I need you to find it first.”
Black looks thoughtful.
Hunter suddenly springs to his feet.
“I accept the challenge” says he. “We will find The Holy Grail. It is the mission that I was born for!”
Thus ends The First Part.
The Second Part.
Sir Livington had given them no further information. He merely left with a promise that he would find them in one week’s time.
That night Black had retired early and Hunter had gone out drinking. He returned late in the morning with a black eye, and an incoherent story about being attacked from behind by a huge, bearded German.
The next morning, Hunter and Molly go to breakfast in the hotel, and Black goes to the nearest pie shop. On his way back he spots an inn and reckons himself at liberty to go for a pint. After a swift half of stout he returns to the hotel to find Molly dusting an already immaculately clean mantlepiece.
“Tea, Mister Black?” she asks him.
“Thank you Molly.”
He takes a seat by the fire and she goes to get him a cup of tea. She gives it to him, then stands attentively, as though awaiting further orders.
“Please Molly, take a seat, would you like some tea?”
She sits down and looks at him with her big brown eyes.
“How are you this morning, Molly.”
“Quite well, Mister Black. How are you?”
“Well, thank you…” Black says awkwardly. “Molly, please call me John, I am your equal... Where is Hunter?”
“His Lordship has gone for a walk, he may be some time.”
There is an uncomfortable silence that lasts until Black finishes his tea.
“Do you wish to make love to me, Mister Black?” Molly asks suddenly.
“What?…” says Black, his normaly grim face suddenly red. “No, Molly, no thank you.”
“Do I not please you? I please Hunter.”
“There is nothing wrong with you Molly,” he says, still shocked and thinking that she is in fact remarkably attractive. “ But I must decline. I am not like Hunter. And I still think of my wife, Isabelle…”
“In my experience, all men are like Hunter.”
“T’is unfortunate. I hope that one day you will be proved wrong… I do not like the way he treats you.”
“Could be worse. He is at least a gentleman.”
“He is no gentleman. Do you love him?”
“No, but sometimes I like him.”
“Do you think he loves you?”
“I do not know. Sometimes he says that he does, but never when he is sober. I think that he loves making love to me.”
Black sits in thought for a while, watching the fire consume the wood. The flames dance and the timber crackles.
“One day, Molly, we will live in a better world than this,” he says.
“Right you are, Mister Black. May I return to my dusting now?”
“If you wish, Molly, if you wish.”
Soon after, Hunter enters the room, his eye still looking sore.
“Good morning, Black, we need a plan. The quest begins!”
“Agreed,” Black replies.
“First we need information. Information is ammunition, as my farther the Lord Hunter always used to say. All I know of the Grail is what I have read in the Romances. What do you know?”
“It is meant to be the cup from which Jesus Christ drank at The Last Supper, and then the cup which Joseph of Aramethia used to collect the blood of Christ after he was stabbed with the Spear of Destiny during the crucifixion. Legend says that Joseph then brought it to Britain and entrusted it to a Druid, possibly Merlin. The same cup was quested for by King Arthur’s Knights, and was said to be found by Sir Galahad.
“However, the Grail is also a symbol of cosmic and personal balance, and of the eternal circle of existence, hence its association with eternal life or ascension.
“Legends of holy cups, cauldrons or chalices have existed since long before the time of Jesus Christ, particularly amongst Celtic peoples. In these legends the Grail provides eternal life, rebirth, endless food or drink, or is a judge of good men from bad.
“It is associated with several places in Britain and France, with Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem, and with The Knights Templar.”
“I see... They do teach one a lot at The University of Northernhamton!”
“I had a lot of time to read in the Guards,” Black replies patiently.
“Right then, I suggest that we begin by going to Temple Church and asking some question, those odd fellows are connected to the Knights Templar.”
The Temple church is less than a mile from their hotel, so Hunter and Black walk to it. A light rain falls, and it is bitterly cold.
Soon they reach the Temple Church, which is a surprisingly quaint and unimpressive building.
“Whose side are these Templar chaps on?” Hunter asks at the doorway.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean; are they good or evil? Am I allowed to hurt them?”
“Debatable… Some would say that they are holy warrior-priests, others would have it that they are heretical thieves, they are even rumoured to be linked to The Illuminati.”
“Then I shall flip a coin,” Black passes Hunter a silver coin from his pocket (Hunter does not carry money, it is beneath him), and Hunter throws it and catches it in an elaborate gesture. “Tails - they are evil. Jolly good, I do so hate The Illuminati.”
Black knocks on the door, and it is answered by an old, portly man in the robes of a monk.
“Good day, gentlemen, how may I help you?” the monk asks.
“We come in search of The Holy Grail!” announces Hunter.
“Have you any idea how many people come here saying that?” the monk asks.
“Aye, but we are different, for we shall find it,” says Hunter.
“No,” says the monk. “You shall not.”
With that, the monk tries to close the door, but Black kicks it open, and the two of them stride in and slam it shut behind them.
“Leave now,” orders the monk.
Suddenly he is flanked by two far larger and younger monks.
Hunter responds by swinging his walking cane in such an arch that all three monks are hit in the face by its silver knob. The portly monk is knocked onto the floor, and the two larger ones are clearly discomforted. Before the monks can respond, Black sends the large monk on the left flying to the ground with a right upper cut, and Hunter gives the monk on the right a solid blow to the guts with his cane, then kicks him in the face as he is bent double, sending him tumbling to the floor.
Before they can rise, Hunter draws his pistol and points it at the older monk.
“Talk,” Hunter demands.
“What do you want?” gasps the old monk.
“The Grail! Tell us where it is!”
“Rosslyn Castle, Scotland… I will tell you no more.”
“Thank you.”
Hunter and Black turn to leave.
“You will both rot in Hell for this!” shouts one of the larger monks.
“Not likely,” says Black, “God bloody loves us.”
They leave the church and walk back to their hotel.
“Well, that was easy,” says Hunter, wiping the blood from his cane.
“Aye, makes a change.”
A moment later a figure in black jumps out of an alleyway, wielding a sword.
Hunter shoots him down, and they walk on as though nothing happened.
“One problem though,” says Black. “Where is Rosslyn Castle?”
“T’is easy - Scotland.”
Black stops in his tracks. “Have you any idea how big Scotland is?”
“I was under the impression that it was rather small.”
“Rather small… You have never been, have you?”
“No, why would I? From what I hear, t’is all cold and misty.”
“Scotland is about the same size as England. One castle is not going to be that easy to find.”
“Really? Dash. I don’t suppose we could go back there and ask them for better directions?”
“No. We will have to look at a map.”
“Agreed. Can we get a spot of lunch first?”
They enjoy a light lunch at The Black Bull Inn, then head to The British Library and gather several maps of Britain and of Scotland.
Hunter looks down in awe at a huge map depicting all of Britain.
“Dash,” Hunter says, stroking his chin, “Scotland is rather bigger than I expected… Look how small London is, shocking, the North just goes on forever…”
“Didn’t they teach you anything at school, other than how to talk posh, ride a horse, play rugby and row?” Black asks mockingly.
“Yes, they taught other things, although I recall it was mostly rugby… We need a more detailed map of Scotland.”
They exchange the map for one depicting only Scotland, and in greater detail.
“We shall have to read the entire map, working from top to bottom,” Hunter suggests.
They do that for about five minutes, then, about three inches down from the north coast, he stands and slams his fist on the table. A passing librarian tuts at them.
“This is ridiculous,” Hunter declares, “We will never find it this way.”
“You are right, we need to use our heads.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, if Temple Church is in the middle of London, then it seems The Knights Templar do not keep that low a profile, and like to be stationed in large cities, so maybe Rosslyn Castle is also in a city. I’ll look at a map of Edinburgh, and you look at a map of Glasgow.”
They do this for ten minutes.
“Nothing in Glasgow, just slums and factories,” says Hunter.
“Cannot find Rosslyn Castle inside Edinburgh… but look here, just below that is the village of Rosewell, close… and beside that Rosslyn Chapel, do you think that could be it?”
“Allow me to have a look… Why, I do believe it is. ‘Rosslyn Chapel’, eh? Seems like the kind of dirty trick the Illuminati would do, calling a castle a chapel.”
“Agreed. We ought to go there and find out.”
“Splendid. Let us go and find a ship going there.”
“A ship? We would be better off on the train.”
“Not keen on the trains, a tad new, unsteady one might say…”
“It will take many days to get a ship. Remember what Sir Livington said, others are looking for the Grail, we must get it first.”
“I see, best we get the train then.”
It did not take long for them to acquire train tickets. They were to depart the next day from London Euston at 09.40 and arrive in Edinburgh at 16.15.
That organised, they return to the hotel and prepare for the journey.
They rise early he next morning, dress and break fast. After gathering their luggage, all that is left to do is to book out of the hotel and say goodbye to Miss Molly Wine. (Black had insisted that she stay behind.)
Gentle rain falls that morning, as they stand at the steps of the hotel, a carriage awaiting them. Molly stands waiting for Hunter to dismiss her, her stance that of affectionate servitude, her hands behind her back and her sweet face fixed on the ground.
“Goodbye.” Hunter says to her. “You are return to my London town house, and prepare for my return.”
“Yes sir,” she replies.
“Goodbye Molly,” Black says, taking a step closer to her and outstretching his arm.
Molly steps towards him and takes his hand, but instead of shaking it as he expects, or offering her hand to him to kiss as he hopes, she clasps it firmly in both hands and looks him squarely in the eyes.
“Goodbye Mister Black,” she says. “Just you take care of your self.”
“Take care lass,” Black replies.
After what seems like an eternity, she lets go of his hand and steps away from him.
Then they mount the carriage and are at Euston in no time.
The huge steam train arrives dead on time in a cloud of smoke and a mighty rattle of steel. They enter the First Class coach. As they do so, Black thinks that from the corner of his eye he sees Mister Armstrong enter the coach behind them. He dismisses the idea, however, when he realises that Armstrong could be mistaken for any one of the hundreds of professional thugs who live in London, and when he sees no further signs of the man.
The train journey north is a source of endless fascination of Hunter. The steam engine is most impressive to him, and the constantly changing scenery from the window holds his attention almost as much as the sherry in his hand, or the young lady sat a few rows ahead. He gazes at the many towns, cities and fields that pass him by, and notes, with a little alarm, how the weather becomes markedly colder as time passes. The fields of Northern England are dusted with snow, and there is a brief blizzard upon crossing the Scottish Border.
Black spends most of the journey sleeping, and has to be nudged awake when they finally reach Edinburgh.
They alight from the train at Edinburgh’s vast underground station, and make their way up the steps to the main street.
Hunter was fully expecting Scotland to be filled with ginger bearded barbarians playing the bagpipes whilst tossing cabers and hunting the wild haggis, so the view that greets him as the reaches the top of the steps is a great shock to him. Instead of huts built on mud and wild animals roaming free, he finds a city that is every bit as grand as London, and far cleaner and more tranquil. Huge stone buildings in the fashionable mock classic design, wide roads and pleasant parks surround him, and to his left Edinburgh Castle looms down on him, and to his right is the gothic majesty of The Scott Monument.
“Gosh,” says Hunter. “T’is rather nice here, what?”
“Aye, t’is,” say Black, as he heads closer to The Scott Monument.
The monument is far taller than any of the buildings in sight. Huge steps lead to a statue of the great poet, and above that is built a vast spire of arches and gargoyles, a building taken directly from a dark faery tale. The utter pinnacle of Gothic Architecture.
“Impressive,” says Black. “They had just began building it when last I was here… A fitting tribute to the great bard…”
“Yes, t’is rather splendid, isn’t it?”
Hunter insists on them booking into the nearest and most expensive hotel, where they spend a lavish but uneventful night.
They wake at dawn, break fast, and are one their way.
It seemed that the knights Templar make no secret of the location of their stronghold, for they find it easy to find a coachman to drive them to Rosslyn Chapel. The coachman is a short, wiry man who spoke with the strong yet gentile accent of Edinburgh. To Hunter’s satisfaction, he has a long ginger beard.
“You gentlemen’ll be after The Grail then, aye?” the coachman remarked as they left the city.
“Indeed we are,” replied Hunter.
The coachman nodded, stroked his beard thoughtfully, then returned his attention to the road.
After over an hour of being driven down winding country roads, Rosslyn Chapel came into sight.
It was easy to see how it might have been called a castle. Rosslyn stand atop a substantial hill, with a steep road curving like a serpent up to it. The building itself is imposing; at its face is a rectangular building like the keep of a castle with tall arched windows and a fortified door behind a draw bridge, behind that is a long row of small towers, leading to a single huge round tower. Steep cliffs surround it on all sides.
At the foot of the hill, their coach stopped abruptly.
“Good bye gentlemen,” the driver says.
“To the top, if you will,” Hunter snaps.
“Nay, gentlemen, you walk from here.”
“We walk,” says Black.”
“But, I protest-“ Hunter began.
“Come on, we walk,” says Black, leading his friend down from the coach.
“This is preposterous,” Hunter says as he steps away from the coach.
“There must be a reason for it,” suggests Black.
“There is a reason for everything!” the driver shouts, then laughs, cracks his whip and drives away at great speed.
The coachman had not been paid.
Eventually they trudge their way to the top of the path. They are greeted by a raised draw bridge, and a deep ditch.
“Dashed inconvenient,” Hunter says.
Suddenly the draw bridge falls with a crash, the huge doors fly open, and a knight in full plate armour and wielding a long-sword and shield strides out.
“In order to pass,” the knight bellows,” you must each defeat me in single combat!”
“I shall take care of this,” says Hunter, drawing his pistol.
“No,” says Black, “put that bloody thing away.”
“Why?”
“Have you never read the Arthurian Romances?”
“Not recently.”
“The knight in search of The Grail must under go many trials to prove his honour. This is a test, you cannot just shoot the fellow, that would be dishonourable.”
“Unsporting, what? I see.”
Hunter puts his revolver away and draws a large knife from under his great coat. With his walking cane in his right hand and knife in the left, he steps up to the knight and adopts a fencing stance.
“Begin,” says the knight.
Hunter swipes at him with his cane. The knight parries the blow, then thrusts with his sword. Hunter jumps back, but his coat is cut. The knight slashes with his swords, but Hunter dodges is. The knight is briefly off balance and Hunter hits across the helmet with his cane. To no effect. The knight slashes again and Hunter blocks it with his knife, but is overpowered and stumbles down to one knee. The knight raises his sword to the air, preparing to rain down the killing blow. Suddenly Hunter whips up with his cane, striking the knight sharply on the wrist. The strike is perfectly aimed on a particular nerve- the knight shudders and drops his sword. Hunter rises in a flash, catching the sword before it hits the ground and points the tip of the long sword at the gap between the breast plate and the helmet.
“I offer you parley sir,” Hunter says.
“I submit, sir,” the knight says.
Hunter lowers the sword, takes a small bow, then hands it back to the knight.
The knight repositions himself to face Black and holds his sword on guard.
“Next,” the knight demands.
Black pulls his gloves on tighter, then stretches.
Then he runs at the knight. The knight raises his sword to swing it, but Black grabs his metal clad arm as it descends towards him. In an expertly executed wrestling move, he twist the knights arm painfully behind his back, turns him so the knight’s back faces him, and slams the knight face first into the chapel wall.
“Submit,” Black demands.
“Submit,” the knight grunts.
Black releases his grip, and he and Hunter stroll in through the door.
The knight sits down on the step and catches his breath.
Past the huge oak doors, they find themselves in a long hallway. The floor and walls are made of stone, and it is lit by long rows of dribbling candles on tall sticks along side every wall. There are only two windows; one on the each side of the door, both are of stained glass, the one on the right depicts Jesus Christ holding the tools of a carpenter, the one of the right depicts Christ flanked by two women, one far older than Him and dressed in blue, and one slightly younger who has a seductive look about her. In the middle of the room is a statue of a young, naked woman holding a chalice, at the far end of the room is a huge flight of stone steps leading to a tall arched door. To the left and right are similar doors.
“Looks like we have come to the right place”, says Black.
“Indeed,” Hunter replies,” shall we split up and search it?”
“No, let’s not, it always ends badly, we should stick together.”
“You are right, I remember that horrid time when we split up at The Crypt Of Many Woes… let us never do that again,” that painful memory makes Hunter shudder, and he is inspired to draw his revolver. “Shall we inspect the room on the right?”
“Aye.”
The room in the right is a simple chapel, the same as countless protestant churches all over Europe. There are two dozen uncomfortable looking pews and a stone font. A stained glass window behind the wooden alter depicted Christ on The Cross with a chalice floating above him. The room is slightly dust.
Hunter and Black spend a few minutes searching the room, but find nothing of interest.
They return to the hall way, then enter the room on the left.
They have only a brief glimpse of the room, which contains many large portraits of knights and monks, because they are immediately assaulted.
A dozen men in armour and armed with cudgels attack them from behind. After a short struggle, Hunter and Black are knocked unconscious.
Black regains consciousness in a dark, dank cell. There is a stout metal door. By the fact that there are no windows, and by the coldness and dampness of the cell, Black deduces that he is underground. The only light comes from a small oil lamp, and the only things resembling furniture a bed of rotting straw and a set of rusty chains hanging from the walls.
Black tests the door.
It is solidly locked.
Black shouts out Hunter’s name.
After no reply in several minutes, he deduces that either the cell is sound proof, or that Hunter is a long way away, unconscious, or dead.
Black takes a swig from a bottle of rum stored inside his jacket. Then he produces a small package from his jacket and with its content he begins to polish his boots.
Black was an Infantryman, and he finds comfort in the familiar.
Hunter wakes in an identical cell a few minutes latter. He rubes his sore head, then notices that his cane, pistol and dagger have been taken from him.
Hunter curses loudly, kicks the door a few times, then curses again.
Hunter’s cell is beside Black’s, but the cells are indeed sound proof so he does not know this.
Hunter sits down on the straw and begins plotting his escape.
After ten minutes of futile plotting, he curses again and kicks the door again.
Then inspiration hits him.
Hunter remembers speaking with a friend years ago who was a doctor of Natural Science at Cambridge. The doctor had discussed the latest theory on atoms, which were believed to be rather like tiny plum puddings. Because of the small spaces between these atomic plum puddings, the doctor believed that it was theoretically possible for solid objects, if correctly aligned, to pass through each other. The doctor claimed that he had calculated that there was, always, at any one time, a one in six billion chance of a person being able to walk through a solid wall.
Hunter decides to test this theory.
The world is indeed a strange and mysterious place, for Hunter walks straight through the wall.
Hunter laughs.
He finds himself in a dusty corridor with a rough stone floor and walls. It is lit by a single burning brazier. There is a solid door opposite the door to his former cell, and the corridor soon comes to a T junction.
He considers rescuing his friend Black, then he remembered that his friend Black is a northern savage and an ill mannered brute, so he decides to find The Grail first, then rescue him.
With a minimum of stealth, he makes his way down the corridor, turns right, passes another solid cell door, then reaches a spiral stair case.
Climbing the stair case he finds himself in the portrait room where he was ambushed.
Ruddy light floods into the room from the large arched windows. Outside the sun sets. The room is hung with dozens of huge portraits; most of the portraits depict monks wielding swords or maces, some depict richly dressed lords flanked by knights in armour and a few depict ladies holding chalices. Quickly, Hunter searches the room for anything of value. Under a painting of a well armed lord, he finds two medieval swords hung together. He selects the sharper of the two, takes it down from the wall and secures it to his belt.
Now he is ready.
Leaving the portrait room, he finds himself back in the hall that he first entered. After taking a moment to admire the statue, he proceeds up the large staircase to the arched oak door. At the top of the stone door frame are letters carved three inches high in Latin. Recalling his school days in Rugby, he translates the Latin: it reads;
“WHOM DOTH THE GRAIL SERVE?”
He tests the door.
It is unlocked.
He enters a narrow flight of stairs that curve round and upwards, there are thin arched windows every few yards up the outer wall. He realises that he has entered one of the small towers.
He climbs the stairs. A quarter way round the circumference of the tower he is meet by an open door way on the inside wall. Above the door way is written; ‘REMEMBER: ONE DAY YOU WILL DIE’. Looking through the doorway he sees a large round room.
The room is a Room of Horror.
The first thing that hits Hunter is the smell: the sickly sweet stench of death.
A half decomposed corpse stands in a metal cage hanging from the ceiling. Three heads, a man, a woman and a child, in various stages of decay, are mounted on spikes. A skeleton is nailed to a wall. In the middle of the room is a pyramid made of dozens of skulls. There is a gore stained table littered with instruments of torture, and an Iron Maiden with a pool of blood beneath it. A brazier burns and pokers rest against it.
Hunter is neither a very thoughtful nor a very compassionate man. He shrugs his shoulders. This is clearly someone else’s problem.
He continues up the stairs.
He reaches a tall door and passes through to the second tower and more stairs.
These stairs are carpeted in rich red pile carpet, and lit by tall white candles.
After many stairs he finds another open door on his right. Above the door is written; ’KNOW THYSELF’.
This is a Room of Gold.
Lit by ten tall candles on gold candle sticks, the big round room is piled high with riches. A pile of gold coins and gold bars, as tall as a tall man, stands in the middle of the room. Around it are piles of rubies and diamonds, and open chests filled with gold and jewels.
Hunter is already a very wealthy man, so he is only mildly impressed. In fact, he considers the blatant display of wealth to be a tad vulgar. He makes a mental note to pocket a few on the nicer diamonds on his way back if he has the chance, then he heads on in search of The Grail.
He reaches the third tower and ascends yet more stairs. This tower is carpeted in purple, and smells faintly of incense, perfume and sweat.
He climbs the stairs. The third door bears the sign, ‘BE FREE’, and leads to a Room of Lust.
The Room of Lust is inhabited by twenty three young ladies in a state of undress. Each one is more beautiful than the last, and the first is very beautiful indeed. Some of the ladies recline on sofas or beds, some toy with each other or themselves. The air is thick with their sent and with moans of pleasure and giggles of delight.
As Hunter enters the room, twenty pairs of eyes stare at him adoringly. One particularly buxom lady licks her lips.
“Come and join us…” one lady whispers to him. “We have been waiting for a man for so long.”
Hunter is sorely tempted by this room. But he is not, despite some outward appearances, a stupid man, and he knows a test when he sees one.
“Good evening ladies,” he says coolly,” I cannot stop and chat, am off in search of The Grail, what?”
“No stay with us, please” the ladies say.
Hunter hates to disappoint a lady, and he struggles to say no to a pretty face. But The Grail calls him, and he concentrates on the greater good.
“Sorry ladies, duty calls.”
Finally he reaches the last of the stairs and comes to a dark wooden door with a silver cross attached to it.
The door is locked, but he soon kicks it down.
He finds himself on a balcony, looking down on a room which he knows to be The Chapel of The Holy Grail.
A ring of high backed, ornately carved benches face a majestic alter. Atop the alter are a sword, a bell, a huge bible and two large burning candles. Two suits of shining armour flank the alter, and behind it is a stained glass window depicting The Grail, standing on a cloud and radiating golden light.
The atmosphere is immensely sublime
Hunter rubes his hands together in glee.
Suddenly he feels cold steel at his neck and a hand gripping his hair painfully.
Someone is behind him, and they have a very sharp knife to his throat. He freezes.
“You have violated the sanctuary of my chapel, I ought to kill you where you stand,” a soft, sweet voice whispers. “Yet I have observed your progress as you passed the trials of Rosslyn, and I have never seen a braver or a more handsome man… so instead, I insist that you make love to me.”
“I have no objections to that,” Hunter replies.
The knife falls from his throat and he turns around to be face to face with a tall woman in a long white dress. Rich red hair falls down to her waist and she has the delicate, graceful features of an aristocrat. Her lips are as full and red as a rose in bloom, her flesh is pale and flawless and her large blue eyes shine with intelligence and life.
They make love all night.
It is most satisfying.
The next morning Hunter wakes on the floor of the chapel with the Lady of Rosslyn in his arms.
It takes him a few seconds to recall where he is, and the circumstances that led him there.
When he remembers he laughs with joy.
This wakes the Lady, she stirs in his arms and turns to look at him with her radiantly beautiful face.
“Good morning, sir knight,” she says.
“Good morro’ Lady,” he replies. “Do you by any chance have any sherry and chocolate cake, I am famished?”
She giggles and runs a finger affectionately through his hair.
“Are you not forgetting some thing?” she asks.
“Oh, yes, I do apologise, we have not yet been properly introduced…James George Harry Hunter, Esquire, at your service.”
“The Lady Of Rosslyn, quite delighted… but that was not what I meant.”
“Ah, of course, may I have my weapons back?”
“You may,” she says, reaching across to a wooden box from which she takes his revolver, knife and cane,” but I was referring to The Grail.”
“Ah, yes indeed, The Grail, I simply must acquire it. Is it here? In fact I have a few other questions; whose side are you on? This is a Knight’s Templar Castle, but you do not seem like an Illuminarti scoundrel. Indeed, are The Knight’s Templar part of The Illuminarti? Are they Good or Evil?”
“So many questions… The Grail is not here, but I shall tell you where you can find it. I am mistress of The Order of The Knights of The Temple, but I am not in The Illuminati. No one knows any longer if The Knights Templar are good or evil. Does any one even know what is good and evil in this world any more? But I can tell you this; The Illuminati are searching for The Grail, the infamous Necromancer Peter Von Clivenhoffen leads them, and you must find The Grail before him.”
“Peter von Clivenhoffen? The name means nothing to me… But I tell you this; if he crosses my path, I shall kill him for you…. Now pray tell me, where is The Grail?”
“First you must answer one question… Whom doeth The Grail serve?”
Hunter recalls the question from above the door in the hall. He searches his mind for an answer. Whom doeth The Grail serve? He recalls a play he once saw when dating an actress in The Royal Shakespeare Company; in the play King Arthur’s knights quested for The Grail and were asked the same question and they replied ‘The Grail serves you’, but Hunter considered this an unsatisfying answer, so instead he replies;
“The Grail serves no one- I serve The Grail.”
The Lady of Rosslyn looks a little taken a back, then smiles and kisses him gently on the check.
“That is the best answer I have heard, and I have heard many,” she says. “The Grail is in Château La Rouge in The Forest of La Dame in Brittany. I wish you luck.”
“Thank you, lady. I shall set off this very day, but first, is there any chance I might acquire some sherry and cake?”
“No.”
“Then I shall depart, but first I must rescue my brother in law. Goodbye”
He kisses her hand, then she embraces him tightly and kisses him passionately. Without another word he departs.
Soon afterwards he finds Black in his cell.
Black is asleep next to an empty bottle of rum. His boots are very shinny.
Hunter kicks him a few times until he wakes up.
“What’s going on?” Black asks.
“I have discovered the where a bouts of The Grail. Come- To Brittany!”
“What? How?”
“Because I am a spiritual warrior, chosen by God to do His work- and one day I shall ascend.”
“You what?”
“Come, I shall explain all in the fullness of time.”
At the doors of the castle they find a carriage waiting for them. Mister Armstrong sits atop it, whip in hand, looking slightly smug.
“Mornin’ gents, I imagine you shall be needing these…”
He passes Hunter a glass of sherry and a large slice of chocolate cake and passes Black a bottle of stout and a meat pie.
“Thank you Mister Armstrong,” Black says.
“Climb on board gents, to the port.”
They enter the carriage and, with a crack of the whip, they leave Rosslyn.
“Sharp fellow that, what?” Hunter says to Black.
“Aye. Good man.”
They are driven swiftly to Edinburgh docks, where they board the first ship to France, leaving Armstrong at the docks. By night fall they are sailing down the Firth of Forth into the North Sea, and so The Second Part ends
The Third Part.
The next day.
Early morning on The North Sea.
The sky is still dark and the rough waves rock the ship.
Black sleeps peacefully in his bed. Years of soldiering have taught him to sleep anywhere, and have made him used to long sea voyages.
He dreams of Miss Molly Wine.
Suddenly, he is woken by a sharp jabbing at his back.
Instinctively he wakes instantly, sat bolt upright and ready for action.
By the illumination of a single oil lamp, he sees Hunter stands over him. In one hand Hunter holds the cane that he has just used to prod him, in the other hand he holds a scroll.
“Good morning old chap,” Hunter beams at him.”
“Good night, for it is not yet morning… What do you want?”
“I have just finished composing a poem about our quest, I thought that you may like to read it.”
Black groans, then rubes his eyes. Years of bitter experience working with his brother in law have taught that the only hope he has of getting back to sleep before dawn to pay some attention to him for a few minutes, so he tries to look attentive.
“I call the Poem, ‘Whom Doeth The Grail Serve?’” Hunter begins;
“There is no trace,
There is no trail,
We are searching for The Grail,
We cannot falter,
Nor can we fail,
We are searching for The Grail,
To God we trust,
To God we hail,
“We-”
“We are searching for The Grail,” Black interrupts.
“How did you guess?” Hunter asks.
“T’is a tad predicable… And t’is not very accurate; there is a very good trail, everything is going well…”
“Predictable indeed! As for the trail, you ought to be glad of that. Things go well for us, for we walk The Righteous Path.”
“What do you mean, The Righteous Path?”
“The Righteous Path. We walk The Shining Path, the Will of God. We do His work, thus he has made it easy for us, he guilds and protects us. Do you not feel The Righteous Path? Can you not feel the glory? See the shining light that guilds us?”
“I see what is in front of me, and I deal with it… Not a bad poem, though, over all. Good night.”
“Good night, old chap.”
In the mid afternoon of the third day at sea they reach port at a small town in North West France.
Upon setting foot on dry land, the realisation that they are in France, the land of their nation’s ancient enemies, hits them. Black is tense and his soldier’s instincts nag him. Hunter is hit by centuries of ancestral memories; images of The Norman Invasion, The Hundred Years War, Henry the Fifth’s Campaigns and The Great Napoleonic Wars flood his unconscious mind. He grips his revolver under his coat.
In France the weather is far milder than in Scotland, yet both men seek the comfort of the in doors, for it is as though enemies surround them on all sides. They head to the nearest tavern.
To their utter horror- it is full of Frenchmen.
Full of them.
They recover quickly from this and make their way to the bar, where a portly Frenchman awaits them.
“A dozen glasses of sherry and a pint of your cheapest stout,” Hunter orders.
The barman looks confused and slightly offended.
Hunter repeats himself, slightly louder
Black repeats the order, more politely, in French.
The barman serves the drinks.
“What the blazes did you just do?” says Hunter. “Can you speak Frog or some thing?”
“Aye.”
“How?”
“Grenadier Guards. An officer ought to be ably to speak with his enemies. They all know English anyway, just pretend not too.”
“Bastards.”
Hunter and Black are starting to get dirty looks from the locals. They ignore this and sit down on the only remaining table. Hunter downs his first ten sherries and then begins sipping the eleventh one.
“Have you heard of this Peter von Clivehoffen lluminati fellow then” Hunter asks.
“Aye. Infamous Necromancer. Expelled from Berlin University in 1748. Commands a legion of demons. Wields a hammer that can kill a man with one blow.”
“Big hammer then.”
“I imagine so.”
“Maybe you ought to acquire some weapons.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I have explained in the past. I am no longer a soldier, I ought never to wield weapons again. And she did not like me having weapons, Isabelle always found them sinister…”
“My sister, yes she did rather, but still…”
“Let us not speak of it again.”
They sit in awkward silence for a few minutes. Black takes a deep swig of his pint.
“Who is your money on?” Hunter asks
“We can take him.”
“Jolly good. How far away is this Red Castle then?”
“About forty miles north east of here. The Forest of La Dame begins a mile to the north of here… I took the liberty of acquiring a map of Brittany and a compass before we left Edinburgh.”
“We will need to steal some horses. Still too long to spend in France, what?”
Hunter finishes his twelfth sherry and makes his way to the bar. A particularly large Frenchman stands up and blocks his path. The Frenchman says some thing that Hunter does not understand.
Black stands up.
“Get out of my way, you filthy rouge,” says Hunter.
The Frenchman head butts Hunter.
Hunter shots the man in the head.
He dies.
All of the people in the tavern attack Hunter and Black.
Hunter shoots two more men, then starts shooting his way towards the door.
Black dodges a chair that is thrown at him, then begins to punch his way to the door.
They meet at the door.
“I’ll hold them back whilst you go to the stables and steal us some horses,” Black says.
Black stands in the doorway, punching any man who comes close.
A minute latter, Hunter returns, riding a white stallion and leading another by the rein.
Black punches one last Frenchman, then climbs up onto his horse. They both gallop away, north east to the forest.
“Hunter!” Black shouts as they reach the edge of the forest.
“Yes?”
“Why did you have to go and shoot that man?”
“I could not help it! He was French!”
“I understand!”
They ride into the forest and keep riding until night fall.
In a glade of oaks they stop and tie up their horses, then lie wearily down on the leafy ground.
“Best we get some sleep,” says Black.
“Indeed,” Hunter replies.
They are soon asleep.
In the early hours of the morning Black is woken by a snapping of twigs and a rustling of leaves. He gets instantly to his feet.
Looking around him in the shadowy moonlight, he sees nothing but the outline of oaks. Yet he senses that something is amiss. He waits silently for a few minutes, looking and listening, until he is satisfied that nothing is close. There is silence. He returns to sleep and dreams of happier and simpler days in The British Army.
Dawn has long since cast her ruby and golden light across the sky when Hunter wakes from sleep. He rubs his eyes and finds Black sat up by a fire on which he his boiling water for tea.
“We are not alone in the forest,” Black greets him.
“Good morning, Black,” Hunter says wearily. “I agree, The Illuminati are here with us some where, I can smell them.”
“Some one was around our camp last night. They woke me in the night, but I could not find them. I search the area this morning and found human footprints that were not our own. In addition, our horses are missing.”
“Dash.”
“The enemy has a head start on us.”
“Then we shall have to work fast… after breakfast.”
“Aye… Tea?”
“Thanks.”
After breakfast, Hunter and Black march through the forest, heading always north east towards destiny. The day is mild but fresh and the sun cast dappled light through the trees. The merry singing of birds does little to distract their minds from the mission and the dangers ahead.
At noon they stop to rest beside a sparkling stream under the shade of silver birch trees.
They gather wood for a fire and begin making tea.
It is then, just as the kettle boils, that the Illuminati attack.
Three men burst out of the trees wielding daggers. A fourth man, a stout bold man wearing a top hat and holding a large hammer, stands back and watches.
Hunter and Black are on their feet as the men charge them. Hunter draws his revolver.
“Don’t fire!” shouts Black. “Remember The Grail, we must be sporting.”
“There is nothing sporting about these odds,” says Hunter, shooting the nearest man in the chest, knocking him to the ground, dead. “Now t’is sporting.”
Hunter draws the sword that he took from Rosslyn and blocks a dagger aimed for his face. The attacker hits him in the guts with his left hand, and kicks at his legs. Hunter pushes away the dagger, and cuts down at his attackers right arm. The attacker screams out in pain and takes a step back, then transfers his dagger to his left hand. He thrust at Hunter with the dagger, but Hunter dodges and runs the man through with his sword.
At the same time, Black grabs the arms of the man who charges him and throws his over his shoulder. The attacker lands heavily on the ground.
“Get up an’ fight!” Black demands.
The attacker obeys and stabs at Black with his dagger. Black dodges, but his left arm is lightly wounded. Which his opponent is off balance from his thrust, Black punches his in the face- first a left hook, then a right jab, then a left upper cut. The attacker looks dazed, then manages the punch Black in the face with his left hand. Black punches him hard in the stomach. The attacker stabs at him again, but misses, then stamps down hard on Blacks toes- but it is okay, for he is wearing steel toe caps. Black punches his again, and this time he knocks him to the ground.
“Do you surrender,” demands Black.
“Never,” the attacker screams.
“I did me best t’ be sportin’,” says Black, as he begins stamping on the fallen enemies face.
He does not stop until the enemy is dead.
The observer with the hammer turns and runs when he sees this. He is far away and out of sight before Hunter has chance to shoot at him.
“What on all of God’s earth was that about?” Hunter asks.
“T’was Peter Von Clivenhoffen and his men.”
“Have we beaten them then?”
“No. He escaped, and he still has his demons… And they spilt our tea.”
“Dash.”
Having remade and consumed their tea, Hunter and Black continue walking through the forest, following Black’s compass, but never being certain of the way.
They follow the banks of the stream of several miles, then pass a spring from which it emerges. They pass a grove of apple trees, then march through thick undergrowth at the foot of mighty oaks. All of the time they are aware that the forest is unusually quiet. The birds do not sing, and they encounter no animals.
As the sun begins to set, they hear a harsh and terrible howling from behind them.
“Dash,” says Hunter. “Wolves.”
The howling continues, like the death song of some huge and tortured beast.
“T’is not the howling of wolves,” says Black.
“Sounds like bloody wolves to me,” says Hunter. “I wish that I had my rifle.”
“T’is not the sound of normal wolves, I have been in the wilderness enough times to know. Wolves rarely howl in day light, and when they do, they sound hungry or mournful… not like that. That is an ungodly noise. If t’is the howling of wolves, they are not wolves of this earth.”
“We ought to have silver bullets. Never fear, God will protect us, He likes us.”
“I do not fear… once on campaign we ate wolves for breakfast… rations were low, you see.”
There is another howl, louder and closer this time. Despite their courage, Hunter and Black cannot help but flinch at the monstrous noise.
Then silence descends once more.
They march on until the sun sets, then make camp and begin brewing tea over a fire.
“I rather miss my serving maid you know,” Hunter says after finishing his tea and pouring himself a large sherry.
“Really, you miss Molly?” Black asks, surprised to hear Hunter being the slightest bit sentimental.
“Indeed. I rather miss making love to her, T’is bad enough sleeping out here on the cold ground, I could at least have something pretty to sleep next to…”
“Is that all that she is t’ you?” Black asks, mildly enraged. “A pretty thing t’ sleep with?”
“Indeed… why? Are you jealous? Do you, by any chance, like her? Have you finally gotten over my sister?”
“I will always love Isabella. But, if you must know, I believe that I am in love with Miss Molly Wine.”
Hunter downs his sherry and looks thoughtfully at Black for a moment.
“Do you indeed?” Hunter says with a grin. “Then you may have her: she is yours. Let no one say that I am not a generous man.”
“You’re a monster.”
“No. That is a monster.”
Hunter is quite correct. There is a monster beside then in the fire light. A pair of red eyes and a set of white fangs gleam out at them from the gloom.
Hunter and Black are on their feet. Hunter draws his sword and holds his revolver in the other hand. Black sets his feet apart and raises his fist.
Another set of red eyes appear, then another. There is a dreadful braying, howling and gnashing off teeth.
“Wolves,” says Hunter.
“No. These are Satan’s pack. Demons in the form of wolves,” replies Black.
Black removes his leather gloves to reveal large, scared hands with a silver wedding ring on the left hand.
Then the demon wolves pounce.
They are the size and shape of normal wolves, but their eyes glow red like burning coals, and their pelts are darker than night.
Hunter fires two shots at the nearest charging wolf.
The bullets have no effect.
The beast lunges at his, and he holds it at bay with his sword.
The other two jump at Black. He kicks one away, and punches the other
with his left hand. Upon contact with the silver right, the wolf emits sparks and steam, and falls, whimpering to the ground.
“These are demons!” Black shouts to Hunter. “There are beings of raw fear! Mortal weapons cannot kill them! Only purity and courage can kill them! Do not fear them and smite them with your wrath!”
Hunter does just that. He pistol whips the wolf that claws against him, then draws back his sword above his head and slashes down with it. He cuts the wolf in half.
The wolf who Black kicked is up on its paws again and lunges at him, biting his leg. He grabs it by the throat with both hands and strangles it, but it continues to knaw at his leg, tearing through flesh.
The third wolf drags itself up and jumps at him, knocking him to the ground.
Black is over powered. The monster wolf bears down on his prone body, staring at him with hungry demon eyes and dripping saliva on him. The other wolf continues to chew at his leg.
He head butts the wolf on top of him, keeping it at bay.
Then Hunter strides over and aims his sword at the wolf atop him.
“Feel my wrath, scum,” Hunter cries as he brings his sword down in a devastating arch.
At the same time, Black finally chokes the life out of the wolf at his leg.
The enemy is defeated.
“That was Von Clivenhoffen’s work” Black states as he pushes the dead wolves to one side and stumbled to his feet.
“Indeed, and he have bested him again, I only wish that the coward would show his face.”
“Aye. My thanks for dispatching that wolf.”
“Think nothing of it.”
It was only then that Black notices the severity of the wound to his leg. It bleeds heavily, and the flesh and muscle are torn.
“Hunter, old man,” Black says calmly. “In my bag there is a pocket knife, a surgical scalpel, some bandages, a sowing kit and a bottle of rum. Please be so kind as to pass me those, and a strong stick the height of my shoulders.”
Hunter follows his instruction and Black sits down on a rock. First Black takes a swig of the rum, then cuts away the bottom on his torn trouser leg and pulls out the pieces of fabric that are in the wounds. Then he takes another swig of rum and pours some on the wound. That done, he cuts away the hanging flaps of mutilated flesh, and sows the wounds together before applying bandages. After that, he takes the pocket knife and fashions himself a crutch from the stick.
“Well that was jolly grim,” remarks Hunter. “I could do with a sherry and an early night now.”
“Not now. We cannot sleep here, where the enemy knows we are. We must break camp and relocate, in the new location we can light no fear, and must sleep in shifts and set sentry.”
Black seems to know what he was talking about, so Hunter concedes. They brake camp and walk away, going slowly through the dark forest, with Black having to lean heavily on his crutch.
After half an hour they stop, exhausted and having lost all sense of direction.
“I say we stop in this clearing,” says Hunter.
“Aye,” says Black, sitting down to rest his wounded leg.
In the darkness they can not see that the cleaning of trees is a perfect circle, nor that the stone Black sits on is one of nine stones in a stone circle, nor that a ring of mushrooms grow in the middle of the circle.
“We should do shifts of two hours. I will be sentry first, get some sleep,” says Black.
Hunter lies down on the cold ground, takes a swig of his sherry, wraps his greatcoat around himself, and falls to sleep.
The night is dreadfully cold, and the forest is strongly silent. Black sits through his watch, always alert despite his exhaustion and pain. After two hours he wakes Hunter and goes to sleep.
Hunter takes his watch. For an hour he passes the time composing poetry in his head and day dreaming about girls. Then the cold night becomes milder, and Hunter becomes bored. Soon he decides to rest his eyes.
Snow flakes fall gently as Hunter falls asleep.
Hunter and Black have both fallen asleep in a faery circle, and thing are going to become a tad wyrd, in The Fourth Part.
The Fourth Part.
Mister John Black is Captain Black of The Grenadier Guards once again.
He wears his uniform proudly once more. His boots shine, but not half as much as the medals on his chest. But no sword nor pistol hangs from his belt. He fights with his bare hands.
His old comrades fight beside him. Old Colonel West, with a pistol in each hand, wheezes and curses at his side. Young Ensign Higgins, fresh faced and grinning like the school boy he is, runs forward with his sword in hand. The Big Man, Sergeant Jones, is getting stuck in with the bayonet. The rest of the regiment, a glories red line, is spread across the face of the cliff they are fighting their way up.
And they are fighting hard. By God, they are fighting hard.
The cliff is steep and jagged as the run, and climb, and stumble, and claw their way up. Volleys of musketry rain down from the top of the cliff. Cannons pour massive round shot and cruel grape shot down on them. Wave after wave of snarling Frenchmen charge down on them with bayonets flashing in the sun. Black’s men are falling by the dozen every second. The screams of the dead and dying are deafening and the stench of death is overpowering, but Black and his men press on.
Ensign Higgins falls. A musket ball tears out his throat and the boy dies instantly and silently.
A huge, blue coated Frenchman bears down on Black. The Frenchman thrusts at him with his bayonet, but Black grabs the rifle by the stock and pulls it from the Frenchman’s hands. He beats the man to death with his own weapons, then discards it and climbs on.
The going is hard, round shot flies over his head, but the top of the cliff is in sight. Black presses on.
He pulls himself to the top and sees a castle. A beautiful, but well fortified, Baroque castle from which the enemy rains down fire. Black charges the gates. Colonel West, Sergeant Jones and a few Privates are at his side. No one else seems to be on their feet.
They run and run for what feels like eternity. The gate is near. A hail of grape shot hits them. The Colonel, the Sergeant, the Privates, all fall dead, moaning and crying out in agony.
Black is alone.
Utterly alone. Even the enemy seem to disappear from the ramparts.
He runs to the gate and finds it open. He runs into the keep, then up a huge flight of stairs.
A stout oak door blocks his path. He kicks it down and enters the room.
Isabella sits in the room, waiting for him. She is more radiant than the sun, sweeter and fresher than a rose in bloom.
“My love,” Black says, fighting for his breath, “what are you doing in this God forsaken place?”
“Weep not one tear for me, John,” she says sweetly, “for I am in a better world now.”
Black is dreaming. Soon he will awaken, but not until he has held his lady in his arms one last time.
Hunter dreams too, as he sleeps in the faery circle.
He dreams that he is a Knight, in full shining plate armour, mounted upon a white steed, lance in hand and sword at his side.
He is riding through Hell. He lives in Hell. There are walls of fire and lakes of sulphur and mountains of twisted bone. Demons and ghouls charge out at him and he cuts them down.
He is riding through Hell. Fighting his way through Hell. And nothing can stop him, for ahead of him he sees The Grail. A blowing beacon, leading him on to glory.
Soon he too will wake.
It is easy for the poet or the writer to write of sun rises.
One can write of the rosy fingered dawn; of skies of gold and ruby light; but such words could not describe the dawn that greeted Hunter and Black when they woke.
The ground is lightly frosted with snow, yet it is not cold for the sun shines with such warm and radiance as is only seen in the light reflected from the purest of silver. The trees sparkle with the frost upon them, yet seemed to sparkle with life and energy. Ice glistens on the rocks of the stone circle as though each was a vast diamond. The sky is clear and blue, and the birds sing with greater sweetness and harmony than God’s own choir of angels.
It is as though the world had been made anew by a more skilled and kinder hand.
Hunter and Black both wake refreshed but dazed, as if they had slept for years. Both of them lay on the frozen ground in a state of sedated bliss, remembering their dreams but nothing of the days before. Slowly, memories of the previous day fade back to them. As Black recalls the fight with the wolves, he reaches down to his wounded leg and finds, to his astonishment, that it has entirely healed. Hunter too returns to some sort of reality, recalls his purpose and acquires a thirst for sherry.
Black is the first on his feet. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, tests his leg again, then begins building a fire.
“T’is a beautiful dawn,” Hunter says as he pours himself a sherry.
“Aye,” says Black as his sparks his flint and steel against the timbers of the fire. “T’is pretty indeed, yet seems oddly different.”
“Indeed. Pretty, different, yet still the same.”
“Are you sure that this is the same place that we stopped last night?”
“Indeed.”
“I did not notice this ring of stones, nor yonder path.”
As he says this, Black points to the clear path leading from between two oak trees which Hunter had not previously noticed.
“By Almighty God!” Hunter exclaims. “T’is The Righteous Path!”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, for God’s sake man! The Righteous Path, the Will of God, it stands before us in physical form, to guild us. We must walk it.”
Now that Hunter mentions it, the path does seem most unnatural to Black, divine almost. No snow lies on its grass and no stray branches bar the way, golden light falls on it as though from spotlights.
“I see”, says Black, getting out his compass,” but is it even in the right direction?”
The point on the compass spins wildly in circles.
Hunter looks smug.
“Agreed,” says Black, “we must follow it… after breakfast.”
“Indeed, after breakfast.”
Having eaten breakfast, Hunter and Black walk The Righteous Path.
All day long they walk the path, for never do they feel tiredness or hunger. And all day long golden light falls on the path, though the forest is forebodingly dark. And all day long the birds sing and, although it is winter, butterflies of ever colour flutter frequently across the path.
Hunter is utterly happy in his faith that God’s grace falls upon him. Black is more uneasy, constantly does he suspect that he is asleep and still dreaming, but a deeper instinct tells him to accept his reality and work with it, so he walks on.
When sun sets, and it is an exquisitely beautiful sun set, they see a castle looming above the trees. It resembles the castle from Black’s dream; a vast Baroque building of tall towers ending in arched domes, of doors and windows with sharp arches and spiralling stairs connecting towers, walls and buildings. It is built of gleaming white stone, and ivy grows up many of the tall outer walls. A moat of crystal clear water surrounds it, but the drawbridge lays open leading to a portcullis with its shining bars raised.
At its bridge the shining path ends.
“The Chateau Rouge,” say Black, thinking that his dream had been an omen.
“Indeed, the home of The Grail, I expected it to be red, never mind…”
They walk across the drawbridge and though the portcullis of the main gate. They enter a long hall, lined with suits of armour that shine as though made of silver. The hall way is lit by fourteen fiery braziers, so they do not notice that as soon as they enter the castle it falls pitch dark outside.
At the end of the hall they find a tall arched door made of solid ivory, with hinges and a handle made of gold.
Black prepares to kick the door down, but it opens silently first and a tall, slender and beautiful woman stands in the door way. Her hair, like liquid gold, falls to her slim waist, her eyes are like the wide sea under a clear sky.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” says the woman in a voice smother than the silk of her long blue dress.
“Good evening,” Hunter says boldly. “I am James George Harry Hunter, at your service. This is Black. We are here for The Holy Grail!”
The woman flitters her long eye lashes and toys with her golden hair.
“We have been expecting you,” she says.
“Indeed,” says Hunter, clearly slightly mesmerised.
“I shall show you to The Grail, but first we must dine with us.”
She toys with her hair again, and this time Black notices that her ears are slightly pointy.
“Gladly, my lady,” says Hunter.
“There may not be time, think of Von Clivenhoffen,” says Blacks.
“Manners, man, manners,” Hunter chastises him. “We shall dine with the lady first.”
Black obeys, knowing that no meal could last as long as the argument that would follow if he did not. The woman leads them through the door into a huge feasting hall. A large log fire burns in an imposing heath with a long pair of antlers mounted above it. The walls are richly decorated with tapestries and wild flowers. In the middle of the hall is a long table pilled high with food of all kinds. At the table sit six women, each one as beautiful as the one at the door, the woman who sits at head of the table (who may be slightly more beautiful than the rest) wears a delicate gold tiara.
The woman from the door leads them to the table, where two chairs and spaces wait empty for them, and invites them to sit. Suddenly they are terribly hungry, they sit, and the woman sits with them and gives them each a large crystal glass of wine.
“Be welcome and feast,” the lady at the head of the table declares.
“Thank you, my lady,” says Hunter, putting a turkey leg to his mouth.
“Stop,” Black says quietly. “I believe that these ladies are faeries, we must not eat their food or we will be bewitched forever.”
“No,” says Hunter. “Faeries are far smaller, remember that photo those girls took in the garden.”
“Aye, you are right… Maybe they are elves…”
“No, t’is too far south for elves, let us eat.”
“You are right.”
Hunter and Black eat and drink in vast quantities, time flies by, and soon they both fall asleep at the table.
They wake up in the forest.
It appears to be mid afternoon, and it is clear from the dampness of their clothes and the freshness of the foliage that it has rained recently. It is quite cold.
“What the blazes just happened?” says Hunter as he gets up.
“Don’t know, we seem to have been drugged. I don’t think we should go back to the castle,” replied Black.
“I agree,” Hunter says, taking a swig of sherry. “Those ladies are far too distracting… but what of The Grail?”
“It must be near.”
“We must follow The Path.”
They had woken beside The Path, it stretched ahead of them, golden in its radiance.
They walk The Path through the forest.
A few hours latter they find themselves once again outside the castle. The sun is beginning to set, and the white walls of the chateau shine like beacons.
“Shall we return? Black says.
“I think we must,” replies Hunter.
Inside the castle they are met again by the beautiful woman.
“Good evening my lady,” Hunter greets her. “The Grail: if we may.”
“We will show you to Grail,” she said, her eyes sparkling delightfully,” after you have dined with us.”
“Sorry my lady,” Black says,” but we are in a great hurry…”
“Ay, yes, of course,” she says, toying with her hair. “But, you see, we have stout and meat pies, and chocolate cake and a great deal of sherry…”
“A great deal, you say,” Hunter says, stepping forward,” I think it would only be civil of us to dine with these ladies.”
Black is equally unable to resist the glamour of the faery lady. They enter the hall, are welcomed and eat and drink mightily.
They wake up on The Path in the forest. The ground is hard with frost and the birds are singing. A bright and warm sun rises.
From the growth of stubbly on them, they deduce that they have been asleep for several days.
After shaving and having tea, they set off once again upon The Path.
“I am still drunk,” declares Hunter after a few minutes.
“If we return to that place, we must be stronger,” say Black.
“Indeed, and when we return to Britain, we must never speak of it.”
They walk The Path all day until, at sunset, the castle is yet again ahead of them.
“Shall we?” say Hunter.
“Aye.”
The faery woman yet again greets them at the door with a sweet smile.
“Good evening lady,” Black says wearily.
“Good evening gentlemen,” says the lady. “I see that you have come to dine with you again, how nice, we do so love your company…”
“My good lady,” says Hunter,” we tire of the constant drugging, please show us to The Grail.”
“If you insist, it is in The Garden, come this way.”
“Let me get this straight,” says Hunter, “you are going to take us directly to The Grail? No meal, no drugs, no waking up in the forest, no riddles, no monsters for us to fight?”
“Yes,” says the lady. “The Grail is in The Garden, where it has always been, free for any who seek it. Come this way.”
“Thank you,” says Black.
The faery lady leads them through a small door to the right, along a corridor, then down a flight of steps to The Garden. The Garden is in the courtyard of the castle, yet it is far larger than the castle, in fact it seems to stretch out infinitely. And it is gloriously beautiful. It has vast expanses of meadows filled with wild flowers, perfect lawns and fine rose buses, trees of many kinds and streams and fountains in which the water sparkles like stars. Even though sun has set, golden light illuminates everything.
“By almighty God,” Hunter exclaims, “t’is surely Eden!”
“No, t’is The Garden,” say the lady. “All the world is like this, one merely requires The Grail to see it… Good luck in your search, we are all hoping that you find it, you are so much more fun than that Iluminati fellow who arrived before you.”
With that she kissed both of them, playfully, on the check and turned to walk away. In a second she had disappeared.
“This is fantastic,” say Hunter, looking around him.
“Aye, t’is also very big,” say Black,” so we had best get looking, remember, Von Clivenhoffen is already here.”
“So he is, but I am sure I shall find it before him.”
“On what basis?”
“Because I am a spiritual warrior, chosen by God and beloved of God… and one day I shall ascend,” Hunter takes a huge swig of his sherry as though to prove his point.
“Am not convinced,” says Black. “But I recon we will find it first, and if he does find it before us, we’ll just have to kill him.”
They set of on their search, walking across a meadow, then crossing a delicate stream, then walking though another meadow filled with primroses and daisies.
“It could be anywhere,” says Hunter. “Where are Grails normally found?”
“Things like this are often found on the tops of mountains, but fortunately there don’t seem to be many mountains around. I think The Grail is some times found near a fountain, lets have a look by that fountain.”
They walk to the fountain, it is a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, but it contains no grail.
“Never mind,” say Hunter, “what say we have a look in those woods?”
“Aye, why not.”
A hundred yards to the right there is a large patch of oak tress which grow strong and tall, with rich golden bark and brilliantly green leaves. They walk into it. Crisp leaves rustle under foot and shadows dance around them.
The serene beauty is suddenly broken by maniacal laughter, as loud as thunder.
“Von Clivenhoffen,” Black says grimly.
“What’s he so happy about?”
“Don’t know, probably not much, evil men seem to find a lot of things very amusing, I’ve never been able to see their point.”
“We are probably going to be attacked by a hoard of demons soon, are we not.”
“Probably, still don’t see why he finds it so funny though.”
The laughter stops and they manage to leave the grove of oaks without being attacked by demons and find them selves on rich meadow land again. A couple of dozen yards in front of them is a grove of apple trees with big red apples growing on them.
“Don’t think we ought to eat those apples,” says Black.
“Agreed. Might be worth a look though.”
On closer inspection the grove of apple trees is in fact a ring of trees, inside which is The Holy Grail. The Grail stands upon a white marble pedestal, to Hunter it looks like a silver chalice, studded with rubies, to Black it is a simple wooden cup, for to all men The Grail takes a different form, yet it is always the same.
On the opposite side of the clearing in the apple trees stands Von Clivenhoffen, his hammer in hand and flanked by four demons. These demons stand upright like men, but they are over seven feet tall and they are creatures of pure darkness, shadows made solid, without true form or feature.
“Ha,” shouts Von Clivenhoffen, “I shall slay you two swine and take The Grail at the same time! Ha har! Today is truly a fine day.”
“Never, you Iluminati Scoundrel!” replies Hunter. “We shall take The Grail, for Good will always over come Evil.”
“What a fool you are, foolish Englishman, to speak of good and evil, “says Von Clivenhoffen.” There is no such thing as good and evil in this world. Only darkness and illumination, and we, The Illuminati, shall rule all.”
“Take a look at your self, Von Clivenhoffen,” replies Hunter. “You laugh manically and summon demons, you are even wearing a black cape and a top hat, how much more evil do you need to be? Can you not see how far you have fallen from grace with God? The Iluminati seek only to control mankind, not enlighten us. You do The Devil’s work, for which you shall soon be punished!”
Black does no talking, he just prepares to fight. He quietly removes his gloves and cracks his knuckles.
Shouting an unrepeatable curse, Von Clivenhoffen ran forward, his demons beside him.
Hunter and Black stride forward to meet them and they fight around The Grail.
Hunter draws his sword and blocks Von Clivenhoffen’s hammer, then cuts the head off a demon. Another demon claws at his face and burns it with its foul touch.
Black punches one demon then blocks the attacks of both.
Hunter draws his knife with his left hand and stabs at Von Clivenhoffen who dodges, and then decapitates the second demon.
Black punches a demon in the chest with his left fist. His fist sinks into the demon’s shadowy body. His silver ring glows in the darkness, then the demon implodes. The fourth and last demon claws at his chest, leaving hissing cuts. Black hits it with a right hook, then a left jab, then a right jab, then a left hook which destroys it.
At the same time, Von Clivenhoffen hits Hunter in the ribs with his deadly hammer. Hunter drops down to his knees in great pain. Von Clivenhoffen strikes down at his head with his hammer, but Hunter manages to raise his sword in time to deflect the blow. But the effort of lifting the sword and taking the impact of the blow was too much for his injured body- he drops the sword. But as his arm falls limply, he is able to grasp The Grail. He holds it tightly against his chest and falls to his hands and knees.
“I serve The Grail,” Hunter grunts through gritted teeth.
Before Black has chance to act, Von Clivenhoffen raises his hammer again to strike Hunter.
But suddenly there is a dull thud and he drops dead. Von Clivenhoffen falls forward to the ground, and behind him stands Mister Armstrong with a large club in hand.
“Good man,” says Black.”
“Sir Livington reckoned you might need me around,” Armstrong explained.
“Jolly good show,” uttered Hunter, but it is too late, he is dying. His internal organs and rib cage have been reduced to mush by the blow of the hammer. Every breath pains him, and blood drips from his lips. “You must remember me always as I am, and remember that I died how I lived- drunk, and in pain.”
With that he dies.
Then a beam of pure white light shines down upon his body from the sky. And from the sky comes a most heavenly singing, as though from a choir of angels. Then another body rises from his broken body- Hunter, alive and well, but with white wings like a swan’s, and with a golden halo. This angelic form rises into the air, up the beam of light and into the sky.
Bloody hell, thought Black. He was right- the bastard ascended.
Not Quite The End.
The Epilogue.
Black and Armstrong collect The Grail and Hunter’s body and return to Britain.
It is a cold day when they reach the London Docks; rain falls from the grey sky.
Black steps off the ship and finds Miss Molly Wine waiting there for him.
“Hello Molly,” he says to her.
“Good day,” she says to him.
“How did you know that I was going to be here now?” he asks.
“I do not know,” she replies. “I just knew that you would return now, and that Hunter would not.”
“He is in a better place now,” says Black.
Molly Wine looks around at the vast expanse of dirty grew stone covered in smog that is London, and says,” I am sure that he is….T’is good to see you again.”
“Aye, and you too Molly,” he said.
Then he looks her in the eyes and she smiles, and he took her hands in his.
“Would you like to marry me, John Black?” she says.
“Aye, Molly, I’d like that a lot.”
So they did.
For each man must find his Grail, and Black had found his.
THE END.
.jpg)