John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

He was down, feeling his heartbeat increasing, more from fear than any real exertion. There was a single door there with an iron latch. He tried peering through a knot hole in the wood, but could see little in the inky darkness. Then, trusting to fate and his own star, he lifted the latch very slowly and pushed open the door. It made a slight creek on its hinges, freezing him in a moment of uncertainty. He waited in the silence, hearing nothing, then slipped through the opening.

He was in a small alcove that probably served as the sacristy of the chapel, he reasoned. Perfect! He could see shelves on the wall in the dim light, goblets, a chalice, a gourd of water, wooden pegs holding plump skins with a corked spout fitted at one end. He took one and opened it with a dull pop, muffling the sound in his cassock. A sniff told him it contained mulled wine, exactly what he was looking for!

He took the chalice and quietly poured a small serving of wine. Then he looked about until he had found a small brass dish, used for holy water at the cisterns. Undoubtedly the gourd of water would be used for these, so he poured out a small quantity of water as well.

Right outside the room he could see the shrine to Lambert, and it chilled him to think that Maeve was standing very near this place, just hours ago in his chronology, yet nine long years ago here on this Meridian. Dodo and his men were riding hard to this very place back then, and she had bravely set loose the barge that removed Bishop Lambert’s last route of escape. His followers eventually found the bodies of Lambert and his family, carrying them off to Maastricht. But the Bishop there, seeing that he was likely to cultivate sainthood, had wisely returned them to this place, first building a shrine, then this very chapel.

Paul approached the shrine, the brass dish in one hand, the chalice in the other. He saw the kneeler there before the altar, which was really the bishop’s tomb, and two low stools to either side, perhaps there to hold flowers, candles or allow visitors to leave offerings. He set the water dish on the rightmost stool, and the chalice on the left. In spite of the cold, his brow was wet with sweat.

Now he reached carefully into the pocket of his cassock, where he had secreted away a special metal cylinder containing another pen-like object with lever handled cap. It was clear glass, half full, and contained a very dangerous agent. The cap was designed to rotate slightly to one side by means of the lever that looked like a pen clip. It extended down the side of the pen so that he could lever the cap open without having his fingers anywhere near the tip, then use his thumb at the other end to squirt out precisely measured amounts of the contents.

He slowly levered it open and seconds later he had made an offering of his own, one dose in the water, one in the wine. The sacrilegious nature of his crime was apparent to him, there before the tomb of the sleeping saint. With his lethal agents now in place, he put the pen-like container back into the metal cylinder, screwed the cap tightly shut, and slipped it into his cassock. How long would it be now? The agents would have a limited potency in the new medium of wine and water.

He took a deep breath, looking furtively about as if he expected to be discovered and called out for his sin at any moment. Murder and assassin—that was his lot now. How was he any different than the cult they had opposed these weeks past, struggling to reverse one intervention after another in the convoluted history? This life for a billion more, he thought, consoling himself. Yet now, more than ever, he found solidarity with Maeve, knowing exactly what she must have felt like.

The soft early light of pre-dawn filtered through the stained yellow glass window behind the altar, and he immediately wanted to be gone from this place, hidden, secreted away again in the tower.

An inner voice whispered to him, replete with recrimination in spite of all his rationalizations. He crept slowly off, a sallow, dull feeling in his gut, and made his way back into the tower and up the ladder, his heart beating fast with fear and anxiety as he went. Once safely up, with the trap door sealed, he sat down on the rough wood floor to catch his breath, shaken by what he had just done. I didn’t even have the courage to face the man, he berated himself. Yet Maeve was right. What could he have done in a face to face confrontation? No, stealth and guile was his only option here, but he still felt like a slinking rogue.

Look what we have become, he thought. We were such children. We thought we’d go see a Shakespeare play, that was all. Now look at us… murders, assassins, rogues in the dark corners of history. I am Rantgar, he realized, an impious wretch indeed.

He did not have time for further reproach. The sound of horses on the hard cobbled road was crisp on the morning air. The light of early dawn now streamed through the embrasure and he got up on his knees, which was just high enough to peer out the window. Moments later men came riding on sleek black horses, their flanks wet with the sheen of sweat in spite of the morning chill. Three riders, then four came up, and he noted one man, more powerfully built than the others and wearing a dark gray cape, dismounted first.

He spoke in a deep voice, casting back his riding hood and shaking loose long black hair which fell on his broad shoulders. Maeve had been correct. He was wearing a leather jerkin, laced at the sides, but draped over this was a fall of fine laced mail that covered his chest and back. It was tied off with a thick, black stained belt.

Paul did not understand what the man was saying. But he seemed to make some jest, as the other three men laughed quietly in the misty dawn, their foggy breath clearly evident. Then the leader looked over his shoulder, and Paul caught a glimpse of the man’s face, dark eyes, sharp features, wide nose over a thick, short cropped beard. He must have been six foot three, he thought, and all of 200 pounds. Paul realized again how ludicrous it would have been for him to try engage this man in a death duel before Lambert’s altar.

The man had turned to look at other riders, clerics, and one man all in white with what looked like a bishop’s miter in his hand. These might be officials of the chapel here, come to bear witness to Grimwald’s visit, and duly note the homage he has paid. It was all lip service, of course. Grimwald was here to make a political statement, not a religious one. By making his contrite visit to Lambert’s tomb, he would reinforce his alliance with the cult of sainthood that had grown up around the man—the bishop who had condemned the harlot mother of his greatest rival, Charles.

He would soon go into the chapel and kneel before Lambert’s tomb. Hopefully he would see the dish of holy water there, and dip his hand in to make the sign of the cross in prayer. Hopefully he would take notice of the chalice there, and drink. Yet if hope would not prevail on this grey morning, Paul was up in the tower waiting. If Grimwald emerged, alive and well, he still had his rifle…

The man greeted the clerics with a strained smile, then proffered a subtle bow and entered the chapel. Paul’s heart thundered as he watched the others waiting outside in silence. The horses chafed and snorted, and one seemed particularly unsettled.

Oh, no, thought Paul. Not another unruly beast! What was going to happen? Was there another hidden Pushpoint here that they could not possibly have seen or predicted? The horse snorted, and for a moment Paul thought it was looking up at him in the bell tower. He hid himself at once. His back pressed flat against the cold stone wall, cowering in the shadows. Stooping, he reached for his rifle, and saw his hands trembling as he clutched it again, trying to impose a measure of calm on himself. He knew the animal was already well aware of his presence, though he hoped no one else had seen him. Kelly’s voice returned to him concerning this whole affair—It’s the damn horses!