Blood of the Grail: Prologue

Petrus knew he was in trouble the moment he saw the four barbarians with his own eyes. Unlike him, they were men of the West; pale and hairy, with sunken blue eyes and filthy, matted brown hair. Behind him stood a young lad with a spear, but all of them were armed, with hands resting on the swords at their belts. Petrus could feel the gaze on the back of his back, raising gooseflesh all over his body. At a nod from the oldest one with greys in his beard, the door slowly creaked shut, before the latch was bolted into place with a heavy clunk. 

Petrus licked his lips and swallowed, his throat feeling parched all of a sudden. The sun was at its peak, and even indoors his armpits were damp with sweat. The curtains were drawn, and the air was stifling with the sour odor of four men who had been trapped inside a room for many days, and he wondered how long they’d been hiding down here. Between him and the three was a worn table, no chairs and no plates.

Lord, what am I doing here? His stomach roiled as they all stared at him for a dozen heartbeats, before finally he broke the silence. “I’m Petrus.” He introduced himself. “Odger said you all had something to sell?”

The greybeard stepped forward. “You have the silver?” With just those three words, Petrus felt his anxiety grow worse. They spoke with a thick accent and odd pronunciations. This clearly wasn’t his native language, and Petrus prayed that he wouldn’t die from a miscommunication.

“No.” He answered, honestly.

Immediately, the man changed his stance, leaning forward and unsheathing his knife to show an inch of steel with his right hand. “You think you can buy without paying?!” He snarled, and the youth at the door hissed. Petrus glanced back at him, seeing the boy warning with a finger to his lips that the others should keep their voice low.

“I don’t know you.” Petrus explained, turning back to face the leader. He kept his voice soft, just above a whisper. “You could try to rob me.” He hesitated, before adding, “Sorry, but you are thieves.”

The men exchanged looks, and the greybeard gave him an offended glare. “We are not.” He declared, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“My friend, if what you were trying to sell belonged to you then you wouldn’t have called for me.”

The leader’s lips twisted into a grimace, but he didn’t try to argue again. “What about the silver?” He demanded. 

“I won’t bring it to a first meeting.” Petrus explained. “If I’d worked with you before, then perhaps I might trust you, but today, I will see what you have and offer you a price. If that price isn’t high enough for you, I could try and arrange a buyer who can offer more. Finally, if neither of those are suitable, we could consider ransoming the item back to the original owner. Otherwise we go our separate ways, and forget all about eachother.” He held out his hands, feeling enough confidence returning that he gave them a genial smile. “Please, I’m a professional.”

The western men frowned at each other, before taking a step back. For a few long moments they huddled and spoke to each other in their native tongue, gesturing animatedly as they jabbered. When they reached some kind of agreement, their leader turned and said, “We will show you, and you will give us a price.” After Petrus nodded, the man moved to the back of the room. From an old brown vase he took out a bundle of cloth with great care. Slowly, he unfurled it on the table, and the fence was able to see what was stolen.

It took him a few moment’s to recognise what was there, but when he did he staggered back as if someone had struck him. There were ten glass phials, stopped with cork and wax, each filled with blood and crudely stuffed into the slits of a leather belt that had been turned into a bandolier. Petrus raised his gaze, staring in disbelief at these barbarians who had dared to lay their hands on something like this.

“No…” He uttered, breathing out. “No, this can’t be real…”

Their leader growled like a beast, finally leaning forward so Petrus could see the resentful fire burning in his eyes, and smell the rotten stink of his breath. “It was taken from Prince Baldwin’s tent. During the sacking, his guards abandoned their post to claim plunder. The only one inside was his camp-bride.” He sneered. “She cried out, but many were screaming that day. We took these from the prince’s chest, and left no one to share the tale. You must have heard that the Prince’s tent was plundered, now the whole city knows what was stolen. We’ve been hiding down here this whole time as the streets were searched and word was passed around. Everyone who leaves the city is being searched now, and if we’re caught with this we’ll all burn.”

Petrus believed the story, and he felt the butterflies stir in his stomach again. “I can’t sell these.” He explained. “Everyone will know what they are.”

“Ransom.” The man breathed out. “We can ransom it back to the Prince.”

It was an idea so crazy that Petrus had to hold back a laugh. “Please.” He begged. “Please, understand. We can’t ransom this. The Prince will make any promise, and then slaughter us all.”

The westerner scowled. “Well, if you can’t sell them, and if you won’t try to ransom them, we have no use for you.” He looked at the lad guarding the door, and raised a hand to his throat. 

“W-wait!” Petrus spluttered. “Hold on.” His mind raced as he spoke, thoughts tumbling from his lips as he made them. “These are- I can’t sell them now! But maybe, in ten years, I can sell them then. I can bury them, and dig them up, and sell them for a profit then. I can get you silver now.”

“How much?”

Petrus hesitated, considering the question. He was a fence, that was how he made his living. He couldn’t spend every coin he had on something that wouldn’t pay off for a decade or more. “I can get you…” He swallowed, thinking hard, desperately trying to do the talleys in his head, but aware that if he gave a number too low, these men would cut his throat. “I can give you fifty silver pieces.”

One of the men snorted in disbelief, shaking his head and uttering a curse in his tongue. 

“These are worth a kingdom! Tens of thousands of silver pieces at least!” The leader snarled. He reached across the table, ignoring the lad at the door trying to hush him. Snatching Petrus's collar, he dragged him close enough that the fence could make out the black teeth from the white in his mouth. “Fifty pieces? And you say we’re thieves!”

“No!” Petrus murmured. “Please! Think! How can I pay more for something that I won’t see a return on for a decade? There isn’t a fence in the world who has a thousand silver, let alone ten!”

“I’ll think on it as I flay you alive, scum!” 

“Alvaric, stop!” The lad at the door barked, speaking Petrus’s tongue perfectly. “Have you gone mad? We’ve been trapped here for a week! We’ll never make it home at this rate! Just take the price, and let’s leave this cursed city.”

“A mere fifty pieces!” Alvaric snapped. “That’s nothing!”

“On the farm I’d be lucky to see two pieces of silver in a good year!” The lad replied. “With a dozen pieces, I’ll be able to buy the farm for myself! Let’s just take it and go!”

“A farm?!” Alvaric roared. “A farm?! I could be living in a palace! I could have everything I ever wanted, for me and my grandchildren’s grandchildren, and you think I’ll just go home?!”

The touch of cold steel to Petrus's neck made him draw his breath sharply. He looked down without moving his head to see a dagger held at his neck, Alvaric’s spidery hands shaking with rage.

“I can’t go home!” Alvaric’s bellowed, so loud that Petrus's ears rang. Tears glistened in the man’s eyes. “I’ve known hunger so great that I ate boot leather to sate it! My throat was so parched that I drank piss to wet it! I cut the throats of sick and dying brothers and called it mercy! You think that’s worth a dozen pieces?!”

“P-please!” Petrus begged. “Please, put the knife down!”

But Alvaric didn’t even seem to hear him… He clenched his eyes shut, sobbing. 

“Alvaric, you’ll damn us all!”

“I’m already damned!” The man snarled, and drew the blade back.

The pain forced a sharp gasp from Petrus, as an arc of his own blood sprayed out before him. He clutched at his neck, feeling his own hot essence running over his hands. He tried to swallow the blood filling his stomach, but he was drowning in it. Head spinning, he fell to his knees, desperately trying to breath. I’m dying. He realised through the panic. I’m a dead man.

Above him the lad lashed out, impaling Alvaric with the tip of his spear. The other two men leapt at him, taking out their own blades even as he tipped the table over to slow them. The phials fell to the floor, but none broke. Petrus didn’t have the strength to stay on his knees. He collapsed face first into the dirt, choking as the spreading pool of crimson filled his own eyes and blinded him.