"Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

'I see.'
Another voice speaks. 'You have been a faithful member of the Council of
Brothers for six years, I believe.' It is Evans, our number two, or Second
Principal. 'In that time, we have watched you ceaselessly for any hint or sign
of impropriety, however small.'
'I hope I have not disappointed you.'
'On the contrary. You have impressed us greatly. Our admiration has only
increased.'
A third voice speaks from the darkness. 'Many have been called to the
Brotherhood before you.' It is Kutch; his Austrian accent is all his own.
'However, no one has proven worthy of higher honour .. . until now.'
At his use of the word 'honour', my senses prick. That word was used only once
before on such an occasion - the night I was asked to join the Brotherhood.
'I was not aware any higher honour existed,' I reply.
'Martyrdom was an honour,' Zaccaria informs me calmly, (to those who embraced
it.'
'Am I to be a martyr?'
It is De Cardou who answers. 'We are «// martyrs, my friend. It is only the
cause which distinguishes one from another.'
I do not know what to say to this, so the silence stretches long. I have the
sense that they are watching me, that they can see me in the dark even though
I cannot see them.
It is Pemberton who speaks at last. This surprises me, for I expected one of
the others - Evans, perhaps, or De Cardou. But, no, I know now that the
unassuming Pemberton is our superior, our First Principal. 'If you would
suffer martyrdom, as we have suffered it before you,' he says gently, 'you
have but to step forward.'
I do so, and without a moment's hesitation. I have seen enough of the
Brotherhood and its works to trust these men implicitly. I need no second
invitation, and in any event I would not have received one. Thus, I accept,
stepping forward the prescribed single step; and thus, the initiation begins.
At once I am seized by two members of the Inner Temple, one on either side;
they stretch out my arms horizontally, while a third fastens a thick, padded
band around my waist. I am led forward to a small table which has been set up
in the centre of the crypt.
A solitary candle is lit, and in its glow I see that the table is covered with
a spotless white cloth upon which a selection of objects has been assembled: a
silver bowl of liquid, a white clay pipe of the kind used to smoke tobacco, a
communion chalice, a golden plate containing something which looks like dried
figs, a folded black cloth of a material which I assume to be silk, or satin,
and lastly, a crude wooden cross set on a pedestal of gold.
I am brought to stand before the table, and my six initiators take their
places on the other side, opposite me; they have covered their heads with
their cowls so I may not see their faces. It does not matter, I know their
voices like I know my own. Even so, the effect is unsettling.
'Seeker, stretch forth your hands.' The command is delivered by Pemberton, and
I do as I am told. He picks up the silver bowl and places it on my palms.
'Take and drink.'
I raise the bowl to my lips and sip the liquid. It is sweet, tasting vaguely
herbal, like a mixture of roses and anise; yet, there is strength in it, too.