Behold the Dawn (6 page)

“What I would have you do is fall on your knees and entreat the saints to lift this accursed illness!”

“And smite the Baptist instead?”

“The Baptist? He has arrived?”

“And if he has? One insane monk cannot possibly do us harm.” Hugh rested a hand on his sword hilt. His eyes were cold, hard—stubborn. “You chase sundogs again, Bishop.”

“Be silent.” Roderic darted a glance to the other
courtiers
gathered throughout the tent.

“Your fear makes you weak. You do not even know who he is, and yet you tremble within your robes at the sound of his name.”

“Whoever he is, he knows too much of the past!”

“Then suppress him.”

“I
will
.” Roderic inhaled through his teeth, trying not to taste the stench. “But only after he has led us to Matthias of Claidmore.”

Hugh regarded him, his mouth working beneath his dark beard. “You do not even know if this Matthias lives, much less if he is a follower of the Baptist.”

“If he is, I cannot risk them finding me.”

The canvas above his head shuddered as someone thrust past the crowded entry. Roderic glanced across the tent into the somber face of a Knight
Templar
—Brother Warin by name and, in most respects, a much more trustworthy, if rather visionless, subordinate than was Hugh. Judging from the expression beneath the tawny brown of his close-cropped hair, he brought some long-awaited announcement.

Roderic’s heart beat faster. Matthias? The Baptist? Or was it merely tactical information?

Brother Warin elbowed through the crowd until the white of his blouse brushed against Roderic’s and Hugh’s shoulders. He inclined his head, pressing his hands together in front of the red cross on his chest. “Your Grace. Lord Hugh.”

Roderic extended his hand for him to kiss. “You’ve news?”

“Yes, my lord. I’ve received another message.”

“Message? From
him
?” Roderic cast a glance around the crowded tent, suddenly aware of how many might be able to overhear their conversation.

“Aye.”

His pulse pounded in his temples. Since before they had left England, Warin had been receiving messages advising them of the Baptist’s actions and urging them to eliminate him and his English compatriot, Lord William of Keaton. The messages, written in a flawless Latin that could only indicate a man of the Church, were always accurate to the point of clairvoyance. They were signed simply
Veritas
, meaning truth.

Who wrote the communications, none of them could tell. But he appeared to be an ally, and that was all Roderic cared.

Warin withdrew the slip of soiled parchment from his blouse and handed it to Roderic. “He says the Earl of Keaton has arrived.”

Hugh’s back went straight. “And the countess?”

Warin’s lip curled, but he nodded. Despite their messenger’s encouragement of Hugh’s obsession with the woman—who had eluded him only through a hasty marriage to the earl—Brother Warin continued in his disapproval.

Roderic knit his brows as he read the short note. “He says they have been captured by the blockade. I wonder…”

Hugh shifted impatiently, his sword rattling at his side, but Roderic stilled him with a glance. “Reign in your ardor, Lord Hugh. Mayhap the game will play into our hands yet.”

“What do you mean?” Warin asked.

“Lord William has been a thorn in my side since the beginning. In the arms of the Saracens, he is at least safely out of the way. And perhaps he will even cause Matthias to follow him there.”

Hugh growled in the back of his throat. “And what if Matthias does not follow? You put too much stock in this unknown messenger. I still say you should kill them all.”

“I have not the patience to hire petty bunglers. And you cannot be spared.”

Hugh glowered. No doubt that had been his intent, though not due to any desire to rid Roderic of Matthias and the Baptist. Hugh’s quarrel had always been with the Earl and Countess of Keaton.

“Your Grace,” Warin said, “I have learned that a man of some renown has arrived in the English camp.”

Roderic’s chest constricted. “The Baptist?”

“Nay. But I believe he could prove the answer to removing that particular vermin from under your skin, as well as all the others.”

“Who?” Hugh demanded, leaning his weight on the foot nearest the Templar.

Roderic lifted a hand high enough for Hugh to see it. He knew full well that his lieutenants did not appreciate each other’s value. So long as he remained in command, however, they must tolerate one another.

Warin smiled, almost showing teeth. “What if I were to tell you I could supply you with a man who is no petty bungler? Who is renowned for his fighting skill and expertise?”

“I would say it is still not worth the risk,” Hugh said.

Roderic glanced at him, then back at Warin. “And how do you guarantee this?”

Warin’s smile revealed the cleft in his chin. “You’ve no doubt heard of the tourneyer Marcus Annan?”

The muscles in Hugh’s cheek bunched near the base of his jaw. “He is here?”

“He is.”

Roderic glanced at the Norman. “You know him?”

“All who fight in the tourneys know of him. But, yes, I have met him—in battle.”

“And if one is to judge from your tone,” Warin said, “he won?”

“We will meet again.” Hugh looked at Roderic and angled a shoulder so that he had effectively turned his back on the Knight Templar. “I disapprove. This Marcus Annan is a dangerous man.”

“We seek a dangerous man, do we not?”

“I have heard he is honorable,” Warin said. “And he
is
skilled.

“How skilled?”

“Enough to rival our king in strength and your holy self in cunning.”

Roderic lifted an eyebrow. “If you have that high an opinion of him, then I think prudence demands I at least give him an audience.”

Hugh snorted. “You belittle your vaunted cunning if you court assassins before the eyes of all Christendom.”

“You forget your place, Lord Hugh.” Roderic gathered his robes and stepped forward. “I have no such intentions. But I think our sovereign lord King Richard would enjoy the momentary distraction of meeting such a famed fighter. Do you not agree?”

Chapter IV

ANNAN WAITED BEFORE the closed entrance of a huge tent. Above his left shoulder, the flowers upon the blue pennant of the royal English family shone in the light of the rising moon.

At his side, Marek fidgeted. “What would an English king want with us?”

“Not you—me.” Marek had already been informed he was to stay outside and keep his flapping mouth shut. Annan grunted. Even had he been in the habit of believing in miracles, the hope of Marek’s mouth ever staying shut was too preposterous to inspire faith.

“You might need a second sword in there, you know.”

“I doubt a king would be stirring himself from his sickbed just to have a wandering tourneyer’s head removed from his body.”

“Soothe your own concerns, but I still want to know what he called you for. Or how he even knew we was here.”

“It’s one of the unfortunate consequences of having a reputation.”

“You don’t have a reputation here. Not yet.”

Annan shifted his weight to lean against a banner pole. “Not yet.” His chest lifted in a sigh. Sometimes regret weighed as heavily upon him as did the oppressive heat of this sultry land. If new beginnings were possible, he would have started over long ago. But the past was written in blood. It could be neither forgotten nor remade, and the future always followed in its tracks, unwavering.

“Master Annan?” A man, dressed in colors so jaunty they were visible even in the moonlight, thrust aside the tent flap. “His Majesty bids you enter.”

Annan pushed away from the pole, one hand landing reflexively on his sword handle. He batted Marek’s arm as he passed. “Keep your eyes open for anything I need to know about. Like that shadow over there.” He gestured at the dark-robed figure lurking some two tents down. He didn’t pause to see the lad’s reaction.

The courtier—probably a minstrel—held the tent flap for him and then led him through the empty outer partition of the huge tent. The curtains at the far end were pulled back and tied with cords of scarlet, and through the opening Annan could see the foot of a bed and several men gathered around it.

Some five paces from the opening, the minstrel stopped and turned to address him. He frowned, probably realizing how far he would have to look up to speak into Annan’s face. “His Majesty is ill, and you are not to rouse him. You will bow as you enter and wait for him to bid you rise.”

The minstrel beckoned with his hand and led Annan into the second partition. A score of knights crowded near the walls, their collective gaze focused on Annan as he entered, though he could detect little in their interest beyond curiosity. The far wall, shrouded in netting to deter vermin, was flung open to the night.

In the midst of a bed that must have filled an entire ship’s cabin on its journey across the sea, the English king lay propped on silken pillows. Perspiration glinted beneath the red-gold ringlets on his forehead, and his blotched face bore the gauntness of pain. His eyes, however, were alight with interest, command, poise.

“The infamous Marcus Annan.”

Annan halted near the foot of the bed and inclined his head.

Richard’s eyebrows lifted, and the group behind Annan fell silent.

“You do not bow before our sovereign lord?” said the sharp accent of a Norman.

Annan glanced to his right, into the dark, handsome face of Hugh de Guerrant. The man’s lip curled, and his hand clenched his sword. Annan’s encounter with Hugh at a
melee
tourney in Paris more than a year ago was memorable only in the deep scar Annan still bore on his left hip—a result of the other’s frustrated attempt to revenge his losses after the competition.

Hugh drifted to the foot of the bed. “Arrogance may perhaps be acceptable on the field of a melee, but not here, among your betters.”

“I do not bow before foreign kings.”

Surprised voices murmured behind him, and the king’s chin lifted as he recognized the accent. “Scot.”

“Aye.”

“I have heard much about you.” Richard pursed his lips. “Coming from another man, perhaps your words would find cause for offense. But if the rumors speak the truth, you are an equal to us all in arms if not in rank. Even still, there are those who whisper in my ear that you shouldn’t be drawing a sword in the battle tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to his left, and a colorless man, clad in the red and gold robes of a bishop, stepped from the shadows near the canvas wall.

The bishop’s gray eyes had a cold glint, like the driving winds of a Highland winter. Annan met his gaze unflinching, but in the back of his mind something burned, like the touch of a spark on a bare finger.

And then the bishop spoke, and Annan, shocked despite himself, was driven back sixteen years, the force of the memory like a blow to his chest.

“You, a tourneyer, dare to think yourself worthy of this Holy War?”

Father Roderic
… Annan stared, the name rising to the tip of his tongue. He bit down hard. The bishop’s eyes held no recognition—and to change that would be to risk the life Annan had built for himself in those sixteen years.

As if it was worth the saving.

He had promised Marek he had not come to kill. But, at his side, his sword hand trembled, and in the back of his brain, the heat of battle kindled.

Rising from the haze of his mind was St. Dunstan’s and all its dead brethren… Gethin, pale and unconscious, bleeding from wounds too numerous to count… Matthias with that unquenchable conviction blazing in his eyes…

Annan clenched his hand into a fist.

St. Dunstan’s was over, finished—a part of the unredeemable past. He would not resurrect it. He would
not
. Neither Roderic nor the Baptist nor any other face from that past could force him to do so.

“You do not answer, Master Annan?”

He glanced back at the king. “I did not hear the question.”

“The question,” said Father Roderic, taking another step toward Annan, “is why an unworthy such as yourself dares to take the holy oath of a Crusader?”

Annan filled his lungs and looked the man in the eyes. “I have taken no oath.”

A murmur passed through the knights gathered behind him.

Roderic’s eyebrows lifted, widening the dark sockets of his eyes. A puzzled expression flickered through his stony gaze and then passed.

“You have not taken the oath?” Richard said. “And yet you dare to fight here upon the holy soil of our Lord?”

“I am not here to Crusade against the Evil Prophet.”

“Then why?” Hugh demanded. “There are no tourneys here for you to bare your teeth in.”

“I go where I please, Norman.” The divot made by Hugh’s sword in his hipbone ached with the rising of every morning’s sun, but if Hugh believed that blow had subdued him in any way, he was so much the fool.

Richard lifted a hand from the purple coverlet and waved it in a conciliatory gesture. “Spoken like a man of the sword. And as for the tourneys, I enjoy them greatly myself.” He leaned forward. “I should very much have liked to engage an arm as stout as Master Annan’s.” The torchlight flickered in his eyes. “Mayhap when I am well and the infidels are crushed beneath my destrier’s feet, we shall have such a contest, eh, Sir Knight?”

“Your Majesty.” Father Roderic’s lips drew tight, as though with a purse string. “A vehement Scot, apathetic to our holy mission, may use such an opportunity to do you harm.” He straightened his shoulders, his hands sliding into their opposite sleeves. He glanced at Annan, eyebrows cocked.

Beneath his pointed beard, Richard’s mouth hardened. “Do not seek to control my actions, Bishop.”

“Of course not, Majesty.” Roderic’s gaze did not leave Annan’s face. “But perhaps we are mistaken in thinking this knight has any interest in plying his sword for a living?”

Annan met his gaze and held it. Something in the way Roderic was asking the question… so unstudied as to be pointed… as if he were here tonight just to ask it.

If Roderic hoped to recruit him for his Holy War, he miscalculated.