Behold the Dawn (8 page)

“I’ve never met a Templar’s master who approved of my sort,” Annan said. “Does he have a name?”

“As I said, I cannot tell you that. Only that he wishes to hire your services.”

Annan stared, trying to make sense of the shadows. His ears buzzed with the strain of listening. “I am a man of varied talents. Which services does he seek?” The young Templar stood at ease, one knee bent, the line of his shoulders supple. But still the back of Annan’s neck prickled.

“My master wishes you to secure the elimination of four persons.”

“What four persons?” The question was more habit than actual curiosity. He was occasionally a mercenary, but never an assassin, if the two terms could indeed be disassociated.

“For the first two, my master offers seven pounds, in Turkish gold—apiece.”

Annan lifted an eyebrow. Whomever this Templar answered to, he must have his hand in the purse of a king. “Not many men warrant such a price on their heads.”

“You have heard of the heretic called the Baptist?”

Annan’s diaphragm tightened. So that was it. Father Roderic
had
been baiting him tonight during his interview with Richard.

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He is the first target. He is expected to arrive in Acre at any time. And with him, or shortly after him, my master expects a companion, a man named Matthias of Claidmore.”

“Matthias of Claidmore?” His throat tightened.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“I have heard of many Matthiases in my time. The price is the same for him?”

“Aye. As for the other two, they may not yet have arrived. And if they have, it is possible they are in Saracen hands. The price is seven pounds for both together. The man’s name is William, Earl of Keaton. But my master expects your assistance only if they are not already infidel prisoners.”

Annan willed his jaw muscles to relax, but only succeeded in transferring the tension to the back of his neck. He had suspected no less. The Baptist had warned him of the same. And perhaps—if he were to judge from the thud of his heart against his ribs—this was his true reason for coming here, despite all his denials.

The Templar hesitated and stepped a bit closer. “The fourth will be found in Lord William’s company. A woman.”

“I don’t kill women, Templar.”

“She’s wanted alive.” The words tumbled from the Templar’s tongue, as though he were glad to be rid of them. “Further instructions on how to contact me will be left at your tent, if you wish to accept the task.”

Annan gnawed his lower lip, and his gaze flicked to where the distant horizon was visible only as a darker line in a dark sky.
My master wishes the elimination of four persons…
How many persons had he eliminated over the last sixteen years? Far fewer than men wanted to give him credit for, but still too many. Every time his hand shed the blood of another, he swore it would be the last. And, every time, he found reason to raise his blade once more.

Why?
Why was it so?

To feel the swell of his arms beneath the dead weight of a mail coat, to know the heft of his great sword in his hands, to smell the ripe sweat of battle on the dawn air—these were the things that had ignited his blood since his youth.

And yet he could easily have foresworn the anathema of the tourneyer and the mercenary. He could have joined the army—joined the Crusade—and battled on with the blessing of kings and Church alike. But he hadn’t. And never would.

He would continue on this downward spiral, always downward, until finally he could no longer lift his sword before his face to protect his life. He would die in the heat of his own blood, writhing in the mud, as had so many who had gone before him.

All because, long ago, he had been forced down this path by the dictates of his conscience. A conscience that was killed by its own steadfastness. And by Father Roderic. Aye, it had been Father Roderic who had pushed him down this path just as surely as he had thrust himself.

Was it not ironic that he should stand here now, only a word away from cutting down the head of one more innocent, at the behest of that same father?

His gaze returned to the Templar. “I accept your master’s offer.”

The Templar lowered his head in a bow. “The fee will be delivered to you—”

“Bring only the fee for Matthias of Claidmore.” The spiral was deep, but not so deep that he would kill the unprotected. Matthias, and only Matthias, deserved the death for which Father Roderic called. And he was already dead, no matter what Gethin or Roderic or anyone else might like to believe.

The Templar straightened, and Annan could hear the frown in his voice. “It is all four or none, Master Annan—save if the Lord of Keaton and the woman are in infidel hands.”

He shook his head. “I guarantee the death of Matthias of Claidmore. But I will not spy on the Moslem camps, nor will I lay hands on a holy monk.”

“His holiness is disputable, at best. My master will not be pleased to hear of your refusal.”

“Tell him my armor clanks with trepidation.”

Through the racing clouds, the moonlight showed flashes of the Templar’s scowl. “Perhaps a greater fee could be arranged. If that would tempt you?”

“Tell your master what you will.” Annan turned to go. “Fare well, Knight—I’m told this is a dangerous land.”

“So it is, Master Annan.”

With the Templar’s words ringing in his ears, he turned his face to the wind and trudged through the darkness to where Marek waited with the horses.

Bishop Roderic stood behind the netting in his tent’s entry and watched the clouds scudding across the sky, masking but never obliterating the huge moon. He stood with one arm round his waist, the other toying with the heavy crucifix that hung against the folds of his robe.

He should be asleep by now, lying among his pillows and coverlets, shielded from the cold breezes of a desert night. But he could not sleep. A strange disquiet had fallen over him after the king’s interview with the assassin Marcus Annan.

Roderic had never before seen the man, and yet there was an unmistakable air of familiarity about him. When he had stood defiantly straight in the presence of King Richard, Roderic had felt the danger radiating from him like the heat of a great hearth fire. And it was not the danger of his tremendous build, his well-honed weapons. This was the danger that lurked behind the cold blue eyes.

Roderic had mentioned it to no one, but he could feel in the marrow of his bones that something was amiss.
Something.
Exhaling, he dropped the crucifix and raised his hand to rub the point of his chin.

Outside the doorway, a mail-clad figure emerged from the gloom of the camp, and Roderic detected the red cross on the man’s chest.
Brother Warin.
Roderic had requested that he return with word of his meeting with the tourneyer.

Silently, Roderic lifted the netting and stepped aside to allow the Templar’s entrance.

“Your Grace.” Warin’s tone was soft. Unlike Lord Hugh, he understood the advantages of circumspection.

Roderic replaced the netting and dropped the heavy canvas flap behind it. When he turned around, Warin was already lighting a candle. In the flare of light, Roderic tried to read his subordinate’s features. But Warin’s expression remained passive.

“Well?”

Warin settled the candle on Roderic’s writing table and straightened. “He would agree to only part of the assignment.”

“Only part?”

“He refused the money for the Earl of Keaton and the woman. And the Baptist.”

Roderic’s chest constricted, then expanded. “Matthias? He agreed to kill Matthias?”

“Aye. Though he might be convinced to pursue the others should you offer him a greater sum.” Warin studied him. “You don’t seem displeased.”

The flame fluttered in its bed of wax. “If he will kill Matthias, that is all that matters.” Roderic took a deep breath, filling him with relief such as he had not known since the beginning of the Crusade. “The Baptist and the others may keep their lives. For now at least.”

“What if Matthias eludes this Scot?”

“If Marcus Annan is as dangerous and skilled as you and Lord Hugh claim, Matthias will not elude him.” His fingers found the crucifix once more. “He will not elude him.” He nodded to the door. “You may go, Brother.”

Warin bowed, the folds of his mail shirt clinking. “Good night, your Grace.”

Roderic rubbed the crucifix harder, his finger digging into the jeweled etching. He did not speak until Warin had reached the door and lifted the canvas flap. “Brother.”

“Bishop?”

“I would ask your opinion.” He stared at the candle’s flicker. “Of our master tourneyer.”

“Your Grace already knows my humble opinion.”

“And have you nothing further to add after this night’s encounters?”

Warin hesitated, then let the canvas fall back into place. “He is not the straightforward man I perceived him to be. He would not be a desirable enemy.”

Roderic grunted. “That is all? You did not notice anything… peculiar?”

Again, Warin hesitated. Roderic swiveled his upper body to look at him.

“He… came very near to defending the Baptist. And he seemed to recognize Matthias’s name.”

“What?”

“May I say that perhaps that will be advantageous?”

“You may
not
.” Roderic spun to face the younger man. “You know I will not tolerate complications!” Anyone—
anyone
—connected to Matthias was too much of a danger.

“I’m sorry—” Warin’s stance did not falter, but his tone held the proper contrition.

“Do you think your sincerest apologies will alter the course we’ve taken this night? I will not have complications! Do you hear me?” He dropped the crucifix and turned around to begin pacing. The sudden nervous energy—energy that had been building in his innards all evening—demanded he do
something
. “Get rid of him. His assistance will not be required after all.”

Warin stood a little straighter. “He will not be easy to kill. And mayhap his use—”

“Between yourself and Lord Hugh, if you cannot save the world from a ragged tourneyer, you hardly deserve to call yourselves soldiers of the living God!”

“Your Grace.” Warin’s voice held the slightest hint of a reprimand. “Perhaps he is still of use to us.”

“If he knows the name of Matthias of Claidmore, he knows too much.”

“Why not eliminate him
after
he has performed his task? If he knows of Matthias, so much the better. He will have the less difficulty in finding him.”

“And if he chooses to betray us instead?” Roderic stopped his pacing and pierced Warin with a glance. What would Veritas, their mysterious messenger, think of these alarming new developments?

The Knight Templar inclined his head. “I believe he is a man of honor. He will keep his word, and he will kill Matthias of Claidmore. What you do with him then will still be yours to decide.”

Roderic bit down hard on his cheek. He stared at Warin. Perhaps the Templar was right. Roderic did not fear this Marcus Annan. He could be eliminated at any time, no matter how strong his arm. But Matthias—the cursed Matthias, who tormented him beyond even the heinous wounds he had inflicted on his person all those years ago—still plunged Roderic’s heart into the cold darkness of fear.
He
could not be eliminated so easily.

Mayhap that made Annan yet the best tool to accomplish the desired end.

“If you err, Brother Warin, in your estimation, I will not easily forgive.” Roderic straightened, and some of the strain ebbed from his body. “I will give this assassin an opportunity. He is your responsibility. Watch him. And when he has accomplished his task, see to it that he will not become an irritant to us.”

Warin bowed again. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Go then.” He gestured to the door and watched as Warin slipped from the tent. The door flap fell into place behind him, but not before a puff of wind extinguished the candle.

Roderic stood in the darkness, unmoving. What did it matter if one wandering knight knew Matthias’s name? Indeed, it mattered naught.

But what he found strangely discomfiting was that in all those sixteen years since he had left the Abbey of St. Dunstan, he had never met a man who knew Matthias of Claidmore and yet was willing to see him die, much less kill him.

Perhaps Roderic and this Marcus Annan had more in common than mere cunning. He turned to his bed, swishing his robes out behind him, his fingers once again seeking the crucifix.

The morning had dawned hazy, the carmine sun borne skyward on a bed of dirty gray. With the dawn had come the knowledge that King Richard’s words of a great battle had been no empty boast.

Annan sat his destrier near the front of the English lines and watched the work of the catapults as they prepared the way for the siege tower. Not far to his left, the English catapult, christened Evil Neighbor, had been spewing forth devastation since early morning, and now the target wall swayed amidst the dust. Far to his other side, the Knights Templars’ catapult, God’s Own Sling, wreaked its own destruction. Between them loomed the great tower, waiting the moment when it would be shoved up next to the walls of Acre, providing the necessary bridge for scores of eager foot soldiers.

The clouds above, turgid with the smoke of burning ordnance and the dust of crumbling stone, formed an eerie veil against the red sunlight. Save for the wind blowing in from the sea, the camps waited in uncanny silence. Annan rested his arm atop the great helm that sat against his saddlebow. Omens were rife this day—whether for good or bad, the number of the dead would soon show.

At his elbow, Marek scowled. “I don’t like this. Looks twice as dirty as a tourney melee, and three times as bloody.”

“’Tis.” Annan glanced the lad’s way. “But all you need to concern yourself with is staying alive.”

“Would appear I’ve a very long day ahead of me.”

Evil Neighbor’s long black arm snapped forward, its frame bucking with the released tension. Far ahead, the volley smashed into the center of the wall. Stones crumbled and fell, and satisfied murmurs whispered through the men crowded about Annan. His back tightened around his spine, and the hair on his arms prickled. Anticipation rose in the depths of his mind.