Orphan of Destiny (24 page)

“No,” I gasped. The breath left my lungs. Though I wished to look away, I could not. Curiously, the world around me appeared to be changing color, the white of the snow becoming a hard, hot red. This could not be.

“Oh yes,” Sir Hugh said, laughing gleefully. “Such a pompous donkey, your Sir Thomas, always believing himself to be superior. I watched him send you on your way and knew what he had given you. He was hiding it somewhere in the city, and he wouldn’t risk having it fall into the hands of the Saracens. So, as he closed the altar behind you—and what a touching little scene it was, by the way . . .
Beauseant
, indeed,” he spat. “When he turned around, he laughed! At me! His Commander and Marshal! He said I was too late, and he laughed again. But his laughter died in his throat when

I drove my sword through his guts. He died right there in front of me—”

“NO!” I screamed. “You’re lying! The other knights, Sir Basil, Quincy, someone would have stopped you! You liar!”

“Feh! Sir Basil and his fat pig of a squire were already dying in the courtyard by then. They’re either dead or rotting in one of the Saladin’s prisons. No one saw me. I followed you through the tunnel. But I lost you in the countryside. Didn’t matter. I knew you had to be heading for Tyre, that Thomas would send you to the Commandery there. It was almost too easy.”

“You’re a liar!” I screamed, rage rising in my gut. I tried to stand but could not. So help me, I would kill him.

“Enough of this.” He smirked. He lifted his sword to shoulder height and came forward, drawing back for a mighty swing, a killing blow.

Just as Sir Hugh came at me, the world slowed down. My eyes opened wide and Sir Hugh advanced in slow motion. One step, then two, then a third. He swung from the shoulder, and his blade whistled, louder than even the sound of the wind.

I lurched to the side and scooped up Sir Thomas’ sword in my hands. Rising to my feet, I caught his blow with my sword. The power of it nearly lifted me into the air, but Sir Thomas’ blade held. Before he could strike again, I countered, managing to slash his tunic. I don’t know where I found the strength, but our steel danced, back and forth, each thrust and parry sending sparks jouncing into the winter wind. As we circled and tested each other, I thought I spied the smallest sense of alarm on Sir Hugh’s face. He had expected to dispatch me quickly. Yet I was still standing. Bleeding and growing weaker by the moment, but refusing to give up. I stared down at the satchel, lying on the ground between us, nearly covered in the snow. The Grail remained silent.

My back was to Maryam and Robard. They had been shouting out encouragement, whereas the knights remained silent. But their voices sounded far away, and my concentration remained fixed on Sir Hugh, who charged at me again, his sword swirling back and forth like a whirlwind.

My eyes were still clouded with red rage as he surged toward me, and strange sounds overwhelmed me. Off in the far distance, I thought I heard a familiar bark, but over it all finally it came: the low faint humming sound of the Grail.

For a moment, I believed myself too weak to raise my sword in defense. Sir Hugh had won and this would be my end. But the soft, musical sound grew louder, and as Sir Hugh crossed the ground between us, whether by accident or miracle, he tripped over the satchel. He staggered toward me, glancing down at his feet momentarily. He tried to halt his fall forward but it was too late. His momentum carried him toward me, eyes wide with shock, and with my last bit of strength I thrust forward with Sir Thomas’ sword, stabbing Sir Hugh through the ribs.

With a defiant cry of “Beauseant!” I drove my sword deeper into his flesh, and as I did so, for a moment I felt the presence of Sir Thomas, and Quincy, Sir Basil and the abbot and Brother Rupert and the other monks there with me. And my hands became their hands as I pushed with all my might. It felt as if they stood beside me, helping me deliver the world from a great evil. With a groan, I pulled the sword free.

Sir Hugh dropped his blade to the ground. His eyes fell to the seeping wound in his chest. Blood ran from his mouth, and he staggered past me. His horse, standing behind us, pranced out of the way, skittish and spooked at the sight and smell of blood. Confused, Sir Hugh reached down and grasped the satchel in his hands. He staggered backward, holding it as if it were as fragile as a bird’s egg.

“No,” he said wearily. “Not like this . . . No . . . You
filthy
squire . . . I . . .” He looked at me and his head shook. He shouted at his assembled knights. “Kill them . . . Don’t let them get . . . He has it . . . the Grail. . . . Kill them.”

I moved toward him and he swung his head up at me, watching me advance.

“No,” he said as he staggered backward. “No, not by you. I . . . will . . . not . . . be . . .” Sir Hugh collapsed, falling to the ground right on the edge of the promontory. Then to my horror he began sliding over the side.

And he was taking the Grail with him.

34

N
o!” I shouted. Everyone remained still. Sir Hugh’s momentum built and I doubted I could reach him in time. From somewhere came the strength for me to take three giant steps toward his falling body, and I leapt through the air, landing hard on the ground, grabbing the satchel by its broken strap. Sir Hugh’s hands still held firmly to the leather case, and I found myself wondering if it was impossible to kill this man. Then my arm jerked forward and I felt his weight pulling me over with him. I dug and clawed at the ground with my boots, trying to find a toehold, but the wet snow gave me little purchase.

Straining and groaning with the effort, I slid slowly forward, feeling I would surely fall off the cliff with him unless someone intervened. I could hear shouts and noise behind me, but I was now head and chest over the side of the ridge looking down at Sir Hugh hanging there, staring up at me. His eyes were nearly closed in death, the front of his tunic soaked red with blood, but he still spat out the word “Squire . . .”

He lost his grip. His eyes flew open, and for a moment he seemed to hang suspended in the air. With a howl of agony and desperation he fell from the promontory to disappear with a splash into the river far below.

Lying there panting and groaning with the effort, I pushed myself back from the edge of the ridge and staggered to my feet, holding the battered satchel in my hands.

Everyone was stunned. But Robard and Maryam recovered first and took action. Even with his hands bound behind him, Robard lashed out at the knight next to him. Smartly, he kicked the horse in the flank and it reared. The knight fought for control while Robard rolled backward off his own horse. He landed on his feet, shouting loudly and nudging his horse in the flank with his shoulder, sending it scurrying across the circle directly into the path of two other knights.

Maryam gave her ululating war cry, and it added to the noise and confusion. She jumped from her horse and darted beneath it, coming up on the other side and spooking the steed next to her. But it was too little too late. We were outnumbered, Robard and Maryam had no weapons and I feared I would bleed to death shortly. The entire front of my tunic was dark with blood, and my left arm throbbed in pain from the cut I had received.

One of the knights lowered his lance and spurred his horse toward me. It would take only a moment for him to cross the few paces between us. I stood stock-still, unable to raise either arm in my defense. My vision was fading and the world collapsed around me.

As the knight closed in, I focused only on the point of his lance. A horrible way to die, I thought, struck down by a brother of the Order. My last thought was to apologize for failing to protect the Grail as Sir Thomas had wished. But at least Sir Hugh was dead. No matter what happened, he would never be the one to possess the Grail. I hoped it would make Sir Thomas happy.

As death rode down on me, I stood as straight as my wounds would allow, determined to die on my feet. Maryam was shouting at me, but soon it would all be over. I could finally rest.

Then the steel weapon suddenly disappeared, and I looked up in confusion as the knight tumbled backward off his horse. The next thing I knew he was lying on the ground, a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. What? Some last instinct of survival commanded me to lurch away from the path of the charging horse, and though I jumped aside, the giant animal still collided with me and spun me to the ground.

There was shouting. I heard “Drop your weapons” and suddenly a furry golden flash was over me. It was Angel. She took an instant to bark at me, and I tried to rise up but was too sore and weak. She licked my face, then sniffed at the satchel clutched in my hand, finally sitting on it, as if it were her duty to protect the Grail now.

A shadow fell across the ground in front of me. Someone knelt, placing a hand upon my shoulder. A voice spoke and it sounded familiar. I glanced up thinking for a moment God was playing tricks on me again. For here knelt Sir Thomas, and behind him were several mounted Knights Templar. All of them were pointing crossbows at the knights who had just tried to kill us.

With my last ounce of strength I raised my hand and pointed at Robard and Maryam and said, “Please don’t harm those two,” and then I fell into a world of blinding white light.

35

T
he murmur of voices pulled me to consciousness. I lay on my back and could feel the warmth of a fire. When I opened my eyes, my head was turned to the side and Angel’s face was perched perhaps two inches from my own. Her tongue lashed out and licked my nose.

I wanted to roll over and sit up, but the pain of my wounds prevented it. I lay on a pallet next to a large campfire beneath a cloudy sky. It was cold but the fire cut the chill. My shoulder and arm were wrapped in bandages. A priest sat on a cut section of log to my right, near the fire. He smiled and I nodded in return. Maryam and Robard stood on the far side of the fire, a few yards away. Robard leaned on his still-strung bow, Maryam next to him, looking at me with grave concern. She held the satchel in her hand and nodded, indicating it was safe.

Sir Thomas sat on a log next to my left. My heart raced, then dropped to my stomach, for as I studied the man, I realized it wasn’t Sir Thomas after all. This knight’s hair was a slightly lighter shade, and there was no distinctive scar along his face. His beard was not as thick, and he looked smaller.

“Who . . .” I let my words trail off, mystified.

“You must be Tristan,” he said.

“Excuse me, sire—”

“I know. You must be very confused. And in pain. We reached you just in time,” he said, gesturing toward my wounded arms. “All thanks to your furry friend there,” he said, pointing to Angel. “She found us on our way here, and I can’t explain why, but we felt compelled to follow her at a gallop. It was almost as if she were looking for us.” He reached over to scratch at Angel’s ears. “Your wounds are serious, but we managed to stop the bleeding. How do you feel?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Really. Just flesh wounds,” I answered.

He chuckled, and my heart sank again, for his laugh was nearly identical to Sir Thomas’.

“I beg your pardon again, sire, but who—”

“My name is Charles Leux. Thomas is . . . was . . . my younger brother,” he said. Now it made sense. His appearance was so similar to Sir Thomas that it made me uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, sire,” I said. “He . . . Sir Thomas . . . Before he died . . . Sir Hugh said he killed him. By the way, Sir Hugh
is
dead, isn’t he?”

Charles smiled. “Yes, he’s dead, but we have yet to find his body. No one could survive such a fall, though. And I understand you ran him through with a very large sword. As for my brother, well, he may have died doing his duty as a Templar, but I assure you, Tristan, Sir Hugh did
not
kill him.”

“How . . . do you know?” I asked.

“I have faith. Sir Hugh is . . . was . . . a coward who preyed on the weak. He would never face Thomas in a fair fight, not even if my brother had lost both his arms.” He dropped his head and murmured a brief prayer under his breath. “If my brother is dead, it was not by Hugh’s hand. He died fighting, on his feet, like the warrior he was.”

None of Sir Charles’ words were comforting.

He was silent a moment, then coughed nervously. “I assume you have come here with the Holy Cup of the Savior?” He paused, waiting for me to tell him where it was. “Do you have it with you? Is it safe?”

Something Sir Thomas said in Acre came rushing back. When he had given me the Grail in the Knights Hall, he had said to trust no one. The quest to find and possess the Grail “had turned even my brothers of the Order into glory-crazed hounds.”

My expression changed. And Charles noticed immediately.

“You have many questions, I’m sure—” he said, and he reached inside his tunic.

“Robard!” I shouted out in warning.

As always Robard had an arrow nocked and his bow drawn in less than a second and the shaft pointed right at Charles’ chest.

“Sire,” Robard said quietly, “I must humbly request that you very slowly and gently remove your hand from inside your tunic, lest I be forced to pin it to your chest.”

Sir Charles froze for a moment, then smiled. “I see Thomas has trained you magnificently. Of course, you are quite correct not to trust me. Splendid, in fact. But I assure you, I mean you no harm, and what I have here will explain everything. May I remove it? Will you instruct your friend the archer to hold?”

“Slowly. Please remove it very slowly,” I said. I was too weak to fight, but felt immense comfort knowing Robard was there to protect me.

Sir Charles removed his hand from his tunic, and in it he held a thick letter. When he held it out, I recognized Sir Thomas’ seal, and it looked like a letter Sir Thomas had given me—all those months ago—in Acre. He had commanded I give it to a King’s Guard named Gaston. Gaston was to carry the letter back to London to the Master of the Order. At the time, I merely thought the letter was some sort of routine business.