Behold the Dawn (11 page)

On a raised pallet at the far end of the tent lay a man much older than Annan’s memories of the earl. He was stretched prone beneath a thin coverlet, arms limp at his sides. Skin ashen, breath harsh, this man was not the stalwart, laughing knight who had once been both a mentor and a friend.

Slowly, head bowed to keep from brushing the low ceiling, Annan came forward, Mairead trailing him. The other men in the tent, a priest and a servant, drew back to let him pass.

At the bedside, he stopped. A splotch of brown showed against the muslin bandage that covered the shallow rise and fall of William’s chest. Annan’s mouth twisted. Gethin had been right. Father Roderic had wreaked his havoc once more.

If Annan had listened to Gethin… if he had believed… would this still have happened?

No. When Gethin had come to him in Italy, he said William had already embarked for the Holy Land.

For once, Annan could not blame himself.

Mairead drew near, glanced at him, then dropped to her knees beside the bed and laid a hand on William’s. “My lord.”

His eyelids fluttered open.

“He has come,” she said.

His eyes flicked past her face. Annan stayed as he was, lips pressed together, and waited to see his reaction. When Lord William’s breath rasped deep in his chest and his lips silently formed a name, Annan knew that here, at least, was one who had not forgotten him.

“Lord William.” His own voice was low.

The earl raised his hand from Mairead’s, and Annan stepped forward to clasp it. “I feared you dead,” William rasped.

He referred to St. Dunstan’s, Annan knew. That was the last they had seen each other, the last either knew of the other. But Annan brushed over it. “The lady says you seek Matthias of Claidmore.”

William’s eyebrow lifted just slightly. He darted a glance at Mairead and then nodded. “Aye—” The word was a hacking cough. He patted his wife’s hand. “Leave us, child.”

Lady Mairead lifted her skirt and rose to her feet, her eyes seeking Annan’s in an expression that was as much a plea of hope as it was an admission of despair.

Lord William turned his head to look at the priest and the serving boy. “Leave us, all of you.”

When they had gone, dropping the tent flap back across the cold expanse of night, the earl’s eyes found Annan’s, and he beckoned with his fingers, his arm not rising from the pallet. “Come to me.”

Annan drew a step nearer and knelt.

“I prayed we would meet again.” A smile carved its way through the slack skin of the earl’s face.

Annan said nothing. He had thought never to see Lord William again. And now to have found him like this… dying.

“You’ve seen the Baptist?” William asked.

Annan forced a nod. “In Italy.”

“Then you know?”

“That Father Roderic wishes to eradicate all memories of St. Dunstan’s? Aye.”

William sighed, and phlegm rattled in his throat. “He has hunted us like dogs.” Still not raising his hand from the coverlet, he gestured with his fingers to the wound in his breast. “And now here I lie. The bishop fears the repercussions of what happened there more than you can know.”

“So the Baptist told me.”

Behind Annan, the fire hissed and snapped.

“And what—” The earl caught a cough before it could tear his throat, then paused to swallow. “And what is the news you bring me?”

“What news do you wish?”

“I’ve heard whispers that Matthias is dead.” Life burned a little harder behind the brown eyes. “Is that true?”

“It’s true.” He met the earl’s gaze.

“The Baptist insists that cannot be.” The words had a hard, raspy edge. William stopped another cough from forming, but Annan could see the quiver in his chest, the specks of saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth.

“And if he did live? What could he do?” Annan said.

“He is perhaps the only man the bishop truly fears.”

“What about the Baptist?”

William gave his head a shake. “Roderic fears the Baptist only by proxy. The Baptist will bring Matthias.
That
is what Roderic fears.”

Annan shook his head. “The Baptist wants vengeance for what was done to him sixteen years ago.”

“Did you know I took him into my home after Roderic finished torturing him? He is not the same man he was before his injuries. His mind and his soul were touched just as his body was.”

Annan waited.

“But if vengeance were his only motive, surely his revival would not have borne such fruits as it has? Rousing the people? Mass repentance? Conversions and pilgrimages by the score?”

“I’ve yet to see these fruits. All I’ve seen is that this drive for vengeance is all that’s kept him alive. He has eaten it, breathed it, lapped it up until he is drunk with it.”

“Then why wait sixteen years? What need has he to bring all that remains of St. Dunstan’s to this place?”

“He’s seeking to recreate what happened that day. He believes Matthias should have killed Roderic, so now he will do anything to at last make it happen. So he can witness it.”

William looked at him askance, but another cough seized his innards. His body shuddered with the force of his hacking, and flecks of red appeared in the bubbles of saliva at the corners of his lips. “Hold me—
Hold me up
!”

Annan slid his arm beneath the earl’s shoulders and held him until he could breathe once more.

When finally William opened his eyes, he lay in Annan’s arms, panting. His eyes found Annan’s face, and he groped until he could touch Annan’s hand where it crossed over his chest in support. “I am dying,” he said.

Annan nodded.

“There is—” He wheezed and barely managed to quell another cough. “I must beg a
boon
of you.” He swallowed, eyes drifting shut. “Mairead— Roderic and Lord Hugh will continue to pursue her after my death. I fear my marriage to her only increased her danger.”

Annan’s brows came together. “Hugh de Guerrant?”

“He— a Norman— the bishop’s lieutenant.” William sucked a full breath between his cracked lips. “He forced undue attentions on her— I believe with Roderic’s blessing. I married her to save her shame. But now Roderic has placed a price on our heads. All of our heads.”

Annan grunted.

The earl’s eyes opened and behind them burned more energy than could possibly be left in his tired body. “Roderic will find her and give her to Hugh if she is unmarried, if only to punish me further.” His grip on Annan’s hand tightened; the cords of his wrist bulged. “Perhaps the Baptist would have you join his battle to wreak vengeance on the bishop. But I am a man dying a hopeless death, and I must ask for something else.” He wheezed, groaning with the effort to keep air in his lungs. More blood spotted his lips. “You owe me—nothing, lad. Except friendship, perhaps.”

Annan’s mouth tightened. If there were one man on earth to whom he owed anything, it was the Earl of Keaton. “I will keep her safe. I swear it.”

Lord William closed his eyes and bobbed his head in a nod. “There is a convent in Orleans—St. Catherine’s. The entrance fee has already been paid. I feared—that this would happen.” He relaxed against Annan’s arm and slumped back on the pallet. “I would ask that you cover her with your name for the journey. She wishes to live in the convent… you need not take her to wife. But give her the protection of your name.” He squinted. “
Your
name.”

Annan stared down at him. He could turn and walk away, he could leave it at the promise to keep her safe. The earl asked too much, just as had the Baptist—and Matthias before them.

But he didn’t walk away. He nodded his head just once, and Lord William’s eyes closed again. “Thank you. Now—send her to me. And the priest. She will tell you— when I have died. We have arrangements for the escape.”

Annan said nothing. He slid his arm from beneath the earl’s shoulders and settled him back onto the pallet. William did not open his eyes, but before Annan let go of his shoulder, the man gripped his hand once more. It was both thanks and farewell.

Chapter VII

THE EARL OF Keaton’s serving lad came to Annan as the gray of dawn began to seep into the eastern sky.

“The countess bids me tell you that Lord William is dead.”

Without a word, Annan lifted himself from his damp pallet and once more crossed the camp to the earl’s tent. No one stirred as he threaded his way through the maze of litters, but afar off, infidel tongues began to murmur and hooves began to clatter.

His hand clenched the air above his left hip where his sword should have been. So it was true. The Christians had slaughtered their hostages. And now, Saladin was coming.

This Norman King Richard had the honor of a pig. Annan quickened his stride. If he was to escape, it must be now, else his own head would be rolling in the sand
ere
noon. The Moslem sultan, renowned though he was for the verity of his word, would never allow such an offense as Richard’s to go by without reprisal.

The hoofbeats grew louder.

Shoving aside the door flap, he entered the tent. The fire was only a mewing glow of embers now, but he did not need its light to see that the arms of the knight on the pallet had been crossed over a chest that no longer contained the breath of life.

Lady Mairead and the priest stood before the body, waiting.

“Saladin approaches,” Annan said.

The lady turned to face him. She wore a dark cloak, the cowl falling back over her shoulders. In the flickering light, tear tracks glistened against her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and afraid.

“How near, Master Knight?” asked the priest in the accent of a Frankish Syrian.

“I can hear their horses. We don’t have long to escape.” He glanced at Mairead.

She bowed her head, the gesture as much one of exhaustion as it was a nod. “My lord has asked you to grant me safe passage to Orleans.” She wet her lips, and when she looked back up, he could see the hesitation in her eyes, as though she were about to tell him a great secret and she feared his reaction.

“There are those who seek me, Master Annan. They are the reason I am here, the reason I stand at your mercy. And they will pursue me hence. It was not my wish to endanger you, but my lord asked that you grant me your name.” Her chin lifted. It was a proud tilt. “You are a wandering tourneyer, Sir, I know, and I ask nothing of you but a safe journey. I will live in the Convent of St. Catherine. You shall be paid your dowry.”

“I honor the earl’s memory as do you, lady. I will fulfill my promise.” He turned to the priest. “Hurry, Father.”

The holy man nodded and drew nearer. “May the Lord grant pardon that you are unable to celebrate your vigils.”

Mairead crossed herself.

The priest closed his eyes and lifted a hand, intoning the marriage blessings. Annan did not listen. With head canted toward the tent flap, he listened for the clatter of arms, the cries of pain that would herald the Moslem avengers. In his mind, he tried to plan. Any escape would be more difficult with a woman to protect—and he with no sword.

The thought of Marek flashed through his head.
Marek!
What had become of him during the battle? If he were still alive, he had probably been fool enough to take the Crusading oath just in time to participate in the English king’s treachery—and jeopardize his master’s life. Annan grimaced.

In the distance, dogs started barking. He returned his gaze to the priest.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

Priest and lady crossed themselves. Annan’s own hand had covered himself in no such protection of the Holy Ghost for many years, and he could not raise it to do so now.

“You haven’t a sword, have you, Father?” he asked.

The priest raised an eyebrow. “Nay, my son.”

At Annan’s elbow, Mairead drew in a deep breath. “There will be one, Master Annan. A
courser
waits for us at the northern edge of the camp.”

“Will you come with us, Father?” Without waiting for the answer, he started for the tent flap, trusting the lady would follow.

“Nay. I know from whom the courser came, and I will not burden my conscience by accepting the aid of a heretic.”

Annan stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “The Baptist?”

“Aye.”

Mairead confirmed it with a nod.

He grunted and turned again to leave.

The priest sighed. “So be it, then. God help you.”

Annan shouldered through the tent flap. The sky was lightening, the stars fading. To the east, sounds of frightened life murmured. Fear clogged the air. Whether it was the fear of all the camp, or merely the apprehension of his own unarmed hand and that of the lady next to him, he knew not.

“Where’s the courser?”

Before she could answer, the animal whinnied. Annan cursed. This doomed camp held nigh on 2,500 souls, and every one of them would willingly hand over a pound of flesh in exchange for that horse. “Come.” He forced his legs into a run, his hand again reaching for the empty spot above his hip.

Shouts of alarm pitched higher, spreading through the camp like a plague. The attack would be soon—very soon. Saladin, ever efficient, would complete his retaliation by the time the sun rose.

“This way.” The countess veered to the right, one hand beckoning from beneath her cloak.

Ahead, silhouetted against the brightening sky, stood a horse, its head high, ears forward. It whinnied as they neared. Growling, Annan seized Mairead’s shoulder and jerked her into a crouch next to him. “Where are the guards?”

“The Baptist said all would be taken care of.”

No man’s word was shield enough for his back—and certainly not the Baptist’s. “Stay here—”

The infidels struck, screaming their wordless battle cry. Everything around them turned to pain and death. Annan didn’t wait to check for the guards. He clamped one hand round the lady’s arm and lunged forward. The sounds of the slaughter surged after them with an intensity and a speed that bespoke all too well of the attackers’ vigor.

He kept low, not daring to look behind him, knowing the Moslems were much closer than he wanted them to be.

He and the lady crossed the corpse of a guard, and Annan paused long enough to lift the infidel saber from the still-warm hand. It was a masterful stroke that had felled the warrior—silently, deftly, instantly. His nostrils flared in a momentary flash of admiration. Whatever else he was or had been, the Baptist was a man of many skills.