Behold the Dawn (4 page)

“He killed you.” The words echoed from the darkness of a thousand sleepless nights. How many years had Annan mourned the deaths of St. Dunstan’s “battle”? How many countless times had he wondered about the manner in which his friend had died?

“
Yes
, he killed me. Even as I stand before you now, I tell you that he killed me. He and his minions whipped me with rods, flayed the skin from my body, broke my joints from their sockets, and poured the very wine of the
Eucharist
into my lungs to drown me. And, then, when I had nothing left but to die, he cast me into the wayside for the dogs to feed upon my flesh.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“Heaven granted that I should live.” Gethin drew a breath, his chest inflating. “And Matthias, at least, returned to wreak Heaven’s justice upon St. Dunstan’s. Dozens of the brethren flocked to him, dozens of them died in the clash against Roderic’s followers.”

Old gray memories staggered through Annan’s brain. He had watched Matthias destroy St. Dunstan’s. He had seen the twisted corpses strewn across the courtyard. He had smelled their stench, had breathed their terror.

Gethin lifted his chin, and the light from the window slats streaked his face. “Matthias gravely wounded Roderic that day. But Roderic did not die. And neither did I. Heaven granted me a second life, that I might orchestrate the finality of justice no one else has dared pursue. What began at St. Dunstan’s must be played to the end. I must find Matthias, and he must kill Roderic for his sins.”

Somewhere, abroad in the city, hoofbeats rattled. The count and his men were coming. They would find the hiding place before long.

As well as anyone, Annan knew what Matthias had done that day and why the young nobleman had afterwards disappeared. Since that day, sixteen years ago, no man had laid eyes upon Matthias of Claidmore. And that was as it should be.

Unlike Gethin, Annan had never been able to herald the would-be savior of St. Dunstan’s as a hero. He had seen the man’s raw temper, his anger, his hatred. Matthias had extracted a terrible price from the brethren of St. Dunstan’s. Heralding his actions as the sword of justice would never change the stark reality.

On that fateful day, as he trudged away from St. Dunstan’s, Annan had looked back at the black smoke on the wind, and he had known then, as he knew now, that the darkness in the abbot was no different from that of Matthias himself.

“Matthias of Claidmore is dead.” The words scraped his throat.

Gethin didn’t flinch. “Do you really believe that?”

“He is dead.”

Gethin’s lip curled. He took a step back. “Well, then know this. There is one other whose knowledge of the past may yet be able to shed light on Roderic’s transgressions. William, Earl of Keaton.”

The clatter of horses in the back alley sent Marek scudding toward the door, dragging the blindfolded palfrey behind him. But Annan barely heard.

Lord William.

How many years had it been since Lord William of Keaton had ridden through his thoughts? His nobleman mentor had stood by him all those years ago during St. Dunstan’s hell. More importantly perhaps, he had been one of the last men to lay eyes on the bloody Matthias of Claidmore.

The approach of the horses grew louder, and Gethin edged forward half a step, the intensity of his shrouded gaze unquenched. “The Earl was under duress in the English court and has taken the vow of a Crusader. He, his wife, and his retinue left for the Holy Land several months ago.” He folded his arms into his sleeves. “He cannot destroy Roderic, but Roderic may destroy him, if Matthias does not return to act as he must. Roderic is waiting for them.”

“To kill them?”

“Does that matter to you, Marcus Annan? You cannot save them. Only Matthias of Claidmore can help the earl now.” He limped across the room and shouldered past Annan to reach the door that would lead into the tavern. He cocked his head toward the sound of the oncoming riders. “The count will see you upon a gibbet if you do not make your escape before the day is out. It would seem you have no choice but to leave Bari. ”

Annan’s spine stiffened. “You mean I am
left
with no choice. Events today have played into your hands admirably. It occurs to me that Heladio learned of his nephew’s death sooner than he possibly could under normal circumstances. You were the witness he spoke of, weren’t you?”

Gethin pulled open the door. “Does not the pursuit of truth justify many means?” He lurched into the drunken gaiety of the main room, and the door bumped shut behind him.

“They’re coming,” Marek hissed.

Annan took one step after the Baptist, then turned to where Marek crouched against the back door, the palfrey’s bridle clenched in his hand.

“Wait.” He found his mouth had no moisture to swallow away the dryness in the back of his throat. “They’re moving too quickly to be looking for hoofprints.”

The hoofbeats approached. The sound swelled, and then traveled past and dissipated, like a bubble that had inflated and then popped into nothing.

Marek growled. “Ruddy lot of nerve that Baptist bloke’s got. Little wonder every diocese in Christendom’s got the habit of throwing him out. I wouldn’t have owned to knowing him if’n I were you.”

Annan opened his lips but found he had no words to speak. The Gethin he had known so long ago would never have betrayed a friend.

He sheathed his sword and crossed to the back door to take the reins from Marek. Easing the horse away from the door, he waited for Marek to open the passage to the alley. Once outside, he pulled the jerkin from the horse’s eyes and handed both it and the reins to the lad. “Go back to the camp and pack up our trappings. It’s unlikely you’ll be recognized, and the gates won’t stay closed long on the night of a tourney. The inns and taverns would lose too much business. When you’ve finished, meet me at the far end of the wharf.”

“The wharf?” Marek threw the reins over the horse’s neck and clambered into the saddle. “Why? Are we taking a boat?”

“Your prayers to join the Holy War appear to have fallen upon more willing ears than mine.”

“I don’t believe it.” Marek grinned. “I knew I wasn’t indentured to a tourneyer for no reason. The saints sent me to you to save your soul! I’ve heard the priests rattle on about it a hundred times. Raise our swords in a Crusade and we’ll be absolved of all sins, from now until forever!” He crowed and laid his heels to the palfrey’s side. “I should be sainted myself for this!”

Annan stood in the dust of the alley and watched the palfrey gallop around the corner. Marek faded into the clamor of the city, and Annan’s arms fell to his sides.

Absolution
.

The word clattered around inside his skull, but he could only stare into the distance with the weariness of a man who did not even hope that such might be true.

Chapter III

ANNAN BRACED HIS arms against the sway of the
Bonfilia
’s bow and stared across the dappled glare of the bay. An inert giant of tent-white camps stretched out upon the Holy Land’s beaches, all the way to the city walls. Even from the middle of the bay, the great catapults, like two guardians of savage lore, were visible rising above the camp, swinging relentlessly amidst the heat of the day. He could hear the thunder of the stones against the walls; the crumbling of clay and rock; the distant, hollow ring of voices.

“We be at
infedele
blockade very soon.” The gap-toothed Venetian captain jostled Annan’s elbow as he strode past. “Go back to the
quarterdeck
with your
servo
now,
sì
?”

Annan nodded, took one last look at the shimmering hills of the besieged port city, and pushed away from the rail.

Slowly, he made his way to the
forecastle
, shouldering past the jostling sailors and their unintelligible speech. A long score of days had passed since he and Marek boarded ship in Bari, and he was ready to have the feel of sand once more beneath his feet and an enemy before him that could not run away as did the demons of his mind.

Marek, seasick since the beginning of the journey, sat cross-legged in a pile of
hawser
. As Annan approached, the lad made a rumbling noise that had no doubt been intended as a moan. “All this to be right with Heaven? I tell you, the priests are an unfair lot. This is all that Baptist’s fault.”

Annan leaned against the rail, his back to Marek, so he could watch the infidels skittering across their vessels, preparing for the skirmish that preceded every Christian ship’s entry into the Acre port. “Last I heard, you were taking credit for this entire expedition yourself.”

“That was before too many miles of rough seas. Anyway, we both know it wasn’t my intentions, however noble, that got you here.” He sniffed. “Tell me this. Why is it that when
I
argue for months to come on this
pilgrimage
, you act as if you can’t even hear me? But as soon as that mad monk whispers one little word of it, here we are staring the infidels in their faces?”

“Your reasons weren’t quite as good as his, laddie.”

“I’ve been with you nigh on three years. You’d think you’d have the sense to listen to me before you do some raving heretic.”

Annan watched the approaching galley. The infidel ship slid through the water on the strength of its oars alone, its sails of no use in the humid breathlessness of the Eastern climate. “If the Baptist is who I think he is, I’ve known him a long
span
past our three years.”

“Aye, well, you might have been sharing whatever it is you
think
you
ken
about him with a faithful servant like meself, instead of stalking about the ship for the whole journey.”

The
Bonfilia
gathered speed, and the air pushed against Annan’s face. All around, the sailors tensed, their sun-darkened skin tightening across their faces. The captain, standing just behind the prow, murmured to them in their own language.

Marek began extricating himself from his seat of hawser. “Soon as I kill me one of these
Mohammedans
and get meself absolved, I’m going back to Glasgow and my
Maid
Dolly.
If
, of course, she isn’t
Goodwife
Dolly by now.” He pushed to his feet. “She, for one, would’ve been right pitying to me during the afflictions of the journey.”

“You wish too much, boyo. Your Dolly’ll have to wait another four years before your indentureship is over.”

Marek grunted and stumbled over to stand at Annan’s side. “Aye, and why couldn’t you have just let that shopkeeper throw me into some dungeon three years ago for stealing his blinking bread? I’d have gotten out of there a lot sooner than it’ll be before you’re done with me.” He squinted at the oncoming ship, now only a few lengths away. “We got to fight all those sailors?”

“Nay, we get to run from all those.” Annan rubbed the tightness in his shoulder. Inaction agreed with neither his mental state nor his stiffening bones. A man’s body at two score years was not the same as it was at half that.

“Probably our cursed luck to have gotten the slowest boat in Venetian waters,” Marek said. “Blessed Saint— Ah, who’s the saint of sailors anyway? I can’t ever remember half of ‘em.”

“Best keep St. Jude then.” The patron of the hopeless was Marek’s oft-invoked guardian.

A moan grumbled in the lad’s throat. “I hate water. And I hate ships. And I hate those Mohammedans or whatever they’re called we’re supposed to be fighting. T’awful hard way to get out of Hell, if you’re asking me.”

“Should have thought of that back in Bari.”

The
Moslem
Saracens
’ battle cry floated up from behind:

Le ilah ile alah!

A volley of arrows spat overhead, overshooting most of the
Bonfilia
and smacking into the stern behind Annan and Marek.

Save for an occasional oath in their own language, the Venetians kept silent. The score of Crusading knights, along with their squires and serving men, stood with their swords bared, their bodies tight and expectant. To either side of the ship, the rhythmic creak and splash of the galley oars were the only signs of the straining muscles and pounding hearts striving from below decks to outrun the infidels.

Annan clenched his sword, his arm bulging. He had not come here to slay the followers of the Evil Prophet, but if they insisted on bringing the fight to him, he would cut them down with right good will.

The foremost Moslem ship drew almost prow to prow with the
Bonfilia
. Infidel sailors massed in the forecastle, swords in hand, grinning. Under the reign of the charismatic warlord Salah ed-in Yusef—dubbed Saladin by the Westerners—the followers of Mohammed had gathered from every region of the East. Moors, their skin the color of night, their faces painted white and red, howled their oaths alongside the Turks and Syrians in their billowy desert garments and their light chain-mail shirts.

These were the warriors who had wrested the nation of Jerusalem from Christendom and trampled the holy places underfoot. These were the men who believed the key to Paradise was Christian blood upon their swords. Did they know Christians pursued the same Paradise by means of Moslem blood?

Annan freed the tension in his sword arm and drew his blade. “Be ready. They’ll board us.”

Marek’s eyes didn’t leave the enemy.

The two hulls collided with a groan a hundred times as loud as a loose joint grating in its socket, and the whole deck lurched, nearly yanking itself from beneath Annan’s feet. On the
Bonfilia
’s
larboard
side, oars clattered against oars, rowers groaned as they attempted to maintain the ship’s pace, and the Moslems leapt across the open water to the Venetian deck.

Annan exhaled. This, at last, was a face of the enemy he could fight.

The deck hands at the rail took the brunt of the attack, two of them shrieking as they plunged into the sea. Annan lowered his shoulders, and he and the rest of the knights charged. Swinging his free arm wide, he hammered his forearm into a Moslem throat. The man’s head snapped back, eyes bulging, and he fell to the deck to be trampled by his fellows.