Blaze of Silver (25 page)

Slowly, then like an onrushing tide, Will's indignation was swept away. He half wanted to cling on to it. He half wanted to scream and shout that the king was a monster. But instead he found himself possessed by a mad bravery. It overtook him with such force that he could not resist it and within moments he stopped trying. Breaking away from the king's gaze he stood straight as a spear. He, Will de Granville, Earl of Ravensgarth, would save the king and the kingdom. Maybe he would save the world. He could already see himself approaching the scaffold, head held high. He could see his body being cut down and Ellie crying and tending his grave as tenderly as she tended Gavin's.
She will love me forever now
, Will thought.
To her, I will always be a hero. I shall never disappoint her
. The thought was momentarily thrilling. It filled him with power and the audience was astounded to see him smile, one brilliant, glorious smile, which even the dirt smeared on his face could not disguise.

But just as quickly this reckless bravery gave way to reality. What was he thinking? Whatever Ellie thought and whatever the truth, forever after the de Granvilles would be known as the family who had nurtured two traitors, himself and Kamil. People would talk about their friendship and nod their ignorant heads as if they had always seen this coming. Moreover Ellie herself would be besmirched by association. How could Will allow that? Suddenly, he felt her kiss and saw again the look in her eyes when he had left her. His smile vanished.
What use was all that to a dead man? Was he really going to throw away their future together, just when he had really begun to believe that it was his for the asking? And yet he was the king's servant. He must help the king. He gripped his arms to his sides.

Richard saw all Will's inner turmoil and did not flinch from it. Part of him even rejoiced to see, reflected back at him, a vision of his own youthful, better self, when his head was hot with similar heroic visions and not cold with grubby considerations of statesmanship. He wondered, humbly, how many kings could boast of a knight who believed it a matter of honor to be dishonored for the sake of the kingdom? When he had cut his deal with the emperor, he had been certain that Will would not let him down, for Will
was
the finest man he knew. Yet now, with the young man's unblinking eyes boring into his, his barefoot stance still proud, and his mouth never betraying for an instant the terror he must now be feeling in his heart, it was Richard who hesitated. A trick of the light meant that the king thought he could see Sir Thomas and Gavin standing at Will's side. Their expressions were not friendly.

He took a step back, almost crashing into Hal, and his hawk-eyes circled the whole hall. He had to speak but he had no idea what he was going to say. All he knew was that he must say something to put off the dreadful moment when he, with his own mouth, would condemn Will to death. That moment would certainly come. There was no other way. But not quite yet. “I thank the emperor.” Richard knew his voice sounded much too loud. He began again. “I thank the emperor.” Then he saw Amal and hatred bubbled up in him like
oil boiling in a barrel. The hatred was useful. Its heat could help the king finish this terrible undertaking. His voice hardened. “A man who plots to betray a king deserves to die. It is the ultimate in treachery.”

The emperor did not want Richard to speak further. Executing Will was all very well in theory but in the flesh Will looked too young and fresh for such a sacrifice. The sooner this business was over, the better. But Richard did not stop. “Do we all in this hall believe that?” he asked, glaring at Amal as a man glares at a rat. “Is a person who, in league with a Saracen enemy, betrays a Christian king, worthy to live?”

“No, no,” the people shouted back, enjoying themselves.

The emperor twitched. This was getting a little close to the knuckle.

“Whoever he is and whatever his rank?” Richard was psyching himself up. Soon he must point to Will. His finger trembled at the thought.

The crowd was baying. “Whoever he is and whatever his rank.” Some began to point at Will themselves. Several leaped forward, rolling up their sleeves, waiting only for Richard's nod to begin a public lynching. Richard did not dare to look at Will but now braced himself and raised his hand, his finger pointing to the ceiling, ready to snap down. The crowd's bay became a bellow until a commotion in the public gallery distracted them. A cry, loud and high pitched, demanded a hearing. “Let me through! Let me through! I WILL get through. I have something very important to say. If you don't let me through, may God have mercy on your souls, for your families will be cursed forever.”

Will, who had hardly been aware of breathing at all, found himself breathing very fast. So hard was the blood pounding in his ears that he could hardly hear the voice and when he did, he could not believe it, for it was a girl's voice, and not one he either expected or wanted. Those peremptory tones could only be Marissa's. But how could it be her when she was shut up at St. Martin's? Yet there she was, elbowing her way to the front, tolerating no obstruction.

Will's mind began to race. He did not want her here. If he was to sacrifice himself, he did not want her to see. Nor did he welcome a delay. It must be done now or all his courage would desert him. In desperation, Will turned to Richard. “Get her out,” he cried. Richard gestured to the emperor, who summoned his guard. They ran to the gallery and seized Marissa, pulling her into the hall, trying to stop her still calling down curses if she was not allowed to have her say.

Now Queen Eleanor was frowning. Her family had been cursed, with terrible results, over many generations. It had made her very superstitious, and she did not want them cursed any more. The girl might be simply a troublemaker but what harm could it do to hear her speak? She made up her mind and sent a message via a servant to the emperor. “Let the girl speak.”

The emperor did not know how to refuse.

Marissa never knew that she had the queen to thank for giving her a hearing. All she knew was that this was the moment for which she had been waiting. For just a minute she who was so powerless would be all-powerful.

Now that Marissa was so near him, Will began to sweat. What could she know? She would just humiliate
herself and him. She was going to mess everything up. Couldn't she see? Will
must
die a traitor so that Richard could go free. He tried to talk to her but she took no notice. She concentrated only on the emperor and the crowd. “It may not be customary but it is surely right,” she said in a voice as piercing and clear as Elric's, “that the defense should be able to question the prosecutor.” Nobody denied it. “In that case I would like to call that man there”—she pointed to Amal—“down onto the floor again. He spoke so eloquently. We should hear some more.”

Amal shook his head but the audience had become intrigued and Marissa reeled them in. He was forced down and shrank in front of her, a blighted crust against a smooth young sapling. But still, he had the emperor behind him. There was nothing this girl could do to hurt him. Why, she had barely seen him since they crossed the sea months ago. He stood up a little taller and tried to turn from abject crow into confident raven.

“Ah, Amal,” Marissa said to him, “I greet you.” Amal bowed, then, crucially, realized his mistake. Marissa had spoken in Arabic. She had learned the words from Ellie as they rode. At the imperial court, his name was not Amal and he was supposed to speak only German. Quickly, he righted himself. The emperor gave him a glassy stare. With increasing satisfaction Marissa circled him like a cat. She hoped Ellie had heard her perfect pronunciation from where she was standing in the gallery.

“I wonder at you, Amal,” Marissa purred, now in Norman French, “that you find it so easy to live among us.” One of the translators came to stand by Amal's ear
but Marissa courteously dismissed him. “You needn't bother with that,” she said. “Amal speaks perfect Norman French. Just translate for the emperor and for the audience.” The translator looked confused and sat down. His fellow translators, when the emperor did nothing, scattered themselves about the hall and did as Marissa had told them.

“Now,” Marissa said, “I think, Amal, you should tell the emperor who your real master is.” Amal tried to look at her pleasantly but blankly. Why had he been so frightened? This girl could never beat him, a spy of the Old Man's. He would just stare at her like this, with no apparent understanding, and eventually the crowd would grow weary and she would have to withdraw.

Marissa hardly hesitated. With absolute confidence, she told her own tale. She told of Amal's arrival at Hartslove, his infiltration of their hearts and minds and of all the good things he had done. Then she spoke of his treachery and his allegiance to the Old Man of the Mountain. She warmed to her story, spinning, weaving, drawing in listeners who were soon hanging on her every word. It was as if Marissa had been born for the role. Nor did she spare Kamil. Only when she told of his end did she relent, and the audience groaned in sympathy.

When she had finished, Amal neither blinked nor frowned, only resolutely retained his look of patient confusion. Now a new murmur arose. Marissa had certainly spun a good yarn but there seemed no reason to believe it was true. And there was Will's blood to be spilled. They would not be denied that now, when it had been promised.

The emperor found his hands sticky on the arms of his throne. He needed to take control for he had no idea how much Marissa knew of his part in the Old Man's plot or how much more she intended to say. He could not think where she had come from or who on earth she was, but he knew now that he should have snubbed Queen Eleanor and never have let her open her mouth. Yet still, he reminded himself firmly, she had no proof of anything. His hands grew less sticky as his mind raced. “As I am sure Queen Eleanor will agree, you are an excellent storyteller,” he observed loudly, making sure to sound kindly. “You are to be commended, young lady, for your skills—and also for your love.” Marissa flushed, her composure rattled, and the emperor was immediately reassured for it confirmed something useful. “Yes,” he continued, “your love, for I can see that it is your love for this knight, William de Granville, Earl of Ravensgarth, that brings you here now to save him. Yours must be a great romance. But alas, my poor servant”—he indicated Amal—“cannot be sacrificed even in the face of such passion.” The crowd began to snigger and Will, caught between pride at Marissa's courage and fury at her interference, wanted to punch them.

He pushed toward her but was held back. “Look.” Richard gestured with his head. “Look.” From out of the crowd, Ellie now emerged. Will shook violently and strained even more. No, not Ellie, too! Why hadn't she stayed in Speyer? However, she was not looking at him. She looked at only Amal and she held out something toward him, something so small and tattered, something that was barely a book, more a collection of dog-eared pages, but something that Ellie raised as if it were the
Bible. Queen Eleanor stood up. The crowd did not know how to react. Not so Amal. When he saw what it was that Ellie held, the confident raven lost even the little stuffing he had left. “Oh,” he cried before he could help himself, “Oh,” and his arms could not be stopped from holding themselves out in supplication. “My book, my precious book! Oh, you wicked Christian! You stole it! You stole it!” There was no German now, nor even French. Amal felt as if his tinder-dry innards had been set alight. For the first time since he had entered the Old Man's service, he spoke without thinking. The image of Ellie and Marissa tracing the names of his children with their fingers, defiling them, was too much for him. He wavered like a thin flame and words sparked out of him, short, sharp, terrible words whose sting Ellie felt even though she had no idea what they meant. She trembled as they scattered about her like shards of glass, but she had to continue. People had to know. There could be no doubt. She had thought that this revenge on Amal would be sweet. Yet the shredding of an old man in the public gaze made her feel sullied.

Nevertheless, she kept her nerve. This proof of Will's innocence could not be wasted for it was the only one they had. Slowly, she held the book to her eyes and read aloud the Old Man's inscription and name that she had painstakingly worked out with the skills Amal himself had taught her at Hartslove. Then she held up the book again to show the painted dagger, the unmistakable mark of the Assassins, and pointed. “This is the guilty man who caused the ransom to be stolen,” she said. “This is the man responsible.” Amal, his hands still outstretched, denied nothing.

At once the emperor did the only thing he could do, which was to feign horror and stand bolt upright. He addressed Amal directly and had to watch as the old spy teetered as if on the lip of an abyss, before, as final proof of his traitorous allegiance, he fell to his bony knees and with thin, painful cries begged Allah to avenge him.

Marissa and Ellie stood together now, holding on to each other. The sight of Amal, completely undone, was horrible. Then Will called out and opened his arms. For one, wild moment, Marissa thought they had opened for her and prepared to fly into them. But only for a moment. For though she knew she was included in Will's embrace, she knew immediately, from his expression, that that special place, the place right at the core of his heart, was still reserved for Ellie and only Ellie. Of course Marissa had known it would be so but it was only now that she found the courage finally to acknowledge herself beaten. Yet she could never be beaten entirely. Neither Will nor Ellie could ever forget her. After all, it was not Ellie's love that had saved Will. She, Marissa, had done that. Every moment they were together was thanks to her. She stood back to let Ellie through.

But Ellie never reached Will's arms. As soldiers bent down to hurry Amal away, he sprang out of their clutches and seized her, pulling her close to his ribs with arms like steel wire. In his right hand flashed Kamil's triangular blade, bright and sharp, and he held it directly across her throat. “Get back, get back,” he warned. Suddenly, he was terribly tired, but he would not let go.