Trail of Fate (2 page)

As suddenly as it started, the room ceased its tossing about. Sir Thomas was back, this time holding the Grail out to me.

“Good luck, Tristan,” he said. I took the cup in my hands, clutching it to my chest.

He was gone. The room was gone. Only the bright white light remained.

What had become of me?

A
wall of ocean pushed me beneath the surface. I fought my way up into the air as the water rose and twisted violently, and tried to remember where I was. The tossing of the ship had swept me into the sea. I had no idea how long I'd been in the water but recalled seeing the broken mast come hurtling toward me. But I could remember nothing else. Over the sound of the wind I thought I heard Robard screaming, but it sounded faint and far away. Also, I tasted blood in my mouth.

The moon was completely obscured by the storm clouds. It was so dark that I couldn't see anything. As I came to my senses, I was completely disoriented by the sensation of the angry sea rising and falling. I could not tell up from down. I only knew I was wet. And frankly, a little tired of it all.

Bursting through the water's surface, I sucked in fresh air and felt for the satchel around my neck and shoulder, relieved to find it still there. The rushing sound of water behind me rose again, and I hollered out a curse. But the water was on me now, and I dipped violently in the trough before the wave threw me into the air. I hit the water on my back with a smack, and the breath was pushed from my lungs.

Another wave carried me up and then dashed me down again, and I collided with something hard. At first I thought it was a rock, but when the wave subsided, my feet touched the sea bottom. More waves crashed into me, but when they returned to the sea, I could stand. I didn't know which way to turn in the darkness with the howling wind and rain pelting my face. But then, as if God wanted to give me a fighting chance (or else keep me alive a bit longer to further torment me later), a flash of lightning flickered across the sky, and in a brief instant I saw land ahead of me: a shoreline, with trees and rocks in the distance.

Shouting in glee, I scrambled in the direction the lightning had shown me, the water growing shallower with each step, and before long it reached only my waist, then knees. With every last ounce of strength I splashed forward until the sand was under me, and I collapsed to the ground.

I woke to the taste of sand. It was salty and gritty, and light was coming from somewhere. Where were Robard and Maryam and the dog? Why couldn't I see them? But then I couldn't really see well at all, as my eyes were full of sand. I blinked to clear them and only partially succeeded.

It was relaxing to lie so peacefully, but I made the mistake of trying to lift my head, and the world spun away from me. I sank into unconsciousness.

When I came to again, I was no longer moving, but was still very wet.

Opening my right eye, I wiggled my fingers, delighted to see that they worked. I'm not sure how much more time passed before I tried to move additional body parts. I clenched a fist. No pain.

Sore everywhere, I drove my fist into the sand, lifting myself up on one arm. It was daytime now, and the sun was high in the sky, so it must have been nearly noon. There was a line of trees about two hundred yards farther inland.

Pushing myself up to my hands and knees, I winced when pain shot through my left knee. I had a vague recollection of hitting it on something the night before while thrashing about in the waves. My right elbow also throbbed, but didn't feel broken. When the dizziness passed, I finally stood.

My back wouldn't straighten all the way, and I wondered if my ribs were broken. I looked at the now calm sea. There was no indication of the fury it had unleashed on me the previous night.

Looking up and down the beach, I could see only a league or so in each direction before the shoreline bent out of sight.

“Robard! Maryam!” I shouted, but no one answered. Only the squawk of a few shorebirds disturbed the quiet.

“Captain Denby!”

“Little Dog!” Nothing. No answering bark.

With every intention of walking along the beach, I stumbled to the ground after a few steps, too tired to go any farther. Dropping on the sand, I quickly fell asleep.

When I woke, there were six people standing around me. Two of them were young women, four were men. Each held a horse by the reins.

All of them were pointing swords at me.

T
hey stood silently, swords in hand, studying me intently. I was unbelievably sore, but tried to make a quick assessment of my situation. Lying on my back, Sir Thomas' battle sword dug into my spine. Good; I hadn't lost it. The satchel was still around my shoulder. I could also feel my belt and the weight of my short sword. I had fought Mother Nature and clearly lost, but I was lucky I wasn't injured more seriously.

Of course, it wasn't “lucky” to be surrounded by sword-wielding strangers. I tried to rise, but a stern look from the woman holding her sword against my neck persuaded me to lie back down.

After a while, the silence became uncomfortable.

“Hello,” I said.

Nothing: only more stern looks and sword pointing.

“Nice day. You wouldn't happen to know exactly where we are, would you? I'm very lost.”

The young woman who held her sword closest to my neck said something in a language I recognized. French. Brother Rupert was from France and had taught me to speak it a little. By no means was I fluent, but I should be able to communicate. Then I wondered if I was actually
in
France, or had washed ashore somewhere else and these French travelers had happened across me.

The others sheathed their swords, but she kept hers out. Not as close to my neck but still at the ready if needed.

“
Je m'appelle
Tristan,” I said. I am called Tristan.

“I speak English,” she said with just a hint of an accent. “Who are you?”

“Am I in France?” I asked, ignoring her question, compelled to find out where I was.

Sword woman nodded.

“My name is Tristan of St. Alban's. I was attached to a Templar regimento in Outremer, but I am . . . was on my way back to England. Our ship was lost in the storm, and I washed up on this shore. You speak French. Am I in France?” I asked again.

She paused before speaking but nodded. Then she and her companions began an intense conversation that went far too fast for me to understand. I could pick out only a few words here and there, but the tone was heated, and from what I could gather, the others would be happy to kill me or leave me behind and ride on. So I concentrated on the girl with the sword.

I looked past the weapon to her face and realized she was quite beautiful. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders and was pulled back with a headband. Her eyes were a fierce light blue, and her skin was tanned. She had an air of leadership about her, and there was a determined set to her expression. My immediate fate rested in her hands. She looked about my age, and though the rest of her party was older, she was definitely the one in charge.

“A Templar regimento, you say?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“We have no love for the Templars, servants of their cowardly Pope,” she said. One of her companions, an extremely large and angry-looking man, spat on the ground at the word
Templar
, reminding me of Robard whenever Richard the Lionheart's name was mentioned.

Drat. I silently cursed my big mouth.

“I wouldn't know. I'm only a squire, and have never even met the Pope, so I'm not one to judge his level of bravery,” I said.

For a brief instant a very slight smile flashed across her face. The second young woman spoke quietly to the men, and when she did, they cursed and shook their swords excitedly in my direction.

“Yes, well, I can assure you of his cowardice,” she said.

I nodded in agreement. No need to try to debate the angry young Frenchwoman.

“I don't want any trouble. If it weren't for the storm, I wouldn't be here at all. All I wish is to find a way home. If you can tell me where we are and the nearest port where I may find a ship, I'll be on my way. May I stand?”

She backed up a few steps and nodded, and I slowly rose to my feet. I groaned with the effort and flexed my knee several times, trying to work the soreness out of it.

“You are injured,” she said.

“Not seriously, I don't think,” I replied.

“How long were you in the water?”

“I don't know. Since sometime last evening. The mast gave way during the storm and I was thrown into the water, which is the last thing I remember. I have no idea if the ship survived. There were two other passengers and four crewmen, and I fear they may be lost. Oh, you haven't come across a small golden-colored dog, have you?”

She shook her head. “We spotted you from the trees as we rode by. We've seen no one else. Did you hear a humming noise?” she asked.

My skin prickled immediately.

“Noise?”

“Yes. Faint and far away. Sort of a strange musical quality? I heard it when we first saw you, but it stopped when you woke,” she said.

She had heard the sound of the Grail. But how?

My vision had narrowed and I thought I might fall to the ground again. If she had heard it, did this mean others had as well? If this were true, then how could I keep it safe?

“No, I heard nothing. In fact, I think my ears are still full of water,” I said, willing myself to speak slowly and methodically. Steady, I told myself, looking up at the sky, then down at the sand, then out at the water, trying to be casual. I made another show of flexing my knee and bending my back, trying to make it obvious that I didn't know anything about strange noises.

“My name is Celia,” she said, sheathing her sword. I relaxed a little, but not much.

“Can you ride?” she asked.

“I think so,” I replied. I looked around but saw no other horses. “Um. But you have six riders for six horses.”

“I know. You'll ride behind me.”

Ride behind her? No, thank you. She had already said she didn't like Templars, and she was well armed. I'd be safer walking.

“I'd rather walk,” I said.

“If you walk, you won't be able to keep up. You'll get lost.”

“Then if you'll just point me in the right direction . . .”

She stopped. “You are unable to ride then?”

“No. I can ride.... I just . . . I don't . . . I mean,” I stammered.

“So then you are uncomfortable sharing the horse with me?”

“What? No, of course not! It's just . . . I mean . . . I'm quite dirty and . . .”

“Would you rather ride with Philippe?” she interrupted, and pointed to the largest of the four men accompanying her. The spitter. He was wearing a purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his massive forearms. I imagined Philippe spending many, many hours lifting heavy objects or perhaps crushing rocks with his bare hands. Not to mention how he glowered at me with a look saying that if it were up to him, he'd prefer bashing in my head and leaving me where I'd been found.

“Ah, no,” I said.

“You should know, then, that Philippe believes you might be a spy. I haven't decided yet. But since we have the swords, don't you think it best if you come with us? At least until we can decide what to do with you?”

“I have a sword,” I said defensively, having been caught completely off guard. I wanted to prove to them that a Templar squire is no one to be trifled with.

“Yes. I see. Two, in fact. We have six.”

She had a point.

Done with the discussion, Celia mounted her horse. She nudged him forward and held her hand out to me.

Reluctantly, I grabbed it and struggled up into the saddle behind her.

So far, France did not have much to recommend it.

W
e rode west along the beach for several hours without a word passing between us. As dusk approached, Celia rode farther inland toward the tree line. Soon we were riding through the wooded countryside. I hoped we'd find a place to stop shortly, as it was enormously uncomfortable riding the horse. I had overestimated my condition; each hoofbeat brought jarring pain, and every so often a groan escaped my lips. It grew worse when we crossed from the sand onto the more uneven terrain of the forest.

“Are you sure you aren't hurt?” Celia asked.

“No, I'm fine, really,” I said through gritted teeth.

Celia chuckled, and then as if to intentionally vex me, slapped the reins and broke into a quick gallop. After a few yards, I couldn't take it anymore and begged her to stop. This only made her spur the horse harder, and after we jumped a small creek, she pulled up into a clearing.

“Are you all right, Templar?” she asked.

With great care, I slid off the horse, nearly tumbling to the ground. With hands on my knees, I struggled to breathe, but each gasp only brought more pain.

“Just need a little rest, but I don't want to hold you up. If you'll just tell me where I can find the nearest port, I'll sleep for a day or three and proceed on my own.”

“We're stopping here for the night anyway. Here is fresh water. Philippe should be able to find us something to eat,” she said.

By now the other riders in the party had caught up to us. The other young woman and three of the men dismounted and began making preparations to camp for the night. Philippe spoke to Celia in low tones. It was impossible to hear what they were saying, but from their expressions it looked like an argument. She raised her voice at one point, and he glowered in my direction before riding off into the woods. The other members of her group paid no attention to their little spat.