Trail of Fate (3 page)

In a matter of minutes, the horses had been tethered between two trees, their saddles removed. A small fire was built in short order, and two of the men scoured the nearby woods for more firewood.

The woman pulled a few cooking implements from a bag she had carried on her saddle. She knelt near the fire, adding more wood.

Still sore, I limped to a nearby tree, slowly lowering myself to the ground and leaning back against the trunk. Sleep came instantly. The clattering sound of Philippe returning woke me. It was still light, but the twilight shadows crept through the forest. Philippe dismounted, carrying some type of large fowl across his saddle. He handed it to one of the men, who left the clearing to clean the bird.

Celia was circling the camp, her hand on the hilt of her sword as if she'd been keeping watch.

“Feeling better?” she asked when she saw me awake.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

“We'll have food soon. Philippe is an excellent hunter, and Martine is an even better cook.”

Looking at Philippe, I saw no evidence of a bow or other hunting weapon.

“How does he hunt with no bow?” I asked.

“He has his ways.”

Wonderful. I was already on unfriendly terms with a large, enormously strong man with a sword who evidently captured wild game with his bare hands. My situation was improving by the hour. Using the tree for support, I clawed my way to my feet. My back and knee felt better, but I resigned myself to several days of pain and stiffness.

The fowl was cleaned and mounted on a wooden spit. Martine took some herbs from her bag and sprinkled them over the bird, then propped it over the fire. The sight of the food made my stomach growl in anticipation.

Celia smiled and walked to the fire. As I followed her with my eyes, I caught Philippe glaring at me. He had pulled his sword from his scabbard and was sharpening it with a stone. As he worked, he periodically ran his thumb along the edge, never taking his eyes off me.

I smiled and gave him a jaunty wave.

“Bonjour, mon frère,”
I said.

He was not amused. His eyes darkened and his jaw muscles clenched. It was quite possible he might jump across the fire and thrash me, but he returned to his sword. Then his head snapped up and he hissed, catching everyone's attention. They were on their feet in an instant, silently drawing their swords.

The woods were quiet. Too quiet. Unsure what was going on, I was afraid to pull my own weapon from my belt, lest the friendly Philippe misinterpret it as a threatening move. Something was wrong.

Philippe slowly rotated, looking intently into the woods surrounding our camp. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog searching the underbrush for vermin. He stood about five yards away from me when without warning an arrow thunked into the trunk of the tree between us. Gray goose feathers were attached to the shaft, and I recognized it instantly.

Robard.

P
hilippe shouted out a command, and in a blur one of the men kicked dirt over the fire, dousing the flame. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged into the brush in the direction the arrow had come from. The other three men melted into the forest.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Robard, don't shoot! These are friends!”

Robard didn't answer, and when I turned to explain to Celia what was happening, I was startled by the sight of Maryam holding Celia firmly from behind with one golden dagger at her neck.

Oh no.

“Maryam, wait! Stop. Everyone stop.”

Celia was not moving but cursing rapidly. Maryam ordered her to drop her sword. Celia shouted something back and reluctantly complied.

“Maryam, let her go! For God's sake, she's a friend. These people have not harmed me!”

Maryam looked confused, but did not release her grip on Celia. I heard Robard shout, “Tristan, run! I have you covered!”

“No! Robard, stop! Please put down your bow! And watch out! You have a very large, angry Frenchman headed your way.”

“What?” he shouted back.

“Just don't shoot anyone. I'll explain everything. Come into the camp!”

Maryam still held Celia, but in the seconds I'd been preoccupied, Martine had advanced toward her, sword at the ready.

“Martine,
s'il vous plaît. Arrête!
” She ignored me, swinging her sword up. Maryam crouched slightly, then shoved Celia away. She stumbled the few feet between us before falling into my arms.

“No!” I shouted. Martine's sword flashed down, but the Assassin was ready. She crossed both golden daggers over her head, catching the blade of Martine's weapon between them. With blinding speed, she twisted them to the side and the sword was ripped loose.

Pushing Celia back to her feet, I ran between them, holding up my hands against the now advancing Maryam.

“Maryam, stop. It's all right!”

“Tristan! You are alive! Praise Allah! Robard and I are here to rescue you!” she shouted.

“Maryam, I don't need rescuing! These people are helping me. They found me washed up on the beach. Please! Stop this! Before someone gets hurt or killed. Put your weapons away.”

Maryam's eyes darted between me, Celia and Martine. She crouched, tense like a coiled spring, and I was torn between enormous joy at finding her alive and extreme worry that something horrible was going to happen. Robard was also in grave danger. There were four Frenchmen in the woods who didn't know these attackers were not enemies.

“Celia, these are my companions from the boat. They made a mistake and mean you no harm. They incorrectly believed me to be a prisoner. Please! Tell your men to stand down!”

Celia looked from me to Maryam and was still angry at being held at knifepoint.

“If one of my men is injured by your bowman, I will hold you responsible, Templar!” she said. But she shouted out to the men, and the woods went quiet again. After what felt like an eternity the three men returned to the clearing. All but Philippe.

“Robard, if you can hear me, you need to put away your bow! These people found me washed up on the shore this morning. They've been helping me. Please! Come into the clearing so we can all discuss this!”

No sound came from the woods. Then from the underbrush, there came a yelp and the sounds of a scuffle. Next, a shouted curse in English, followed by one in French.

The men in the camp were still ready to fight at any second, holding their swords unsheathed.

“Celia, please tell Philippe to stop,” I begged.

“Sorry, Templar,” she replied. “When Philippe is in a rage, there is little I or anyone can do to control him.”

Philippe and Robard emerged from a thicket thirty yards beyond the camp. They were grappling with each other, but I could tell they were both tiring. Robard had his hands around Philippe's throat, but the big Frenchman clubbed his arms away. He threw a wild punch, but Robard ducked it easily, jumping on Philippe's back when his momentum carried him around. Philippe tried to flip him off and finally caught Robard by the hair, tossing him forward through the air.

Robard landed hard on his back and lay stunned on the ground. Philippe pulled a small dagger from his belt.

Celia and I both shouted, but Philippe behaved as if he did not hear us. Robard had rolled to his hands and knees, but his back was to the Frenchman. Maryam started toward Robard's side, shouting, but two of Celia's men moved threateningly toward her and I put out my arm to stop her, not wanting this to get any worse than it already was.

Philippe was only a few feet from Robard when a golden streak whirled past me, headed directly toward the Frenchman, barking furiously. It was the dog.

Unafraid of Philippe's great size, she ran full speed at him and leapt into the air, clamping down on his wrist with her jaws.

He shook his wrist, howling in pain, but she would not let go. He dropped the dagger and danced around the clearing shrieking, but could not free his arm. Robard finally rose and shouted a command, and she instantly released her grip. She didn't retreat though, backing up a few steps and going low to the ground, growling, muscles coiled and teeth bared. The fight had finally gone out of both Robard and Philippe, who stood eyeing each other.

Seizing the moment, I moved between them, holding out my arms.

“Both of you, stop! Enough! There are no enemies here. Robard, I am very glad you are alive, but this has been a mistake. I am not a prisoner.”

Robard was still confused and dazed by his fight with Philippe. He was out of breath, but I wanted him to calm down. There was no need to make enemies when we were outnumbered and in a strange land.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked back to find Celia and her companions pointing at the mutt at my feet and laughing hysterically.

C
elia, Martine and the others were laughing wildly now. Philippe and Robard looked at us, perplexed. Maryam stared at them in wonder, but lowered her daggers.

“Oh. Oh my goodness,” Celia said, wiping at her eyes, trying to control her laughter. “Philippe! You have been undone by a savage beast!” She chuckled again, and Martine and the rest of her group joined in.

“Celia? Philippe still looks ready to charge. Can you please ask him to relax?”

Celia tried but burst out laughing again. Although Philippe had temporarily stopped his advance on Robard, the dog sat on her haunches barking excitedly, then jumped up and down until I scooped her up in my arms. She licked my face, and this brought another round of laughter.

“Celia?” I asked.

Celia spoke to Philippe and he answered back sharply. She talked over him until, with one last glare at Robard, he stormed off toward the stream, washing his hands and face in the water, complaining loudly all the time.

“Friendly fellow,” Robard said, still trying to catch his breath.

Celia's head snapped around to face Robard, and her eyes blazed. She had gone from laughter to anger in a heartbeat.

“We do not appreciate being shot at for no reason. Someone could have been killed,” Celia replied. There was steel in her voice, and given Robard's temper, I knew this could start things up again.

Robard looked surprised she could understand him. To avoid her intense gaze he occupied himself with straightening his tunic and slapping the dust and dirt out of his breeches.

“Mademoiselle, I assure you: if I wanted someone dead, they'd be dead. It was a warning shot, a diversion to give Maryam a chance to act. It appeared you were holding my friend prisoner,” he said.

I interrupted, hoping to change the subject and defuse the situation.

“Robard, where did you come from? How did you survive the storm? How did you find me? Us? And where is your bow?”

Truth be told, I still didn't know much about Celia and her group. They had yet to show me anything other than a sort of abrupt kindness, but they still made me wary. Considering we were outnumbered, I thought it best that Robard remain armed.

“We followed your tracks from the beach. The boat broke apart, but we managed to cling to a piece of the decking and were blown ashore. We found a set of footprints on the beach, thinking it might be someone from the ship, then discovered six riders had surrounded whoever made them. In the woods where the Frenchman knocked it out of my hand,” he replied dutifully.

“And with such paltry information you decided it was necessary to attack us?” Celia snorted. She was not easily pushed off point.

Robard looked at her and smiled.

“My mistake, mademoiselle. Please accept my apologies,” he said, bowing gallantly.

Maryam sheathed her daggers and gave me a hug so fierce I thought it might push all the breath from my lungs.

“Tristan, are you hurt?” she asked.

“I wasn't,” I groaned at the intensity of her embrace, which had reawakened the aches and pains I'd suffered in the shipwreck. Finally her hands rested on my upper arms, and she looked me up and down. Celia studied Maryam intently. Forgetting her anger with Robard, her face clouded as she watched Maryam inspect me.

“No, Maryam. I'm just sore from being battered about by the waves. I'm fine. Really.”

“Praise Allah!” Maryam said.

It took a few minutes of explanations and questions back and forth until everyone was satisfied. Celia introduced everyone in her troop, but Philippe sulked off near the horses by himself. Once Celia had explained everything, they were willing to let bygones be bygones, all of them smiling and having another good laugh over the dog so ferociously attacking Philippe.

“
Mon dieu
, that was funny,” Celia said. “Poor Philippe. Such a vicious little creature!” The dog jumped down from my arms and twirled at Celia's feet, barking happily. Celia scooped her up and rubbed her ears and muzzle. Traitorous cur!

“How adorable,” she said. The dog licked her face. “What a sweet little angel. What is her name?”

“Her name? I . . . uh . . . Her name . . . It's . . . her name . . .”

“You don't know the name of your own dog?” she asked.

“I haven't had her very long . . . ,” I stammered.

“How long?” Celia demanded.

“Not . . . since we left Tyre a few days ago . . . really . . . She just tagged along . . . and . . .”

“And you haven't given her a
name
?” She was incredulous. “Poor little thing.” She smiled and cooed, “Sweet little angel.”

“Of course she has a name! It's . . . um . . . Angel. Her name is Angel!” I said.

Celia arched an eyebrow in disbelief. I held her gaze.

“It certainly fits,” she said, giggling as “Angel” resumed attempting to lick her to death.