“Only a little farther now.” David boosted Philip onto the horse and hoped that his words weren’t merely wishful thinking. If they were going to reach the commanderie, they had to pass through La Rochelle and that meant coming under the gaze of the men on Vauclair’s towers.
They set off down the grassy slope and came out onto a narrow track that would take them into the town. With a population of a thousand, La Rochelle had its foundation as a sea port, but the economy had been augmented by the building of the castle and, of course, the presence of the Templars.
From La Rochelle, the Templars sent trading vessels to the Levant in order to connect with the Silk Road that led across Asia, thus creating a network of goods from Ireland to China. Although the fraternity of warrior-monks had been founded to take the Holy Land from the Saracens, by 1293 the Templars were one of the richest private organizations in the world, with interests in trade, banking, and politics. No wonder Philip would move to wipe them out fourteen years from now.
Since the fall of the Holy Land to the Muslims, a fleet of twenty ships had berthed permanently at the port. This meant that the town was also home to twenty crews— Templar knights, sergeants, and servants—who needed food, clothing, and materials, all supplied to them by the inhabitants of La Rochelle.
“We’ve been seen.” Philip spoke the warning in a low tone.
David had been studiously ignoring Vauclair Castle, as if by looking at it or giving the men who manned it an acknowledgement of any kind, he would increase the chance of someone on the battlement alerting the castellan of their presence. Now, he glanced in the direction Philip indicated. The castle lay a quarter-mile to the north of the Templar commanderie. A half-dozen men stood high up on the tower battlements.
Even from this distance, it was possible to see several gesticulating in their direction, and David had no trouble imagining what they were saying. Unfortunately, David and Philip still had several football fields to go to reach the gate of the commanderie. But David wasn’t helpless by any means, and he endeavored to tip the odds of making it to the commanderie in their favor.
First, he veered away from the middle of the road until he was following the north side of the street, which ran from east to west. Because the houses along the street were high enough that the angle was wrong, he concealed their progress from the watching eyes at the top of the tower. Unfortunately, the change of position also meant that David couldn’t see what was happening at the castle.
Second, he gave up on leading the horse and swung himself onto the horse’s back behind Philip. They were two large men, and it was too much weight for the horse to carry very far, but he could carry them to the front gate of the commanderie. It was the only way David and Philip were going to get through the Templar gate in one piece.
“Come on!” David spurred the horse, which leapt forward.
Almost immediately, the line of houses ended, and they emerged from the narrow road on which they’d been traveling into a green space that gave them a direct line of sight to the castle—and vice versa. A small company of riders, six or eight at most, emerged from underneath the gatehouse and started towards them.
“Mon Dieu,” Philip said, each word accompanied by an obvious gasp of pain. “We’re not going to make it.”
The horse’s gait was causing him to bounce up and down. If David hadn’t been so near to panic, he would have been wincing too in sympathy. “Yes, we are. We have come too far to falter now.” Sensitive to the moods of humans, the horse whinnied and readily quickened its pace.
David wasn’t going to stand for anything less than freedom. He’d survived the fall from Chateau Niort’s battlement without time traveling, which meant that he was going to keep on living, come hell or high water. All along, Clare may have viewed him as a jumped-up Welsh interloper, but he was sorely mistaken if he thought David was going to be killed that easily. He had a family that loved him, and a country that needed him. Two countries. Three if he included Aquitaine. And he didn’t think it was vanity or hubris to say so.
Although initially the riders had left the castle gate at a trot, shouts and pointing fingers from the men at the top of the castle battlement caught their attention. Once the lead rider realized how close he was to his prey, he urged his horse into a gallop.
Meanwhile, with sixty yards to go, David didn’t care if Philip was barely holding on as long as he wasn’t actually falling off.
Forty yards.
David knew now that they were going to make it to the door. Whether or not they’d be admitted was still an open question. A stone wall encircled the whole commanderie, and it was guarded by two great wooden doors, which were armored with iron fittings, iron nails driven through the boards every few inches, and iron panels like the scaly hide of a stegosaurus. David didn’t have time to wait for the doors to open. Even if the gatekeeper saw him coming, it would take too long for him to swing the gate wide.
Instead, David made for the wicket gate inset into the left hand door, slowing the horse before he barreled into it. The small doorway was only four feet high, meaning the men would fit but not the horse. Thus, David dismounted almost before the horse had completely stopped and pulled Philip down after him. Inset into the wicket door was a small barred window that the gatekeeper could open without jeopardizing the security of the commanderie. Somebody on the wall-walk must have been paying attention because the gatekeeper pulled open the window and poked his nose through the bars before David had to pound his fist on the door.
“Who are you?” The gatekeeper was a gray-haired, gray-bearded man in middle age, with bright blue eyes that looked at David with curiosity. Then they tracked to the region over David’s left shoulder. David didn’t need to turn to know that the man’s eyes had fixed on the men riding towards them.
“Stop! Don’t let them in! Those are wanted men!”
Trying to speak calmly despite the fact that what he really wanted to do was reach through the window and shake the gatekeeper, David put his face right up to the opening so that the gatekeeper would be looking only at him. “Et mortuus est in Golgotha.”
Translated into English, the passcode said, He died at Golgotha, referring to the place where Jesus was crucified.
As Carew had promised, the gatekeeper didn’t blink, question, or hesitate. He pulled open the wicket door. David had his arms wrapped around Philip’s waist, holding him upright, and he half-carried/half-dragged him across threshold.
Then with only seconds to spare, the gatekeeper slammed the door shut in the faces of Clare’s men.
Chapter Thirteen
14 June 1293
Callum
“Someone is here, my lord, from Clare.” Samuel came to a halt in front of Callum.
Callum, Cassie, and Jeffries had been sitting to one side of the high table, taking a moment to eat and speak a few words to each other. They’d spent the six hours since the arrival of Bridget and Peter frantically preparing for exactly this. Callum had called in his men from some of the surrounding areas, outposts which he regularly patrolled. He’d sent for goods and supplies from outlying towns as well and personally inspected the entire perimeter of Shrewsbury Castle’s walls while Peter inspected the town’s. If Clare was to lay siege to Shrewsbury, the more men and resources Callum had inside the town the better. Unfortunately, this was far sooner than Callum had thought Clare’s men would come, and they weren’t ready.
“How many men does he have?” Callum stood, straightening his tunic as he did so.
“Twenty,” Samuel said.
“Not enough to really challenge us.” Though she remained seated, Cassie took her feet off the chair, where she’d been resting them to counter the swelling of her ankles in late pregnancy. “What’s his plan?”
“I suppose we should find out.” Callum looked at Samuel. “Send a runner to Peter to let him know that Clare’s men are here, and then I guess we let them in.” He turned to Jeffries. “See to the men, as we discussed.”
“Yes.” Jeffries disappeared through a side door.
“We’re still allies,” Cassie said. “It’s only because of Lili’s vision that we’re even half-prepared.”
“We shall see what kind of treachery he has in store for us.” Callum took Cassie’s hand and walked with her to the front of the hall. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Two minutes later, Samuel ushered Clare’s captain and his men through the front gate. The rain had stopped, though the clouds hung low in the sky and the bailey was full of puddles. Callum had deliberately arranged for only a half-dozen members of the garrison to show themselves around the perimeter of the bailey. He wanted to hear what Clare’s captain had to say before he threatened him.
Clare’s captain bowed and introduced himself as Robert de Valles. Tall and thin, he had a supercilious air that immediately put Callum off. “I bring grave news, my lord. We have received word from Aquitaine that our noble King David has been murdered by agents of Charles, the brother to the King of France.”
A sudden shiver went through Callum. Lili really did have the sight.
Callum didn’t know what he thought about that. It went against his logical mind to believe in anything supernatural. But then—he’d been forced to believe in time travel too, so he supposed dreams that were true weren’t much of a stretch. Even Anna, David’s sister, had dreamt true seeings of her mother when she’d first come to Wales. Maybe there was something in the air in this universe that made such things possible.
All Callum knew was that without Lili’s vision, he would have been standing before Valles, in uncertainty and deep grief, facing the complete loss of not only his close friend but everything they’d worked so hard to build.
Callum cleared his throat and tried to appear as if he was fighting back sorrow. “Why didn’t Queen Lili send me a message by radio?”
“My lord Clare felt that it would be better if you didn’t have to learn of King David’s death by such impersonal means.” Valles worked at his v-shaped beard, twisting it to a fine point. “My lord Clare only wishes that he could have come himself to tell you the news.”
Cassie came down the steps so she could talk to Valles without shouting. “How did Clare learn of David’s death in Aquitaine if he is in London?”
That was the question of the hour, but Valles was ready for it. “Pigeon.”
Callum grimaced. If David was attacked on the evening of the twelfth, the only way Clare could have a man here, on the morning of the fourteenth, was if a pigeon had been sent immediately from Chateau Niort. The risk of a pigeon messenger going astray was high, which meant that Clare had been lucky. Callum didn’t like to see that in anyone but David.
What was also clear was that the only way Valles could have reached Shrewsbury in such a timely fashion was if he’d been sent west days ago and been simply waiting for confirmation of David’s death.
“Why was Clare in London in the first place? Wasn’t he supposed to be in Aquitaine with David?” Cassie said, innocence in her voice, though the question she asked was calculated.
“He was delayed in traveling to Aquitaine.”
“Lucky for him.” Cassie frowned at Valles, her face a block of ice, and the temperature in the bailey on this warm June morning dropped precipitously.
Callum made slight motion with one hand in Cassie’s direction, asking her to subside. “Have you dined? Perhaps over a meal you could tell me more.”
“I know nothing more than I have said, my lord, and I am not here to dine.” Valles paused, his eyes on Callum, searching. “I am here on the behalf of Earl Gilbert to ask for your support for his leadership.”
It was as if Valles had dumped a bucket of cold water over Callum’s head. “Clare seeks the throne?”
Valles made a dismissive motion. “Of course not. Arthur is the rightful heir to the throne, but my lord Clare is concerned, with King David dead, that the barons will fight among themselves for power. Someone must step forward. At the very least, Parliament must appoint him regent immediately if we are to counter the French threat.”
Clare might claim that he didn’t want the throne, but Callum was starkly reminded of the actions of King Stephen a hundred and fifty years ago. Upon the death of King Henry I, who’d died of eating too many lampreys (which sounded implausible enough to make one think that the king had been hurried along to his death), Stephen had raced for the French coast and a ship for England. Once Stephen made it to London, his kingship had been a foregone conclusion, since it was his brother, the Bishop of Winchester, who’d done the crowning. In so doing, Stephen had put himself ahead of Henry’s daughter, the rightful heir to the throne.
The result had been nineteen years of civil war and anarchy in England. Clare would know that history, of course, and would want to avoid it by preempting any objection to his rule before it could fully form. David was a strong king by pretty much any standard. Clare would be the same—even more so because he was ruthless in a way David wasn’t.
“You are certain that France is responsible for the assassination?” Callum said.
“We have no doubts. Charles of France is a treacherous snake.” Valles held out a hand to Callum. “Can Earl Gilbert count on your support?”
“For England, yes,” Callum said. “I cannot offer my support to Clare for the regency, however. Not without meeting with him first.”
“You want it for yourself.” Valles nodded. “My lord Clare assumed you would feel that way, but he wanted to give you the chance to ally with him. What I do now is for the good of England.”
And with that, Valles sprang without warning upon Cassie, pulling her back against him with an arm around her neck and a knife to her belly. Valles men responded too, forming a circle around them, swords out and ready.
“It will be better for you and your lady wife if you come quietly.” Valles had a definite note of triumph in his voice.
Callum’s own men had all been on guard, all warned that Valles might not be what he seemed, and all of them pulled their weapons from their sheaths too. Callum noted the eyes of some of his men flicking this way and that, looking for a way to turn the tables on Valles and his men. Each had hidden knives or darts up their sleeves. Callum wore them too as a matter of course, but with Cassie in peril, they could not use them.
Instead, he sheathed his sword, put up his hands, and said, “Hold!”
His men subsided as instructed, but they didn’t sheath their swords.
Valles lifted his chin. “You will put down your weapons or your lady dies.”
Nobody obeyed. This wasn’t quite the scenario Callum had planned for, but it was close enough that he could adapt. “If you kill her, your own life is forfeit. You know that.”
“If you fight me, you will lose men, and your wife will die anyway.”
They were at a stalemate. Valles gave a quick nod in Callum’s direction. “I beg you to reconsider. Come with me to London. Clare desires your friendship and counsel.”
Callum gestured to Cassie and his men. “What of my wife and my men?”
“They will stay here, under the protection of my company, as assurance that you will keep your word. Tell your men to stand down.”
“Release my wife, and I will do as you ask.”
“You will go to London?”
“I swear it.”
Finally, the castle’s warning bell clanged loudly from one of the gatehouse towers. Awake! Awake! To arms! To arms! At the same time, Jeffries and the bulk of the garrison filed along the top of the wall-walk, the archers among them with bow in hand and arrow nocked. In ten seconds, Valles had gone from twenty men against a half-dozen to being outnumbered three to one.
That moment of distraction was all that Cassie needed. With the expertise of the MI-5 agent she was, she twisted away from Valles, but instead of seeking the safety of Callum’s arms, she upended Valles. In a split-second, he was on the ground with his own knife, which Cassie had relieved him of, at his throat.<
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“Put down your weapons.” Cassie’s voice rang out amidst the clamor of surprise and shock.
With their position reversed, outmanned and outmaneuvered, Valles’s men obeyed—without Callum having to unholster his gun, which had definitely been an option, or spill a single drop of blood.
Jeffries relieved Cassie of Valles, allowing Callum to gather Cassie into his arms. “Are you all right?”
“He was never going to hurt me. He should have known better than to come in here with so few men.”
“If we hadn’t been forewarned of Clare’s treachery, I might have given him my assurances,” Callum said. “Nobody would have had to get hurt.”
Cassie snorted. “Nobody did get hurt—well, except for Valles’s pride at being bested by a pregnant woman.”
Samuel halted in front of Callum, though he shifted from one foot to the other, looking unusually awkward. “I apologize, my lord. If I had been more observant—”
Callum made a chopping motion with his hand, cutting Samuel off. The big Englishman had been the first to obey Callum’s command not to attack, knowing that if he did as Valles ordered, the others would follow. Cassie’s life had been at risk, and there was nothing else he could have done. Callum had instilled in all of his men the idea that it was far more honorable to live to fight another day than to die because of pride. In Callum’s view, putting pride above running an earldom was a shortcut to no longer running that earldom. David wouldn’t thank him for that.
But figuring out what David did want him to do was suddenly far more urgent. Lili really had been gifted a vision, even if Callum himself didn’t have a clue how that was possible. He’d never had that mystical surety that Cassie claimed from her Native American ancestors or Lili from her Celtic ones. What he did have was people to protect. If David lived, he was going to come home to find that Shrewsbury still stood for him. And if he didn’t live, Shrewsbury would become the easternmost outpost of the Kingdom of Wales, the border of which was only seven miles away.
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