Behold the Dawn

  Annan slid his arm beneath the earl’s shoulders and held him until he could breathe once more.

  When finally William opened his eyes, he lay in Annan’s arms, panting. His eyes found Annan’s face, and he groped until he could touch Annan’s hand where it crossed over his chest in support. “I am dying,” he said.

  Annan nodded.

  “There is—” He wheezed and barely managed to quell another cough. “I must beg a boon of you.” He swallowed, eyes drifting shut. “Mairead— Roderic and Lord Hugh will continue to pursue her after my death. I fear my marriage to her only increased her danger.”

  Annan’s brows came together. “Hugh de Guerrant?”

  “He— a Norman— the bishop’s lieutenant.” William sucked a full breath between his cracked lips. “He forced undue attentions on her— I believe with Roderic’s blessing. I married her to save her shame. But now Roderic has placed a price on our heads. All of our heads.”

  Annan grunted.

  The earl’s eyes opened and behind them burned more energy than could possibly be left in his tired body. “Roderic will find her and give her to Hugh if she is unmarried, if only to punish me further.” His grip on Annan’s hand tightened; the cords of his wrist bulged. “Perhaps the Baptist would have you join his battle to wreak vengeance on the bishop. But I am a man dying a hopeless death, and I must ask for something else.” He wheezed, groaning with the effort to keep air in his lungs. More blood spotted his lips. “You owe me—nothing, lad. Except friendship, perhaps.”

  Annan’s mouth tightened. If there were one man on earth to whom he owed anything, it was the Earl of Keaton. “I will keep her safe. I swear it.”

  Lord William closed his eyes and bobbed his head in a nod. “There is a convent in Orleans—St. Catherine’s. The entrance fee has already been paid. I feared—that this would happen.” He relaxed against Annan’s arm and slumped back on the pallet. “I would ask that you cover her with your name for the journey. She wishes to live in the convent… you need not take her to wife. But give her the protection of your name.” He squinted. “Your name.”

  Annan stared down at him. He could turn and walk away, he could leave it at the promise to keep her safe. The earl asked too much, just as had the Baptist—and Matthias before them.

  But he didn’t walk away. He nodded his head just once, and Lord William’s eyes closed again. “Thank you. Now—send her to me. And the priest. She will tell you— when I have died. We have arrangements for the escape.”

  Annan said nothing. He slid his arm from beneath the earl’s shoulders and settled him back onto the pallet. William did not open his eyes, but before Annan let go of his shoulder, the man gripped his hand once more. It was both thanks and farewell.

  Chapter VII

  THE EARL OF Keaton’s serving lad came to Annan as the gray of dawn began to seep into the eastern sky.

  “The countess bids me tell you that Lord William is dead.”

  Without a word, Annan lifted himself from his damp pallet and once more crossed the camp to the earl’s tent. No one stirred as he threaded his way through the maze of litters, but afar off, infidel tongues began to murmur and hooves began to clatter.

  His hand clenched the air above his left hip where his sword should have been. So it was true. The Christians had slaughtered their hostages. And now, Saladin was coming.

  This Norman King Richard had the honor of a pig. Annan quickened his stride. If he was to escape, it must be now, else his own head would be rolling in the sand ere noon. The Moslem sultan, renowned though he was for the verity of his word, would never allow such an offense as Richard’s to go by without reprisal.

  The hoofbeats grew louder.

  Shoving aside the door flap, he entered the tent. The fire was only a mewing glow of embers now, but he did not need its light to see that the arms of the knight on the pallet had been crossed over a chest that no longer contained the breath of life.

  Lady Mairead and the priest stood before the body, waiting.

  “Saladin approaches,” Annan said.

  The lady turned to face him. She wore a dark cloak, the cowl falling back over her shoulders. In the flickering light, tear tracks glistened against her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and afraid.

  “How near, Master Knight?” asked the priest in the accent of a Frankish Syrian.

  “I can hear their horses. We don’t have long to escape.” He glanced at Mairead.

  She bowed her head, the gesture as much one of exhaustion as it was a nod. “My lord has asked you to grant me safe passage to Orleans.” She wet her lips, and when she looked back up, he could see the hesitation in her eyes, as though she were about to tell him a great secret and she feared his reaction.

  “There are those who seek me, Master Annan. They are the reason I am here, the reason I stand at your mercy. And they will pursue me hence. It was not my wish to endanger you, but my lord asked that you grant me your name.” Her chin lifted. It was a proud tilt. “You are a wandering tourneyer, Sir, I know, and I ask nothing of you but a safe journey. I will live in the Convent of St. Catherine. You shall be paid your dowry.”

  “I honor the earl’s memory as do you, lady. I will fulfill my promise.” He turned to the priest. “Hurry, Father.”

  The holy man nodded and drew nearer. “May the Lord grant pardon that you are unable to celebrate your vigils.”

  Mairead crossed herself.

  The priest closed his eyes and lifted a hand, intoning the marriage blessings. Annan did not listen. With head canted toward the tent flap, he listened for the clatter of arms, the cries of pain that would herald the Moslem avengers. In his mind, he tried to plan. Any escape would be more difficult with a woman to protect—and he with no sword.

  The thought of Marek flashed through his head. Marek! What had become of him during the battle? If he were still alive, he had probably been fool enough to take the Crusading oath just in time to participate in the English king’s treachery—and jeopardize his master’s life. Annan grimaced.

  In the distance, dogs started barking. He returned his gaze to the priest.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  Priest and lady crossed themselves. Annan’s own hand had covered himself in no such protection of the Holy Ghost for many years, and he could not raise it to do so now.

  “You haven’t a sword, have you, Father?” he asked.

  The priest raised an eyebrow. “Nay, my son.”

  At Annan’s elbow, Mairead drew in a deep breath. “There will be one, Master Annan. A courser waits for us at the northern edge of the camp.”

  “Will you come with us, Father?” Without waiting for the answer, he started for the tent flap, trusting the lady would follow.

  “Nay. I know from whom the courser came, and I will not burden my conscience by accepting the aid of a heretic.”

  Annan stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “The Baptist?”

  “Aye.”

  Mairead confirmed it with a nod.

  He grunted and turned again to leave.

  The priest sighed. “So be it, then. God help you.”

  Annan shouldered through the tent flap. The sky was lightening, the stars fading. To the east, sounds of frightened life murmured. Fear clogged the air. Whether it was the fear of all the camp, or merely the apprehension of his own unarmed hand and that of the lady next to him, he knew not.

  “Where’s the courser?”

  Before she could answer, the animal whinnied. Annan cursed. This doomed camp held nigh on 2,500 souls, and every one of them would willingly hand over a pound of flesh in exchange for that horse. “Come.” He forced his legs into a run, his hand again reaching for the empty spot above his hip.

  Shouts of alarm pitched higher, spreading through the camp like a plague. The attack would be soon—very soon. Saladin, ever efficient, would complete his retaliation by the time the sun rose.

  “This way.” The countess veered to the right, one
hand beckoning from beneath her cloak.

  Ahead, silhouetted against the brightening sky, stood a horse, its head high, ears forward. It whinnied as they neared. Growling, Annan seized Mairead’s shoulder and jerked her into a crouch next to him. “Where are the guards?”

  “The Baptist said all would be taken care of.”

  No man’s word was shield enough for his back—and certainly not the Baptist’s. “Stay here—”

  The infidels struck, screaming their wordless battle cry. Everything around them turned to pain and death. Annan didn’t wait to check for the guards. He clamped one hand round the lady’s arm and lunged forward. The sounds of the slaughter surged after them with an intensity and a speed that bespoke all too well of the attackers’ vigor.

  He kept low, not daring to look behind him, knowing the Moslems were much closer than he wanted them to be.

  He and the lady crossed the corpse of a guard, and Annan paused long enough to lift the infidel saber from the still-warm hand. It was a masterful stroke that had felled the warrior—silently, deftly, instantly. His nostrils flared in a momentary flash of admiration. Whatever else he was or had been, the Baptist was a man of many skills.

  The courser, a muscled gray, snorted through distended nostrils, but he could not veer fast enough to escape Annan’s hand on the tie-line.

  “Master Knight!”

  At her cry, he spun to see the approach of the horsemen, dark against the ruddy sky. With one stroke of the saber, he severed the tie line and vaulted into the saddle, narrowly clearing the high cantle.

  The Moslems swept through the camp, shouting their curses of vengeance, and Mairead turned to look up at Annan, eyes dark with the sudden horror that he was abandoning her already.

  He shifted sword and reins all into one hand, fighting to keep the snorting courser from charging away. He reached out with his left hand and caught the countess’s outstretched arm. His wounded shoulder burned, and the tightness of the bandage nearly forestalled the necessary strength to swing her onto the pillion behind him.

  She landed with a soft thump and let go of his wrist. Her arms came around his waist, her face against his shoulders. “Go.”

  He laid his heels to the gray courser’s sides, and the horse lunged forward, dark mane unfurling against his rein hand. But this was a Western horse, bred for muscle and endurance. He had not the dexterity and fleetness of the Mohammedan war mares.

  Behind them, the tattoo of hoofbeats grew louder yet, and Annan dared a look over his shoulder, past Mairead’s blowing hair. Only paces separated them from two infidel pursuers.

  He spurred the courser again. The horse was fresh and responded with another lengthening of stride. But Annan knew they would never outpace their followers. He could only be thankful that these infidels were not that brand of Moslem archer famed for their accuracy on horseback, else the countess’s exposed back would already have become an easy target.

  Not that it mattered. Once they drew near enough, the infidels would cut them apart at their leisure anyway.

  He could not run. So he must fight.

  Transferring the reins to his left hand, the sword to his right, he choked his eager horse to a halt and spun him around.

  Mairead gasped and raised her face to look over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Get off.”

  “What—”

  “Get off.”

  With a breath, half of fear, half of resolve, she released her hold on his waist and slid to the ground.

  Annan turned back to the Moslems and tightened his fingers round the strange grip of the infidel saber. Grinning savagely, he leapt forward to meet them. Caught off guard by the swiftness of his charge, they reined back momentarily. That was all the time he needed.

  Leaning to the right as he neared the first, he dropped the reins and reached across his courser’s neck to seize the Moslem’s sword arm. The infidel blade hissed past him, tearing through the side of his loose tunic. He could feel its threatening chill against his skin as he dragged the infidel to meet him and drove his saber to its hilt in the war mare’s milk-white chest.

  The horse staggered and toppled, tearing the saber from his grip, leaving its rider hanging across Annan’s saddlebow, sword arm still anchored in Annan’s right hand.

  With his free hand, the Moslem scrabbled for Annan’s eyes. Annan pulled him closer still and twice hammered his elbow into a bare temple. The infidel’s eyes lolled in his sockets, his body went limp, and Annan cast him aside, pausing only long enough to catch the man’s saber from his limp fingers.

  With a wordless yell, the second pursuer was on him, arm raised high above his head, ready to strike. Annan spun the courser and swung hard enough to catch the blade on his own and nearly knock the infidel from his horse. That brief moment as the enemy scrambled to regain his balance was the only moment Annan needed to switch the sword to his right hand and pick up his reins. Before the Moslem could look back up to meet his gaze, Annan plunged the blade beneath his armpit.

  Muscles still humming with the tension of battle, he reined his dancing courser away and urged him into a trot. They passed the war mare, writhing in the dune where she had fallen alongside her unconscious master.

  Lady Mairead rose to her feet. Deep lines creased her forehead, the angle of her narrow jaw tight. Her hand trembled as it thrust back her hair.

  He stopped the courser next to her and held out a hand. Silently, she released her hair to the wind and slipped her fingers into his palm. He looked her in the eyes just once before pulling her up behind him, but it was a long enough look to know they held a new fear.

  A fear of him?

  As she took hold of his waist with one arm, he dismissed it. It mattered not what she thought of him. Their journey would encompass a few months at most. He would not harm her during that time; he would value her as the widow of perhaps the only man who had still called him friend.

  Before setting his face toward freedom, he turned the courser around to check the distant camp. The sounds of death were only echoing wails now, and none rode in pursuit of the fugitives. He could see nothing—only desolation and the blowing robes of a man who stood at the edge of the camp, in the place where the courser had been tethered.

  Annan laid the rein against the horse’s neck, his heel against its side, and the courser sprang into a canter once more, carrying them far away from Acre, its desecration, and its destruction.

  * * *

  Brother Warin rode bareheaded beneath the heat of the summer sun, his tabard snapping in the wind that blasted across Saladin’s corpse-strewn prison camp. From his position behind Bishop Roderic and Lord Hugh, he watched as the Christian leaders surveyed the remnants of the sultan’s swift retribution.

  All echelons of Christendom were screaming that Saladin’s act was base treachery, that Richard had had every right to slaughter his prisoners.

  And Warin did not argue. They were infidels; they had deserved to die. But his stomach, even hardened as it was by countless battles, had roiled as he had watched the Moslem prisoners fall. Men, women, children—all had died, not because of their ignoble religion, but because a Christian king refused to keep his word.

  To that toll of death must now be added some 2,500 Christians. Warin blamed Richard and his counselors for those deaths more than he would ever blame Saladin.

  Bishop Roderic’s dainty bay palfrey stepped away from the other knights to allow its rider a better glimpse at some point of interest amid the bloated bodies.

  Warin compressed his sunburned lips. The bishop’s anger over the assassin Marcus Annan’s disappearance had not abated. Saints help him and Hugh if they could not find the man ere they reached Jerusalem.

  Warin had seen the raw fear in Roderic’s eyes. It would not surprise him if the bishop abandoned the Crusade for the safety of some fortified European city. Crusades were all fine and well, but the holy cause paled next to fear for one’s own life.

  Before they had departed A
cre, Warin had tried in vain to contact the messenger Veritas, in hopes that he would have information about Annan. The man had seemed omniscient in the past, with his predictions of the Baptist’s whereabouts and his suggestions of subterfuge. But for the time being, that source remained silent.

  He sighed and rolled his shoulders, the movement trickling a bead of sweat past his shoulder blade. His honor, and possibly even his life, depended on his finding Annan. And, before God, those were two things he had no intention of losing.

  Something warm rested on his leg, and he glanced down at a cowled monk who stumbled along at his stirrup, his scarred face upturned, his eyes flashing like a hawk’s in the sunlight.

  Warin’s brows came together in a frown. Something very disconcerting shone in that gaze. “What is it, Brother?”

  “You think to find the assassin Marcus Annan among the dead?”

  Warin’s throat constricted. “What?”

  “Aye, I know of him,” the monk said. “I know that your master seeks him, and that is why I am telling you your assassin is not dead.”

  “How do you know this?” Warin leaned over and gripped the man’s shoulder. “Tell me, how do you know?” Mayhap Roderic had been right all along, mayhap Annan had agreed to the wage of a murderer only to pass his knowledge on.

  “I saw him escape.” The monk’s glance shifted just enough to include Hugh riding a length ahead. “With a woman. Tell your master.”

  And then he slipped out from under Warin’s hand and melted back into the crowd.

  “You there! Monk! Come back here!” Warin reined his horse around, but the crowd pushed him onward.

  He craned his neck to search the jostling, faceless masses that surrounded him. But the monk was gone, taking with him any further secrets to which he laid claim. Warin whirled his horse back into line, his spurs pricking its sides, urging it forward, apace with the bishop’s palfrey.

  How this strange monk knew these things, he could not tell. But no matter the messenger by whom it had come, it was an answer to prayer. He would tell Roderic of this discovery, and Roderic would send him and Hugh in search of this wayward assassin.