Behold the Dawn

  Gethin pulled the donkey to a stop and leaned over to take her hand. “Are you well, Countess?”

  She didn’t flinch, but Annan’s reflexes burned with the urge to strike Gethin’s hand away. He brushed the courser’s ribs with his heel, and the animal’s hindquarters swerved to the side. Gethin didn’t release Mairead’s hand, and she had to catch hold of Annan’s arm to keep from being pulled off. “I’m fine,” she said. “Master Annan sees me safely to Orleans at Lord William’s request.”

  “Orleans.” Gethin let her go. “You travel all the way to Orleans alone—with this man?”

  Annan narrowed his gaze. What game was being played here? This was a face of Gethin he had never seen before. He was not the generous, zealous brother postulant he had been at St. Dunstan’s, nor was he the cold, dictating mendicant who had confronted him in Bari.

  Now he was slippery, manipulating, backhanded. And he was angry. Annan could sense the anger rising from him like the sweat that beaded his brow.

  Angry because Annan had left Acre?

  Annan nudged the courser’s side once more, swiveling the horse’s hindquarters until he faced Gethin. “What is it you want?”

  The mask dropped without a moment’s hesitation, and Gethin glared at him. “I want you to go back. I want you to join the quest for justice. The armies are marching to Jerusalem as we speak.”

  “Hah!” Marek had an elbow propped on his saddlebow, his chin and one side of his face mashed against his hand. “Fighting in another one of them battles when we haven’t taken the oath isn’t going to do us much good.”

  Gethin didn’t even glance at him. Marek sniffed and rolled his eyes.

  Annan looked at the monk levelly. “Why should I go?”

  “Because murdered blood cries for vengeance. It is a responsibility that all those who survived St. Dunstan’s must bear. Bishop Roderic cannot be allowed to live.”

  “And who was it he murdered?” He clenched a fist in his lap, trying to keep the fire of his temper under control. “I had thought you dead at his hands once. But if not you, then who?”

  “Many died.”

  “You said yourself that was war. Warfare is not murder. Roderic will pay for his sins, but his judgment is not my responsibility.”

  For a long moment, Gethin stared at him, unblinking. “I see. And when is it that you pay for your sins—Marcus Annan?”

  A chill lifted the hairs on the back of Annan’s sword hand, and a warning, small and cold, shivered in the depth of his thoughts. “You’ve changed.”

  A smile crept across the Baptist’s face, skewing his mutilated lips, damping the animal gleam in his eyes. “Aye,” said he, “we both have.” He closed his eyes and sighed with a weariness that, for the briefest moment, made Annan wonder if this delusional anger, this lust to bring pain upon his enemies, was yet another face hiding the real Gethin—the Gethin he had called brother—from his sight.

  Then the Baptist’s eyes opened once again, dropping into place a mask of tacit determination.

  He nodded his head to Mairead. “It will be my honor, Countess, to escort you to Orleans. In the company of a priest, your safety will be ensured.”

  “I—” She sounded breathless, confused. “Thank you.” Her voice calmed, and she fell back into the role of a noblewoman. “You are most welcome to join us. Were it not for your aid, we should have been killed at the prison in Tyre.”

  Annan did not look back, but by the sound of her voice, he could sense she had glanced at him, as though seeking confirmation.

  It was a confirmation he would not give. Years ago, when he had thought Gethin dead, he had lain awake in the cold of night and mourned his friend with a ferocity that had made even his bones ache. He would have given anything, most especially his own wretched life, to bring Gethin back.

  Now he wondered if perhaps it would have been better had Gethin truly died that day at the Abbey.

  Chapter XII

  FOR FOUR DAYS, Brother Warin and Hugh de Guerrant, with a small body of men-at-arms, had pursued the escaped assassin Marcus Annan. They had searched every city between Acre and Tarsus, and amongst the lot of them had broken the wind of six horses. Annan and the woman riding with him were nowhere. No one had seen them, heard them, nothing.

  Until now.

  Warin’s chest constricted at the sight of two horses and a donkey trotting toward a cypress-ringed oasis. “We’ve found them.” The words were hoarse from between his burned lips. He crossed himself. “God be praised.”

  Hugh, who had galloped up from behind at Warin’s signal, reined his snorting bay to a halt. He took one look at the riders below and uttered a sound that was more growl than laugh. “That’s him. And the woman…”

  Warin knew what he was thinking. The woman’s long black hair—her only identifiable feature at this distance—had drawn his attention as well. For the entirety of their search, Warin had suffered all too patiently through Hugh’s examination of every dark-haired woman whose misfortune it was to cross his path.

  Warin had never approved of Hugh’s fixation with the Earl of Keaton’s wife—even now that both she and her husband were undoubtedly dead at the hands of Saladin’s butchers. He had never understood why Veritas, their anonymous informant, had wished to encourage Hugh’s amoral pursuits. His lip curled. Especially that amoral pursuit.

  Hugh flipped his lance up under his arm with a flourish. “Do we have a plan, Master Templar?” His dark eyes gleamed.

  Warin’s frown tightened. “They’ll dismount once they reach the trees, and we’ll be able to ride them down easily.”

  “Good. Tell the men. And tell them the tourneyer is to be mine.” Hugh flexed his sword arm, shaking straight the links of his loose mail sleeve.

  Warin loosed his sword from its sheath and shot Hugh a look of warning. “Only the tourneyer. The bishop has no quarrel with the others.”

  “If they ride with Marcus Annan, then I have a quarrel with them.”

  * * *

  Mairead watched Annan and Marek water their horses, the reins looped over their elbows as they knelt beside the animals’ heads and drank. The Baptist had moved away from them, leading his donkey along the brim of the water to a spot clear of rocks. But she stayed behind to straighten the ache from her bones and wait until Annan or Marek brought her the wineskin.

  She watched Annan’s broad shoulders as he shrugged out of his ruddy jerkin before again dipping his hands into the water. The animosity that had clogged the air between him and the Baptist had been suffocating—so thick she could have reached out a hand and squeezed it with her fingers.

  Marek had said the Baptist trusted Annan. But it was not trust that flashed in the man’s eyes. It was closer to hatred.

  Gooseflesh prickled her arms, and she rubbed her sleeves. For as long as she had been Lord William’s wife, months before she had even known the name of Marcus Annan, she had trusted the Baptist.

  How was it then, that in the short time she had known this tourneyer, he had gained the power to make her doubt the brave devotion of the monk in whom she had so long put her faith? She bit her lip, her gaze shifting to where the Baptist urged his donkey to the edge of a clean shallow.

  Thunder pounded somewhere in the back of her head, and she turned to look. Rolling down from the edge of the valley, already close enough for her to see the flash of the crosses on their tabards, charged a dozen knights on horseback.

  Her breath caught so hard it felt like someone had tried to tear her breastbone from her chest. “Annan—!”

  “Annan!” Marek repeated her shout, and Mairead spun around, heart hurtling against her ribs.

  “It’s him—” Her fingers clenched in her skirt. “It’s Hugh—”

  Annan, his jerkin a forgotten splash of red on the ground behind him and the cold fire of his eyes raging to life, pulled his sword from its sheath on the saddle. “Get behind me.” Not once did he look at her. All his focus was on the approaching riders. “Marek! Give me that miser
icorde, and get the countess on her horse.”

  Marek hesitated. “What about y—”

  “Now!”

  With a snap of his wrist, Marek pulled loose the small dagger hidden in his boot and tossed it to Annan. Then he ran to take the horses’ reins.

  The men-at-arms were close enough now that Mairead could see the tabards of the two knights at their fore—the white and red blouse of the Knight Templar and the black griffin in a field of blue that was Hugh de Guerrant. He had found her. She had known he would. How could she have ever dared to hope he would not? She knew his persistence, knew his pride, knew the lengths he was willing to go to gain what he wanted.

  Annan’s eyes bored into hers. “Go with Marek. Tell him I’ll meet you at the home of Lord Stephen. He knows how to find it.”

  She shook her head, wanting desperately to draw strength from his solidness, from the absolute lack of fear in his eyes.

  He turned back. Hugh and the Templar were almost to the trees. “Gethin!” he barked.

  “I have no sword.” The monk stood beside his donkey’s head, his arms folded into his sleeves, a strangely placid expression diluting the intensity of his eyes.

  Without a look in his direction, Annan tossed him the Mohammedan saber.

  Marek, leading both Airn and his bay palfrey, trotted over to Mairead. “Hurry, lady.” He stood at Airn’s side, hands cupped for her to step into.

  She whirled back to Annan. “You’ll have no horse! They’ll kill you!”

  “Nay, lady.”

  She caught his sleeve. She knew the disadvantage of a man on foot against a mounted, charging knight. She knew that to unhorse a soldier was a death sentence. And yet he had every intention of just standing there, sword held before him with both hands, eyes unswerving, the quiver in his taut muscles testifying to something that could only be anticipation.

  And she knew, with a certainty that surprised her, that this man would die for her today. He had never been a threat to her. She had doubted him from the beginning, had feared him despite Lord William’s avowal of his honor. And now… now, he was going to throw his life away on the point of Hugh de Guerrant’s lance—because of her.

  “Don’t do this. I don’t want you to do this!”

  He didn’t look at her. Hugh crashed through the trees, only paces from crossing the stretch of sand that separated him from Annan.

  “There’s no reason you should all die! Let them kill me! What have I left to live for?”

  He ignored her. “Marek!”

  Marek clutched her arm. “Lady, please! He knows what he’s doing! All of us will die if you don’t come now!”

  She exhaled through clenched teeth, took one last look at the foaming charger that bore Hugh de Guerrant, and let Marek boost her into the saddle.

  They galloped away, the horses churning through the shallows. When they emerged from the shade of the cypresses into engulfing sunlight, she looked back, her lip between her teeth, to where Annan stood, waiting.

  * * *

  Annan could see the triumph in Hugh’s face, the exclamation of victory on his lips. He was only a step away from winning—and Annan knew it.

  He waited, hearing the seconds slip past with each echo of his own breath. He had to wait; he would have only one chance to gain the upper hand.

  Hugh’s charger closed to within a mere length, and Annan lunged. Shouting, Hugh drove his spurs into his horse’s already bloody sides. But Annan was too close for Hugh to strike. Trapping Hugh’s lance under his arm, Annan ran forward and levered the shaft against the knight’s body, forcing him against the high pommel.

  As the rest of the men-at-arms entered the clearing, Marek’s misericorde flashed in Annan’s hand. Hugh saw it and kicked back hard with his near foot, driving his spur into Annan’s side. Annan jerked away, the lance snapping under the pressure, and the dagger buried itself in the wood of the saddle tree.

  “You’re going to die here like a dog—you know that?” Hugh whipped his sword from its sheath.

  Annan’s time was running out. The others would be upon him in moments. He would be surrounded and he would die.

  Hugh slashed once with the sword, and Annan caught it on his own blade. As the shadows of the men-at-arms surrounded him, he slammed the splintered end of the lance shaft into Hugh’s unprotected throat. The Norman reeled, and Annan leapt halfway onto the horse, his foot catching the stirrup Hugh had left empty after his attack with the spur. He drove his elbow into the bridge of the man’s nose, toppling him from the saddle.

  Fire coursing through his veins, Annan yanked the misericorde from the seat behind his leg and turned to meet the onslaught of three out of the five remaining knights. From the corner of his vision, he caught sight of Gethin standing down the charge of the Knight Templar.

  One of the men reined in behind the bay charger, and Annan lost sight of Gethin. He buried Marek’s dagger in someone’s chest, took a glancing blow to his sword arm, and spun the charger in time to see one of the men-at-arms dismount to lift an unconscious Hugh.

  To his left, Gethin gave an involuntary cry as the infidel saber flew from his outstretched hand. The other remaining man-at-arms shouted at the monk and spurred his charger forward, sword arm stretched tight above his head in readiness for the final blow.

  Annan’s whole body gave a little jerk. His sword swung up before his face. How many times had he seen variations of this very scene repeat themselves over and over again in his brain? He had blamed himself for Gethin’s death, had wished himself dead in his place so many times that the words had become a mantra. Now, after so long, was he to watch it all happen for real?

  But the man-at-arms’s sword never fell. The Templar’s arm shot out and, in the same voice Annan had heard on Acre’s beach, shouted, “Leave him!”

  The man-at-arms obeyed, hauling his horse aside to gallop between Gethin and the Templar.

  Annan gritted his teeth and lifted his spur to prick his charger’s side. This Templar’s sudden fixation with Gethin would be his downfall.

  “Drop your hood,” the Templar ordered.

  Gethin lifted both hands to push back his cowl. Even with the distance separating them, Annan could see the irritation in his gaze, hidden behind the sardonic twist of his lips. “Greetings, Master Templar.”

  “You— You stopped me as we were leaving Acre.” The Templar wore no helm, and his ruddy face, veined with sweat, contorted. “Who are you?”

  “A messenger of God.”

  The Templar stared. Annan drove his heel into the bay’s side, and the horse charged.

  Behind him, the knight with Hugh, shouted something in a Frankish-Syrian dialect, and the Templar jerked around to face Annan. “Kill him!” he shouted as the other man-at-arms wheeled to meet Annan’s attack. “But spare the monk! I want him alive!”

  Annan dropped the reins and swung two-handed, his blade crashing into the man-at-arms’s sword and wrenching the knight from his saddle. He heard the man thud into the sand, even as he twisted to face the Templar. “Still passing out bounties?”

  The man raised his sword. “This time the bounty is on your head.”

  Annan sat back, slowing the charger’s pace, his gaze on the Templar. Sooner or later, every man’s eyes revealed his intentions. This man was no different.

  The Templar’s gaze flicked to the side for just a moment, focusing on something behind Annan. And in that moment, Annan heard the click of a crossbow quarrel locking into place. He shoved his leg into the charger’s side, and the horse leapt forward, snorting foam all along his reins. A jolt slammed the horse forward, and Annan snarled, more at himself than at the enemy who had fired the shot.

  “Close in!” the Templar said.

  Annan didn’t wheel to face the attack. Behind him, he could hear the crank of the crossbow reloading. It would be yet half a minute before another quarrel could be fired, but he knew better than to hope the next one would miss.

  Without a backward glance, he brought the
flat of his blade down hard on the frenzied charger’s haunch. “Hyah!”

  The horse was long-legged and half-mad, whether through pain or by temperament. Whatever injury it had sustained wasn’t enough to slow its furious pace. As soon as they were clear of the trees, it stretched into a gallop, its strong, hard legs flying through the golden sand.

  Annan leaned over its neck, both hands buried in its dark mane. Three-hundred paces out, his two pursuers were already losing ground. Flecks of blood flew from the charger’s haunch with every stride, but no quarrel protruded from the muscle and the animal favored the leg only slightly, if at all.

  “Come on, bucko,” Annan whispered. “Get me out of this, and I’ll name you myself.”

  * * *

  The Templar and his man-at-arms were no longer in sight by the time the charger at last began to falter. High overhead, the sun was the only smudge in a sky of clearest blue. Its rays were dazzling and distorting but powerless to disguise the fact that only the line of hoofprints behind broke the endless stretch of sand.

  The horse slowed to a choppy trot, then stopped, its breath rasping. The froth on the reins had turned the sickly pink of raw capon meat. Annan blew out a long sigh and leaned back, flipping the reins onto the animal’s withers. The tremor in the horse’s hindquarters told of its inevitable collapse.

  “It’s all right.” He dismounted. “We tried.” With a cough, the charger fell to its knees. Annan dropped his sword into the sand and stepped away as the animal struggled once to rise, then lay down on its side, belly heaving. The wound in the haunch, and an exit hole near the flank, still oozed onto its blood-blackened hide.

  Annan dropped to one knee beside his sword and winced as his joints cracked. The sun beat down on his bare head, unrelenting. He would have to wait until dark before trying to move on, else the heat would kill him. He snorted. Not that it mattered. Unless he found another mount, or unless Marek used his penchant for disobeying orders to some use and came back for him, he wasn’t likely to come through the desert in very good shape.