Behold the Dawn

  “You haven’t brought me Marcus Annan.” Roderic’s expression remained impassive.

  The corners of Warin’s mouth deepened. “No, your Grace.” He wasn’t surprised the bishop already knew. Roderic had an impressive collection of informants—Warin among them.

  “Why not?”

  “I was… compromised.”

  “Compromised?” Roderic lifted a hand to the etched crucifix on his chest. His wide, elegant sleeve slid across the smooth wood of the armrest and dropped into his lap.

  Warin fought to keep from shifting his weight. He hated that the bishop felt the need to examine him like this, to look at him as though he were a maggot wriggling in a breaded air pocket.

  Roderic’s eyes were like the wind in winter—sharp, biting, impenetrable. “Why were you compromised?”

  “I lost too many men.” Another line of sweat rolled past the vertebra at the top of his spine and gathered speed down his back until it hit the waist of his breeches. It was true. Counting the men Hugh had taken with him, Warin had lost almost all his command. But that wasn’t why he had come back. He straightened and clasped his hands behind him. “It was my faith in the mission that was compromised.”

  “Oh?” Roderic arched an eyebrow. No hint of surprise colored his tone.

  “I spoke with the assassin.”

  “You were sent to kill him, not speak with him.”

  “He talked as if he knew you.”

  For an instant, Roderic’s long fingers stopped their motion upon the crucifix; then they resumed. “He lied.”

  “Bishop, I can only pray the things he said about you were lies indeed. That is why I have come back. To know the truth.”

  A wary look, like film upon the surface of standing water, entered Roderic’s eyes. He sat a little straighter. “What truth?”

  Warin took a step forward, unbidden. “He said you bore innocent blood upon your hands. He said you were a murderer and an adulterer, unrepentant before God.”

  Roderic’s fingers dropped from his crucifix. “That is the heresy of the Baptist.”

  “Marcus Annan does not follow the Baptist.”

  “He speaks the Baptist’s very words. He refuses my generous compensation for killing the man. Of course, he is in league with him!” Roderic shoved against the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “Brother Warin, why did you not kill him?”

  Warin swallowed. Roderic’s wrath could be terrible. He had seen it meted upon others often enough to know. To continue now would be to risk that same wrath upon himself. But he had to know… “He said we would never be able to take Jerusalem if you continue to advise King Richard. Your Grace, I have seen for myself the apathy of our soldiers. We could have taken Jerusalem by storm long ago, crushing Saladin under our horses’ feet. Yet here the armies sit, frightened and shriveling!” He took another step. “If God wills it, as you and the other priests say, then how can this be?”

  “Be silent.” Roderic’s voice grated in his throat. “Veritas was right.”

  “What?” Warin blinked. Veritas? Never had their anonymous messenger written to Roderic; the messages always came to Warin himself.

  Roderic’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Where is Lord Hugh? Dead?”

  “No, he was… diverted.” Warin wet his lips, trying to clear his thoughts. “We found the Countess of Keaton with Annan.”

  “You fool! Marcus Annan consorts with the wife of the Baptist’s chief disciple—a man who personally knew Matthias—and you let him go! I was right from the beginning. This man Annan is a follower of Matthias!”

  “I disagree—”

  A sound like an angry cat scratched behind Roderic’s pale lips. “You—” Spittle quivered at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, all he did was stare, his chest heaving beneath his finery.

  Warin waited, watching as the bishop collected himself, seemingly with great effort. Roderic’s gray eyes blazed with anger and frustration and—aye—desperation. His fear was greater than Warin had imagined.

  Warin held out a tentative hand. “Your Grace—” The man had to calm himself before his heart seized within his chest.

  What secret power did these men hold over him that could produce such terrible results? Or was it perhaps the bishop’s own guilt, as Annan had suggested?

  “Be still.” Roderic raised himself up, straightening his hunched shoulders. “Veritas was right.” He scrabbled through the folds of satin on his chest until he found the crease that hid a heavy piece of parchment bent twice upon itself. Warin’s throat tightened. He recognized the parchment; it was the same upon which their allusive messenger always sent his warnings.

  “Shall I read it to you, Brother?” Roderic unfolded the parchment, but his red-rimmed eyes never left Warin’s face. “He says, Fidere Templar nullus. Vir cernere conspicere inimicus; vir fluctuare. Need I translate?”

  Warin’s hand fell to his side. Nay, he need not translate.

  Trust the Templar no longer. He has seen the enemy, and he has faltered.

  How? How had Veritas known? How could he know these things? His knowledge had always been uncanny, always unerring. But this… even had Veritas somehow planted a spy among the men-at-arms, how could he know what was in Warin’s heart? How could anyone have known unless he had stood face to face with him, eye to eye?

  And, suddenly—like a fist in the softness of his belly—Warin knew who their messenger was. And the knowledge of it chilled him to the bone. “Bishop—”

  Roderic lowered the parchment to his side. His chin lifted, his eyes hard as ice. “If you argue with Veritas, you waste your breath.”

  The moment froze around them, their eyes locked. Warin knew not what Roderic saw in his own eyes; but in the depths of the bishop’s gaze he saw the truth for which he had come searching.

  Annan was right, and Warin could no longer serve this man. He would no longer be his eyes and ears. And he would surely not tell him that it was the great Veritas—not Warin, as the bishop might like to think—who was going to stab him in the back.

  Step by step, he backed toward the doorway, until he stood again in the glow of sunlight that pooled on the floor. He dropped his chin to his chest in the abject humiliation Roderic expected from his servants. “Have I your leave to go, Father?”

  For a moment the only sounds that competed with the murmur of the camp were those of Roderic’s robes rustling and the parchment scratching back into its nest against his shallow chest.

  The bishop came forward.

  Warin stayed as he was, knowing that Roderic might kill him where he stood—though in light of having to execute the deed himself, in Lord Hugh’s absence, it hardly seemed likely.

  “Brother Warin.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “I have taught you by my own mouth, guided you with my own hand. But you have betrayed me—”

  “Your Grace—”

  “Veritas has never been in error. You admit yourself that you were compromised. Nevertheless, I will be merciful. I will give you one more chance.”

  Warin darted his head up. This was not what he expected. Nor what he wanted. “What?”

  “I am leaving. Our messenger tells me I am no longer safe here. My presence is needed in Antioch, so I serve two purposes in going there.”

  “What about Richard?”

  “Richard can manage his own army. You—” His eyes narrowed, the brows lowering over them like furry white worms. His signet-bearing forefinger stabbed the air between them. “You are to remain here. And if you see aught to substantiate Veritas’s warnings, I wish to hear. Otherwise… I know you no longer, Brother. Never enter my presence again. Do you understand?”

  Warin dropped his head once more. “Indeed, your Grace.” Indeed. And thank God for it. God—and the heretics of the world, Marcus Annan and the Baptist among them.

  * * *

  After Warin left his tent, Roderic slumped in his chair, one elbow propped on the armrest, his fingers tracing the line of his chin. O
nce more he had come so close, only to be pushed back farther yet.

  He did not think Warin had purposely betrayed him. The man was too honorable for that. But he had exchanged words with the enemy, and he had agreed with them. Henceforth, he would be useless. Utterly useless.

  Darkness fell all around him. Sleep stung his strained eyes, and he pressed his lips together. Not yet. The blood-soaked nightmares would have their way with him later. But not yet. He had to plan, had to find a taste of sweetness in all this bitter gall.

  It was a sweetness that could only come of his enemies’ spilled blood. He pushed himself up from his seat and walked to the door flap. The careless lad who attended him had not drawn the netting across the opening, and flies, black as drops of spilt treacle, buzzed round his head. He dispersed them with a wave, and pushed the door aside to see into the starlit night.

  Lord Hugh would have to continue the pursuit on his own now. Roderic grimaced. That was most unfortunate, especially now that William of Keaton’s wife had reappeared. Hugh, hotheaded Norman that he was, needed the steadying influence of someone with Warin’s scruples.

  That was something Roderic was going to have to remedy. “Odo!” He pushed farther through the tent flap, instinctively tightening his nostrils against the unavoidable sourness of the camp. “Odo!”

  His truant servant, perpetually red in the face, rolled onto his knees from behind a nearby tent. Roderic’s frown deepened. Undoubtedly, the lad had been gossiping with the king’s servants instead of thinking on his own work. What was it that today all his minions had decided to prove themselves unreliable?

  “Odo! I wish for you to attend me!”

  “Yes, your Grace.” Still on his hands and knees, he turned to speak over his shoulder.

  “Now!”

  Roderic waited until the boy scrambled to his feet, then he returned to sit in the darkness. Odo stayed outside long enough to drop the netting, then entered.

  “Light a candle.” Roderic sat straighter in his chair, draping a hand over either armrest. “And bring me parchment to write on.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” In the corner, flint struck against steel, sparks danced airborne for a moment, and then the expected flame burnt a golden hole in the darkness.

  Roderic waited in silence for the parchment, ignoring the sting of his sleep-starved eyes. He would have no dreams tonight. Not of the past, not of the future, not of the blood that permeated both. Tonight he would write his instructions to Lord Hugh, and this time he would not err. He would defeat them all... he and the indomitable Veritas together.

  He lifted a hand to his chest and felt the crinkle of the message against his sweat-pricked skin. These words—the first he had ever received personally from his faithful messenger—were all he needed to crush them all to a powder:

  Debilitas cum vir: femina.

  Under these words, they would all fall. And he would dream the dreams of death no longer.

  Debilitas cum vir: femina. The weakness of man is woman.

  Chapter XVIII

  ANNAN WOKE TO the streaky gray sunshine that mottled the hard-packed floor beneath the window. He rolled onto his back, the prickles of straw yielding under his shoulders. Beside him, Mairead lay curled beneath his cloak, still breathing the steady breath of sleep. A single lock of hair, mussed just enough to catch the rainbow glints of the day’s first light, had fallen across her cheek and into the hollow of her throat.

  The urge was strong to slide the strand back across her cheekbone and behind her ear. But he didn’t disturb her. When she woke, he had no idea what he would say to her. That it had been a mistake, a dream?

  You are my wife.

  Nay, it had hardly been a dream. And if it was indeed a mistake, he could never take it back. He blew out a deep breath and rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes. If it was a mistake? He bit the inside of his cheek to forestall a groan. How could it not have been a mistake?

  She was his wife now. No one could deny it or circumvent it. Nor could he pretend he would leave no duties unfulfilled when he delivered her to the convent in Orleans. But did he want to pretend?

  The moment—the mad, headstrong, willfully ignorant moment that had been last night—stretched a little farther into the morning. He sat halfway up and leaned on his elbow so that he could look at her. She stirred but didn’t rouse. His brow knitted.

  His wife she might be, but could he actually be a husband to her? This moment, golden even in the gray morning light, must eventually burst. She could not save him forever: he had been right last night when he had told himself she could not wipe out the past.

  He had never been married before, had never wished to marry. The lines in his forehead deepened. If he wanted to be honest and objective—which he really didn’t—he must remember that he had not wanted to marry her.

  The life of a tourneyer was too short to be shared, even were there opportunities to do so. He made his home in filthy inns like this one, in ramshackle camps on melee fields, and a-horseback. He had no place to leave a wife while he traveled the roads that would call him ‘til the day he died. He had no way to provide a home where she could stay and pray him safely through another battle, while she kept busy doing whatever it was women did.

  He couldn’t. But he wanted to.

  He wanted it so deeply that it clenched like a fist deep inside his chest. He exhaled. If only thoughts could dissolve as easily as this breath upon his lips.

  With the backs of his fingers, he brushed her hair from her face. What would it be like to have his first-born son handed to him from out of her arms? The fist in his chest clenched harder. It was yet another thought that had no place in his life.

  She stirred, straightening her legs, rustling the straw. Her eyes opened and turned to find him looking down at her. No sleep marred them, no confusion, no wondering, as he did, if everything since the Saracen prisoner camp had been a dream. Eyes wide open and steady, she stared up at him.

  She was afraid. He could see it deep in the back of her eyes, far behind the black circle of pupil, in the place where she tried to hide all her fears.

  “You’re afraid, Lady Mairead.” He spoke softly with only the faintest rumble of the inevitable growl coming from deep in his throat.

  Her eyes softened into liquid, and she pressed deeper into the straw, the tangles of her hair coming up to frame her face. “Yes, my lord.” Her voice was still husky with sleep.

  “Why?” But he didn’t need to ask.

  “Because it can’t last forever.”

  The tightness in his chest twisted so hard it hurt. Why? Because she knew the truth? Because she felt it too and was not deceived? “Do you want it to?”

  The curve in her throat bobbed. He didn’t need the glimpse she gave, past the wide-open fear of her eyes and into her soul, to know she wanted it; he could feel it burning in the air between them.

  “Yes,” she said, “but it’s impossible.”

  “I know.” But, just now, he couldn’t allow himself to understand.

  * * *

  After dropping a few coins into the innkeeper’s hands, Annan left the house and entered a morning gray and blustery enough to match his mood. He hefted his saddle over his shoulder, ignoring the knock of the high cantle against his hipbone.

  He had left Mairead in the musty backroom to make whatever preparations for the day women were in the habit of making. They had said no more about the inevitability of the future. He had to think first, had to clear his head and make himself know the folly of choosing any course save that of fulfilling his promise to Lord William.

  He had to know his plans before he let himself speak truths that could only hurt them both.

  As he rounded the corner of the inn, the wind struck him afresh. Marek sat on the ground in front of the stable, his arms propped on his bent knees, and a look beneath his upraised eyebrows that plainly said he considered himself less than well informed and only slightly more appreciated.

  Annan stopped short
and looked him in the eye. “Well?”

  One eyebrow lifted a little higher than the other. “Now, that is the question, isn’t it? But I daresay you seem well enough.”

  Annan swung the saddle down from his shoulder. He’d forgotten about Marek and what the boy might be thinking of all this—especially since as far as the laddie knew, Mairead was still the wife of Lord William. He looked back up, squinting against the gusts. “Well enough, bucko. What about you?”

  Both eyebrows shot up to an even height. “Since when are you in the habit of asking after my health? And that’s not what I’m talking about anyhow.”

  “You’re overstepping.” Annan stalked past. He was in no mood to justify himself to this whelp.

  “I’m overstepping, am I?” Marek scrambled to his feet and ran around in front, walking backwards when Annan didn’t stop. “I brought her to you to keep her safe. I never thought you’d overstep the line like this. A line of honor, Annan!”

  His old friend the gray courser raised its head from its hay and nickered at the sight of him. Marek backed into the stall door, and Annan pulled the courser’s head between them, putting the soft black skin of the horse’s nostrils against his cheek. “What happened at Stephen’s?”

  “Are you even listening to me? Would have been better for you if I’d left her there!”

  The horse snorted against his neck and tried to lift its head away. But Annan held it fast, leaning forward a bit more so that the courser would have to hang its head over his shoulder. “No, it wouldn’t have been better.”

  Marek barked in frustration. “St. Jude—”

  Annan shoved the courser’s head aside and faced his servant.

  Marek’s head went back a little farther on his neck, but he held his ground, his jaw set. “She’s married.”

  “Yes, Marek, yes.” He exhaled, long and deep. “To me.”

  Marek’s mouth, opened for another reproach, froze. “What?”

  Exhaustion hit Annan again, like a winter gale in the Cheviot foothills. He didn’t repeat himself. Marek, bright lad that he was, would figure it all out, given a few days more or less. And between here and Orleans, they would have plenty of days. “Saddle the horses. We need to leave.”