Behold the Dawn

  He took one giant step forward and met Hugh’s unabated charge. Their swords tangled, the crash reverberating against the stone walls and against every bone of Annan’s arms. For a moment, they held, their straining faces only a hand’s breadth apart, before tearing away once more.

  Annan kept nothing back. His strength thundered against Hugh’s, raining blow after blow upon the other’s sword. And Hugh gave way. Experienced though he might be, he was Annan’s match in neither strength nor skill.

  The look of iron in Hugh’s eyes wavered, the long shadows beneath his cheekbones deepening. Annan grinned savagely. That expression was the only admission of the truth he would ever gain from Hugh de Guerrant: by himself, he would never be able to take Annan.

  “Esmè!” Hugh roared.

  From the other end of the cellblock, the man-at-arms risked a glance at his master’s plight, then whirled back to Marek, vigor redoubled. He slashed the lad’s blade back to the ground and kicked it away.

  “Leave him!” Hugh shouted as he staggered beneath yet another of Annan’s tremendous blows.

  Somewhere on the edge of his senses, Annan saw Marek scramble after his blade only to be tackled by the jailer. Then Esmè joined Hugh, and Annan became too busy to notice anything beyond the extra blade added to his own battle.

  The two Normans, neither of them possessing his own breadth of shoulder, wedged themselves side by side in the narrow passage and pressed the attack. It was evident they had fought together many times before. Their movements segued, one thrusting, then falling back to allow the other to push forward. The cramped space was all in their favor; it kept Annan from maneuvering. Nothing but a straight, head-on approach could be accomplished here.

  He fell back, parrying, always parrying. Sooner or later, he was going to run into the back wall of Mairead’s cell. And when they reached her, his choices would be restricted even further. Hugh and this henchman of his would not scruple to use her to their advantage.

  The shadows began to lengthen; their battle was almost outside the range of the torchlight. Annan gritted his teeth, his blade flying as he struggled to gain an offensive foothold.

  He watched the faces of his opponents, waiting for them to shift their attention, even ever so slightly, as an indication that they noticed Mairead. But they didn’t flinch. Perhaps she had retreated back inside. He couldn’t be more than a few steps from the entrance to her cell, but he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t sense her.

  His breath burned within his lungs. Sweat beaded the edges of his scalp. In the palms of both hands, he could feel the slippery heat of the blood that seeped from his wounds. Already, his sword was less than solid in his grip.

  With a strong overhand blow, Hugh drove him back another step, and Annan’s left shoulder collided with the doorframe. His concentration snapped. He stumbled, and the man-at-arms penetrated his defense with a lunge at his abdomen.

  “No!” Mairead screamed from the darkness behind him. She hit his right side, both hands shoving against his shoulder, and instead of penetrating his innards, the sword glanced against bone.

  He crashed against the cell wall so hard his vision turned to black. Before he could open his eyes, his head slammed the stones once more, and the chill of a blade pressed against his throat.

  Cursing, Hugh knocked Annan’s blade from his bloody hands. “Were the decision mine, I’d lay you open where you stand.” His blade cut into Annan’s wind. “You may be thankful—very thankful—that Bishop Roderic has other uses for you.”

  Annan strained a breath past his gritted teeth and twisted to find Mairead. She lay on the floor, propped up on one hand, the other pressed to her side.

  “Put her back on the couch,” Hugh commanded, and Esmè bent to lift her. “You may be interested to know, my dear Countess, that—unlike your husband—you have now served every purpose your wretched life was intended to fulfill. Except one.” His eyes narrowed even as his teeth showed in a smile. “And that purpose, at long last, is my own.”

  Annan lurched around, heedless of the blade at his throat, and swung blindly at Hugh. The Norman whipped his sword down and caught Annan’s blow before it had gone half its intended distance. The blade’s edge pierced the thin flesh of his lower arm and grated against bone. Annan’s other fist found Hugh’s chin like a moneyer’s hammer against his anvil. “Marek!”

  “I can’t get to you!” The reply struggled from the other end of the passage.

  “Then leave! Leave now!”

  Marek’s eyes, wide and surprised, found Annan’s through the doorway, and Annan had just enough time to see the lad slam Douglass’s back against the door of a cell and break free of the jailer’s bear grip. They both fell to the ground, Marek scrambling once again for his sword. Douglass rolled over and grabbed the lad by the ankles, his own sword coming up once and falling against Marek’s head. The lad jerked stiff, then collapsed.

  “Behind you!” Mairead shouted, and Annan turned in time for Hugh’s lowered shoulder to crunch against his ribcage. Air exploded from his lungs. The shoulder he had injured in Acre struck the damp stone of the floor, and he felt something pop within the healing tissue.

  Fighting for a breath that refused to come, he rolled onto his back, hands rising to protect his face.

  “Hold him!” Hugh rasped.

  One of Esmè’s knees dropped onto Annan’s chest. Fingers closed themselves in his throat. Mist the color of bruise and ash swam before his vision, filled his ears, clogged his senses.

  Somewhere in the background, he could hear Mairead screaming for Marek to come, screaming they would kill him.

  Then the pitch of her cries changed. And then they went silent.

  His heart stopped beating. A crackle, like lightning against water, seemed to chase the blood from his veins.

  “Turn him around!” Hugh demanded.

  The weight of Esmè’s knee lifted from his chest. His grip on Annan’s throat released for a moment only to be replaced by the crook of his elbow as he hauled Annan onto his knees and shoved him around.

  Mairead lay flat on the bed where Esmè had dropped her, her hands clutching the neckline of her bodice. Hugh stood over her, facing Annan, his hand clamped on her neck, holding her down. “Now,” he panted, “witness.”

  Annan’s eyes fell closed. Fire filled his body.

  Esmè looked over his shoulder to check on the jailer behind them. And in that instance, Annan smashed his elbow into the knight’s ribs, yanked himself free of the collaring elbow, and lunged for his sword. He spun to his feet, both hips thudding pain. He hefted the sword like a poleax and swung almost before Hugh realized he had gotten free. The blade’s honed edge caught bone just beneath the shoulder joint and cleaved through. Hugh shouted and fell beside his severed arm, his torso divided in half, even unto his breastbone.

  Annan left him choking on wet curses and writhing in the flow of his own blood like the filthy worm he was. He would be dead within moments.

  Slowly, he lifted his eyes to Mairead’s. She had sat up and was huddled against the cold of the wall. Her chin trembled.

  He coughed against the ache of his throat and took one stuttering step toward her.

  And then the rest of the noises he had been forcing into the back of his brain suddenly swelled into the clatter of weapons and booted feet. And voices: “Lord Hugh!” “Sir Esmè?” “They are in the Countess of Keaton’s cell.”

  That voice he knew. He swung his aching body around to see armed men choking the passage. Four burst through the cell door and took in the scene at a glance. “Don’t move!”

  He lifted the sword in front of his face. His breath rasped its way out of his mouth as two of the knights charged.

  “Let us return to St. Dunstan’s, Marcus Annan,” said the voice of Gethin the Baptist, and Annan looked at the hooded figure standing in the doorway, crucifix gleaming against his chest in the torchlight.

  He had just enough time to see Gethin smile before the knights closed in. A rush o
f air heralded the crashing of something cold and hard against the back of his skull.

  * * *

  Mairead gasped as Annan staggered forward and fell to one knee. In the moment when his attention had been distracted by the voice from outside the cell, one of the knights had struck him with the flat of his blade. The guards fell upon him, tearing his sword from his grip, twisting his arms behind his back. He rumbled in pain, like a wounded lion, but he didn’t fight. His head nodded, his chin brushing the collar of his tunic.

  She pushed away from the wall and flung herself at him. “No! Don’t kill him! God, my God—don’t let them kill him!”

  The nearest man-at-arms, a lanky Syrian with a wind-chapped face, caught her before she could reach him. Her fingers tore at him frantically. Had Hugh been right after all? Would they cut Annan down before her very eyes?

  The man-at-arms muttered a curse in French and clamped both of her hands inside his larger one.

  “Annan—!”

  He tried to bob his head up and turn in her direction, the muscles of his arms straining. Someone hit him across the face, but that only seemed to clear the grog from his head. His face came up, blue eyes glaring death. The man-at-arms hit him again, and this time he sagged. “Scottish filth.”

  Beneath its tentative covering of congealing flesh, Mairead’s wounded side pulsed.

  “Fear not, Countess. They only take the precautions his reputation requires.”

  She flinched. It was the Baptist. The same Baptist whom Annan had risked his life to save? He had let these soldiers do this? He had betrayed them? She strained against the Syrian who held her, and at a motion from the monk, the man released her hands.

  She stared at the Baptist. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  Two knights hooked their hands under Annan’s arms and dragged him from the cell.

  Her heart hurled itself against her ribs. “Where are they going?”

  “I will show you.” The Baptist stepped forward, hand outstretched, then stopped, seeing for the first time Hugh’s body where it lay behind her.

  She didn’t follow his gaze. She didn’t want to see. He was dead. That was all that mattered. Never again could he touch her.

  “Well,” said the monk. “Perhaps he knows a thing about justice after all.” Falcon-sharp eyes lifted to meet hers, and he smiled. “That is most encouraging.”

  A cold worm wriggled down the back of her bodice. “What do you mean?”

  He came one step closer, scooped her up in arms that were shockingly solid, and carried her from the cell, his broken gait jostling her with every step. They passed through the cellblock, crowded as it was with soldiers. Marek, still unconscious, had been dragged into a cell.

  The Baptist did not pause. They reached the stairs, and he started climbing, dragging himself up one step after the other. They kept going until they reached the main level, found another set of steps and climbed again. And again.

  At every level, at every open window, she heard the restless sounds of an army gathering for battle. They passed an unshuttered eastern window, and she shivered at the rim of evanescent gray against the black horizon. Jaffa would be under siege ere dawn.

  They reached the third floor, and Bishop Roderic’s voice broke through the increasing buzz from beyond the city walls.

  “What is the meaning of this? How did he get within these walls? How? Tell me how!”

  “We meet again, Father.” Annan’s voice was throaty, hoarse. By the sound of it, Esmè had come near to crushing his windpipe.

  “Aye, we meet again, tourneyer. Though I doubt circumstances such as these were in your plans.”

  “Not my plans, Bishop. Veritas’s.”

  The bishop paused fully long enough for the Baptist to complete two steps down the hallway. “What?”

  Another voice offered, “A monk by that name came to our quarters. He told us a man had forced his way into the dungeon.”

  “Monk? What monk?”

  The Baptist rounded the corner of the doorframe and stopped, feet spread. Bishop Roderic, clad in cassock and yellow shawl, stood beside a huge central chair of scarlet and oak. Annan was on his knees between the men-at-arms who had borne him hither.

  “This monk, Bishop,” said the Baptist.

  All four men snapped around to look. Annan started up at the sight of Mairead in the Baptist’s arms, but he was forced back down. He quivered under the pressure of the men-at-arm’s hands.

  “Who are you?” Roderic demanded. One hand darted for the jeweled crucifix upon his breast; he rubbed it as if he thought it some kind of charm.

  The Baptist shrugged, his broad chest shifting against Mairead’s side. “I am called many things.” He nodded to the soldiers. “They know me as Veritas.”

  Roderic panted. “Is this true?”

  The Baptist continued, uninterrupted, with a gesture to Annan. “He would know me as something else. And she—” He hefted Mairead a little in his arms. “Ask the Countess of Keaton who she knows me as.”

  Roderic’s pale eyes darted to her. A hunger filled them—a desperate, fearful hunger. She faltered. This man was an enemy, and the Baptist... she had thought the Baptist was a friend. Her eyes crept to where Annan knelt, his eyes closed. Nay, the Baptist was no friend.

  “Speak!” Roderic thundered.

  She raised her chin and stared into the bishop’s face. “He is the Baptist.”

  His Grace jerked as if he had been shot. “That cannot be.”

  “Can’t it?” The Baptist laughed. “Do not fear me, Bishop. Everything I have done has been to bring to you the one man in all the earth who knows where to find Matthias of Claidmore.”

  Roderic stirred. His fingers dropped from the crucifix and gestured to the soldiers. “Leave us.” The hand remained aloft. “But first, give me a sword.”

  The indicated man-at-arms hesitated, then gave him the hilt of his one-handed sword. The Baptist stepped out of the doorway to let them pass and kept walking until he reached one of the long windows flanking Roderic’s throne. He dropped Mairead to her feet and turned away without a second glance.

  She buried her hand in the ruddy folds of the curtain and braced against the windowframe.

  Outside, red burned into the wispy gray of the skyline. An armored horse galloped through the street beneath, and in the plains beyond the walls, the bedlam of a thousand instruments—conch horn and shawm, nakers and cymbal—began their rhythm. And below, as if the whole city had suddenly ignited with the same spark, the Christians began to fidget, to call, to worry.

  She turned away. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to cross herself. Heaven preserve us—from the wicked that oppress us, from our deadly enemies, from those who compass us about…

  * * *

  Annan knelt on aching hips, his eyes closed, head bowed, listening to Gethin’s laughter. How far they all had fallen. He had known this moment was coming. He had waited for it, tried to brace himself against the base treachery of it. But it still felt like a mace shattering his bones.

  “I have baited your trap for you, Bishop,” Gethin said.

  Annan opened his eyes to find the Baptist extending a hand in his direction, as if introducing nobility. “Gethin—”

  In front of them both, Roderic stood, sword hanging at his side, chest heaving. Behind him, the howl of war—the clangor of iron, the thunder of war mares’ feet, the screams and the drums of the Moslem hordes—rose with the sun.

  Roderic stared at Annan, his face twisting. “The very first time I saw you, I knew in the marrow of my bones you were dangerous. How I knew it, I cannot tell, but I did. And I was a fool to ignore it!”

  Annan let his lids fall half closed. The bishop still didn’t know how deeply they were all sunk in Gethin’s treachery, still didn’t understand how vast a web had been spun by his sins from long ago.

  “But I will ignore it no longer.” The bones of Roderic’s sword hand jutted against his skin. “Your perfidy has c
ome to an end, Sir Knight. Now it is your fate in my hand, and not the other way around. You will give me Matthias of Claidmore, and we will put an end to this.”

  In the corner, enveloped in the aureole of morning light, Mairead stirred.

  Laughter, cold and bitter, rose in Annan’s mouth. “Nay, Bishop. That battle is one that neither you nor the Baptist will win.” He glanced to where Gethin waited in passive assurance.

  Roderic flung his arm in Mairead’s direction. “Deliver him to me, and I will spare the countess’s life.”

  She didn’t flinch, but her knuckles burned white within the blood-red folds of the curtain. She bit her lower lip, and Annan’s chest tightened. “Matthias is dead.”

  Gethin folded his arms into his sleeves. “Nay. He is not.”

  Roderic hissed. “Mark me and mark me well.” The skin of his face, grayer even than usual, drew taut across his cheekbones. “If Matthias of Claidmore is not on his knees to me—even as you are now—before the Christians have departed Jaffa, I will give your wife over to Lord Hugh.”

  Annan growled. “Lord Hugh’s dead.”

  “Then I will kill her myself!”

  “Nay, you will not!” His breath quickened.

  “God help me, tourneyer, I will tempt you to ever hazard my wrath again!”

  Annan levered his good leg under his body and lunged. Blood thundered in his head, blearing his vision, blocking his hearing, threatening to plunge him once more into darkness.

  The bishop’s sword flashed up defensively, and suddenly Mairead was between them. Her slender arm held Annan back as she faced the bishop. “Your Grace, I beg you! Don’t do this! It is I you want—it has always been me! Let him go—”

  “Silence! If you beg mercy, then look to your husband, not to me.”

  She turned to Annan, her warmth pressing against him. “Annan—don’t do it. Not for me. Please.” Her chin trembled.

  “Mairead… I’m sorry—” Sorrier than he could ever tell. He had failed her. It was his enemies they had been running from all this time, had they only realized it.