Templar Prize

by Deanna Ashford

  By now he hoped that the noise would have alerted the guards outside that something was wrong. Clearly the attacker thought so as well and, elbowing Stephen in the side, he struggled to his feet. As he went to flee, Stephen grabbed hold of his ankle and pulled him back, stoically ignoring the kick in the gut he gained for his trouble. Throwing himself atop the man, Stephen locked his fingers around the assailant’s throat. He gave a strangled groan, his arms flailing, then he must have somehow found the dagger because Stephen felt a sudden searing pain in his arm. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he clung onto the assailant, reaching out frantically to try to keep the man from stabbing him again.

  At that moment turmoil erupted around him. Many hands grabbed hold of Stephen and he was hauled away from the attacker and forced to his knees. His arms were pulled behind him and forced so high up his back they felt as if they might pop from their sockets at any moment. The flame of a torch spluttered near his face and he blinked in the sudden bright light.

  ‘Stephen?’ he heard al-Adil say.

  ‘The other man,’ Stephen gasped breathlessly, twisting his head to see the masked assailant kneeling close by him, similarly held down.

  ‘Let the comte go,’ Salah ad-Din’s voice rang out authoritatively. ‘Can’t you see he is wounded?’

  They let go of him and Stephen slumped forwards, crouching on his knees as he felt warm blood seeping from his stab wound, staining his sleeve and blossoming out like a scarlet flower. He was lifted up and placed on a divan while a soldier tied a cord tightly around his upper arm to stem the bleeding.

  Meanwhile al-Adil had picked up the bloodstained dagger and was examining it closely. He handed it to Salah ad-Din and uttered one word. ‘Hashshashin.’

  Salah ad-Din had told Stephen that this strange sect had tried to assassinate him before. Stephen knew of them – they were feared by both Moslems and Christians alike as they carried out assassinations for money and political motives. They were Moslems, yet their leader owed allegiance to no one and they were a law unto themselves.

  ‘So the Old Man of the Mountain has yet to give up on me,’ Salah ad-Din said with a twisted smile as he looked at the assassin. ‘I would like to know why he wants me dead so desperately.’

  The man did not answer and al-Adil bent and ripped off his mask to reveal none other than Armand. ‘Eventually one of us will succeed,’ he said to Salah ad-Din with an expression of utter derision on his handsome face.

  So why was he doing this, Stephen wondered in amazement; first Frankish knight, then Saracen and now assassin? ‘Why in God’s name, Armand?’ he muttered.

  ‘You will never understand,’ Armand said coldly. ‘Just know this, most of what I told you was true. You were just a pawn, Stephen, a convenient way to get close to Salah ad-Din.’

  ‘Do you think we can make him talk?’ al-Adil asked his brother.

  In response, Salah ad-Din beckoned forwards one of the guards and held out his hand for his scimitar. ‘No.’

  Stephen was no stranger to bloodshed but he couldn’t bear to look at this. He turned his head away, closing his ears to the sickening sound as Armand’s head was cut from his body with one fell swoop of the sword.

  ‘I can go no further.’ Al-Adil turned to look at Stephen. In the distance the sea glittered a pale greeny-blue, behind the city of Acre. ‘You will tell the Lionheart that the next instalment will be with him in two days?’

  Stephen nodded. ‘And I will do my best to explain about your difficulties in locating all the listed prisoners.’ He frowned. ‘Unfortunately Richard has his faults – he is not a patient man.’

  ‘At least he might listen to you.’ Al-Adil smiled sadly. ‘It has been good to know you, Stephen. And I am grateful because my brother owes you his life.’

  ‘He owes me nothing,’ Stephen said as a soldier moved forwards to hand him the lead rein of his packhorse, which carried his old chainmail and gifts Salah ad-Din had given him for Edwina and the king.

  Stephen now wore a magnificent hauberk made out of thousands of tiny engraved metal discs, interleaved like the scales of a fish. It was light yet amazingly strong and looked magnificent, a deep burnished gold glittering like burning embers of fire in the bright sunlight. No doubt Richard would envy it greatly.

  ‘One more thing,’ al-Adil said, appearing rather concerned. ‘About the message I received this morning.’ The Saracens used trained birds to carry messages and Stephen had seen one of the white doves flutter down to the oasis where they were camped early this morning. ‘It came from Acre and concerned your Edwina.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She is to be married this very day to Guy de Lusignan.’

  ‘Guy!’ The bright future Stephen had envisaged disintegrated in an instant.

  ‘Edwina believes you dead, it appears, and she is to be married the second hour after noon.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘You still have time to stop it, my friend. And may God go with you.’

  ‘And you also,’ Stephen yelled back to him as he spurred his horse forwards, down the Hill of Carobs towards Acre.

  The gates of the city were open and thronged with people. There were still soldiers camped outside the walls and Stephen could see men deconstructing catapults and loading them on wagons, while more men were hard at work repairing the damage to the walls that had been done by their very own war machines. As Stephen galloped full tilt towards the entrance, people moved out of his way, but he was forced to slow down to almost walking pace as the crowds became thicker.

  He calculated that it wouldn’t take him long to reach the royal palace, where no doubt Richard was housed, and then he would put a stop to this union between Edwina and Guy. He knew that she would never go ahead with the ceremony once she learnt that he was still alive. But, as he steered his mount through the mass of people at the gate, soldiers stepped forwards to bar his way.

  ‘Where do you think you are going, Saracen?’ one challenged as he pointed his long-handled pike at Stephen.

  ‘Saracen! I’m no Saracen, you fool,’ Stephen said angrily, suddenly realising that in this armour and with his dark hair and beard he might well resemble one. ‘Look closer,’ he said, assuming an air of noble arrogance. ‘I’m the Comte de Chalais, King Richard’s righthand man.’

  The soldier glanced questioningly at his companions, clearly not believing him as Stephen’s magnificent Arab stallion, another gift from Salah ad-Din, pawed the ground restlessly.

  ‘The Comte de Chalais is dead,’ one of the soldiers announced. ‘Killed by one of your Saracen comrades.’

  ‘Dam you, I’m not dead. Get out of my way.’ He didn’t have time for this unnecessary delay: every moment counted. Stephen’s hand automatically reached for his sword as more soldiers surrounded him.

  ‘Try that and you’ll regret it, Saracen!’ The soldier waved his pike in Stephen’s face. ‘Now keep your hands away from your weapon and dismount.’

  Anxiously, Stephen scanned the crowd but there was no one here he knew who could vouch for him; he was on his own. Yet he had to act fast as even the slightest delay could take Edwina away from him again. His stallion was well trained and, at the flick of his reins, it began to turn restlessly, distracting the soldiers just enough to allow Stephen to draw his sword and at the same time urge his horse forwards. His stallion leapt past the soldiers and, as they uselessly tried to bar his way, he slashed out, his sword blade cleaving the pike shaft in two.

  He galloped along the paved street, forcing people to scatter in all directions. He might well have got away if a number of mounted Templars hadn’t moved to prevent his escape. Stephen had no wish to fight them as well so he pulled his mount to an abrupt, slithering halt, jumped from his horse and ran into the throng of people, hoping to somehow lose himself in the crowds as the soldiers and Templars bore down on him from both directions.

  A number of French soldiers spotted him and, as they drew their weapons, he had no choice but to turn and face his attackers. Swinging r
ound, sword in hand, he muttered a prayer to the Almighty under his breath, knowing that he would have to surrender and fearing that by the time his identity was confirmed it would be too late to stop the wedding ceremony.

  ‘Stephen – is that you?’ He heard a voice calling from some distance away. A dark-clad man shoved past the soldiers and ran towards him.

  ‘Martin, thank God.’ His prayers having been answered, he lowered his sword.

  Berengaria looked anxiously at Edwina as they entered the church. ‘Are you quite sure about this?’

  ‘I am not sure of anything any more,’ Edwina replied. Truthfully, she felt totally numb. Her life had stopped the moment she had learnt Stephen was dead and without him nothing had any meaning to her now.

  ‘Broken hearts do not mend easily.’ Berengaria squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Why marry Guy now? Wait, give yourself time, Edwina.’

  ‘Time for what?’ she asked, confused by the fact that she was unable even to cry. ‘He has been so persistent of late. Eventually, it was easier just to say yes to his proposal. Why should I care what happens to me now?’

  ‘I do not think you are doing the right thing,’ Berengaria whispered as they walked up the aisle towards King Richard, who was waiting to escort Edwina to the altar. ‘I begged Richard to stop you but he says that it is your right to marry if you so wish.’

  Edwina focused her eyes on the tall, magnificently dressed monarch who was to give her away. She couldn’t even bear to look at Guy standing expectantly at the altar beside the archbishop, who was to conduct the ceremony.

  ‘Lady de Moreville.’ Richard gallantly held out his arm as Berengaria let go of her hand. ‘Are you ready?’

  Edwina’s throat felt so tight now that she couldn’t even force a yes from her lips, so she nodded mutely. Placing her hand lightly on Richard’s arm, she walked with him towards the man she was going to marry, barely conscious of the many nobles who’d gathered in the church to witness this momentous union.

  They had almost reached the altar when she heard a loud noise as if the heavy oak doors of the church were being hammered open. This was followed amazingly by the clatter of horse’s hooves coming towards her and for a moment even she was aroused from her unhappy lethargy as she wondered what was happening.

  ‘What!’ Richard exclaimed as he swung round in amazement.

  He pulled Edwina with him, and she tensed anxiously as she caught sight of the menacing-looking Saracen bearing down on them. Drawing their swords, a number of nobles ran forwards to protect the king, but before they could apprehend the Saracen his horse came to a slithering halt and he sprang lithely from his horse. ‘Forgive the untimely intrusion, Your Majesty, but it was necessary,’ he said in a loud achingly familiar voice as he bowed to the king.

  ‘Stephen?’ Richard gasped in disbelief.

  There was a murmur of surprise from the assembled congregation, while Edwina stood there totally dumbstruck as the icy coldness that had surrounded her heart began to melt in the warmth of her lover’s presence. Stephen was alive!

  ‘I appear to be a little late for the ceremony,’ Stephen said as one of the noblemen silently took control of the situation and proceeded to take hold of the horse’s reins and lead it out of the church.

  Edwina, meanwhile, stared at Stephen, hardly able to believe this was happening, and knowing that, if she hadn’t been holding onto Richard’s arm, her legs might well have given way.

  ‘Your arrival is unexpected and rather untoward,’ Richard said gruffly, and then he grinned. ‘But it is forgiven. Put aside your weapons, gentlemen.’ Pushing aside the sword-wielding nobles surrounding him, he stepped over to Stephen and clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘My friend, I am so glad you are alive.’

  ‘Majesty,’ Stephen acknowledged, and then as he looked at her his expression filled with so much love that she was overwhelmed. ‘Edwina.’

  She wanted to say so much, but her mind and her heart were so full of emotion she could not speak for a moment and it was Berengaria who came to her rescue.

  ‘Husband.’ She stepped forwards and touched Richard’s arm. ‘It appears that King Guy has decided to beat a hasty retreat before the ceremony has even started.’ Richard did not appear overly surprised as he glanced back at the altar where the archbishop now stood alone. Somewhere in the distance a door banged loudly as Guy left the church, knowing full well that Edwina would not marry him now.

  ‘It seems a pity to deny the archbishop a ceremony, does it not? So if there were two people here who wished to be married would it not be circumspect to do so?’ Richard said with a wide smile as he looked expectantly at Stephen.

  ‘Will you?’ Edwina heard Stephen say.

  She stared at the man she had thought she’d lost and her heart was filled with so much joy she felt it might explode. ‘Yes,’ she said, reaching for his hand.