Ivanhoe Gambit tw-1

by Simon Hawke

  13

  It was over before Lucas realized that it had ended. The fugue had run its course and, as time caught up to them, all the Irvings and all his other selves began to disappear until only he was left, standing all alone and spinning madly, swinging his sword in all directions. As the battle raged around him, he stood alone in a cleared space as some of the outlaws looked on, jaws hanging agape, the attack on Torquilstone forgotten.

  In the fury of the battle, only a few of those involved were aware of the strange scene being played out in their midst. The Saxons had broken through and were even at that moment pouring into the castle and slaughtering the Normans. Cedric and his family were being released, along with a sorrowful Isaac of York. As Lucas stopped hacking at the air and stood alone, those who had been watching began to back away, questioning their own sanity. No one approached him. No one attempted to speak to him.

  What they had seen-or had thought that they had seen- had taken place in what was little more than an instant, a few moments, a brief span of unreality. Two knights had come together in deadly battle and suddenly, they seemed to have multiplied. Two became two armies and, just as suddenly, only one remained. It couldn't have been real, could it? One knight stood alone. In a brief span, surely too brief, his armor had been battered and dented, he was bloodied, he was exhausted, he was chopping at the air. They wandered away in a daze. More sophisticated men might have believed that they had succumbed to some sort of mass psychosis, but these men did not know the meaning of the word. The word would not exist in the vocabulary of men for many, many years to come. It was sorcery. They knew of only one sorcerer. They knew better than to speak of him.

  Lucas let his sword drop to the ground.

  "My God," he said. "I think I've won. What happened?"

  Finn Delaney walked up beside him.

  "It's over," he said, putting his arm around Lucas. "Irving's dead. His chronoplate's destroyed."

  Lucas stared at him, his eyes slightly unfocused.

  "Did I kill him?"

  "No, but it doesn't matter. He's dead just the same."

  Lucas looked back at Torquilstone. The sounds of battle were still coming from within its walls. The Saxons were still invading the castle.

  "Forget it," Finn said. "That doesn't concern us anymore. We've done our job, Lucas. Let's go home."

  "Hunter?"

  Finn smiled. "He's gone. Like the man said, he's not putting his ass on the line for anybody. He popped in out of nowhere, saved our bacon, and now he's disappeared again and taken his toys with him. Back into retirement."

  "Is there any way that we can keep him out of it?" said Lucas.

  Finn shrugged. "What difference does it make? We'll be debriefed. We can tell them everything we know. Hunter's smart. He won't stay around here. He'll pick himself another time, another place… they'll never find him." He took Lucas' PRU. "I gave mine back to him. I've still got some explosive left. He can probably change the code, but what do you say we blow these anyway?"

  "These?"

  Finn sighed. "Yeah. Bobby's too. Hunter wasn't fast enough to save him. For what it's worth, he said he was sorry."

  They stood over Bobby's body.

  "It's worth something," Lucas said.

  For a moment, there was an incandescent respite. He looked up and saw de la Croix poised with sword held overhead.

  "Damn," he whispered softly.

  The sword-

  — never came down. At the last moment, he had shut his eyes, resigned to his fate. He waited for the blow that never came. He waited… and he waited, then it occurred to him that de la Croix was waiting for him to open his eyes, waiting before giving him the coup de grace so that he would open his eyes, so that the last thing he would ever see was-

  He sighed. Very well, then. Let it be. He would die looking his executioner in the eye. After all, it was only fitting. He opened his eyes.

  And de la Croix was gone.

  He blinked. He turned around. He remained on the floor, puzzled. Why? It made no sense. How… where…

  His wounds were hurting him. The most serious was the one in his arm. Yet it was not a fatal wound. He would live.

  He would live!

  He got to his feet and retrieved his sword. He looked outside. The Saxons were swarming over the walls. His men-De Bracy's men-were being defeated. Perhaps de la Croix was saving him for a more ignoble fate, leaving him to the devices of the Saxon outlaws. Well, it would not be. He would escape. He looked down at his shield, which had been hammered into uselessness. No matter. He could quickly get another. And he had yet another shield in mind. Not even Saxon outlaws would draw a bow back on a woman.

  He ran quickly to his chambers.

  Rebecca, bruised and disheveled, lay on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling. Her eyes were vacant and unfocused and tears slid down her cheeks. She was utterly silent.

  "Rebecca, come quickly!" said Bois-Guilbert. "The outlaws are storming the castle. All is lost."

  She did not respond.

  "Damn you," swore Sir Brian. "You're far more trouble than you're worth." He picked her up and ran for the stables.

  He was right. The Saxon outlaws would not shoot at a woman. They were already swarming into the courtyard by the time he mounted. With Rebecca held in front of him, he spurred hard and rode through the press, scattering those who tried to stop him. With De Bracy dead and Richard back in England, things suddenly looked grim. It would be a bad time for him to be alone. With one arm clutching Rebecca, he turned his horse toward the Preceptory of Templestowe.

  Andre blinked hard.

  One moment, Bois-Guilbert was at her feet, awaiting her killing stroke, the next, she was in the wizard's chambers and her sword was embedded in his skull. No sooner had the realization sunk in than another sorcerer-for what else could he have been? — burst into the room, throwing lightning at her and striking her down. Yet, he had not killed her. For a moment, she had not been certain, but now she knew she was alive. Perhaps the man was merely an apprentice and his power not yet strong enough to slay her. When she raised her head, he was gone, but now, scant seconds later, another stood in his place, appearing out of nowhere.

  This one was dressed in a satanic robe, with dragons on both sides. His long brown hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard, and he looked at her only briefly before bending down over the black knight's evil apparatus.

  "This place is going to be the scene of a small cataclysm in a moment," Hunter said, removing the explosive from the chronoplate and tossing it beneath the bed. "It would be wise if we vacated the premises and quickly. Come with me."

  He held out a hand and helped her up, then picked up the chronoplate. "These things are a bit difficult to get a hold of," he said. "And I could use a spare. Don't be frightened. We're going to take a little trip, you and I."

  "Am I to be killed?" said Andre.

  "I don't think you have to worry about that," said Hunter. "You might get a little sick, but it won't be serious. Come on now, that thing's going to blow."

  "Blow?"

  "I'll explain later," Hunter said. "We need an explosion in this room to keep things in order. Now, just stand over here. If you like, you can close your eyes. It will only take a moment."

  Resigning herself to whatever fate awaited her, Andre closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was no longer in Nottingham Castle.

  She became violently ill.

  Albert Beaumanoir, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templars, was considerably less than happy with his charges. Recently returned from a conference with Philip of France, the Grand Master had come to England and had established himself in residency at the Preceptory of Templestowe. He was an old man with gray hair, a long gray beard and deep-sunken eyes in which glittered the light of fanaticism. Conrad Mont-Fitchet, the preceptor who attended him, walked slightly behind him in the garden of Templestowe, listening to his superior and nodding at his words.

  Beaumanoir was extreme
ly displeased at what he perceived as being a fall from grace among many of the Templars. He took his office and his vows seriously, with a zealot's pride. To Beaumanoir, the white burrel mantle of a Knight Templar, with the red octagonal cross on the left shoulder, was a simple statement that identified its wearer as a warrior of God. Yet he had come to England to find that the Templars there had abandoned the severity of their vows, granting themselves many dispensations.

  "Since I have come to England," said the Grand Master, "I have seen little of the practices of our brethren here upon which I can look with favor. It distresses me."

  "It's true," said Conrad. "The irregularities of our knights in England are even more gross than of those in France."

  "It is because they are more wealthy," said Beaumanoir. "Wealth can be the lifeblood of the Church, but wealth can also corrupt. See how it has affected those here. Our vows proclaim that we should wear no vain or worldly ornaments, no crests upon our helmets, no gold upon our bridle or our stirrups, yet look how our brothers of the sword array themselves in England! They have embraced all crass material pursuits, from falconry to debauchery. They are forbidden to read save what their Superior permits, yet they are engrossed in the study of the cabalistical secrets of the Jews and the magic of the Saracens. Simplicity of diet was prescribed to them and look how their tables groan under the weight of princely fare! Their drink was to be water, but now to drink like a Templar is the boast of each jolly boon companion! The souls of our pure founders, the spirits of Hugh de Payen and Godfrey de Saint Omer, and of the blessed Seven who first joined in dedicating their lives to the service of the Temple, are disturbed even in paradise itself! I have seen them in the visions of the night. They say to me, Beaumanoir, awake! There is a stain in the fabric of the Temple, as deep and foul as that left by the streaks of leprosy on the walls of the Infected houses of old! The soldiers of the Cross, who should shun the glance of a woman as the eye of a basilisk, live in open sin, not only with females of their own race, but with the daughters of the accursed heathen and the more accursed Jew. I will purify the fabric of the Temple, Conrad, and the unclean stones in which the plague is, I will remove and cast out of the building!"

  At that moment, a squire approached them.

  "Grand Master," he said, "a Jew stands without the gate, begging admission to speak with our brother, Brian de Bois-Guilbert."

  "You were right to give me knowledge of this," said Beaumanoir. "It imports us especially to know of this Bois-Guilbert's proceedings."

  "Report speaks him brave and valiant," Conrad said.

  "And truly he is so spoken of," said the Grand Master. "But brother Brian came into our Order a moody and a disappointed man, stirred, perhaps, to take our vows and to renounce the world not in the sincerity of the soul, but as one whom some light touch of discontent has driven into penitence. Since then, he has become an earnest agitator, a leader among those who impugn our authority. I am curious to know what this Jew would want with him. Bring him into our presence, Damian."

  The terrified Isaac of York was brought into the hall to meet with the Grand Master. He approached, but when he was three paces distant, Beaumanoir motioned him to halt and Isaac dropped to his knees in supplication.

  "Speak, Jew, and be brief," said the Grand Master. "What is the purpose of your dealings with Bois-Guilbert? And beware, Jew, should you speak falsely. If your tongue deceives me, I'll see that it's torn out."

  "I am the bearer of a letter," Isaac stammered. "A letter to Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, from Prior Aymer of the Abbey of Jorvaulx."

  "Did I not say that these were evil times, Conrad?" said Beaumanoir. "A Cistercian prior sends a letter to a soldier of the Temple and can find no more fitting messenger than an unbelieving Jew. Give me the letter."

  Isaac stretched forth the letter, but Beaumanoir recoiled from him, waiting until Conrad took it and broke the seal.

  "Read it," said Beaumanoir. Conrad read the letter.

  Aymer, by divine grace, Prior of the Cistercian house of Saint Mary's of Jorvaulx, to Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, a knight of the Holy Order of the Temple, wishing health, with the bounties of King Bacchus and my Lady Venus. Touching our present condition, dear Brother, we are a captive in the hands of certain lawless and godless men, who have not feared to detain our person and put it to ransom; whereby we have also learned of De Bracy's misfortune and of your escape with that fair Jewish sorceress whose black eyes have bewitched you. We rejoice in your safety. Nevertheless, we pray you to be on your guard against this second Witch of Endor. Your Grand Master, who cares not a bean for black eyes and cherry cheeks, is said to be en route from Normandy to diminish your mirth and amend your misdoings. Wherefore we pray you heartily to beware, and to be found watching. The wealthy Jew, Isaac of York, has pleaded with me to give him letters in his behalf. The woman is his daughter. I entreat you to hold the damsel to ransom. He will pay you as much as may find fifty damsels upon safer terms, whereof I trust to have my part when we make merry together, as true brothers. Until that merry meeting, we wish you farewell. Given from this den of thieves, about the hour of matins,

  Aymer, Pr. S.M. Jorvolciensis

  "What say you to this, Conrad?" said Beaumanoir. "Small wonder the hand of God is upon us, when we have such churchmen as this Aymer. A den of thieves is a fit residence for the likes of him! Yet, what does he mean by this second Witch of Endor?"

  "I think I know, but I will endeavor to find out for certain," Conrad said. "Jew, is your daughter a prisoner of Bois-Guilbert?"

  "Rebecca was taken from me, reverend sir, by that same knight," said Isaac, taking great pains to maintain a subservient tone. "Whatsoever ransom a poor man may pay for her deliverance-"

  "Your daughter, Rebecca, practiced the art of healing, did she not?" said Conrad.

  "Indeed, gracious sir, my daughter is the very soul of goodness. Many a knight and yeoman, squire and vassal, may bless the gift which Heaven has assigned to her. She has helped many when every other human aid had failed. The blessing of the God of Jacob is upon her."

  "Behold the deceptions of the devouring Enemy," said Conrad Mont-Fitchet. "I doubt not your words, Jew. Your daughter cures by words and sigils and other cabalistical mysteries not known to good Christian souls."

  "No, no, reverend knight," said Isaac. "She cures in chief measure by balsams of marvelous virtue, not by any mystical art!"

  "Where had she that secret?" said the Grand Master.

  "It was delivered to her by Miriam, a sage matron of our tribe," said Isaac, reluctantly.

  "And was this not the same witch, Miriam of Endor, the abomination of whose enchantments caused her to be burnt at the stake, her ashes scattered to the four winds?" said Mont-Fitchet. Turning to Beaumanoir, he said, "The matter seems quite clear now, reverend father. This Rebecca of York was a pupil of this Witch of Endor and she has enchanted Bois-Guilbert so that he has forsaken his sacred vows."

  "No! My daughter is no witch, I swear by-"

  "False Jew!" said Beaumanoir. "I will teach this witch daughter of yours to throw spells and incantations over the soldiers of the blessed Temple! Damian, spurn this Jew from the gate and shoot him dead if he oppose or turn again! We will deal with his daughter as the Christian law and our own high office warrant!"

  Bois-Guilbert stood before Rebecca. She sat silently by a small window, looking out across the surrounding countryside. She did not turn when he entered.

  "Rebecca," he said. "Rebecca, please look at me."

  She turned an empty gaze upon him.

  "Rebecca, I have brought you more grief than I had intended. I would it had been otherwise."

  "You should have thought of that before you took me against my will," she said softly.

  "A passionate man takes what he wants," Sir Brian said, "and I wanted you from the first day I set eyes on you at Ashby. Had we more time, you would have grown to love me, Rebecca."

  "You flatter yourself, Sir Brian. I did not think that it was my
love you wanted."

  "What's done is done," he said. "Still, I would that it were otherwise. I could have given you a life such as you had never known. What future is there for a daughter of a lowly Jewish merchant? You could be the woman of a Knight Templar, a lady to be treated with respect."

  "The way you treated me?"

  "You are bitter."

  "I am dishonored."

  "Yet you are still alive. When I brought you here to Templestowe, it was not my intention to place your life in danger, yet that is what I have done. Albert Beaumanoir has returned to Templestowe. I have just come from him. The Grand Master is not a man of vision. He clings stubbornly to the old ways. In time, his influence would become inconsequential, but as yet, he is still Grand Master of our Order. I had sought to keep your presence here a secret from him, but he has found out."

  "Then he will set me free?"

  "He means to set your spirit free," Sir Brian said. "There is to be a trial and you are the accused."

  She looked up at him, startled. "Accused of what? I have done nothing."

  "The charge is sorcery," said Bois-Guilbert.

  "Then I will trust to God to see me delivered," said Rebecca, "for I am innocent."

  "You are innocent, indeed," said Bois-Guilbert. "Innocent of the ways of the world. You are closer to your God than you know. The trial has not been held yet, but rest assured that the outcome has already been decided. You have but one chance to avoid the stake. Demand a champion."

  "I do not understand."

  "If you demand a champion, then according to our ways, and the ways of chivalry, your fate will be decided in a trial by combat. Choose me as your champion and I will fight for you with my last breath."