“Agreed.”
“But, what if we just walked in and took it?”
Sir Guy’s eyebrows rose, and Gerard smacked him on the shoulder. “Have you been drinking?”
Sir Guy smiled slightly and exchanged a knowing glance with Raymond—alcohol never passed his sergeant’s lips.
Raymond pressed on. “They are mocking us in there, pretending to be soldiers. We both speak fluent Arabic. I say we take advantage of their overconfidence.”
A smile spread across Sir Guy’s face. “Brilliant idea.” He pointed at the others. “You will cover our rear. If we are caught, leave so you might try again. But if we succeed, it will be up to you to hold them off so we may escape with the True Cross. Understood?”
Everyone nodded, and pride surged through Raymond as he realized these men were accepting their orders, knowing they would likely die in the next few minutes.
Sir Guy turned to Raymond. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“I suggest the stereotypical drunken Christian knight routine.”
Raymond agreed. “I shall try my best, your honor.”
Sir Guy smiled then pointed farther along the wall. “Let’s hope that door is unlocked.” He crouched past the window, then rose, straightening his armor and clipping his chainmail ventail across his mouth to hide his European features. Raymond did the same as the others took up position on either side of the door.
Sir Guy gripped the handle and paused before opening it and stepping boldly inside. He stomped his feet heavily while lifting his knees high, his arms at shoulder height, his elbows bent as he did an exaggerated march into the room, Raymond imitating him as best he could as Sir Guy shouted in Arabic that he surrendered.
The entire room froze, turning as the two men marched toward the True Cross. Someone laughed. Then another. Then the entire room erupted as Sir Guy reached the cross and knelt beside it, his hands pressed against his heart, begging the mighty soldiers of Allah for mercy. Raymond knelt on the other side of the blessed artifact, doing his own impression of the weak and pathetic Crusader, the drunken soldier bit already abandoned.
The gathered enemy, scores strong, cheered and threw food at them. Sir Guy gestured animatedly at the cross, reaching over and picking it up, Raymond grabbing the other side.
“What have you done to our precious relic?” cried Sir Guy as he hoisted it to his shoulder. “We must rescue it from the infidels!” His voice was one of exaggeration, the audience buying his charade, none suspicious as Sir Guy marched deeper into the throng with Raymond, and farther from the door.
He made an abrupt turn, his knees still high as he aimed them toward the door at the far end of the room. They marched forward, Sir Guy continuing his entreaties for mercy as they neared the door. He whipped his hand in the air, about to say something, when his glove hooked on his ventail, tearing it free.
Revealing his face.
The crowd continued to revel in the display. But not those who could see his face. Raymond stared, wide-eyed, as they continued toward the door, no one reacting at first, unable to believe their eyes.
Then someone pointed. “Christians!”
The room fell silent, and Sir Guy bolted for the door. Raymond followed, stumbling, as those gathered fell silent. An angry roar filled his ears as those leisurely draped upon pillows and silks struggled to their feet. Sir Guy burst through the door, Raymond following as Gerard pulled the door closed behind them, sliding his sword through the hooks as those on the other side yanked on the door.
“Let’s move!” hissed Sir Guy as they rushed back toward the entry to the tunnel. Sir Guy dropped to his knees, shoving the foot of the cross through the hole. The crossbar slammed on the surrounding stone—there was no way it could fit through.
“What do we do?” cried Raymond.
“We do what we must.” Sir Guy drew his sword and swung, hacking the bottom of the cross off at the crossbar. Raymond gasped, a wave of nausea sweeping over him as Sir Guy dropped the hacked off piece through the hole, then angled the remaining section through the opening. The door broke open, dozens of angry Saracens spilling out.
“Everyone in the hole. We can hold them off better down there.”
Sir Guy dropped first, followed by Raymond. He helped his master load the two pieces of the cross into the small boat as the others climbed down, one by one.
There was a cry overhead, then one of their own dropped unceremoniously into the water. He gripped his side, wincing as he was helped to his feet.
“Leave me. I’ll hold them as long as I can.”
Gerard gripped his shoulder. “Go with God, my brother.”
Infidels began to drop into the tunnel, and their wounded hero sliced them open, one by one, as Raymond and the others escaped. Gerard pulled a small horn from his belt, and sounded three rapid notes, repeating them three times. Within moments, the rope they had played out behind the boat became taut, then the craft surged away from them.
“Forgive me!” cried their hero, the sound of a knight’s armor collapsing into the water signaling the death of another of their order.
Sir Guy sprinted after the boat, Raymond on his heels, the others close behind as the echoes of dozens if not more of their enemy filled the tunnel. The oppressive heat and humidity strained Raymond’s lungs, and they burned from the effort, their heavy armor inhibiting their movements as the horde of enemy soldiers, unencumbered, closed in. Raymond glanced over his shoulder, their enemy only paces away, their only saving grace the narrowness of the tunnel.
The Templar at the rear spun, swinging his sword and slicing open the belly of the nearest. The heathen cried out, their advance brought to a momentary halt, and the knight pressed his advantage, thrusting forward with his blade, more of his prey crying out as Raymond and the others put as much distance as they could between them and those who would surely slaughter them in the most gruesome of ways.
They rounded a bend, the torches of their enemy gone, what little light they had from openings above them, spaced far apart, a lone torch in the prow of the boat showing the progress of their precious victory.
For this was the most ingenious part of the plan, provided by Gerard, who had advised them he had done this many times before, and was sufficiently equipped should Sir Guy choose to avail himself of his proposal. By using the boat to carry the cross, it assured that should they all fall protecting it, those at the other end would still succeed in the mission.
“Here they come!”
Raymond checked over his shoulder to see Gerard spinning on his heel, a crescent of light rounding the last bend, revealing the seething mass of flesh. Raymond resisted the urge to stop and help, as there was nothing he could do. Only one could fight at a time, and the more distance they put between themselves and the enemy, the more likely at least Sir Guy would survive. For it was his life that he cared about, and his alone.
He had served by his master’s side for over twenty years, and hoped to serve another twenty, though should he fall tonight, saving his master and the True Cross, he would die content that he had done so as not only a Templar, but as a good Christian, serving his Lord. For tonight, unless something should go disastrously wrong, the True Cross would be rescued and returned to Christian hands, saved from those who would desecrate and destroy it.
Sir Guy cursed.
Raymond looked ahead to see the boat lying on its side, the torch askew. Sir Guy pressed ahead faster than before as Gerard continued to battle behind them, the two remaining men on his heels breathing heavily. They reached the boat to find it caught on stones that had collapsed in from overhead, the rope taut as those at the other end battled to free it with no success. Raymond helped Sir Guy free the boat, battling against those at the other end, it finally loose and skimming along the water once again.
Sir Guy stood for a moment, hands on knees, gasping for breath, the others leaning against the walls, doing the same. “I remember there were several other blockages like this. At least one of u
s must survive to ensure it gets through, otherwise all of this will have been for naught.”
Raymond nodded as he sucked in lungsful of air. “It should be you, your honor. You are the most senior among us.”
“Yet I am not the youngest nor the fastest.” He looked at the two who remained, easily ten years their junior. “One of you should go.”
Both shook their heads. “No, your honor. The youngest should stay to fight. The longer we delay them, the more likely it is that you’ll get away.”
Gerard cried out in the distance, finally felled by the overwhelming numbers. Sir Guy rose, stretching out his arms.
“Then remove this armor. I can’t run fast enough in this.”
Raymond quickly removed the restrictive and heavy protection, each piece splashing loudly as the horde closed in. Finally free to move, Sir Guy turned to Raymond.
“Let me help you.”
Raymond shook his head as the torches of their enemy neared. “There’s no time.” He pointed after the boat in the distance. “Go! I will be right behind you. I’ve always been faster than you, old friend.” He smiled, and Sir Guy slapped him on his shoulder.
“I shall see you at the other end.” Sir Guy sprinted after the boat, Raymond turning to the others, one already preparing to face the enemy. “Good luck, my brothers.”
He rushed after Sir Guy, the other on his heels, their lone comrade left to face certain death. Raymond could see the silhouette of Sir Guy a good distance ahead, making excellent time, as the torch from the boat continued in the distance before turning out of sight. And though he could no longer see the boat that contained that for which they had already sacrificed so much, as long as he couldn’t see its torch, then neither could those who pursued them.
Swords clashed, but this time he didn’t look back. There was no point. Instead, he ran, working at his armor, freeing himself of what he could. He rounded the bend and saw Sir Guy in the distance, working to free the boat once again as their young companion continued to battle behind them. Sir Guy waved, the boat surging forward once more, and he stood, catching his breath as they caught up.
As soon as Raymond reached him, he began removing his sergeant’s armor. “Sir, you should go.”
Sir Guy shook his head. “No, one of us must make it, and should fatigue overtake me, then you must be as swift of foot as I know you can be.”
Raymond decided arguing would be pointless, and stood, arms outstretched, as his master removed the armor, a task he had never performed before, this the work of servants. Yet though Raymond had never before seen his master perform such a task, he did so deftly, soon freeing him of enough armor to make good time.
Sir Guy turned to the final man. “Keep up with us as best you can, and know that should you fall, you have earned yourself a place in the Kingdom of Heaven, at our Lord Jesus Christ’s side.”
The young man bowed slightly, humbled by Sir Guy’s words. “I shall do my best, Sir Guy.”
Sir Guy grabbed Raymond by the arm. “Let’s go, quickly now!” They all sprinted after the boat, the young man in his armor quickly falling behind, the sounds of his friend still fighting giving Raymond some hope that they might just make it.
He had no idea where they were or how far they had come. Though it felt like they had been running for hours, it had only been minutes, and with their armor, they hadn’t gone far. “How much farther?”
“Not much,” gasped the young man behind them, part of the Templar’s spy network within the Muslim city. “Only a few hundred paces.”
Raymond smiled, his energy renewed, and as they rounded another bend, he saw the boat ahead, its torch raised then doused in the water, a gentle blue glow replacing the warm yellow of the flame. It was the moon, shining off the water of the river.
Sir Guy reached the others first, the True Cross already removed and lashed to a raft prepared for this very occasion. Sir Guy stretched out his hands, and two of the men stripped him down to his undergarments, two more doing the same for Raymond.
“Quickly, we have little time,” hissed one of the men, urging Sir Guy and Raymond into the water. They both stepped in and grabbed a corner of the raft. Their contact pointed to their left, down the river. “Clear the city limits, and there will be others waiting for you on the left bank.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
The man clasped Sir Guy’s hand. “Go with God, brother.”
Sir Guy kicked with his legs, Raymond joining him, as the others climbed into a boat and paddled in the opposite direction, a torch lit on their prow in the hopes they would draw the enemy with them. Raymond continued to kick, his legs already exhausted, the water thankfully cool and calm.
There was a loud splash behind them, and Raymond checked over his shoulder, his chest tightening as he saw the young man, the last of their party, struggling from the water, his sword still lunging forward as the Muslims poured from the opening like vermin.
“Focus on your task.”
Raymond turned to Sir Guy, his face in the moonlight calm and reassuring, though creased with the pain he shared at the thought of yet another brother of the Order dying at the hands of those without God in their hearts. As the sounds of the desperate struggle faded behind them, a final cry signaling an end for their young companion, they slowly made their way down the river, unnoticed by the boats that bobbed lazily nearby, and eventually cleared the city limits.
A torch on shore had them kicking desperately toward it, the river not as calm here. Raymond’s legs were like dead weights attached to his hips. His entire body was numb, and where it wasn’t, his muscles screamed in agony. Sir Guy pressed forward without complaint, giving no indication he was in any discomfort.
They finally reached the shore, and strong hands grabbed Raymond, hauling him to his feet, leaving him no time to see if they belonged to those friendly to the cause, or Saracens eager to claim their prize.
“Sir Guy, you have done it!”
Sir Guy grunted, nearly collapsing to the ground, two of those waiting for them catching him under the arms and helping him farther ashore. The two pieces of the True Cross were gently lifted from the raft and carried toward a nearby horse-drawn wagon. “We must hurry. They could search here at any time.”
Raymond allowed himself to be hoisted upon a horse, his master at his side, both slumped over their saddles, every ounce of energy they might have once had, spent.
Sir Guy reached out and clasped his shoulder. “You did well.”
Raymond grunted. “I did nothing. It was Gerard and his men that gave us victory.”
Sir Guy nodded, his eyes drooping. “We won’t be victorious until we reach Jerusalem.”
7
Milton Residence
St. Paul, Maryland
Present Day
“So you’re meeting Hugh in France?” asked Sandra Milton as she sat, glass of chardonnay in hand.
Laura Palmer shook her head, taking a sip of her own. “Spain. We’re going to France tomorrow, then when our business there is done, we’ll meet up with Hugh and his son in Spain for a few days.”
James Acton took a swig of his Moosehead Lager. “I’m looking forward to meeting the kid. Hugh never really talked that much about him, what with the estrangement and all, but now they really seem to be patching things up.”
Sandra sighed. “I’ll never understand how parents can use their children as pawns against each other.”
Acton nodded. “Me neither, but that wasn’t the case here.”
Laura put her glass down, curling her feet up under her. “I feel bad for him, really. He’s so alone.” They all fell silent as they thought of Kinti, the Amazon woman that their friend, Interpol Agent Hugh Reading, had fallen hard for in the jungle, and then had die in his arms only days later.
It had changed him.
Acton feared he would forever push away any chance at love and happiness, at least from the female companionship side of things. It hadn’t helped that his former partner from Scotl
and Yard and best friend had deserted him, then died horribly soon after they were reunited.
But with his son reentering his life over the past couple of years, perhaps some of his solitude would end, and Acton was determined to do whatever it took to facilitate that. He had a feeling all he could do on this mini-vacation would be to make the boy’s old man look cool.
“Perhaps Spencer will help change that,” he finally said, breaking the silence.
Sandra leaned forward, changing the subject. “So, France?”
Laura nodded. “Yes. That’s business, though I always love spending time in the south. I love the architecture and history.”
Acton agreed. “Apparently we’re going to be staying at a chateau for the night, owned by our host.”
“Oooh, money.”
Milton gave his wife a look. “If that’s what floats your boat, you married the wrong guy.”
She sighed, taking another drink. “Don’t I know it. I thought professors were supposed to be rich.” She elbowed him. “Especially deans.”
Milton rolled his eyes. “Well, you can always divorce me and marry her.” He tipped his beer toward Laura.
Laura raised her left hand, displaying her wedding band. “Sorry, I’m taken.” She glanced at Acton. “Buuuut, if things don’t work out with him, we’ll talk.”
Acton’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey, who says we need to get divorced? I’m sure there’re a few places we could move to that would let me have two wives.”
Laura laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you!”
He shrugged. “I think one is probably trouble enough.” He avoided her swing, Milton raising his hands in surrender for all males everywhere.
“Careful, buddy, you can’t win this one.”
“I’m beginning to realize it.” He leaned in to give Laura a kiss when she turned her head, presenting her cheek.
“That’s all you get for now.”
He pecked it. “I’ll take what I can get.” He leaned back, spreading his arms and legs. “I, on the other hand, am offering all this for your viewing pleasure.”
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 3