Praise be to God, he thought. This would be a good day!
* * *
As he kicked his heels into his mount, forcing it into a near-gallop, Stephen was thankful he at least knew which direction his quarry must have taken.
South. Towards London and the Grand Prior.
He cursed himself repeatedly as the spring countryside passed, wondering how he could have been stupid enough to allow this to happen.
In truth, he was being too hard on himself. Although not an ugly man – quite the opposite in fact, with his battle-hardened physique and square jaw – he wasn’t exactly the magnetic type. Women didn’t usually show an interest in him and, despite his vow of celibacy it hurt him when his master, Sir Richard, with his easy smile and outgoing nature drew admiring glances and giggles from girls young enough to be his grand-daughter.
When Helena had shown an interest in him, Stephen had been flattered. And, given her simple beauty, love of life and apparent sincerity, the Hospitaller sergeant had been utterly smitten.
The strong ale hadn’t helped matters either.
Still, he derided himself for a fool. She had played him expertly, like that Allan-a-Dale character in Barnsdale played his gittern.
He dug his heels into his mount with an angry cry, pushing it close to its limit, knowing he only had a very short time to catch up with his quarry.
As the afternoon wore on the sun moved slowly around in the sky until it was directly above and before him. The trees that lined the road cast dark shadows directly behind themselves as the outskirts of the capital city slowly came into sight and Stephen, squinting, growled in frustration.
He was almost there yet had seen nothing of the blacksmith and his wife.
The Hospitaller felt his stomach lurch in despair as he realised he had failed his master, and probably ruined his own status within the Order he’d served faithfully for the past fifteen years.
His horse was blowing hard and sweating after being pushed hard for so long, and, with a sob of rage and defeat, Stephen allowed the beast to slow to a walk.
What now?
He wondered if he should turn back. Without Sir Richard’s letter, the prior had no reason to send aid to Kirklees. Carrying on to Clerkenwell was pointless.
His head had ached for the past couple of hours, and a feeling of nausea made him want to retch as he squinted at the road ahead, contemplating his failed mission, the sunlight almost blinding him even though it offered little warmth.
“Wait!”
His horse paid him no attention as it trotted along the slightly muddy road, its sides still heaving from the day’s run.
Stephen’s raised his right hand, shading his eyes from the sunlight as he tried to see ahead.
His sight wasn’t what it had been as a younger man, and he blinked as his eyes watered from staring along the road into the harsh sun. Still, there was no mistake.
At the side of the road stood a horse and, as the Hospitaller urged his mount into a canter, the abandoned horse looked at them with a bored expression.
Could it be the blacksmith’s own horse had gone lame?
Daring not to hope, Stephen pushed his own mount forward, until, finally, his heart soared in jubilation.
There, casting great shadows along the road in their wake jogged two figures: a huge man and a willowy woman.
The pair must have noticed his approach since they tried to move faster, but the city was still a distance away and the Hospitaller bore down on them like the tide at a full-moon.
He drew his sword and roared as he charged along the road after the fleeing couple, the relief at finally catching up with his prey making him smile in triumph.
The jubilant grin dropped from his face as Helena suddenly turned, her beautiful features cloaked in shadow but her mane of hair flaming from the sunlight directly behind her. She held a bow – not a longbow, but a smaller hunting bow – and, as the sergeant-at-arms bore down on them the girl loosed her arrow.
“No!” Stephen cried in outrage, not just because he saw his plans ruined, again, but for the sake of his faithful horse, which slowed to a halt, Helena’s missile stuck deep in its steaming chest.
As its front legs gave way the Hospitaller could see the red-haired girl about to loose again, this time at him, and he hastily unhooked the shield he had strapped to his mount, bringing it up just in time as the next arrow lodged itself in the wood covering his face.
“You fucking bitch!” he screamed, hurling himself from his expiring horse before Helena could shoot again.
The girl shrank away from his fury but Stephen slammed the pommel of his sword into her face, feeling her teeth smash as she was thrown backwards onto the ground.
His eyes flicked to his right, expecting an attack from the blacksmith. Although the battle-fury was upon him, the Hospitaller was an experienced soldier. He knew how to fight multiple enemies – had done so on countless occasions at the side of Sir Richard in England and the with others of his Order in Rhodes.
Jacob, although be was built like a warhorse, had none of Stephen’s skill or experience. As he saw his wife battered to the ground the blacksmith roared and swung his big hammer at Stephen as if he was forging a horseshoe.
It was an incredibly powerful blow. If it had connected it would have smashed right through the sergeant’s light armour into his ribcage but the Hospitaller saw it coming even before Jacob had fully begun his swing and he stepped lightly to the side, bringing his sword round as the man stumbled past, and hammered the blade viciously into the blacksmith’s spine.
There was surprisingly little blood for such a devastating blow, and Jacob only gave a quiet, high-pitched gasp of agony as he collapsed, face-first, onto the road, his great torso jerking spasmodically.
Helena struggled to her feet, her eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of her crippled husband but, as her bloodied face contorted with rage, ready to launch herself at the Hospitaller, Stephen stepped towards her and grasped her around the throat with a gauntleted hand, squeezing hard to choke off her shouts.
“Shut up!” he growled, grasping her right hand as it flailed among her skirts for a weapon. “You brought this on yourself, and I’ve no more time to fuck about with the pair of you.”
She tried to spit in his face but Stephen squeezed tighter and the spittle ran down her own chin as her eyes bulged defiantly at him.
“The letter you took from me,” he said. “I want it. Your man’s already as good as dead so I can search him for it. But you’re still alive,” he pressed his face against hers, feeling a surge of shame as he did so, remembering how he had felt so drawn to this sweet-looking girl just a few hours before.
He dropped her to the ground where she lay on her back, panting and staring up at him murderously, but he’d learned his lesson not to underestimate her, and he placed the point of his sword against her breast.
“You won’t fool me again. Now where’s the letter, Helena?”
“Fuck off, monk.”
She stretched flat on the grass and gazed at him, her legs slightly parted, panting with exhaustion and somehow still exuding an air of innocence despite her smashed teeth. But Stephen had taken enough of this.
He leaned down and battered his sword hilt against her temple, watching as her head slumped to the side and she slipped into unconsciousness.
The smith was dead, Stephen could see, as he glanced over at the man face-down in the dirt. He sighed in resignation and methodically began to search the girl’s clothes for his missing letter. He felt the beginnings of panic again when he couldn’t find it, before he hurried over to Jacob, turned the huge man onto his back and, with nervous fingers, almost tore the giant’s clothes apart in his search for the precious parchment.
“God be praised!”
The sergeant-at-arms smiled and exhaled in relief as he pulled the document – now unsealed but otherwise intact – from a pocket in the blacksmith’s leather apron.
His mission was saved. All he
had to do now was deliver the letter to the Prior in Clerkenwell.
“Ah shit,” he growled, looking over at his dead horse. “I’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”
* * *
Sir Richard had managed to bring down three decent-sized hares before deciding that was enough. When he’d picked the little carcasses clean he could come back through the secret tunnel and catch some more, so it seemed wasteful to shoot anything else.
At first he’d been wary; jumping at the slightest noise, fearful the king’s men might sneak up on him, but, after an hour, with the spring sunshine filtering gently through the fresh green foliage and birds and insects going about their business peacefully after the short-lived snowfall yesterday, he started to relax and enjoy the freedom of being outside again.
How did Stephen fare? he wondered. Had his man made it to Clerkenwell safely? Richard knew his sergeant was a hardy fighter, so he was sure Stephen would have made it there safely.
Would the Prior send help though? This was the question that worried the veteran Hospitaller, but he shook the fears from his mind as he contemplated the letter he’d sent to his Order’s headquarters.
Years ago – more than two decades ago in fact – before he became Grand Prior of England, Sir Thomas L’Archer had been Turcopolier in Cyprus, while Sir Richard had newly come to the Order, already a husband and father to two boys.
Richard knew, from entertaining travelling Hospitallers at his commandery in Kirklees recently, that L’Archer had become quite senile over the past few years. Indeed, the old man’s administrative powers – once the stuff of legend – seemed to have utterly deserted him, and, as a result of the Prior’s mismanagement the Order was practically bankrupt in England, despite their growth in the wake of the Templar's demise.
The Thomas L’Archer Sir Richard had known back in Rhodes had been a rather different character though. Far from being senile, he was as sharp as an arrowhead, with an easy smile and an outgoing, friendly way with the locals on the little island.
The sight of a young hart startled the knight from his idle reverie, but it spotted him before he could even think about nocking an arrow to his bow and disappeared silently back into the bushes.
Richard grinned at the sight of the beautiful animal, then he remembered the day he’d found Thomas L’Archer in a…compromising… position back in Cyprus, almost twenty years ago in 1304.
He’d felt like that frightened hart when he blundered into the room and seen the newly promoted Turcopolier, prostrate on the floor, apparently worshipping a stone head. The face was carved with a thick red beard and long hair and it bore a terrible expression which had chilled the new Hospitaller to the bone. He’d mumbled a stunned apology to his superior before closing the door and hurrying from the castle to try and make some sense of what he’d seen, and what he should do about it.
Richard had heard rumours of the rival Order, the Templars, worshipping idols and performing strange rituals, but he'd never expected to find one of his own brethren involved in anything so blasphemous. In the end, Sir Richard had done nothing. He’d never mentioned it to anyone, not even L’Archer, and the Turcopolier had never brought the subject up either.
He liked L'Archer and he was fearful the Order would be irreparably damaged, possibly even destroyed, if something like this became public. Besides, he wasn't even sure exactly what he'd witnessed, he told himself. So, Richard had held his silence on Cyprus, and later while stationed in Rhodes, and been glad of it a few years later when the Templars had been ruined as a result of similar accusations.
Thomas L’Archer was soon promoted even higher in the Order and Sir Richard had found his own fortunes improving as time went on, no doubt thanks to the influence of L’Archer who must have been quietly helping the younger knight in gratitude for his silence.
When L’Archer's close friend, William de Tothale, had been given the position of Grand Prior in England, Sir Richard had been offered the commandery at Kirklees, a place the new prior knew Richard had ties with, his family owning much of the surrounding lands.
Richard had never even considered blackmailing his superior for his own gain – it simply wasn’t in his nature, he was far too honourable a man. And he had been rewarded for his silence.
But desperate times called for desperate measures. Without the help of the prior Sir Richard and his faithful sergeant-at-arms would be destitute, jailed, hanged even, while the king would seize the manor and all its lands from the Hospitallers.
That was why Sir Richard had, with a heavy heart, put in writing a threat to Thomas L’Archer: intervene with King Edward or I’ll tell everyone your secret.
When Stephen delivered the letter to him, the prior would have no choice but to help. If the story got out the scandal would ruin him and irreparably damage the entire Order.
Sir Richard moved quietly through the trees, heading for the hidden entrance back into the castle, lost in thought. Yes, the prior would help, he was absolutely sure of it.
Or the Hospitallers might suffer the same fate as the Templars before them.
* * *
When Sir Philip of Portsmouth had ordered Edmond and Walter Tanner to remain close to Kirklees in case Sir Richard should try to escape the king’s justice they had gladly agreed. Sir Philip was paying well enough, and all they had to do was sit around hiding in the trees close by the castle entrance where they could see who might go in or out. If Sir Richard set foot across the castle door, they were to ride to the village of Kirklees for help in capturing the Hospitaller. King Edward wanted to make a show of the noblemen who had rebelled against him.
Edmond and Walter were brothers and it was obvious to anyone who looked at them. Sons of the tanner in Kirklees and learning the trade themselves, Edmond was older and rather taller, but they shared the same thickset bodies, stumpy limbs and thin brown hair and beards. Walter wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver though, and, as children, Edmond had often been forced to defend his sibling from village bullies. Even now, when they went to the local alehouse Walter’s dull wit seemed to antagonise drunk people. Fortunately they were both able to handle themselves when it came to it, which was why Sir Philip, when he'd heard of their fighting skills, had left only the pair of them to make sure Sir Richard didn’t escape justice.
“Christ, who’s that? Is that Sir Richard?”
Walter barely glanced up at his brother’s surprised whisper.
“It is! Fuck me, how did he get out here? We’ve been watching the front door of that castle for days and it hasn’t moved!”
“It moved when his sergeant came out,” Walter replied innocently.
“Shutup!” Edmond hissed irritably. “You should have woken me up; it’s not my fault he escaped!”
In truth, Edmond had slept late the morning Sir Richard’s sergeant-at-arms had disappeared along the road to the south. Walter had seen the horseman leaving, but, since he’d been told to watch for Sir Richard, hadn’t bothered to waken his hungover brother.
“Never mind him anyway; Sir Philip doesn’t have to know about that. We’ve got more to worry about – look!”
Walter finally turned to follow his older brother’s pointing finger and smiled as he saw the figure some way off, moving between the undergrowth, oblivious to their presence.
“Look, it’s Sir Richard!”
Edmond grinned and slapped his slower brother on the back. “Aye, it is. And he’s alone, with no idea we’re here or he wouldn’t be out. Hunting, from the look of the game he’s carrying.”
“We’d better hurry then,” Walter muttered, standing up and moving in the direction of the village.
“Wait!” Edmond replied, waving his sibling back.
“We need to hurry,” Walter whined. “Or he’ll get away, and Sir Philip will be angry with us.”
“Sir Philip will be bloody overjoyed when he sees us coming,” Edmond grinned, fingering the hilt of his sword. His smile disappeared as he realised his brother didn’t understand w
hat he meant. “We’ll catch the knight by ourselves! Come on, move quietly, and have your weapon ready.”
He moved stealthily into the foliage and headed towards the unwary Hospitaller.
“Edmond, we can’t!” Walter hurried behind fretfully, drawing his own poor quality sword silently from its worn old hide sheath. “He’s a knight! He knows how to fight. We should go to the village and tell the men to catch him.”
“We know how to fight too!” Edmond retorted. “He’s alone, and hasn’t seen us. We ambush him, take his weapons and lead him to Sir Philip. He’ll reward us! Those arseholes in the village won’t laugh at us then.”
The pair flitted through the trees, making their way to a place Edmond knew would make a fine spot for their ambuscade.
Walter didn’t like to argue with his sibling. He knew he wasn’t as smart as Edmond, and he knew his big brother always tried to do what was best for them.
He set his jaw and gripped the hilt of his sword firmly. If Edmond said they could take the knight, that’s what they were going to do.
They came to a large patch of juniper and Edmond motioned for Walter to hide at the back of it, where the little overgrown path came past. “Wait here. When you see Sir Richard coming, step out with your sword and order him to stop. I’ll be over there.” He pointed to the thick trunk of an old beech tree. “When you stop him, I’ll come up behind and stick the point of my sword into his spine.”
Walter grimaced. “Don’t kill him, Ed, he’s been a good lord to us.”
Edmond shook his head and waved his brother behind the bush. “I won’t, I’ll just let him know he better surrender to us. Now, go!”
The knight was in no hurry, it seemed, and Edmond started to think he’d changed course or even returned to his castle by whichever means he’d exited it. Eventually, though, the sounds of heavy footfalls reached him and he tensed, looking over to make sure Walter couldn’t be seen behind the thick branches.
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