Knightfall--The Infinite Deep

by DAVID B. COE

  “Perhaps. That’s for God to say, not me. And not you, either. Your leg will heal fully, or it won’t. In the meantime, I need as many knights as possible. We are still a long way from home, and before we reach France again, I’m certain we’ll have need of every sword on this ship. I need to know that I can count on yours.”

  Gawain stepped away from the rail to face Godfrey, setting both feet despite the renewed pain in his leg. “You can.”

  The commander continued to lean on the side of the ship, but he casually looked Gawain up and down. “Good.”

  “That’s all?” Gawain asked. “Just ‘good?’”

  “You’re a Templar. You expect me to bestow a medal upon you for standing straight?”

  Gawain glared at him. But at a grin from Godfrey his pique sluiced away. Before he knew it, he was grinning as well, then laughing.

  “The two of you are making a good deal of noise.” Landry walked to where they stood, holding his wounded arm to his chest.

  “That they are.” Tancrede emerged from the shadows to join them as well, Draper with him. Victor, Thomas, Nathaniel, and Brice followed. “I thought I heard Gawain laugh,” Tancrede went on, “but I know that can’t be right. A sea sprite, then?”

  The others chuckled at this, though all of them watched Gawain, gauging his response. He allowed himself another grin, but he couldn’t deny the truth behind Tancrede’s jest. In the last days before Acre fell, all of them had been grim, and since his injury he had grown morose. But even before the siege began, when it seemed that the knights would hold Acre against whatever the Saracens threw at them, he had been so serious. He hadn’t always been thus, and he couldn’t say with any certainty what had changed him. He had no memory of the last time he had laughed, or taken simple pleasure in the company of friends. That bothered him.

  “Where do we go from here?” Landry asked after a brief silence.

  The others sobered at the question. Gawain looked to Godfrey, as did Draper and Tancrede.

  “If we could sail all the way back to France, I would,” the commander said. “But obviously, that’s impossible. We have too many with us who aren’t soldiers. We need to find a safe place to leave them. I thought we had found that in Cyprus.”

  “Do you think the Hospitallers have lost Kolossi?” Landry asked. “Is that why the Saracens were in that village?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. I do know that there are few Templar strongholds left in this region. Nevertheless, we once held a castle at Bagras, in the mountains of Cilician Armenia, and though that was lost some twenty years ago, Templars still hold passes in those mountains. If we can land at Rhosus, and make our way inland, we might join a larger force and improve our chances of eventually returning home.”

  “It could be several days before we can reach Rhosus,” Tancrede said. “Depending on the winds, of course.”

  “I know. But thanks to you, we have food now, and healing herbs. As long as our provisions hold, we should be able to make it.”

  The lean knight lifted a shoulder. “Very well. Rhosus it is.”

  Godfrey considered each of them. “We’ve a long way to go. But I want you to know that there are no other knights I would rather have with me than the eight of you. We will get home. You have my word.”

  The knights exchanged looks. Gawain was reassured by what he saw in the faces of his brothers, and he allowed himself to believe Godfrey might be right.

  “Off with you, then,” the commander said. “Rest well. I’ll take the first watch. Tancrede, I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

  “Of course.”

  The Templars arranged themselves throughout the ship, keeping to the deck, where they could respond without delay to unexpected threats.

  Gawain doubted he would find rest, but almost as soon as he lay down, he felt himself drifting toward sleep. His last clear thought was that Godfrey had been wrong: he could have a hand in determining his own fate. He resolved to become again the knight he had once been.

  * * *

  She wakes to darkness, to air that is sour and still and overly warm. Nearby, her father snores. Others do as well. But those are not the noises that have awakened her. She rolls over and surveys the small hold. Inconstant light pools on the floor beneath the hatch: the glow from the torches above.

  A shadow shifts near that spot, wood squeaks and the shadow freezes. Adelina sits up, frightened now. She thinks about waking her father.

  The shadow approaches her, takes form. Not a ghost or a pirate – she has imagined both – but rather Egan, another passenger, like her, like her father. He’s round, soft. Or he was, early in their journey. Seeing him now in the dim light, she realizes that he has become lean over the past weeks. He has small, dark eyes, widely spaced in a round face. His light hair, which had been short, has grown unruly from neglect.

  He holds a finger to his lips, says, “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just…” He shakes his head, as if at something she has said. “You should go back to sleep.”

  She glances past him, then peers more closely at something he holds in his hand. He hides it behind his back, but by then it is too late. She knows what she has seen. Cheese, and a long strip of meat. Twice as much as Tancrede gave to her and her father that afternoon.

  Egan’s shoulders sag, and he darts his gaze around the hold before leaning closer to her.

  “I’m just so hungry. You understand, don’t you?”

  She does, but she doesn’t answer. She knows what he’s doing, how wrong it is. But she says nothing, wakes no one.

  “It can be our secret,” he says, moving still closer. “You needn’t tell anyone.”

  He rips the strip of meat in half. She can smell it. Smokey, salty. Her mouth waters.

  Egan holds it out to her. “Here. Take it.” He gives it a small shake. “It’s yours. You have some, I have some. And no one else is the wiser.” He smiles.

  Adelina hesitates. This is wrong, she thinks. And then, I’m so hungry.

  She stares at the food, caught between guilt and desire. Egan watches her. When he shakes the meat a second time, she reaches out and takes it from him, like a feral dog. He nods once, motions for her to lie down, which she does.

  Egan creeps back into the shadows. Adelina is certain he will eat more than just the cheese and meat. Again, she thinks that she should tell someone. Instead, she takes a small bite of the meat, closes her eyes at the touch of salt and game on her tongue. She eats the strip in small bites, chewing slowly, savoring every morsel.

  When at last it’s gone, she longs for more. She thinks she can hear Egan still. She wonders how much he has eaten, what the knights will say come morning. Maybe they won’t notice. She dismisses the thought as soon as it comes to her. They will notice. And there will be trouble. She will pay a price for those few bites of meat. All of them will. Her eyes well, and before she knows it, she is sobbing. She tries to stifle the sound, afraid to wake her father, terrified that he will smell smoked meat on her breath.

  She hates Egan. She hates herself. She dreads the coming of dawn.

  Chapter 4

  Landry woke to a freshening wind and a cool gray sky. He sat up, hissed a breath at the lingering pain in his shoulder and back. The ship listed hard to port, a northerly wind filling her sails, driving them farther from Cyprus, but also from Cilician Armenia and their destination. Tancrede had taken the rudder and was trying to steer them to the east. Though Landry knew little of seafaring, he could tell that the ship and the wind fought him.

  He stood, and nearly overbalanced. Stepping to the mast, he gripped the wood and gazed out over the Mediterranean. Her waters were roiled. White caps dotted the swells as far as the eye could see. The Tern rose and fell more violently than it had at any time since their departure from Acre. Several of the passengers leaned over the rails, vomiting the previous evening’s meal into the seas.

  Landry caught the scent of rain on the wind, and turning to the west saw a gray smudge in the distance
. He made his way to Tancrede.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. Unless you can control the wind.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  Tancrede shook his head, a smile easing the taut lines of his face. “No. We’re in for some discomfort is all. Rough seas and a good soaking. But I’ve come through worse storms than this in vessels that were less seaworthy.”

  Landry nodded. He locked his eyes on the horizon, hoping to calm his own stomach.

  “You, too?” Tancrede asked.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Normally I would be distributing rations about now, but I doubt anyone will want them. You’re welcome to try, though.”

  Landry returned his gaze to the horizon. “I believe I would rather skip that particular duty, thank you.”

  Tancrede threw back his head and laughed. Landry didn’t share his friend’s amusement.

  Near the prow of the ship, Draper tended to Gawain’s leg. Landry walked forward, knowing the Turcopole would want to change his poultice as well. If his brother knights were as uncomfortable as he with the ship’s motion, they showed no sign of it.

  “You look a bit green, Landry,” Gawain said with too much relish.

  “I’m pleased that my fellow knights find my discomfort so amusing.”

  “Were we better provisioned, there would be remedies I could offer,” Draper said. “Ginger, for instance. Or even a sour fruit.”

  “There should still be fruit,” Gawain added. “Apricots. Figs. I know Tancrede brought back both.”

  “Well, perhaps I’ll try that then.”

  The thought of putting any food in his mouth grew increasingly distasteful with every rise and fall of the ship, but this he kept to himself. He remained by the rail, eyes on the horizon again, until Draper finished with Gawain’s leg and beckoned to him.

  Landry had taken no more than a step in the Turcopole’s direction when Draper stopped him with a raised hand.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I will come to you. You truly do not look well. Your face is as white as our sail.”

  “I feel at home on calm seas. But this…”

  “Forgive me, my friend, but this is nothing.”

  “Yes, so Tancrede has told me.”

  A wry grin lifted the corners of Draper’s mouth. “I’m certain he did.” He loosened Landry’s bandages. “Stand still. Watch the horizon.” He faltered. “And if you must be ill, please warn me first.”

  Despite himself, Landry managed a weak laugh.

  It didn’t take Draper long to change Landry’s dressing, but in that short time, the weather worsened. Gusts of wind buffeted them, and fine drops of rain speckled the ship’s deck. Landry felt sicker by the moment.

  “Find some of that fruit,” Draper said, when he had finished. “I understand that it seems impossible you could eat anything right now—”

  “Or ever.”

  “Yes. But trust me. You will feel better in no time.” He appeared to take note of the others bent over the ship’s rails. “In fact, you should remain here. I will be back shortly.”

  Landry didn’t argue. As Draper walked away, he leaned on the ship’s side, willing himself not to be sick. Draper spoke briefly with Tancrede, then descended into the hold. He emerged again soon after, bearing several pieces of fruit. He cut them into small pieces, which he distributed among those suffering most from the vessel’s motion. He came to Landry last, handed him a slice of fig, its rind bright green, the soft pulp within a rich purple.

  Landry took a tentative bite. Flavor exploded in his mouth. It was sweeter than he had thought, but with a tang of citrus. He swallowed, his nausea receding with that first mouthful, as Draper had promised.

  “That is remarkable.”

  “Eat the rest,” Draper said, his accent rounding the words. “Slowly. When you need more, come and find me.”

  Landry nodded, took another bite. Many of those who had been ill – passenger and Templar alike – appeared to have improved with the arrival of the fruit. Landry finished the piece he’d been given and approached Tancrede.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “You look better.”

  “I feel better. How can I help?”

  “There really isn’t much to be done,” Tancrede said. He scanned the sea, staring into the weather bearing down on them and peering over his shoulder at the expanse they’d crossed thus far. “Stay dry, help anyone who’s still suffering from the seas. I hope we’ll be through this by the end of the day.”

  “Very well,” Landry said, and left him to steer the vessel.

  Conditions on the ship continued to deteriorate through much of the morning and into the afternoon. Rain lashed the ship, driven by a keening wind. As the vessel listed ever more, Tancrede called to his fellow Templars to shorten the sail, lest the storm wind tip the vessel too far.

  “Should we go to sweeps?” Landry asked.

  “I prefer not to,” Tancrede shouted over the gale and the roar of rain and crashing swells. “We need to maintain enough speed to clear the swells.” He frowned up at the sky, wind blasting rain into his face. “Yes, all right. Have them lower the sail. We go to oars.”

  Landry nodded. “Are you still certain we’re in no danger?”

  Tancrede didn’t answer. He regarded Landry before setting his gaze on the sea again.

  Draper and Simon tied ropes around their waists and scrambled up into the rigging to lower the sail. Godfrey led the other Templars and several of their passengers into the hold, where they took up oars and rowed. Gawain and Landry remained on the deck. Their injuries prevented them from climbing or rowing, but neither was willing to leave Tancrede for the safety of the hold. They positioned themselves at the hatch, and relayed instructions from Tancrede to those below.

  At Tancrede’s insistence, they secured themselves with ropes as well, and fastened them to the mast. Within the hour, they were thankful for the precaution. Waves surged over the rails, sweeping across the deck. One knocked both knights off their feet. Landry crashed into the leeward hull, and lay dazed for several seconds. Gawain crawled to his side and helped him up. Landry thought it likely that if not for the rope holding him to the deck, the wave would have carried him overboard.

  Tancrede remained at the rudder, soaked by rain and brine, legs braced, back straight, like some hero from the ancient tales of mariners. He gripped the tiller with both hands, his knuckles white. Despite the raging storm, it appeared to Landry that his friend was enjoying himself.

  After some time, Gawain limped below to check on those passengers who weren’t rowing. He reemerged onto the deck minutes later, concern etched in his face.

  “They’re frightened,” he said. “And sickened. I hope we’re clear before nightfall.”

  Landry said nothing. For the life of him, he couldn’t have hazarded a guess at the time. Already, this day had seemed endless. Were they an hour from dusk? Or three? Or five?

  A huge wave doused the ship, staggering him like a blow. The vessel groaned. Another gust pulled at the furled sailcloth, bowing the mast until Landry thought it must break. The ship climbed a swell, dipped, and plunged into a trough. Landry and Gawain clung to the mast. Screams rose from the hold.

  Landry whispered a prayer, something he should have done sometime before. The exigencies of the storm had banished thoughts of seasickness from his mind, but they had also caused him to neglect the exigencies of piety.

  Beyond supplications to the Lord, however, he felt helpless. He remained near Tancrede, in case his friend required aid. Gawain stayed with him, and Draper joined them on the deck. All of them watched the sky, waiting for some sign of weakening in the storm, or, more ominously, the waning of daylight.

  Neither was forthcoming. The storm raged on. Daylight lingered. It seemed to Landry that they were suspended in a timeless hell of wind and rain and vicious waves. Through it all, Tancrede remained steadfast and resolute. He must have been exhaust
ed, chilled to his core. Landry was both, and he hadn’t been steering the ship since early that morning. Yet Tancrede never wavered.

  But neither could he protect the vessel from all the perils of the tempest.

  Landry had never seen seas like these. Every wave towered over the Tern. Every redoubling of the wind threatened to tear her asunder. So perhaps it was inevitable that she should surrender under this onslaught. Another wave lifted the vessel and dropped her into a deep swale. At the same time, a fresh burst of wind slammed the ship. The hull shuddered. The mast screamed in protest. Still the wind built. The ship bucked, rose, and plummeted again.

  Tancrede shouted a warning, his words swallowed by the storm, but his intent clear. Landry pivoted to face him, and heard behind him the rending of wood.

  More cries, these from Draper and Gawain.

  Someone crashed into Landry’s back, knocking him to the brine-slicked wood. The impact jarred his shoulder. He cried out.

  An instant later, the vessel rocked as if smote by a great fist. This elicited more screams from the hold. Tancrede called to them again. Landry had no idea what he said. He lifted his head, twisted to see what had happened. His shoulder burned in protest. Draper lay beside him, his long, dark hair soaked, each drawn breath sounding like a struggle. Beyond him, the top of the mast rested on the crushed leeward rail, having snapped in two. Cloth from the furled sail flapped in the wind, and a tangle of rope draped across the deck, like the web of a giant spider.

  Gawain and Draper climbed to their feet on the far side of the mast. Landry did the same.

  “I need the rest of you on sweeps!” Tancrede called. “And any below who can help. We need more speed to navigate these seas!”

  The Templars started for the hatch. But Draper halted, forcing Landry to do the same.

  “You cannot row!” he said over the rush of wind and water. “Not with your shoulder the way it is!”

  “Yes, I can! You heard him! He needs all of us—”

  “Listen to me, Landry! You cannot! What you can do is remain by the hatch and repeat his commands to those of us below. This is even more important now than it was before.”