Knight's Honor Page 3

He stood tall, panted, and stared at her.

  “You’ll get no apology from me,” she said. “You may be the count’s son, but you have no right to do what you did.”

  “And you have no right to keep up this mystery,” Mok said angrily. “Tell me what game you play.”

  “The sun has baked your head,” she told him. “I play no game.”

  “You are Raha. A pharaoh’s daughter. You tried to execute me.”

  She laughed. “My name is Rachel. I’m a servant girl. And you are a fool.”

  Mok glared at her. At that moment, he truly doubted his own sanity. Before he could say another word, however, a whistling scream drew his attention. It ended in a giant roar. And the tower shook beneath them.

  Chapter 7

  Mok rocked back and forth on his feet. It felt like the entire stone tower had wobbled.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  Rachel pushed her hair back from her face. She calmly opened the cage, stuck in her hand, and pulled out a pigeon. She tied the message to the bird’s leg.

  “I expect that was the beginning of the new attack,” she said. With a gentle throw, she tossed the pigeon into the air. It circled once on whirring wings, then cut a straight line across the sky.

  In Egypt, Mok had believed the events around him to be a wild dream. He had enjoyed the experience then, hoping he might never wake. Now, in confusion and fear, he wished desperately to open his eyes and find himself in his sleep tunnel beneath Old Newyork.

  “But what was it? I mean—”

  Before he could finish his question, another whistling scream grew louder. A movement caught the corner of his eye. Then seconds later, the roar. Followed by another tremor of the tower.

  “A rock,” he said with awe. “A rock the size of . . .”

  “A chariot,” Rachel said. There was no emotion in her voice. “Fired from a catapult. They are close enough now to hit this tower.”

  “Anything else?” Mok asked sarcastically, thinking nothing could be worse.

  “Oh, they have a rope-wound bow. It takes three men to crank. The giant arrow is released with such force that it will go right through a wooden door. Or a man. And when they get closer, they have giant battering rams. With dozens of men behind them, they can run through a wall. And, of course, the burning buckets of pitch shot from smaller catapults.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “But why, my young lord, do you pretend to know none of this? You saw it all as they tore away the outer walls.”

  She was truly not Raha? She was simply, as she said, a servant girl, who fully believed Mok was the son of Count Reynald?

  Mok closed his eyes. He wanted to weep in frustration. So many questions. And not even one answer.

  Another shrieking whistle. Followed by the explosion and shuddering walls.

  “Please,” Mok said, “help me.”

  “My lord? You do not look well.”

  “Pretend I am a stranger, just dropped inside these castle walls,” Mok said. “Explain why the army has attacked. And why Count Reynald would follow the man named Christ into death.”

  Rachel studied him to see if he were joking.

  Mok’s face must have showed the anguish and confusion he felt. Her frown relented and her own face softened.

  “Sit beside me,” she said. “Unless a rock lands right on top of us, we will be safe here. These walls should stand for at least a week.”

  She sat and drew her knees up. “Why has this army attacked? A few hundred years ago, great Crusades were fought to conquer this land. Now, we in turn are being conquered. By Mamelukes. Long ago, they were slaves brought to serve the Turks of this region. They revolted against the Turks, and have begun to lay claim to the entire Holy Land. Our castle is the last stronghold of Christian knights remaining.”

  “The Holy Land . . . ,” Mok whispered. “Tell me about the man from Galilee.” Even with the rocks thudding into the walls, Mok had to know. From his childhood, he’d wondered about this man. And here, finally, was someone who might know.

  “The man from Galilee,” she repeated softly. “He was born nearly 1,300 years ago. This is the year 1296, and history is marked by his birth.”

  “He was that important,” Mok mused. The sunlight warmed his shoulders. All he could see was the line of the low walls and the blue sky beyond. If it weren’t for the catapulted rocks, it would have been a peaceful place to talk to a beautiful girl. “This man from Galilee must have been a king. An emperor. Or even more important.”

  “He was a simple carpenter,” she said, smiling. “A man who made his living by working with wood.”

  “Only a carpenter? But how—”

  Her smile broadened. As teacher, she was enjoying the response of her student as she guided him in his understanding of the Galilee Man.

  “He was alive on this earth for only thirty-three years. Yet because of him, we are here in the castle thirteen centuries later. Over the last two hundred years, our armies have fought to protect the Holy Land for pilgrims who wish to visit the land of his birth.”

  “How could one man have such impact?” Mok asked.

  “Because,” she said, “he is the Son of God.”

  “Is?” Mok asked. “Not was?”

  She opened her mouth to reply but stopped as a trumpet blare echoed in long, mournful blasts.

  She stood quickly and pulled Mok to his feet.

  “That is a signal calling every person to the walls,” she said. “We must join them in the battle!”

  Chapter 8

  Mok stood on top of the thick stone walls that formed the final protection to the courtyard. He could hardly believe his eyes. Below him, swarms of soldiers advanced in waves.

  A few steps away on each side of Mok were knights in full armor. They formed a line up and down all the walls. Mok had counted earlier. Fewer than two hundred men.

  And below?

  Thousands upon thousands of soldiers.

  What frightened Mok the most was their silence. They moved ahead almost grimly. No war cries to give them false courage, just quiet determination to finish their task.

  Behind those soldiers were their great war machines. Creaking on wooden wheels were huge catapults. Behind the catapults, men pushed the long battering rams.

  The soldiers moved easily over the filled moats.

  The knights atop the castle walls were also silent as they waited for the soldiers to near the castle.

  Then the first wave of soldiers reached the walls. They began to throw grappling hooks upward. These were like huge fishing hooks, attached to thick rope. The iron hooks clanged over the stone walls and held. Soldiers grabbed the ropes and began to climb.

  Still the knights did not move.

  Count Reynald waited until the soldiers below had almost reached the top.

  “Now!” Count Reynald shouted.

  His knights slashed downward with their swords, cutting the ropes. The climbing soldiers fell backward onto soldiers below them.

  At the same time, other knights rolled head-sized boulders over the walls. The bottom of the thick walls curved outward. The boulders followed the curve at high speed, bouncing into the ranks of soldiers below.

  Yet other knights began firing arrows. And the women who remained in the castle poured buckets of heated oil over the walls.

  The sultan’s army did not slow the attack.

  For every fallen soldier, three others replaced him. More grappling hooks reached the stone walls. More soldiers below fired arrows upward.

  And so the grim battle continued for hours.

  Whenever Mok could, he looked around. He did not see one fallen knight. Such was the advantage of a position on top of the stone walls.

  But how long could their supply of rocks and arrows and oil hold? How long could they continue to cut ropes before exhaustion set in? Even now, Mok was so thirsty he could hardly move. Only desperation kept him fighting.

  If the enemy soldiers managed to crest the walls . . .r />
  One hour of fighting. Two. Then three.

  Suddenly, it ended. Just as everything looked lost, just as the knights were falling from fatigue, the army below began an orderly retreat.

  Mok did not have to wonder long at the reason.

  From far away, he saw the single line of horses riding toward the castle. At the lead was Tabarie, the messenger from the sultan. He carried a long pole with a white flag waving at the top.

  None of the knights fired arrows at him or the other riders.

  At the castle doors, he reined his horse to a stop.

  “Open your doors!” Tabarie shouted up. “The sultan has another message!”

  “Move your army farther away,” Count Reynald shouted down in a ragged voice. He did not want them to pour in through the open doors, not after all the effort to keep them from swarming over the top of the walls.

  Tabarie ordered his army back and waited on his horse. Finally, Count Reynald judged it was safe to open the doors.

  Mok joined Count Reynald and his wife and Rachel in the courtyard to listen to Tabarie.

  Chapter 9

  in The courtyard, Tabarie’s face was shiny with sweat. It took two servants to help him off his horse. He dusted off his cloak with deliberate slowness, knowing that Count Reynald and the others had no choice but to wait.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. The miners below continued their work, blind to the events above.

  “A valiant fight,” Tabarie finally said. His efforts at dignity were lost when he wiped sweat from his face with a small cloth. “The sultan is impressed at your braveness. He would rather not destroy such good men. That is why he called back his soldiers.”

  “We will not surrender,” Count Reynald said, “unless the terms have changed.”

  Tabarie did not answer. Instead, he snapped his fingers. Sweat had made them greasy, and no noise resulted. With a look of irritation, he turned his head and shouted at his servants.

  They began to move as if according to a plan.

  One of the servants unrolled a measuring line. Another took the end of the line and trotted away from the inner courtyard toward the castle gates.

  After five minutes of positioning and repositioning the line, and after much rapid discussion in a language Mok could not understand, the two servants nodded agreement at their measurements. A third serv-ant produced a piece of chalk and stooped to draw on the round, flat stones of the courtyard floor.

  The sun had begun to settle, and long shadows filled the courtyard.

  Except for the scratching of chalk and the eerie tap, tap, tap that never ceased, it was silent as the servant drew a circle almost half the size of the courtyard. The servant straightened and nodded that his task was complete.

  Tabarie spoke again. “Not only have we undermined your outer walls, but we have also dug beneath your inner courts. Below this circle lies the cave our slaves have mined over the last six weeks. By noon tomorrow, it will finally be complete.”

  Count Reynald looked at the circle. “As you say.”

  Tabarie smiled. “The cave is propped with wooden beams. We will pile brush inside. Unless you surrender by tomorrow evening, we will light the brush. Once we start the fire below, the courtyard floor and the walls around it will crack in the heat and collapse. Your great tower will topple. And the sultan promises that his soldiers will not leave a single person inside alive.”

  “Your terms of surrender?” Count Reynald said. “The same as before? If so, we refuse. Our souls are more important to us than our lives.”

  “The terms have changed,” Tabarie said. “Indeed, you will not be asked to deny the Christ Jesus you call Savior.”

  “Then we accept.”

  “Not so fast.” Tabarie smiled. “You need not deny the Christ. Yet the sultan says he still needs a public denial from this family. The sultan has said it will satisfy him if it comes from your son.”

  Tabarie turned to Mok.

  “What do you say?” he asked Mok with a sly grin. “Will you denounce the Christ? Will you tell the people of this land that you do not believe in him or his cause?”

  Chapter 10

  All eyes in the courtyard turned upon Mok. He swallowed, trying to get moisture into his suddenly dry mouth.

  “Your father has made a declaration of his beliefs,” Tabarie said. “You need not die for his stubbornness. And a simple word from you will save him. Let me ask again. Does he speak for you? Yes or no.”

  The seconds moved as slowly as the shadows that crept across the courtyard.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Mok swallowed again.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Below them, slaves widened the cave.

  Tabarie stepped closer to Mok. “Think carefully before you answer. I now place not only your life in your hands, but also your father’s and your mother’s. Indeed, speak up against these foolish beliefs, and you shall save every person still alive within these walls.”

  “Son . . . ,” Count Reynald tried.

  “Silence,” Tabarie snapped. “He has a will of his own. Let him speak for himself. The sultan will take as much satisfaction in the son’s denial as in the count’s. Across this land, his word will suffice as yours. And we will be freed of the Crusaders and their beliefs.”

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The pickaxes below sounded much louder in the concentrated silence that fell upon the group. All stared at Mok and waited for his answer.

  Mok thought of his audiobook and the man from Galilee. A man who promised a home to lost children.

  If the Galilee Man was real—something Mok was determined to discover—would Mok find the home he wanted to believe waited for him? He thought of the lonely, fearful nights he had spent in the concrete caves of Old Newyork, wishing his father and mother had not died. He had had only the audiobook and its promises to comfort him.

  Yet . . .

  Yet what if the Galilee Man were only legend? What if the stories were only stories, meant simply to comfort small children? By speaking against a man who might only be legend, then, Mok could save these people. What could it hurt to denounce a legend?

  Mok remembered something from the audiobook. Don’t be afraid of people. They can only kill the body. They cannot kill the soul.

  Mok saw the determination on Count Reynald’s face, on his wife’s face. These two were willing to die for what they believed. There must be a good reason for it, he told himself.

  A carpenter who lived only thirty-three years. Yet in the centuries that followed his death, armies had fought for him.

  Legend or truth?

  Could the man of Galilee truly be the Son of God?

  In a flash, Mok realized that was the single greatest decision to be made in any life. Legend or Son of God? For if the man of Galilee was the Son of God, every life must be lived in the light of that great truth. A truth that would echo through the centuries.

  “Well,” Tabarie said, “answer me. Your life depends on it.”

  “Son,” Count Reynald said, “your soul also depends on it. Which is of more importance? A brief life on earth, no matter how painful? Or an eternity of love beyond this life?”

  A strange feeling of peace filled Mok. He remembered, too, as a child listening to the audiobook, there had been times it seemed the Galilee Man had stood right beside him.

  “I stand with Count Reynald,” Mok said. “I stand beside him with the man from Galilee.”

  Tabarie glared at them.

  “Tomorrow,” Tabarie said, “go to the turrets of your castle. Watch for a long line of slaves carrying brush and wood into the depths of the earth below our feet. And tomorrow evening? Prepare for the fire that will bring the walls down so that our soldiers may massacre you.”

  Chapter 11

  Mainside.

  At his Mainside home, the Committee member sat in his private office. Here, not even his family dared interrupt his work or thoughts.

  The office was lined with dark-oa
k wall panels. The desk in it was large, almost empty except for a vidphone. The phone itself was small, but the vidscreen was the size of a television. The Committee member stared at it, biting his nails as he waited.

  When the phone rang, he punched the receive button, cutting the ring to silence.

  “You answered quickly,” the face on the vidscreen said.

  “Your Worldship!”

  “You were expecting someone else?” the president of the World United asked. The large screen clearly showed the man’s sneer. The man’s face was obviously reconstructed, which did little to help hide his age or his distress

  “I’ve been paged to expect a conference call with all of the Committee members,” he replied, forcing his own face not to show nervousness. As clearly as he could see the president, the president could see him.

  “Then my call is timely. Something has happened. Correct?”

  “Correct, Your Worldship. The Welfaro candidate is well into the cyberstage. He was given two choices: denying Christ or facing death when the castle falls. He chose death.”

  “This is not a good thing,” the president said. He stroked his chin as he spoke.

  “There is nothing to fear. If the candidate dies in cyberspace he dies in—”

  “You’ve explained that to me a dozen times. No, you fool, I am disturbed for another reason. Have you no concept of history?”

  “Your Worldship?”

  “David and Goliath. Joan of Arc. Billy Graham. All it takes is one to turn the tide of history. Something about deep childlike faith arms them against overwhelming odds. I will not underestimate our opponent.”

  “Is it time to send someone in, Your Worldship? We have a sequence code for emergencies. Perhaps an assassin in cyberspace . . .”

  “Let me think on that,” the president said. “For now, I believe it will serve our purpose if the Committee thinks it is safe from interference. On the other hand—”

  An urgent beeping interrupted.

  “Your Worldship, the conference call has arrived.”

  “I am not finished with you.”

  “Your Worldship, if I do not answer, Cambridge will wonder what was more important than a Committee gathering.”