Blades of Valor Read online

  Sir William frowned at him, his furrowed brow clear even in the flickering light of the lamps. “You find humor in this?”

  Thomas stood and spoke as he ran his fingers along the rough stone of the tunnel walls.

  “It is only because I feel the coldness of this stone that I can believe this is not a dream of madness,” Thomas said. “How else but with laughter can one face the storms of life?”

  “Well spoken,” Sir William said. “And this is indeed a storm. I have not yet heard what troubles have led you here to the Holy Land. Katherine, I am sure, will tell me the sad news later, during the long hours of travel that face us.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Katherine? Not I?” Instinctively, he dropped his hand to his sword. “Do you imply that I will not be there?”

  Sir William groaned and raised a hand as if fending off attack. “Must you be so untrusting? Did I not help you secure Magnus from the Druids?”

  “Trust is the one thing I wish I could possess,” Thomas said softly. “While much has been explained, too little knowledge has yet been given me.

  “That day at the gallows last year,” Thomas challenged. “Why was the old man there, the same old man who so mysteriously appeared later with Katherine as they followed me throughout England? And you, Sir William—why were you there at the gallows with the old man? I cannot believe in coincidence.”

  The knight answered, “Think back, Thomas. Had Sarah not always told you about a knight who would appear from the land of the sun?”

  Thomas nodded. He remembered that. He remembered her instructions. He remembered, too, the chant Sarah had taught him, the chant he had heard later from the people of Magnus, that the one to reconquer Magnus would arrive as if delivered on the wings of an angel. Thomas remembered how Sarah had again and again told him to wait for the one knight he would need to free Magnus.

  Thomas exhaled. His voice remained steady as he spoke again. “You expected me to appear at the gallows that day?”

  “Yes,” Sir William said. “How else might we get you to come forth without exposing ourselves to unseen and unknown Druids?”

  “Yet had I not appeared,” Thomas countered, “you would have swung from the rope.”

  Sir William shook his head in gentle disagreement. “The old man was there. Had you not appeared, he would have ensured my life and we would have begun our search for you.”

  “Ensured your life?” Thomas asked.

  Sir William now nodded. “After all, he had arranged the time of execution to match that of the darkness of the sun.”

  Thomas gaped. “The old man had such worldly power?”

  The knight chuckled. “Hawkwood’s powers are vast and seemingly unlimited, eh, Katherine? Oh, the stories we could tell you! When we are all reunited, I’ll ask him to recount the time he convinced an entire army of Moors to remove all their—”

  “Hawkwood is dead, Sir William,” Katherine whispered.

  “Dead?” The word was uttered in disbelief. “But you did not speak of—”

  “Dead,” Katherine repeated. “Magnus is in the hands of the Druids. They rapidly expand their power among the people of northern England, and the old man is dead.”

  The knight stood quickly. Urgency now filled his voice. “Thomas, our continued survival is of utmost importance. All the more reason, then, that we separate now and travel apart. The assassins will be searching for three. And you, or Katherine and I, must reach our destination.”

  Sir William turned to Katherine. “He shall go by caravan. You and I on foot. Tell me all during our journey. I must not delay in giving instructions to Thomas.”

  “Katherine,” Thomas said, “we cannot leave Beast to die at the inn.”

  “Your puppy shall be taken care of,” Sir William said, already gripping his lamp and leading them forward. Some sixty steps later, Sir William stooped to retrieve a package.

  He gave it to Thomas.

  “This must remain sealed. Guard it with every fiber of your body and soul,” Sir William said. “Too much of our battle against the Druids depends on its safe arrival—with you—in Jerusalem. After we visit Nazareth.”

  “Nazareth,” Thomas repeated.

  “Yes. For your father awaits you there.”

  Thomas felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. “Impossible,” he whispered. “My father died in Magnus—burned, along with my sister and brother.”

  The knight nodded. “I know that is what you believe. There is much for you to learn, as you will see. But for now we must move.”

  Seven

  My father, Lord Mewburn, extends his greetings,” Isabelle said to the older man in front of her.

  They sat upon facing benches in a courtyard with an open view to the west, the serrated edges of palm leaves outlined against the pinks and oranges of the clouds that hid a setting sun.

  The older man sat with his back to the sun, so that Isabelle was forced to squint and couldn’t see his face clearly. She knew this was a battle tactic as old as warfare itself.

  Beside her a filthy Rowan sat quietly. Earlier, Isabelle had tried to send him into a public bath and wanted to buy him new clothing. He’d fought against it and won, telling her that if he looked too English, he would look as foreign in this land as she did, and that would make it more difficult to be her guide and translator.

  The older man grunted. He was a former knight, in his midforties, with the build of the warrior that he once was. “What you are really saying is that Lord Mewburn demands I help you with anything you request.”

  “What a relief. I don’t have to explain that to you then,” Isabelle said. “Or the consequences to befall you if you don’t.”

  The older man said, “I would need proof that you are his daughter.”

  “As I would need proof that you are Lord Baldwin.”

  He opened his hands wide. “This comfortable estate is not enough?”

  She glanced at his bare fingers. “You have a ring to show me?”

  “Not in front of the boy.”

  “My name is Rowan,” Rowan said quietly. “You may have known my father.”

  “I doubt that,” Baldwin said with a degree of snobbery.

  “His name was Geoffrey Harcourt.”

  Baldwin raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Of course.”

  He turned to Isabelle. “The reason for this boy’s presence?”

  “He is my guide.”

  “And you trust him, a boy of fanciful tales?”

  “More than I trust you. Until I see a ring.”

  “Give us privacy,” Baldwin told Rowan.

  Rowan merely gave Baldwin a calm smile and did not move.

  “Rowan,” Isabelle said, “please go to the far end of the courtyard. You can keep watch over me from there.”

  “As you wish,” Rowan said. He rose and spoke to Baldwin. “If you harm her, I shall make sure you pay.”

  Baldwin laughed as the boy walked away.

  “So young to be so deluded,” Baldwin said to Isabelle. “What would he do—snap at my fingers?”

  “The ring,” Isabelle said, adding steel to her voice. She found it slightly perplexing that she was angry at Baldwin for mocking Rowan. The boy’s gallantry was refreshing to her. He offered it with no expectation of any kind of repayment or advancement, unlike all other men she had dealt with. Except for Thomas. Thomas didn’t want anything from her. But then, Thomas didn’t want anything to do with her either.

  “To claim Geoffrey Harcourt as his father is outrageous,” Baldwin said. “Harcourt was one of the greats. He was there with us at Guillaume de Beaujeu’s side, defending this city to the end.”

  “The ring.”

  “Je ne m’enfuis pas,” Baldwin mused. “Je suis mort. Voici le coup.”

  “You prefer to practice your French? Fine. Obviously you have no interest in conversation with me.” Isabelle stood and noticed that Rowan, attentive, took a step in her direction from the far corner of the courtyard. “I am finished
here. You are not the man my father promised you were. That is something I will, of course, report to him.”

  “Sit,” Baldwin said. He pulled at a necklace and showed a ring at the end of the silver chain. “Permit me my memories.”

  He handed Isabelle the ring, and she saw the symbol that matched her own ring, also on a silver chain around her neck. She sat, and Rowan moved back to the far wall but kept watching.

  “I was there,” Baldwin said. “‘Je ne m’enfuis pas. Je suis mort. Voici le coup.’ Those were Beaujeu’s last words. He had dropped his sword and walked away from the walls that we defended. We all called for him not to surrender. Geoffrey Harcourt among us. Beaujeu answered us, ‘I am not running away. I am dead. Here is the blow.” ’

  Baldwin gave a smile that was almost a grimace. “It sounded more eloquent in French. And Beaujeu lifted his arm and showed us the mortal wound. He died of that wound, and the city fell that day. Harcourt among them.”

  He gave Isabelle a direct gaze. “I can tell you that Harcourt did not have a son. So I caution you not to trust the boy. If a person is deceitful in one thing, you know he is deceitful in others. You have a ring for me?”

  Isabelle removed it and handed it to Baldwin, who examined it closely and then nodded in approval before handing it back to her.

  “St. Jean d’Acre fell twenty-two years ago,” Isabelle said, again perplexed that she felt a need to defend Rowan and his earnestness. “He says his father died the day before he was born, ten years ago. He could not possibly have passed his twelfth birthday. But who is to say that Harcourt did not survive his wounds and live on to sire a son? Or were you consulted on all census matters in Acre?” she asked tartly.

  Baldwin scowled. “I would have my doubts, if I were you. It’s obvious by the boy’s appearance that he lives on the streets. Orphans tend to want to believe they are special in some way. Keep that in mind.”

  “I do not need your help in this matter.”

  “What matter, then?”

  “You are one of us, and you are pledged to serve when commanded.”

  “Make it a request, and I shall help. I do not take kindly to being commanded.”

  “There is a merchant named Muzzamar. You know of him.”

  “Certainly. He tends to respond well to bribery.”

  “Then meet with him. Pay him what it takes to learn why a knight called Sir William has—”

  “William is in Acre?” Baldwin leaned forward, making his sudden interest clear.

  Isabelle smiled in satisfaction at that. “So you aren’t uniquely aware of all who pass through these streets at any given moment.” Part of her thrilled to vindicate Rowan in this small way. But even more importantly, she did not miss Baldwin’s indignation at the knight’s name. “And am I also to understand that you are not a friend of his?”

  “I am not a friend of his.”

  “Then you and I are allies against a common enemy. You heard about the fire today?”

  “I did. What happened?”

  “Sir William escaped. It strikes me as strange, though. At my request, Rowan followed William today. Rowan reported back to me that after the fire the knight spent a half hour in discussion with Muzzamar, who, as Rowan discovered, leaves tomorrow with his camel caravan for Damascus. I need you to meet with Muzzamar immediately and find out what was discussed. After that, you and I will decide what action needs to be taken.” Baldwin grinned. “If it is a strike against William, this will be a pleasure. You wait here and my servants will feed you while I speak with Muzzamar.”

  “Us.”

  “Us?” Baldwin echoed.

  “Your servants will feed Rowan and me while we wait.”

  Eight

  Thomas woke to great shrieking groans. Startled and confused, he sat straight up, unconscious of the blanket dropping away from his upper body.

  The light around him was dim and diffused to a hazy, pale glow, and it took great effort for him to distinguish from that light the tent walls that surrounded him.

  The great shrieking groans grew louder.

  Then he heard giggles behind him.

  He clutched the blanket and swung around to see two veiled servant girls, one carrying a pitcher, the other a basin. Their giggles continued.

  Thomas mustered as much dignity as possible.

  “The madness outside?” He stumbled through those words in their Arabic language, so strange yet so familiar. “Is it not early in the day for torture and executions?”

  More giggles.

  Before Thomas could enquire further, the tent flaps swirled open and a large figure entered, dark against the sunlight that streamed in behind his back.

  “Be gone!” the figure roared. “Leave this man in peace!”

  The girls merely giggled again, and only when the large man advanced with an uplifted, threatening hand did they run past him, still giggling.

  It was the Arab, Muzzamar. Thomas had seen him briefly the night before, and then only by the light of a small torch, as he and Sir William bartered with great animation.

  Although Muzzamar was obviously fat, even with the layers of fine and colorful cloth draped around him, he moved with a softness that suggested athletic grace. His eyes, almost lost within that broad face, were sharp. The gray goatee, well trimmed. The deep lines around his mouth showed years of laughter, yet no man reached his age and position without the ability to dispatch the most vicious enemy, and Thomas warned himself to be on his guard.

  Muzzamar lowered himself to sit on a stool near Thomas. “This generation has little respect for their elders. In my youth, I would have been whipped for hesitation to obey any command.”

  The large man continued a steady stream of complaints, but Thomas could see the man used the noise of his own words as a screen while his sharp eyes studied Thomas. During the previous night, their meeting had been hurried, and most of Muzzamar’s attention had been on the knight who carried the purse of gold and negotiated a price of safe passage for Thomas.

  The shrieks and groans outside reached a higher pitch.

  Thomas lifted an eyebrow in question.

  “Camels,” Muzzamar explained. “Evil beasts. Smelly, stubborn, and evil. Put upon this earth only to try men’s souls. They will protest their load this soundly every morning until we reach Damascus.”

  Thomas pressed his leg against the sealed package beside him beneath the blanket. “Am I not to travel to Nazareth?”

  “Of course, of course,” the man said. “From here, we travel to the Valley of Jezreel. After several days’ passage through the valley, near Mount Tabor, a road leads north to Nazareth. Some of my men will take you there as this caravan continues northeast to Damascus. Did not your friend explain?”

  “Sir William had time to explain little,” Thomas said. “He cautioned me to avoid soldiers who might inspect this caravan.”

  “Good advice indeed,” Muzzamar said quickly. “And something I cannot repeat enough. We travel in this land only by a pass of safe conduct granted by the Mamelukes. That safe conduct does not include passage for men from across the Great Sea. Should you be discovered, I cannot vouch for your life.”

  Muzzamar gestured behind Thomas. “Those worthless servant girls left you clothes of the desert. Protect your face from sun and wind, of course, but also from curious Mameluke soldiers. You will travel among the slaves, but even so, be advised to wear a covering at all times.”

  Muzzamar paused, then said, “I should not worry overmuch about the soldiers, however. This caravan carries much wealth. On these roads, we face a much greater danger from bandits.”

  Thomas hardly noticed the passing of hours.

  It had been a new experience, to be sure, his first moments atop the great humped beast. The camel had been on its knees until expert hands guided Thomas into the small saddle atop the hump. Then the camel had awkwardly pushed itself up on splayed legs until Thomas sat high above the ground. Infrequently, the camel had turned its massive head and snorted foul
breath as it attempted to regard its new rider. But the slave trader traveling alongside Thomas had whipped the camel’s neck upon each occasion, and now the camel contented itself with maintaining the pace of the caravan.

  And, for the first few miles, Thomas had marveled at the relative smoothness of this method of transportation. Except for the pressure of the litter, which he knew would leave him sore by the end of the day, he had the impression he was bobbing in a waterless sea. And to think, if what he had been told was true, these great beasts could go days without drinking.

  Thomas had idly wondered if it would be practical to take camels back to England, and that had led to renewed memories of Magnus. And those memories had then led to his usual doubts and questions.

  In the last few days, Katherine had answered much—if the answers were to be trusted. The knight, too, had helped.

  Even now, contemplating it for the thousandth time, Thomas still felt an odd mixture of thrill and relief at his role in this ancient, secret battle. His childhood, the mystery behind Magnus, the precious books of knowledge. The destiny given him by Sarah, his mother.

  The caravan snaked slowly forward beneath the hot sun, reminding him of his latest bit of acquired knowledge. Hawkwood had orchestrated Thomas’s takeover of Magnus by vanishing the sun and sending him Sir William. Of course, there were questions about who had also sent treacherous Isabelle. What was he to make of that? And aside from that, how had Hawkwood possessed the power among ruling men to arrange a hanging on the day and hour that an eclipse would occur?

  Both the knight and Katherine had said that the Immortals were unable to reveal themselves to Thomas because his true allegiance was uncertain. Their suspicion was simple but well founded—they feared that the Druids, in the years following Sarah’s death, had found Thomas and converted him. Sir William, Katherine, and the old man could not know, and thus, could not give him the answers he needed. How could he prove his worth?

  Both the knight and Katherine had hinted that the Druids might—through Thomas—find the one single secret they needed to end the centuries-old battle.