Blades of Valor (20 page)

Rashim fell backward. His knife clattered against the ground.

“Run, Katherine!” Thomas shouted, then whirled, sword in front, to help Sir William.

And at that moment, the world seemed to come to an end.

A great light exploded in Thomas’s eyes.

He staggered and reeled as a wave of heat roared past him. If he screamed, he could not hear it among the screams of panic from the bandits.

Then, as the echoes of thunder died, and as his eyes began to adjust to the new darkness, he saw them in the light of the fallen torches.

Phantoms. Twice the size of a man. Floating downward toward him.

The bandits fell facedown on the ground in terror.

Thomas, dazed, barely realized he still carried his sword.

Sir William, whose back was to the phantoms, reacted quickly to the sudden surrender of the bandits. He kicked their swords into the pit and stood above them, ready to strike any who might try to rise.

And still the phantoms descended in the dying light.

Rashim began to babble in terror, drool smearing the side of his face and matting his beard.

“Sir William,” Thomas finally managed to say.

Although he had remained standing, the explosion and the appearance of the ghostly specters had taken away his voice.

Sir William turned his head, just as the first phantom drifted into him. He laughed and swung his sword into it.

Thomas blinked.

The weapon had slashed through white cloth.

A voice reached them from the darkness.

“Forgive me,” the voice said. “I could think of no other way to prepare for your arrival.”

Thomas thought of the footprints, the line of dark powder along the edge of the pit.
That bitter taste! Charcoal, sulfur, and potassium nitrate. Explosive powder.

He found himself grinning. Only an Immortal would have knowledge of this secret from the Far East land of Cathay.

And the phantoms. Cloth supported by a framework of branches. Thomas himself had once been fooled by the same trick. By a campfire. In England. By an old man who had traveled with Katherine.

A protest of disbelief arose, then faded unspoken in his throat.
The old man is dead,
Thomas wanted to utter.
I saw him dead.

But a figure emerged from the darkness. A familiar stooped and hooded figure that had haunted so many of Thomas’s dreams. The old man who had once seemed to know Thomas’s every step.

Could Thomas believe what he saw?

The answer came from Katherine.

She ran past the prone bandits and threw her arms around the old man.

“My child,” the old man soothed, “if only I could have sent word.”

“Hawkwood! You are here,” Katherine said over and over again. “You are here and alive.”

When their embrace finally ended, the old man stepped past Katherine to face Sir William and Thomas.

“It appears you had little need of assistance,” the old man said. “I could have waited in St. Jean d’Acre for your return. The leisure would have served my bones much better than travel alone and unobserved through this harsh land.”

Sir William grinned. “Hardly. We had not yet won this sword fight. And an entire army pursues us. I had begun to wonder when you might appear.”

“You knew?” Katherine cried. “You knew Hawkwood was alive and did not let me know?”

“In a way, I did, for what promise did you overhear me make to Thomas?” Sir William asked. “But against the Druids, it pays well to keep some secrets close. What if you had made mention of Hawkwood in Lord Baldwin’s presence?”

Katherine nodded.

“The army,” Sir William said. “We dare not tarry.”

Hawkwood dismissed that danger with a wave of his hand. “Bah. An army in pursuit of us will be like a horse chasing a gnat.”

He then pointed at Thomas. “Sir William, the young man has proven himself as I predicted.”

Thomas bowed his head in respect. Inwardly, he was not as calm. Thoughts raced through his mind. Memories. Possibilities. The old man had known their destination—this cave. The old man had been in the Holy Land the entire time.

Thomas looked up to find the eyes of the old man gazing back at him. The hood had been thrown back. The man before him was not stooped, but standing with the solid strength of a warrior barely older than Sir William. Thomas found himself staring through the flickering light at a gentle smile in a face that was eerily familiar.

Thomas did not have a chance to ask his question.

For the man answered it as his smile widened with joy.

“Hello, my son,” Hawkwood said to Thomas. “It has been a long wait.”

Thirty-Eight

July, AD 1314

London, England

R
owan gaped, and Isabelle enjoyed his reaction, as if she, too, were seeing the great stone buildings of London for the first time. Isabelle felt pride, now that their roles were reversed and she was his guide.

“This … this …” Rowan couldn’t finish his sentence.

They had waited out the winter and spring in Acre before setting sail. The ship voyage to England had taken weeks, and they had arrived in London at night. In the darkness before dawn, the two of them had traveled to the River Thames, near Thorney Island. It was a small piece of land, formed by rivulets of the River Tyburn, at the lowest point of where it entered the Thames. From the north bank, it could be forded at low tide.

The buildings were magnificent, with massive thick walls and large towers and round arches.

“There”—Isabelle pointed—“is the Palace of Westminster.”

“It’s … it’s …”

“It’s where the Parliament of England was first held by King Edward I.” Not even twenty years ago it happened. Lords and clergymen gathered together and voted on how to deal with common dangers facing England.”

Rowan clutched her arm. “Voted? The king didn’t just issue commands?”

His astonishment delighted her.

“No,” she said. “Lords and clergy have say.”

“So a bad king can’t do bad things to the people?”

She hadn’t thought of that before. “I suppose not.”

“How wonderful! How wonderful! Because if a bad person has too much power, all the poor people in the land suffer. That’s not right. And this parliament protects the poor.”

“In a way. It votes on taxes too.”

“So that a bad king can’t just rob the poor people!” Rowan knelt on one knee. “M’lady, I thank you again for taking me to this wonderful, wonderful land of yours.”

“Ours,” she reminded him. “You do have a claim on heritage here.”

“M’lady, you are good and kind beyond compare.”

She wanted to glow at his utter certainty of her worth. But she couldn’t push away the echoes of Rowan’s words.
“If a bad person has too much power, all the poor people in the land suffer.”

“Rise,” she said, feeling a need for movement. Anything to stop her from pondering that would lead to other disturbing questions. “We will seek audience with the one who can help us.”

She pointed at another building. “There. Westminster Abbey. Where our land’s kings receive their coronations.”

The great hall echoed, and when Waleran approached Rowan and Isabelle, his whisper of greeting seemed to echo.

“Follow me,” he said, leading them to a small room near the rear of the hall. “We will speak in private.”

The room was decorated with tapestries that hung from the walls, showing great battles, and Rowan stared at the scenes with undisguised curiosity.

“So,” Waleran said unkindly, “a debt is paid. The boy is here in England as you promised. Why is he still with you? His help did not lead you to success in the Holy Land. I’ve learned that Thomas and Katherine are now in England too, seeking the audience of King Edward.”

Isabelle took a deep breath and reminded herself not to treat Waleran with the previous disdain she’d shown him in all their other conversations. She needed his help, and history had taught her that Waleran’s pride was as delicate as his ego was large.

“And while I am not privy to the details, I understand from my father that plans have been made to ensure Thomas will not succeed.”

“Of course,” Waleran said brusquely. He glanced at Rowan. “And we will speak no further of these things.”

“I will die to defend m’lady,” Rowan said. “Any secrets I hear could not be torn from me with a heated tong on my tongue.”

“Yes, yes,” Waleran said flatly. “So inspired am I by your loyalty that I am near to fainting.”

He turned back to Isabelle, and his scornful sneer became a fawning smile. “And did your father inform you of the
other
arrangement?”

“I’ve only heard from him by the messenger who informed me as well that you and I were to meet here immediately upon my return to London. I have a request of you.” She hoped she could keep her voice humble enough to please him. “Would you kindly arrange audience with the Harcourt family?”

Waleran’s brow furrowed briefly, then he nodded. “I see it now. You have become attached to this boy.”

“I only request an audience on his behalf.”

“Well then,” Waleran said, “your wish shall be granted, and you shall have the power to arrange the audience yourself. In less than a fortnight.”

“A fortnight?”

“Yes,” Waleran said. “For by then, you shall be the Duchess of Whittingham.”

“Whittingham! He is one of the most powerful dukes in all of England.”

“He is. Therefore, as his wife, you will gain that same power.”

“His wife?”

“Your father made the arrangement with the Duke of Whittingham.”

“I don’t even know him. I’ve never met him.”

“Certainly you have,” Waleran leered. “You’re looking at him now. And as the Duke of Whittingham, I’m telling you that if you want this boy to claim his heritage, you must honor your father’s arrangement of marriage to me. The date has been set for ten days from now to celebrate the end of the threat that Thomas poses to us.”

Thirty-Nine

K
atherine reached above her shoulders with one hand and gathered her hair into a thick tail between her fingers. She released the hair almost immediately and took satisfaction in its weight falling upon her shoulders.
Barely a year ago,
she thought,
I had borrowed shears to cut this ragged and short.

Then, almost unconsciously, she smoothed her dress with quick pats and tugs.

“Have no fear, m’lady,” Thomas said. “You are a sight to ravage the hearts of men and to send jealousy quivering through the ladies of the court.”

“Thomas,” she scolded, for he had guessed correctly at her nervousness, “must you peer at my innermost thoughts?”

“In all these months of travel together, not once have I seen you so concerned about your appearance.”

Katherine softened. Indeed, all these months of travel together. Moments of extreme danger as they had avoided Mameluke soldiers in the Holy Land, fought wayside bandits, survived the most vicious storms at sea. Hours of conversation during the quieter times—beside evening campfires or on a ship’s deck shifting to the waves beneath starlight. How could they not know each other? Yet they had avoided talk of the one thing nearest their hearts—love for the other. Now they were about to take the first step into the final battle, and all she had as a weapon was her ability to pose as a noblewoman.

“Thomas,” she said, “look about you. Is this not reason enough to have concern about the manner in which others will perceive us?”

To please her, Thomas made an exaggerated pretense of scanning the Tower, the walls and courtyard. She knew full well it had already been done; his eyes always took in every detail as he walked.

Behind them sprawled London’s narrow, twisted streets of cobblestone, the hundreds of merchants’ shops, the beggars, pickpockets, musicians, storytellers, scoundrels, homeless urchins, and countless thousands of others who made the city vibrate with life and noise and stink and joy and sorrow.

Ahead, across the moat that separated the royal residence from them, a half-dozen buildings of smoothed stone blocks. The huge gate was open so that the interior was visible from where they stood. Some buildings were connected by hallways, some centered alone and away from the high circling walls, and all easily larger than most castles found on countryside estates. The forbidding wall, ringed by a moat, encompassed an area the size of a small village, which in fact, this was.

The royal residences. A part of London and yet separate because of the nobility who lived within, these majestic buildings sat on the north bank of the Thames River. Barely a month before, Katherine, William, Thomas, and Hawkwood had arrived at the nearby London docks on the same river. As their ship had slowly moved upstream on the Thames, they had all stood on the deck, drinking in the sounds and sights. From that vantage point, they had seen the top half of the most imposing building within the walls, the Tower. Even then, within the safety of the ship, Katherine had shivered at the sight.

The Tower.

This building, high and mighty with cramped windows cut into the stone, held the political prisoners of the king of England—Edward II—who himself lived in luxury less than a hundred yards away in his permanent residence. It was said King Edward often enjoyed a stroll past the Tower
after a meal—that the cries of agony and pleas for mercy from his enemies within helped his digestion.