The Crusader ("The Crusader" Prequel to "Kingdom Come") (22 page)

She felt
badly for him, knowing how worried he was. But it also reinforced her
determination to keep him out of what was happening until she understood it
herself. "I'm not alone, Bud. I ran into an... old friend at the hospital.
We're having a nice talk and I promise I'll call you in the morning."

The
chill on the line was evident. "A friend? I thought you've never been to
London."

"I
haven't."

The line
went silent again and over her shoulder, Rory could see that Kieran had secured
a huge schooner of black liquor from the bartender. He was heading in her
direction and she made haste to end the conversation.

"I
have to go," she said quickly. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"A
male friend, Rory?"

"I'll
call you tomorrow, Bud."

She
ended the conversation, hanging up the receiver just as Kieran opened the door
to the phone booth. He seemed far more interested in the phone itself than in
who she was talking to.

"How
does this work?"

He was
pressing her against the glass and she could hardly breathe with the heat and
closeness of his body. Turning slightly, she indicated the coin drop.

"Here.
You just put a coin in and you can make a call." When he still appeared
perplexed, she attempted to describe the telephone on his terms. "It's
like... like if you wanted to send a missive. But instead of writing it down,
you pick up this device and simply speak with the person you want to
communicate with, anywhere in the world."

Kieran
put the receiver to his ear, upside down. "I hear nothing but a strange
noise."

"A
dial tone." When he raised a questioning eyebrow, she simply shook her
head. "I'll explain later. Let's go sit down."

Although
still curious about the phone, he graciously escorted her back to the table. Rory
sat on one side of the booth and Kieran pushed her over, seating his massive
frame beside her. When she looked strangely at him for wanting to sit so close
considering they had an entire booth to themselves, he merely smiled.

"I
must be able to protect you," he explained. "A man will think twice
about molesting you with my threatening presence by your side."

She
cocked an eyebrow, collecting her ale. She knew she shouldn't be drinking it,
but somehow, she needed it. "Look around, Sir Kieran. I would hardly call these
drunks the molesting type."

"They
are thinking wicked thoughts nonetheless," he said, taking a healthy quaff
of his drink and smacking his lips. "Passable. Not the best, but
passable."

She eyed
the black lager. "What is it?"

"Something
called Winter Ale. Would you care to sample the flavor?"

She did.
It tasted like lighter fluid. Shuddering in disgust, it somehow made her own
drink less palatable and she pushed it away as Kieran continued to down the
ale. She watched him, looking entirely odd in his green scrubs, stubbled face
and dirty hair. But the more she stared at him, the more amazement and wonder
she felt with the entire, crazy situation.

"Now,"
she began softly. "I guess we have a few things to talk about."

He
nodded faintly, smacking his lips with the first taste of liquor in over eight
centuries. "Indeed we do. But first I must ask a question."

"What's
that?"

He
looked up from his dark drink, his brow furrowed with thought. "You must
understand... I realize a significant amount of time has passed, but it is
important that I know what happened after... after...."

"After
you died?"

"Aye."

Rory
pondered her reply carefully. "Acre fell and King Richard returned to
England a hero."

"When
did Acre fall?"

"In
July 1192."

Kieran
drew in a deep breath, absorbing this information. For him, the events of
centuries ago had literally happened yesterday and a smile creased his lips.
"Then our armies were indeed victorious. I had little doubt, of course. It
was only a matter of time. And you say Richard returned to England?"

"He
did. Well, after a few minor adventures."

"Adventures?
What does this mean?"

"He
was kidnapped by Henry Augustus and Duke Leopold of Austria and held for
ransom. But England paid and Richard returned home, safe and sound."

Kieran's
eyebrows rose in genuine outrage. "The bastards. But I am not astonished
by their treachery. They envied Richard his power, his wealth. Everything he
had, they wanted for themselves. And more."

Rory
observed him as he pondered the events of history while he had slept. In fact,
he seemed quite disturbed and she decided to veer the subject away from the
pitfalls of King Richard.

"As
I said, he returned to England and finished his reign." She didn't dare go
into the rebellion of Prince John and how the remainder of Richard's reign was
spent battling his brother. "Now I have a question for you; like, who was
this alchemist and what, exactly, did he do to you?"

Kieran
drained the last of his mug in one huge swallow. Ordering another, he turned
his attention to Rory.

"I
do not recall his name," he said, shrugging off the outrage of Leopold and
Henry. Eight hundred years later, there was little place for his fury. "I
came to the man believing he was a physic. I had been wounded and...."

He
suddenly began fumbling with his shirt, as if he had just remembered the wound
that had nearly claimed his life. Rory watched as he revealed the puckered
scar, running his fingers over it in wonder.

"I
know," she murmured in response to his awed expression. "I've seen
it. You should have seen the clothes we found you in. Stained brown with blood.
That's why we knew this injury had killed you. Or, at least, we logically
thought so."

"I
thought so too," he said softly, touching it even as his gaze sought Rory.
"By all rights, it should have. But the alchemist... he gave me a potion
that, as he explained, suspended my bodily functions. And then he gave me a
series of subsequent potions he claimed would heal my wound. I did not believe
him, of course. I believed I was as good as dead."

Rory was
leaning on her hand, listening to him with incredulity. "Are you telling
me that eight hundred years ago they possessed the technology to heal a wound
without conventional skills? We don't even have that kind of knowledge
today."

The
bartender brought over another drink. Rory ordered coffee. When the man was
gone, Kieran took another healthy swallow of his ale.

"I
do not know what sort of knowledge the man possessed. Suffice it to say that he
was true to his word." His gaze came up from the drink, resting on Rory.
"You seemed to be remarkably receptive to my story, my lady. Do you
actually believe what I am telling you?"

She
smiled faintly. "I wasn't remarkably receptive at first. You seem to
forget my screaming fit."

He met
her smile, a delicious gesture of deep dimples and straight teeth. "I have
not forgotten, I assure you. My ears are still ringing." He paused, taking
another drink. "Then tell me; why were you sleeping on me?"

She
lowered her gaze, her smile fading. "As for believing your story, I don't
think I have much of a choice." She was obviously unwilling to answer his
question. "I removed you from your grave, Sir Kieran. I saw your lifeless
corpse and now I see a man who has come to life. As unbelievable as all of this
is, I suppose there isn't an explanation I would find too incredible at this
point. Even so, I'm still half-expecting to wake up from this tomorrow morning
and discover that it was all a dream."

His gaze
was soft. "You still do not believe me to be real?"

She
shrugged, toying with her mug of disgarded ale. "Real enough, I guess.
Four hours ago you were stiff and cold and I was crying all over you because I
thought I'd never seen you again. I never left that room, I never heard anyone
enter or leave, and suddenly you were alive. If you're a zombie, then you're
like nothing I've ever heard of." She shook her head, putting a weary hand
over her eyes. "Oh, hell, maybe I am dreaming all of this. Or maybe I'm
just insane."

His brow
furrowed faintly, still focused on the earlier part of her statement.
"What is this zombie?"

She
smirked. "Other than the worst drink you'll ever taste in your life, a
zombie is a walking corpse supposedly possessed by demons."

Kieran's
brow relaxed, a faint smile creasing his lips. "I am not possessed. At least,
I do not believe so."

Rory
studied him, their eyes meeting. She knew the man she had extracted from the
earth, the lines of his face and the emotions of his heart. And this living,
walking being was most definitely that man. It was the most incredible thing
she'd ever witnessed and her wonder, her enchantment, was a perpetual
experience.

"I
don't think so, either."

His
brown eyes glimmered in the weak light. "You are a sensible woman,
Libby."

She
laughed then. "You're the only one who thinks so. Everyone else who knows
me thinks I'm a nut."

His brow
furrowed again. "A nut?"

She
nodded, still grinning. "A kook. You know, eccentric?"

He
understood the last word. "Why would they think this?"

Rory's
smile faded as the bartender brought her coffee. The drink was hot and strong
and she took a large swallow. "Because I go where angels fear to
tread." His liquid gaze was focused on her as she took another drink.
"That's how I found you, Sir Kieran. I was looking for...."

"For
what?" he asked gently.

She
stared at him.
Careful
, she thought.
The man died for his beliefs and
there's no telling how he'll react to your admission.
But as she continued
to gaze at him, she realized that her most fervent wish had come true; from the
moment she had read his journal, the need to ask him what he knew of the crown
had been a major yearning.

But she
had also resigned herself to inevitable. That she would never know the truth.
And throughout this entire happening, the thought of bombarding him with
questions hadn't occurred to her until this moment. There had been too much
going on for her to even think about the very relic that had brought them
together.

"I
was looking for something but I found you instead," she said softly,
glancing to his empty schooner. "Would you like another ale? Or maybe you
shouldn't. How about something to eat?"

He was
still staring at her, deep in thought. "Mayhap later. I would like to know
what you were looking for when you found me."

She
refused to meet his gaze but she could sense something in his tone. The
brutally honest, highly intelligent man she had come to know through the pages
of his journal was demanding truths. Coming to acquaint herself with the man as
she had, she had little doubt that he would not let the subject rest. If there
was one thing she had learned about Sir Kieran Hage, it was that he was a
determined man. He usually got what he wanted.

It was
obvious he wanted to know what had led her to his grave. Maybe if she
approached the subject carefully, she could either abandon her questioning or
delve into it more deeply. But her decision would depend on his response.

She took
a deep breath for courage. "When we found your grave, Sir Kieran, your
possessions were buried with you."

He
nodded. "As you have indicated. Somehow the alchemist must have retrieved
them. I can only imagine it was he who buried me to hide the body from... well,
it does not matter. Please continue."

His odd
statement peaked her interest, but she ignored it for the moment as she
proceeded with her own line of thought. "We found your sword, your armor,
and other effects including your journal."

Kieran
didn't change expression. "My journal?"

Rory
nodded slowly. "It was found with your purse and other items. I read the
entire chronicle."

"And?"

She was
encouraged by his reaction; no tense body language, no facial expressions
conveying distress. In fact, he seemed unconcerned and she decided to press her
point.

"At
the end of the journal, you wrote a small passage that caught my eye." She
took another deep breath. "
'Forgive me Lord Jesus that my mission in
Thou's name hath been thwarted. The diadem of Thou's sacrifice entrusted into
my hands is forever sealed, hidden so that no man can pilfer Its beauty or
omnipotence. Until such time that I can safely transport It to the land of my
birth, Its whereabouts will remain my knowledge alone.
'"

She
paused, gauging his reaction. There was none. After a moment, she leaned
forward on the table as if to drive home her real meaning. "This diadem
you spoke of. Did you really mean Christ's crown of thorns when he died on
Mount Calvary?"

One
moment he was staring at her. In the next, he was moving from the pub with such
speed that Rory nearly lost him. Leaving a ten pound note on the table, she
collected her purse and raced after him. Out into the cold night, she didn't
have any difficulty following his bright green scrubs. Onward he marched,
crossing a major street without looking and Rory narrowly avoided being hit by
a car as she pursued.