Fallout - Chapter Thirteen
As Guy watches Marian go, her dark hair swinging, he tries to quell the part of him that still wants to believe her. It should be torn to bits by now; instead it resurrects itself with every kind word or glance. If he is ever going to gain any sort of foothold with her, this foolish hope must die a very painful death. Lies, he tells himself, she lies, and then he mutters it aloud for good measure.
The good news is that he is finally starting to understand how to handle her: think of what he would like for her to do and prepare for the opposite. Marian had yelled that he wanted to put her in a pit, but that is not true. She could escape a pit. Easily. Guy would like to put her in a trunk with a very heavy lid and air-holes that are too small to wiggle out of.
Stepping out from the narrow makeshift alley between the tents, he heads for his horse, joining the clutch of men who travel from tent to tent on daily business. He has no option but to trust her now, now that Richard has emphatically shown that she is meant to stay here as collateral. The King had not even considered his proposal to send her to Ripley Convent, just waved it off with a cold eye and wished him a good journey. Even so, Guy balks at leaving her here without any sort of supervision. Her guard is useless, and he has no one here that he can trust. His only recourse is to hope that he can be back from Jerusalem as quickly as possible. So why does he continue to linger and hope that a solution to the predicament will walk up and wave hello?
A group of thirty men is huddled in front of the path he needs to take to the perimeter, and Guy is forced to slow. “Excuse me,” he mutters as he pushes through them, leaving a passel of curses and offended grunts in his wake. When he is halfway, a familiar voice rings out.
“Alright, gents. Who’s next? You know what they say about luck being like lightning-it has to strike sooner or later.”
Guy peers through the forest of grimy necks and white-clad shoulders to where Allan continues to chatter. He can’t help but note that his former man is still wearing the black clothing he adopted as soon as he entered Guy’s employ. Now he sits behind a small bench with three dented tin cups arranged face-down in front of him like tiny hats. Allan is back to his tavern games.
“No one? No one is brave enough to try?” Allan clucks like an admonishing mother, albeit one who has not shaved in several days, and then points at a swarthy man who is clearly disgruntled about losing his money. “That crazy scowling man almost had it. But he changed his mind at the last second. Always go with your first instinct. That’s the gambling lesson for today.” He winks. “You can pay me for it with your winnings.”
Scanning the half-circle of onlookers for a volunteer and finding none, he throws up his hands. “Look, I’ll get us started,” he says, palming a pebble from the pile at his side and holding it up between his thumb and forefinger like a prized jewel. Once the crowd is suitably assured, he slips it beneath the far cup and begins to shuffle, his hands sure and quick. If Guy did not already know that the game was rigged, he would not know to look for the brief second where Allan’s fingers slip in and retrieve the rock. After the cups are once again arranged before him, Allan lifts his arms up and shakes them. It might look like a finishing flourish to an ignorant onlooker, but Guy is certain that the pebble is now safely hidden in the trickster’s sleeve.
“I will try,” Guy calls out, stepping between the two men in front of him. He keeps his eyes on Allan’s arms and gives a mean smile. “I think I know the game.”
“Guy,” Allan says in shock before his gaze flickers to the circle of men whose purses have been emptied by his tricks. His face retains its showman’s expression, but his hands begin to fidget. He drums his fingers on the table and speaks from between his teeth. “Look, Giz, I’m sorry about-,”
“About what?” Guy cuts him off. He waits for Allan to start talking in his familiar circles; the second he does-the second he even tries to defend himself-Guy is determined to expose his trick and let the crowd take its vengeance.
But Allan says nothing. He does not even try to finish his sentence, just sets his jaw like a man on his way to the gallows. All of a sudden, Guy thinks he might have a solution to the Marian problem. He points to the central cup, the one that covers nothing more than air. “That one.”
Allan’s eyes snap open, and he blinks a few times before realizing that his surprise is suspicious. “Sorry, mate. Better luck next time,” he says and lifts the chosen cup to prove Guy’s mistake. “Well, I think that’s a day.” He claps his hands and begins to gather his things hastily, as though he expects his good fortune to run out.
A few men groan, obviously depressed by the thought of having to find new amusement, a few grumble, and one calls out, “Aren’t you going to take his money?” Allan looks at Guy, who wordlessly pulls a coin out of the purse at his waist and flips it to him. After nodding at the man who reminded him, Allan heads back toward his camp.
Guy yells his name, but when Allan doesn’t turn around, he is forced to follow. “I have something to discuss with you,” he says, grabbing his arm.
Allan shakes his arm off and turns to regard him warily. “If this is about Marian and Robin again. . .”
“I know everything about that. And so,” Guy says darkly, “did you. Tell me, how did you get the Mother Superior’s seal?”
“Look, just hit me and get it over with. Yeah, yeah, I knew where Marian was. Yeah, yeah, I didn’t tell you, just hit me.”
Guy would like to hit him, actually, but that might make Allan think that they are even. He wants him to feel indebted. “I’m not going to hit you.”
Allan does not know how to react to that. He squints, rubs at his head. “You know, Marian does what she wants to do,” he says, finally defensive, “I had Robin threatenin’ me on one side, her poppin’ out of corners with knives on the other. . . . I had no choice. I had to protect her.”
As usual, the fact that everyone but him knew about her duplicity brings a rush of anger that causes his fists to clench. But if he is going to survive this, he has to swallow some of his wounded pride. “I know. I need you to do it again,” Guy says, teeth gritted.
“What?”
Guy looks around, sees the curious glances that nearby soldiers are throwing their way. He jerks his head to the side in a suggestion that Allan follow him to somewhere more private. Allan considers it for a few seconds, but then walks after him warily. Once they are off the main road and surrounded by only a few deserted tents and cast-off weapons, Guy turns to Allan again.
“I have to leave for Jerusalem today on business for Richard.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that.”
For the first time, it strikes Guy how foolhardy it was to taunt Hood with details of his plans. He had been worried about Marian following him, but now he wonders if he should be more worried of Hood. Or worse, of them following him together. The need for immediate return grows stronger.
“I do not know how long I will be gone,” he tells Allan, “and the King has been very adamant that Marian stay here. She knows this, but Marian is. . .,” He starts, but struggles for the right word.
“Crazy?” Allan tries.
“No.”
“I think my jaw still clicks from where she punched me.”
“Headstrong,” Guy snaps. “She is headstrong. I need you to check in on her, make sure that she stays here. It is in her best interests. I can pay you.”
Allan squints at him. “Nah,” he says.
Used to Allan obeying his orders immediately, Guy rears back. He never thought that Allan would refuse. “What?” he says, his fingers suddenly itching to grab at Allan’s throat. He has not forgotten the betrayal; it has just been covered by panic and worry.
“I mean, I’ll do it,” Allan says in a rush. “I’m just not taking money for it anymore. That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.”
Surprised, Guy can only blink. He does not like the idea of not having any money behind a request-it feels less certain, less binding. “I will pay you.”
“I won’t take it,” Allan says stubbornly.
“I’ll pay you to keep her away from Hood.”
“That I won’t do. I’m not going to be her jailer.” He waves his hands in front of him. “Your two’s strange relationship stuff is your own business.”
Now that he feels ridiculous, Guy can only look away and say nothing.
“Hey, I’ll keep my word. Don’t worry about that,” Allan says and then gives him a clumsy pat on the arm.
“See that you do,” he snaps, uncomfortable, and then storms away to find his horse.
Haifa is a smaller city than Acre-a town really-that teeters on the edge of a bay. As predicted, Guy makes it by nightfall, just as the last rays of sun are slipping behind the small mountain that borders it on the West.
He finds an inn easily, and though the bed is rickety and the stuffing old, the small room he is given overlooks the water, now silver in the moonlight. The thin walls do nothing to muffle the din of supping people beneath him, and the smell of roasting fish wafts beneath the door. Hunger takes him by surprise, surging up sharp and fierce; apart from a few grapes this morning, he has had nothing substantial to eat since . . . well, since killing Vasey.
That thought tosses up more than he wants to deal with at the moment. As he takes a seat at the window, staring out at the skeleton rigging of the ships in the harbor, he realizes that this is the first time he’s traveled alone. In the twenty years that he had been with Vasey, first as one of the impoverished apprentices the man’s family collected like old coins and then as his right-hand man, there was never a time when he journeyed without his company. It’s not that he misses it-the brief interlude where he once admired Vasey ended abruptly after a day in his employ-but the absence is a reminder of how much things have changed in the last four days, changed in ways that Guy cannot even begin to define as good or bad.
No longer wanting to be alone with the prickling doubt that has recently become his most loyal companion, he goes downstairs. The lower tavern is crowded. Its customers are mostly male, but the city has been under Crusader rule for long enough that there are a few women, most of whom seem to be local. Scattered groups of pilgrims gather in the corners, but the most boisterous are the men who will most likely wend their way back to their homes on foot tonight. Guy orders meat and ale, and then buries himself in a dark corner that smells of the sea.
He makes short work of his meal, but not short enough to avoid the notice of a nearby patron. The man is hunched over his plate, staring at him through a hank of grizzled hair.
As soon as he realizes that Guy has noticed him, he leans over and croaks, “Where are you headed?”
Guy curses beneath his breath. He should have just starved upstairs in his room. “It is none of your concern,” he barks and pushes away from the table.
“You’re not a pilgrim,” the man continues. “They travel in groups, like fish. And you’re not a Crusader. I can recognize that sort anywhere; they’re usually weighted down by jewels and riches they’ve picked up on the road. But this is the way to Jerusalem. I used to travel it myself as a merchant, before we lost it to the Turk.” He shrugs. “A few times since. But not often.”
“You’ve been to Jerusalem?” Guy asks. The last time he was in the Holy Land, he had been limited to the outskirts of Acre. The instructions he has been given are terse and spare, and he has begun to worry that he is stumbling his way into a fraught climate with no real sense of direction. He deliberates for a moment, then pulls out the map and points to where he has been instructed to go. “What do you know about this area?”
The man coughs and then leans over the flattened parchment. “That area is Jewish now. Or Jewish once again. Saladin has let them back in the city.” He squints up at Guy with a rheumy eye. “Why are you going there?”
Guy doesn’t answer, just folds the map again and stashes it away. “It does not matter,” he says shortly, not caring if the man thinks him rude, but he just chuckles.
“Fine. I talk too much anyway,” he says, and Guy heads for the stairs. “I would enter from the side, though, if I were you. They have a weapons checkpoint by the main entrance, but not there.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Christians tend to avoid it.”
Guy sticks to the coast as long as he is able. He has never spent much time by the water, and is surprised to find that he enjoys the taste of salt on the air and the open feeling that comes from not being able to see the opposing land; when he is finally forced to turn inward at Jaffa, he feels pang of regret that lingers as the landscape grows sparse and scrubby. In the distance, small caravans flicker through the haze of heat. That day lasts forever, and when dark finally comes, he ties his horse to a palm and spends the night sleeping fitfully at its trunk, hand on the hilt of his sword.
The second day is an imitation of the first, only more draining because it has worn out its welcome. He reaches Jerusalem late in the evening, and from afar, the city is lit by a thousand tiny halos of light. The main gate is imposing in the distance, and he can see the bustle of heavily-swathed Turks at its base.
Taking the old man’s advice, Guy guides his horse through the side alleys so that he can enter by way of what is apparently a resurrected Jewish Quarter. A few dark faces turn toward him with wary eyes, but no one approaches to ask his business. As he makes his way toward the interior, the language burbling up around him changes, and it puts him on edge. England is rife with rumors of their cannibalistic practices, their pacts with the devil.
It does not help when a man runs out from an open doorway and begins to yell at him, waving his arms and shooing him forcefully. In the gloom, the only thing Guy can see are his teeth snapping from the middle of his beard. He ignores him and rides past, but the man watches him from the middle of the road until he disappears around the corner.
He pulls out his directions, squints down at them. They point him toward an alley so small that he does not know if it should even be called such, and a door so hidden that you could ride past it without even knowing of its existence. Guy dismounts with his pack and, after only a slight hesitation, knocks on the pitted door. Light seeps through a large crack running from its middle to the base.
The door is soon flung open by the man who he saw exiting Richard’s tent a few days ago. Baldrick, he presumes. With the firelight behind him, Guy can only make out a thick figure, a long nose and a thin brown mustache. He gestures for Guy to enter.
“My horse,” Guy says, and Baldrick snaps his fingers at a pile of rags cluttering up the corner. The pile shifts, transforming into a sharp-featured boy with impossibly thin limbs who edges by Guy and nickers at the horse before leading it out of sight.
“Ahmad will take care of it,” Baldrick says as Guy walks in and drops his things on the end of a thick wooden table that is covered in the remains of what looks to be a chicken dinner. “Despite the fact that he looks half-starved,” he continues, “I have found him to be quite capable. And he works for scraps.” Baldrick points to a high-backed chair. “Sit, sit.”
Even though the air outside is hot and muggy, a fire roars in the hearth. A large black dog is stretched out before it, furiously gnawing at a discarded bone. When Guy approaches to take a seat, it raises its dark head and stares at him with golden eyes.
“You are earlier than I expected,” Baldrick says from across the table, and Guy tears his attention away from the canine specter. The man is acting like a genial host whose party guests have surprised them.
“I would like to get this over with,” Guy says, sitting in a high-backed chair but not leaning back.
Baldrick’s face loses its studied affability and becomes solemn. “As would I. You cannot imagine how it feels to see this sacred city overrun with filth of all kinds. And here we are forced to wallow in it and act as though we are grateful for the privilege.” He tears a bone from the ravaged meat in front of him and tosses it to the dog, who nudges his old one aside in favor of the new. “Like dogs hungry for table scraps,” he finishes bitterly.
Unsure of how to respond, Guy can only hold his tongue and listen to the crackle of the fire and the crunch of cartilage. When Baldrick proves to be no more forthcoming, he is forced to venture forward. “What exactly are we here to do? King Richard said that you would inform me of more when I arrived.”
“I am sorry,” Baldrick says, immediately contrite. “I had forgotten that you had not yet been brought to the plan.” He leans forward into the full light, and his eyes glitter. “We are going to renew faith in the Crusade. Prove to those that would their backs on our divine mission that Richard is needed here.”
Before Guy has a chance to cut through this zealotry and ask the only questions that truly matter to him-how and how soon-the door creaks open and Ahmad wanders back in.
“Out,” Baldrick snaps, whirling toward him. When Ahmad just stands there, too stunned to move, Baldrick picks up a glass and hurls it toward him. It hits the boy’s chest with a dull thud and then splashes liquid all over his shirtfront. Guy watches as he skitters out the door. Like this whole cursed trip, it kicks up uncomfortable memories.
“Was that necessary?” he asks without thinking and then wishes he could take it back immediately. “I could have used some wine,” he adds.
Baldrick chuckles. “None of that to be had here, I am afraid. And the boy needs to learn not to creep around like a little spider,” he says and waves a hand dismissively. “Although I suppose it does not matter; he has heard too much already.”
“What has he heard?” Guy asks. “You have still not told me what is to be done.”
“Right,” Baldrick says. “We have received word that a number of influential figures are on their way here with the intent of making pilgrimage into the city. The recent treaty has been good news to those that have been waiting these past five years.” He pauses. “Do you know much about the First Crusade?”
“They are all the same,” Guy says, not able to keep his weariness from affecting his judgment. He rubs at his eyes. “I mean, I do not.”
That seems to throw him off course. “Are you not dedicated to the reclamation? I had thought that because the King sent you--,”
“I am dedicated to whatever I have been sent here to do,” Guy says. “I have . . . other reasons.”
“I see.” Baldrick frowns and laces his fingers together. He contemplates the plate before him as signs of frustration and anger do battle across his face. But when he lifts his head, his dark brown eyes are eerily vacant. “Well, whatever your reasons, we are to sacrifice a few to aid the many. As I said, there are a number of influential pilgrims on their way here. We will make martyrs of them; their deaths will go down in history as the spark that fired the cleansing flood.”
Guy says nothing. Baldrick watches him with an eager expression, as though waiting for a shout or other proof of fervent support. The dog shuffles to his feet with a low growl and comes to sit at its master’s side. Baldrick pats its head, which is dark and glossy in the flickering light. It turns to regard him as well.
“So we are to be assassins,” Guy says finally. He had expected that this mission would involve death, but nothing on such a grand scale. It is no matter, he tells himself, he has done it before.
Baldrick’s mouth twists. “Not assassins,” he says as though the words are in danger of turning sour in his mouth. “We will be stewards of a new era.”
“I do not understand.”
“We will dress as Saracens. I am told that you have experience in such matters.”
Guy looks at Baldrick sharply, expecting to find some trace of wry amusement, but his face is free of any sort of guile.
“Do not forget that they have attacked our people before,” Baldrick says, taking his look and the resulting silence as hesitation. “They will do it again, I have no doubt, but we do not have time to wait for the inevitable. Support has grown weak; faith has grown weak. Richard is being torn away from his true calling as we speak. And yet if we do this thing, he will have reason to stay.”
He should not question, he should just nod and ask where he will be sleeping tonight. But Guy cannot stop himself from raising a skeptical brow. “And all of this will result from the death of a few pilgrims?”
“Not a few,” Baldrick says and beams. “Many. We are not the only ones-of this I have been assured. We are only a small thread in the design.”
This man is entirely demented-that much is obvious-but it is not the first time that he has worked with those who have been driven insane by a cause. “I see. So who are we to kill?”
“The Abbess of Chelles. And her attendants.”
Guy can only blink across the table. “A woman? A nun?”
“The rallying cry needs to be strong.”
“I do not kill women,” Guy says before thinking. He opens his mouth to correct himself, to smooth the waters, but then stops. No. He does not kill women. “Find me someone else to kill.”
“There is no one else. I was given to understand that you were devoted to the cause,” Baldrick says, sounding more sad than angry, and his hands move beneath the table. At first Guy thinks that he has gone once again to pet his dog, but they emerge again with a dagger, which he calmly lays on the table. His hand rests on the jeweled hilt. “Perhaps you should reconsider. I would hate to inform Richard that I am lacking a helper.”
The metal of the blade glints between them, and Guy fixes his eyes on that instead of Baldrick’s shuttered gaze. He has never killed a woman before. He finds the idea repugnant and more than a little frightening. Back in the days when his actions still had the power to cost him sleep, that fact had been the one thing that made it possible to keep going. These were his rules, this was his code. If he crossed that line, there would be no going back; the blood would stain his hands forever.
Guy looks up to study the man across from him. Baldrick has lost interest in watching the man he is threatening. He hums beneath his breath, picking through the meal for the tender bits of chicken hiding in the heart of the breast. When he finds them, he passes them to the dog like small tributes, smiling when the beast licks his fingers with loud, sloppy slurps.
Guy still has his sword-he could run this madman through right now, escape the city, and go . . . where? It would have to be away from Richard, which rules out most of Europe, not to mention the fact that the money he brought with him on this doomed mission is quickly running out. Still, he could do it.
But Marian. Marian. There would be no way to get word to her without endangering them both and no message that would be able to shatter her starry-eyed notions of her benevolent king. Even if he could, there is no guarantee that she would join him, he thinks, and then laughs at himself. No guarantee? Try no chance.
Richard will not harm her, not with Hood there to stop it. Now that Guy knows the true nature of their relationship, he has no doubt that the outlaw would protect her, wed her, even though she was no longer a maid-Guy would have, after all. They would have fat, happy children and preside over fat, lazy peasants who cheated them at every corner.
Let her go, a voice says, and the idea of it makes his heart stop even though it is the smartest option. He does not know if he will ever be able to stomach the fact that Marian has accepted him as a cause rather than a person. Even if by some stroke of luck he would end up with Nottingham, Hood will still be there like a prize Guy is constantly withholding from her. The future stretches out before him with perfect clarity. He will love her more and more, and hate her for it. She will be in the same room, and he will miss her. This is the moment to walk away, to wash his hands of all the mistakes and disappear. She will forget him in a week.
“I will do it,” Guy says, not realizing that he’s agreed until Baldrick turns his head and smiles.
“I thought you might. Do not worry,” he says. “They are approaching the city as we speak. It will not be long. Would you like something to eat?”
“No. I am tired.”
Baldrick yells for Ahmad, who is back in the door faster than a shadow. “Take a candle. Show our guest to his room.”
Ahmad nods and fumbles with the candle at the end of the table. When he has lit it, he waves for Guy to follow him up the dim, earthen stairs. The boy takes them two at a time, but Guy moves slowly. By the time he reaches the small chamber that sits across from the mouth of the hall, Ahmad is flitting about the room fluffing a pillow and brushing the dust from the top of a heavy oaken headboard. Before he leaves, he goes to the corner and gathers a small pile of linens and a few wooden toys.
“Were you sleeping here?” Guy asks, and Ahmad shakes his head so forcefully that Guy fears his small neck might snap. Before Guy can say that it is fine, Ahmad has already rushed from the room and disappeared down the stairs.
There is an open window, but it faces the dark wall of the next building. Guy falls on the bed, not bothering to remove his clothing as he tries to find a bargain that he will not break. He will do this one last time, one final sin, and then no one will ever know. He will have Marian, and she will do all the good things that he gave up long ago. It will be fine, he thinks, and over soon. It will.
A week passes without any word of the pilgrims, and then another. Baldrick grows increasingly distressed, and Guy begins to think that this is purgatory. He wants to send a message to Marian to explain his delay, but there is no way.
Every morning Baldrick waits at the window and studies the small sliver of sky while chewing his fingernails impatiently, only pausing to yell at Ahmad now and then for imagined infractions. When his mood turns really black, he belittles him for things that are out of his control, such as changes to the city since Saladin has returned. Destroyed walls, converted churches, there is nothing that does not land on his shoulders. The boy never speaks a word in his own defense, just bows his head and holds his tongue. Occasionally he will reach a hand toward the dog, which snaps at him every time.
“What are you waiting for?” Guy finally asks Baldrick, his curiosity getting the better of him after fourteen days of witnessing the same dull play acted over and over again. The fact that it stops Baldrick’s invective is incidental.
Baldrick faces him with surprise; up until now, Guy has done everything in his power to avoid engaging him in conversation. “A pigeon,” he admits finally. “I have a man who will send a message when the pilgrims land in Jaffa. And one with the King. It’s quite an ingenious system, really. You can say one thing for the Turks-they are clever.”
But the next few days bring no pigeon. One morning Guy rises to find Baldrick waiting downstairs with a bag in his hand and a panicked look in his eye. “Something is not right. I am off to the coast. I should be no more than a day. Ahmad and the dog will stay.” He fixes Guy with a stern look, which looks strange in his round face. “If you are not here when I return, I will alert the King.”
“I will be here,” Guy says stiffly.
“Good. Ahmad will get whatever you need. He understands more than you think,” he says, and then, blessedly, leaves.
The good news is that he is finally starting to understand how to handle her: think of what he would like for her to do and prepare for the opposite. Marian had yelled that he wanted to put her in a pit, but that is not true. She could escape a pit. Easily. Guy would like to put her in a trunk with a very heavy lid and air-holes that are too small to wiggle out of.
Stepping out from the narrow makeshift alley between the tents, he heads for his horse, joining the clutch of men who travel from tent to tent on daily business. He has no option but to trust her now, now that Richard has emphatically shown that she is meant to stay here as collateral. The King had not even considered his proposal to send her to Ripley Convent, just waved it off with a cold eye and wished him a good journey. Even so, Guy balks at leaving her here without any sort of supervision. Her guard is useless, and he has no one here that he can trust. His only recourse is to hope that he can be back from Jerusalem as quickly as possible. So why does he continue to linger and hope that a solution to the predicament will walk up and wave hello?
A group of thirty men is huddled in front of the path he needs to take to the perimeter, and Guy is forced to slow. “Excuse me,” he mutters as he pushes through them, leaving a passel of curses and offended grunts in his wake. When he is halfway, a familiar voice rings out.
“Alright, gents. Who’s next? You know what they say about luck being like lightning-it has to strike sooner or later.”
Guy peers through the forest of grimy necks and white-clad shoulders to where Allan continues to chatter. He can’t help but note that his former man is still wearing the black clothing he adopted as soon as he entered Guy’s employ. Now he sits behind a small bench with three dented tin cups arranged face-down in front of him like tiny hats. Allan is back to his tavern games.
“No one? No one is brave enough to try?” Allan clucks like an admonishing mother, albeit one who has not shaved in several days, and then points at a swarthy man who is clearly disgruntled about losing his money. “That crazy scowling man almost had it. But he changed his mind at the last second. Always go with your first instinct. That’s the gambling lesson for today.” He winks. “You can pay me for it with your winnings.”
Scanning the half-circle of onlookers for a volunteer and finding none, he throws up his hands. “Look, I’ll get us started,” he says, palming a pebble from the pile at his side and holding it up between his thumb and forefinger like a prized jewel. Once the crowd is suitably assured, he slips it beneath the far cup and begins to shuffle, his hands sure and quick. If Guy did not already know that the game was rigged, he would not know to look for the brief second where Allan’s fingers slip in and retrieve the rock. After the cups are once again arranged before him, Allan lifts his arms up and shakes them. It might look like a finishing flourish to an ignorant onlooker, but Guy is certain that the pebble is now safely hidden in the trickster’s sleeve.
“I will try,” Guy calls out, stepping between the two men in front of him. He keeps his eyes on Allan’s arms and gives a mean smile. “I think I know the game.”
“Guy,” Allan says in shock before his gaze flickers to the circle of men whose purses have been emptied by his tricks. His face retains its showman’s expression, but his hands begin to fidget. He drums his fingers on the table and speaks from between his teeth. “Look, Giz, I’m sorry about-,”
“About what?” Guy cuts him off. He waits for Allan to start talking in his familiar circles; the second he does-the second he even tries to defend himself-Guy is determined to expose his trick and let the crowd take its vengeance.
But Allan says nothing. He does not even try to finish his sentence, just sets his jaw like a man on his way to the gallows. All of a sudden, Guy thinks he might have a solution to the Marian problem. He points to the central cup, the one that covers nothing more than air. “That one.”
Allan’s eyes snap open, and he blinks a few times before realizing that his surprise is suspicious. “Sorry, mate. Better luck next time,” he says and lifts the chosen cup to prove Guy’s mistake. “Well, I think that’s a day.” He claps his hands and begins to gather his things hastily, as though he expects his good fortune to run out.
A few men groan, obviously depressed by the thought of having to find new amusement, a few grumble, and one calls out, “Aren’t you going to take his money?” Allan looks at Guy, who wordlessly pulls a coin out of the purse at his waist and flips it to him. After nodding at the man who reminded him, Allan heads back toward his camp.
Guy yells his name, but when Allan doesn’t turn around, he is forced to follow. “I have something to discuss with you,” he says, grabbing his arm.
Allan shakes his arm off and turns to regard him warily. “If this is about Marian and Robin again. . .”
“I know everything about that. And so,” Guy says darkly, “did you. Tell me, how did you get the Mother Superior’s seal?”
“Look, just hit me and get it over with. Yeah, yeah, I knew where Marian was. Yeah, yeah, I didn’t tell you, just hit me.”
Guy would like to hit him, actually, but that might make Allan think that they are even. He wants him to feel indebted. “I’m not going to hit you.”
Allan does not know how to react to that. He squints, rubs at his head. “You know, Marian does what she wants to do,” he says, finally defensive, “I had Robin threatenin’ me on one side, her poppin’ out of corners with knives on the other. . . . I had no choice. I had to protect her.”
As usual, the fact that everyone but him knew about her duplicity brings a rush of anger that causes his fists to clench. But if he is going to survive this, he has to swallow some of his wounded pride. “I know. I need you to do it again,” Guy says, teeth gritted.
“What?”
Guy looks around, sees the curious glances that nearby soldiers are throwing their way. He jerks his head to the side in a suggestion that Allan follow him to somewhere more private. Allan considers it for a few seconds, but then walks after him warily. Once they are off the main road and surrounded by only a few deserted tents and cast-off weapons, Guy turns to Allan again.
“I have to leave for Jerusalem today on business for Richard.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that.”
For the first time, it strikes Guy how foolhardy it was to taunt Hood with details of his plans. He had been worried about Marian following him, but now he wonders if he should be more worried of Hood. Or worse, of them following him together. The need for immediate return grows stronger.
“I do not know how long I will be gone,” he tells Allan, “and the King has been very adamant that Marian stay here. She knows this, but Marian is. . .,” He starts, but struggles for the right word.
“Crazy?” Allan tries.
“No.”
“I think my jaw still clicks from where she punched me.”
“Headstrong,” Guy snaps. “She is headstrong. I need you to check in on her, make sure that she stays here. It is in her best interests. I can pay you.”
Allan squints at him. “Nah,” he says.
Used to Allan obeying his orders immediately, Guy rears back. He never thought that Allan would refuse. “What?” he says, his fingers suddenly itching to grab at Allan’s throat. He has not forgotten the betrayal; it has just been covered by panic and worry.
“I mean, I’ll do it,” Allan says in a rush. “I’m just not taking money for it anymore. That’s what got me into this mess in the first place.”
Surprised, Guy can only blink. He does not like the idea of not having any money behind a request-it feels less certain, less binding. “I will pay you.”
“I won’t take it,” Allan says stubbornly.
“I’ll pay you to keep her away from Hood.”
“That I won’t do. I’m not going to be her jailer.” He waves his hands in front of him. “Your two’s strange relationship stuff is your own business.”
Now that he feels ridiculous, Guy can only look away and say nothing.
“Hey, I’ll keep my word. Don’t worry about that,” Allan says and then gives him a clumsy pat on the arm.
“See that you do,” he snaps, uncomfortable, and then storms away to find his horse.
Haifa is a smaller city than Acre-a town really-that teeters on the edge of a bay. As predicted, Guy makes it by nightfall, just as the last rays of sun are slipping behind the small mountain that borders it on the West.
He finds an inn easily, and though the bed is rickety and the stuffing old, the small room he is given overlooks the water, now silver in the moonlight. The thin walls do nothing to muffle the din of supping people beneath him, and the smell of roasting fish wafts beneath the door. Hunger takes him by surprise, surging up sharp and fierce; apart from a few grapes this morning, he has had nothing substantial to eat since . . . well, since killing Vasey.
That thought tosses up more than he wants to deal with at the moment. As he takes a seat at the window, staring out at the skeleton rigging of the ships in the harbor, he realizes that this is the first time he’s traveled alone. In the twenty years that he had been with Vasey, first as one of the impoverished apprentices the man’s family collected like old coins and then as his right-hand man, there was never a time when he journeyed without his company. It’s not that he misses it-the brief interlude where he once admired Vasey ended abruptly after a day in his employ-but the absence is a reminder of how much things have changed in the last four days, changed in ways that Guy cannot even begin to define as good or bad.
No longer wanting to be alone with the prickling doubt that has recently become his most loyal companion, he goes downstairs. The lower tavern is crowded. Its customers are mostly male, but the city has been under Crusader rule for long enough that there are a few women, most of whom seem to be local. Scattered groups of pilgrims gather in the corners, but the most boisterous are the men who will most likely wend their way back to their homes on foot tonight. Guy orders meat and ale, and then buries himself in a dark corner that smells of the sea.
He makes short work of his meal, but not short enough to avoid the notice of a nearby patron. The man is hunched over his plate, staring at him through a hank of grizzled hair.
As soon as he realizes that Guy has noticed him, he leans over and croaks, “Where are you headed?”
Guy curses beneath his breath. He should have just starved upstairs in his room. “It is none of your concern,” he barks and pushes away from the table.
“You’re not a pilgrim,” the man continues. “They travel in groups, like fish. And you’re not a Crusader. I can recognize that sort anywhere; they’re usually weighted down by jewels and riches they’ve picked up on the road. But this is the way to Jerusalem. I used to travel it myself as a merchant, before we lost it to the Turk.” He shrugs. “A few times since. But not often.”
“You’ve been to Jerusalem?” Guy asks. The last time he was in the Holy Land, he had been limited to the outskirts of Acre. The instructions he has been given are terse and spare, and he has begun to worry that he is stumbling his way into a fraught climate with no real sense of direction. He deliberates for a moment, then pulls out the map and points to where he has been instructed to go. “What do you know about this area?”
The man coughs and then leans over the flattened parchment. “That area is Jewish now. Or Jewish once again. Saladin has let them back in the city.” He squints up at Guy with a rheumy eye. “Why are you going there?”
Guy doesn’t answer, just folds the map again and stashes it away. “It does not matter,” he says shortly, not caring if the man thinks him rude, but he just chuckles.
“Fine. I talk too much anyway,” he says, and Guy heads for the stairs. “I would enter from the side, though, if I were you. They have a weapons checkpoint by the main entrance, but not there.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Christians tend to avoid it.”
Guy sticks to the coast as long as he is able. He has never spent much time by the water, and is surprised to find that he enjoys the taste of salt on the air and the open feeling that comes from not being able to see the opposing land; when he is finally forced to turn inward at Jaffa, he feels pang of regret that lingers as the landscape grows sparse and scrubby. In the distance, small caravans flicker through the haze of heat. That day lasts forever, and when dark finally comes, he ties his horse to a palm and spends the night sleeping fitfully at its trunk, hand on the hilt of his sword.
The second day is an imitation of the first, only more draining because it has worn out its welcome. He reaches Jerusalem late in the evening, and from afar, the city is lit by a thousand tiny halos of light. The main gate is imposing in the distance, and he can see the bustle of heavily-swathed Turks at its base.
Taking the old man’s advice, Guy guides his horse through the side alleys so that he can enter by way of what is apparently a resurrected Jewish Quarter. A few dark faces turn toward him with wary eyes, but no one approaches to ask his business. As he makes his way toward the interior, the language burbling up around him changes, and it puts him on edge. England is rife with rumors of their cannibalistic practices, their pacts with the devil.
It does not help when a man runs out from an open doorway and begins to yell at him, waving his arms and shooing him forcefully. In the gloom, the only thing Guy can see are his teeth snapping from the middle of his beard. He ignores him and rides past, but the man watches him from the middle of the road until he disappears around the corner.
He pulls out his directions, squints down at them. They point him toward an alley so small that he does not know if it should even be called such, and a door so hidden that you could ride past it without even knowing of its existence. Guy dismounts with his pack and, after only a slight hesitation, knocks on the pitted door. Light seeps through a large crack running from its middle to the base.
The door is soon flung open by the man who he saw exiting Richard’s tent a few days ago. Baldrick, he presumes. With the firelight behind him, Guy can only make out a thick figure, a long nose and a thin brown mustache. He gestures for Guy to enter.
“My horse,” Guy says, and Baldrick snaps his fingers at a pile of rags cluttering up the corner. The pile shifts, transforming into a sharp-featured boy with impossibly thin limbs who edges by Guy and nickers at the horse before leading it out of sight.
“Ahmad will take care of it,” Baldrick says as Guy walks in and drops his things on the end of a thick wooden table that is covered in the remains of what looks to be a chicken dinner. “Despite the fact that he looks half-starved,” he continues, “I have found him to be quite capable. And he works for scraps.” Baldrick points to a high-backed chair. “Sit, sit.”
Even though the air outside is hot and muggy, a fire roars in the hearth. A large black dog is stretched out before it, furiously gnawing at a discarded bone. When Guy approaches to take a seat, it raises its dark head and stares at him with golden eyes.
“You are earlier than I expected,” Baldrick says from across the table, and Guy tears his attention away from the canine specter. The man is acting like a genial host whose party guests have surprised them.
“I would like to get this over with,” Guy says, sitting in a high-backed chair but not leaning back.
Baldrick’s face loses its studied affability and becomes solemn. “As would I. You cannot imagine how it feels to see this sacred city overrun with filth of all kinds. And here we are forced to wallow in it and act as though we are grateful for the privilege.” He tears a bone from the ravaged meat in front of him and tosses it to the dog, who nudges his old one aside in favor of the new. “Like dogs hungry for table scraps,” he finishes bitterly.
Unsure of how to respond, Guy can only hold his tongue and listen to the crackle of the fire and the crunch of cartilage. When Baldrick proves to be no more forthcoming, he is forced to venture forward. “What exactly are we here to do? King Richard said that you would inform me of more when I arrived.”
“I am sorry,” Baldrick says, immediately contrite. “I had forgotten that you had not yet been brought to the plan.” He leans forward into the full light, and his eyes glitter. “We are going to renew faith in the Crusade. Prove to those that would their backs on our divine mission that Richard is needed here.”
Before Guy has a chance to cut through this zealotry and ask the only questions that truly matter to him-how and how soon-the door creaks open and Ahmad wanders back in.
“Out,” Baldrick snaps, whirling toward him. When Ahmad just stands there, too stunned to move, Baldrick picks up a glass and hurls it toward him. It hits the boy’s chest with a dull thud and then splashes liquid all over his shirtfront. Guy watches as he skitters out the door. Like this whole cursed trip, it kicks up uncomfortable memories.
“Was that necessary?” he asks without thinking and then wishes he could take it back immediately. “I could have used some wine,” he adds.
Baldrick chuckles. “None of that to be had here, I am afraid. And the boy needs to learn not to creep around like a little spider,” he says and waves a hand dismissively. “Although I suppose it does not matter; he has heard too much already.”
“What has he heard?” Guy asks. “You have still not told me what is to be done.”
“Right,” Baldrick says. “We have received word that a number of influential figures are on their way here with the intent of making pilgrimage into the city. The recent treaty has been good news to those that have been waiting these past five years.” He pauses. “Do you know much about the First Crusade?”
“They are all the same,” Guy says, not able to keep his weariness from affecting his judgment. He rubs at his eyes. “I mean, I do not.”
That seems to throw him off course. “Are you not dedicated to the reclamation? I had thought that because the King sent you--,”
“I am dedicated to whatever I have been sent here to do,” Guy says. “I have . . . other reasons.”
“I see.” Baldrick frowns and laces his fingers together. He contemplates the plate before him as signs of frustration and anger do battle across his face. But when he lifts his head, his dark brown eyes are eerily vacant. “Well, whatever your reasons, we are to sacrifice a few to aid the many. As I said, there are a number of influential pilgrims on their way here. We will make martyrs of them; their deaths will go down in history as the spark that fired the cleansing flood.”
Guy says nothing. Baldrick watches him with an eager expression, as though waiting for a shout or other proof of fervent support. The dog shuffles to his feet with a low growl and comes to sit at its master’s side. Baldrick pats its head, which is dark and glossy in the flickering light. It turns to regard him as well.
“So we are to be assassins,” Guy says finally. He had expected that this mission would involve death, but nothing on such a grand scale. It is no matter, he tells himself, he has done it before.
Baldrick’s mouth twists. “Not assassins,” he says as though the words are in danger of turning sour in his mouth. “We will be stewards of a new era.”
“I do not understand.”
“We will dress as Saracens. I am told that you have experience in such matters.”
Guy looks at Baldrick sharply, expecting to find some trace of wry amusement, but his face is free of any sort of guile.
“Do not forget that they have attacked our people before,” Baldrick says, taking his look and the resulting silence as hesitation. “They will do it again, I have no doubt, but we do not have time to wait for the inevitable. Support has grown weak; faith has grown weak. Richard is being torn away from his true calling as we speak. And yet if we do this thing, he will have reason to stay.”
He should not question, he should just nod and ask where he will be sleeping tonight. But Guy cannot stop himself from raising a skeptical brow. “And all of this will result from the death of a few pilgrims?”
“Not a few,” Baldrick says and beams. “Many. We are not the only ones-of this I have been assured. We are only a small thread in the design.”
This man is entirely demented-that much is obvious-but it is not the first time that he has worked with those who have been driven insane by a cause. “I see. So who are we to kill?”
“The Abbess of Chelles. And her attendants.”
Guy can only blink across the table. “A woman? A nun?”
“The rallying cry needs to be strong.”
“I do not kill women,” Guy says before thinking. He opens his mouth to correct himself, to smooth the waters, but then stops. No. He does not kill women. “Find me someone else to kill.”
“There is no one else. I was given to understand that you were devoted to the cause,” Baldrick says, sounding more sad than angry, and his hands move beneath the table. At first Guy thinks that he has gone once again to pet his dog, but they emerge again with a dagger, which he calmly lays on the table. His hand rests on the jeweled hilt. “Perhaps you should reconsider. I would hate to inform Richard that I am lacking a helper.”
The metal of the blade glints between them, and Guy fixes his eyes on that instead of Baldrick’s shuttered gaze. He has never killed a woman before. He finds the idea repugnant and more than a little frightening. Back in the days when his actions still had the power to cost him sleep, that fact had been the one thing that made it possible to keep going. These were his rules, this was his code. If he crossed that line, there would be no going back; the blood would stain his hands forever.
Guy looks up to study the man across from him. Baldrick has lost interest in watching the man he is threatening. He hums beneath his breath, picking through the meal for the tender bits of chicken hiding in the heart of the breast. When he finds them, he passes them to the dog like small tributes, smiling when the beast licks his fingers with loud, sloppy slurps.
Guy still has his sword-he could run this madman through right now, escape the city, and go . . . where? It would have to be away from Richard, which rules out most of Europe, not to mention the fact that the money he brought with him on this doomed mission is quickly running out. Still, he could do it.
But Marian. Marian. There would be no way to get word to her without endangering them both and no message that would be able to shatter her starry-eyed notions of her benevolent king. Even if he could, there is no guarantee that she would join him, he thinks, and then laughs at himself. No guarantee? Try no chance.
Richard will not harm her, not with Hood there to stop it. Now that Guy knows the true nature of their relationship, he has no doubt that the outlaw would protect her, wed her, even though she was no longer a maid-Guy would have, after all. They would have fat, happy children and preside over fat, lazy peasants who cheated them at every corner.
Let her go, a voice says, and the idea of it makes his heart stop even though it is the smartest option. He does not know if he will ever be able to stomach the fact that Marian has accepted him as a cause rather than a person. Even if by some stroke of luck he would end up with Nottingham, Hood will still be there like a prize Guy is constantly withholding from her. The future stretches out before him with perfect clarity. He will love her more and more, and hate her for it. She will be in the same room, and he will miss her. This is the moment to walk away, to wash his hands of all the mistakes and disappear. She will forget him in a week.
“I will do it,” Guy says, not realizing that he’s agreed until Baldrick turns his head and smiles.
“I thought you might. Do not worry,” he says. “They are approaching the city as we speak. It will not be long. Would you like something to eat?”
“No. I am tired.”
Baldrick yells for Ahmad, who is back in the door faster than a shadow. “Take a candle. Show our guest to his room.”
Ahmad nods and fumbles with the candle at the end of the table. When he has lit it, he waves for Guy to follow him up the dim, earthen stairs. The boy takes them two at a time, but Guy moves slowly. By the time he reaches the small chamber that sits across from the mouth of the hall, Ahmad is flitting about the room fluffing a pillow and brushing the dust from the top of a heavy oaken headboard. Before he leaves, he goes to the corner and gathers a small pile of linens and a few wooden toys.
“Were you sleeping here?” Guy asks, and Ahmad shakes his head so forcefully that Guy fears his small neck might snap. Before Guy can say that it is fine, Ahmad has already rushed from the room and disappeared down the stairs.
There is an open window, but it faces the dark wall of the next building. Guy falls on the bed, not bothering to remove his clothing as he tries to find a bargain that he will not break. He will do this one last time, one final sin, and then no one will ever know. He will have Marian, and she will do all the good things that he gave up long ago. It will be fine, he thinks, and over soon. It will.
A week passes without any word of the pilgrims, and then another. Baldrick grows increasingly distressed, and Guy begins to think that this is purgatory. He wants to send a message to Marian to explain his delay, but there is no way.
Every morning Baldrick waits at the window and studies the small sliver of sky while chewing his fingernails impatiently, only pausing to yell at Ahmad now and then for imagined infractions. When his mood turns really black, he belittles him for things that are out of his control, such as changes to the city since Saladin has returned. Destroyed walls, converted churches, there is nothing that does not land on his shoulders. The boy never speaks a word in his own defense, just bows his head and holds his tongue. Occasionally he will reach a hand toward the dog, which snaps at him every time.
“What are you waiting for?” Guy finally asks Baldrick, his curiosity getting the better of him after fourteen days of witnessing the same dull play acted over and over again. The fact that it stops Baldrick’s invective is incidental.
Baldrick faces him with surprise; up until now, Guy has done everything in his power to avoid engaging him in conversation. “A pigeon,” he admits finally. “I have a man who will send a message when the pilgrims land in Jaffa. And one with the King. It’s quite an ingenious system, really. You can say one thing for the Turks-they are clever.”
But the next few days bring no pigeon. One morning Guy rises to find Baldrick waiting downstairs with a bag in his hand and a panicked look in his eye. “Something is not right. I am off to the coast. I should be no more than a day. Ahmad and the dog will stay.” He fixes Guy with a stern look, which looks strange in his round face. “If you are not here when I return, I will alert the King.”
“I will be here,” Guy says stiffly.
“Good. Ahmad will get whatever you need. He understands more than you think,” he says, and then, blessedly, leaves.