by Alex Scarrow
The figure lurched in response — and Liam thought he heard some sort of wheezing whine come from beneath the hood. Eddie’s blade must have found some chink in the armour beneath. The figure spun round to face him, the blade of the handle protruding from its back.
The response was a savage thrust with the broadsword that punched a hole through the jagged and pockmarked remains of Eddie’s shield, the long blade continuing on into the man’s chest.
Liam watched Eddie gasp, then collapse slowly to his knees.
‘Stuff this!’ He then turned and ran off the track and into the woods, charging through low branches and brambles that whipped and stung his cheeks. His heavy leather boots stumbled over roots and hummocks in the ground; his rasping breath and the snap of twigs and branches beneath him seemed to fill the silent woods around him. He realized the racket he was making as he scrambled away from that thing was giving him away … but he couldn’t bring himself to slow down.
He ran for what he guessed was another minute before he finally stopped and turned to look behind him. He expected to see the wraithlike fluttering outline of black robes weaving past trees and through brambles hot on his heels; instead, the woods were still, empty.
Liam gasped air into his lungs, doubling over and dry-heaving from the sudden exertion, the burn of nerves. He spat phlegm on to the ground and straightened up on legs that felt like jelly.
All he had a chance to notice was the blur of something in motion towards him. Then he was seeing a world of speckled white.
CHAPTER 50
1194, Beaumont Palace, Oxford
Becks looked at the first grey light of dawn stealing in through the tall slitted windows. She calculated that she had another forty-seven minutes until the sun breached the horizon and the city of Oxford began to stir to life.
John, of course, was going to be asleep for another couple of hours at least. She’d worked out the average time that he emerged from his chambers and started bawling for breakfast. It was usually eleven minutes past nine. Although, last night, she’d made sure he’d consumed several flagons of wine which meant perhaps another hour before he stirred.
It would take her precisely twenty-seven minutes to make her way back out of the deserted halls and cloisters of Beaumont Palace, occupied by a skeleton crew of soldiers and servants, and jog the mile back to the walls of Oxford city.
The city’s walls were poorly maintained, and the missing blocks of masonry and cracks in the mortar made it possible to be scaled. She’d get back into the castle itself climbing the rear bailey wall.
Twenty-seven minutes from now she would be back in her chambers, pretending to be asleep.
She continued studying the wooden shelves of scrolls and leather-bound volumes of illuminated manuscripts in Beaumont’s royal library. She pulled them off the dusty shelves one at a time, scanning sample pages of each in an attempt to identify the correct document.
She’d examined seven hundred and twenty-six candidate documents over the last five hours of night. Her hard drive stored their digital images and her processor was working overtime to translate the elaborate swirls of handwriting into recognizable text characters. None of the texts she’d scanned and translated so far had produced anything useful. There’d been endless essays on royal protocol and volumes of romantic poetry but nothing she could classify as vaguely relevant. She had opted for a very simple search algorithm — any text that scored high on a hit-list of terms sorted into relevance by order:
Search Terms:
Treyarch (100 % relevance)
Pandora (100 % relevance)
Confession (83 % relevance)
Templar (79.4 % relevance)
Grail (79.3 % relevance)
Jerusalem (56.5 % relevance)
Code (23 % relevance)
So far twelve of the documents had contained three of the seven words. Thirty-two had contained two or more terms and a hundred and five had contained one or more. ‘Confession’ was the highest-scoring search term so far. It seemed a lot of people from this time felt the pressing need to confess something.
She continued robotically pulling out manuscripts amid showers of dust motes, opening them and grabbing snapshot images. But, somewhere inside her head, a part of her AI that wasn’t overloaded with running character-recognition software was wondering whether this approach was going to deliver any useful results.
She paused, a heavy leather-bound volume held in mid-air, dust cascading down in front of her. Her mind was making a quick assessment of the situation, of the amount of time she had left, and of the thousands of scrolls and volumes she’d yet to scan.
Her eyes followed a small tuft of fluff; the small downy feather of some bird that must have found its way in through one of the slit windows. She watched it gracefully seesaw down to the stone floor and then settle. She was about to resume scanning the leather-bound manuscript in her hand when the feather gently stirred. It spun on the spot for a moment before flitting lightly across the floor.
Curious at the sudden movement, she suspended the maths going on in her head and squatted down to look at the feather. She reached out, picked it up and put it back on the floor where it had settled a moment ago.
It was still for a moment, then it twitched, spun … then once again slid across the floor, in a short stop-start motion away from the wall beside her.
She looked at the wall. Like the rest of the walls in the library it was decorated with oakwood panels.
[Identify: Wall. Wood. Oak. Purpose: decorative]
She ran her fingers down the grained surface, all the way down to the floor, and there, from a gap between the panel and floor — no more than half an inch — she felt a cool draught on the tips of her fingers. She tapped the wood panel with her knuckles. The knock echoed around the cavernous library.
[Assessment: Primary sonic response. 1.3 MHz frequency. Delay 0.56 milliseconds]
She cocked her head and tapped again, certain this time that it meant there was a significant space behind the panel. She pulled her fist back and rammed it forward. It disappeared through a splintered hole with a crack that reverberated around the library. She pulled her fist back out and stared through the hole she’d created. Beyond, she could see a small room, little more than an alcove, lit by the faintest grey light at dawn coming through a tiny slitted window.
She saw what looked like a wooden lectern with a thick tallow candle on one side and, in front of it, a bench with a dust-covered cushion on it. A private reading space of some sort.
She was about to destroy the rest of the panel with a few well-aimed kicks and punches, but found that it swung out on hidden hinges with a soft creak.
She stepped into the small alcove beyond, and now saw, sitting on the lectern, a roll of parchment wrapped around a simple wooden spindle. She unfurled it slowly, hearing the brittle parchment crackling.
Spread across the yellowing page, a spider-crawl of fading ink in lines that sloped and rose untidily. Her forehead creased absentmindedly as she struggled to make sense of the looped letters and errant spelling of a man, quite clearly beginning to lose his mind …
This, the confession of Gerard Treyarch, wryten in the yeare of our Lorde, 1137 …
CHAPTER 51
1194, Dover
King Richard leaped from the prow of the rowboat and splashed down into the tumbling surf, sensing the crunch and clatter of pebbles beneath his heavy boots.
English ground once more.
The dawn sky was a blue grey, patiently awaiting the arrival of the sun. But it was light enough to see further up the beach at the base of the cliffs a welcoming committee of assembled noblemen and their squires. Guttering torches and braziers burned brightly, casting light among the many colours of coats of arms.
He waded forward through the waves and up out of the rolling surf on to the beach. Faces, expectant, regarded him warily.
I know what you all want, he mused. They wanted to be seen to throw themselves at his service, to
pledge undying loyalty to him. To kiss his hands and praise God for his safe return. And when all that was done they’d all be vying with each other to beg for titles and special privileges, to seek tax exemptions, permissions to build fortified properties, licences to trade exotic imports. With one gasp they’d plead unfailing loyalty, with the very next be begging favours.
Blood-sucking leeches — the lot of them.
But necessary allies … for now. He was going to need their revenues, their men, for a while longer. Until he’d re-established his authority and, more importantly, held the divine power of the Holy Grail in his hands. Power enough to vanquish any army foolish enough to stand in his way.
So many years dreaming of this, waiting for this moment; the last of those years spent as the prisoner of Duke Leopold, awaiting the ransom that would finally set him free. And all that time, all of those frustrating months, having in his possession one half of what he needed. The key but not the lock. The cardan grille, but not the precious text itself.
The Word of God.
The Grail.
A curse and a blessing, he reminded himself. If he’d had the Grail with him when he’d been captured, then it might well have been in Leopold’s possession right now, that ignorant oaf far too stupid to realize the awesome power he’d be holding in his hands.
Richard grinned; his broad mouth parted, showing a row of small yellow teeth. He could feel destiny touching him, God’s hand on his shoulder, whispering promises softly into his ear. Just a day’s ride now, perhaps two, up to Oxford where it currently was waiting for him in the royal palace. And there, alone in the royal library, in his private reading room, he was finally going to be able to spread the Grail across his lectern, unroll the cardan grille he’d managed to keep hidden on his person in the dungeons of Leopold’s castle. It was a roll of worn leather, which when unravelled was no more than two palms wide and four deep. And cut into it, a matrix of tiny rectangular windows through which individual letters could be perceived. Letters that were going to spell out words … words from God Himself.
Words, when uttered aloud, that would give Richard the raw unbridled power of an archangel, hellfire at his fingertips. He knew this … as one of the many promises God had quietly whispered to him.
His heart raced with excitement as the nobles looked on expectantly at their king.
Richard had planned some sort of a rabble-rousing speech that would have these fat and greedy fools roaring a hurrah for their king. But then he spotted the white robe and the red cross of a single Templar standing back from the gathered barons and lords. A mere knight, he readily accepted his place at the back of the queue. Allowing lords, dukes and barons their business with the king first.
A Templar … perhaps with news?
Richard strode up the beach towards the man. As he did, the nobles began to surge forward like so many jostling children, each keen to be the very first to welcome their king home.
The Baron Henri De Croy thrust himself into Richard’s path, dropping his heavy girth down on to one knee and clasping pudgy thick-fingered hands together in prayer. ‘Oh, I thank the Lord he has brought you home safely to us, my king!’ he bellowed.
Richard curled his lip in disgust and casually stepped around the man. Other nobles were clustering towards him, all claiming their devotion to him at once, a growing clamour of insincere voices. Richard struggled to find the Templar Knight he’d seen, having lost sight of him amid the confusion of colourful coats of arms and standards, the wall of bearded and amply fed faces all spouting meaningless nonsense at him.
‘BE QUIET!’
His lion’s roar of a voice pealed across the beach and echoed off the chalk cliffs in front of him. Once more there was a stillness on the beach, filled only by the gentle draw and hiss of the lapping tide.
‘TEMPLAR!’ he called out. ‘Where are you?’
Heads turned among the nobles, voices in a low murmur.
Richard narrowed his eyes, looking again for the distinct flash of red cruciform on white. He heard the crunch of footsteps through pebbles and saw, among the gathered crowd of barons and lords, bodies parting to make way for someone coming forward.
Finally the Templar Knight appeared before Richard. The knight’s face was vaguely familiar but he could not recall the man’s name. He recognized him from three years ago — he’d been among his cadre of loyal crusaders who’d taken Acre.
He offered the knight a brotherly smile, from one warrior of God to another. Both of them veterans … both of them crusaders.
But the man looked uncomfortable. Unable to meet his eyes, looking down at his feet. ‘My king,’ he began, licking dry lips, finding a quiet voice. ‘My king … I bear bad news.’
Richard took a step closer. He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and leaned forward until his mouth was almost beside the man’s ear. ‘What, pray tell, is this bad news?’
‘Sire … the Grail is lost. Stolen.’
CHAPTER 52
1194, Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire
Liam awoke into a fog of thudding agony. Every movement sent sharp splinters of pain through his head. He was looking up at a clear blue sky through branches of leaves that jostled and swayed. Another pleasant summer’s day it promised to be, but it was cool … cool with the damp of dew; a morning yet to properly get going. He wondered how long he’d been out for. A day?
He decided not to turn his head; it ached far too much. He could hear activity around him: the chopping of firewood, the clang of a ladle against a metal cooking pot. The jangle of horses’ harnesses, the scrape of a blade being sharpened along a whetstone.
‘Master Locke!’ a voice nearby called out. ‘He is awake now!’
Liam snapped his eyes quickly shut again. He heard more movement around him, men stirring, the clank of things being put down, the soft crunch of footsteps on pine cones slowly approaching him. His mouth was covered with a gag of foul-smelling material; some thug’s sweaty rags, no doubt. But his eyes clenched tightly, the lids flickering, were giving him away.
‘You’re awake, fool … I can see it,’ growled a deep voice. A booted foot kicked him roughly in the side of the ribs and Liam grunted painfully. He opened his eyes to see a tall man with long untidy locks of sandy-coloured hair looking down at him. ‘See now? I knew you were awake.’ The man smiled, then squatted down beside Liam.
‘Hmmm, so, you’re the sheriff who’s been giving me so much trouble?’
Liam could say nothing, his mouth clogged with the dirty rag, his hands bound behind his back with twine.
‘And so young, as well,’ he uttered, cocking his head curiously. He spoke in a lowered voice. ‘You know, you did a far better job than the previous idiot. He managed to turn Nottingham and most of the county against him … made my life very easy here. No end of starving malcontents joining the cause every day.’
Liam looked over his shoulder at the gathering crowd of ragged men.
‘But you, young man … you’ve turned things around, haven’t you? Made things very difficult for me. John chose wisely this time. A noble with a brain for once.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Which makes it a real shame that I have to do this.’
The man stood up and turned to the assembled crowd. ‘Pick him up! Let’s see what the Hood wants done with him!’
A dozen pairs of rough hands seized and hefted him on to his feet. Liam looked around at the camp — an odd assortment of flimsy wooden shacks, wattle-and-daub huts and cloth tents stretched over frames made from branches. Among the growing crowd, he spotted men mostly, one or two women and no children. It had the look of a semi-permanent settlement, not an overnight camp but a year-round dwelling haphazardly built in and around the mature oak trees.
The tall man who’d spoken led the way through the camp towards a round hut with wattle-and-daub walls and a squat conical roof of branches and reeds. Bigger than the others; more effort had gone into it. Liam suspected it was their leader’s hut.
The Hood.
He watched the tall man duck down and disappear inside through a low door, leaving him alone with the crowd. He felt hands pushing and shoving him, a punch on his back that painfully jolted his head.
‘French scum!’ someone hissed at him.
Another cursed, then spat a fat gobbet of spittle into his face. ‘Go back to Normandy!’
Liam tried to reply he wasn’t French, that he wasn’t some arrogant Norman aristocrat, but the gag filled his mouth and the best he could do was grunt.
Probably wouldn’t have mattered if he could have made himself heard; he was wearing expensive clothes, a dark green velvet smock, fine linen leggings and leather boots, that marked him as a noble whatever he might try to say.
The tall man emerged through the low door and stood up straight, raising his arms to hush the hubbub of noise in the crowd.
‘He says it is for you to decide the sheriff’s fate!’
Liam felt his legs give, as most of the crowd roared with approval.
Oh that’s not good.
‘Kill him!’ shouted several voices.
‘You really wish to show John, the pretender … show him what we think of his Norman lackeys?’
The crowd shouted its agreement. Liam looked at the tall man, trying to make eye contact with him. He sounded different from the others, a different accent, perhaps educated. And wasn’t there a hint of regret in his voice? As if he’d rather they chose another fate for him?
I need to talk to him!
He twisted his head from side to side, trying to work the gag out of his mouth. But already he was being dragged by the mob, hands struggling through the press of bodies to get a grasp on him, pinch him or land a punch on him.
He could feel the rancid cloth rammed into his mouth loosening, able to find enough space at the back of his mouth to bunch his tongue up and push the cloth forward. It made him gag and he fought the urge to vomit.
