He would live!
He got to his feet and retrieved his sword. He looked outside. The Saxons were swarming over the walls. His men—De Bracy's men—were being defeated. Perhaps de la Croix was saving him for a more ignoble fate, leaving him to the devices of the Saxon outlaws. Well, it would not be. He would escape. He looked down at his shield, which had been hammered into uselessness. No matter. He could quickly get another. And he had yet another shield in mind. Not even Saxon outlaws would draw a bow back on a woman.
He ran quickly to his chambers.
Rebecca, bruised and disheveled, lay on the bed. She stared up at the ceiling. Her eyes were vacant and unfocused and tears slid down her cheeks. She was utterly silent.
"Rebecca, come quickly!" said Bois-Guilbert. "The outlaws are storming the castle. All is lost."
She did not respond.
"Damn you," swore Sir Brian. "You're far more trouble than you're worth." He picked her up and ran for the stables.
He was right. The Saxon outlaws would not shoot at a woman. They were already swarming into the courtyard by the time he mounted. With Rebecca held in front of him, he spurred hard and rode through the press, scattering those who tried to stop him. With De Bracy dead and Richard back in England, things suddenly looked grim. It would be a bad time for him to be alone. With one arm clutching Rebecca, he turned his horse toward the Preceptory of Templestowe.
* * * *
Andre blinked hard.
One moment, Bois-Guilbert was at her feet, awaiting her killing stroke, the next, she was in the wizard's chambers and her sword was embedded in his skull. No sooner had the realization sunk in than another sorcerer—for what else could he have been?—burst into the room, throwing lightning at her and striking her down. Yet, he had not killed her. For a moment, she had not been certain, but now she knew she was alive. Perhaps the man was merely an apprentice and his power not yet strong enough to slay her. When she raised her head, he was gone, but now, scant seconds later, another stood in his place, appearing out of nowhere.
This one was dressed in a satanic robe, with dragons on both sides. His long brown hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard, and he looked at her only briefly before bending down over the black knight's evil apparatus.
"This place is going to be the scene of a small cataclysm in a moment," Hunter said, removing the explosive from the chronoplate and tossing it beneath the bed. "It would be wise if
we vacated the premises and quickly. Come with me."
He held out a hand and helped her up, then picked up the chronoplate. "These things are a bit difficult to get a hold of," he said. "And I could use a spare. Don't be frightened. We're going to take a little trip, you and I."
"Am I to be killed?" said Andre.
"I don't think you have to worry about that," said Hunter. "You might get a little sick, but it won't be serious. Come on now, that thing's going to blow."
"Blow?"
"I'll explain later," Hunter said. "We need an explosion in this room to keep things in order. Now, just stand over here. If you like, you can close your eyes. It will only take a moment."
Resigning herself to whatever fate awaited her, Andre closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was no longer in Nottingham Castle.
She became violently ill.
* * * *
Albert Beaumanoir, Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templars, was considerably less than happy with his charges. Recently returned from a conference with Philip of France, the Grand Master had come to England and had established himself in residency at the Preceptory of Templestowe. He was an old man with gray hair, a long gray beard and deep-sunken eyes in which glittered the light of fanaticism. Conrad Mont-Fitchet, the preceptor who attended him, walked slightly behind him in the garden of Templestowe, listening to his superior and nodding at his words.
Beaumanoir was extremely displeased at what he perceived as being a fall from grace among many of the Templars. He took his office and his vows seriously, with a zealot's pride. To Beaumanoir, the white burrel mantle of a Knight Templar, with the red octagonal cross on the left shoulder, was a simple statement that identified its wearer as a warrior of God. Yet he had come to England to find that the Templars there had abandoned the severity of their vows, granting themselves many dispensations.
"Since I have come to England," said the Grand Master, "I have seen little of the practices of our brethren here upon which I can look with favor. It distresses me."
"It's true," said Conrad. "The irregularities of our knights in England are even more gross than of those in France."
"It is because they are more wealthy," said Beaumanoir. "Wealth can be the lifeblood of the Church, but wealth can also corrupt. See how it has affected those here. Our vows proclaim that we should wear no vain or worldly ornaments, no crests upon our helmets, no gold upon our bridle or our stirrups, yet look how our brothers of the sword array themselves in England! They have embraced all crass material pursuits, from falconry to debauchery. They are forbidden to read save what their Superior permits, yet they are engrossed in the study of the cabalistical secrets of the Jews and the magic of the Saracens. Simplicity of diet was prescribed to them and look how their tables groan under the weight of princely fare! Their drink was to be water, but now to drink like a Templar is the boast of each jolly boon companion! The souls of our pure founders, the spirits of Hugh de Payen and Godfrey de Saint Omer, and of the blessed Seven who first joined in dedicating their lives to the service of the Temple, are disturbed even in paradise itself! I have seen them in the visions of the night. They say to me, Beaumanoir, awake! There is a stain in the fabric of the Temple, as deep and foul as that left by the streaks of leprosy on the walls of the Infected houses of old! The soldiers of the Cross, who should shun the glance of a woman as the eye of a basilisk, live in open sin, not only with females of their own race, but with the daughters of the accursed heathen and the more accursed Jew. I will purify the fabric of the Temple, Conrad, and the unclean stones in which the plague is, I will remove and cast out of the building!"
At that moment, a squire approached them.
"Grand Master," he said, "a Jew stands without the gate, begging admission to speak with our brother, Brian de Bois-Guilbert."
"You were right to give me knowledge of this," said Beaumanoir. "It imports us especially to know of this Bois-Guilbert's proceedings."