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.
Ahead of him he saw the crowd part, making space around the flat top of a broad tree stump. It was about a yard across and a yard high – like a roughly hewn table-top.
‘Send his head back to Oxford!’
Head? Oh God please no …
Liam saw someone place a wicker basket beside the base of the stump. He began to buck and squirm against the grasp of the men dragging him, causing them to wrench him forward more roughly.
‘Come on, pig! We’ll put ye on a spike when we’re done!’
Strong arms pushed him against the tree stump and grabbed his shoulders to bend him down over the rough flat top.
Liam frantically worked his tongue against the gag, pushing the material bit by bit out of his mouth. But even then, even if he could scream something, he was sure nothing was going to stop them now. They wanted their dark-haired Norman head.
His arms were twisted behind his back and the jagged splinters of wood from the stump ground and mashed away against his cheekbone as several hands firmly pressed his head down. He rolled his eyes to one side to look up – and wished he hadn’t. A thickset man was standing beside the stump, enjoying the moment and flexing his muscular arms as he wielded a broadsword in both hands.
‘One stroke! One stroke!’ several in the crowd began chanting.
‘Aye! ’Tis always one good stroke!’ the man roared in reply.
‘Not so, Seth!’ another man bellowed. ‘Did take more than three on the last!’
Close your eyes, Liam, he told himself. Best not to see the blade coming down.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t take his eyes off his executioner. The man making a big show for his crowd, stepping round the stump and limbering up with long swooshing swoops of the sword.
The material of the gag was now almost entirely pushed out of his mouth, but still over it. He tried screaming at them to stop, but his words were muffled.
In his peripheral vision he spotted the tall man, looking down at him with a stern expression. And beside him, a foot taller, the sinister form of the Hood, motionless, a face lost in the dark shadows of his cowl. Their presence hushed the baying crowd until it was quiet enough that Liam could hear the soft rustle of a breeze chasing through the oak leaves far above them.
‘You wish this?’ said the tall man. ‘You wish to send his head as a message to those who rule yer country?’
The crowd roared in response.
‘So be it, then,’ he said with a tone of regret in his voice. He nodded slowly at the executioner. ‘See it done. And mind it’s a clean blow. This young Norman deserves a quick death.’
‘Aye,’ nodded the executioner. He took a couple of steps over to Liam and gently rested the sword’s cold blade against the back of his neck. Liam felt its weight, the razor-thin edge biting into his skin.
And then he felt the weight of the blade being lifted.
Lifting for the swing.
Oh God, oh Jay-zus …
Liam jerked his head, bucking and kicking as hands pressed harder to hold his shoulders still.
‘Best hold still!’ one of the men holding him warned. ‘Unless you want him to hack at you like a hog on a spit?’
As the executioner sucked in a breath and his sword hovered for a moment above his head, Liam jerked his chin once more, finally freeing his mouth above the cloth gag.
‘Please! I’m not French!’ he heard himself screaming, shrill and terrified. ‘I’m – I’m – from the future!’
CHAPTER 53
1194, Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire
‘STOP!’
Liam heard the blade coming down, a long deep swoop that sounded like the wingbeat of Death itself and then the wooden stump his head was pressed against vibrated with the jarring impact. He heard the blade clang and hum and the executioner curse as the blow vibrated his hands.
Liam tried to focus on the wobbling metal blade right beside his nose, reflecting his own face back at him. And that was the very last thing he remembered before he fainted.
Water splashed across his face, and Liam came to screaming, ‘NOOOOO!’
He opened his eyes to see he was in a dark place, his bonds now removed. It was a round room of wicker walls caked with mud. Above him, sunlight dappled through a crude thatch of twigs and reeds, and beams caught dust motes and pollen gracefully floating through them.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ said a voice calmly. ‘You’re not dead.’
Liam looked around the room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The first thing he saw was the hooded figure squatting on the mud floor of the room. Beside it, sitting on a wooden stool, was the tall man with the long sandy hair, studying Liam intently and stroking his bottom lip thoughtfully.
‘Who sent you?’ he asked after a while.
Liam struggled to gather his senses. A moment ago, seconds ago, he’d been awaiting the downward strike of a sword on the back of his neck.
‘You said “I’m from the future”,’ the man said. ‘The only person in the twelfth century likely to comprehend the notion of time travel is someone who, indeed, has come from the future. Therefore, I completely believe you. Now,’ he went on, sitting forward, ‘who sent you?’
Liam looked up at him. ‘You – you … you’re a traveller too?’
The man n
odded.
‘Are you … are you one of us?’ asked Liam.
‘Us?’
‘The – the agency?’
He cocked his head. ‘Agency?’
Liam bit his lip. Perhaps he’d just blurted out too much.
‘Agency …? Hold on.’ The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not talking about …?’ He smiled, then laughed. ‘You can’t possibly mean … The Agency?’
Liam shrugged. ‘Yes … I … no, I don’t know. I –’
‘There were rumours … back in the 2060s. A secret agency set up to track down and terminate illegal time travellers. They were just rumours, mind.’
Liam said nothing, but the man seemed wholly intrigued by him. ‘Of course, everyone suspected that was propaganda – a deterrent, something to scare off any tech companies thinking about secretly developing a machine. But you’re here …’ His eyes narrowed. ‘So … is that it? Is this agency actually for real? Is that where you’ve come from?’
Liam’s eyes darted towards the hooded figure. Menacingly large in such a small hut, it sat silently poised in a squatting position. So far the man was asking questions … not demanding. He wondered how long that was going to last.
‘It’s true,’ whispered Liam. ‘I’m with that agency.’
‘My God!’ The man laughed again. ‘It was real! I knew it! Tell me … who’s behind it? The North American Federation? Is it the Sino-Korean Bloc? New Europe?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Liam replied.
‘Or is it a corporation?’
Liam shook his head. ‘I don’t know … we just work on our own. I don’t know who organizes us.’
‘You’re just a grunt, then?’ He smiled, not unkindly. ‘A foot soldier.’
Liam shrugged. ‘I … I suppose.’
‘And I presume you’ve come back here because I’ve altered history somehow?’