The sea rose and fell in vertiginous swells, one wave breaking over him and flooding the small craft just as quickly as another would rock the water out of it. He hung on as it climbed up and down the walls of water, its motor rising to a hellish scream every time it was thrown over a wave and its propeller spun free.
Interminable minutes later, he spotted it, a dark brown angular shape jutting out of a trough that looked like a hole in the sea. Muscles straining, he pointed the small outboard toward it, but kept getting thrown off course by uncooperative, battling waves. He had to constantly adjust his heading as he caught glimpses of the overturned trawler between the mountains of water.
There was still no sign of Tess.
The closer he got to it, the more horrific the sight became. Debris was scattered around the hull, floating alongside it in an eerily synchronized dance of death. The aft section of the ship was now completely submerged, and its prow, pointing out of the sea like an angled iceberg, was slowly sliding beneath the waves that washed over it.
Desperately, he searched for survivors and for Tess, his hope fading, then surging when, to the far side of the hull, he spotted her, bobbing in an orange life jacket, thrashing her arms wildly.
Steering the inflatable toward her, he maneuvered around the massive, barnacle-encrusted hull and edged closer to her, his eyes darting from her to the treacherous waves that were hammering them without remorse. When he was near enough, he reached out with one hand and grabbed at her outstretched arm, missed, then desperately reached out again, and this time, their fingers locked and he managed to hang on.
Dragging her into the boat, a faint, desperate smile crept across his face and he saw her face light up with relief that, suddenly, turned to fear. She was looking behind him. He spun around, just in time to see a large chunk of debris from the Savarona being hurled by a breaking wave and heading straight for him.
And then his world went black.
DISORIENTED AND UTTERLY BEWILDERED, Tess was certain that she was going to die and could hardly believe her eyes when she saw Reilly coming toward her in the inflatable lifeboat.
Using every ounce of strength she had left, she managed to grab his outstretched hand and lift herself half into the tiny craft when she saw the piece of wooden planking spinning over a wave and smashing into him. It struck him squarely on the head and sent him flying off the edge of the lifeboat.
She slid back into the water and reached out and grabbed him, hanging onto him while struggling to keep her other hand gripped on one of the inflatable’s handles. Through the thrashing water, she saw that his eyelids were shut, his head bouncing listlessly against the neck support of the life jacket. Blood streaked from a big gash across his forehead, disappearing and reappearing as each surge of water washed over the wound.
She tried to push him into the lifeboat but quickly realized that it was an impossible task. Worse, it was sapping the little energy she had left. The lifeboat was becoming more of a liability than a lifesaver, filling with water and threatening to ram into them with every resurgence of the swell. With a heavy heart, she let go of the handle to which she was clinging and seized hold of Reilly instead.
Watching as the inflatable was swept away, she struggled to keep Reilly’s head above the surface. For what felt like forever, it took all of her determination just to stay conscious. The storm showed no signs of abating, and Tess knew that she had to stay alert, but it was a losing battle. Her strength was quickly fading.
That was when she saw a large piece of timber, a hatch cover of some sort, she guessed. Desperately, she struck out toward it, one arm clasping Reilly to her until, at last, she managed to reach out with her other arm and grasp a rope trailing from it. Laboriously, painfully, she dragged herself and Reilly onto the flat platform, then used the rope to tie them both to it as best she could. She also hooked the belts of her life jacket into his. Whatever else happened, they wouldn’t be separated. In some strange way, that thought triggered a small stirring of hope inside her.
As the storm continued to explode its might around her, Tess closed her eyes and sucked long draws of air into her lungs, trying to calm her fears. Whatever else, she could not afford to panic. She had to find the strength she would need to keep herself and Reilly from losing their tenuous grip on this frail scrap of timber. Other than that, she was helpless. All she could do was lie back and let the elements take them wherever they wanted them to go.
The makeshift raft seemed to settle for a moment, and Tess opened her eyes, wondering if the respite was a sign of better things to come. She couldn’t have been further from the truth. Towering over them was a gargantuan wave, one that completely dwarfed the one that had capsized the Savarona. It appeared to hang there, motionless, almost taunting her.
Holding desperately onto Reilly, Tess shut her eyes and awaited the onslaught, and then it came, smashing down on them like a falling cliff and swallowing them up as effortlessly as if they were dead leaves.
Chapter 79
TUSCANY—JANUARY 1293
His back to the bitter wind that swept down from the north, Martin of Carmaux crouched low by the small fire. The howling of the wind was compounded by the roar from a waterfall that plunged down into the shadowy depths of a narrow ravine. Beside Martin, wrapped in the tattered remnants of a cloak taken many months ago from one of the Mamelukes slain at Beer el Sifsaaf, Hugh moaned softly in a fitful sleep.
In the course of their long journey since washing ashore after the sinking of the Falcon Temple, Martin had developed much affection for the old sailor. Aimard of Villiers apart, he’d never met anyone with a greater sense of devotion and determination, to say nothing of Hugh’s stoic acceptance of all that had befallen them. In the long, arduous days of their travels, the seaman had sustained several injuries in fights and accidental falls, yet he still covered mile after brutal mile without a word of complaint.
At least he had until the last few days. The harsh winter now had them firmly in its deathly grasp, and the icy blasts from the mountain range that separated them from France were starting to take their toll on the weakened man.
For the first few weeks after leaving Beer el Sifsaaf, Martin had kept the four survivors together, believing that as long as they were within easy reach of their Muslim enemies, they needed the strength this gave them. After they left Mameluke territory, however, he decided that the time had come to follow Aimard’s plan and split into two pairs. The dangers they still faced, in particular from roaming bandits in the foothills of the Stara Planina and for much of the thousand and more miles that would follow before they reached the Venetian states, were very real.
He had decided on a simple plan. After they had divided into two pairs, they would follow a predetermined route, about half a day apart. This way, those ahead could give warning to those that followed of any dangers; and those behind could help out the leaders should any harm befall them. “At no time,” he had urged, “must the safety of the letters be compromised. Even if it means abandoning any one of us to his fate.”
No one had argued.
He hadn’t allowed for the savagery of the terrain. Barring their way were mountains and chasms, fast-flowing rivers, and dense forests. They had been obliged to make many detours from their planned path. After they had separated, with him and Hugh leading, only once had he seen signs of their brothers. That had been many months ago.
Along the way, they had lost their horses, through death or trading for food, and had been reduced to walking weeks ago. Many a night, as he lay exhausted by a campfire but unable to sleep, Martin wondered if the others had been more fortunate, if they had perhaps found an easier and safer route and had already reached Paris.
It made no difference to his plans. He could not give up. He had to go on.
Looking now at Hugh’s sleeping figure, a dispiriting thought hit him. He thought it unlikely that the old sailor would reach Paris with him. The winter weather would get harsher, the terrain more difficult, and his compa
nion’s wheezing cough was getting much worse. Earlier that night, Hugh had been gripped by a violent fever, and his coughing had produced blood for the first time. Reluctant though he was, Martin knew that the time was fast approaching when he would have to leave Hugh and press on alone. But he couldn’t leave him helpless here in the foothills of the mountains. Hugh would surely freeze to death. He had to find shelter, somewhere to leave his friend, before carrying on.
They had glimpsed a small town the day before, across the mountain range. The town was close to a quarry they had skirted, where they had seen distant tiny figures toiling amid clouds of dust and huge slabs of marble. Perhaps he could find someone in the town in whose care he could leave Hugh.
When Hugh emerged from his troubled sleep, Martin told him his thoughts. The shipmaster shook his head emphatically. “No,” he protested, “you have to continue on to France. I will follow as best I can. We can’t rely on these strangers.”
That much was true. The people of this land were known and mistrusted for their dealings, and here, in the far north, bands of robbers and slave traders added to the area’s notoriety.
Heedless of his companion’s protests, Martin clambered down the rocks that lined the edge of the waterfall. A light snow had fallen overnight, enshrouding the mountain in a ghostly blanket. As he made his way through a narrow crevice, Martin paused to take a breath and noticed that one of the rocks had fissures that resembled a splayed cross, much like that which the Knights Templar had made their symbol. He contemplated the strange cracks for a moment, seeing in them a hopeful portent. Perhaps Hugh would find a peaceful end to his days in this quiet, desolate valley after all.
Once in the town, Martin was soon at the door of the local healer, a portly man whose eyes watered in the cold that was snapping at them. The knight told him the tale he had concocted during his descent to the town: that he and a companion were travelers headed for the Holy Land.
“My companion is sick and needs your help,” he pleaded.
The older man eyed him warily. Martin knew he undoubtedly looked like a penniless vagabond. “You can pay?” the man asked gruffly.
“We have little money”—he nodded—“but it should be enough to pay for some food and shelter for a few days.”
“Very well.” The man’s eyes softened. “You look like you’re about to collapse yourself. Come in and eat something, and tell me where you’ve left your friend. I’ll find some men to help bring him down from the mountain.”
Comforted by this sudden change in the man’s demeanor, Martin entered the low-ceilinged room and accepted some bread and cheese willingly. He had indeed been close to collapse, and the food and drink were a welcome tonic to his battered body. In between greedy mouthfuls, he pointed out the ridge where he’d left Hugh, and the stocky man left.
As Martin emptied his plate, a sudden sense of unease grew inside him. As though emerging from a fog, he padded to the window and peered cautiously from it. A little way down the muddied street, the doctor was talking to two men, his hands gesturing back toward the house. Martin pulled away from the window. When he looked again, the doctor was gone, but the two men were now coming toward him.
He felt his muscles tighten. There could be, he knew, any number of reasons for this, but he feared the worst. And then he risked another look and saw one of them pulling out a large dagger.
Moving quickly across the house in search of a weapon, he heard some whispering from outside the back door. He slid silently across the floor and pressed his ear to the door and listened. He saw the iron fastener on the door lift and hugged the wall as the door slowly creaked open.
As the first of the men edged cautiously in, Martin reached out and grabbed the man, knocking the dagger out of his hand and sending him crashing heavily into the stone wall. He kicked the door back squarely onto the second intruder, slamming him against the wooden jamb. Retrieving the dagger with lightning speed, Martin leaped at the dazed man, grabbing him around the neck and driving the blade into his side.
He pulled the dagger free and let the man’s body slump to the ground, then turned quickly to where the first man was pulling himself up from the floor. Striding across the room, Martin kicked him down before raising the dagger and burying it into the man’s back.
Quickly, Martin snatched whatever food he could find and piled it into a pouch, reckoning this might be of greatest help to Hugh. Slipping out through the back door, he circled the town stealthily until he found the path that led up the mountain.
It didn’t take long for them to come after him. Four, possibly five men, judging by the angry voices echoing up through the bleak woodland.
Snowflakes were drifting down from the overcast sky as Martin reached the rock face where he had rested earlier. His eyes settled on the evocative cracks, and he stopped, flashing back to the instructions he had given to his brothers-in-arms all those months ago. At no time must the safety of Aimard’s letter be jeopardized. His mind racing, he studied the fissures forming the splayed cross.
He knew he could never forget this place.
Using the dagger, he scraped at the base of the rock, freeing some stones the size of a man’s fist, then thrust the pouched letter far into the hole he had made before replacing the stones and hammering them home with his booted heel. Then he continued his climb, making no attempt to conceal his passage.
Before long, the shouts of the men behind him were fading beneath the dull thunderous drumming of the waterfall. But when he reached the campsite, there was no sign of Hugh. Looking back, he saw his pursuers, now in plain sight. Five men in all. At the back of the pack was the doctor who had betrayed him.
Grabbing his broadsword, Martin resumed his climb toward the rim of the hill over which the force of water plunged. This, he decided, was where he would make his stand.
The first of the men, younger and stronger than the others, was some distance ahead of them, and he leaped forward with only a long-tined pitchfork in his grasp. Martin leaned back, then swung his broadsword, slicing through the pitchfork’s handle as if it were a piece of kindling. The man fell forward, still moving fast through his own momentum. Martin stooped, thrust his shoulder into the man’s gut, lifted him, and threw him over and down into the chasm beneath the falls.
The man’s scream was still echoing in Martin’s ears when two of the others reached him. Although they were older and warier, they were better armed. The first one carried a short sword with which he flailed the air in front of Martin. For a trained knight like Martin, it was almost like dealing with a child. A simple parry followed by an upward flick and the man’s sword was also disappearing down the waterfall. With the return swing, Martin slashed through the man’s shoulder, almost severing the arm. Then he stepped aside to avoid the third man’s rush, reaching out a foot to trip him. The man fell to his knees, and Martin slammed down the handle of his sword, clubbing his head to the ground. Then he reversed the sword, and with an executioner’s swing, split the man’s spine high on his neck.
Looking downward, he saw the doctor, who was stumbling back the way he had come, and then he suddenly felt an agonizing pain in his back. He turned to see that the man he had disarmed was back on his feet, gripping the younger man’s pitchfork with one hand. Blood was dripping from its tines. Martin stumbled forward, the burning pain in his back forcing an involuntary gasp from his lips. Summoning what strength he had left, he swung at the man with a forward slash of his sword, ripping out his throat.
For a moment Martin stood motionless, a thickening shroud of fatigue settling over him, then above the thunder of the torrent he heard a sound and spun around, gasping in pain as he did so. The last of his pursuers was rushing toward him, an old and rusting sword grasped in his hand. Martin was too slow to react, but before the man reached him, Hugh came staggering out of the undergrowth. The man spotted him and turned away from Martin, gripping his sword with both hands and driving it straight through the old sailor’s torso.
Blood seeped
out of Hugh’s mouth, but somehow, he not only managed to remain upright, he staggered forward, pushing the sword further into his chest as he clasped his hands tightly around his stunned attacker. Slowly and agonizingly, Hugh kept going, pushing the man backward, step by step, never easing up on his iron grip despite the man’s attempts to free himself, until they reached the lip of the ravine overlooking the waterfall. The man saw what was about to happen and screamed, still struggling in Hugh’s grasp.
Momentarily heedless of his own fate, Martin looked up to where Hugh stood poised on the brink of the waterfall, the other man helpless in his grim embrace. His eyes met Hugh’s, and he saw something like a smile tugging at the old sailor’s lips, and, with a final, brotherly nod, the master of the lost Falcon Temple stepped over the edge, taking the struggling man and himself into eternity.
A sudden, violent blow struck the back of Martin’s head, and he felt a nausea rising in his throat. Twisting around in pain and barely conscious, he saw the hazy figure of the doctor standing over him, a rock in his hands.
“A man as strong as you will fetch a very good price indeed at the quarry, and thanks to you, I won’t have to share it with the others,” the doctor sneered. “And you might want to know that some of the men you killed today are kin to the overseers at the quarry.”
The doctor raised the rock high, and Martin knew that there was nothing he could do to avert the coming blow, to prevent his capture and ensuing enslavement, to recover the letter and resume his journey to Paris. Lying there in the fresh snow, images of Aimard of Villiers and William of Beaujeu swam into his mind before the rock came down and their faces faded to black.
Chapter 80
A hammering boom of thunder rolled over Tess, jolting her out of her sleep. She stirred, drifting in and out of consciousness, unsure of where she was. She could feel the rain pelting the back of her head. Every inch of her body ached, and she felt like she’d been trampled by an elephant. As her senses slowly awakened, she could hear the wind whistling past her and the waves crashing around her, and it unnerved her. The last thing she remembered was a wall of water that was about to bury her. She was gripped by a sudden surge of dread as she wondered if she was still at sea, lost in the storm, getting battered by waves, and yet…something felt wrong. It all felt different to her. And then she realized why that was.