It was the squire who’d led it there.

  Bertrand, meanwhile, had sunk to his knees, eyes fixed on the three unmoving forms.

  ‘Are they dead?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I hope not,’ Thurstan replied. ‘But I can’t be sure.’

  Pandulf looked equally horrified. ‘My lord… these men weren’t pagans.’

  ‘If they had been, the question wouldn’t even arise. We can’t waste time here. Take a horse each. Whatever’s in the saddlebags is ours. Melinda, you will ride with Pandulf.’

  The girl nodded, expressionless, seemingly dazed by their rapid change of fortunes.

  But Pandulf still seemed shaken. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘By the looks of it,’ Thurstan said, ‘north.’

  ‘What lies north?’

  ‘It’s the opposite direction from Antalya.’ Thurstan mounted up. ‘That’s all we need know at present.’

  CHAPTER 43

  The track winding into the Anatolian high country soon became a path, and in due course even this petered out. It was a wild land indeed. Vast swathes of mountain rubble interspersed with clutches of pine trees, upwardly tilting heathland streaked with snow leading steadily towards the white-capped escarpments of the Taurus massif. After several days ascending into these windswept climes, Thurstan might have thought they’d be free of pursuit, but this was never the case.

  It was on the first day, as he looked backward from a rocky promontory, that he saw a party of Templars perhaps half a day behind. Even at that distance, they were distinctive in their heraldic garb. That first time he saw them, there were ten or so. The next time, on the second day, they were only five. Evidently, they’d been splitting up as they progressed, some of them following different routes, but they were considerably closer now.

  ‘Templars,’ Pandulf said glumly. ‘They have a willpower that can’t be broken.’

  ‘Thankfully, the same can’t be said for their bodies,’ Thurstan replied, ushering them onward.

  On the morning of the third day, their pursuers were even closer. But their number had shrunk now to two. Thurstan and his party watched. Just in front of them, the land fell away in a sheer drop of forty or fifty feet, then levelled off slightly before tilting downward again at a gentler gradient. It was this lesser slope that the two Templar horsemen were currently toiling their way up. Left of this position, the downward slope was even gentler. Still steep, but passable. It was by this path that Thurstan and his companions had ascended to this point, a plateau of sorts, though there were additional levels of higher ground ahead, a narrow gully winding uphill between bluffs, before losing itself in misty pinewoods.

  ‘They’re very close,’ Melinda commented.

  No one responded; it was apparent to all that if they remained here, they’d have the Templars’ company within an hour.

  ‘How can they still be following us?’ Pandulf said.

  ‘Thurstan made it personal,’ Bertrand replied. ‘By attacking three of their men and stealing their horses.’

  ‘I didn’t ask why, I asked how. Since when did they teach woodcraft and trail-finding in the Templar academies?’

  Bertrand had no answer to that. Thurstan though, was fascinated to see one of the two riders dismount, pick something up and show it to his compatriot, before thrusting it under his sword-belt. He nodded to himself. As he’d suspected, there’d been more to this pursuit than met the eye. He moved away from the cliff edge. ‘Pandulf, you and Melinda go up through the gully. Conceal yourselves in the woods.’

  ‘What do you and I do?’ Bertrand asked.

  ‘For some reason, of all the foothills in this mountain range, these particular Templars are keen to investigate this one. But that must end. We can’t keep pushing the horses.’

  ‘So… we fight them?’ Bertrand looked astonished. ‘Thurstan, these men are Templars. They’ll be disciplined, trained…’

  ‘Which is why we must tackle them from behind.’

  Bertrand’s face lengthened all the more. ‘From behind?’

  ‘There was a crossbow among the saddlebags on the horse you took, no? A bag of bolts?’

  ‘Thurstan… one can’t use a crossbow against fellow Christians. And to attack knights any other way than from the front would be a crime against chivalry.’

  Thurstan regarded him long and hard. He shouldn’t have had to explain that at present all they had were their weapons and their wits, that this was now the business of survival. And in truth, he didn’t think that he needed to. Sad though that made him.

  He signalled for the two youngsters to go. They did so, Pandulf looked unhappy to be excluded from the coming fight, Melinda strangely impassive, as if the worst thing that threatened her was a change of ownership. Which in truth, it was.

  ‘Thurstan, listen.’ Bertrand spoke with a tone of pleading. ‘These Templars are not our enemies. All they want is what’s best for the girl. Even now, who knows…? They might be coming to offer an armed escort.’

  Thurstan grabbed his horse by the reins. ‘With luck they’ll head up the gully… That’ll mean we can take them from overhead.’

  ‘This is so wrong.’

  ‘First, we put our horses out of sight.’ Thurstan moved from his own horse to Bertrand’s, helping himself to the crossbow and the sack of bolts that hung among its bolsters, slinging the latter over his shoulder. ‘If you won’t use this, I will.’

  ‘Thurstan…’

  Thurstan glanced at him. ‘I’ve a question for you, Bertrand. Why didn’t you stay on the ship?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve made your feelings about this mission plain from the start. So, why didn’t you stay on the ship?’

  ‘Well… you are my friends.’

  ‘You’d have been among friends if you stayed on board.’

  Bertrand stared at him in puzzlement, but also with fear.

  ‘Do you deny it?’ Thurstan asked.

  They locked eyes for several moments, and then Bertrand went for his sword. Thurstan swung the crossbow first, its heavy wooden stock clunking against the side of his friend’s skull. Bertrand’s knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.

  Thurstan knelt on top of his insensible form, placing fingertips at the side of the neck. A steady pulse was notable. Bertrand’s eyelids fluttered. He breathed slow and heavy, but at least he breathed.

  Satisfied, Thurstan yanked the cords from his friend’s boots, using the first to bind his hands behind his back, the second to bind his ankles. Then he heard something, a clink of mail. He jumped up, scrambling to the edge of the high ground. The two Templars were ascending the gentler path on the left. They’d dismounted and were leading their horses, so the going was slow – they puffed and grunted and leaned forward, but they were already halfway up. Thurstan slung the crossbow and its missile bag over his shoulder and taking both his and Bertrand’s horses by the reins, led them towards the mouth of the gully, but then diverted right, picking his way over a landslide of rocks.

  Once out of view, he tied the two animals to a small, stunted tree and left the crossbow alongside them as he doubled back. Hefting the bound and unconscious Bertrand over his shoulder, he carried him the same way, dumping him next to the horses. He didn’t go back a second time but grabbed the crossbow and clambered up the rocks onto the flatter ground overhanging the gully. Here, he lay down to wait. As he did, he tugged the drawstring back and loaded a feathered quarrel into the flight groove.

  From below and to his left, he heard hoofbeats. He couldn’t see beyond the gully itself, and he didn’t want to risk standing. But now the voices of two men came into earshot, breathless after their hard climb in chain-mail.

  He couldn’t help hoping that one of them might be the Danish knight who’d become suspicious of them on the Gloriosus. The fellow had had a job to do, but he’d been a mite too insolent in his manner. He was probably that way with everyone: a swaggering bully, whose guilt-free mistreatment of others was fuelled by the self-righteousness he drew from serving in a holy order.

  Meanwhile, that ‘holy order’ factor was a difficult one for Thurstan to contend with. These men had carried the torch for Christ in the darkest of places. While a multitude of other pilgrims had travelled to the East and then gone home again, these warriors of God had remained, holding fortresses, protecting travel routes, fighting endless battles on land and sea. And they were worthy opponents. Thurstan had seen that for himself.

  These Templars are not our enemies…

  ‘They are today,’ he muttered, and yet it tore at his conscience to think that in a very short time, he’d be unleashing crossbow bolts on them.

  At the very least, it struck him that he owed them a fair fight. Though it wouldn’t exactly be fair. Two of them, both mailed, while he stood alone and unarmoured.

  The duo of mounted figures appeared at the lower end of the gully.

  Thurstan hunkered down, but not so far that he couldn’t see them as they proceeded.

  They too, it seemed, had identified this chokepoint in the land as a potential ambush spot. They’d even put their helmets on. He edged forward on his chest, peeking down. Despite the helmets, their visors were lifted and their faces came into view. He didn’t know either of them, though on reflection, that might make it easier. It would haunt his conscience less. He placed his hand on the crossbow.

  One was so young that he couldn’t have been knighted long before joining the order. He had a fresh, clean-shaved face and very fair hair, which hung almost to his shoulders. The other was older and sturdier, with a thickset body, broad shoulders, and a dark beard, and he eyed the overhanging parapets with growing unease.

  He is the first you must kill, a whispering voice said.

  Thurstan almost looked round, for half a second convinced that someone had stolen up behind. Earl Ranald again? Bishop Belphagor? There was no one there, of course. The advice had come from inside his own head. And it had spoken the truth. The more dangerous of the two must die first.

  They were almost now on a level with him. He’d let them pass, then shoot them from their saddles.

  These Templars are not our enemies…

  ‘They are today,’ he mumbled again.

  As the two targets passed by below, he rose to his feet, taking aim. This would be the easiest work he’d ever done in the business of killing. And maybe for that reason, the old wound burned in the middle of his hip in a way it hadn’t done for days, he swore, lowered the weapon again, ran along the edge, and with a roar, leapt down at them.

  Fair fight it is! he told himself, hitting the bearded one in the back with both feet, knocking him clean from the saddle.

  It broke Thurstan’s own fall also, so, as he landed, he rolled and jumped back to his feet. But the bearded Templar had been hurt. He was down on hands and knees, hunched in pain. Thurstan kicked him full in the face, sending him sprawling onto his back.

  The other meanwhile, was fighting to control his horse. His companion’s mount had already bolted up the gully. The second wished to follow it, but as Thurstan lurched towards him, the horseman drew his steel. He wheeled his animal in a half-circle and struck down at his assailant, who blocked it with his own blade. The Templar’s sword deflected downward, slicing into his own left thigh.

  He shouted in pain, jerking on his reins.

  It was too much for the terrified animal, which broke into a gallop, thundering down the gully, its passenger swaying as he lost control and then, when they were out on the open ground again, possibly because he feared the terrified brute might charge over the edge, leaping from the saddle, landing hard on his injured leg.

  Thurstan hastened down on foot, confronting him close to the cliff edge.

  ‘You can survive this,’ he said simply. ‘Walk away. Don’t come back.’

  But the young Templar, despite his wound, stood ready. He’d discarded his dented helmet, but his shield was raised, his sword hefted. The fair hair was smeared in strands across his red, sweaty face.

  ‘You think I’d do that?’ His accent was Germanic. ‘How could I kneel before God when my time comes?’

  ‘Continue with this folly, and you’ll be doing that very soon.’

  ‘So be it!’

  They engaged, blades flashing.

  Though he was carrying a shield while his opponent wasn’t, the young Templar steadily backtracked under the hail of precision blows. He responded as best he could, hacking and parrying with fury, but one deft thrust, and his face was opened to the cheekbone. A second, and his shield was sundered. Only the arrival of his companion, who now came stumbling down the gully towards them, prevented the inevitable. He too had removed his helmet, but his face was a mask of dirt and blood.

  Thurstan backed away, as the two of them came at him side-by-side.

  ‘You’d be the dog we were warned about,’ the older one hissed, his accent Italian. ‘A knight of the English retinue, but a soulless killer… inspired by a demon.’

  ‘You believe every faerie story you’re told?’ Thurstan replied, circling.

  ‘Only those better attested to than others.’

  ‘Then come and find out for yourself.’

  The bearded knight threw himself forward. The clangour rang across the hillside. Thurstan cut and parried, then caught him under the beard with a right-handed punch, sending him tottering backward. Howling, the younger Templar charged. Thurstan met him with a two-handed stroke. The youngster tried to block, but his own sword flew back into his face, splitting his nose lengthways. He gagged and stumbled, scarlet mist erupting.

  Thurstan swung back to the older one. This fellow struck harder and faster, but he was dazed, and Thurstan met his attack with ease, taking a chunk from his shield, before swinging again to the youngster, who now struck blindly. Thurstan counterstruck, ramming his sword-tip into the young Templar’s throat. The youngster’s chain aventail bore the worst of it, but more blood appeared, and the wounded man clutched at it, gagging.

  They were now on the cliff’s very edge. Thurstan parried another flailing blow, struck his opponent’s belly with the pommel of his sword, then stepped around him and slashed the back of his already wounded thigh. The young Templar squealed as his leg gave, his body pitching over, bouncing down the rock face to the sloping grassland below.

  With cries of anger, the older Templar lumbered forward. Again, he struck with skill and force, but Thurstan blocked every blow, hacking another piece from his shield, and then ripping the mail on his left shoulder. Gore welled up underneath, but the Templar strove on, striking, counter striking. Thurstan ducked and wove, then caught him point-on beneath the collarbone. The Templar’s mail proved its worth; the sword didn’t slide clean through, but it made its mark, and he staggered backward, ashen faced, before slumping onto his buttocks.

  He gestured with his blade, but Thurstan kicked it from his hand. A second kick caught the point of the fellow’s chin, the back of his head hitting the earth. He lay groaning, his wounded chest heaving.

  A pounding of hooves now sounded from the gully, out of which Pandulf emerged on horseback. Melinda was close behind, also mounted. By the looks of it she’d sequestered the Templar horse that had fled up towards the pinewood.

  ‘I told you brats to stay hidden!’ Thurstan shouted.

  ‘I heard sounds of combat,’ Pandulf protested, drawing rein. ‘I’m your squire. I couldn’t just hide in some wood.’

  Melinda stood in her stirrups. ‘Where is Lord Bertrand?’

  ‘Lord Bertrand!’ Thurstan snorted contemptuously. ‘Sleeping off the price of his pride.’

  A rasping chuckle drew his attention back to the Templar.

  ‘Pride?’ the fellow said, red froth fizzling between his teeth. ‘You and that vainglorious king of yours epitomise pride? You think you can have this girl-saint all for your own? You think you can cheat the Church?’

  ‘Does it matter where she is?’ Thurstan retorted. ‘So long as she’s safe in Christian hands?’

  ‘Safe?’ The Templar chuckled again, though clearly it pained him. ‘Do you know where you are? Do you have any idea where you’re taking her?’

  ‘We’ll work our way back to England. You can be sure of that… and if you’re the best they can send after us, with very little difficulty.’

  ‘England…’ Another chuckle, more bloody froth. ‘You haven’t heard? How your beloved king, the so-called Lionheart, fell into enemy hands?’

  A trickle of ice ran down Thurstan’s spine. He jammed his sword-tip against the casualty’s throat. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘How he was waylaid. By a scheming German duke. How he now resides in a dungeon, in chains… for the rest of his days. England is a realm of chaos. There’ll be no safety there for her. Nor even for you.’

  ‘My lord, can this be true?’ Pandulf asked.

  ‘You’re lying.’ Thurstan leaned harder on his sword, pressing its point into flesh.

  ‘Why would I?’ the Templar gasped.

  ‘You’d say anything to make us leave her with you. And yet look at you… I doubt you can even stand.’

  ‘At least my soul is clean. At least I’m not damned to hellfire…’

  Thurstan leaned on his sword again, forehead beaded with sweat. The Templar held his breath, fresh blood emerging through his aventail.

  ‘My lord, please!’ Pandulf cried.

  But it was another voice he heard above all others.

  ‘Live by the sword, Thurstan Wildblood,’ Mother Turilda said on that final day at Kirkwood Hall.

  ‘And die by it?’ he replied grimly. ‘That could only be a good thing.’

  ‘No. You become its slave. And swords can’t distinguish between good and evil.’

  This puzzled him. ‘Wasn’t it you who said this could be my road to Heaven?’

  ‘God made you a warrior…’

  ‘I rather think my father and his knights…’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Your father and his knights taught you the skill. But the fierceness of spirit was a gift from your real Father. Be sure you don’t abuse it, Thurstan Wildblood. You came here out of shadow. Pray you don’t fall back into it.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40