~ Prologue ~
January 25, 1188 AD - Northumbria
Fear and death had ridden with him every step of the
way, every breath of his unceasing race against a stalker that he could not
escape. Terror had become a way of life,
and strength of will had faded with every passing mile. How long had he run? How many long stretches of road had he seen
pass by in a frenzied blur? But he could
still feel them approaching, closing in for the kill.
The horse flashed down the narrow road, kicking up plumes
of snow with each stride. Above the
rider, the sky hung in dismal tones of mourning. He shuddered against the cold, using one hand
to hold closed the opening of his cloak.
The snow and his own sweat began forming icicles in his beard, his
breath making frosty clouds that dissipated the instant after he released
them. “God help me,” he gasped, turning
to glance once again behind him.
As if to reassure himself that the package he bore
was secure, he felt quickly beneath a fold in his robe. The rough touch of the old cloth reassured
him somehow, and he tried to force the immediacy of the problem from his
mind. But the thought still resounded
within his mind. Why me? No man should be forced to bear such a burden
alone. Were it to come to light, nations
would forfeit much in blood and honor to retrieve it. Such was the way of things.
How far had he ridden? He strained to recall the vast array of
nations and people that he had seen along the way. Many lands and many terrors had greeted him
since leaving the eastern marches of the Latin world. His life had hung in the balance every moment
since that fateful day the young priest had approached him near the walls of
Antioch. He could still see in his mind
the form of that young man, quivering as he died at his feet. And ever since then, his dreams had been
tormented with visions of horror and unrest, and he knew that what he bore could
indeed raise up mighty men and just as easily cause their downfall.
What a wonder, he thought, that this one article
could cause such unholy striving among the men who claim to treasure it.
He crossed a river at a half-frozen
ford, and then rode eastward, hoping to come upon some settlement nestled
against the banks. The cold wind bit at
his face, blasting his cheeks and nose until they were numb. It was the worst weather he had ever seen,
and certainly a world away from the Mediterranean climates he had become
accustomed to. Please, Lord, he
begged, give me something.
He rode on for several more minutes,
each stride of the horse revealing nothing ahead that could offer hope. Finally, when it seemed all chance of refuge
was gone, the warm glow of clustered lights in the distance met his gaze. A smile spread across his face as he rode
over the final rise and caught sight of the towering battlements of the castle
rising high, majestically, above the icy waters of the Tyne. Sheltered beneath the castle’s protective
shadow was a village of fair size, nestled between the snow-covered hill and
the swift-moving river. It was quiet and
peaceful, resting on the cold winter day without suspicion of the intrigue
bearing down on it.
The shops and homes were
arranged neatly into quaint little streets, all of the windows shut firmly
against the chilling fingers of the storm.
Light shone out into the descending dusk from the cracks in the doors
and walls of the houses.
The rider threw another
glance over his shoulder, trying to work up a desperate, hopeful confidence
that he had at least a few minutes before his pursuers were upon him. Nudging his horse in the ribs, he rode slowly
up to the main thoroughfare, now deserted in the face of the weather. His eyes roved over the town, searching for
any sign that he still had a chance to save himself and the precious burden he
bore. He saw a window open furtively
above the street, and in the golden lamp-glow he could witness several forms
peering curiously down at him. Shaking
his head, he moved on, knowing that he was losing time.
Perhaps there is somewhere here that will provide a safe hiding-place
for it, he
thought. Where would they not think to look when they arrive?
At that moment, his gaze
fell on a small building near the edge of the village. The sign above it, printed out in large,
proud letters, told it to be a usury-house.
He smiled again, and whispered a quick prayer of thanks. Guiding his mount behind the house, he
tethered the lathering stallion and stepped up to the little plank door. The wind was still whipping around him,
tearing the heat from his body. Already,
the wind-driven snow had filled every sign of his entry into the town.
Knocking loudly on the door,
he glanced back once more just to reassure himself that no one in the village
was still watching. The door opened a
crack, and he could see a pair of eyes peering out at him, trying to ascertain
his purpose. Choosing not to ask
politely for further entrance, he pressed against the door with both hands and
stepped inside.
He was greeted almost immediately by the lined and
weary face of a short man, his cheeks flushed with the indignation at the
stranger’s entrance. He was dressed in a
gray tunic of plain cloth, but the interior of the house betrayed much more
wealth than he displayed in his clothes.
Vivid tapestries could be seen folded neatly on the tables, and
ornamentation of gold and silver stood open for the visitor to see. The walls had been adorned with several long
strips of dark cloth in place of the tapestries. A young woman with jet-black hair stood
further back in the first chamber, peering with interest at his face.
“Shalom,” the man greeted him without a smile. “What is it you want? But please be brief. This house is in mourning.”
The rider nodded
respectfully. He reached within his robe
to produce the article. It was a bundle
of worn purple cloth, to all appearances, nothing more than the discarded
garment of some unfortunate mendicant.
“I do not have much time,
either. Take this, Jew. Keep it safe, I pray, for it is quite
possibly very valuable. Perhaps in a few
months I will be able to arrange a place of safety for it. If that is so, you will hear from me. I pray, do not sell it until then, but if you
choose to sell it for money after—after two years—that is your own affair. I only ask that you will keep it safe.”
The Jew looked at the
tattered garment dubiously, then sighed and nodded. “Very well.
It shall be as you say, sir.”
The knight bowed
slightly. “I cannot remain here
longer. I am called Justin of York. If you hear from me again soon, do not be
surprised.”
The Jew inclined his head
slightly, wrapping the bundle up in his arms.
The knight exited, and, making certain he was not being observed, rode
off again, into a trail that led up into the wooded hills of the countryside.
The Jew stood in the doorway
and watched him disappear into the distance.
Turning, he closed the door with a sigh.
The young woman walked up to
where he stood, her dark eyes sharp with interest. “Who was that, Father?”
He scratched his head and
turned to his daughter. He smiled
absently, stroking her midnight-black tresses.
“It was a Norman knight, that is all.
We needn’t worry about it,” he said, holding up the bundle to examine it
before the light of a small lamp. It was
a long robe, tattered and torn with age.
It had been a deep purple at one point, but that hue had long since
faded into a lighter shade, leaving only darker patches and stains over the
length of the garment. He sighed and
rolled it back up. “Here, Hannah. Hide this in the caves when you go tonight. I cannot imagine why it would have any worth,
but that man seemed to think so.”
The young woman nodded,
taking the aged garment in her hands.
She looked at it with interest, fingering a ragged tear with her light
touch. “I wonder why he thought it could
be of value.”
Her father chuckled
slightly. “Or what end befell the poor man who wore it. Whoever it was, he was certainly no king who
would have worn such a dirty cloth as that.”
The girl smiled lightly,
closing her eyes and holding the garment close to her. “Perhaps not now, Father. But can you not imagine that long ago it
could have been a regal robe?”
“You have quite an
imagination, Hannah. Who knows? But you had probably better just put it away
and be done with it. There is work to be
done, and it will not do itself.”
She nodded at the gentle
reproof and set the garment aside. She
returned to the corner and began stoking the little fire again, but her eyes
remained fixed on the robe, torn and stained, waiting….