Copyright Matthew Burden, 2001
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~42~
Edward stared at the ring for a long moment, then
rose. He bowed stiffly, taking an
instinctive step backward.
“Forgive me
any grief I have caused you, sir,” he said.
Edward turned on his heel and walked back out of the room. Henry, the servant,
seemed to materialize out of nowhere, guiding him back down the hallways to his
own chamber.
As soon as the door closed firmly behind him, he fell on
his knees, a thousand prayers echoing through his mind at once.
~ ~ ~
The Count was lying down in the grass, his face turned up to
the stars above. Justin had led him, along with the old peasant woman, back down the stream-side trail to her little hovel, where her relative was lying on his sickbed, death's pallor closing in on him. Justin had gone into the hut with the old woman, but the Count had remained outside. He watched the stars; he listened to the voices from within the hut; and he pondered what he had seen.
There was something about the instinctive mercy of Sir Justin that he could not shake out of his mind. He summoned up all the gruff energy of his duty-driven Templar persona, but it could not uproot the nagging thought that there was something in this situation that he was missing, something that Justin had, and that he, the Count, the Templar Preceptor, needed desperately. It was a deep-rooted sensation in the bottom of his heart, and it brought him back to the days of his youth, to one particular feeling that he had had when he used to walk into his little parish church as a boy--something evoked by the crucifix and the incense, something that he still couldn't quite place.
"O Lord, make haste to help me," he prayed aloud--a simple prayer that had been taught him long ago by his village priest.
"He will, you know," said a voice nearby.
The Count turned his head to see Justin framed in the light coming from the doorway of the ramshackle hut. Standing there with light flooding around
him, he appeared as a very messenger of God.
“Were you listening to me?”
Justin nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help but
overhear. I can leave if you’d like me
to.”
“No, no, it’s all right. How are they doing inside?”
Justin stepped forward and sat down in the grass beside
the Templar. “The old woman’s asleep, and her relative
looks as though he will make it. Death
would have found him tonight if it hadn’t been for our help.”
The Count nodded solemnly. “Do you know, even
yesterday I would have simply shrugged it off if someone had informed me of
the death of a peasant farmer. But
now—something’s different. That one life in there, that not long ago seemed less than worthless to me, now carries the weight of heaven with it.”
“That's because you’re learning to see through the Lord's eyes. This land, this world,
has been looking through man’s eyes for far too long.”
“And it has never realized how blind it really is,”
the Templar finished.
~ ~ ~
Edward worked up enough courage to confront the servant with what he had seen, hoping the young man would give away some clue as to his master's intentions. He opened the door, not
surprised to see Henry standing at attention there.
“Do you need something, my lord?”
“Yes. Come in
here, please.”
After Henry had entered,
Edward spoke, carefully watching the servant’s expression.
“Henry, as I was speaking to your master, I noticed a
ring he wore. It’s been bothering me—I’m
almost certain I’ve seen the symbol on it before, and I was hoping you could
place it for me. I couldn’t sleep, and
it just kept coming back to my mind.”
Henry shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot
to the other. It was only a slight
change, but dramatic when compared to the absolute poise he had been exhibiting
before. “It’s—it was given to him by
some friends.”
“But do you know what it means? I’m sure it means something…”
He cleared his throat, casting a wary glance around
the room.
“As I warned you earlier, we do not discuss that matter openly.”
“As you warned me earlier…Do you
mean that the symbol has something to do with all the wealth he has acquired?”
“I…I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”
“Henry, do you know your master very well?”
“Not very
well. He hired me nearly nine months
ago."
"That's long enough to get to know the workings of a place."
"Yes, after a fashion. Long enough to know what to keep my nose out of, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh—well, if you're wondering if you have anything to fear, sir, I think I can put your mind at ease. You're not in any danger. If you had run afoul of the master's friends, then matters might be somewhat different. But there's nothing to worry about. My master is a good man.”
He looked as though he was about to return to his
post, so Edward quickly put himself in front of the door to block the
exit. “Just allow me to clarify for a moment--it sounds to me as if you've implied that these
friends call on your master to do duties, and they pay him in return?”
The servant frowned, noticeably annoyed. “After a fashion, yes. But he doesn’t
actually know them that well.”
“Then what motivates him to help them? Greed?”
Henry looked squarely in Edward’s eyes. “Rather fear, I think.”
With those ominous words echoing in the room, the servant slipped past Edward and closed the door behind him. Edward walked over to the window and looked out
to see the first tinges of dawn touching the edge of the world. The sun would rise shortly, and
when that occurred, they would make certain that they were well away from that
house and making their way back to the city to meet Justin. But there was still a bit of time before they could leave without raising their host's curiosity, and he hadn't yet caught a bit of sleep. He sank onto the lavish bed with a sigh. Sleep came upon him quickly, so he did not
witness the sounds of a lone messenger approaching the manor’s gate.
~ ~ ~
Malcolm heard the pounding on his chamber door and
smiled, watching the futile attempts of his assailants to break through the massive
barricade he had constructed. After
having traveled with Edward for weeks, he had started to get used to the
terrible circumstances that perpetually befell them. In that light, he had slept only for the
first few hours after the meal and then arose to keep watch. It was nearing daybreak when he heard the
hushed voices of the lord of the manor and a messenger speaking in the
corridor.
“But why?” the noble was saying, his voice pitiful.
“You don’t need a reason. You know the payment if you do it, and you
cannot imagine the penalty if you do not—do you need more incentive?”
“But taking them prisoner—they are my guests! It would be an offense against chivalry!”
This outburst was hushed by the messenger, who
spoke in a soothing voice, almost hypnotic.
“But you followed the first order, didn’t you? You went out searching for them, and your own
wife was the one who found them.”
“Yes,” the noble replied, aggravated, “and I’m having
difficulty explaining to her why I sent her out to find them. She doesn’t believe me.”
“That is no concern of ours. You will follow our orders, and we will
return for the prisoners later today.”
With that, the messenger’s voice broke off, and Malcolm could hear his
footsteps receding down the hallway. He
heard the nobleman sigh and begin speaking one of his servants.
“All right, go start cleaning out the cells
below. We’d better do this before they
start waking up.”
Malcolm had to rush to pile enough furniture against
the door before they came for him.
Luckily, the room had been furnished to the extreme, and there were more
than enough objects at his disposal. If
they were coming into his chamber, they would have to find some other entrance.
Malcolm shook his head as he watched them continue to
pound against the solid wood of the door.
Why can’t we, just once, find
someone who doesn’t want to take us hostage? he thought with a
chuckle. For a holy relic, the robe
certainly managed to bring out not only the worst in people; it also brought
out the very worst people themselves.
“I can’t get in!” a voice shouted from the corridor.
“What do you mean?” the angry voice of the noble
responded.
“It’s the Scottish knight, my lord. He’s blocked the door!”
It only took a few moments for the reply to come. “Torch it!”
“Yes, my lord.”
The only
other portal to the outside was the tiny window slit. Malcolm cocked his head, looking at it
carefully. It was terribly thin, but he
might be able to force his body through.
He poked his head out to examine the possibilities that awaited him
outside, but one glance told him it was impossible. The drop would be long, with large, uneven
rocks there to greet him at the bottom. He looked up, hoping for some ledge on the
face of the manor that he could use, but nothing was there except flat gray
walls of stone.
He pulled his head back inside as adrenaline
flooded his system. The first faint wisps of smoke were curling into the chamber. It was the smoke that brought a new idea into
his head, and he rushed over to examine the possibility. It was not often that he was in a chamber
that had its own private hearth, so he had not considered the possibility before. Surely there must be some sort of chimney or
smoke-hole…
Why is it
that I’m the one always stuck in burning manors? he wondered.
There was indeed a shaft for smoke above the hearth, but it was
incredibly narrow and seemed to rise vertically up out of the room. He glanced one last time toward the door
before wedging his shoulders up the pipe.
It was even more cramped than it had looked at first, but
he was quickly running out of options.
By shifting his weight back and forth from elbow to elbow in a rocking
motion, he was able to ascend slowly, until his entire body was wedged in the
pipe. He looked above, but all that
greeted him was darkness. There was no
way to tell how far the pipe went, or whether it took any turns before emptying
itself somewhere outside.
He continued
the agonizing climb for what seemed like hours.
Even if he had wanted to turn back, he was so tightly pressed against
the sides that it would take him nearly the same length of time to go back
down.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the sound
of voices coming from the chamber beneath him.
They were muffled and seemed far away, but he was still able to discern
most of the conversation.
“Where is he?”
“Well, he couldn’t have jumped out of the window, my
lord, it would have killed him.”
“Then search the room!”
“Yes, sir.”
After a few minutes: “No sign of him, sir!”
Malcolm couldn't hear the noble's angry
reply, but one voice carried over the others to send waves of fear running down
his spine.
“Over here, my lord! There are footprints in the ashes!”
“He went up the smoke-shaft? How many places does it
come out at?”
“Several, I believe, sir.”
“Well, set up archers guarding all of them. Tell them to shoot on sight. Meanwhile, we’ll build a few fires and smoke
him out.”
Malcolm felt like cursing, but he clenched his teeth and muttered a quick prayer.
Despite his aching muscles, he pressed on, doubling his speed up the
shaft. Perhaps he could reach one of the
exit-points before the archers were in position.
Chunks of ash and soot fell in his eyes and
on his face, and it was not long before he smelled the first hint of the fire
below. He was glad the pipe was so
narrow though, because his own body was able to block most of the noxious
fumes. From far below him, he heard a
mocking voice chant up at him.
“You can run, my friend, but there’s nowhere to
go! Fire or the sword, the choice is
yours!”
Malcolm tore off a strip of his clothing to
hold over his mouth and nose and slowly made his way farther up the
interminable length of the smoke-shaft.