The Templar Magician by P. C. Doherty

Author:P. C. Doherty [Doherty, P. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781429980203
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2011-11-08T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

King Stephen returned in great glory to London.

Eventually de Payens reached another glade, and on the breeze came the distant tolling of the heavy abbey bells. He decided to return following the same path back. The sun was in his eyes, sparkling through the interlaced canopy of trees. He reached the place where he’d fed the children, reined in and looked down just as a burst of bird wing alerted him. His hand went to his sword even as the crossbow bolt whirled by his face, its feathered quarrel almost brushing his skin. Another skimmed over his head. He pulled on his reins, and his horse reared. A third bolt, whirring like some deadly bird, plunged into the animal’s neck, sending it squealing and kicking before collapsing in agony. De Payens pulled his feet out of the stirrups, crawling away as the horse lashed out in its death throes. He gazed around. His left leg was hurting, his back and arms bruised by the fall. He drew both sword and dagger and glanced pityingly at the horse, a good mount now sprawled in a pool of blood, limbs twitching. He stared ahead and glimpsed shadows moving. These were no common outlaws, who’d be too poorly armed to attack an armed knight. Moreover, the ambush had been carefully prepared. They had waited for him to return, with the sun in his eyes. Professional assassins, hired killers, probably four or five of them, because the bolts had all been loosed in swift succession. As he tried to reach a tree, so that he could at least protect his back, the bracken crackled and snapped. The assassins were drawing close. Abruptly a horn sounded, a long, carrying blast. The undergrowth behind him rustled. Arrows sped over his head in the direction of his hidden attackers. Again the horn blast. Men armed with spears and clubs were threading through the trees on either side of him. One turned and hurried towards him, hand up in the sign of peace.

‘Pax et bonum, Templar.’

By his dark brown robe, the cross on a cord around his neck and the clean-cut tonsure, de Payens recognised a priest. He came and crouched beside the Templar, his weathered face wrinkled in concern, kindly green eyes searching for any wound.

‘You certainly have enemies, Templar.’ He spoke the lingua franca of the Middle Seas. ‘Oh yes.’ He grinned. ‘I was a chaplain in the retinue of Lord Balian. I have worshipped in the Holy Sepulchre, but now, for my sins and in reparation for my pride, I am parish priest of St Botulph’s-in-the-Wood, a benefice of St Edmund’s. Well,’ he patted de Payens’ leg, ‘you’re injured?’

‘No, just bruised and humbled,’ de Payens replied, pulling himself up. ‘Otherwise I’m sound. My horse?’

‘Poor beast.’ The priest extended a hand, and de Payens clasped it. ‘I am John Fitzwalter, as I said, priest and former chaplain.’ He helped de Payens up, and they went and stood over the dead horse. The forest people emerged, shaking their heads, talking quickly to the priest in their guttural tongue.

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