“André— Your … your father is dead.”
The words, emerging choked and close to indistinguishable, washed over and through André with no effect. He heard them, and a tiny portion of his mind may have absorbed their meaning, but their significance had absolutely no effect upon him. He was highly aware of the discomfort caused by the position into which Alec had pulled him, and he could feel the links of his cousin’s mailed shoulder digging painfully into the skin of his face. He even felt slightly embarrassed about the intimacy of this unexpected embrace, thinking they might be compromised were anyone to see it, but the words he had heard held no meaning for him. His father was dead. He knew that must be important, but his face was pressed against his cousin’s clothing, against his armor, and he realized that Alec Sinclair bore the same aroma as his father, the same beloved, unmistakable tang that marked Sir Henry St. Clair, and in that instant, in the space of half a heartbeat, the barriers fell and he heard what Alec had said.
Afterwards, much later, he would recall Alec gazing at him solemnly, his eyes wide and concerned as he told him how Sir Henry had been waylaid and struck down, with two of his junior officers, as they made their way back one night from a popular hostelry towards their quarters in Famagusta, where they were coordinating the details of a mixed strike force, horse and foot, that was to be led by Guy de Lusignan against Isaac Comnenus’s forces the next day. Their assailants had not been identified, let alone captured, but there was ample evidence that the attack had been carried out by one of several well-organized guerrilla groups operating out of the foothills to the north of the city.
Sir Henry St. Clair had fully discharged all his responsibilities to the liege lord whom he had served so faithfully throughout his life. He and the two officers with him had received full military honors in their funerary rites, Alec Sinclair said, and the King himself was in attendance, accompanied by an entourage of some of the senior lords and barons of his holdings throughout Christendom, including Sir Robert de Sablé. The Archbishop of Auxienne had offered prayers for the souls of the slain heroes, and Richard of England himself had spoken highly of his Master-at-Arms and how he had learned much of what he knew about fighting under Sir Henry’s tutelage.
All of these things, André knew in moments of lucidity over the course of the following few days, might be cause for pride and pleasure at some unknown date in the future, but for the time being, while he was feeling the cavernous emptiness that had filled him, it was all meaningless.
When they returned to camp, Alec Sinclair, fretful over his cousin’s condition, set about seeking the best in medical aid that he could find, for André had fallen into a state of deep melancholia and refused to be shaken out of it. And as was not unusual among the Frankish populace of Outremer, many of whom had now lived there for generations, he chose to engage the services of a celebrated Muslim physician whose acquaintance he had made several years before, although he would tell no one where or how. The truth was that Saif ad-Din Yildirim, reputedly a first cousin to one of Saladin’s most trusted associates, was in fact Shi’a and an associate of the Assassins.
Yildirim promptly set André St. Clair upon a regimen of liquid foods and powerful opiates, designed to keep him abed and asleep most of the time. There was no logical explanation, he said, for Sir André’s reaction to the death of his father, but he had seen similar cases among men of his own religion and was quite sure that the effects would soon pass, aided by sleep and rest. And sure enough, Alec discovered, so it was.
Yildirim suspended the administration of the opiates on the morning of the fourth day following the onset of André’s strange symptoms, and André St. Clair awoke at his usual time before dawn the next day with no memory of having been ill. When Alec questioned him, he remembered receiving the tidings from Alec, and he was subdued and saddened, but he now behaved as any other young man would on losing a well-loved parent.
A little later that same day, André came seeking his cousin in the knight’s new quarters close by the Templars’ tent, the great, bannered pavilion that served the Templars in the field as a mobile commandery. Although Sir Alexander Sinclair would have refused to place himself so close to the heart of the Temple Command a mere week earlier, the reason for his profound change of heart was simple: Sir Robert de Sablé’s personal pavilion now stood squarely beside the Templars’ tent. Scarcely less elaborate than its imposing neighbor, de Sablé’s pavilion had been erected several days earlier, after Sir Robert had formally resigned as King Richard’s Fleet Master and accepted his new posting as Grand Master Elect of the Order of the Temple of Solomon. Alec had sought out de Sablé as soon as he heard that the veteran had arrived, and had offered his personal services immediately and without reservation, for the two of them had known each other for more than two decades and had been Raised to the Brotherhood of Sion in the same ceremony, on a warm August night near the ancient town of Carcassonne. De Sablé had embraced Sinclair enthusiastically, and instantly appointed him to his personal staff. And that, very markedly, had been the end of Alec’s loss of popularity.
André found Alec working diligently when he arrived, frowning over a letter he was writing. He sat quietly until his cousin had completed what he was doing and sat back in his chair.
“I owe you a great deal, it seems, Cousin. I have been told that there is no better or more renowned physician in these parts than Saif ad-Din Yildirim.”
Alec flicked his fingers in a gesture of dismissal. “Nonsense. You owe me nothing. You are all the kin I have out here, and selfishness insists I look after you, since you are a mere child. Yildirim is an old friend and was happy to oblige me in this. How are you feeling now? Any ill effects from the opiates he fed you?”
André smiled. “None. But I seem to remember dreams that I would enjoy examining more closely now.” His face sobered. “Let me ask you this again, Alec, but one more time and for my own satisfaction, simply so I can be sure that my memory is serving me correctly. Am I correct in believing that my father was struck down at night, returning to his quarters from a hostelry where he had eaten with two friends?”
“Two associates, both his subordinates. All three of them were killed, the assailants unknown. We have to believe there were multiple assailants, since otherwise the odds would have militated against all three being killed. Your father’s age might have worked against him in a long struggle, but the men with him were both serving officers, both experienced veterans, and both at the top of their profession of arms. Those two would not have gone down easily. Ergo, multiple assailants and most probably from ambush. But we have no way of knowing how many or who they were.”
“And this was when, do you know? How long after I had left Cyprus?”
“Hmm. De Sablé said you would ask that. Three days after you left Limassol. Your father had been shipped to Famagusta that same day, the day you left, before daybreak, and had arrived there that same night. He had been in Famagusta for two days when the incident occurred.”
“So I was still at sea … I understand the King himself was there to speak for my father at his funeral?”
“He was. He traveled to Famagusta for the funeral rites. He and several others, including an archbishop.”
“Aye, well the King’s presence would have pleased the old man. I am grateful to you, Cousin, for this courtesy.” He inhaled loudly and straightened his stance. “I really came here this afternoon because you and I have unfinished matters to discuss. We never did talk about the material you gave me, and I had spent the entire night absorbing it all. I have since spent another hour, today, reviewing what I remember, and I am now ready to discuss these matters further with you, if you so wish.” He paused, but for no more than a moment. “I recall you were to meet with the imam, Rashid, the day the tidings of my father’s death arrived. Was that meeting a success?”
“It did not take place. As soon as I found out what had happened to your father, I sent a message explaining that I had been rendered unable to attend up
on Rashid al-Din at that time and requested that we might arrange another meeting. He was courteous enough to agree, although in fact he had little choice, but that is neither here nor there. The meeting yet lies ahead and nothing has been lost, other than a few days of time which is not pressing.”
“I see. Then I regret that my personal woes had to interfere in your duties. Accept my apologies for the inconvenience I have caused you. It was not deliberate.”
“What?” Alec’s face broke into a grin as he stared at his earnest cousin. “Are you twitting me? You expect me to believe you know nothing at all of what has been going on here these past few days? André, I love you dearly, but you ask too much of me in this.” He stopped, then hesitated again on the point of speaking, and then the grin faded from his lips. “You really don’t know what has been going on, do you? André, my failure to meet with Rashid al-Din had nothing to do with you. Even had you been in perfect health, he and I would not have met … Do you remember the eclipse? No? Nothing at all? Well then, we had one, on the afternoon of the day following your … indisposition. In the middle of a heavy skirmish between a large contingent of their cavalry and an equal one of ours, God drew a curtain over the face of the sun. Three hours it lasted, from start to end, and it put the fear of Christ into our soldiers. We of the brotherhood knew what was happening, of course, because our savants know how to predict such events, and the Saracens were unsurprised by it, but our ordinary soldiers and sergeant brothers knew nothing, and they were panic stricken, convinced that God Himself was hiding His light from them.
“Since then, we have all been waiting on the edge of the abyss. Acre is tottering, Cuz, on the verge of falling. It has been common knowledge for more than a month now. There is only so much that flesh and blood can withstand, and then it all collapses, and the garrison of Acre has been subsisting on nothing at all for months now, defying all the odds. Anyone with a brain in his head knows the siege is over, in all but fact. And since the eclipse, for the past four days, Richard has been negotiating with Saladin’s envoys, and no one expects the status quo to last for more than another day or so.
“You may think you have been sick for a spell, but you have barely been inconvenienced. Richard, on the other hand, has been deathly ill. The doctors call what ails him leonardia and have all kinds of high-sounding explanations for it, but the truth is they have not the slightest idea of what is wrong with him. His hair is falling out in clumps, his gums are rotting, and his teeth are loose enough to wobble with a fingertip. He is a mess. And yet, throughout his illness, he has been involved in discussions with Saladin, seeking a resolution to this war. They bargain back and forth and neither is really inclined to surrender anything to the other. But at least while they are negotiating, no one is dying. What point was there in speaking, in the interim, to Rashid al-Din? That would have been vanity piled upon vanity. Thus, we have both waited to see what will transpire in Acre.”
“And what will happen, think you?”
“Once the city falls, you mark my words, the situation will return to prewar levels. The Hospitallers will re-man their hospital, the Templars will repossess the Templar Castle, and the King’s administrative crew will resume their occupation of the royal basements.”
“And what of Saladin? Don’t ask me to believe he might offer himself as hostage for his people’s behavior.”
“I would not dream of it. Saladin will do as leaders always do—he will negotiate an honorable outcome for himself and his closest associates, and he will leave his minions to their fates … or those of them, at least, who cannot help themselves.”
“You are being harsh, are you not? Nothing that I have heard of Saladin indicates that he would simply abandon the people of Acre, after their heroic defense of the city for so long.”
Sinclair shrugged. “He may, he may not. Much of it will depend upon the demands that Richard makes. If he digs in his heels, then Saladin will have little option but to humor him. It does not make for heroic behavior, but it is not uncommon in war for the losers to die. Look what happened to us at Hattin.”
“Hmm. I suppose you are right, and only time will tell us what the leaders have decided. Would this be a good time for us to talk further about what was in the dispatches you gave me to read?”
“Aye, it would, Cousin. There is no time like the present, for when you arrived, I was preparing for the next step in what needs to be done. How well do you feel, in truth?”
André almost smiled. “Well enough for anything you might throw at me. I felt a twinge of weakness earlier today, but now I feel as well as I have ever felt.”
“So be it then.” André stood up. “Come with me. We’ll stop at the stables and from there—” He stopped and looked André up and down from boots to helm. “I think I will have everything you need. But first, horses, and some food from the field kitchens. You pick out two good, stout mounts and I’ll collect the food.”
“And drink. Don’t forget to bring water.”
“I’ll pretend I did not hear that. Get the horses. I’ll rejoin you in a few minutes.”
“How long will we be gone? Shouldn’t we leave word with someone?”
“Aye, with de Sablé. I told him where I was going. I’ll send him word from the kitchens that I’ve taken you with me.”
“I’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE. This is the road Harry and I took when first we went to meet you, in the desert of stones.”
“Correct, Cousin. It is the self-same route, and we are going to the self-same place. The outer edge of the stone field should be coming into view at any moment.”
“Why would we go there, Alec?”
“Because I have good reason to go there, one that will make perfect sense to you, too, once I have explained it. Do you remember when you were here that first day, how intrigued you were by how I had been able to approach you unheard?”
“Aye, I remember it well. You said it was because we were making so much noise that we could not have heard you. You also said that you had been standing for hours.”
“I did? Did I really? That was …”
“Careless is what it was, for it set me to thinking. I would be prepared to wager that you have a hiding place nearby. You looked me up and down moments ago and told me that you had everything I would need, but we have not stopped moving since then and your saddlebags appear to be empty. The food and drink you brought is the only burden you carry. Therefore whatever else you have that I might need must be located where we are going. And there is always the additional consideration that, while the location there might suit you for any number of reasons, all of them would be greatly increased if you had a convenient hiding place nearby from which you could spy upon those who come to meet you.”
Alec Sinclair grinned. “Well done, lad. We’ll be there soon and you can see it for yourself.”
They rode in silence after that until the high pinnacle of the monolith in the center of the clearing where they had first met came into view, and as they approached it, Alec pointed out how the natural elevation of the little rock-crowned hummock made it easy for any watcher to see clearly what anyone on the summit was doing. Before they came too close to the central clearing, however, Alec led them aside, following a trail so faint it was barely discernible among the boulders, and it led them out and around towards the back of the knoll. Alec stopped in the shadow of a particularly large clump of stones, then turned his horse towards it and moved forward to where it seemed his horse must walk straight into the side of the stone. But then he dismounted, and taking hold of his horse’s woven leather bridle, he led the animal sharply around to his left and downward, following the abrupt edge of what appeared to be a large hole in the ground.
Following close behind him, André saw that it was indeed a hole, its sides smoothed by ages of use by people following a narrow but manageable path that wound downward in a tight spiral to vanish some distance below. He advanced carefully, following Alec, and soon found himself in a natural atrium, a wind- or water-w
orn hallway in the living rock, open to the skies. They were perhaps ten paces below the level of the ground above, and the blue sky over their heads was almost circular in section. Behind André, hidden in shadow, was the entrance to a cavern that turned out to be the first in a progression of caves culminating in a large, high, well-lit space with a dry, sandy floor. A fire pit in the center of the floor appeared to have been used for centuries, and the entire space was crisscrossed with beams of light that shone directly in as though from windows.
“Amazing, is it not?” Alec Sinclair dropped the bags he was carrying by the fire pit and led his horse over into a far corner of the large cavern, where he began to unsaddle him. “I felt exactly the same as you when I first saw it. It took my breath away and left me mute. It still shakes me when I think about it, but I’ve grown used to it nowadays and it takes someone like you, seeing it for the first time, to remind me how aweinspiring it really is.”
“How did you ever find it?”
“Never did. I had to be shown it, just like you. In my case, by Ibrahim, my main contact with the Old Man.” He swung the saddle off his mount’s back and carried it back to drop it by the fireplace. “Leave that,” he said, waving his hand to take André’s attention away from his own saddle. “Come and see this.”
André followed him as he scrambled up a high incline and thrust his upper body through a hole in the roof. It was larger than it appeared to be, and there was ample room for the two of them to stand up there together, side by side.
“You have to be careful to stay quiet climbing up,” Alec said, “but it is worth the effort, would you not agree?”
André could say nothing, able only to gape in wonder. He was standing with his head projecting through a hole in the ground, almost completely surrounded by the bases of the central cluster of boulders dominating the tiny knoll where he had waited with Harry Douglas for the arrival of Alec Sinclair, and he could see the entire scene perfectly, looking directly through the gaps at the bottom of the boulder cluster.