filled with the lethal, bowel-loosening hiss and sickening thud of crossbow bolts. His other apprentice, Hamish, dropped heavily to the ground behind him, having jumped from the wagon bed, and dove behind the protection of the wheel hub closest to the missiles, fighting off others who sought the same shelter.
The three fleeing men, whoever they were, ran without pattern, seeking only to escape capture or death, but none of them survived for long. The first was brought down by three bolts, all of which hit him at the same time, in the shoulder, the neck, and the right knee. He went flying and whirling like a touring mummer, blood arcing high above him from a jagged rip in his neck and raining back down and around him as he spun and fell sprawling less than ten paces from where he had begun his flight. The second evidently changed his mind, deciding to surrender. He stopped running, almost in mid stride, teetering for balance with windmilling arms, then turned back to face the city gates, raising his hands high above his head. For the space of a single heartbeat he stood facing his pursuers, then a crossbow bolt struck him dead, the sound of its meaty impact appalling the watchers as it smashed through his sternum, driving him backwards, his feet clear off the ground as he landed hard on his backside before his lifeless body toppled onto its side.
The third man fell face down at the feet of a tall, stooped monk, one outstretched hand clutching in its death throes at the mendicant’s left sandal, beneath the tattered, ankle-high hem of his ragged black robe. The monk stopped moving as soon as he was touched and stood as though carved from wood, gazing down in stupefaction at the bloodied, protruding ends of the two stubby metal bolts that had snatched the life so brutally from the running man. No one paid any attention to his shock, however; all their fascination was focused on the dead man at his feet. The monk was merely another of the faceless, wandering thousands of his like who could be found begging for sustenance the length and breadth of Christendom.
So profound was the silence that had fallen in the wake of the shattering violence that from some distance away the sound of a creaking iron hinge was clearly audible as a door swung open or shut, then came the measured tread of heavily booted feet as someone in authority paced forward from the entrance to the tower on the left of the city gates.
And still no one moved in the crowded approach to the gates. Travelers and guards alike seemed petrified by the swiftness with which death had come to this pleasant, early evening.
“Well, have you all lost your wits?”
The voice was harsh, gravelly, and at the sound of it the spell was broken. People began to move again, and their voices sprang up, halting and tentative at first, as they were unsure how to begin talking about what had happened here. The guards stirred into motion, and several moved purposefully towards the three lifeless bodies in the open, unnatural space.
Tam had already crawled out of his hiding place by then and was preparing to mount his high seat, one foot raised to the hub of the front wheel and his left hand resting gently on the footboard of the driver’s bench, when Fate tapped him on the shoulder.
“Please, I heard you talking to the young man earlier. You are from Scotland.”
Tam froze then turned slowly, his face expressionless, to stare at the woman who had spoken from behind him, her voice a sibilant hiss. She was standing by the tailgate of his wagon, white-knuckled hands grasping the thick strap of a bulky, shapeless cloth bag suspended from her shoulder. Her shape was muffled in a long garment of dull green wool that was wrapped completely around her, one corner covering her head like a hood, exposing only her mouth and chin. She looked young, but not girlish, although the voluminous garment that concealed her left him no way of guessing at her maturity. She appeared to be comparatively clean, too, the skin on the lower part of her face fair and free of obvious dirt. He eyed her again, his gaze traveling slowly and deliberately, but with no hint of lechery, from her face down to her feet, and then he nodded.
“I am of Scotland. What of it?”
“I am, too. And I need help. I need it greatly. I can reward you.”
“What kind of trouble are you in, Lady? What would you have of me, a simple carter?”
“I need to get inside the gates. They are . . . People are looking for me, and they mean me ill.”
Tam stared at her for the space of five heartbeats, his eyes fixed on the wide-lipped mouth, which was all he could really see of her. “Is that a fact?” he asked then, his Scots brogue suddenly broad and heavy. “And who are these people that harry and frighten well-born women?”
She bit her lip, and he could see her debating with herself whether to say more or no, but then she drew herself up even straighter. “The King’s men. The men of William de Nogaret.”
Still Tam stared at her, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts, although her words had startled him. William de Nogaret, Chief Lawyer to Philip IV, was the most feared and hated man in all of France, and the woman’s admission, clearly born of a desperate decision to trust him solely on the grounds of their common birthplace, invited him instantly to either betray her or become complicit. And complicity in anything involving the frustration of the King’s principal henchman invited torture and death. He remained motionless for a moment longer, his thoughts racing, and then he nodded and his face creased beneath his short, neatly trimmed beard into what might have been the beginnings of a smile.
“De Nogaret? You’re running from de Nogaret? Sweet Jesus, lass, you could not have named a better reason to be seeking aid. Stay where you are. You are hidden there. I need to see what’s going on ahead of us.”
JACK WHYTE was born in Scotland and emigrated to Canada in 1967. An actor, orator, singer, and poet, he is the author of the critically acclaimed Dream of Eagles series of novels set in post-Roman, fifth-century Britain. He lives in Kelowna, British Columbia.
Also by Jack Whyte
A DREAM OF EAGLES
THE GOLDEN EAGLE
THE TEMPLAR TRILOGY
