Steadying the tray, she moved through the darkened room towards the balcony. De Bracineaux's back was to her, and the other man-a younger fellow with a large, beak-like nose, fair, straight hair and a fine, silky wisp of a beard-was leaning on the table with his arms crossed. Neither man was armed, and both were deep in conversation. A quick strike from behind, and she would be gone again before the Templar knew what had happened.
'Think what it is worth,' de Bracineaux was saying.
'More than I can imagine,' the fair-haired one replied. 'I should think the pope will give you anything you want. The reward will be yours to name.'
'Ha!' de Bracineaux sneered. 'If you think that conniving old lecher is going to get his poxy hands on it, then you, my friend, are an even bigger ass than his high holiness.'
One step, and another, and she would be in position. Before she could reach the table, however, the second man looked up. 'I have not seen you before,' he said, rising abruptly.
Cait halted.
'Let me help you with that heavy thing/ He grinned and stepped towards her, but the Templar grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his chair. 'Sit down, d'Anjou,' he growled. 'Plenty of time for that later.'
The younger man lowered himself to his seat again, and Cait proceeded to the table, remaining behind de Bracineaux and out of his sight. She placed the tray on the table, and made to step away, her right hand reaching for the hilt of the slender dagger at her back.
As her fingers tightened on the braided grip, the Templar cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. She saw his lowered brow and the set of his jaw, and feared the worst.
Silently, she slipped the dagger from its sheath, ready to strike. But the light of recognition failed to illumine his eyes. 'Well?' he demanded. 'Get to your work, now. Light the lamps and leave us.'
Cait hesitated, waiting for him to settle back in his chair. When she did not move, the Templar turned on her. 'Do as I say, girl, and be quick about it!'
Startled, Cait stepped back a pace, almost losing her grip on the weapon.
'Peace, Renaud,' said his companion. Reaching out, he took the Templar's sleeve and tugged him around. 'Come, I have poured the wine.' He raised his cup and took a long, deep draught.
De Bracineaux swung back to the table, picked up his cup and, tilting his head back, let the wine run down his gullet. Now! thought Cait, rising on to the balls of her feet. Do it now!
Her hand freed the knife and she moved forward. At that instant, without warning, the door burst open and a thick-set, bull-necked Templar strode into the room behind her. Cait whipped the dagger out of sight, and backed away.
'Ah, here is Gislebert now!' said d'Anjou loudly.
The Templar paused as he passed, regarding Cait with dull suspicion. She ducked her head humbly, and quickly retreated into the darkened room.
'Come, sergeant,' called the fair-haired man, 'raise a cup and give us the good news. Are we away to Jerusalem at last?'
'My lord, baron,' said Gislebert, turning his attention to the others. 'Good to see you, sir. You had a pleasant journey, I trust.’
As the men began talking once more, Cait was forgotten-her chance ruined. She might cut one or even two men before they could react, but never three. And the sergeant was armed.
Still, she was close. The opportunity might never come again.
Reluctant to give up, she busied herself in the adjoining room, steeling herself for another attempt. Fetching some straw from the corner of the hearth, she stooped and lit it from the pile of embers. There was a lamp on the table, two candles in a double sconce on the wall by the bed, and a candletree in the corner. She lit the candles first, taking her time, hoping that Gislebert would leave.
She moved to the table and, as she touched the last of the straw to the lamp wick, became aware that someone was watching her from the doorway. Fearing she had been discovered at last, she took a deep breath, steadied herself and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.
She did not see him at first. Her eyes went to the men who were still at the table on the balcony, cups in hand, their voices a murmur of intimate conversation. They were no longer heeding her. But, as she bent once more to the task at hand, she caught a movement in a darkened corner of the room and turned just as a man stepped from the shadows.
She stifled a gasp.
Dressed in the long white robe of a priest, he held up his hand, palm outward in an attitude of blessing-or to hold her in her place. Perhaps both, she thought. A man of youthful appearance, his hair and beard were black without a trace of grey and the curls clipped like the shorn pelt of a sheep. His eyes, though set deep beneath a dark and heavy brow, were bright and his glance was keen. He stepped forward into the doorway, placing himself between Cait and the men.
When he moved she felt a shudder in the air, as if a gust of wind had swept in through the open door; but the candles did not so much as quiver. At the same time, she smelled the fresh, clean scent of the heathered hills after a storm has passed.
'Do not be afraid,' said the man, his voice calm and low. 'I merely wish to speak to you.'
Cait glanced nervously beyond him to where the Templar and his companions sat at their wine.
'Blind guides,' he said, indicating the men. 'They have neither eyes to see, nor ears to hear.'
'Who are you?' As she asked the question, she glanced again at de Bracineaux and his companions; now laughing heartily, they appeared oblivious to both her and the stranger.
'Call me Brother Andrew,' he said.
At the name, Cait felt her throat tighten. She gulped down a breath of air. 1 know about you,' she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. 'My father told me.'
'Your family has been in my service for a long time. That is why I have come-to ask if you will renew the vow of your father and grandfather.'
'What vow is that?'
'I asked young Murdo to build me a kingdom where my sheep could safely graze…'
'Build it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving' Cait said, repeating the words she had learned as a child on her grandfather's knee. 'Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.'
He smiled. 'There, you see? You do know it.'
'He did that. He built you a kingdom,' she said bluntly, 'and died an old man – waiting for you to come as you promised.'
'Truly, his faith has been rewarded a thousandfold.' the White Priest told her. 'But now it is your turn. In each generation the vow must be renewed. I ask you, sister, will you serve me?'
At the question, Cait felt a hardness rise up in her, like a rock in her chest. She hesitated and looked away, not daring to meet the White Priest's commanding gaze,
'Caitriona/ chided Brother Andrew gently, 'I know what is in your heart.'
When she did not answer, the monk shook his head sadly and moved a step closer. 'Thus says the Lord of Hosts: 'As surely as I live for ever, when 1 sharpen my fiery sword and my hand grasps it in judgement, I will take vengeance on my enemies and repay those who hate me.''
She set her jaw and clung to her silence.
'I ask you, sister, do you believe that the Great King is able to perform justice for his servants?'
Her answer was quick and biting. 'If his justice is as ready as his protection, his servants had better sleep with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.'
'His ways are not our ways. Whatever misfortune befalls one of his own, the Allwise Creator is able to bend it to his will. He will not suffer evil to prevail,' he replied.
She could feel his eyes on her, but she was determined not to be swayed by anything he said. 'And yet it does prevail.'
'Look at me, Caitriona,' the monk commanded. She raised her eyes slowly. He was watching her with an intensity which burned across the distance between them. 'I ask but once more: will you serve me?'
Both her father and her grandfather had stood before the White Priest, and both had answered his call. How
