Part 26 (1/2)
Arnault parried and gave ground, not wanting to slay a brother-knight, but he knew he must not let that cost him his own life. Sparks flew as he blocked a downstroke intended to sever his sword arm, and he whirled to counterattack, his blade slithering down the other Templar's to lock at the hilts.
”I am not your enemy!” he managed to spit out between clenched teeth, as he and his adversary strained against each other for a breathless moment. ”Jay has betrayed the Order!”
”You are-apostate!” the other gasped.
”But I will not kill you!” said Arnault-and with a wrench, gave ground again and, when his opponent stumbled forward, dealt him a disabling slash to the back of the leg.
The other Templar let out an agonized cry and folded in his tracks, sword flying from his hand. Leaving the wounded man where he lay, Arnault rushed on again in search of Wallace.
Both the spearmen with Wallace had gone down, but Wallace was still on his feet, now fighting off two white-clad Templars, who were closing in on foot from opposite sides. As Arnault struggled toward them, hampered by the mud, he saw with sinking fear that Wallace's two adversaries were none other than John de Sautre and Jay himself.
”Hold!” he shouted. ”It is not the work of the Temple to slay other Christian men!”
Jay turned at the sound of his voice, his features contorting in a snarl when he recognized his challenger.
”So, the renegade rears his head at last!” he sneered. ”I swear by all that is holy, you are more Saracen than Christian, Saint Clair!” Aside to John de Sautre he said, ”Send him to the h.e.l.l that awaits him! I shall finish this rebellious Scot myself!”
John de Sautre turned on his heel and sprang to attack as Jay closed again with Wallace. Steel clashed against steel as his blade met Arnault's. The two men exchanged feints, circling warily as de Sautre sought an opening.
”Why do you follow him?” Arnault gasped, between clanging exchanges. ”It is not too late for you to turn away from this b.l.o.o.d.y path. G.o.d forgives all things!”
De Sautre panted out a mirthless laugh. ”Are you become my conscience? It is you who should look to the state of your soul-for you are about to go to judgment!”
With sudden ferocity, the Master of the Scottish Temple lunged and struck, the violence of his blow nearly disarming Arnault. In that instant, Arnault sensed that de Sautre knew only too well how far he had let Jay lead him into treachery and deceit-that it was the pain of that knowledge that now lent impetus to his attack, as he sought to batter down one of the few who knew him for what he was, their blades clas.h.i.+ng and parting in a murderous exchange of blows.
Meanwhile, as Brian de Jay closed with William Wallace, feinting and probing to take his measure, he was finding himself surprised at how nimble the big man was, for all his size. In an instant that could only have been merest chance, the tip of Wallace's sword flicked under his guard and caught him low under the ribs.
Jay's armor held, but the blow itself was hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs. As Wallace's blade rose to press the attack, Jay attempted an impaling thrust, but it fell short and Wallace beat his blade aside.
Backing off, sobbing for breath, Jay raised his sword to block the next blow, but Wallace's sword came flas.h.i.+ng down on his own with such force that the Master of England staggered in his tracks. He retreated again, and this time only narrowly succeeded in making the parry. As Wallace continued to hammer at his defenses, Jay knew with sinking desperation that he was about to be bested by this rough fighting man with no claim to n.o.bility.
It was then, as he glanced in vain for some hint of a.s.sistance from some brother-knight, that a mighty blow from Wallace sent the weapon flying from his hand. The Master of England had only an instant in which to contemplate his death before Wallace brought his sword down in a final stroke that split the Templar's skull clean through.
The deed went unseen by Arnault, still engaged with John de Sautre and intent on letting the other man's insensate rage prove his own undoing. When de Sautre finally lunged just too far, leaving himself open to Arnault's outthrust sword point, his own momentum drove him onto the blade. A choked outcry escaped his lips along with a gush of blood as Arnault pulled his sword free, and in shocked disbelief he looked down to see his life's blood obliterating the cross on his white surcoat.
”May G.o.d temper justice with mercy!” Arnault murmured, in as much of a prayer as he could muster for the dying man, as de Sautre sank to his knees, eyes already glazing.
But he was already turning to look for Wallace, who was pausing to give the coup to a foundered horse as he looked for his next foe. Behind him lay the crumpled corpse of Brian de Jay.
”You came just in time, my friend, and I thank you for it,” Wallace declared, heading toward him. ”Alas, I can find little other cause for joy this day.”
”Nor I,” Arnault replied, looking around for Torquil. ”And we must be away from here.”
They were somewhat to the side of the fighting, which continued to take its toll, but a possible way to end it came to Arnault as he spotted Torquil making his way toward him, roughly dragging a disarmed Robert de Sautre along with him. Apart from a red weal on his cheek, the younger de Sautre gave little indication of having put up much of a struggle.
With a glance at Wallace, Arnault raised his sword and his voice above the clash of weapons.
”Knights of the Temple, stand and desist!” he cried. ”The Masters of England and Scotland are dead! In the name of the Visitor of France, I order you to break off!”
The clas.h.i.+ng of weaponry faltered as, all around, the Templars began to disengage, warily flinging glances toward Arnault. In answer, Wallace called to the Scots to fall back. In the uneasy silence that took shape, all eyes turned to the bearded, dark-haired man in plain harness who was standing beside the Guardian of Scotland-and the other plain-harnessed man, a redhead, who was roughly dragging an obviously captive Templar toward them.
One of the Templars, wrenching off his helmet for a closer look at the pair, immediately backed off and thrust his sword into the marshy ground in obedience-a redheaded Scottish knight whom Arnault remembered well from a visit to Paris on behalf of Luc de Brabant-and before that, a long ride to Scone, to see a king crowned. Increasingly in Luc's service since then, Flannan Fraser would have had no part of Jay's treachery, but also would have been obliged by his vows of obedience to accompany the Preceptor of Scotland on this expedition with the King of England.
”Listen to him, brothers!” Flannan cried. ”I know this man. He is Brother Arnault de Saint Clair-no renegade, but a true knight of Christ's most holy Temple! I myself know this!”
Blessing Flannan for the courage of his faith, Arnault went on, gasping as he caught his breath.
”Brothers, you have no business on this field of battle. We serve no king but Christ, and no man here is His enemy. Gather up your wounded and your dead and return to our house at Temple Liston. Brother Robert de Sautre will lead you-is that not so, Brother Robert?”
Still in Torquil's custody, the dazed younger de Sautre could not seem to take his eyes from the sprawled body of his dead brother, lying not far from that of Brian de Jay. He swallowed hard.
”Yes, Brother Arnault,” he answered shakily. ”It is as you say.”
At Arnault's nod, Wallace's men moved aside to allow Flannan Fraser and such of his brethren as were still able-bodied to begin gathering up the wounded and the dead.
Torquil, not relinquis.h.i.+ng his grip on Robert de Sautre's elbow, steered the portly knight closer to where Arnault was standing, drawing them both slightly away from Wallace.
”Before we leave the field ourselves,” he said in a lowered voice, after glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot, ”there's something more you need to know about Jay and this one's brother.
Last night, I saw them give the Comyns, father and son, a casket of pagan artifacts, as payment for betraying Wallace and the Scottish host.”
”I had no part in that!” Robert de Sautre blurted.
Torquil shot him a forbearing glare. ”It's true that he wasn't personally present at the meeting,” he confirmed grudgingly, ”but I think it highly likely that he was aware of his brother's. unhealthy interests.”
Arnault bent his gaze on the cringing Robert. ”Pagan artifacts, Brother de Sautre?”
”I never-”
”Tell me what you know of these artifacts,” Arnault said quietly. There was steel and righteous anger in his voice, and Robert quailed visibly before him.
”I was told they were relics of an ancient sorcerer named Briochan,” he confessed nervously. ”Brother Brian and John secretly performed rituals with them-so John told me later. I did not witness it personally!” he babbled on. ”Indeed, it was only recently that John acquainted me with any of these deplorable goings-on. I was appalled to hear of it, yet my vow of obedience to Brother Brian forced me to keep silent.”
His sickly, craven attempt at a smile, as he wound down, did little to convince either of his listeners that he was entirely innocent. But nothing could be proved; and by Arnault's own reading of the other man's character, he guessed that the younger de Sautre was not one who would willingly choose a difficult path over an easy one. Without Jay to lead the way, he was hardly likely to involve himself in the hazardous business of ancient sorcery-not with the lure before him of vacant offices left in the Scottish and English Temples by the deaths of his brother and Brian de Jay.
”I take it,” Arnault stated for de Sautre's benefit, ”that you will see to it that these pagan rites will never again be practiced by any of our brothers.”
Robert looked as if he might be physically ill as he raised a trembling right hand. ”As G.o.d is my witness,”
he whispered. ”There have been too many misunderstandings in the past, Brother Arnault. There need be no enmity between us. We are both of us concerned with nothing other than the good of our Order.”
Arnault raked the other man with a hard, appraising look.
”I hope that what you say is true,” he said softly. ”The future will tell. And if your actions bear out your words, then perhaps no one will ever connect you with the misdeeds of your superiors.”
The implied threat of exposure was not lost on Robert de Sautre.