left and the right. If it became necessary, they could make an escape in either direction. He stood as he was, Marek behind him, waiting.
The stranger stepped forward, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the red cross on his white blouse. Annan’s chin lifted in recognition of the uniform. A Knight Templar. The sworn protectors of Jerusalem’s Temple had a murky fame, sometimes hailed for their fatalistic bravery, sometimes shunned for their intractable defiance to any authority save their own.
“I seek Marcus Annan. You are he, are you not?”
“Mayhap.”
Behind Annan’s shoulder, Marek blew out a noisy breath. The irony was not lost on Annan either. The last time someone had asked that question, they’d barely escaped groveling in the damp murk of an Italian prison.
The Templar lifted his chin, as if to see Annan better through the helmet’s eye slits. “My master bids me ask for your services. If that piques your interest, meet me before the night begins to wane on the shore near the women’s camp.”
Annan’s gaze flicked to the knight’s sword and then back to the dull gleam of the brass cross on the helm’s front. The Templars, more than most, would have reason to destroy rebellious soldiers who refused to take the Crusading oath.
At the edge of Annan’s vision, Marek gave his head a small shake. Annan brought his hand up to rest on his sword. “And your master is?”
“Someone who admires your skills.” The knight bowed his head. “And that is all I am allowed to say.”
Annan lifted an eyebrow. A Templar who lauded the talents of a tourneyer?
He tilted his head in a brief nod, but the flicker of a shadow between the tents to the Templar’s right caught his eye. He froze, only for a second, and managed to make the glance he cast in the shadow’s direction as casual as possible. If this was an ambush, he didn’t want his attackers to know he was aware. And if it wasn’t—if he and Marek had merely reacquired their follower from earlier in the evening—he didn’t want the Templar to know that either.
The newcomer was already withdrawing, slipping back to where the deep shadows mingled with even deeper night. Annan’s gaze narrowed.
He glanced back at the Templar, who waited patiently, not even tilting his head in the shadow’s direction. “Have it as you will,” Annan said. “If I choose to be there, I will be there.”
The Templar inclined his upper body in a bow, and the chin plate of his helm clinked against the mail shirt beneath his blouse. “It will be worth your while, Master Knight.”
Annan grunted, already using the brief moment when the knight’s eyes were averted to check the shadows once more. Nothing. He and Marek stayed their ground, unmoving, and waited as the Templar retreated toward the English camp. Annan watched ‘til he was out of earshot, then motioned Marek up to his side. “Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Your shadow, laddie buck.” He strode forward, reaching for the dagger sheathed in the small of his back. He entered the opening between the tents and quickened his pace.
If this shadow and the Templar were in collusion, he and Marek were probably walking into a trap. But he didn’t think so. Before the dark-robed stranger had disappeared, Annan had seen the strength of his chest, the almost imperceptible slouch of his shoulders, the flash of his eyes.
The Baptist had arrived in Acre.
He gripped the hilt of his long dagger, grimacing at the glint of the blade in the moonlight. Had he known he was going to spend the night trysting with less-than-orthodox Knights Templars and heretic monks, he would have blacked the blade with ash.
They followed the ragged alley some five hundred paces to a dead end where two tents were placed back to back. Annan growled through his teeth and turned back.
Marek dodged out of the way. “Now what?”
Annan started to run. “Split up at the first opening. Yell like fury if you find him, but don’t attack
The stranger stepped forward, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the red cross on his white blouse. Annan’s chin lifted in recognition of the uniform. A Knight Templar. The sworn protectors of Jerusalem’s Temple had a murky fame, sometimes hailed for their fatalistic bravery, sometimes shunned for their intractable defiance to any authority save their own.
“I seek Marcus Annan. You are he, are you not?”
“Mayhap.”
Behind Annan’s shoulder, Marek blew out a noisy breath. The irony was not lost on Annan either. The last time someone had asked that question, they’d barely escaped groveling in the damp murk of an Italian prison.
The Templar lifted his chin, as if to see Annan better through the helmet’s eye slits. “My master bids me ask for your services. If that piques your interest, meet me before the night begins to wane on the shore near the women’s camp.”
Annan’s gaze flicked to the knight’s sword and then back to the dull gleam of the brass cross on the helm’s front. The Templars, more than most, would have reason to destroy rebellious soldiers who refused to take the Crusading oath.
At the edge of Annan’s vision, Marek gave his head a small shake. Annan brought his hand up to rest on his sword. “And your master is?”
“Someone who admires your skills.” The knight bowed his head. “And that is all I am allowed to say.”
Annan lifted an eyebrow. A Templar who lauded the talents of a tourneyer?
He tilted his head in a brief nod, but the flicker of a shadow between the tents to the Templar’s right caught his eye. He froze, only for a second, and managed to make the glance he cast in the shadow’s direction as casual as possible. If this was an ambush, he didn’t want his attackers to know he was aware. And if it wasn’t—if he and Marek had merely reacquired their follower from earlier in the evening—he didn’t want the Templar to know that either.
The newcomer was already withdrawing, slipping back to where the deep shadows mingled with even deeper night. Annan’s gaze narrowed.
He glanced back at the Templar, who waited patiently, not even tilting his head in the shadow’s direction. “Have it as you will,” Annan said. “If I choose to be there, I will be there.”
The Templar inclined his upper body in a bow, and the chin plate of his helm clinked against the mail shirt beneath his blouse. “It will be worth your while, Master Knight.”
Annan grunted, already using the brief moment when the knight’s eyes were averted to check the shadows once more. Nothing. He and Marek stayed their ground, unmoving, and waited as the Templar retreated toward the English camp. Annan watched ‘til he was out of earshot, then motioned Marek up to his side. “Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“Your shadow, laddie buck.” He strode forward, reaching for the dagger sheathed in the small of his back. He entered the opening between the tents and quickened his pace.
If this shadow and the Templar were in collusion, he and Marek were probably walking into a trap. But he didn’t think so. Before the dark-robed stranger had disappeared, Annan had seen the strength of his chest, the almost imperceptible slouch of his shoulders, the flash of his eyes.
The Baptist had arrived in Acre.
He gripped the hilt of his long dagger, grimacing at the glint of the blade in the moonlight. Had he known he was going to spend the night trysting with less-than-orthodox Knights Templars and heretic monks, he would have blacked the blade with ash.
They followed the ragged alley some five hundred paces to a dead end where two tents were placed back to back. Annan growled through his teeth and turned back.
Marek dodged out of the way. “Now what?”
Annan started to run. “Split up at the first opening. Yell like fury if you find him, but don’t attack
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