Rosslyn was likely the smallest village I had ever seen that was completely enclosed by a wall. It must have been because, as Little John said, the Scots were fighting someone most of the time and the wall had become a mandatory means of defense. If Rosslyn were populated by people like Earl McCullen, the wall made sense. Having seen the Earl and his men up close, I could imagine them on either side of such a barrier, attacking or defending.
It took some time for me to work my way down the hillside. I had circled the entire village from the safety of the forest, looking for a way in or out. There was a rear gate, opening onto a road leading to the north. Six knights guarded each entrance. There were no men on the eastern or western walls I could see, but I had to assume there were more inside the village, patrolling the streets or watching the church. I counted to five hundred to make sure, but no guards appeared on the parapets. Nor did the knights at each gate ever circle the perimeter. With no one standing watch on the walls, that could be my way in. Or it could be part of Sir Hugh’s plan to have intentionally left the battlements unguarded, hoping to draw me in. Perhaps he lacked the resources to guard every entrance. Ultimately it didn’t matter. I had to get inside.
The stone walls were approximately twelve feet tall. And that was my next obstacle. We had not brought any length of rope with us. I didn’t think I could climb the walls unaided. I retreated into the woods and came upon a brush pile where a field had been cleared for planting. It lay fallow, but there were several saplings and lengths of timbers lining it in a crude fencerow filled with haphazardly stacked tree stumps. I found a limb about six inches in diameter and about fourteen feet long. Using my short sword I chopped away the branches, making a crude ladder. I was far enough removed from the gates and didn’t think the knights would hear me. When I completed my alterations, I hoisted it up on my shoulder, delighted that it was light enough for me to carry.
I returned to the tree line facing the east wall. There was still no one in evidence on the parapets or the grounds below. Crouching as low to the ground as I could, I crept down the hill and toward the wall. It was an unwieldy gait, putting an excruciating strain on my wounded side, but I couldn’t risk dragging the tree for the noise it would make.
With luck I reached the base of the wall and propped my scaling ladder against it at a slight angle. I ascended the crude steps, climbing carefully. Halfway up, one of the branches could not support my weight and cracked loudly when I stepped on it. I fell against the trunk and thought I might totter over to the ground, but managed to brace myself. I waited a moment, fearing the noise must have attracted someone, but no one came, so I climbed on.
When I reached the top, I pulled the limb up and over the parapet and laid it against the wall so it would be there if I needed it for my escape. A nearby ladder on the inner side took me down inside the town. I drew my sword and made my way to the side of the closest building. I smelled livestock; it must have been a stable or livery of some kind. From this vantage point, I peered down the road toward the center of the village. Here and there a few torches were lighted, and dim light came through the windows of a few buildings.
Instinct warned me to be cautious. I waited, counting to a thousand before I moved again. My goal was to reach the church, but along the way, I would check every direction for a trap.
I studied the street before me for a good while. And for as long as I dared, I took my time, carefully circling, darting from shadow to shadow and finding whatever cover I could, keeping the spire of the church as my vantage point, and watching for guards or knights or anyone who might be lying in wait for me. But there was nothing suspicious. If they were there, they had done a masterful job of hiding themselves.
Finally, I worked my way to the church. How I hoped for a sign, anything to positively identify that this was where I was supposed to be. Words painted on the door would have been extremely helpful: TRISTAN, PLEASE DELIVER THE GRAIL HERE. Darting from building to building, I encircled the church trying to learn all of the ways in or out. For such a small village it was a good-size structure, and my guess was that it was also a place of worship for many who lived outside the town walls. However, it appeared to have only a single front door.
Cautiously, and as furtively as I was able, I made my way to the shadows of the front door. Taking a last quick look behind me, I lifted up on the heavy wooden door handle and pushed, hoping there would be no squeak of alarm from the hinges. I opened it just far enough to slip through.
Looking at my drawn sword, I felt a tremendous surge of guilt for entering a house of the Lord with a weapon in my hand and malice in my heart. But I offered up a quick prayer asking God to forgive this transgression, as I hoped he had forgiven so many others of mine, and asked him to understand I was here to do his work and that the sword might be necessary. I also asked him if we could discuss it later, as I was very busy at the moment.
The vestibule of the church was quiet and empty, but light came from two oil lamps mounted on the walls on either side of the door leading to the chapel. Quickly running to the doorway, I peeked inside to find it deserted, save for a solitary figure in dark brown priest robes kneeling at an altar lighted by candles, lost in prayer. Still suspecting a trap, I hugged the wall of the chapel and made my way forward, sword at the ready.
I feared the worst. I was but a few feet away, but I could hear no prayers, nor any sound at all coming from the priest. When I was close enough to touch him, I spoke quietly.
“Excuse me, but might you be Father William?” I asked.
He gave no response. With my free hand I reached out to nudge him on the shoulder. When I did, he slumped forward, his body twisting and landing faceup on the altar.
I pushed back his cowl with the edge of my sword and gasped. A dead man stared up at me. His hands were bound together in front of him, locked in eternal prayer. I was too late. Father William was dead.