The murmur of voices pulled me to consciousness. I lay on my back and could feel the warmth of a fire. When I opened my eyes, my head was turned to the side and Angel’s face was perched perhaps two inches from my own. Her tongue lashed out and licked my nose.
I wanted to roll over and sit up, but the pain of my wounds prevented it. I lay on a pallet next to a large campfire beneath a cloudy sky. It was cold but the fire cut the chill. My shoulder and arm were wrapped in bandages. A priest sat on a cut section of log to my right, near the fire. He smiled and I nodded in return. Maryam and Robard stood on the far side of the fire, a few yards away. Robard leaned on his still-strung bow, Maryam next to him, looking at me with grave concern. She held the satchel in her hand and nodded, indicating it was safe.
Sir Thomas sat on a log next to my left. My heart raced, then dropped to my stomach, for as I studied the man, I realized it wasn’t Sir Thomas after all. This knight’s hair was a slightly lighter shade, and there was no distinctive scar along his face. His beard was not as thick, and he looked smaller.
“Who. .” I let my words trail off, mystified.
“You must be Tristan,” he said.
“Excuse me, sire-”
“I know. You must be very confused. And in pain. We reached you just in time,” he said, gesturing toward my wounded arms. “All thanks to your furry friend there,” he said, pointing to Angel. “She found us on our way here, and I can’t explain why, but we felt compelled to follow her at a gallop. It was almost as if she were looking for us.” He reached over to scratch at Angel’s ears. “Your wounds are serious, but we managed to stop the bleeding. How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Really. Just flesh wounds,” I answered.
He chuckled, and my heart sank again, for his laugh was nearly identical to Sir Thomas’.
“I beg your pardon again, sire, but who-”
“My name is Charles Leux. Thomas is. . was. . my younger brother,” he said. Now it made sense. His appearance was so similar to Sir Thomas that it made me uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry, sire,” I said. “He. . Sir Thomas. . Before he died. . Sir Hugh said he killed him. By the way, Sir Hugh is dead, isn’t he?”
Charles smiled. “Yes, he’s dead, but we have yet to find his body. No one could survive such a fall, though. And I understand you ran him through with a very large sword. As for my brother, well, he may have died doing his duty as a Templar, but I assure you, Tristan, Sir Hugh did not kill him.”
“How. . do you know?” I asked.
“I have faith. Sir Hugh is. . was. . a coward who preyed on the weak. He would never face Thomas in a fair fight, not even if my brother had lost both his arms.” He dropped his head and murmured a brief prayer under his breath. “If my brother is dead, it was not by Hugh’s hand. He died fighting, on his feet, like the warrior he was.”
None of Sir Charles’ words were comforting.
He was silent a moment, then coughed nervously. “I assume you have come here with the Holy Cup of the Savior?” He paused, waiting for me to tell him where it was. “Do you have it with you? Is it safe?”
Something Sir Thomas said in Acre came rushing back. When he had given me the Grail in the Knights Hall, he had said to trust no one. The quest to find and possess the Grail “had turned even my brothers of the Order into glory-crazed hounds.”
My expression changed. And Charles noticed immediately.
“You have many questions, I’m sure-” he said, and he reached inside his tunic.
“Robard!” I shouted out in warning.
As always Robard had an arrow nocked and his bow drawn in less than a second and the shaft pointed right at Charles’ chest.
“Sire,” Robard said quietly, “I must humbly request that you very slowly and gently remove your hand from inside your tunic, lest I be forced to pin it to your chest.”
Sir Charles froze for a moment, then smiled. “I see Thomas has trained you magnificently. Of course, you are quite correct not to trust me. Splendid, in fact. But I assure you, I mean you no harm, and what I have here will explain everything. May I remove it? Will you instruct your friend the archer to hold?”
“Slowly. Please remove it very slowly,” I said. I was too weak to fight, but felt immense comfort knowing Robard was there to protect me.
Sir Charles removed his hand from his tunic, and in it he held a thick letter. When he held it out, I recognized Sir Thomas’ seal, and it looked like a letter Sir Thomas had given me-all those months ago-in Acre. He had commanded I give it to a King’s Guard named Gaston. Gaston was to carry the letter back to London to the Master of the Order. At the time, I merely thought the letter was some sort of routine business.
“This is for you,” Sir Charles said.