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  Knight Assassin

  The Second Book of Talon

  by

  James Boschert

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  www.penmorepress.com

  Knight Assassin - Copyright © 2010 by James Boschert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  516

  ISBN: 978-1-942756-14-9 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-942756-15-6 (Ebook)

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC014000FICTION / Historical

  FIC002000FICTION / Action & Adventure

  FIC031000FICTION / Thrillers

  Address all correspondence to:

  Michael James

  920 N Javalina PL

  Tucson, AZ 85748

  [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Knight Assassin

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 Pirates

  Chapter 2 The Road to Albi

  Chapter 3 The Homecoming

  Chapter 4 The Hunt

  Chapter 5 The Feast

  Chapter 6 The Monastery

  Chapter 7 Guillabert’s lair

  Chapter 8 The Fair

  Chapter 9 The Reckoning

  Chapter 10 The Bishop

  Chapter 11 A Swineherd

  Chapter 12 Carcassonne

  Chapter 13 Recognition

  Chapter 14 Tournament

  Chapter 15 Mission

  Chapter 16 Royal Meeting

  Chapter 17 Ambush

  Chapter 18 Bartholomew

  Chapter 19 Bishop’s Feast

  Chapter 20 The Trial

  Chapter 21 Flight

  Chapter 22 Siege

  Chapter 23 Assault

  Chapter 24 Assassin

  Chapter 25 Aftermath

  Chapter 26 Witchcraft

  Chapter 27 Templar

  About The Author

  We Hope You Enjoyed This Book

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  My Mother, Pat

  Who is as brave a person as I have

  ever encountered

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My grateful thanks to my wife Danielle for her everlasting patience in putting up with me while offering good advice as I write. Without her faith and support this book could not have been written.

  Sincere thanks to my editor Dorrie O’Brien whose meticulous attention to detail made this a readable book and for the support of my friends who have all had input.

  Thanks also to my copy editor, Chris Paige, who tidied up this revised edition for future readers.

  Oh, now I do perceive

  The pirates’ distant sail.

  And for my life I grieve;

  As pilgrims pray and wail.

  For now we know our fate.

  - Graham

  Chapter 1

  Pirates

  Talon stood on the afterdeck of the old Venetian merchant ship and stared out over the sea. Visibility wasn’t good in the weak light; there was a haze, almost like a sea mist, that hung low over the oily swell.

  His Uncle Philip and the ship’s captain stood with him. All three peered over the back rail of the ship, straining their eyes and listening for more news from the masthead.

  Behind them the two steersmen, while still holding onto the long arm of the tiller, looked over their shoulders at the trio as they talked, straining to hear what they were saying.

  All shouting by the sailors and conversation in the waist of the ship had stopped, as passengers and sailors alike stared up at the quarterdeck or leaned out over the sides of the wallowing ship to stare astern into the mist behind.

  Everything was quiet, apart from the low murmur of the voices on the quarterdeck, the creaking of the ship’s timbers, the splash and slap of the seas on the round hull and the occasional stamp of a horse below.

  The lookout in his basket, high on the cross tree of the mast and the sail boom, had just called down that he had seen something in a gap in the mist. The captain, a barrel-chested, stocky man from Venice, dressed in coarse canvas trousers, a dirty-white linen shirt, and a greasy over-jacket of leather, had looked alarmed, twisted his huge mustache nervously, then had called back to the lookout to keep his eyes open. He motioned for Philip and Talon to come with him to the stern rail.

  “It might be pirates, sir,” he told Philip in a low voice, looking over his shoulder as though concerned that anyone else might hear. “They prey upon ships that bring the pilgrims to and from the Holy Land.” He looked worried. “By the good God, but I wish I had waited for the Templar convoy before I left Acre. God’s blood, but it was gold that clouded my judgment.” He looked resentfully at Talon. It was because of the bribe the Templars had given him to transport this unusually dressed youth out of the port of Acre that they were now here, vulnerable and in possible danger.

  The wind had died during the night to a mere whisper that barely moved the ship and its companion, wallowing off the starboard side a good hundred yards away. The captain had mentioned that there was a change of weather coming, and had told his men to check bindings and stowage.

  Now, though, the ships rolled sluggishly in the swell that lifted and dropped the ships in an irregular motion that Talon found uncomfortable. He had not minded the motion of the ship when there had been a fair breeze behind them and the ship lifted and fell in a forward motion. This rolling and twisting made him feel dizzy and although he stood unaided on the deck, he wished the wind would come back.

  Turning away from his uncle and the captain murmuring low about the sighting, Talon instinctively took stock of their numbers should there be trouble. There were a dozen ragged, sick-looking pilgrims returning from the Holy Land, who would be less than useful if trouble came.

  There were six rough-looking men likely to be handy in a fight. Talon thought they might be mercenaries going home; he had spotted them carrying bows when they’d left port. They spoke a language that Philip had told him was Welsh.

  There were no knights besides his Uncle Philip. That left Max, Philip’s sergeant, a tough, scar-faced man who had seen his share of fights in Palestine, and the captain with his motley band of sailors who came from a half dozen countries around the inner sea.

  He turned back to gaze out over the swell. The mist was beginning to clear as the heat of the mid-morning sun burnt it off. It was going to be another hot afternoon.

  Just as Philip was about to say something to the captain, they all heard another call from the lookout swaying high above them.

  There followed an exchange between the two that left the captain visibly agitated. He spoke the Venetian patois to his crew so Talon could not understand a word. The captain turned to Philip and then pointed to the southeast. “There are pirate galleys about five miles away,” he stated in poor French, angrily grinding his bad teeth and again looking resentfully at Talon. He smacked his fist into his hand several times, glancing about him wildly as though looking for an escape.

  Talon and his uncle half turned and stared in the direction indicated. Talon thought he could see something a long way off. A tiny speck of white rose and then disappeared in the distance. He pointed. “Is that what he means?” he asked.

  The captain stared hard. “Yes, that's what he means, that's the sail of one of them, may God damn them to hell. We're dead men unless the wind picks up.” He turned back to Philip. “They're pirates from Egypt, sir. They plunder ships like ours when they can catch us; we're easy prey. Oh, Lord God, protect us from such scum.” He seemed very frightened.

  He ran to starboard side and bellow
ed across to the other ship. From his arm waving and shouts, Talon guessed that he was explaining that they had seen pirate ships coming. He yelled back and forth with the captain of that ship for a few minutes and then turned back to see to his own ship.

  The accompanying vessel suddenly came to life. Men ran to the ropes to tighten the large, single sail and turn it to catch the slightest wind, but despite their efforts they could not increase their speed. Men stared aft from the high deck, just as Talon and Philip were doing on their own ship.

  The same problem was apparent on Talon’s ship: sailors, looking fearful, tightened the ropes that held the sail and managed to edge the ship closer to the wind, but it did not seem to make much difference to the watching Talon.

  His stomach, already queasy from the motion of the ship, lurched as he contemplated a fight with pirates. These people would not be deterred easily. To give himself something to do he decided to go below and get his bow and sword. As he walked down the slippery wooden steps he reflected ruefully on the fact that he had been put on this ship in chains as a prisoner at Acre for having killed a man in the Holy Land. Now it was likely that they would be attacked by the newcomers and taken by the pirates as slaves, if not killed immediately. He had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of taking him prisoner without a fight.

  Philip lumbered after him with the same intent.

  They descended the steep ladder to the lower deck and made their way past the stalls for the horses. While Philip called for Max to arm himself and to prepare for a fight, Talon gave his horse Jabbar a stroke on the nose as he went by, but did not pause. He was too intent upon what might be going to happen. They passed the mercenaries who were jabbering to each other in the middle of the gangway. One of the weather-tanned, stocky men turned to Talon and Philip as they came up.

  “M’lord, are there pirates?” he asked Philip in very hesitant French.

  Philip stopped and looked at him. “The captain thinks so. Can you fight?”

  “We are soldiers from Wales, m’lord. We know how to fight.”

  Talon stared at the tough, wiry-looking men. “Are you bowmen?” he asked.

  “We are, sir.” The man turned toward Talon as though to get a better look at him.

  Talon said, “Uncle, if we are to survive an attack we have to use bows, to make them keep their distance from us. We might be able to sting them enough to make them wish they had not attacked us.”

  Philip gave a barking laugh. “You might be right, although if I am not mistaken, it will take more than a few arrows to deter men of that kind. You men, this young man”—he pointed to Talon—“knows about fighting. Work with him.”

  The Welsh were all older than Talon but they knuckled their foreheads and nodded. They looked skeptically at him, however.

  “I’ll see you on deck. Bring your bows,” Talon said briefly and left them to go and fetch his own. When he came back on deck he saw that their ship was somewhat ahead of the other. Somehow they had gained a small lead. He went to the high afterdeck and joined the Welshmen, who were now clustered at the back railing staring toward the two, small, white triangles that were now more clearly defined against the horizon.

  He observed the Welshmen with interest. They were dressed in worn, dirty, tightly woven, heavily patched hose and short, equally well-worn boots—all were down at the heel. They each wore a greasy leather jerkin over filthy, dark, flax-linen shirts that might once have been white; several even had a quilted jacket under the leather that sported the odd ring or plate for protection.

  Each carried his long bow and a wicked-looking dagger on his belt. Their quivers were full and their bows looked well cared for, as did the arrows within. They were short, stocky, dark-haired men, one or two with bright blue eyes, and all had weathered, tanned faces. He figured they had to be a tough group to have survived Palestine. He presumed they were on their way home, wherever that was.

  No one said anything as they watched. It was clear that the two galleys, for that is what they were, had used their oar power to bring them along that much faster than a sailing ship could move in this light breeze. Their lateen sails were up to catch the smallest breath of air to help them shorten the distance and aid the rowers. The captain and Philip, with Max in tow, joined them.

  “Those bastards are going to reach us by noon, God help us,” the Captain said angrily. “They will go either side of a ship and board her, and then it's all over. They cannot be stopped.” He was almost wringing his hands in his agitation, his bearded face screwed up in anguish.

  Talon wondered why men like this went to sea at all, when there was so much danger from pirates. He guessed that they were in the same situation as the caravan masters who crossed the desert sands. This was their only living, and they simply put their faith in God that they might survive one more journey.

  Talon turned to the group of Welshmen and at their weapons, and remembered seeing bows of the same kind used by the mercenaries who worked for his father long ago. He knew how deadly these could be in the right hands, with their enormous range. He carried his own bow, which they looked at curiously. Theirs were simple Yew wood and unadorned whereas his was intricately made of laminated wood and bone.

  Talon said to the men in French, “We have to be able to force them to keep their distance. If they get aboard we will be unable to drive them off; our numbers are too few. So we need to make it very unappetizing for them to come aboard.”

  The leader nodded his understanding and pointed back at the other merchantman. “They might go for him first.”

  Talon nodded, and indicated the other ship with his chin. “I hope they know how to defend themselves, because we cannot look after them, too.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. They understood him well enough.

  The men on the high after-deck watched silently as the sleek, deadly looking boats came closer. Apart from the slap of the sea on the hull and the occasional stamp of a horse’s hoof or snort on the lower deck there was no noise. It was becoming clear that the other ship was losing way compared to their ship. It could have been the aged hull, covered in barnacles that could be clearly seen in the water as it rolled from side to side. It was now several hundred yards behind and a quarter of a mile to starboard. There was a lot of activity but Talon could see nothing in the way of armament on the ship. There were no men in armor and he saw no bowmen.

  He looked across the water at the other ships moving up. They seemed to be moving very fast. He could now see the single bank of oars along each side rising and falling rapidly. The oars flashed as the sunlight caught the blades coming out of the water.

  The galleys’ sails were fully set but holding almost no wind, just as their own was, but somehow they seemed to be able to take better advantage of what little wind was available. They were now only half a mile away from the nearer ship and closing in. They reminded Talon of predators moving in on a defenseless prey.

  It was by now early afternoon and Talon felt sweat gathering under his arms and dripping down his back under the chain-mail shirt he wore, a suit of fine chain mail he had brought with him from Persia. He looked over at Philip, who was dressed in the heavier chain hauberk the Knights Templar used. Philip looked imposing and business-like with his red cross emblazoned on his white overshirt. His huge, triangular shield leaned against the side rail. Talon could see his uncle was also sweating in the afternoon heat, as was Max, who was standing nearby. It was oppressive to stand there and simply wait.

  The captain beat his fists on the wide railing with frustration. “God damn those carrion to hell. Our companion ship is doomed, may the Lord have mercy on their souls, for these pirates will not.”

  He shouted down to the lower deck for a crewman to bring water. When it came in a bucket he offered it to Philip and the rest. They took a ladleful. The day was hot and everyone was sweating. Even the deck felt hot under foot. The smell of pitch was strong in Talon’s nostrils.

  Talon looked to the waist of the wal
lowing ship. There he could see the ragged pilgrims huddled in a tight knot, staring back over the side at the menacing galleys. Some were on their knees praying, while others looked apathetic, just staring off into the distance. They seemed resigned to their fate.

  Surely they were the unluckiest of people, he thought, watching them. To have made it so far and then to be taken into slavery or be killed, just before they could get home. Life as a pilgrim was fraught with dangers, but many still made the journey. He smelled smoke rising from the cooking space down in the waist of the ship. The food was foul, and most of the time barely cooked. He started, an idea slowly forming in his head.

  He turned to Philip. “Uncle, we have fire on this ship, do we not?”

  Philip shrugged. “Of course! How else could we heat that disgusting slop the captain calls stew?”

  “Then I have an idea.” Talon explained his thoughts to his uncle, who looked at him in doubt at first, but finally nodded vigorously, then clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Talon, you have your father’s head on your shoulders. It might work; at least it will give them something to think about.”

  Philip called the captain over and the three of them began to discuss the plan. At first the captain was also very doubtful, for like every sailor he feared fire, but he warmed to the idea that Talon was espousing as he realized that there was nothing else he could do to defend his ship.