"Good. Wait one moment now."
He went out of the tent and looked around. There were no guards in
sight. He rolled the second wine cask into the tent and set it beside
the first. He dragged the Venetian's body into a corner, where anyone
looking in would not see it.
"You have actually come here in the midst of this battle to rescue
Rachel from John the Tartar?" said Friar Mathieu.
The old priest might still have a protective feeling toward the Tartars,
Lorenzo thought. Best not to tell him the real reason.
"I guessed that right now there would be less of a guard on her," said
Lorenzo. "And if you are as ashamed of your part in what has happened to
her as I am of mine, you will help me. You really should come with me."
"Willingly," said Friar Mathieu. "I have no great confidence in your
ability to protect Rachel."
"You seem to have done little enough for her yourself," said Lorenzo
gruffly. Friar Mathieu appeared angry as he opened his mouth, but then
he closed it again, without speaking.
_A good Christian. Turning the other cheek._
Trying to see in all directions at once, Lorenzo carried blankets from
the tent and threw them into the back of the cart. He took the
long-necked jar of poisoned wine from under the driver's seat. Looking
around for guards and seeing them all gazing southward toward the
battle, he went back into the tent and put the wine on the table.
"This wine was my disguise," he said. "I am bringing a gift of wine for
the Tartars from the Bishop of Agnani." Much better to tell them no more
than that.
"My chest, my treasures," Rachel said. Lorenzo sprang at the box she
pointed out and gripped it by both handles. He was shocked at its
weight.
"My God! I do not know if I can--"
A sudden fear came over him. There was no time for this! If he were
caught now, with the dead Venetian, Rachel would surely be executed, and
he along with her.
He hoisted the box to the level of his hipbone, feeling as if his spine
would snap. Rachel and Friar Mathieu put their hands under it, easing
the load a little. Panting, the three of them wrestled the chest out of
the tent, and with one heart-bursting effort Lorenzo heaved it up into
the rear of the cart.
He glanced about him and saw that they were still not being watched.
He picked up the dead archer's crossbow and quiver of arrows and set
them beside the driver's seat at the front of the cart, although he
hoped he would not have to fight his way out of this place.
Bustling Rachel and Friar Mathieu into the cart, he had them hide under
the blankets, in case any of the guards around Charles's camp should
want to look inside.
It seemed to him that he held his breath all the way from the Tartars'
tent to the edge of the French camp. But the elderly guard he had spoken
to barely glanced at him as he drove by with a wave.
The battle seemed unchanged as his cart creaked and rattled along the
narrow dirt track leading through the hills west of the valley. Save
that more dead littered the rolling brown landscape. Charles still stood
on his mound, not deigning to get into the fight himself.
Horsemen and foot soldiers struggled in crowds the length of the valley.
The Tartars, whom he had come to kill, must be fighting down there
somewhere. With luck they would die, either on the battlefield or later.
He kept his eyes moving, watching everything. Arrows or stragglers from
the battle might get the three of them. They would not be safe until
they reached Manfred's camp. If then.
"Oh, Lorenzo, I'm so happy!" Crying, Rachel threw her arms around his
neck.
Embarrassed, he said gruffly, "Easy, child. I have to see what is going
on down there." He gently pulled her arms loose.
The track had climbed high enough to give him a view of the south end of
the valley. With a glow of pleasure he saw that Daoud had kept the Sons
of the Falcon intact. There was their green banner with its white
inscription. There were their turbans, red dots forming a line across
the valley.
A warm feeling swept over him as he made out Daoud's figure in the
center of the line. Never had he met a man he admired more, not even
Manfred. He caught himself praying that Daoud would live through the
battle and be victorious.
He had seen the Sons of the Falcon attack earlier today and check the
first French charge with their volleys of arrows. Now they seemed to be
riding to attack again. What was their objective?
A flash of light above the battle caught his eye. Sunlight reflected on
metal. He looked across at the bare gray rocks that topped the high
ridge on the other side of the valley. He could see beyond the rocks the
tips of a pine forest. Again the flash of light.
Helmets.
Ten or more conical helmets appeared between the forest and the rocks.
Men were crawling over the top of the ridge. The lower slopes of the
ridge, on the valley side, were heavily forested. Those men would be
quite hidden from anyone looking up from the valley.
Who were they? And how many? The hills over there could conceal
hundreds. They could be some of Manfred's troops, sent up there to make
a surprise flank attack. But Manfred had rejected just such a plan.
He remembered now a conversation between Daoud and Manfred at dawn. Not
all of Charles's allies had yet arrived. The Gobignon banner, for
instance, had not been seen with Charles's army.
That could be a whole fresh army of Frenchmen up there on that ridge,
about to fall like an avalanche on Manfred's forces.
And Daoud's Sons of the Falcon were rapidly advancing up the valley.
Lorenzo felt himself trembling. He wanted to scream a warning.
_I have to reach Daoud._
He jerked the horse to a stop and called to Rachel and Friar Mathieu.
"I have to leave you."
"Lorenzo!" Rachel's eyes were huge with terror.
He took her hands. "Listen. I love you like my own daughter. But I have
just seen something--I have to warn them. Daoud--David--will be killed."
"David of Trebizond?" said Friar Mathieu. "You called him Daoud?" The
old priest's eyes were alight with sudden understanding.
"Never mind." Lorenzo heard his own voice rising in panic. He took a
deep breath to steady himself, then plunged back into the cart and
seized the saddle he had tucked away in the back. He jumped down from
the cart, unhitched the gelding, and threw the saddle over its back.
"Oh, my God, Lorenzo!" Rachel screamed. "Take me with you. Don't leave
me here."
"I will be back for you," he said as he fought to get saddle and bridle
on the horse. "I swear it. I have no time to talk. I have to do this."
Wanting something more than a dagger to defend himself with, he grabbed
the crossbow he had taken from the guard at the Tartar's tent, and
strapped the quiver of bolts to his waist.
The gelding expelled a breath as he threw himself on its back.
Rachel was still screaming, but he could not make out her words over his
horse's hoofbeats as he galloped away.
"Forgive me!" he cried over his shoulder.