An inner voice whispered to him, replete with recrimination in spite of all his rationalizations. He crept slowly off, a sallow, dull feeling in his gut, and made his way back into the tower and up the ladder, his heart beating fast with fear and anxiety as he went. Once safely up, with the trap door sealed, he sat down on the rough wood floor to catch his breath, shaken by what he had just done. I didn’t even have the courage to face the man, he berated himself. Yet Maeve was right. What could he have done in a face to face confrontation? No, stealth and guile was his only option here, but he still felt like a slinking rogue.
Look what we have become, he thought. We were such children. We thought we’d go see a Shakespeare play, that was all. Now look at us… murders, assassins, rogues in the dark corners of history. I am Rantgar, he realized, an impious wretch indeed.
He did not have time for further reproach. The sound of horses on the hard cobbled road was crisp on the morning air. The light of early dawn now streamed through the embrasure and he got up on his knees, which was just high enough to peer out the window. Moments later men came riding on sleek black horses, their flanks wet with the sheen of sweat in spite of the morning chill. Three riders, then four came up, and he noted one man, more powerfully built than the others and wearing a dark gray cape, dismounted first.
He spoke in a deep voice, casting back his riding hood and shaking loose long black hair which fell on his broad shoulders. Maeve had been correct. He was wearing a leather jerkin, laced at the sides, but draped over this was a fall of fine laced mail that covered his chest and back. It was tied off with a thick, black stained belt.
Paul did not understand what the man was saying. But he seemed to make some jest, as the other three men laughed quietly in the misty dawn, their foggy breath clearly evident. Then the leader looked over his shoulder, and Paul caught a glimpse of the man’s face, dark eyes, sharp features, wide nose over a thick, short cropped beard. He must have been six foot three, he thought, and all of 200 pounds. Paul realized again how ludicrous it would have been for him to try engage this man in a death duel before Lambert’s altar.
The man had turned to look at other riders, clerics, and one man all in white with what looked like a bishop’s miter in his hand. These might be officials of the chapel here, come to bear witness to Grimwald’s visit, and duly note the homage he has paid. It was all lip service, of course. Grimwald was here to make a political statement, not a religious one. By making his contrite visit to Lambert’s tomb, he would reinforce his alliance with the cult of sainthood that had grown up around the man—the bishop who had condemned the harlot mother of his greatest rival, Charles.
He would soon go into the chapel and kneel before Lambert’s tomb. Hopefully he would see the dish of holy water there, and dip his hand in to make the sign of the cross in prayer. Hopefully he would take notice of the chalice there, and drink. Yet if hope would not prevail on this grey morning, Paul was up in the tower waiting. If Grimwald emerged, alive and well, he still had his rifle…
The man greeted the clerics with a strained smile, then proffered a subtle bow and entered the chapel. Paul’s heart thundered as he watched the others waiting outside in silence. The horses chafed and snorted, and one seemed particularly unsettled.
Oh, no, thought Paul. Not another unruly beast! What was going to happen? Was there another hidden Pushpoint here that they could not possibly have seen or predicted? The horse snorted, and for a moment Paul thought it was looking up at him in the bell tower. He hid himself at once. His back pressed flat against the cold stone wall, cowering in the shadows. Stooping, he reached for his rifle, and saw his hands trembling as he clutched it again, trying to impose a measure of calm on himself. He knew the animal was already well aware of his presence, though he hoped no one else had seen him. Kelly’s voice returned to him concerning this whole affair—It’s the damn horses!
Then he heard voices from below, and cautiously knelt again to peer out the window. Grimwald had emerged from the chapel, obviously alive, and Paul was crestfallen. Apparently the water and wine were not sufficient lures, or perhaps Grimwald was not so pious, seeing fit to ignore them. So he had only one recourse now, and his hands were tight on his rifle as he slowly forced himself to stand on unsteady legs.
He positioned himself to one side of the tall, narrow embrasure. Damn, he thought. Here I am, another Lee Harvey Oswald! His mouth was dry, his throat tight. Sweat dotted his brow. He peered out to see Grimwald clasp the arm of the chief cleric, smiling. It was now or never, he thought, and he aimed his rifle, sighting down the thin, cold metal barrel. He knew what the next moment might mean for him. He had no idea when his retraction might occur. He had only told Robert and Maeve to watch the Golems closely, looking for any sign or variation, and the many problems they had that night with the Golem module haunted him now. What was it Kelly had said—there could be a lag time between intervention and the appearance of a variation in the Golem reports? In those seconds or minutes, his life rode in the balance.
The moment he pulled the trigger the gun would surely fire with an audible crack. He knew heads would instinctively snap toward the sound, and then how long would it be before these men at arms were up the tower ladder, growling and shouldering their way up through the trap door to get at him? He thought he might stand on the door, but he weighed all of 165 pounds. They would get to him soon enough, even if they had to hack the trap door to pieces with an axe. He could defend himself with the rifle, but what good would it do? It would only introduce yet more disastrous variations in the time line. He had little doubt that within ten minutes of firing his lethal round, he, too, would be a prisoner of Grimwald’s retainers, or worse, he would join the dark captain in the cold clutches of death. Grimwald was to meet his rightful death here and, if need be, Paul would die himself before he killed anyone else.
All this passed through his mind in a heartbeat as he watched Grimwald leave off his clasping handshake and move to the side of his horse. A retainer held the reins as he made ready to mount. Paul slipped off the safety and his finger tightened on the trigger, his chin close by the rifle’s bore. Then, just as he was about to fire, he stayed his hand when he saw Grimwald sway on his thick bowed legs, then stagger, falling against the side of the horse, which skittered back with alarm. The big man fell heavily to the ground, with a dull thud. Immediately his retainers were at his side, aghast.
There was shouting, hard words that Paul did not understand. Fearful that he might be seen, Paul cowered back away from the embrasure, hiding the rifle beneath his cassock again. He heard quick footsteps in the chapel below. They were in through the sacristy and into the tower now! Had he been seen?
Then something creaked and the hanging bell moved, clanging loudly. Paul stopped his ears with the palms of his hands, a look of anguish and fear on his face. They had seen him, and by God, they were raising the alarm, ringing him out, dulling his senses with the hard peal of the bell. Again and again it rang, accusing him, singling him out, shouting in his weary mind—murderer, assassin, wretch! And the sound of the bell was a hammer on the anvil of his soul as he coward against the wall there, the rifle tight between his knees as he waited for his inevitable doom.
Chapter 24
They had little more than a minute to rest after Paul’s shift concluded, for a moment later the Golems were already signaling variations in the Meridian.