‘Christ, he’s heavy.’
I shrug off the body so that the full weight suddenly falls on the archer. He’s wearing armour, so I don’t try to punch him. Instead, I kick his legs from under him. He falls in a tangle with the corpse. I find the knife and whip it out of his belt. With my knee on his chest I press the blade against his neck. It would be so easy to kill him.
But too many men have died that night. Working quickly, before he recovers his wits, I take off his belt and knot his hands together. He has a cloth he uses to dry his bowstring — I stuff it in his mouth, then pull off his boots and hurl them into the darkness. It won’t hold him for long, but it’ll be enough. Finally, I take his shield.
Using the precious lance like a staff, I stumble down the mountainside. Rain drums against me. At last, the sound changes — I can hear the soft hiss of water on water. The lake. I slide down the final embankment and come out on the valley floor. The rain’s stopped; the breeze shreds the cloud. Moonlight leaks out like a wound.
I can’t see the horses. Have Morgan’s men driven them off? My whole being is close to collapse — but before I despair I hear a whinny in the trees to my right. The horses must have sought shelter there from the storm. I call, and one comes trotting obediently towards me. He’s already tacked up — we didn’t have time to remove the saddles when we arrived.
I don’t know which way the sea is, but I can hear running water. I track the sound to the far end of the lake, where a stream flows out. I follow it down a narrow gully between two hills, splashing in and out of the water.
Soon the stream grows into a small river. There’s a track beside it, easier riding. I look back, but the hilltop where we fought is hidden from view. The fire’s gone.
I let the river lead me to the sea. I know I should hurry, but a slackness has overtaken me, the let-down after the battle. I loosen the reins and let the horse find his own way. Soon enough, the earthy air takes on a new salt smell. Waves break softly ahead of me. The horse’s hooves sound silver on the sand.
I dismount and take off the saddle. The horse lies down and I lie against him, drawing his warmth, one hand resting on the lance beside me.
The night’s terrors aren’t over yet. Malegant is still out there, and Lazar, and Morgan too. I’m supposed to be guarding the lance. But I’ve barely slept in four days. I’ve ridden, clambered, fought to the end of my endurance. The hot breath of battle drains out of me, leaving me empty and limp.
I fall asleep.
Though she’d been warned, Ellie had still expected a cup — a gold chalice crusted with jewels, the image that a poet’s words had seeded into the West’s collective imagination for centuries. Instead, what Blanchard lifted out was an egg-shaped stone, about the size of a rugby ball. The stone was cloudy white, but even in the dull worklights it glittered with myriad points of light, like an infinitely multifaceted diamond. The reflected light glowed off it, making a nimbus in the dust and smoke that hung in the air.
As Blanchard turned it in his hands, Ellie saw that the tip of the stone was hollowed out into a shallow bowl, and the base was smoothed flat so it could stand upright. Blanchard carried it back to the stone table and set it down under the spear.
‘These were separated in the twelfth century,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve been waiting for this moment ever since.’
‘Why?’ Ellie asked simply.
‘The lance cuts and the stone heals. But only the spear that made the wound can cure it.’
As Blanchard spoke, Saint-Lazare’s whole body seemed to lurch forward — almost as if he were about to get up from the chair and walk. The chill of centuries touched Ellie’s cheek. She wondered how long he’d sat in that wheelchair.
Blanchard reached for the spear again. Again, Ellie sensed Leon go tense beside her. Blanchard, with his back to them, didn’t notice — but Saint-Lazare missed nothing.
‘Stop.’ His face was drawn into a fierce scowl of concentration, hard as ivory. His blue, fathomless eyes turned to Ellie.
‘You do it.’ The artificial voice, uninflected and mechanical, was pitiless. Ellie stayed rooted to the spot.
Saint-Lazare jerked his head. Destrier marched forward, grabbed Ellie by her hair and dragged her to the table.
‘Where I can see her,’ Saint-Lazare rasped.
Ellie shook Destrier off and walked to the far side of the table, facing the rest of the hall. Destrier stepped away, keeping his gun trained on Ellie.
From across the table, Blanchard gazed into her eyes. She searched his face for any trace of warmth, any last lingering affection, and saw nothing. She felt tears stinging her eyes — not for Blanchard, but for so much waste. So many mistakes she’d never be able to correct.
Blanchard misunderstood. He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ellie looked past him to the hall beyond — like a suicide on the precipice taking one last look at the world she’d abandoned. Destrier, leering with triumph. Saint-Lazare’s skeletal face fixed on Leon, who in turn was staring at Ellie. He mouthed something to her she couldn’t understand; his eyes moved deliberately from the spear to the fireplace behind her.
Whatever he was trying to tell her, it couldn’t make any difference. She looked down at the stone grail on the table, dull and plain in Blanchard’s shadow, then up at the spear. It wasn’t one piece, but two lengths of black iron, joined in the middle by a length of burnished wood. She could see the cables suspending it now, two wires snaking down from the roof. There were no knots: the wires disappeared right into the shaft of the spear.
Ellie put both her hands on the shaft. Her fingers closed around the iron. In the wheelchair, Saint-Lazare’s eyes narrowed.
A shudder convulsed her; she felt an electric surge crackle through her body.
Then the room exploded.
I wake at dawn. It wasn’t the light that woke me, though I don’t realise that at first. Grey sand stretches away to a grey sea at low ebb; wisps of grey cloud drift across a grey sky. The only thing that breaks the grey is a boat, a cockeyed hulk stranded by the tide.
Carried on the wind, I hear a sound — the clop of hooves on the shingle at the top of the beach. I leap to my feet, though it’s clear at once that there’s no danger. The rider’s slumped over his reins, nodding as if asleep. He’s kept hold of his lance, but it trails behind him like an oar. The horse isn’t much better — he weaves and sways like a drunk as he ambles on to the sand.
My first thought is that he’s no threat. My second thought is that he must be close to death. Then I realise it’s Hugh.
I run across and grab the bridle. I try to lift him down, but he won’t move: he’s looped his belt around the cantle of his saddle to hold him in place. I unhook him and pull him free. There’s a deep gash in his arm and another in his side, black wounds cut through his armour. I unlace his helmet. He squints at me, as if even that grey day is too bright.
‘Chrétien?’
‘Did you get it?’
A look of agony crosses his face. ‘Lazar escaped. I tried to follow, but Malegant found me.’
‘What about the others? Anselm, Beric …?’
‘All dead.’
I stroke the hair back from his face. There’s a flask of water in my horse’s saddlebag: I fetch it, and pour some in his mouth.
There’s no way we’ll ride out of there. Even if I tied him back on his mount, he wouldn’t last five miles. I cut off his hauberk and wrap him in one of the horse blankets. He still weighs as much as a pony. I lift him in my arms and stagger down the beach to the boat. Ribbons of weed hang off the hull; some of the planks have warped, but there’s a pair of oars, a mast and a sail.