Behold the Dawn by K.M. Weiland

fitfully. Mostly, he had sat with his head in his hands and wished he might pray, though he did not know what he would ask. For redemption? For the chance to revoke the gory past? For peace? He snorted; he would not waste his time in futility.
    He thought of Lord William and of the Baptist and of the Lady Mairead. And of Matthias. Matthias who had destroyed Annan’s life, who had left him this empty, desecrated shell of a man. Matthias who was responsible for the path that had led William and Mairead to this place, whose only legacy could be their deaths.
    Gethin still thought Matthias the hero he had been lauded as so many years ago, when he had destroyed the Abbey of St. Dunstan’s. But he was wrong, so very wrong. Gethin did not know the truth of what Matthias had been. Annan did. Hatred churned in his heart as he had not allowed it to in years.
    It was then that the whisper of footsteps and the gentle kiss of cloth against cloth brought him from the darkness of his thoughts. A hand thrust aside the tent flap, and Mairead stood, silhouetted against a cloudy sky.
    He took his head from his hands and watched her creep through the maze of pallets. She stooped before him, her features obscured in the shadows. “Word has come that Richard slaughtered his prisoners yestermorning.”
    His spine went stiff. He knew the implications of such an act. “Why?”
    “Saladin delayed in collecting the ransom money.” She leaned nearer. “Lord William fears retribution against us. I have told him what you said, and he bids you come to him if you are able.”
    “My legs will bear me.”
    “Then come.”
    She led him outside, into a night that was cold beneath its windblown sky. He could see no stars, and he could only surmise that the time was somewhere between midnight and matins . Campfires burned in the distance, flickering, dancing to the windsong. But there were no voices, no shadows of mankind. All the night was still, save the snapping of the lady’s cloak and the crunch of his own footsteps.
    His legs did indeed bear him, though he could feel the weakness that dragged at his muscles. The back of his head was still heavy from his long unconsciousness, and his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat. But he could sense that full strength was not so distant as it might have been. He would be well enough to run—and fight—when the time came. If what the lady said about the English king slaughtering his prisoners were true, that time was near at hand.
    She led him to a soiled gray tent languishing beneath two twisted cedars. Firelight gleamed inside the canvas walls, swaying in time with the shadows of at least two men.
    Mairead stopped at the door flap and turned to look up at him. “He is not well, Master Annan. I pray your news is good.”
    On a raised pallet at the far end of the tent lay a man much older than Annan’s memories of the earl. He was stretched prone beneath a thin coverlet, arms limp at his sides. Skin ashen, breath harsh, this man was not the stalwart, laughing knight who had once been both a mentor and a friend.
    Slowly, head bowed to keep from brushing the low ceiling, Annan came forward, Mairead trailing him. The other men in the tent, a priest and a servant, drew back to let him pass.
    At the bedside, he stopped. A splotch of brown showed against the muslin bandage that covered the shallow rise and fall of William’s chest. Annan’s mouth twisted. Gethin had been right. Father Roderic had wreaked his havoc once more.
    If Annan had listened to Gethin… if he had believed… would this still have happened?
    No. When Gethin had come to him in Italy, he said William had already embarked for the Holy Land.
    For once, Annan could not blame himself.
    Mairead drew near, glanced at him, then dropped to her knees beside the bed and laid a hand on William’s. “My lord.”
    His eyelids fluttered open.
    “He has come,” she said.
    His eyes flicked past her face. Annan stayed as he was, lips pressed