Alex Scarrow - The Doomsday Code

Blood-sucking leeches — the lot of them.

But necessary allies … for now. He was going to need their revenues, their men, for a while longer. Until he’d re-established his authority and, more importantly, held the divine power of the Holy Grail in his hands. Power enough to vanquish any army foolish enough to stand in his way.

So many years dreaming of this, waiting for this moment; the last of those years spent as the prisoner of Duke Leopold, awaiting the ransom that would finally set him free. And all that time, all of those frustrating months, having in his possession one half of what he needed. The key but not the lock . The cardan grille , but not the precious text itself.

The Word of God.

The Grail.

A curse and a blessing, he reminded himself. If he’d had the Grail with him when he’d been captured, then it might well have been in Leopold’s possession right now, that ignorant oaf far too stupid to realize the awesome power he’d be holding in his hands.

Richard grinned; his broad mouth parted, showing a row of small yellow teeth. He could feel destiny touching him, God’s hand on his shoulder, whispering promises softly into his ear. Just a day’s ride now, perhaps two, up to Oxford where it currently was waiting for him in the royal palace. And there, alone in the royal library, in his private reading room, he was finally going to be able to spread the Grail across his lectern, unroll the cardan grille he’d managed to keep hidden on his person in the dungeons of Leopold’s castle. It was a roll of worn leather, which when unravelled was no more than two palms wide and four deep. And cut into it, a matrix of tiny rectangular windows through which individual letters could be perceived. Letters that were going to spell out words … words from God Himself.

Words, when uttered aloud, that would give Richard the raw unbridled power of an archangel, hellfire at his fingertips. He knew this … as one of the many promises God had quietly whispered to him.

His heart raced with excitement as the nobles looked on expectantly at their king.

Richard had planned some sort of a rabble-rousing speech that would have these fat and greedy fools roaring a hurrah for their king. But then he spotted the white robe and the red cross of a single Templar standing back from the gathered barons and lords. A mere knight, he readily accepted his place at the back of the queue. Allowing lords, dukes and barons their business with the king first.

A Templar … perhaps with news?

Richard strode up the beach towards the man. As he did, the nobles began to surge forward like so many jostling children, each keen to be the very first to welcome their king home.

The Baron Henri De Croy thrust himself into Richard’s path, dropping his heavy girth down on to one knee and clasping pudgy thick-fingered hands together in prayer. ‘Oh, I thank the Lord he has brought you home safely to us, my king!’ he bellowed.

Richard curled his lip in disgust and casually stepped around the man. Other nobles were clustering towards him, all claiming their devotion to him at once, a growing clamour of insincere voices. Richard struggled to find the Templar Knight he’d seen, having lost sight of him amid the confusion of colourful coats of arms and standards, the wall of bearded and amply fed faces all spouting meaningless nonsense at him.

‘ BE QUIET! ’

His lion’s roar of a voice pealed across the beach and echoed off the chalk cliffs in front of him. Once more there was a stillness on the beach, filled only by the gentle draw and hiss of the lapping tide.

‘TEMPLAR!’ he called out. ‘Where are you?’

Heads turned among the nobles, voices in a low murmur.

Richard narrowed his eyes, looking again for the distinct flash of red cruciform on white. He heard the crunch of footsteps through pebbles and saw, among the gathered crowd of barons and lords, bodies parting to make way for someone coming forward.

Finally the Templar Knight appeared before Richard. The knight’s face was vaguely familiar but he could not recall the man’s name. He recognized him from three years ago — he’d been among his cadre of loyal crusaders who’d taken Acre.

He offered the knight a brotherly smile, from one warrior of God to another. Both of them veterans … both of them crusaders.

But the man looked uncomfortable. Unable to meet his eyes, looking down at his feet. ‘My king,’ he began, licking dry lips, finding a quiet voice. ‘My king … I bear bad news.’

Richard took a step closer. He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and leaned forward until his mouth was almost beside the man’s ear. ‘What, pray tell, is this bad news?’

‘Sire … the Grail is lost. Stolen.’

1194, Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire

Liam awoke into a fog of thudding agony. Every movement sent sharp splinters of pain through his head. He was looking up at a clear blue sky through branches of leaves that jostled and swayed. Another pleasant summer’s day it promised to be, but it was cool … cool with the damp of dew; a morning yet to properly get going. He wondered how long he’d been out for. A day?

He decided not to turn his head; it ached far too much. He could hear activity around him: the chopping of firewood, the clang of a ladle against a metal cooking pot. The jangle of horses’ harnesses, the scrape of a blade being sharpened along a whetstone.

‘Master Locke!’ a voice nearby called out. ‘He is awake now!’

Liam snapped his eyes quickly shut again. He heard more movement around him, men stirring, the clank of things being put down, the soft crunch of footsteps on pine cones slowly approaching him. His mouth was covered with a gag of foul-smelling material; some thug’s sweaty rags, no doubt. But his eyes clenched tightly, the lids flickering, were giving him away.

‘You’re awake, fool … I can see it,’ growled a deep voice. A booted foot kicked him roughly in the side of the ribs and Liam grunted painfully. He opened his eyes to see a tall man with long untidy locks of sandy-coloured hair looking down at him. ‘See now? I knew you were awake.’ The man smiled, then squatted down beside Liam.

‘Hmmm, so, you’re the sheriff who’s been giving me so much trouble?’

Liam could say nothing, his mouth clogged with the dirty rag, his hands bound behind his back with twine.

‘And so young, as well,’ he uttered, cocking his head curiously. He spoke in a lowered voice. ‘You know, you did a far better job than the previous idiot. He managed to turn Nottingham and most of the county against him … made my life very easy here. No end of starving malcontents joining the cause every day.’

Liam looked over his shoulder at the gathering crowd of ragged men.

‘But you, young man … you’ve turned things around, haven’t you? Made things very difficult for me. John chose wisely this time. A noble with a brain for once.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Which makes it a real shame that I have to do this.’

The man stood up and turned to the assembled crowd. ‘Pick him up! Let’s see what the Hood wants done with him!’

A dozen pairs of rough hands seized and hefted him on to his feet. Liam looked around at the camp — an odd assortment of flimsy wooden shacks, wattle-and-daub huts and cloth tents stretched over frames made from branches. Among the growing crowd, he spotted men mostly, one or two women and no children. It had the look of a semi-permanent settlement, not an overnight camp but a year-round dwelling haphazardly built in and around the mature oak trees.

The tall man who’d spoken led the way through the camp towards a round hut with wattle-and-daub walls and a squat conical roof of branches and reeds. Bigger than the others; more effort had gone into it. Liam suspected it was their leader’s hut.