Read Chapter 11: The Decoy

The morning mist lay thick over the Garonne when Roland tightened the cinch on his saddle. He had chosen the horse well—a raw-boned grey with a mean eye and legs like iron cables. Not the sort of beast a man rode when he wished to disappear. That was the point.

Aelis stood by the riverbank, the box cradled in her arms like a sleeping child. The satchel she had prepared—the one that fit the box’s dimensions with suspicious precision—hung from her shoulder, empty and waiting. She had not asked him to explain his plan. She had merely watched him with those flat, assessing eyes that reminded him of every captain who had ever judged him and found him wanting.

“You should go before the light burns off,” she said. “Horsemen see best in clear air.”

Roland swung into the saddle. The grey sidestepped, testing him. He settled it with a press of his knee. “Ride for Cahors. Avoid the main roads until you cross the Lot. There is a Dominican priory outside the city walls—Father Anselm is an old comrade. He will shelter you until I send word.”

“And if word does not come?”

Roland allowed himself a thin smile. “Then you will know I am dead, and you may decide for yourself what to do with the box.”

Something flickered in her eyes—not fear, not quite pity. He did not wait to name it. He touched his heels to the grey’s flanks and sent it splashing through the shallows, up the far bank, and onto the road that wound north toward Limoges.

He rode openly. That was the trick of it. A man skulking through hedgerows drew attention from every peasant with a sharp eye and a loose tongue. A man riding the king’s highway at a steady canter, dust rising behind him, was simply another traveler with business to attend. He wore his old surcoat, faded but recognizable, and kept his helm tied to the saddle where it caught the light.

The road climbed through vineyards and fallow fields, past stone crosses worn smooth by centuries of rain. He did not look back. He did not need to. He could feel them there, behind the low hills, riding the same road at a distance calculated to keep him in sight without being seen themselves.

They had been there since Toulouse. Perhaps since before Toulouse. He had caught glimpses of them at crossroads, at the edges of villages—always too far to identify, always close enough to remind him he was not alone.

He passed a goatherd and tossed the man a coin for directions he did not need. The goatherd pointed north. Roland nodded, thanked him, and rode on. The villagers who had received his charity on the road from Bordeaux would remember a generous man. That was good. Generous men traveled predictable paths.

By midday he reached the forest of Sauternes, where the road narrowed between ancient oaks and the canopy swallowed the sun. Here the shadows pooled thick and cold, and the air smelled of leaf mold and damp stone. He slowed the grey to a walk and listened.

Hooves. Behind him. More than ten, less than twenty, riding hard now that the trees covered them from prying eyes.

Roland grinned into his collar and urged the grey off the road, into a game trail that twisted between moss-covered trunks. He did not try to hide his passage. He left broken branches and fresh hoof prints in the soft earth, a trail any half-competent tracker could follow.

Behind him, the hooves grew louder. Shouts echoed through the trees—harsh, impatient voices calling for speed.

The trail opened into a clearing, and Roland reined in.

He had chosen this ground well. The clearing was ringed by fallen timber, a natural corral with only one easy exit—the trail behind him. He dismounted, drew his sword, and stood in the center of the open space with the grey cropping grass behind him.

They came in fast, a dozen riders in mail and leather, their surcoats plain but their horse tack of good quality. Professional work. The man at their head wore a dented sallet helm and carried a crossbow across his saddlebow. He reined in at the clearing’s edge, his eyes scanning the space for traps.

“You’re a long way from the river, mercenary,” he called.

Roland rested the point of his sword on the ground. “I’m a long way from a great many things. What do you want?”

“The box. The one you carried from Bordeaux.” The man’s voice was flat, practiced. “Hand it over and you can walk out of these woods with your life.”

“I don’t have it.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed. “Then you have nothing to bargain with.”

He raised his hand, and his men spread out, circling the clearing’s edge. Crossbows clicked as they were wound. Swords rasped from scabbards. They moved like men who had done this before.

Roland waited until the first two riders committed to the clearing, their horses lunging through the gap in the fallen timber. Then he moved.

He did not fight them. He fought the timber.

A swift kick sent a section of rotted log rolling into the gap, tangling the lead horse’s legs. The animal screamed and went down, pitching its rider into the mud. The second rider swerved, and Roland was there, his sword catching the man across the thigh—not deep, but enough to spill him from the saddle.

The others hesitated. That was all he needed.

Roland vaulted onto the fallen horse’s back, seized the reins of the second rider’s mount, and crashed through the undergrowth on the far side of the clearing before they could recover. Branches whipped at his face. Thorns tore at his surcoat. Behind him came the thunder of pursuit.

He led them through the forest for nearly an hour, doubling back through streams, crossing his own trail twice, always keeping them close enough to taste the chase but never close enough to land a blow. The grey had been slowed by the chase, but it was the mean-eyed one who never quit. By the time Roland found the narrow ravine he had marked on his ride in, the pursuit had strung out into a thin line of tired horses and cursing men.

He turned in the saddle. The nearest rider was thirty yards back, alone, his horse blown and stumbling.

Roland drew his sword and waited.

The rider saw him too late. He tried to wheel his mount, but the animal had nothing left. Roland closed the distance in three strides of the grey’s long legs, caught the man by the collar of his mail, and hauled him from the saddle.

The rider hit the ground hard. Roland was on him before he could draw breath, the point of his sword at the man’s throat.

“Who pays you?” Roland demanded.

The rider’s eyes were wide, but his mouth was set. A professional, then. Roland pressed the blade harder, drawing a bead of blood.

“Your employer knows where my loyalties lie,” Roland said. “So does your corpse, once I’ve done with it. The only question is whether you want to meet him when I’m finished.”

The rider swallowed. “Poitou.”

Roland did not let his face change. The Count of Poitou. The thread that had been pulling since Toulouse, since the ambush at the inn, since the men who had come from the east—now it had a name.

“What does he want with the box?”

“I don’t know. We were told to take it.” The rider’s voice cracked. “We were told it was a relic. Something the Church wanted buried. We were paid to recover it and bring it to him at Poitiers.”

Roland studied the man’s face for a lie and found none. He stepped back, lowering his sword.

“You’re letting me go?”

Roland sheathed his blade. “I’m giving you a message to carry. To your count, or to whoever pays him, or to any man who will listen.”

He leaned close, his voice low.

“The box is not what they think. Tell them that. Every man who seeks it, every lord who spends coin hunting it—tell them the box is not what they think. Let them chew on that.”

The rider stared at him, then scrambled to his feet and loped off into the trees without looking back.

Roland watched him go, then turned the grey north toward Limoges. Behind him, he heard the rest of the riders crashing through the undergrowth, too late to catch their companion or their quarry. They would reach their master with his message. They would spread confusion, doubt, fear.

He had bought Aelis time.

But as he rode, the weight of the man’s words settled in his chest like a stone. The Count of Poitou. The same symbols Aelis had claimed to recognize in Toulouse. The same network that had tracked them across half of France.

His mind churned as the grey’s steady stride ate the road. He was a decoy now, alone, with no box and no allies. But if his guess was right, he was also carrying something worth more than any relic.

He knew who was hunting them.

And he had just told them he was not a fool.