TW01 The Ivanhoe Gambit NEW (11 page)

It was at that point that the black knight chose to make his move. He spurred his horse and rode up alongside de la Croix, smashing the red knight in the side with his mace. The red knight tumbled to the ground, stunned by both the fall and the blow. The black knight then dismounted and advanced on Malvoisin. They met mace to mace and it took but a moment for the black knight to bludgeon Malvoisin into oblivion, using his advantage of size and strength to slam away at his adversary until Malvoisin dropped like a stone. That done, the black knight turned to de la Croix, but seeing Marcel dragging the red knight away, he took his own horse by the reins and led it from the field of battle to the cheers of the Saxons, who seemed to have forgotten his failure to help Athelstane.

Lucas was left to battle Bois-Guilbert. "Die, Saxon pig!" screamed the Templar, hacking away at Lucas with all his might. He was becoming increasingly frustrated. The white knight had parried most of his blows, but some had gotten through and Bois-Guilbert simply couldn't understand why he had failed to draw blood. Whereas all around them lay knights who had been smashed and dented, leaving the impression that they had been dropped from some great height, the white knight's armor showed not a single mark of serious damage. It was infuriating.

Lucas, meanwhile, was beginning to grow tired. As the previous day's champion, he had had his work cut out for him, becoming the mark for every knight on the opposing side. While others had been able to pace themselves to some extent, he was constantly beset and not given even one moment's pause.

His superior armor enabled him to survive unscathed, but he was still susceptible to the effects of all the pounding and he was exhausted. The timely intervention of the black knight had given him an opportunity to end it and he had every intention of taking advantage of it. He had only one shot, but one shot was all he needed. The Templar was obviously in a fine sweat from his exertions and that would serve very nicely. He waited for an opening and when Bois-Guilbert left him one, he gave him a casual swat with his sword. At the same time, he triggered the capacitor that discharged 25,000 volts at half an ampere through the blade and into the Templar's body.

The Templar spasmed and his horse broke wind prodigiously. Lucas took advantage of the moment to bash him once again, although it was more for the sake of appearances than anything else.

Bois-Guilbert never even felt it. He tumbled from his horse, unconscious. Prince John threw down his truncheon in disgust.

Lucas, like the fused capacitor he ejected from his sword hilt, was completely drained. He wished he could have given Bois-Guilbert a lethal dose of electricity, but he was glad to settle for a TKO. He still had a part to play. Frying Bois-Guilbert would never do. What had happened had to appear to be the result of a sword strike, not a lightning strike. Just the same, he was thankful for the equipment designed to increase the odds of his survival. It was easy for a soldier from 2613 to succumb to the temptation to feel superior to a fighting man of the Middle Ages, since even the smallest modern man would be on a par at least with the largest knights. However, that did not take into account the fact that these were men who were accustomed to a harsher way of life, to more primitive conditions and, needless to say, to moving about in heavy suits of armor. These men were far from being weaklings. Lucas had taken quite a beating during the melee and much of it had come from Bois-Guilbert.

He was brought before Prince John, who was ill disposed to name him champion. The fact that Lucas had laid out John's best knights, not to mention doing so in Richard's name, did not endear him to the prince. John insisted that the white knight would not have defeated Bois-Guilbert had not the black knight ridden to his rescue. The black knight, therefore, deserved the honors. However, when the call was put forth for him, the black knight could not be found. John had him summoned three times and when he did not appear, he grudgingly acknowledged Lucas as the champion, at which point a great cheer went up from the stands.

"Come, Fitzurse, let's away from here," John grumbled. "This day has soured my stomach."

"How, Sire, have you not accomplished your purpose this day?" Fitzurse said. "The people seem well pleased. They have seen a good day's entertainment, the champion is one to their liking and if a Jewess was initially selected as the queen of this tournament, at least the mistake was rectified and the Saxon girl, Rowena, installed in the office. All in all, a good day for the Saxons, one which they'll remember. It will make the new tax perhaps a bit more palatable."

"True enough," said John, somewhat mollified. "Still, I dislike these tournaments. They are a waste of manpower. This one has cost me Front-de-Boeuf."

"True again, Sire," said Fitzurse, "but this, too, can be turned to your advantage. The fief of Ivanhoe, which you had reassigned to Front-de-Boeuf, is now once again available to be assigned to a deserving knight. Might I suggest Maurice De Bracy? He and his Free Companions would serve you better if his interests were aligned with yours."

John smiled. "You are worth your weight in gold to me, Fitzurse. An excellent suggestion. I feel much better now. Well, then, since this nameless knight has opened up the way for me to award a fiefdom to De Bracy, thereby strengthening our bond, it would be well to honor him at Ashby. See to it that he comes. I am curious to see his face. Oh, and see to it that those Saxon churls, Cedric and Athelstane, attend as well, since they seem to love him. Perhaps we'll have some sport with them, and at the same time enjoy the fair Rowena's company."

Lucas accepted Prince John's invitation. It would have been inadvisable to turn him down. He was tired and sore, but he had already missed one royal banquet; to miss this one would constitute an insult to the prince. Besides, it was a good time to establish himself in his new identity. The Castle of Ashby was the domain of Roger de Quincy, the Earl of Winchester. While de Quincy was crusading, John had taken Ashby over for his own purposes. When the absent crusaders returned to their possessions, they would find them confiscated by the king's brother, who had strengthened his own position considerably. It would be interesting to see what effect his arrival at the banquet would have.

He had known that Ivanhoe's lands had been granted to Front-de-Boeuf. Now John obviously intended to turn the fiefdom over to another of his toadies. What would he do when Ivanhoe showed up to claim his own? More to the point, what was Ivanhoe supposed to do? Lucas realized that his own position was becoming somewhat precarious. Ashby was the key. Whatever happened next, he was certain that it would occur at Ashby.

Hooker was not in sight as he approached his tent. With any luck, thought Lucas, he's gone to get something to eat. He was starved. Tired and hungry, Lucas entered the pavilion.

Hooker was lying face down on the ground. The black knight sat helmetless upon the wooden cot.

He smiled.

"King takes pawn, Mr. Priest," he said. "It's your move."

As Lucas clawed for his sword, the black knight chuckled and disappeared into thin air.

Lucas was bending over to examine Hooker's body when he heard the sound of someone entering the pavilion, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Cursing himself for being caught off guard, he spun around, expecting to be attacked. Instead, he saw Finn Delaney and Bobby Johnson. And Corporal Hooker.

"Hooker!"

It was Hooker who had gasped. He stood looking down at his own dead body with a glassy-eyed stare. He had been garroted with a monofilament wire that had cut very deeply into his throat.

"Christ,"
whispered Delaney.

After the initial shock had worn off, Lucas understood. Somehow, something had gone wrong up ahead. Irving had discovered who they were. Maybe he had known from the very beginning, wherever in time the beginning was. Now he was playing with them and it was a grisly game. Somewhere in the not too distant future, Irving had killed Hooker and he had brought his body back into the past—their present—to tease them with the knowledge that he knew and that they were doomed to certain failure.

Hooker doubled over and clutched his stomach. He vomited. Delaney grabbed him, holding him and steadying him until the shaking and the heaves abated.

"Well, I guess that tears it," Bobby said, as soon as Lucas told him what had happened. "We've lost before we even had a chance to get started."

"Maybe," Delaney said. "And then again, maybe not."

"You mean maybe that's not me lying there?" said Hooker. He was trying not to look at the dead body, but his eyes kept straying back to it, as though the corpse exerted some sort of magnetism upon him. He was badly shaken and Lucas could hardly blame him. He could not imagine what his own reaction would be if he were confronted with his own corpse.

"Oh, that's you, all right," said Finn. "And I'll admit that you don't look too healthy, but that's not necessarily the way it's got to be."

"Are you telling me," said Hooker, "that
that's
not real?" He pointed to the body.

"It's real," said Finn. "It's a real possibility. Or, to put it another way, it's a potential reality."

"What the
fuck
are you
talking
about? I'm standing here and looking at the way I'm going to die!"

Hooker was on the edge of total hysteria. He was just barely keeping himself under control. Delaney took him by the shoulders and sat him down.

"All right. Take it easy. Take a couple of deep breaths. I mean
now,
boy, do it! Come on."

Hooker inhaled and exhaled heavily several times while Delaney stood over him.

"That's right, don't be afraid to look at it," Finn said. "Don't let it rattle you. He wants you to be rattled. That's why he did it."

"But I'm going to—"

"Don't talk, just keep taking those deep breaths. Again. Again."

After a few more breaths, Hooker relaxed a bit and nodded.

"You all right now?" Lucas said.

Hooker managed a very weak smile. "I'm not all right," he said, "but I think I can handle it."

"There's only one way we're ever going to make it through this thing," Delaney said, "and that's to act as though nothing is real as far as the future is concerned.
Nothing.
And that includes
that."
He jerked his head toward Hooker's corpse.

"Sure looks real enough to me," said Bobby.

"Yeah, and it
was
real," said Delaney. "It was real when it died. But the minute our friend Goldblum clocked back with it, it ceased to be real and it became only
potentially
real." He glanced at Hooker.

"Maybe you're going to buy it this way, kid. And then again, maybe you won't. Because by bringing this corpse back here, Irving has created a time paradox. What's more, he knows it. Think about this, now.

He can't possibly know everything. He can't possibly have this whole mission knocked, because if he did, then why are we standing here and talking about it right now? If he knew it all, he could take care of us at any time."

"Well, suppose he can," said Bobby. "He just might be playing with us. With that damn chronoplate in his possession, he can damn well do anything he wants to. He can take us out any
time
he wants to."

"So why doesn't he?" said Finn. "Why hasn't he?"

"Maybe he will," Bobby said. "Shit, maybe he already has. Maybe he's going back into the past even as we're standing here. Maybe he's going to arrive at some point prior to right now and do us in."

"Then what will happen to us?" Hooker said. "If he pops back in an hour ago and kills us, what will happen to us now? How could we even
be
here now if he killed us in the past?"

"Hold it right there," said Finn. "Don't start getting bent all out of shape. That's exactly what he wants.

Let's talk theory for a moment. Here's how we stand right now: assuming Irving travels back into the past,
our
past relative to where we are right this very moment, then he might succeed in killing us. If he does that, then the timeline will have been disrupted and there will be a skip in it. There had to be a past for us not to be killed in, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here right now. In the same manner, there has to be a potential future in which Irving can come back to this time to mess things up. From the perspective of the future that we came from, history has not been changed. At least, it hadn't been changed up to the moment that we departed for this time period. We've got to preserve the status quo from which we came. As it stands right now, the timeline from here on is in potential flux. Irving has confronted us with a potential future in which Hooker has been killed. We know that there is no absolute future. There is only an infinite number of
possible
futures. There has to be a potential future in which Hooker did not know that he was going to die. We have been confronted with that very real possibility.

By confronting us with it, Irving has managed to rattle us, which is precisely what he intended. He has also managed to
warn
us."

"You mean it might still happen," Hooker said.

"It might," said Finn. "What we don't know is this: when this Hooker died," he indicated the corpse,

"he might not have known that he was going to die. Meaning, this Hooker might not ever have had the opportunity to see his own corpse."

"On the other hand, maybe he did," said Hooker. "Maybe
I
did."

"That's right," said Finn. "But we don't know for sure. So you've got a choice to make right now, son.

You can either resign yourself to this fate," he pointed at the nearly severed head of the corpse, "or you can determine that you're going to do everything in your power to prevent this from ever happening. And that means you're going to have to watch your back."

Hooker took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. "Yeah," he said. "But
when?"

"I don't have all the answers, Corporal."

"Thanks."

"Sarge," he said to Bobby, "why don't you take the boy outside and let him walk around a bit? He doesn't look too steady. Go on, get him out of here."