I am foolish to trust the man on the dun horse, I know this. He rides in brooding silence, shoulders hunched, the reins loose in one hand. His other hand falls to his side and I think that perhaps it is waiting for something and I fear to know what that thing is. He keeps his head bowed and the hood he wears I feel is there for more than just keeping the sun off his face. I have caught a glimpse of his features, once or twice, as he sometimes turns to look at me when I speak. I find myself making conversation because of this, trying to see more of what is hidden in the shadow of that fine white cloth. He is a younger man, hard-eyed, with a scar across his lip. I wonder how he got it and if that is what made his eyes so cold.
We fell in together on the path to Acre just two days ago. The road has grown narrow and there are soldiers along the route, up in watchtowers or in patrols along the path where the terrain makes natural choke-points. I know all of these well, for I have traveled this path many times and will continue to do so for as long as there is a city to travel to. Some say that if things continue, Acre will be wiped away entirely. They say it will burn or the wrath of God will level it to the ground and leave no stone on top another. I do not listen. So long as humanity lives in these lands, there will be a city. We will rebuild and rebuild again, even on top the corpses not yet cooled. And I will continue to walk this route so long as I am alive, driving what goats I have willing to sell to the market.
I think, perhaps, this strange man is not with me for the company. It is certainly not for safety in numbers, for I am a woman with a small herd of goats, and I am in far greater danger than a man traveling alone on horse. He carries a sword as well, and I suspect that is not the only blade he bears, and I am grateful for his presence. However, it is not for my sake that he remains close. He had not even asked my name and I finally gave it to him. That time, he looked away rather than at me, and I knew then that he had other reasons for remaining close to myself and my herd. This is why I cannot trust him, and yet I do. I cannot explain it.
We walk staggered a pace apart, him on the right side of the herd, myself on the left. I asked him to, so that the herd would not wander away from me and off the road, and he did so without comment. Sometimes he walks his horse, leading it behind him, and he keeps his head bowed even when he walks. He could easily leave me behind. I notice that he mostly walks his horse when we see a watchtower in the distance or the road narrows and there is a greater chance of soldiers in our path. There is a change to him in those moments and I think that perhaps it is my own imagination, for there is no visible sign. He seems alert somehow, even as his posture seems to slide into something smaller – a feat, for his shoulders are broad – more diminished than I see when we are alone on the road. I think he would simply vanish if he could and the soldiers do not notice him, though I believe he notices them and every detail about them, from how they are armed to where they stand. I do not feel safe in those moments and this is strange, for I have walked this road many times and have never felt so vulnerable when passing by the soldiers.
But I have never felt safe around the soldiers. I have heard stories. They are not all good Christians. His presence, however, is making my fear worse.
I hide it well. I think if I did not, he would leave me behind. I cover it with fussing with my herd and the goats – sensitive to my moods – cover for it as well by being intrusive with the soldiers and obstinate in staying as a herd. We're left alone as I bluster and race about with my staff, driving the animals past each soldier way-point and watchtower. He helps, some, keeping to the fringe of the activity and ensuring he never actually gets bogged down by the herd itself. It is apparent he is not used to this business. I am asked about this, by one of the soldiers as we pass by their post.
"He is my cousin's son," I reply, "Mason, by trade. Work is slow, so he goes to Acre instead."
I do not know the soldier. Sometimes I recognize them, but it is very rare. He nods absently, no longer caring about my story, and backs away as the goats surge closer. I stop them with my staff and redirect them on down the road. The strange man brings up the rear with his horse and I notice no one looks at him as he passes.
"I lied for you," I say, much later, once we are alone again on the road, "Why did I lie for you?"
He does not answer.
"Why do I feel you need my lies?" I press.
Again, no answer, but this time he looks at me, still keeping his head ducked so that I cannot see his face clearly. I catch a glimpse of that scar and for a brief moment his eyes – cold still. Calculating. I shiver and I am the first to look away.
A day more and we reach the checkpoint. It is set to a great stone tower. They have built a picket line, the sharpened logs facing outwards at a slant to impale any charging horses. There is a gate, with another line of stakes a few paces in, and then another wall beyond that. All traffic to Acre must pass through. I hate this part, for the goats seem to scatter as soon as we are past the first wall and it is a struggle to keep them from irritating the soldiers to the point of violence. They have killed an animal of mine before, and taken its body for their own in payment for the nuisance I create. I bring one extra goat now, just in case this happens again. I relate all this to the man and he slows his horse and dismounts. I see that his movements have an unnatural grace to them. He is strong, I can tell this, and yet he does not move like a strong man would – lumbering with the impression that the world would give way before him. No, he moves carefully, as if the world is not to be disturbed, and so that it would take no note of his presence.
He walks on ahead of me. I realize that he will let me – and my goats – draw all the attention at the checkpoint, letting him pass by unseen. I wonder if he will wait for me once beyond and I doubt he intends to do so. Oddly, I am not bothered by this. He did not travel with me these past days for my sake. He never learned my name; I gave it to him. I watch him move on a head, leading the horse, his head bowed. I wonder what they will make of his sword, it is a hard thing to hide when he carries so few possessions. I drive my goats before me and think that this is no longer my concern.
The soldiers seem a bit more irritable than usual at the checkpoint. They close in on the stranger with the horse and he does not slow his even pace, as if he is too weary to take notice. I feel a brief, wild, urge to call out to the soldiers, to warn them that this is not what it seems. But I cannot. It is only a mad thought. Then my goats are at the checkpoint and they turn their attention from him, changing course to yell at me as I drive my herd through. They curse and their voices frighten my animals. I am resolute. I have done this all before. Soldiers will always curse and yell. I only need get my animals through and ignore them.
Then one grabs my staff. He pulls it from my hand and I stagger back. The fear I have of these men is back and this time, it is blossoming into something real, no longer formless in the back of my mind. I find I do not have words. I catch up against the palisade, the wood against my back, rough through the thin linen of my dress.
"Cursed animals!" the soldier spits, flinging the staff to the ground, "They're everywhere now!"
"They'll go on through," I said and I heard the pleading in my own voice only distantly, as if as an observer, "Just let me-"
One of the soldiers kicks at the goats. It squalls and tries to run, but cannot figure out where the exit is. I move to go to it, to lead it through, and the soldier shoves me back. I hit the palisade and almost fall. My breath is tight in my chest and I see, over the soldier's shoulder, that the man is still walking away, past the checkpoint, leading his horse. I know he has more weapons than just that sword. I know he can use them. I want to cry out for his help, but I cannot find words to do so. These soldiers are not angry at my goats. They are angry, and they do not know why, and so they unleash against whomever has caught their eye. This time, it is me.
There is another soldier approaching. He carries himself differently than the rest and I see that he wears the insignia of the Templars. I wonder, then, if he would help me, but it is a frail hope. He is stationed here at this checkpoint, same as the soldiers, and I am a stranger. Frail. Alone. Vulnerable.
The man with the horse pauses. He half-turns and I see his face. This time, he has raised his head, and I see that his eyes are fixed on the Templar's back. He does not see me. Only the Templar. He is walking now, turning back, leaving the horse behind. The soldiers do not notice. They are concerned with myself and my goats, which have now scattered all throughout the checkpoint. Some have found the exit and are now in the field beyond, but the majority remain in tight knots, huddled away from the cursing men.
The stranger pauses a moment behind the first of the soldiers. He moves, a twist of his body, and I see his arms go around the soldier's chest. He catches the man as he falls, gently easing the body to the ground in one silent, fluid, motion. I cannot take my eyes away and I cannot hear the words the soldier is still yelling at me. To him, I am a terrified animal now, to be kicked and cursed at, uncomprehending of the world around it. I am not. I am mesmerized. No one has seen the soldier die. They are watching me, watching the goats, and the Templar is still approaching with his back to the man.
No, the assassin. That is what he is and I wonder if I knew it all along.
He breaks into a sprint. I think the Templar senses him approaching – surely he could not have heard him, not over the cries of my goats – and the soldier half-turns. It is too late. I see the two collide, the assassin bringing his own body in close, letting the momentum drive the hidden knife home, into the Templar's neck. There is a sudden well of blood, staining the tabard, and then the assassin is easing him to the ground to die, just as he did with the first soldier. I see him gesture, bringing his fingers down across the face to close the eyes. There is a stillness between the two. I cannot see the assassin's face but I wonder if his eyes are still cold. Then the moment is broken and the checkpoint dissolves into chaos.
The assassin is ringed on all sides by soldiers now. He draws his sword and I cower where I am, watching, unable to look away. He moves fast, diving towards the nearest and I know that he is trying to break through, to make sure he is not encircled. He cuts high, then reverses the swing and cuts low, snapping the tip of the blade up under the soldier's guard and it scores along the man's abdomen. It is not a fatal wound, but it is painful and the man staggers. The assassin presses in, ducking past the wounded soldier and I see that as he passes by he jabs his sword sideways, punching through the chest, and then pulls it free, leading a ribbon of crimson into the air in its wake. He pivots, turning to meet the remaining three soldiers. One attacks, his sword high, and the assassin drops low and dives in under the man's swing so that the two are close, too close for either to use their sword. The assassin drops his sword into one hand and with his other – the hand that he had never used to guide the reins – he jabs the palm into the man's chest. I see the soldier stumble and then he falls. I see blood on his lips.
The remaining two are not losing the opportunity. They flank the assassin on either side and he spins, blocking first one blow, then another. The second knocks him off-balance. He is driven back, parrying. The soldiers think they are winning. I think, perhaps, the assassin is merely waiting. His steps, ever backwards, are even and careful. He is sure-footed, even in the mud churned up by my goats and the blood being shed by these men. Then, his back is against the palisade, and one of the soldiers makes to stab at the assassin's torso. This is what the assassin was hoping for. He drops, falling to one knee, his chest almost against the ground, and the sword slams into the wood. It sticks. The other soldier makes to reverse his sword, to stab the man while he is prone against the ground, but the assassin has foregone his sword and has pulled a short blade, suited for having no room to swing it with. There is a sharp gesture and the man crumples backwards, hamstrung. The assassin lunges, bringing himself back to his feet, and as he passes by the fallen soldier I see a gesture and a spray of blood follows. He turns. The remaining soldier has abandoned his sword and is grabbing for the assassin's discarded one out of desperation. Then he pauses, as if confused, and sinks slowly to the ground. The assassin's hand is outstretched and I see a glimmer of metal at the man's neck. The checkpoint is quiet now. The smell of blood had sent my goats into a terrified shock.
I grab at my fallen staff. It slips through numb fingers and it takes several tries before I can hold it. The assassin is walking away, back to where he left his horse. I know it was not for me that he returned.
"Wait," I call after him and he pauses and turns. I catch a glimpse of his eyes before he drops his gaze and I think that perhaps this was a mistake, to call after him.
"Your name," I say, "I don't even know it."
He shifts. I can only see the shadow of his hood now, nothing of what lays beyond.
"Good," he replied, his voice low, "Keep it that way."
Then he walks away, and I can only watch.