Free Behold the Dawn by K.M. Weiland

Father Roderic called. And he was already dead, no matter what Gethin or Roderic or anyone else might like to believe.
    The Templar straightened, and Annan could hear the frown in his voice. “It is all four or none, Master Annan—save if the Lord of Keaton and the woman are in infidel hands.”
    He shook his head. “I guarantee the death of Matthias of Claidmore. But I will not spy on the Moslem camps, nor will I lay hands on a holy monk.”
    “His holiness is disputable, at best. My master will not be pleased to hear of your refusal.”
    “Tell him my armor clanks with trepidation.”
    Through the racing clouds, the moonlight showed flashes of the Templar’s scowl. “Perhaps a greater fee could be arranged. If that would tempt you?”
    “Tell your master what you will.” Annan turned to go. “Fare well, Knight—I’m told this is a dangerous land.”
    “So it is, Master Annan.”
    With the Templar’s words ringing in his ears, he turned his face to the wind and trudged through the darkness to where Marek waited with the horses.
----
    Bishop Roderic stood behind the netting in his tent’s entry and watched the clouds scudding across the sky, masking but never obliterating the huge moon. He stood with one arm round his waist, the other toying with the heavy crucifix that hung against the folds of his robe.
    He should be asleep by now, lying among his pillows and coverlets, shielded from the cold breezes of a desert night. But he could not sleep. A strange disquiet had fallen over him after the king’s interview with the assassin Marcus Annan.
    Roderic had never before seen the man, and yet there was an unmistakable air of familiarity about him. When he had stood defiantly straight in the presence of King Richard, Roderic had felt the danger radiating from him like the heat of a great hearth fire. And it was not the danger of his tremendous build, his well-honed weapons. This was the danger that lurked behind the cold blue eyes.
    Roderic had mentioned it to no one, but he could feel in the marrow of his bones that something was amiss. Something. Exhaling, he dropped the crucifix and raised his hand to rub the point of his chin.
    Outside the doorway, a mail-clad figure emerged from the gloom of the camp, and Roderic detected the red cross on the man’s chest. Brother Warin. Roderic had requested that he return with word of his meeting with the tourneyer.
    Silently, Roderic lifted the netting and stepped aside to allow the Templar’s entrance.
    “Your Grace.” Warin’s tone was soft. Unlike Lord Hugh, he understood the advantages of circumspection.
    Roderic replaced the netting and dropped the heavy canvas flap behind it. When he turned around, Warin was already lighting a candle. In the flare of light, Roderic tried to read his subordinate’s features. But Warin’s expression remained passive.
    “Well?”
    Warin settled the candle on Roderic’s writing table and straightened. “He would agree to only part of the assignment.”
    “Only part?”
    “He refused the money for the Earl of Keaton and the woman. And the Baptist.”
    Roderic’s chest constricted, then expanded. “Matthias? He agreed to kill Matthias?”
    “Aye. Though he might be convinced to pursue the others should you offer him a greater sum.” Warin studied him. “You don’t seem displeased.”
    The flame fluttered in its bed of wax. “If he will kill Matthias, that is all that matters.” Roderic took a deep breath, filling him with relief such as he had not known since the beginning of the Crusade. “The Baptist and the others may keep their lives. For now at least.”
    “What if Matthias eludes this Scot?”
    “If Marcus Annan is as dangerous and skilled as you and Lord Hugh claim, Matthias will not elude him.” His fingers found the crucifix once more. “He will not elude him.” He nodded to the door. “You may go, Brother.”
    Warin bowed, the folds of his mail shirt clinking. “Good night, your Grace.”
    Roderic rubbed