The Doomsday Code

CHAPTER 51

1194, Dover

King Richard leaped from the prow of the rowboat and splashed down into the tumbling surf, sensing the crunch and clatter of pebbles beneath his heavy boots.

English ground once more.

The dawn sky was a blue grey, patiently awaiting the arrival of the sun. But it was light enough to see further up the beach at the base of the cliffs a welcoming committee of assembled noblemen and their squires. Guttering torches and braziers burned brightly, casting light among the many colours of coats of arms.

He waded forward through the waves and up out of the rolling surf on to the beach. Faces, expectant, regarded him warily.

I know what you all want, he mused. They wanted to be seen to throw themselves at his service, to pledge undying loyalty to him. To kiss his hands and praise God for his safe return. And when all that was done they’d all be vying with each other to beg for titles and special privileges, to seek tax exemptions, permissions to build fortified properties, licences to trade exotic imports. With one gasp they’d plead unfailing loyalty, with the very next be begging favours.

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.’