Page 13 of The Last Kingdom

The prior nodded.

He avoided the bronzed angel holy water font and turned right, walking across the hard marble floor to the crypt’s entrance. Life-size terra-cotta figures in high niches stared down at him. Many of them were his relatives, now bearing firsthand witness to what was about to happen. Wilhelm the Pious had razed nearly ninety houses, ignoring all public protests, to build his church, acting boldly, decisively, and definitively.

In the days ahead, Stefan intended to emulate all three of those traits.

Chapter 7

COTTON DROPPED THROUGH THE NIGHT AIR AND LANDED ON THEsmall craft. Maybe a ten-footer. Certainly no more. The deck rocked beneath him. But as the boat pivoted away from the ferry the water calmed. The two occupants were gone. Perhaps they’d been swept overboard by the turbulence. Or had they jumped? The water temperature was certainly near freezing. No way anyone could last long without thermal protection.

The ferry kept drifting away.

Hopefully, the pilot had regained consciousness and reassumed control. He should make a sweep for the two men. But before he could take the wheel, a figure appeared on the ferry’s rear deck.

Pointing a weapon.

Shots rang out.

Rounds pierced the cold air around him and popped into the water.

Somebody was shooting at him.

To hell with the guys in the water.

He grabbed the automatic rifle lying on the deck and sent a volley toward the ferry, careful to keep his aim away from the passengers’ cabin.

The firing stopped.

The shooter disappeared from the stern and he used the opportunity to swing the boat around in a wide arc, eventually angling the bow back toward the ferry, approaching from behind. He heard the big diesel motors fire up and watched as the ferry began to steam away. Apparently the pilot was back in control. From the far side another boat emerged, visible for a moment in the floodlights’ range. Small. Like the one he was piloting.

The shooter?

Who else?

He should actually get out of here, head for shore and let Luke handle things. This was not his show. But old instincts told him that was a bad idea. Frat Boy was long gone, doing whatever he had to do to complete his assignment. This was a new threat. Aimed his way. Sure, he’d stuck his nose deeper into this than necessary.

But why fire on him?

He increased speed and planed the bow, following the other craft that burned a single red light in the distance. They were headed away from Herreninsel toward the next largest island in the lake, Fraueninsel. He’d visited there before. The Lady’s Isle. Not large. Less than fifty acres. About three hundred permanent residents as well as an active Benedictine convent, famous for its Kloster Liqueur made by the nuns. The lake’s ferryboats routinely stopped there, the whole place now a tourist attraction.

And the shooter was headed straight for it.

He powered ahead and arrived at a lighted concrete dock about three minutes behind his target. He recalled as much as he could about the small island. Low-lying. Dotted with broad branching trees. Shallow banks. Surrounded by moorland and tiny bays. Lots of shops and cottages, many covered with creeping vines. Gardens everywhere, the lake banks crowded with beached boats. A concrete walk led from the pier along the lakeshore. A solitary church tower pierced the night. Hundreds of tiny white lights lit the trees and shrubs. He heard music and singing and caught a waft of sweet-smelling aromas. Cinnamon. Apple. Roasting meat. A Christmas market. Most German towns and villages hosted one this time of year. Lots of art, crafts, cakes, and mulled wine. Any other time he’d love to take a stroll through it. Right now he had to find the guy from the boat.

But the path ahead was empty.

He was about to leave when something caught his eye on the concrete. He bent down and studied the red splotch. Fresh. Still liquid. Blood. Unlike in the movies or on television, he did not dip a finger in and test the sample. What idiot in the real world would actually do that? The amount of possible contaminants would be incalculable. Like when the on-screen cop pierces a bag of white powder with a knife, then tastes it.

Really?

A few feet ahead he spotted another blood splotch.

Had one of his rounds found its mark?

Maybe.

He walked toward the sounds and lights at the end of the dock, which seemed farther away, past darkened buildings, into the village. The blood trail continued, though the spots began to be spaced farther and farther apart.

The ancient convent hugged the shore. A high stone wall, its mortar crumbling in places and lit to the night, encircled it, but an open gate allowed access. The blood trail led straight through the gate, and instead of veering left toward the convent, it went right toward the church, whose lit steeple pierced the darkness.

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