the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

his formidable appearance as much as his leadership ability. He wore
full armour but looked strong and lithe beneath it. He was hairless with
a thick brow that seemed to shade his eyes. Sunken cheeks gave his face
a cadaverous look.
‘A foul murder has shaken my order,’ he bellowed, in a voice that
commanded the whole square’s attention. ‘Dear Frederick the Red …
slain. He, who served God and the people of Cyprus with honour, is paid
tribute by a murderer’s blade. Who among you will deliver those
responsible to me?’
There was nothing from the crowd but the sound of awkward
shuffling. Altair’s eyes went back to Bouchart, who was darkening.
‘Cowards!’ he roared. ‘You leave me no choice but to flush out this killer
myself. I hereby grant my men immunity until this investigation is
concluded.’
Altaïr saw Osman shift uncomfortably. Usually his face wore a
twinkly look, but not now. He seemed worried as he stepped forward to
speak to the leader. ‘Bouchart, the citizens are already restless. Perhaps
this is not the best idea.’
Bouchart’s face was turned away so Osman might not have seen it
twist into an expression of terrible fury. Bouchart was not accustomed to
having his orders questioned: that was clear. As to whether he
considered it insubordination or not …
In one movement he drew his sword and rammed it into Osman’s
stomach.
With a shout that echoed around the stunned square, the captain
folded to the stone, cradling his belly. He writhed on the steps briefly
until he died, his death rattle deafening in the shocked hush that