the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

view of the spectacle, watching with faces that registered only mild
interest, swaying slightly.
‘Mercy!’ howled the crazy man, as the blows rained down on him. ‘I
beg mercy. No more!’
He stopped. Suddenly his pain was forgotten as the doors to the
hospital swung open and there stood a man who could only be Garnier
de Naplouse.
He was shorter than Altaïr had expected. He was beardless and had
close-cropped white hair, sunken eyes and a cruel, downturned mouth,
which gave him a cadaverous look. The white cross of the Hospitalier
was on his arms and he wore a crucifix around his neck – but whatever
God he worshipped had deserted him, Altaïr saw. For he also wore an
apron. A dirty, blood-stained apron.
Now he looked darkly at the crazy man prostrate before him, held by
Lazy Eye and the other guard, Lazy Eye raising his fist to punch him
again.
‘Enough, my child,’ ordered de Naplouse. ‘I asked you to retrieve the
patient, not to kill him.’
Lazy Eye lowered his fist reluctantly as de Naplouse came forward,
closer to the crazy man, who moaned and pulled away, like a skittish
animal.
De Naplouse smiled, the hardness gone. ‘There, there,’ he said to the
crazy man, almost tenderly. ‘Everything will be all right. Give me your
hand.’
The crazy man shook his head. ‘No – no! Don’t touch me. Not again
…’
De Naplouse furrowed his brow, as though slightly hurt by the man’s