Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (11 page)

Will looked up sharply, hearing movement in the passage. He slipped the skin back into the pile and darted behind the wooden screen that partitioned the solar, just as the doors swung open. Will, heart thudding, crouched down, hearing footsteps, then the rustle of parchment. After a few seconds, he risked a glance around the screen and his heart beat even faster as he saw Jacques de Lyons stooping over the skins on the table. The knight picked up one of the piles and turned to leave, then stopped and looked back, frowning, at the armoire’s open doors. Slowly, he crossed the room, glancing around. Will froze, but he was far enough below Jacques’ line of sight to remain unnoticed. The knight bent down to the shelf where the skins were, then, without any hesitation, pulled the letter from the center of the pile. Still frowning, he placed it between the sheaves he held, then firmly shut the armoire, pressing it twice with his hand to check that it stayed shut. Will waited for the door to close and the footsteps to fade before he stepped out from behind the screen.

WESTMINSTER PALACE, LONDON, OCTOBER
13, 1260
AD

King Henry stared out of the window, the stained glass patterning his face in blue and red diamonds. A low-lying fog had seeped in from the marshes that surrounded the jumbled maze of buildings.

The Romans had founded a settlement on the island that was formed where the two branches of the Tyburn met the Thames. The Island of Thorney had been the home of kings since the time of Edward the Confessor and the multifarious styles of the buildings displayed the different tastes of all of them. Behind the palace, the white walls of Westminster Abbey towered to the sky, the many outbuildings in its grounds huddled around it like small children sitting at the feet of a wise grandfather. Henry favored the palace above all his residences: It was less austere than the Tower and close to the city.

There was a soft cough behind him. “You wanted to see me, my liege?”

Henry turned from the window to see the chancellor looking expectantly at him. The man’s plain black clothes and white skin contrasted sharply with the vivid colors of the room he stood in. The walls of the chamber, twenty-seven yards long, were decorated with paintings and strung with tapestries. The windows were stained glass and the tiled floor was laid with deep, sumptuous rugs. There were plants in great urns, an oak table with five intricately carved chairs placed around it, cushioned couches and an array of statues and ornaments. A person entering the room for the first time would have been forgiven for thinking that they had set foot in a treasure house. The king had lavished gold on many of his properties, but on the Painted Chamber he had showered a fortune.

Henry crossed to the oak table and picked up a scroll that was lying there. “This came an hour ago.” He thrust it at the chancellor.

Whilst the chancellor was reading, the door opened and Edward entered. His fair hair was plastered to his head with sweat and his riding hose and boots were mud-spattered. “Father,” he greeted with a brief bow, closing the door. “I was about to lead a hunt,” he added, glancing at the chancellor. “Your summons said it was urgent?”

Henry pointed to the scroll the chancellor held. “Read that.” He sat heavily on one of the couches. “They want to take them to their preceptory in Paris! I presume they think the jewels are best kept as far from my sight and influence as possible, damn them to hell!”

Edward took the scroll from the chancellor and scanned it. “We should ask for another meeting,” he said, looking up at his father. “Attempt to renegotiate.”

Henry pushed a hand through his thin hair. “What is the use? I have already asked the Templars to reconsider.” He gestured at the scroll. “Their reply is to
politely request
the transfer in nine days!”

“What will you do, my liege?” asked the chancellor.

Henry leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes, feeling his head begin to pound. “If I defy the knights, Chancellor, what, do you believe, they would do?”

“It is impossible to say for certain, my liege, but I would imagine that they would seek approval from the pope for this order. I expect they would use the current situation in Outremer as a key by which to turn papal consent to their favor. The pope may then make a personal request of you.”

“Then I have no choice but to agree.”

Edward’s smooth brow furrowed. “You are yielding so easily? You must be firmer with the knights. Stand up to them like you did at the Temple. It is you who is king, not them.”

“They may as well be for all the power they hold.”

“The crown jewels are ours, father.
Ours.
”

Henry’s eyes snapped open. He glared at his son. “You think I want to do this? What other option is there? That I wait around for a papal edict, then, ignoring that, excommunication?” Henry rose, one hand pressed to his brow. “We will repay the money when we are able, then we will see our treasure returned to us. Until that time let the knights take them. At least it will keep them off my back.” He headed for the doors, the hem of his velvet cloak swishing over the tiles. “Inform the knights, Chancellor. Tell them I accept their terms. I cannot bear to think of it anymore.”

Edward, his face full of protest, went to go after the king, but the chancellor took hold of him before he could follow. Edward looked at the hand on his arm, then up at the man who had hold of him. His pale gray eyes glinted.

The chancellor had only served in the royal household for one year, but he’d seen that look on the prince’s face once before. He had been heading through the palace corridors on his way to a meeting with his staff when he had seen a young page, carrying a tureen of soup, trip and accidentally spill the tureen and its contents on the floor. Prince Edward had been walking just ahead of the boy and some of the soup had splattered his robes. The prince, who, up until that point, the chancellor had presumed to be a pleasant, decisive young man of a self-possessed disposition had made the terrified boy lick the soup from the floor, then tongue-clean his boots for good measure.

The chancellor dropped his hand from Edward’s arm. “Forgive me, my Lord Prince. But your father is, I believe, right. He does have no choice but to deliver the jewels to the knights.”

“My father is old and ailing,” said Edward in a glacial tone. “Who do you think will be responsible for the debt when he is gone? Until it is paid, the knights will keep the jewels that I am supposed to be crowned with. I refuse to let them take what is rightfully mine.”

“I do not want the Templars to take this treasure either,” said the chancellor. “But there may be a way for you to turn this situation to your advantage without further upsetting, or involving your father. Although I believe it would probably require the aid of your…” The chancellor tried to think of a polite term of address. “…manservant.”

“Go on.”

“I found something out at the preceptory, something you might be able to use.”

“
P
aris?” said Simon dubiously.

“Owein told me this morning,” said Will, grinning, as he helped the groom haul a large bundle of hay across the yard. “I’ll be escorting the crown jewels.”

“Just you?” said Simon a little sardonically.

“Well, with Owein, nine other knights and their sergeants and Queen Eleanor.” Will nodded in the direction of the docks where the mainmast of a ship was poking up above the treetops. “We’ll be going on
Endurance
.”

“That hulk?” said Simon, wrinkling his nose. “Doesn’t look like it could cross a puddle. Pick up your end a bit.”

Will lifted the bale higher, his feet slipping in the wet ground. It had rained solidly for the last two days and everywhere, including the training field, was waterlogged. There were only three days left until the tournament and Will had spent the last few offices praying for sun. Today, his prayers had been answered with a cold, foggy dawn that had turned into a chill, bright morning. Together, he and Simon hefted the bale through the stables’ entrance and set it down. Will sat heavily on it, his nose filled with the stables’ warm, animal smell, as Simon disappeared into the storeroom where the tack was kept. The stables were long and shadowy. The destriers were in the stalls at one end and the palfreys, used by sergeants, were at the other. A groom was sweeping the floor at the far end. Dust from the straw swirled up around him and he sneezed.

“You all set for battle then?” came Simon’s voice from inside the storeroom.

“As much as I can be.”

“Sir Jacques been pushing you hard?”

“Umm.” Will tugged loose a straw from the bale and twisted it around his finger. For the past two days, his concentration on the field had been a little impaired. Jacques had shouted at him several times.

“God in Heaven, sergeant, are you deaf, or just plain witless? Stop staring at me and get your damn feet moving! It’s not as if you don’t need the practice!”

But Will had found it difficult not to stare at the knight. The letter he’d discovered in the solar, that seemed to belong to Cyclops, had been playing on his mind. Although much of it seemed straightforward there were certain words Will kept coming back to, words that made him wonder about their significance:
our Brethren, their master, our circle.
He knew that the Temple employed spies who worked in hostile territory, but the letter had seemed to suggest something more than this, some kind of link between the Temple and the enemy. And why no seal? He wished he’d had time to finish it.

“You’ll win,” said Simon matter-of-factly, coming out of the storeroom with a saddle in his hands, which he hefted onto a bench.

“What?” said Will, looking up. “Oh. Well, maybe.” He shrugged, but smiled, pleased by his friend’s unerring confidence.

“So,” said Simon, picking up a cloth and a jar of beeswax, “how long will you be in Paris for?”

“A week?” Will wandered over as Simon scooped out a smear of the dark yellow wax. “Maybe longer?”

Simon glanced at Will as he rubbed at the saddle. “I hope you don’t forget about me when you’re all knightly and noble and off across the seas.”

“Never! You’re my…” Will shook his head, unable to think of the right words. “I don’t know. Two things that go together.”

“The shit to your shovel?” offered Simon.

They both laughed.

The sound of hoofbeats rang out in the yard. Simon put down his cloth, wiped his hands on his tunic and headed out to greet the rider. Will, who remained inside, heard voices a moment later. The first voice, Simon’s, sounded wary and unsure; the second, a man’s voice, made Will look around in puzzlement. He headed for the entrance to see Simon taking the reins of a black destrier with a white star on its nose. Will knew the horse: it was Cyclops’s, but he didn’t recognize the rider, who had spoken with an accent he’d never heard before. The rider wore a gray cloak with the cowl pulled over his face, but as he nodded to Simon and turned to leave, Will caught a glimpse of black beard and skin that was much darker than any Englishman’s. He watched the man walk off across the yard in the direction of the knights’ quarters. “Who was that?” he asked, as Simon led the large horse into the stables.

“Don’t know. Bit foreign-looking, weren’t he?”

“Why did he have Cyclops’s horse?”

“I guess he must be the one who took him last month. The stable master said a comrade of Sir Jacques’ was being loaned his horse for a few weeks.” Simon hooked the reins over a hobbling post and bent down to loosen the stirrups. “You going to stay here for a bit? Help me out?”

“No,” said Will, distractedly. “I can’t,” he added, seeing Simon’s disappointed look. “I’ve got practice.”

“You’ll come by soon though? I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

“I will.”

Simon watched Will head off, then removed the saddle from the destrier and led the beast into its stall. Moving over to the bale of hay, he began cutting the tether that bound it with his knife. A shadow partially blocked the light at the stable door and Simon looked up to see another stranger standing there, this one clad in a stained russet cloak.

The man, who had long straggly hair and a lantern-jawed, pockmarked face, gave Simon a perfunctory nod. “Which way to the sergeants’ quarters?”

Simon straightened. Sticking the knife in his belt, he headed over. “Who are you looking for?”

The man smiled, revealing a mouth half full of brown stubs of teeth. He had a curved, wicked-looking dagger hanging from his belt. “That’s my business, boy. Which way?”

Simon paused, but he didn’t have the right to question visitors, or deny them access to the preceptory, however foreign, or, in this case, unpleasant the look of them. “Across the yard,” he said curtly, pointing to the buildings at the far side of the compound. “The tall one there.”

THE TOWER, LONDON, OCTOBER
1, 1260
AD

The public barge glided slowly toward London Bridge, after dropping all but one of its passengers at the Walbrook docks. Garin, huddled by himself on a bench at the stern, watched the wagons shunting past the chapel and the many shops that spanned the bridge’s length. As the barge passed beneath the arches, he caught a glimpse of the heads of traitors that were strung like lanterns from the posts. Garin pulled his cloak tighter around him to cover the red cross on his black tunic, terrified that someone on the distant banks, or the bridge above might recognize him. He was out of the preceptory alone, without permission. It made him dizzy to think of it. But beneath his anxiety was a sense of curious anticipation. It was this feeling that had brought him this far, that and the fear of refusing the summons. On any other day, neither would have been enough to spur him to leave the preceptory, but today was the chapter meeting and the knights would be closeted in the chapter house for most of the day. No one would miss him.

Beyond the bridge, the Tower of London dominated the view, its vast, curtained walls sweeping down to a moat that flanked it on three sides. The barge turned inland and docked before reaching the walls: No vessel was allowed through the watergate without prior permission. As the board was thrown across by one of the crewmen, Garin rose from the bench and stepped cautiously across to the banks. Following the instructions that had been given to him, he made his way through a riddle of alleyways until he came to the city-side walls. Here, he found a narrow drawbridge across the moat that led to a small, arched doorway in the otherwise featureless stone. Two royal guards in scarlet liveries were standing to either side of the door. One of them drew his sword as Garin stepped onto the bridge.

“Stay where you are.”

Garin did as he was told and waited as the guard came forward.

“State your business.”

“My name is Garin de Lyons.” He faltered. “I…I think I’m expected?”

“Follow me.”

Garin followed the man across the bridge and the second guard unhooked a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. He pushed open the door and Garin saw a great courtyard stretching away to a colossal gray-white fortress of stone and marble, its turrets thrusting to the sky. Around the fortress were tree-lined gardens and several outbuildings, including one long timber structure that dominated the courtyard.

“Go on then,” said the first guard, impatiently.

“Where do I go?” asked Garin, feeling his cheeks redden.

“You’ll be met in the yard. That’s all we were told.”

Garin stepped through and flinched as the door banged shut behind him. He heard the clunk of the key in the heavy lock and felt the fragile confidence he’d managed to summon to get him this far slip from him like a robe, leaving him naked, insignificant beneath the walls’ stern, indomitable towers. Slowly, he began to walk.

After a short distance, he reached the timber structure and moved alongside it, wrinkling his nose at a rank, musky smell that came from within. There were guards moving about in the grounds and a few solitary figures that he guessed to be servants near the fortress, but the courtyard itself was empty. Garin turned as he heard a shuffling sound coming from the building beside him. Curious, he moved closer and squinted through the gaps in the slats. He could see nothing in the darkness inside. Farther down, he noticed a square aperture cut into the boards. He headed along and, standing on tiptoe, peered in. The smell was worse here. There was something hanging just in front of the opening. It looked like a sheet of gray, wrinkled leather. Garin grasped the edges of the hole and pulled himself up. The leather sheet moved and suddenly he was looking into a huge, narrowed eye. The eye winked and a colossal head turned to face him. Garin yelled as a giant snake writhed out of the hole. He fell back and staggered into the chest of a figure behind him. Whipping around he found himself staring into the lantern-jawed, pockmarked face of the man who had delivered him the summons two days ago. From the building came a noise like ten trumpets.

“What…! What is it?”

“King Henry’s pet,” replied the man bluntly. “Hurry.” Gripping Garin’s shoulder with a filthy hand, he steered the shocked boy toward the Tower, his stained russet cloak flapping about him in the cold wind that swept the courtyard. “He’s waiting.”

“But
what
is it?” asked Garin, looking over his shoulder at the snake that was swinging about through the hole and which he now saw was attached to the beast’s face.

The man, who had called himself Rook, scowled, but he seemed at pains to be civil. “An elephant. It was a gift from King Louis. He brought it back from Egypt.”

Garin, tearing his gaze from the monster, allowed himself to be led away. A smell of dampness and sweat and sour breath came off Rook in thick, repellent waves and Garin had to take tiny sips of air in through his mouth to avoid inhaling it. He felt nauseous enough as it was.

“Did you tell anyone you was coming here?”

Garin shook his head. “No. I did what you said. I told no one and I wasn’t seen leaving.”

Rook studied the boy intently, his calculating gaze unwavering. After a moment, he grunted.

Garin had to almost jog to keep up with Rook, who quickened the pace as they neared the main building and walked alongside it, past several guards who paid them little attention, and around to the back where they entered by a low wooden door. It looked like a servants’ entrance; certainly not, Garin noted nervously, the entrance any normal guest would be taken through. Rook kept his hand clamped firmly on Garin’s shoulder as he marched the boy along a dim passage and up through a tight, spiral staircase that was cut into a wall at the far end, more propelling than guiding him. Garin was struggling for breath by the time they reached the top, where a row of arched openings looked down on the bleak courtyard and over the walls to the Thames. Rook, breathing hard, but not slowing his pace, led them to a set of oak doors. He paused to rap twice, then opened them. As the doors swung inward, Garin was struck by an urge to turn and run. His curiosity had run dry and now his mind was just filled with the question that had plagued him since Rook had sought him out at the preceptory. What on earth could the heir to the throne of England possibly want with him? But Rook was right behind him and there was nowhere to go but forward.

The chamber was large and dark. Heavy black drapes covered the windows, blocking out most of the daylight. At irregular intervals, beams of light filled with swirling dust motes pierced through the gaps and stabbed down onto wide, smooth flagstones. Other than this frail illumination, there was just a single candle burning on an oak table, to either side of which were two benches. Garin could just make out the humped shape of a large bed against the far wall of the chamber. As his eyes grew used to the gloom, he realized that the walls of the chamber were covered in painted scenes. He strained against the dimness, trying to make them out: buildings; a forest; soldiers on horses; a tall man in black robes. As his eyes fixed on this last picture, Garin almost cried out as the painting detached itself from the wall and came toward him.

“Sergeant de Lyons,” said Prince Edward, smiling. “I’m glad that you came.”

Still in shock, Garin forgot to bow.

The prince didn’t seem to take offense. “Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the bench in front of the table.

Garin, his legs feeling weak and wobbly, did as he was told, after glancing back at Rook who had taken up position by the closed door.

Edward sat on the bench opposite Garin, his face up-lit by the candle, making his strong jaw and cheekbones appear even more chiseled. He picked up a jug that was placed beside two goblets. “Would you like a drink?”

Garin swallowed thickly. “Yes. I mean, yes, my Lord Prince.”

“It’s from my father’s lands in Gascony,” said Edward, pouring the drinks and handing one to Garin. “The best wine in Christendom.”

Garin, hardly tasting it, took several greedy gulps, trying to moisten his throat. After a few moments, the warmth and potency of the wine filled him and he relaxed slightly.