Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (22 page)

“Fire?” offered James.

“They would have prepared for that. I expect its roof will be protected with green hides.”

James agreed: Green hides—raw skins soaked in vinegar—were difficult to set alight. “A grappling unit, then?”

“I have already sent them down there. Late last night we noticed an increase of activity in the camp, which gave us the initial warning of a dawn attack. We sent a group of Syrians through one of the tunnels. The concealed exit comes out not far from the enemy’s siege engines. The Syrians couldn’t get close enough to hear what the soldiers were saying without compromising their position, but they did see them loading the engines.”

The commander pointed to the far left of the encampment.

James looked to where twenty-seven mangonels, which the Mamluks called mandjaniks, were spaced out in a row. The siege engines’ long movable beams were presently motionless. Each beam was suspended diagonally across a frame. The raised end was thrust into a complex system of ropes and the other end, hollowed out to form a bowl-shaped cavity, rested on the ground. In the cavity could be placed a stone weighing up to three hundred pounds. In an attack, the raised end of the beam would be pulled back on the ropes at speed. The end that held the stone would hit a crossbar above the frame and catapult its load toward Safed’s walls.

James tore his gaze from the engines as the commander continued.

“For the main assault the enemy will rely on their mangonels again, hoping to breach the walls. We’ll concentrate our archers and our own engines on their positions. They are presently out of range, but they will have to come closer when the battle commences.”

“Are you certain, Commander, that the fortress can withstand a prolonged attack?”

James, Mattius and the Templar commander turned. It was the captain of the Syrian Christian soldiers who had spoken.

His brown eyes studied them. “Is it not better to offer terms of surrender, while we still have the chance?”

“Surrender?” scoffed the commander. “At this early stage? We have already beaten them back twice, with little loss of life on our own side.”

“In these past few years, Commander, I have studied our enemy. I know his tactics. I was at Acre, three years ago, when the sultan attacked the city.”

“I, too, was at Acre then,” said James, seeing the commander’s expression hardening. “The fighting was fierce, yes, but the sultan didn’t take the city, nor did he take it last month when he tried and failed again.”

The Syrian captain stared out across the army below them. “His soldiers call him the Crossbow. They say he will not stop until every Christian in these lands is dead, but I was born here. My men and I have more right to be in this land than he does.”

“All the more reason to stand and fight,” said the commander sharply. “It is pure cowardice to fold so quickly in the face of an enemy we have so far withstood so well.”

“I’m no coward, Commander, but this fortress was taken before by Saladin, and this sultan has none of his honor.”

The commander folded his arms across his chest. “In the twenty-six years since Safed was returned to us we have spent a fortune on its fortification. It is far stronger now than it was when Saladin’s forces besieged it and we can hold off the enemy for months, years, if we have to. The sultan doesn’t want a long campaign: It will be too costly, and I’ll not give him the satisfaction of a swift victory.” He patted the edge of the parapet and smiled coldly. “There is not just mortar in these walls, there is also the will of God.”

As the chapel bell rang out for Matins, James glanced down over the compound. Safed’s smooth walls stretched away, guarded by faceless towers and soldiers standing ready. The sight filled him with hope. But then he looked back at Sultan Baybars’s formidable force, with all its wall-crushing machines and archers and armaments. The scout he had sent out in secret had seen no sign of his contact within the camp. Hope seemed futile.

“D
o you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then close your eyes.”

With a sigh, Will complied. He leaned back on his elbows, the grass tickling his neck. “Can we not just eat?” He opened one eye a crack and watched as Elwen reached into the sack she had brought. She was kneeling beside him, her white gown, delicately laced at the sides and sleeves, spread out around her. She had removed her cap and her hair fell in tawny tresses down her back. It was a glorious day. The fields sloped down to the city walls where the purple heads of thistles, some as tall as a man, nodded in the breeze. Beyond the city walls, Paris was a white gem glinting in the noonday sun. From this distance, far from the grime and noise, the city was beautiful. Will smiled, his eye winking shut, as Elwen turned back to him.

“What are you smiling at?”

“Your strange notions.”

“If you don’t like my game…”

“Oh, I’ll play,” he said quickly, recognizing the tone that told him she was chafed. “I’m going to win.”

“Would you care to lay a wager on that?”

“What would I gamble? Unlike you, I don’t get paid for my services.” A shadow passed across him, darkening the red glow of the sun behind his eyelids. Will felt Elwen’s sleeve skim his cheek.

“You could wager your heart.”

He smiled, although her tone caused discomfort to edge in on his contentment. Something hard was pressed against his lips and he opened his mouth to receive it. He chewed slowly, a pleasant sharpness making his tongue tingle. “Apple. That was easy.”

“The next will be harder.”

Will waited, listening to the thrum of bees in the tall grass as Elwen rifled through the sack. “Is the queen not expecting you back?”

“No,” she told him brightly. “I have the whole afternoon to myself.”

Will shook his head, envious of Elwen’s freedom. Most women of nineteen would be in their fifth or sixth year of marriage, having forfeited their rights and land in dowries to their husbands. Elwen, unwed and a handmaiden to Queen Marguerite, was granted much greater privileges and could even, should she wish, invest the money she earned in property. This, coupled with the close bond she had formed with her mistress over the past six years, meant that she had a great deal more liberty than Will ever would, bound as he was to the Temple, and Everard.

“I work hard for small favors,” added Elwen, seeing his look. “Now keep your eyes closed.” She put something crumbly and sweet-smelling to his lips.

The game went on for some time. Will guessed the almond cake, the egg and cheese, and screwed up his face at the lemon, sending Elwen into a fit of giggles.

“Enough,” he said finally, spitting out a mouthful of salt. Will opened his eyes and sat up, blinking at the brightness. “I’ve won, surely?”

“No!” insisted Elwen. She pushed him back down. “One last thing.”

“Elwen,” he groaned.

“One more.”

“Very well.” Will shot her a look of suspicion. “But not the lemon again.”

She smiled.

He closed his eyes. “Where did you get all this food from anyway? Are we eating the king’s supper?”

Elwen didn’t answer. Will sensed her leaning over him. Behind his eyes, the darkness grew solid with her closeness. His heart began to quicken as her hand brushed against his. A moment later, he felt something soft touch his lips. His lips parted, even though he knew that it wasn’t pastry, or fruit they opened to receive, but something much sweeter. Will shuddered as Elwen’s mouth closed over his own, her tongue darting against his. He had known this would happen, ever since he had received her message asking him to meet her at Saint-Denis’s Gate. Passion overcame reason and, reaching up, Will pulled Elwen to him, feeling the heat of her flow across his chest. Her hair spilled like water over his hands and face. His fingers trapped in her curls. He was drowning in her. And if this was sin it tasted of honey and light.

A kestrel, circling the field in search of prey, swooped toward the grass with a cry. The sound tore Will from his oblivion. He grasped Elwen’s arms and pushed her gently away. “Elwen.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting up with a frown.

Will sat up beside her, avoiding her eyes. “You know what’s wrong. We promised we wouldn’t do this anymore. For the sake of our friendship, that’s what we agreed.”

“
You
agreed,” Elwen corrected, standing. She looked down over the city. “And I believe you said it for the sake of your mantle, not our friendship.”

Will rose. “What mantle?”

Elwen was used to his quick temper, but it still managed to startle her, like thunder out of a blue sky.

Will grabbed a fistful of his black tunic. “Does this look like a knight’s cloak to you?”

Elwen sighed. “Will,” she murmured, shaking her head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

But Will wouldn’t let her placate him. He held out his palms to her. “Do these look like hands that wield a sword?” The tips of his fingers were black. He had scrubbed them morning and night for the past six years, trying every conceivable concoction of herbs, getting Elwen to buy him foul-smelling soaps from quacks in the markets. But no amount of scouring had made the ink fade. Elwen had once told him that the stains made him look like one of the university professors. To him, his fingers were a brand, a constant reminder of his thwarted ambitions. “Do they?”

Elwen bit the corner of her lip. “Perhaps not, but that isn’t important.”

“Not important? You know how hard it has been for me, waiting and watching while my friends take their vows and are led from the chapter house as knights. As men. I lied to my father, Elwen. I wrote and told him I had been knighted because I couldn’t bear to reveal my disgrace to him.” Will turned away. “He thinks poorly enough of me as it is.”

Elwen went to him, the dry grass pricking her bare feet. “It doesn’t matter whether you wear black or white, or whether you wield a sword or a quill. It’s what’s inside you, your heart and spirit, that counts.”

Will snorted derisively, but he let her take hold of his hand. He watched as she uncurled his clenched fingers and kissed the inky tips. He felt some of his anger dissolve.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I know we agreed we couldn’t be together like this, it is just hard to return to how it was before.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Will withdrew his hand carefully from hers. “It’s hard for me also, but it is best this way.” He paused. “For both of us.”

“Yes,” Elwen agreed, avoiding his gaze. “This is best.”

“We should go.” Will fastened his belt around his waist, from which hung his falchion. Sergeants usually only bore arms for specific duties, but Will had started wearing the falchion several months ago. By doing so, he had felt he was saying to Everard that he wouldn’t be a priest’s servant forever. The challenge had proved ineffectual: Everard hadn’t even seemed to notice. But other than a couple of letters that had come from the East, in which James had mostly just spoken of a comrade, Mattius, the sword was the one tenuous link Will had left with his father. He continued to wear it now out of attachment.

He bent to pick up the sack, which was heavy with the food they hadn’t eaten. “I have to get to the parchmenter’s. If I’m to be back at the preceptory for Vespers, I need to hurry.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if I returned early.” Elwen forced a smile. “The palace has been in a state since the king invited Pierre de Pont-Evêque to perform for him on All Hallows. The servants have been far busier gossiping than working since he announced it. The queen hasn’t been in the best of moods.”

“Pierre who?”

Elwen arched an eyebrow. “Honestly, Will, I know you live in a monastery, but it wouldn’t hurt for you have some contact with the outside world now and then.” She sighed at his nonplussed expression. “Pierre is a troubadour. A very famous one.”

“Oh,” said Will, unenthusiastically; he didn’t share Elwen’s obsession with Romances.

“He has already caused quite a stir in the south. His material is a little…unconventional.” Elwen brushed the grass from her skirts. “I think it will be an interesting evening.”

They walked down through the fields in silence. As they neared the city, the road became busy with carts and riders, the wheels and hoofs churning up clouds of dust. The road wound northward to the Abbey of Saint-Denis, the royal necropolis where kings since the time of Dagobert I were interred. Will guided Elwen onto the verge as a cart pulled by oxen came rumbling up the hill toward them. They walked on, passing several farms, sweet-smelling vineyards, a grand estate, two small chapels and a hospital.

The city walls had been built over seventy years ago during the reign of Philippe-Auguste, but Paris had since outgrown its belt and expanded into the surrounding countryside. Outside Saint-Denis’s Gate, a group of vagrants had gathered. The guards on the gate kept a close eye on the tattered figures who were dodging the carts and horses to thrust their bowls at the people who queued to pass in and out of the barrier. Will and Elwen moved into the line.

“Damn beggars.”

Will glanced around to see a corpulent man in a velvet cloak glaring at the ragged group. The man spoke the
langue d’oïl
, the tongue of the north. Will had learned enough of it during his time in Paris to understand what was being said and, as the man continued, he wished he hadn’t.

“You cannot move an inch these days without being pestered by outlaws and vagabonds,” said the fat man, jowls wobbling. “A curse on them all!” Several people in the line looked over. Roused by the captive audience, the man launched into a diatribe against robbers, whores and idlers and their ruination of his once proud and shining city.

Will looked away. If he were a knight he wouldn’t have to wait, he could go to the front and pass straight through, unhindered, unquestioned. He chewed his lip and brooded. Just recently everything seemed to serve as a reminder of his low status.

Will’s eighteenth birthday, the day he came of age, had passed like an exasperating milestone informing him that he still had a long way to go. The following January, a year and a day later, he had thought his waiting was over. Now, six months on, he was still an old priest’s scribe. He had served his punishment for defiling the Sacrament all those years ago and he had performed, with fewer and fewer complaints, every mean, arduous or tedious task that Everard had meted out to him. But asking Everard to explain why he hadn’t been put forward for knighthood had been like trying to get an answer out of a rock and, eventually, he had given up trying. Will’s frustration pricked him a little deeper every day; when he bedded down with the other sergeants while his companions retired to the knights’ quarters; when he knelt on the floor in the chapel and his friends sat apart from him on the benches. And when he went for his meals, knowing it was their scraps he was eating.

Once through the gate, they moved with the crowds on the rue Saint-Denis. The street was packed with traders and street entertainers vying for the attention of passersby. It was cattle market day and the smell of the dung that caked the streets was nauseating. Residing outside the walls in the relative isolation afforded by the preceptory, Will tended to forget how much the city stank. The reminder was always an assault on his senses: sweat; the acrid stench of a tannery; night soil and refuse spread across the market gardens for the hemp and flax; contents of waste buckets thrown from windows. “Will you wait for a bronette?” he asked Elwen.

Elwen looked up at the sky, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It’s too beautiful a day to be cramped inside a stuffy carriage. I shall walk.” She tucked her hair into her cap. Several unruly strands floated around her cheeks.

Will reached out to brush them aside, then stopped. The gesture, once so natural, seemed inappropriate. His hand hung suspended for a moment, before he let it fall to his side. “I’d better go.”

“We can go together,” said Elwen, pretending not to notice his awkwardness. “You said you are going to the parchmenter’s? I can walk with you as far as the Cité.”

“I’m not going to the Latin Quarter today,” said Will quickly. “Everard’s usual supplier has run out, I’ll go to the one near Temple Gate.”

“Oh.” Elwen straightened her cap to hide her disappointment. “When will we next meet?”

“When I can next escape the dragon.”

“Everard can’t be that bad.”

“You don’t have to work for him.”

“He cannot ignore your right to the mantle forever.”

“Oh, I think he probably can,” murmured Will, as Elwen slipped off through the crowds and was gone. After a moment, he headed onto one of the streets that ran parallel to the main thoroughfare. Everard had given him money for a bronette, but the route was so clogged with people and animals that he knew it would be quicker to walk to the Latin Quarter. He felt guilty having lied to Elwen and more than a little foolish to be walking in the same direction a street along from her. But he couldn’t be near her after that kiss; it was too tormenting. Skirting the crowds around the cattle market, Will walked down to the Seine, his thoughts as heavy as the afternoon heat.

There had been few changes in his and Elwen’s daily routines since they had come to Paris. Elwen had settled easily into her position at the palace and he had submitted, far less smoothly, to his apprenticeship under Everard. Physically, they had both altered: Will had grown taller, his short black beard softening the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw; and Elwen had turned into a striking, willowy young woman. But it was between them that the most dramatic changes had occurred.

The shift in their relationship had been gradual, almost unnoticeable. But as the months had become years it had begun to dawn on Will that what had started as a friendship, borne out of a shared loss following Owein’s death, had become something else. Something thrilling. Terrifying. For his part, he had kept his feelings hidden, stealing furtive glances at Elwen when she wasn’t looking, pretending to be interested in what she was saying when all the while he was drinking in her presence like nectar. Elwen had been more forthright. She had shown him a book once that she had found in the palace. Will had thought it one of the Romances she enthused about, until she had opened the creased leather covering. The pages had been filled with illustrations of men and women in various states of undress and licentious abandon. They had laughed over that book, but Will had seen the way Elwen’s cheeks flushed as she looked from the pictures to him and had known, in that moment, that she shared his feelings. After that they had begun to meet in secret places, snatching private moments for fleeting kisses that left Will reeling.