Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (25 page)

James looked down and saw that his mantle was no longer white, but red and torn. “The blood isn’t mine,” he said, turning to where he had been standing with the soldiers. He murmured a prayer as he realized how lucky he was to be alive.

There was a gaping hole in the side of the parapet. Around it the edges of the stones were jagged, as if some huge beast had taken a bite out of the wall. Masonry and corpses were scattered across the walkway, some of it having fallen outward, some into the compound below. The Mamluks had breached the wall, but not in any place that was of use to them. James winced as Mattius let go of his shoulder and saw, through a tear in his mantle, that a shard of stone was embedded in his upper arm.

Mattius followed his gaze. “That looks bad, James. Come on. I’ll take you to the infirmary.” A cry rose from the walls above the gate. Mattius leaned out over the parapet. “We’ve caught the cat!”

They peered over the walls to see a company of Mamluks running down the path. The grappling team had succeeded in attaching their hooks to the ram. They would have yanked it up to make it unusable and then, from the black plume of smoke, it appeared that they had smoked out the Mamluks under the cat’s roof by lowering burning bales of tow coated in sulfur. Mattius and James watched as most of the fleeing Mamluk soldiers dropped to the ground, pierced by Frankish arrows.

Another cry rose, this time from the Mamluk camp. The front lines of archers began to withdraw.

“They are retreating,” said Mattius. “Go on, you
bastards
!”

“Wait,” said James, putting a hand on his arm. “Look.”

The mandjaniks at the far side of the fortress were being reloaded. James and Mattius watched on in silence as the Mamluks let fire their last barrage of the morning. This time it wasn’t stones that came flying over the walls, but bodies. Thirty corpses of the Christians they had captured from the outlying villages rained down into the compound. Beneath the outer walls, screams sounded from the peasants who were barracked in the outer enceinte as the bodies smashed down around them. Each had been painted with a red cross, in mockery of the Christians inside.

OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF SAFED, THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM, JULY
19, 1266
AD

Baybars ripped off his sword belt as he entered the pavilion. His gaze fell on the eunuchs who came forward to remove his cloak.
“Get out!”
he roared.

The attendants fled.

“My lord,” said Omar, watching as Baybars strode onto the platform and sat in his throne, hands curling around the lions’ heads. “All is not lost. It’s only our third assault.”

“I wanted it done today.”

“Their hides are thick.”

“If our engines hadn’t been hit, Safed would have fallen.” Baybars tapped the lions’ heads with his fingers. “They used their forces well.” He shook his head. “Like a boar uses its tusks.”

“We could send in the nakkabun? The hill is bound to be riddled with tunnels. We could sabotage them from beneath.”

“No. It will take too long to mine under their walls.” Baybars continued tapping the lions’ heads, but slower now. “We must come at this boar from behind, rather than risk being mauled again. We will find its soft spot and strike.” He rose and jumped down from the platform. “And I have an idea of where that soft spot might be.” Baybars headed for the pavilion entrance. “Summon the governors,” he barked at one of the Bahri, who was standing guard outside. “And bring me the heralds.”

SAFED, THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM, JULY
19, 1266
AD

James flinched as the Syrian physician drew the stone shard from his skin. The wound had already begun to close and the blood flowed thickly down his arm as the thin scab was torn away. The physician handed him a wad of linen and moved off. The courtyard outside the infirmary was noisy with soldiers, most of whose wounds were minor: abrasions; the odd burn; arrow scratches. Those who were badly injured were in the infirmary proper. James clamped the linen over his arm to stem the blood. He sat back against the wall and picked up the shard the physician had dropped.

“You should save it,” said Mattius, handing him a jar of wine. “Take it home and show it to your grandchildren.”

James smiled and stuck the stone in the pouch at his belt. “I will give it to my son.” He leaned his head on the wall and stared up into the sky, which was turning a deep, perfect shade of blue. The afternoon had been spent clearing the debris, carrying the wounded through to the inner enceinte, assessing the damage and overseeing repairs. He would have stayed on the walls for longer, but Mattius had threatened to pick him up and carry him to the infirmary if he didn’t go of his own accord. The only signs of life that had come from the Mamluk camp since the battle were the singsong chanting of prayers.

The blood on James’s mantle was sticky. He longed to retire to his quarters, but their duties weren’t over yet. After Vespers, he and Mattius would take first watch on the walls.

“Do you think they will attack again tonight?”

James saw a Syrian soldier staring at them, the fear apparent in his eyes. “No,” he told the man, “it will take them a few days to regroup and plan their next move.” He looked up as he was hailed and saw the commander heading over with six knights. James rose as he saw the look on the commander’s face.

“We have trouble,” murmured the commander, coming to a halt.

“What is it, sir?” asked Mattius, standing beside James.

The commander glanced around at the Syrian soldiers who were talking amongst themselves. When he spoke his voice was low. “Baybars has sent a herald. He has offered unconditional amnesty to all native soldiers who surrender to him. He has given them two nights to decide whether to leave and go free, or stay here with us and die.”

“Christ and the Saints,” muttered Mattius.

“Within the hour,” continued the commander, “everyone here will have heard what he has promised. Unless we can maintain order, we may be facing an insurrection come morning.”

T
he solar was hot and airless. The small group of knights seated around the room sweated inside their woolen cloaks and tried not to fidget. Only Everard, perched on his stool like a hooded buzzard in black cloak and cowl, seemed unaffected by the heat. He was, however, impatient to know the reason for the summons to the Visitor’s chambers, which had come while he was on the verge of translating a complex section of a Greek text that had been perplexing him for several weeks.

General day-to-day business was discussed in the weekly chapter with all brothers present. A private meeting between a few selected knights called without warning or explanation was, so far as Everard could remember, unheard of. He had tried to guess the nature of it by who else was in attendance, but the five knights, although high-ranking, were otherwise quite ordinary. If he had to put a finger on the anomaly in the company it would fall on himself.

Everard and the knights looked around as the door opened and a servant carrying a tray of goblets and a jug of wine entered. Behind came the Visitor, tall and dignified, his trident-shaped beard flecked with white. With the Visitor was a young man, not much past twenty, the sight of whom caused Everard to sit up with a frown. The young man had a plain, lean face and solemn, dog-like eyes. His black robe was soiled and patched, his feet were bare and dusty and from his neck hung a large wooden cross. He looked like a common beggar, but held the authority of a lord. He was a Dominican: a Hound of God, and an inquisitor.

“Good afternoon, brothers,” greeted the Visitor, closing the door once the servant had left. He motioned the Dominican to an empty stool near the table. “Please sit, Friar Gilles.”

The young man smiled soberly. “I will stand.”

The Visitor’s expression didn’t change. “As you wish.” He walked around the large table and seated himself in the throne-like chair behind, leaving the Dominican standing erect and at ease in the center of the gathered knights. “I apologize for the lack of warning for this council,” said the Visitor, addressing the knights, “but Friar Gilles cannot stay for long. He came to inform me of this matter in private, but agreed to continue our discussion in your presence, as your services may be required.” The Visitor looked at Everard. “I wanted you here in an advisory capacity, Brother Everard, considering your field of expertise.”

Everard said nothing, but his frown deepened.

“If you please, Friar Gilles,” said the Visitor, motioning to the Dominican.

Gilles moved slightly so that he could be seen by all of the knights. He swept them with his intent gaze and Everard scowled. Gilles was obviously well practiced in oration, no doubt fresh, thought the priest contemptuously, from theology classes at the University of Paris. With their high rhetoric and aggressive stance, the Dominican Friars were more like lawyers than priests.

“For the last few months,” began Gilles, “my Order has been investigating a troubadour, who has been traveling through the south of the kingdom, making a name for himself with performances of a so-called Grail Romance based on the story of Perceval.”

“Do you mean Pierre de Pont-Evêque?”

It was Nicolas de Navarre who had spoken.

“You have heard of him, brother?” inquired the Visitor, looking to Nicolas.

“In passing,” replied Nicolas. “The Romances are an interest of mine,” he explained.

Gilles fixed his dog-eyes on the black-haired knight. “Then you might be interested to know that we plan to arrest him for heresy.”

“Heresy?”

“When one of our houses in the south learned of the profanities the troubadour had been expressing during his performance, they contacted the head of our Order here in Paris. We petitioned the Court of Aquitaine, where the troubadour had been invited to perform, and managed to have him banned. Some of my brothers were hoping to apprehend him there, but he must have been warned away for he never arrived. We have recently learned that King Louis has invited him to perform at the royal court in the autumn.” Gilles’s smooth brow puckered. “On a holy day no less. We have petitioned the king to retract that invitation, but he has declined to heed our advice. Word has been sent to our brothers throughout the kingdom that de Pont-Evêque is to be seized, but it is a large country and we are still few for the extent of our assignment. If we do not manage to arrest the troubadour beforehand we will do so when he arrives at the palace. And that,” Gilles said to the knights, “is when we will call on your assistance. If the Temple supports us in this matter, the king will be forced to yield to our joint authority.”

Everard stirred. “Grail Romances can occasionally seem, to the sensitive ear, overly ribald, but the code of conduct prevents troubadours from overstepping the bounds of decency. I am frankly amazed that this is a matter for the inquisitors. Do the Hounds of God have nothing better to do than chase a common mummer?”

“Brother Everard,” reproved the Visitor.

Gilles held up his hand. “No, Brother Everard is right. Usually we would not concern ourselves with such a seemingly petty affair. But this case falls entirely within our remit. Pierre de Pont-Evêque’s performance is more than ribald, as I said it is heretical. Within it he speaks of men beating, spitting and urinating on the cross and drinking one another’s blood from the Communion chalice. There are whole sections of his performance that describe heathen rites: sorcery; idolatry; animal and human sacrifices and other hideous practices too ungodly to mention.” His eyes swept the room. “You may remember that we found thousands of Cathars to be guilty of such depravities during our purification of their sect. Pierre de Pont-Evêque has attracted quite a following in the southern regions—regions, I might add, where the Cathar heresies first flourished. He doesn’t observe the code of conduct and yet his flouting of the rules hasn’t made him unpopular. On the contrary, he has become famed and admired for it. Peasants, in our experience, tend to be drawn to vulgar material like flies to dung and it is our duty, as men of God, to ensure the safety of their souls by not allowing them to be polluted by such malfeasance. I should not have to remind you that before we suppressed their sect, the Cathars had begun to rival the Church in popularity. If we had not acted as decisively as we had, God alone knows how many of the flock would have been lost to their Gnosticism.

“We were established by our founder, St. Dominic, specifically to root out the Cathars. Since his death, our numbers and mandate have grown considerably. Our Order is now the front line in the war against heresy. We are responsible for keeping Christendom free from harmful practices and ideas, however innocuous,” said Gilles, his cold gaze flicking to Everard, “they may seem to others. It is in the Temple’s best interests that this man be stopped.”

Another of the knights spoke up. “I’m sure no one in this room would dispute whether or not this troubadour, if what you’ve said is correct, should be stopped. But why in the Temple’s best interests?”

“That is simply answered,” replied Gilles, looking down at the knight. “He has based his performance on an Order of knights who lead Perceval through a series of progressively iniquitous initiations. These knights are described as wearing white mantles adorned with red crosses.”

A few of the Templars stirred uneasily. Everard wiped a hand across his brow. He was sweating.

“So you plan to arrest him when he arrives in Paris?” asked Nicolas.

“Yes.”

“Is there any evidence to charge him with?”

Gilles arched an eyebrow. “Apart from the thousands of people who have witnessed him uttering these profanities?” He paused. “Actually, yes. It is something we have only recently discovered. We do not believe Pierre de Pont-Evêque wrote this Romance himself. Ten years ago, he held a position at the royal court, but he wasn’t a popular performer and the king dismissed him. Our sources say it is doubtful he has the skill to have written such an…” Gilles gritted his teeth “…articulate piece. We do know, however, that he is in possession of a book, which he reads from during part of his performance. He claims to have been given it by an angel who took it from a sealed vault beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Blasphemy, of course, but we suspect that this book is where he has gleaned much of his material from. The book will be the evidence with which we will prosecute. It may even be a vestige of the Cathars.”

“Do you have a description for this book?” asked the Visitor.

“It is well made, bound in vellum. The words inside have apparently been written in red lead, whilst its title is in gold leaf.”

“Title?” enquired Everard queasily.

Gilles looked at him. “Yes. It is called the Book of the Grail.”

“Have you heard of it, brother?” the Visitor asked Everard.

Everard cleared his throat. “No. No, I haven’t.”

“Well, this is deeply disturbing,” said the Visitor, sitting back. “The Temple relies on donations from kings and nobles from many countries. We wouldn’t want to lose those endorsements by having our reputation tarnished in any way, particularly with the East so unsettled at present.” He turned to Gilles. “In this matter, Friar, you have the Temple’s full support.”

Two hours later, Everard, who had given up any attempt at working on his translation and had resorted to stalking about his chamber, huffed with relief as there was a knock at his door. A moment later, the door opened and a figure dressed in gray entered.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” said Everard irritably, crossing to a small table by the window. He picked up a goblet and gave it a quick wipe with the hem of his robe.

“I came as fast as I could,” said Hasan, closing the door. “What is it, brother?” he asked, watching Everard pour a goblet of wine, spilling some; the priest’s hand, with its missing fingers, clumsy.

“It looks like you were right,” said Everard abruptly.

Hasan looked nonplussed.

“About the troubadour. Hang it all!” Everard sat heavily on the window seat. “Sit, Hasan, you’ve known me too long to stand on ceremony.”

“Far too long,” said Hasan with a slight smile as he sat beside the priest. “Tell me what this is about.”

Everard told Hasan about the meeting with the Dominican. “I should have sent you after the troubadour weeks ago when you came to tell me about him.”

“There was no proof that his Romance had anything to do with your code then. There were only similarities, according to what my sources told me. It made sense that you wanted to wait for further confirmation.”

“And now,” said Everard, “the inquisitors will be after him.”

“From what you said, it sounds as if they will be focused on seizing de Pont-Evêque when he arrives in Paris, not trying to find him beforehand.”

Everard grunted, but looked a little eased.

“How do you think the troubadour came to possess the Book of the Grail?” asked Hasan.

“I can only assume he must be the one who coerced the clerk to steal it from our vaults.”

Hasan looked unconvinced. “We thought at the time that whoever stole it must have known of the Anima Templi and our plans. That was the fear; that whoever had taken it would use it as evidence against us. If the inquisitors are correct, then the troubadour has just adapted parts of the code for use in a Grail Romance. That does not seem like the actions of someone who wants to expose, or undermine us, particularly if he is not trying to tie it to the Temple; stating, according to what I have been told, that an angel gave it to him.”

“I don’t understand it any better than you, Hasan, but if this troubadour was responsible for its theft and does have knowledge of us he could provide the Dominicans with fatal information if caught. They have some very persuasive methods for inducing confession.” Everard rose and paced the chamber agitatedly. “You should have heard Friar Gilles.” His face twisted in anger. “Anything they don’t agree with and they call it heresy! You would have thought it was the Dominicans, not God, who wrote the Bible. All those burnt at the stake for having a different opinion to that of the Church? It is they who should burn!” Everard’s cheeks were flushed, his scar a hectic red. His voice was rising. “How many more fathers and sons must be sent into battle for their arrogance? How many wives must be widowed, children orphaned, in the service of our God?” He shook his head. “The service of
their
pockets.”

“Brother,” said Hasan, trying to calm him.

Everard turned on him. “Who else would have done what the Anima Templi has done, Hasan? No one, I tell you. They are all too wrapped up in their own desires and politics and opinions. Even our own Order.” Everard’s voice quieted a little. “If the Dominicans seize our book and find out about our plans they will destroy us. What we hope to achieve goes against everything the Church and, indeed, everyone in Christendom believes in. They wouldn’t understand, Hasan. As well you know.”

“We have a few months before de Pont-Evêque is due in the city. It is plenty of time.”

“This troubadour must be found. For all its strength, I’m not certain even the Temple would be able to stand against the inquisitors and expect to remain unscathed. The pope might be the only power on this earth the Order answers to, but the Dominicans have his ear.” Everard went to a large chest, from which he took a pouch of coins. “If this de Pont-Evêque has the Book of the Grail, then take it from him.” He handed Hasan the pouch. “And if he was responsible for its theft…”

“I understand, brother,” Hasan cut across him. “The troubadour will not reach Paris.” He paused at the door. “There is something I have been wanting to mention. It now seems pertinent.”

“What is it?”

Hasan hesitated.

Everard frowned. “If you have something to say, Hasan, then say it.”

“Your sergeant. I have been thinking that you should involve him. We could certainly use more help and now I am back in Paris, I will no doubt cross paths with him. When I came here last, he still treated me with suspicion.”

Everard waved his hand. “He is just curious. I’m sure he doesn’t suspect anything. I told him the same as I’ve told anyone who has asked. You’re a converted Christian who helps me track down Arabic manuscripts for translation. And why should anyone question that? It is a common enough sight in Acre. The preceptory there employs Arab secretaries.”