Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (29 page)

“We stand with you, Commander,” said one of the priests. He looked kindly on the terrified young sergeants. “In death we are born to a new life. Our sacrifice is a small price to pay for the reward we shall receive in Heaven.”

One of the sergeants, his lip trembling, spoke up. “Can we not pretend, s…sir?” He looked around for support from his fellows, but found only downcast eyes. “Can’t we say that we convert to the Saracens’ faith, but turn from it when we are safe in Acre? Can’t we say that we deny Christ, but not mean it in our hearts?”

“To deny Christ, whether in falsehood or truth, would be blasphemy of the highest order,” said the commander quietly. “Those who do will find the gates of Heaven barred to them forever. We will not crumble before our enemy. We will stand proud to accept our fate and show the infidel the power of the one true God. The flesh is transitory, but the spirit lives on.”

The sergeant stared at the ground.

After the choice was made even those who were horrified by it were stunned into silence in the face of the resolute knights. The company passed the rest of the night talking quietly of their families and saying prayers. James was disconsolate, hearing the men speaking of their wives and children. He stared at the gradually lightening sky. “I’m sorry.”

Mattius touched his shoulder. “Sorry for what, brother?”

James realized he had spoken out loud. His placed his hand over Mattius’s. “Do you have any idea how it is to hate your own child? I hated my son for what happened to my daughter and I hated myself for doing so. My heart was torn, one half broken, the other beating with grief. It was as if I lost two children that day.” James gripped Mattius’s hand. “But I hadn’t.”

“I don’t understand, James. You told me your daughter drowned.”

“I have been so selfish. I told myself that I came here for duty’s sake, that I was doing it for him and that, in the end, he would thank me for it. But I was fooling myself, wasn’t I? I was here to escape my duty. I never should have left him.” A tear welled in James’s eye and he knuckled it away. “Dear God. Who will take care of my family?”

Mattius put an arm around his shoulder, seeing that James needed comfort, not answers. “The Temple will take care of them.” He gave his friend a rough hug. “Do not fear.”

James leaned against the large knight, feeling like a child, and drifted into a fitful half-sleep. He dreamed of his father taking his hand and leading him to the loch to fish. When he woke, his cheeks were wet.

Just before dawn, Brother Joseph, the oldest priest, shambled awkwardly on his knees around the group, pausing at each man in turn. As there was no oil available, he used the last drops of water from a skin to anoint them as he delivered the last rites.

When the first rays of sun touched the peaks of the distant mountains, Baybars came to the company. James thought he saw surprise and, possibly, a flicker of respect in Baybars’s eyes when he told the sultan they had chosen death. One by one, the eighty-four knights, priests and sergeants were forced to their feet and marched in a line from the encampment, the soldiers encouraging the slower ones with the tips of their swords. When they reached a patch of bald earth that looked out across the valley, they were ordered to their knees.

James knelt beside Mattius. He scanned the men in the gold cloaks who stood close to Baybars. He had never met his contact face to face, but knew, by the soldiers’ dress, that the one man who might be able to save him wasn’t among their number. But he hadn’t failed. He had come to the Holy Land to do something he believed in and he had done it, the price with which he paid for it his family, his life. He would never see the result of his achievement, but maybe, one day, others would. One day, the blood that would be spilt on this bare earth would dry. Flowers would grow here and generations would remember, would not forget. The world he had tried to build was not meant for him. It belonged to the future. It belonged to his son. A strange calm settled over him as he realized this. This calm was shattered by Mattius.

“By God, you Judas!” bellowed the knight, struggling to stand.

James looked for the cause of his comrade’s fury. Standing with Baybars, watching as the Mamluks drew their blades, was Leo, the Syrian soldier they had sent with their terms of surrender.

Leo stared at Mattius as three Mamluks grappled the huge knight to the ground. “I didn’t betray you. I gave the sultan’s words to you as they were given to me. I didn’t know that he would break his promise.”

“Are we to believe that when you stand free beside our executioners?”

“I have converted to the faith of Islam,” admitted Leo. “But you, too, were given the chance of life. It was your decision to choose death.”

Mattius roared like a caged bear, helpless, under the weight of the soldiers pinning him down, to do anything but watch as Leo bowed to Baybars, then walked away.

“Stop, brother!” begged James, more troubled by his friend’s frustration than by the soldiers who were lining up behind them, swords in hands. He leaned over and grabbed Mattius’s wrist. “Please, Mattius! You cannot die with such rage inside you. You must prepare your soul for the journey. Save your strength!”

Mattius’s fury subsided, his body relaxing. The soldiers released him and backed away, but kept their swords trained on him. He sat up on his knees, and lifted his bound hands to wipe a smear of dust from his cheek.

James locked eyes with Mattius as Baybars gave the order to begin the executions. “I regret we never made it to Jerusalem as we planned, brother.”

Mattius gave a bark of laughter. “What is the Holy City in comparison to Paradise?”

“God be with you, my friend.”

“And with you.”

James turned away and stared straight ahead as the swords began to fall. Below him, the River Jordan was a gold ribbon along the valley floor and the mountains to the south were red in the soft light of morning. He drank in the sight like a man taking his last drop of water before crossing a desert. The dull thuds and cracks of steel meeting flesh and bone echoed out above the grunts of exertion from the executioners. The stench of blood and urine turned the air sour. James closed his eyes as the commander was cut down. He thought of Isabel and his three daughters in Scotland, trying to ingrain their images in his mind so that he might take some small part of them with him.
God keep them safe.
Two more knights fell, then Mattius. James thought of his son in Paris, clad in the white mantle. A gust of wind that smelled of hibiscus flowers lifted his hair, cooling his damp skin. He opened his eyes and smiled. “I am proud of you, William,” he murmured, as the sword’s shadow fell across him.

G
arin watched the woman’s long fingers pluck at the laces of his undershirt. Candlelight played across Adela’s lithe, naked body, making her white skin glow. He kept his eyes on her as she pulled open his shirt and her cool hands drifted across his chest. The sounds of loud conversation and a fiddle being played badly floated up through cracks in the floorboards. From the adjacent room there came a man’s low, deep groan, followed by a girl’s laughter. A heady smell of incense hung thickly in the chamber, but the sickly sweet scent couldn’t disguise the malodor of ale and sweat and overcooked meat that pervaded the whole building. Adela leaned forward in slow, serpentine movements to kiss his neck, her thick black hair tumbling across her shoulder. Her tongue traveled feather-light toward his ear.

“Why do you keep your eyes open?” she whispered when she reached it, her warm breath sending a tiny shiver down Garin’s spine.

He had noticed that she always spoke softly when she was in the room, perhaps to disguise the almost manly huskiness he had heard in her voice when it was raised.

When he didn’t answer, she sat back slowly and studied his impassive face. “You’re a strange one.”

“I don’t pay you to talk,” said Garin, reaching up and brushing her hair away from her face. He found her eyes mesmerizing. They were large, bright and such a dark shade of blue-gray as to be almost violet.

“What do you pay me to do?” murmured Adela, sinking onto him until her breasts touched his chest.

“You know.”

“Yes,” said Adela, sliding down his stomach and tugging open the laces of his hose, “I do.”

As Adela bent forward, her hair fanning out across his stomach, Garin looked past her into the corner of the room, which was bigger than the other chambers he had seen in the building. A wicker screen partially hid a trestle and a wooden stool—Adela’s work area. On the shelves that lined the wall, he made out the globe shapes of bowls and jars beside tall clay bottles. He knew, having studied them on his first visit to the room two months ago, that the containers were filled with herbs. Among her other talents, Adela was a healer. His jaw clenched as her movements quickened and he gripped the mattress, which was split, exposing straw.

Adela, nineteen years old and the proprietor of the once-reputable guesthouse in the Latin Quarter, was the first woman Garin had been with and he was constantly amazed by how simple everything was when he was in her bed. He had been in Paris for three months and the only things he had managed to achieve were a brief meeting with the Visitor, during which he had been told that the way to a commandership lay in the Holy Land, and, subsequently, the breaking of his vow of chastity. He had thought, by escaping London, that he could begin a new life, away from the memories of his uncle that had dogged him there and the ties that had bound him.

After Jacques’ death, Garin had been assigned to an aged knight who rarely left the preceptory. He had thrown himself into his training, winning every tournament at New Temple. But it hadn’t been enough. The life he had resented, the life his uncle and mother had wanted him to live in place of his father and brothers, had worked their way into Garin’s being until he had come to realize that he wanted all the same things for himself. At first, when civil war erupted, it had been a blessing; he did not doubt, had it not occurred, that he would have been forced to undertake far more assignments than the few simple tasks, mostly sending messages, that Edward had ordered him to carry out. But although Edward’s incarceration had prevented Garin’s employment, it had also prevented the prince from rewarding him. Edward had promised to make him a lord. Even through his guilt following Jacques’ death, Garin had dreamed of this. He had imagined himself in a grand estate, with servants and stables and a whole tower for his mother. But the prince had had more pressing concerns and Garin had discovered that if he wanted these things, he would have to find them for himself.

The move to Paris had not been the solution he had been hoping for. After the Visitor had told him he would have to prove himself in war before he could hope for a commandership, Garin had spent several weeks musing on the idea of Crusading. He had heard tales of knights becoming lords in Palestine with towns and slaves and harems. But Outremer felt too far and he was scared to go all that way alone.

Feeling spasms of desire building with Adela’s adept movements, Garin reached down and grabbed the back of her neck. Catching a fistful of her jasmine-scented hair, he pulled her to him and kissed her mouth roughly, tasting himself on her lips. Sometimes he liked to tease her: to watch the way she arched her back to meet his touch, mouth parted, eyes closed. He liked to make her lose her control whilst he kept his own, every movement slow, deliberate. Not tonight. Garin rolled over on top of her and pulled her legs up over his hips, pressing himself impatiently upon her. Adela flinched at the force with which he entered her. As he drove into her, seeking oblivion, his fears and worries left him. The world outside fell away until only one single moment existed; blissful, careless.

Afterward, Garin collapsed on top of her, his breaths erratic and his mind empty for a few seconds, until Adela pushed his shoulders up and slid herself out from under him. She winced as she sat up.

Garin saw it and touched her shoulder. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, knowing that he had, but now the pleasure had gone, feeling regretful and wanting her to pardon him.

Adela looked around. “A little.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is fine.”

“No it isn’t,” he said, frowning. “Forgive me.”

“I am fine, Garin. I’ve had worse, believe me.”

Garin grasped Adela’s wrist as she went to stand. “Stay with me.”

“I have others to see tonight.”

He kept hold of her. “Just for a little while.”

Adela hesitated, then lay back. Garin rested his head on her chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath she took. The motion soothed him. Outside the window coverings, it was growing dark. He would have to return to the preceptory soon.

Adela stroked her hand gently across his shoulders. She turned her face closer to his hair. He smelled warm and clean.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” murmured Garin.

“Wouldn’t what?”

“See other men.”

Adela made no reply.

THE TOWER, LONDON, OCTOBER
21, 1266
AD

“You saw him just the once?”

“Yes, my lord. In Carcassonne, about eight months ago. There was as large a crowd there as you would imagine for a royal coronation.” Philippe, a young nobleman from Provence, watched Prince Edward stroke the tawny-gold breast of the hawk on his wrist. The prince was poised on the edge of a table in a wide fan of sunlight that slanted through a narrow window. Philippe was seated on a low stool and felt uncomfortably diminutive in the presence of the tall, erect prince. At twenty-seven, Edward had reached his full, imposing height, and his frame, although lean, was corded with muscle from years of jousting, hunting and, more recently, battle. “That’s a beautiful bird,” the nobleman said nervously into the silence.

Edward glanced at him. “She belonged to my uncle, Simon de Montfort. I took her after he was killed at Evesham.” He lifted his hand, which was protected by a padded leather glove. The hawk screeched and beat her wings, pulling on the silk jess tethered to her leg that Edward held. She screeched again, shook her plumage, then settled herself, amber eyes unblinking. “She is still a little skittish.”

Philippe’s gaze flicked to the doors. The man who had summoned him to this gloomy, drafty chamber at the top of the Tower, was still standing there. His ugly, pockmarked face was devoid of anything resembling emotion. “Is there a particular reason you want to know about Pierre de Pont-Evêque’s performance, my lord?” Philippe asked tentatively, looking back at the prince.

“I heard you talking about it the other evening at my father’s table. I was interested.”

Philippe nodded, relaxing a little. “It would seem the troubadour’s fame is spreading. Several people have asked me about him and his work since I’ve been here, but I’m afraid I could not do it justice. I said they would have to see his performance for themselves, although he isn’t to everyone’s taste. I was hoping to see him again when he reads for King Louis at the royal court in Paris, but, alas, I fear my extended visit here will prevent me.”

“Tell me of this book,” pressed Edward. “You mentioned that it is called the Book of the Grail?”

“Yes,” replied Philippe, “he reads from it during his performance. That’s where the more irreverent content comes from.” The young noble shrugged dismissively. “But I don’t see any real harm in it. He doesn’t mean anything he says literally, I’m sure.”

“And the Templars are mentioned in this book?”

“Not directly. But anyone would know who he is referring to when he speaks of men dressed in white mantles with red crosses emblazoned across their hearts. Some think he may have once been a Templar himself, expelled, but with the secret knowledge of their initiations.” Philippe chuckled. “Not that anyone much minds about the way the knights are portrayed in his reading. A lot of people believe it long past time the Templars be taught a lesson in humility. They are so proud and think themselves better than everyone else, yet I’ve heard many a man, after too much wine, exclaim he is as drunk as a Templar. And their vows of chastity? Rumor says they wench as well and as often as the rest of us. They call themselves the Poor Knights of Christ, but everyone knows they keep the wealth of kings buried beneath their churches.”

Edward scowled at this last comment and Philippe fell silent, feeling increasingly discomfited. On arriving in London, Philippe had found King Henry much older and weaker than he remembered from earlier visits, worn down by illness and hardships endured through the long imprisonment during Simon de Montfort’s rebellion and by the assault on Kenilworth, recently ended. The heads of the fallen rebels were now decorating London Bridge. Philippe had heard people in the palace whisper that Edward, not Henry, was effectively ruling the country he had been instrumental in liberating from the hands of the dissenters. He could quite see why those rumors would be circulating now he was in close proximity with the prince.

“Do you know when, exactly, the troubadour is due to perform at King Louis’ court?” Edward asked him.

“In just under two weeks. Are you planning on attending, my Lord Prince?”

Edward glanced at Rook, standing by the doors. He smiled slightly. “I have a friend who will be present.” He looked back at the noble. “You may go, Philippe. Thank you for your time.”

Philippe rose hastily and bowed. “It was my pleasure, my lord.” He bowed again, then hurried for the doors.

“Do you think it’s what we’ve been after?” asked Rook, when the doors were shut. “This book?”

“The name is the same and there are, as he said, the obvious references to the Templars. It is too close to ignore.” Edward moved off the table and went to the window. He closed his eyes, feeling his face bathed in sunlight. His hair, which had been fair when he was younger, had grown gradually darker over the past few years. In places, it was streaked with black.

Six years ago, when he had learned, first from Rook, then from a tearful, terrified Garin, of a covert group within the Temple, Edward had immediately ordered Rook to investigate the truth of it. From what Jacques de Lyons had told his nephew, this group, the Anima Templi, had had a book stolen from them, a book that detailed secret plans that could prove fatal to them and to the Temple if disclosed. Rook had been able to discover nothing of either the book’s origins or whereabouts, although he had managed to verify that there was a man called Everard, the name, according to Garin, of the head of the circle, residing in the Paris Temple. The prince had been able to confirm his great-uncle Richard the Lionheart’s involvement from an obscure reference in a document, written by Richard, that he had found while searching the archives in Westminster.
The Soul of the Temple,
the line had read,
which I have pledged to guard with my life.
Edward had planned to recruit more men to help Rook delve into the Anima Templi and its workings, but the civil war and his subsequent imprisonment had put a stop to that.

“When do you want me to leave for Paris?”

Edward turned from the window. “Within the next few days.” He studied Rook’s doubtful expression. “What is it?”

“With all due respect, I think we’re putting an awful lot of hope on one little book that may or may not have anything to do with a group that may or may not exist according to some snot-nosed whelp.”

“We have confirmed too much of what Garin told us to think it all a lie.” Rook went to speak, but Edward raised a hand. “What would you have me do? Mount a raid into the Paris preceptory to steal back my jewels? The mercenaries I sent failed to take them when they were sitting on a dockside, let alone in an iron locker thirty feet beneath ground.” Edward’s voice was calm, but his gray eyes glittered with anger. “My father grows weaker all the time. It will not be long before I am crowned. I must exert my authority now over those who would seek to dilute it when I am king. I would not let my uncle, a man I loved and admired for many years, take that power from me. Before he could, I had him killed, his limbs and head severed from his body and his bloodied torso fed to the dogs on the battlefield at Evesham. What makes you think I will let the Templars control me? I want my jewels back, Rook, and if the only way to do that is to take something precious from them for bartering, then that is how it shall be done.”

Rook nodded. “How do you want me to proceed?”

“I think it is time you paid our young friend a visit.”

“Garin?” said Rook sourly. “He went to Paris in the summer.”

“Then he will be in a good position to aid you in this task. You will need him, Rook. Besides, we have left that bird unfettered for too long.” Edward stroked the hawk’s breast. “We do not want him to forget who his master is.”