Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (39 page)

As Will mounted one of the palfreys, Garin left the empty stall, careful to keep out of sight, and, picking up a saddle from a bench, opened the door of another. This stall had a destrier inside, a huge, black beast of a horse. Garin clicked his tongue soothingly as he hefted the saddle onto the horse’s back. He peered over the top of the stall door. Simon had crouched down and cupped his hands to allow Everard a step-up by which to mount the second palfrey. Garin bent to fasten the girth around the horse’s stomach. He heard a rustle of straw behind him, followed by a faint inhalation of breath. He was rising, about to turn, when something solid connected with the back of his head. Garin’s vision went black and he crumpled to the ground.

W
ill and Everard took the track that led northwest from the preceptory, the morning sun blinding their eyes and the wind whipping their faces raw. The fields were bare and brown and the trees, stripped of foliage, were gaunt, splayed silhouettes against the blue sky. They rode in silence, the hoofs of their horses loud on the frosty path. Will’s thoughts were crowded with his father and with Everard’s revelations, and the priest was pensive and somber.

After about half a mile, the sound of bells echoed hollowly across the fields from the preceptory behind them and the city below for the office of Terce. Everard slowed his palfrey from a trot to a standstill. Will reined in his mount as the priest slid awkwardly from the saddle.

“Why are you stopping?”

“To pray,” said Everard, frowning at him as if it were a ridiculous question.

Will, shaking his head at Everard’s fastidiousness after the priest’s former insistence on speed, jumped down from his own horse and looped the reins over a hawthorn bush. He picked up the reins of the other palfrey, which Everard had let fall to the ground, and tethered the beast as the priest knelt on the verge, hands clasped. When away from the preceptory and unable to hear a service, knights, priests and sergeants were still expected to pray. Instead of hearing the office, they would now recite seven Paternosters.

As Will was kneeling, he caught sight of a rider some distance behind, where the track rose up before dipping down into the valley he and Everard were now in. The rider was mounted on a black horse, a destrier Will guessed by the size of it. The rider slowed as Will watched, then stopped and dismounted, disappearing from view. Will knelt down and murmured the Paternoster into his clasped hands, the words a stream of meaningless sounds that meant nothing to his troubled mind.

“There,” said Everard, when they were done, rising and shaking the dirt from his robe. He seemed a little brighter, as if the prayers had rejuvenated him. “You are quiet, sergeant,” he said, after Will had helped him into the saddle.

Will didn’t speak as he mounted. The comment had baffled him. What, he wondered, did Everard expect? “You lied to me,” he said suddenly, after they had been going for a few minutes. “All these years you knew why my father went away and you never told me why. All this time I thought he left because…” Will faltered. Everard, so far as he knew, knew nothing of his sister and, although he couldn’t be certain of anything anymore, he didn’t want to divulge this to the priest unnecessarily. “You know how much I have missed him,” he finished.

“If I had told you that,” replied Everard brusquely, “I would have had to tell you the rest and you weren’t ready to hear it.”

“And now? If Hasan had brought you the book and Elwen had never told me what you made her do, I never would have found out, would I? You’ve told me because you need me. Perhaps it was you who wasn’t ready.”

Everard glanced at him, but didn’t answer.

“And my initiation?” continued Will. He managed to keep his voice calm, but he could feel anger squirming through his confusion, wanting to leap out and lash at the priest for all the years of humiliation and criticism and deception. A large portion of that anger, however, was directed toward his father for making him believe that the departure to the Holy Land was because of him and he wasn’t ready to confront that feeling yet, so he pressed it down and continued. “When would you have knighted me if Elwen hadn’t made you agree to that deal? You’re not going to initiate me now because you think I’m ready either. You’re going to do it because you have to.” Will looked at the priest. “That’s if you have any intention of keeping your promise.”

“I won’t go back on my word,” said Everard shortly. He met Will’s stony gaze. “I’ve seen many young men go off to war as soon as they are knighted. I’ve seen very few of them return. Do not be so eager to make that journey. More often than not that path leads to death.
That
is why I kept you from your initiation, because I knew, as soon as you put on the mantle, you would make that journey.”

“Of course,” muttered Will, “because you care so much for me.”

“No, William, I didn’t want to lose such an excellent scribe.”

Will’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the priest, looking for a lie, but finding none.

“You must understand,” continued Everard, quieter now, “I have guarded these secrets for many years. It is hard to let go of something I have held so closely. Hard to trust. I trusted Armand and almost lost everything.”

“Does this mean you trust me?”

Everard flicked the reins of his palfrey. “We should pick up the pace.”

They came upon the lazar hospital shortly after crossing the rue Saint-Denis. It was partially shrouded by a copse of large oaks and they almost missed the tiny track that led up to its walls beneath the arched canopy of trees, through which sunlight made dappled patterns of the path. Three large stone buildings were set within a low-walled enclosure, with a chapel off to the right beside neat gardens. It looked like a much smaller, far less grand version of the preceptory, but appeared well kept and homely. This surprised Will. The lepers he had seen begging at the city gates had always been a hideous sight, dressed in their distinguishing rags and gloves, hair loose and matted, faces often grotesquely scarred and distorted, and he would have never imagined them living in such a tranquil, orderly looking community.

As they dismounted at the gate, Will saw a man heading toward them from one of the buildings. The gloves that he wore marked him as a leper, but, as yet, there were no signs of the disease on his face.

“Can I help you?” the man enquired, a little suspiciously, as he approached. His gaze flicked to the red crosses on their clothes. “I’m the porter here.”

Everard handed Will the reins of his palfrey. “I am looking for a friend of mine. He died last night and I believe he was brought here for burial. I’ve come to pay my respects.”

The porter’s gaze moved to Will.

“This is my squire,” added Everard, gesturing offhand to Will, who bit his tongue and turned away to hobble the horses.

“Well, there was someone brought in late last night,” replied the porter. “Although I’d say it was the dagger in his gut killed him rather than the sickness. The royal guards who brought him said he was afflicted, but I saw no evidence of it.”

“He was in the early stages,” responded Everard.

“Come in then.” The porter paused. “But be mindful that you enter our domain here. If a path is too narrow for two to walk on, then it is you who will step aside to let one of our number pass without contact. Here, we do not abide by the same laws that govern us beyond these gates.”

“Very well,” said Everard, unconcerned.

Will resisted the urge to place his hand over his mouth as they entered. Leprosy, it was said, was caused by indulging in sin, particularly lust, but it was also thought that you could catch it through physical contact, by sharing food or water with a leper, or even air. For these reasons, lepers were forbidden from touching others, congregating in crowded places such as churches and were supposed to cover their mouths in public. But as the porter showed no sign of doing that, Will breathed thinly through his nostrils, careful to stay upwind of the man as they were led through the yard, past the hospital buildings.

There were a few figures in the gardens, tending a neat row of young apple trees beside what looked to be recently harvested vegetable plots. Many of them wore strips of linen over exposed areas of their bodies and faces and all wore gloves. Some, Will noticed, were barely affected, with just the odd sore, or slight distortion to their hands. Others were in the advanced stages of the disease, after many years of infection. These men were hard to look upon. The bandages covered most of the open sores that had bubbled up on their skin, but couldn’t disguise their warped forms. Noses, the bones of which had rotted away, were squashed and distorted; teeth were gone, making mouths saggy and formless; hands were clawed like talons. Some of the men had fingers missing, others, from their stutter-steps, were obviously missing toes, and, beneath the sour tang of unripe apples, Will could smell the sickeningly sweet stench of rotting flesh.

When diagnosed with the disease, a leper would be forced to stand in an open grave whilst the Requiem Mass was said over them. Will now saw, in these men’s faces, evidence of that living death. There were no women among their number; those of the female sex were denied hospitalization and were reduced to begging on roads outside the cities.

“We had a grave opened as luck would have it,” said the porter, leading them toward the chapel. “Bertrand, we know, will pass on soon. He was still holding on last night, though, so we used his grave for your friend. From Genoa, was he then?”

Everard looked at him. “Genoa?”

“Your friend,” said the porter, passing through a gap in the low flint wall that ringed the chapel and cemetery. “He was from Genoa, the guards said.”

Will didn’t think the priest was going to answer.

After an awkward silence, Everard did. “Yes,” he muttered, “Genoa.”

Under a holly tree in the far corner of the cemetery, which lay in the chilly shadow cast by the chapel, was a freshly turned grave. “This is where we put him,” said the porter, as they came closer. “Wasn’t much of a ceremony. One of the gravediggers and myself put him in and said a quick prayer. It was dark and raining,” he added, seeing Everard’s expression.

“I will say a prayer myself,” Everard murmured, crouching down. He looked around at the porter. “Can I have a moment to myself?”

“Take as long as you want,” said the porter. “You can find your own way out?”

Everard nodded. He waited until the porter had disappeared around the side of the chapel, then turned back to the grave. He plucked the small wooden cross from the head of the mound and tossed it aside, before rising. “I can see a spade over there, sergeant.”

Will took his eyes from the cross, which had landed in a patch of nettles, and headed to where Everard was pointing. A moment later, he returned with the spade, which had been propped against a crumbled-down, mossy gravestone and was coated thickly in mud. Everard stepped back, keeping watch, as Will began to dig, turning out the wet, heavy soil. The work made him sweat despite the cold and his back ached as the pile of earth beside the grave grew higher. Finally, the spade struck something soft. Will bent down and scraped the loose soil from around the body that was revealed, wrapped in a linen shroud. He sat back on his heels when it was done, the smell of earth strong in his nostrils.

Everard hesitated for a few moments, then came forward and knelt. Slowly, he reached out his hands and carefully, tenderly unwrapped the shroud from Hasan’s head. Will looked away as Hasan’s face was unveiled, black with congealed blood and bruises, contorted and rigid, frozen in the agony he must have been in at the point of death. Everard didn’t turn his face away, but leaned forward, placed his hand on Hasan’s brow and began to whisper.

“Ashadu an la ilaha illa-llah. Wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasul-Ullah.”

Will looked back, hearing the musical chant come from the priest’s lips. It was Arabic. He knew what it meant for he had come across it in several translations he had worked on over the years.

There is no God but God. Muhammad is His Prophet.

It was the Shahada—the statement of faith that was to be said into a Muslim’s ear upon death, just as the last rites were said to a Christian. It confirmed Will’s suspicion that Everard had lied to him about Hasan’s conversion. But, with Hasan’s broken, bloodied face staring up at him, Will didn’t feel shocked or angry, instead he felt ashamed to be a fellow countryman of those who had done this to the man who had once saved his life.

“Who do you think did this to him?”

“Someone without a soul,” said Everard in reply, still holding Hasan’s brow. “Someone consumed by hatred and fear, who sees only the enemy external to themselves, not the enemy within.”

“It seems so senseless,” murmured Will.

Everard glanced at him. His pale, red-rimmed eyes were wet. “Hasan died in the service of something he believed in. How many men can say that?”

Will didn’t argue. The hopeful look in Everard’s eyes pleaded for confirmation, comfort. “Not many,” he agreed.

Finally, Everard wiped his eyes. “Help me,” he said, drawing aside the rest of the shroud.

Will bent down on the other side of the grave. The shroud caught on something sticking up from the body. After unraveling it, Will saw that it was the hilt of a dagger, still buried in Hasan’s side. Sickened, he reached out to remove it, but Everard put a hand over his.

“Leave it. It doesn’t bother him where he is now.”

They opened Hasan’s gray cloak and Everard patted him down. He began to look worried, but then slid his hand in under the dead Arab’s back and a look of triumph passed across his face. “It’s here.”

Will struggled to roll Hasan over as the priest reached in under him and pulled out a dirty, vellum-bound book. The parchment was damp, the cover smudged with mud, but a few of the gold-leaf words were still visible and glittered in the light. Everard closed his eyes as he held it and whispered something beneath his breath. A prayer, Will guessed, by the look of utter relief on his face.

“It is done,” said Everard, as he opened his eyes. “Finally, I can return to Acre to finish my life’s work.” He looked sadly, fondly upon Hasan. “Before I join him.”

“Give me the book, Everard,” came a glacial voice from behind them. “Or you will join him sooner than you think.”

They both turned, startled. Nicolas de Navarre was standing there. In his hand he held a loaded crossbow. It was pointed at Everard. He wore a black cloak over his white mantle and his long, dark hair was tied back in a tail.

“Brother Nicolas?” voiced Everard, clutching the book. He looked beyond the knight, expecting to see Gilles and the Dominicans, but the graveyard was empty.

“I knew you would send your bloodhound to fetch the book from the troubadour. But I have to say I wasn’t expecting you to use a serving girl to execute the theft. You must have been truly desperate.” Nicolas looked past the priest to Hasan’s body. “I heard that a Saracen was found murdered last night and when he didn’t return to the preceptory, I guessed it would be him. It is a shame. I wanted to use him as further evidence of your corruption. He isn’t a Christian, is he, Everard?”