St. Omer paused, regarding his friend levelly from sunken eyes. “How long has it been since you last had any real communication with our brethren?”
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De Payens shrugged. “Too long, at least five years …
But I doubt they have been trying to reach me, for I have not been in hiding.” He thought for a moment, and then went on. “But it has been a long time since I spoke with a brother, other than yourself. There was a time, back when I first returned here, when I would sometimes meet others of our Order, and we would invariably talk of gathering together to rehearse our rituals at the very least, even if we were too small in numbers to celebrate them. Rehearsal was even more important than performance, we all knew, for the rites themselves would survive without us, and could pass for years without being celebrated. But the brotherhood, the brethren themselves, relying as we do on memory and repetition to retain the words and format, need to practice the rituals constantly—the content of them, if not the form. Most of us managed, over the years, to remain close to at least one of the other brothers, so that we could act as catechizers to each other. I kept close company at that time with a knight called Philippe of Mansur. Philippe and I fought together and practiced our ritual work together until he was killed in a skirmish on the road to Jaffa, about a year after I returned. Since then, I have done nothing. My disillusionment began soon after that …
“But then there is another thing to consider. I can read and write—I am one of the few people around here who can—so that made the task of revising and relearning words far easier for me than it could be for any of the others. And so, for a time in the beginning, as I told you, we tried to foregather from time to time. But you know Awakenings
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what it’s like as well as I do, to try to arrange something for personal motives while on active duty in the middle of a war. The men I knew in those days were all contemporaries, and we had all known each other before the Pope’s war. But then we came to Outremer with our different liege lords, and that alone kept us all far apart from one another. And men were constantly dying, too, so that where there had been a few score of us in the beginning, there were soon less than one score, and reports kept coming in of yet another and another who had fallen in battle or succumbed to one of the plagues and pestilences that thrive here.”
St. Omer watched him closely as de Payens sat with lowered head, rubbing the bony bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. In a moment, however, Hugh sat erect again and resumed where he had left off speaking.
“Then, for another while, there came a succession of new faces, eager young men, hungry for glory, with shining eyes and peeling, sunburnt faces, who had come out from France and went about shaking hands with everyone they met until they received a correct response.
Those ones were always eager to meet elder brethren and spread the word from home. We almost made it once, nine of us, but on the very day we were to meet, a caravan was attacked within three miles of where we had assembled, and we spent the ensuing night scouring the desert and rescuing hostages.” Hugh’s eyes narrowed to slits as he remembered.
“In those days, the brotherhood would still come 192
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looking for me whenever they found themselves near my camp, or if I heard tidings of one of them being in my vicinity, I would send Arlo to make contact with him, and he would arrange for me to meet with the newcomer in secret. But that could only apply, obviously, to those brethren whom I knew in person. The others, the newcomers, had no way of reaching me, and I had no means of learning who they were. And thus I fell into a growing pattern of silence that extended even to my oath brothers and the Order itself. I know that is reprehensible. It might even be unforgivable, but I can offer no excuse, other than eccentricity.”
St. Omer was peering up at Hugh from beneath his furrowed brows, and now he nodded. “Aye, which some might think of as willfulness.” The words were condemnatory, but the tone in which he uttered them was mild.
De Payens nodded. “They might. That is true. But what about you? When did you last have dealings with the Order?”
St. Omer twisted in his seat and glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure that they were still alone by the smoldering fire before he responded. “Five years ago, and they were directly concerned with you, my friend. I was carrying instructions for you from Amiens when I fell into the hands of the Turks.”
“For me, from Amiens? I know no one in Amiens.”
“You knew me.”
“Aside from you, I mean. Who else would write to me from there?”
“The Order. The letter was from the Seneschal him-
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self, Jean Toussaint, Seigneur of Amiens, second in rank only to the Grand Master.”
“Toussaint wrote to me? Why? What could he want of me now?”
“Many things, apparently, judging from the bulk of the dispatches. Unfortunately, however, I lost them when our ship was sunk at sea.”
“You lost them …” De Payens sat blinking at him, then nodded his head. “Well, you must have. You lost everything except your life, thank God. And had you no indication of what the letters contained?”
“Absolutely none. Why should I? Like you, I am decently literate, but they were none of my concern. I was coming to rejoin you, as a friend, at the suggestion of the Order, which needed my compliance to deliver documents to you. I thought no more of bringing them than I would of scratching myself. I knew that you would read them when we met, and that if you chose to tell me what was involved, it would mean that the senior brethren at home had wished me to know. But to wonder what was in there before they were delivered would have been to invite the temptation to pry, during the long nights of travel, to the imperilment of my sacred oath. Anyway, now that years have elapsed, I presume that the brethren at home have learned that I did not arrive here in Outremer and have either abandoned their intentions for you or switched them to another recipient. You have heard nothing at all from them in the interim?”
“Not a word, written or spoken. And that is really strange, because you must have left Amiens more than a 194
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year before Count Hugh left Champagne to come back here. He arrived two, nigh on three years ago, in 1114, and remained for almost a year. I was on duty in Edessa much of that time, but I did see him, albeit briefly, on several occasions, yet he made no mention of anything being sent to me. Nor did he know anything of your misadventure, now that I come to think of it. Your name was never mentioned, and we would have spoken of your disappearance, as a fellow member of the Order, had the Count known anything about it …” Hugh sat frowning for a moment. “That is passing strange, for the Count is high in the Governing Council, so I would think he must know of anything involving me.”
St. Omer waved a hand. “Not so, Hugh. The Council may have seen no need to inform anyone else of what they had required of you the previous year. After a year had passed it might have seemed less urgent, or they might not have expected to hear from you for some time to come … At any rate, we cannot begin to guess at the instructions they had issued you. It might be a good idea, however, for you to send word back now, somehow, that you are back in communication.”
“I will, rest assured on that. Lucien of Troyes is leaving to return to Champagne tomorrow, and once there he will report directly to Count Hugh, as his deputy.
Now I shall find him again and tell him all that you have told me, and he will take the word back for us.”
“Is he one of us?”
“Of course he is, otherwise I would not dream of trusting him with word of mouth. He is senior to me in Awakenings
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membership by two years, but he is from the Argonne, so you might never have met him.”
“Excellent … So be it that he is of the Order.” St.
Omer nodded, then pushed himself to his feet, where he stood swaying for a moment, waving away Hugh’s offer of help. “I am well, stay where you are. But I’m getting tired and it is growing cold. Go you now, and find this Lucien of Troyes, and be sure to tell him everything, so that he can report you had no knowledge of any task being assigned you. I can find my own cot. Sleep well, and we will talk again tomorrow.”
Hugh bade his friend good night and went looking for Lucien of Troyes, who was in the final stages of preparing for departure. The magnificent Roman rooms that the Count and his deputy had occupied for the past three years lay empty now, their furnishings cleaned out and packed for travel by de Troyes’s men, and Hugh’s steps echoed emptily as he strode across the tessellated floors. He found Sir Lucien in a tiny sleeping chamber by the front entrance to his quarters, and the knight listened intently as Hugh told him all that he had just discovered, making no interruption and nodding deeply at the conclusion of the tale, after which he promised to waste no time in reporting Sir Hugh’s story to Count Hugh, and to ask him to pass it along to the senior members of the Governing Council.
The following morning, Hugh was on hand to watch Sir Lucien depart for home, accompanied by a small but heavily armed retinue that struck out towards the coast, where a ship waited to transport them to Cyprus and 196
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from there, by various stages, home to Christendom. He knew he would hear more from the Order, now that he had broken his silence, but he had no way of knowing when that might be. For the time being he was content to wait, and to assist his friend Godfrey to regain his health and strength. He watched until the knight of Troyes and his party had disappeared from view, then turned and beckoned to Arlo, bidding him bring their swords and other weapons for sharpening.
FOUR
“There’s a damsel in the marketplace asking about you.”
De Payens lowered the blade he had
been polishing until it rested on his knee, and raised his head slowly to look at Arlo from beneath the border of the cloth that shielded his head from the blazing sun.
“Do we know him?”
“No. How could we? He’s a damsel, I told you.”
“Did you tell him where to find me?”
“What am I, a fool? If he’s to find you, he’ll do it on his own. I know how to earn your thanks, and it’s damn hard work. And it’s never through telling people how to find you. All I ever get from that is the rough edge of your tongue …”
Even as Arlo spoke, however, de Payens could see the stranger approaching behind him, from the gates of the 197
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caravanserai, closely followed by a servant leading a mule with a wooden chest strapped to its back, and he lost awareness of Arlo’s mutterings as he took stock of the newcomer––the damsel, as Arlo had called him.
It took no great amount of brain power to understand where the name damsel came from, or what it stood for. The newcomer was tall and pinkly pale in the way of all newcomers to Outremer, people who had not yet had time to adjust to the searing glare of the desert sun and the parching blast of the hot winds that blew the sand like living rasps against exposed skin.
They were instantly recognizable, their clothing too new and too unsuitable for the climate here, their colors all too bright and vibrant, their chain mail and armor still rusted and damp between the links with the moistures of Christendom and the sea passage they had just endured. It would take months in the dry desert air before their mail took on the burnished, sand-scoured look that would brand its wearer as a veteran.
Damsels were everything that the name suggested: virgins among carnivores; innocents among satyrs; pallid equestrian neophytes still untried against the fiercest horse-borne warriors in the world. The jest in Outremer was that the damsel’s pallor came of the anticipated fear of seeing his first Turkish janissary in full charge.
This one was a perfect example of the breed, with that unmistakable freshness of the new arrival. His clothing still bore the brightness of non-desert climes, and his bright, eager eyes betrayed that he had yet to see a hostile Mussulman, let alone fight one. He came striding Awakenings
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right up to Hugh’s fire and addressed him directly. “I seek Sir Hugh de Payens and was told I would find him here. Do you know where he might be?”
“You’ve found him.” Hugh, who was sitting on a rock close by his cooking fire, set down his long-bladed sword, its point towards the fire, and drew himself up, aware of the surprise on the new man’s face and of the reason underlying it, for Hugh was dressed as no Christian knight. He was unarmored and wore the long, loose-fitting garments of the local desert nomads, and now he stood up, throwing the ends of his burnoose back to hang behind his shoulders.
“I am Hugh de Payens. Who are you?”
The man took three steps forward and dropped to one knee beside the fire, reaching for Hugh’s hand and seizing it before the surprised knight could snatch it away.
“Your pardon, Sir Hugh, for my tardiness in reaching you, but I have been searching for you ever since landing at Joppa more than a month ago.” He looked up at Hugh, who was still too astonished to take back his hand.
“My name is Gaspard de Fermond. You are a hard man to find, my lord.”
“I’m not your lord, man. I am a simple knight in fee to Count Hugh of Champagne, and you should have had no difficulty in finding me. I live openly here, among the other knights.”
The newcomer flushed, but nodded his head, acknowledging that, and still refusing to relinquish the hand that de Payens was trying to withdraw. “I know that now, my lord, but when I came here at first, enquiring after 200
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you, someone sent me to Jericho, swearing you were there.”
“I told you, I am not your lord.” De Payens tilted his head to one side, looking at the man through narrowed eyes. “Now, why have you been searching for me? Who sent you to find me?”
“Pardon me, my lord, but you
are
my lord, in truth.