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wore, and they all knew he was on guard duty, set there to ensure that no one who did not belong there would set foot in or even near the stables.
Even close up, the stable entrances looked nothing like doorways. They were merely holes knocked out of the walls that had been built across the wide front of an ancient cavern at the southwest corner of the Temple Mount to create a storage space of some kind. They were neither regular nor similar to each other, and looking idly at them, an observer would see only two gaping black spaces, ragged edged and unworthy of notice, because above them, dwarfing them into insignificance, soared the great landscaped mound topped by the former al-Aqsa Mosque, the site of the Dome of the Rock, one of the three greatest shrines of Islam, along with Mecca and Medina. Since the capture of Jerusalem in 1099, the magnificent al-Aqsa had been desecrated and profaned, converted into a royal palace to house the Christian kings of Jerusalem, and it was now the home of King Baldwin and his wife, Morfia.
The guard opened his eyes and stood up, yawning and stretching, as St. Omer and his party approached, and then he ambled across and opened the barred gate to the paddock, holding it wide until all the new arrivals had ridden in and dismounted. St. Omer and Gondemare un-saddled their own mounts, but before they could begin to brush them down, they were approached by the guard, who informed them that there was a Gathering in progress among the knights and that they were expected to join their brethren as soon as they returned. As the 300
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two knights glanced at each other, the man Jubal took St.
Omer’s reins from his hands.
“I’ll see to the horses,” he said. “You two had better join the others. Don’t forget to tell them you met the Queen.”
St. Omer straightened up, scanning the other man’s face for humor, but Jubal’s expression was unreadable.
“Thank you, Jubal, I will not forget,” St. Omer said, and nodded to Gondemare to accompany him into the stables.
Both entrances gave onto the same broad common space, but a little way inside, the remnants of a second wall, a weather barrier built of mud bricks and showing evidence that it had once contained two sets of wide wooden doors, stretched laterally, and from its midpoint another, at right angles to the first, divided the enormous area into two sections. The ceiling was high, perhaps the height of two tall men, and carved out of the rock itself, but it sank lower, in a gradual arch, as it extended to right and left. The whole interior smelled of hay and horses, and the space on the right of the dividing wall contained individual stalls that were now being rebuilt after being unused for many decades, while the section on the left had already been partitioned into simple living accommodations, with truckle cots, a few rudimentary tables and chairs, and several other crude pieces of furniture.
At the very rear of this living section, farthest from the entrance, a high, solid old wooden partition with a single narrow door divided the room again, laterally this time, Monks of the Mount
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and provided space for the monks to meet and pray in private. Another solitary guard stood in front of that door, this one a knight with no visible escutcheon, dressed in a simple white surcoat over a full suit of mail.
He drew himself upright as soon as St. Omer and Gondemare stepped through the main entrance and stood watching them until they stopped directly in front of him, at which time he asked them, in a formal, stilted voice, the reason for their being there. Each man in turn then stepped forward and whispered something into the guard’s ear, after which he nodded and relaxed visibly.
“I’m always afraid someone’s going to forget the watchword,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “It’s been too long without regular Gatherings. Good to see you fellows safely back. Did you have any fun?”
St. Omer took off the belt supporting his sheathed sword and laid it on the ground at the other man’s feet.
“Aye, we did, at the last minute. Broke an attack earlier today, less than five miles from here. Big group, too.”
Beside him, Gondemare was straightening up from laying his weapons down beside St. Omer’s. He nodded towards the closed door. “What’s happening in there?”
The guard, Geoffrey Bissot, shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but whatever it is, it was important enough to call for a full council meeting. I’ll find out what’s happening eventually, but a new man arrived today, so I know it has something to do with that. André
de Montbard. D’you know him?”
Gondemare shook his head, but St. Omer said, 302
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“Aye, I know him … at least, I used to. Haven’t heard of him in years, not since I was a tad. Where did he come from, do you know?”
“Straight out from France, by the look of him. A damsel. Arrived today, in the middle of the afternoon, and Sir Hugh sent out word immediately for everyone to gather. They only started a short time ago, not even half an hour, so they’ll still be in the ritual. Hold on, I’ll announce you.”
He unsheathed his dagger and turned to pound its hilt on the door, and when it opened in response to his summons, he saluted the inner guard, then stepped inside and announced the newcomers by name, Sir Gondemare of Arles and Sir Godfrey St. Omer. No mention of their monkish titles. Both men then entered the candle-lit space, and Bissot closed the door behind them and returned to his guard duty.
In spite of the glow from many lamps and candles, it took St. Omer a few moments before he could see clearly enough to identify the various people gathered in the shadowed depths in front of him, but eventually he saw Hugh de Payens standing in the eastern corner of the long, narrow, rectangular room, dressed in the black-and-white regalia of their Order of Rebirth in Sion, and he bowed deeply towards him, offering the traditional greeting of the latecomer to the Gathering. Beside him, Gondemare did the same, repeating the greeting word for word. De Payens inclined his head formally in acceptance of their salutations, and as he did so, the man on his right, whom St. Omer now recognized as a much-aged version of the Monks of the Mount
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André de Montbard he remembered from his boyhood, inclined his head, too, in welcome. De Payens then held up his hand in a signal to the two newcomers to remain where they were, and launched into the closing prayers of the Gathering ceremony. Everyone waited in silence, heads bowed, until the closing exhortation, “So mote it be,”
which they repeated, and then they relaxed and began to make themselves comfortable, sitting on whatever they could find, some on crudely made three- and four-legged stools, others on logs and soot-stained fireside boulders.
De Payens himself seated André de Montbard on the single wooden chair they owned, then turned to address his fellows.
“Our visitor brings word from home, brethren, and so I think he should speak first, since none of us knows what that word may be.” He turned to Montbard. “Sir André, will you address us?”
De Montbard twisted in his chair and looked around the room until he had met the eye of each of the six men surrounding him, and when he had done so, he rubbed the ridge of his long nose between finger and thumb.
“Well,” he began. “I have no great amount of things that are new to tell you, but yet I have much to say, and much to learn from you, so let me begin by offering the blessings and good wishes of Count Hugh of Champagne, Seneschal of our Order, and also those of the Governing Council. My primary mission is to inform you that Count Fulk of Anjou, who was supposed to visit you within the year, will not be able to come. The Count has pressing concerns that will keep him close to home this 304
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year, but he hopes to have all of them resolved in ample time to enable him to come next year.”
He looked about him again, then waved a hand to indicate the room in which they sat. “I must say now that this astounds me. All of it astounds me—what you have achieved, what you have done, the brief time, slightly more than a year, within which you have been able to do it. And still I do not know what you have really done …
What
have
you done, in truth?”
De Payens barked a deep laugh. “We’ve become monks, complete with shaven heads.”
“Aye, I see that. But yet you are not, are you? You have not really taken up the cloth.”
“No, not really. We remain novices. We have not yet finalized our vows. But we are in training, committed and dedicated to undertake those vows, in all solemnity, when the time is right.”
“But why, in God’s name? Why did you think it necessary to do that?”
“Because God’s name was the only thing we could imagine that would afford us even a minor chance of carrying out the impossibly wrong-headed instructions we last received from France. As monks, quartered here
in
situ
, we have at least an opportunity to try.”
“Well, certainly the orders you received were foolish and impractical,” de Montbard replied. “That is a large part of my reason for being here, sent out to modify those instructions after examining the facts of your situation. You should understand that Count Hugh knew nothing of what had been demanded of you. The in-
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structions you received through Gaspard de Fermond were issued and dispatched without the Count ever having set eyes on them. None of the Councillors responsible for issuing the commands had ever visited Jerusalem, as you must have guessed. Now please, if you will, tell me the entire tale of how you came to be here, ordained as monks and living in these … stables.”
Half an hour later, he knew everything there was to know about the brotherhood’s activities in Jerusalem within the previous year, and when de Payens finally fell silent, de Montbard sat without speaking for a while, shaking his head in admiration and wonder, before he began to ask questions.
“So, you said the Patriarch anticipated thorny problems in convincing the King to grant this petition of yours, but he obviously overcame them. What did he do?”
Godfrey St. Omer grunted, then spoke up in the clear, dry tones that bespoke his keen intellect and education.
“He did the simplest thing possible. He told the King precisely what we were hoping to do. But he did it in such a way that Baldwin immediately saw the advantages to himself in what was being proposed. As King and Commander in Chief of the Army of Jerusalem, threatened with invasion from all sides, he had always refused to deplete his defensive forces in any way—but we were not, strictly speaking, in his army, you see. We had liege lords of our own to whom we owed our primary fealty, while they in turn owed theirs to him. Therefore, being the King, he could assert his authority over them by 306
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removing us from their governance legitimately, in the name of Mother Church, while making sure at the same time that his own reputation would profit from his taking an action—a salutary, revolutionary action—that everyone would clearly see as a solid step towards the destruction of the brigands who were glutting on the pilgrims and travelers.” St. Omer waved a beckoning finger to de Payens, who took over smoothly.
“Baldwin is no fool, and we appreciated that going in, and presented our case with that clearly in mind. He appreciated at first glance that we would
cost
him nothing, and that he had nothing to lose by allowing us to do what we wished to do. At worst, he decided, we would be ineffectual, but we would still provide a visible military presence on the roads that he could point to as proof that he had made an effort. At best, on the other hand, and still at no cost to him, we might achieve at least a lessening of the pressures on the road system and the pilgrims. And so he gave us his royal leave to bind ourselves to the Church, as warrior monks—monastics—our primary fealty transferred to Archbishop Warmund and our mere existence enhancing his own reputation as a sagacious king and leader.”
“Warrior monks … I am amazed that the Pope would permit such a thing.”
“Out here, brother, Warmund, Patriarch of Jerusalem,
is
Pope, in all but name, and his needs overrode all other considerations.”
“And there are how many, seven of you?”
“Aye, seven.”
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“And will be eight.” De Montbard looked around, acknowledging each of them. “I would be honored to join you, if you will have me. Count Hugh has given me his leave to do so, and to remain here in Outremer as one of you if I so wish. Providing, as I have said, that you will have me …”
Hugh de Payens smiled. “Why would we not? You are already one of us, bound by the same vows—save that you will need now to swear a vow of chastity, in addition.
Will that deter you?”
De Montbard grinned back at him. “At my age? Not in the slightest. My wife died six years ago, and even before that, the fires had cooled. No, a vow of chastity will neither vex nor perplex me. But … But you have others here, among your number, who are neither knights nor brethren of our Order. I saw six of them, at least, when I arrived this morning, all of them dressed alike, in plain brown tunics and chain mail. Who are those men, and what function do they serve?”
De Payens turned to St. Omer. “Godfrey, would you like to answer that? It was your idea to conscript them in the first place.”
“Aye.” St. Omer rose to his feet and nodded towards Montbard. “Good day to you, Master de Montbard. You will not remember me, but I recall you clearly from my boyhood, when you used to come visiting my father, Henri St. Omer of Picardy.”
De Montbard nodded graciously. “I remember your father very well, Master St. Omer, although I fear I have no memory of you.”
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“Nor should you. I was but a boy when last I set eyes on you, and you were already a knight of renown.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then waved a hand and began again. “Those men you ask about are the main reason for our being able to do what we do. We call them sergeants, and although they be neither knights nor brethren of the Order, we trust them completely because there is not a single unknown quantity among them.