THREE
Hugh de Payens was proved correct, for the month flew by and was gone before St. Clair ever had time to think about time’s passing, so busy had he been since his return. He spent much of the time underground, laboring hard with his fellows, and much of the remaining time he spent in prayer, and in studying the mystifying charts of the underground labyrinth that had come from France. Those were kept in a chest in the records room in the monks’ quarters, and St. Clair found them fascinating, for the workings they depicted were immense and complex, and yet nothing the knights had found came anywhere close to being identifiable in the drawings.
He was working there one day, deep in concentration on one map, when André de Montbard interrupted him to deliver a summons for him to attend upon Warmund 590
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de Picquigny at his earliest convenience. Because St. Clair had been expecting the invitation, he made his way immediately to the Archbishop’s palace. He reported to the guard at the main entrance and then was led by one of the Patriarch’s cowled clerical functionaries through a maze of rooms and corridors, none of which he remembered from his previous visits. He thought nothing of that, simply assuming that the Patriarch would have his own reasons for being wherever he happened to be that day.
The cleric led him past the end of one wide gallery that St. Clair remembered as leading to the Patriarch’s personal quarters, because he recognized a magnificent tapestry that hung there. They passed by, however, and his guide conducted him beyond, to a high-ceilinged room with stone walls, a flagged, rush-strewn floor, and small, high-set windows that managed to imbue the place with a dank, chilled air that reminded St. Clair far more of northern Anjou than any other place he had seen in Outremer. His escort waved him, none too amicably, towards a high-backed chair and then withdrew, leaving him alone to sit and wait.
He had been waiting for what he estimated to be the better part of a half hour, and had long since lost the battle to restrain his growing impatience, when the heavy door at his back swung open and he rose to his feet, turning to acknowledge the Patriarch. It was not Warmund de Picquigny who strode towards him, however. Instead, it was the man he recognized from a previous visit as being the Archbishop’s amanuensis, a bishop whose name would not come to mind. St. Clair merely inclined his head, 592
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prepared to hear that the Patriarch had been detained and was unable to keep their appointment, and so he was taken aback when the newcomer fixed him with a withering, unfriendly glare and waved him back into his seat without a word of cordiality or greeting. St. Clair subsided into his chair again, clasping the end of one of its arms gently in his right hand and adjusting the dagger at his belt with the other.
The bishop took a chair behind the table by the empty fireplace, where he began to pore over a document he had brought in with him, leaving St. Clair, once again, to wait in silence. The bishop sat reading for some time, frowning portentously, St. Clair thought, and then, just as the knight was preparing to stand up and walk out in protest at such unconscionable treatment, the cleric sighed loudly, threw down the parchment—it immediately sprang back into its cylindrical shape—and peered at St. Clair, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and fingertip.
“Stephen St. Clair,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”
Stephen bit back the retort that sprang to his tongue but refused to be browbeaten by a cleric, no matter how highly ranked, and so he merely shrugged. “A bishop?”
“I am Odo de St. Florent, Bishop of Fontainebleau, secretary amanuensis to his Grace Warmund, Patriarch Archbishop of Jerusalem.” He fell silent and waited, presumably to observe the effect of his pronouncement, so St. Clair kept his face expressionless for a count of five heartbeats and then nodded, once.
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“I see.”
“The Patriarch has empowered me to interrogate you on his behalf, since his business will not permit him the time or opportunity to follow this affair in person.”
“What affair?”
Odo glared at him. “You will address me as ‘my lord Bishop,’ and you will not speak at all until required to.”
“What affair, Bishop Odo? I do not know what you are talking about.”
“This—” Odo waved a hand towards the parchment scroll on the tabletop. “The affair under investigation.”
St. Clair was ill at ease with this development, but not as badly disconcerted as Odo had presumed he would be.
He knew he had done nothing wrong—nothing, at least, to warrant interrogation by Odo of Fontainebleau or any other churchman, including the Patriarch himself. Confession and absolution was one thing, between a man, his God, and the priest or bishop who served as interlocutor, but he had done nothing to merit this kind of treatment.
And yet … Unsure of himself, he sat back into his chair.
“What are you investigating? Tell me what it is you want to know.”
“It is a matter concerning your abduction of several months ago, and this more recent disappearance of the past few weeks. It has come to the Patriarch’s attention that there are inconsistencies and irregularities in what you have said about them to your superiors and what he has been told about them from other sources. I now wish to hear the pertinent details again, so that between the 594
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two of us, his Grace and I may reach a conclusion regarding your truthfulness, or the lack of it, in this nonsensical affair.”
“Explain what you mean by nonsensical.”
There was an edge to St. Clair’s voice, and Odo’s head jerked back as though he had been slapped. “How dare you question me! You are insolent! Remember who I am, and do not force me to have you reminded.” He held up the heavy, jeweled pectoral cross of his bishop’s rank.
“This is a symbol of who I am and what I represent, and you would be well advised not to lose sight of it. You are a menial brother in a small and irregular fraternity of fri-ars. You will therefore address me with the respect to which I am entitled.”
St. Clair shifted in his seat and leaned forward, deliberately hooking his thumb around the cross-hilt of his dagger and pushing it into prominence at his waist. “Aye, my lord Bishop,” he said quietly, “at times we all need symbols to remind ourselves and others of what we are and what we represent.” He saw Odo’s eyes grow wide, and was satisfied that he had made his point. “You have come close to accusing me of lying to the Patriarch and to my brethren, Bishop Odo, and therefore I claim privilege on two counts, as knight and monk: I wish to discuss this matter with my superiors in the Order, and I wish to speak again with the Patriarch in person.”
There was a long silence, and then Odo managed to say, “Again? You wish to speak with the Patriarch
again
?”
“Of course I do, as would you yourself in similar plight. When last I spoke with Master Warmund, at the Complicities
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instigation of my superior, Brother Hugh de Payens, his lordship graciously heard my confession on these very matters that you say are now troubling him, and found me blameless. He sent me away that day shriven of all guilt. Thus, if he wishes to question me further on this matter, I will confess myself puzzled, but I will submit to his authority, so be it I may do so in person.” St. Clair waited, and then asked, “Did you not know that? The Patriarch said nothing of it to you?”
Odo somehow managed to keep his face expressionless, but his eyes betrayed his panic and confusion, and it was suddenly clear to St. Clair that the bishop had been lying. Whatever the purpose underlying this interview might be, it had nothing to do with Warmund de Picquigny. Odo had been unmasked, and now, while he scrabbled frantically for words with which to reassert himself, it was St. Clair’s turn to sit and frown, and he did so with great aplomb, leaning back into the uncomfortable chair and folding his arms on his chest, waiting for Odo of Fontainebleau to speak.
Odo, however, was in no hurry, simply because he did not know what to say. He knew he had erred badly and destroyed his own credibility, but now he had not the faintest idea of how to proceed, for no matter what he attempted now, the man facing him would refuse to comply, and Odo, still vividly conscious of the dagger at the fellow’s belt, was afraid of pushing him too far. Alice, he knew, would be livid at such a pathetic failure, after coaching him on exactly which questions to ask.
He was saved from further agonizing by St. Clair, 596
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who addressed him in a voice that evinced nothing but courtesy.
“I propose, Master Bishop, that we begin again.
Clearly you brought me here under false pretenses, hoping to gain some advantage by intimidating me while interrogating me. No need to protest, my lord—I know I am correct. I have no idea what it was you wanted, but I have nothing to hide, and I confess I am curious to know what you are looking for, so if you would care to start afresh, we can proceed.”
Odo sat staring at the young knight through narrowed eyes, fury simmering inside him hotly enough to scald his throat, although he allowed nothing to show on his face. He knew he was being offered a way out, but he was still unable to grasp it, to see the route he had to take. And finally it came to him that Alice herself would be the one best suited to resolve this entire charade.
“There is … a lady,” he began. “A lady whom I know.
A patroness of great wealth and influence who is … desirous of meeting with you, to discuss matters of mutual interest.”
“That is not possible. I am a monk. There can be no mutuality of interest between me and any woman.” St.
Clair had known instantly who the woman was, because he clearly remembered de Payens remarking, the very first time St. Clair had ever seen Bishop Odo, that the cleric spent much time in the company of the King’s second-eldest daughter. It had seemed to St. Clair at the time that there might even have been a suggestion of
too much
time attached to the comment, but he saw Complicities
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no point now in naming the princess. Even as he spoke, however, Odo was already shaking his head.
“Believe me, Brother Stephen, you need have no fears on the grounds of propriety. The lady to whom I refer is—”
“I know exactly to which lady you refer, my lord Bishop, but not even the Princess Royal can claim exemption from the laws of God. I am surprised to hear you suggest otherwise.”
For the second time in the brief course of this interview, Odo was stunned into slack-jawed speechlessness, and St. Clair realized he might have said too much.
Clearly the bishop knew nothing about his abduction by the princess, and he, as the simple monk he professed to be, could have had no plausible reason for his assertiveness. He pressed on, giving Odo no time to recover either his wits or his wind, recalling the few occasions when he had met the princess harmlessly in public, and explaining, with a sheepish smile that felt as false to him as a wooden mask, why the princess’s name had come to him so unerringly. Odo had spoken, he said, of a woman of wealth and influence, and the princess and her mother were the only Christian women of wealth and influence whom St. Clair had seen since his arrival in Jerusalem. In fact, he added shyly, should the truth be known, the princess was the only woman of rank that he had ever met since leaving his home in France as a boy, to travel and soldier with his liege lord. Thus hers was the only name in his mind when Odo spoke of a lady of influence and he had assumed … He allowed his voice to fade out, then 598
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mumbled that he could not imagine what the lady could conceivably wish to discuss with a simple, unwashed knight monk.
The bishop frowned, then nodded, too intent upon salvaging his own situation to be suspicious of the other man’s motives, and when he spoke, clearing his throat self-consciously to give his voice its most commanding timbre, his words were somber and measured, his deliv-ery pompous and unconvincing.
“I can understand your mystification, Brother Stephen, but perhaps it might relieve your mind to know that there is nothing personal involved in the lady’s desire to speak with you. To the contrary, in fact, the princess has the utmost faith in your goodwill and in your honor and integrity.”
St. Clair marveled at the way in which this bishop could so easily spout one thing at one moment and then turn completely about and say the very opposite mere minutes later. It was clear to him that the man assumed, simply because he was speaking to a knight and not to an educated cleric, that he had no need to deal with intelligence and even less need to consider his listener’s ability to differentiate between falsehood and flattery.
“The princess is deeply perturbed because of certain matters … certain
information
that has been brought to her attention recently. I have no knowledge of what, precisely, is entailed, nothing, in fact, on which to base my judgment other than my own observations of the princess herself. I gather, however, from what I have seen and heard, that there are strange but …
unspecified
goings-
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on, occurring within the confines of the stables in the Temple Mount. I suspect it may have something to do with the foundations, although I know not what that might entail.
“Whatever it is, whatever is involved, the Princess Alice now finds herself in a dilemma of great urgency.
Her natural wish, and indeed her filial duty, is to present these reports to her father the King, but such is her regard for your superior, Brother Hugh, and for yourself, that she is hesitant to proceed without making some enquiries of her own, aware that such a report, unsubstantiated and anonymous as it is, could provoke a host of troubles for you and your brethren, and most probably without need. Therefore she charged me with the task of questioning you, rather than summoning you directly into her presence. I, unfortunately, knowing nothing of the background to this affair, chose to conduct my task, as I now see, improperly and inappropriately. It would have been better, I now understand, to have been open with you from the outset.”