Sir Henry shrugged. “No one seems to know anything with certainty. No one even knows if any of the army marched on towards Outremer, but no one seems willing to believe they did.”
“Hmph. No one on that ship is willing to say otherwise. If Frederick of Swabia or any of the other leaders march on to Palestine, the ones aboard this ship, and all the others like them who ran for home, are going to look like cowards, don't you think?”
Neither man spoke for a space then, each of them thinking through the significance of these tidings, until André said, “This alters everything.”
“How so, everything?”
“Well, not everything ⦠But it certainly alters the political urgencies that have been causing Richard and Philip and the Pope so much concern. With Barbarossa dead, the Eastern Orthodox threat to papal rule in Jerusalem is greatly eased, which will translate directly into breathing space for us and for our armies.”
“I don't follow you. It won't change anything in Outremer. Conrad of Montferrat will still be at King Guy's throat, trying to take his place.”
“Aye, but his zeal will be considerably diminished when he hears of the death of his imperial cousin. As
long as he retained the threat of Barbarossa's power to back his movements, he strutted finely. Lacking it, I think he might be more amenable to compromise than he has been. I think it certain, however, that once the word arrives in Palestine that Barbarossa is dead and his army scattered, Guy and his followers will be encouraged enough to maintain their positions and wait for Richard's arrival, however long that takes. And therefore I can see no flaw in your thinking. We will probably stay here for the winter and sail again come spring. That will breed an entirely new set of complications, but there is nothing you or I or anyone we know can do to alter any of that, so we may as well accept it.”
Sir Henry rose. “I had best be gone. I have taken too much time lately for my own concerns. And the King will probably want to talk with me, once he has absorbed these tidings. If he does decide we are to stay here until the spring, I'll have to set about building winter quarters for the whole damned army. Sweet Jesus, that is going to be a painful exercise, in this godforsaken place ⦠You stay abed and set your mind to wellness. Farewell, I will see you again tomorrow.”
IT TOOK TEN FULL DAYS
for the injuries to André's hand and wrist to heal sufficiently for him to clench his fist, and even then his fingers were still too tender and the bones of his hand too sore to permit him to exert any real strength in the clench. His forearm, elbow, and shoulder were completely restored by that time, their color almost
returned to normal, but his hand was still a fearsome sight, a mass of multicolored bruises.
On the fifteenth day after sustaining his injuries, he finally swung his feet off the bed, set them squarely on the floor, then pushed himself upright with the assistance of a stout stick in his left hand. He stood for a moment, weaving gently until he mastered his balance again, then took a deep breath and stepped away from the bed. That, at least, was what he attempted, but his feet did not move and he fell straight forward like a log, and had to be helped back onto his cot.
Three days later André was walking easily, but it was to be another week before his hand grew strong enough for him to hold a sword again with any kind of authority, and only then was he judged fit to be discharged from Lucien's care and to return to the company of his fellow novices, whose training had been proceeding throughout his absence. On the morning of the day he was discharged, Richard himself thrust open the door to the room where André sat breaking his fast with two other knights, and leaned in.
“Here,” he called to André, “you will need this.” He brought up his arm in an underhand sweep, tossing a long, sheathed sword to where André was rising to his feet. André caught the weapon and held it at arm's length, seeing that it was wrapped in a thick but supple sword belt. He turned back towards the door, but Richard had already gone, leaving the door to swing shut at his back. André looked from one of his breakfast companions to the other and saw that both were gazing
at him owlishly from beneath raised eyebrows. He shrugged and grinned, a little shamefacedly.
“I lost my other one,” he said, and then he unwrapped the belt from around the sheathed weapon and drew out the blade. It was magnificent, a King's gift, and he brought it to his eyes to admire the rippling light that played along the fold patterns of the glorious blade. It was neither elaborate nor ostentatious in its finery but simply superb in every detail, and even the heavy leather of its sheath was worked and subtly embossed, its interior of sheepskin shaved until it was no more than the suggestion of a nap. He remembered the sword he had owned before, a useful, unpretentious weapon that had given him honorable service for years, and he knew that this one was worth a hundred times as much as that had been. This was a sword fit for a king, given him by a King. He had not the slightest compunction in accepting it, for he knew that he would put it to good use in the times that lay ahead.
Returned to duty, he soon lost himself in the urgency of making up the ground he had lost to the other novices, and his injured hand hardened rapidly under the daily discipline of battle training. His days were filled once again, but far more so than ever before, with the monastic rituals and daily prayers of the Temple Rule, and when he was not praying, he was completely preoccupied with training, sharpening his fighting skills and rebuilding the strength of his sword arm. The days, weeks, and months passed by without his really being aware of their going and, more importantly, without any
real awareness on his part of the world beyond the walls of the Temple Commandery. He knew of Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany at the time of their occurrences, but solely because of the liturgical impact they had upon the daily discipline of the novices. And then he lost awareness of time again until the beginning of Lent, in early March of 1191, when the normal activities of the novices were suspended in order to accommodate a three-day period of increased prayer and fasting, called a retreat. During this time the novices were expected to do nothing more than pray and meditate in penitential silence, standing or kneeling at all times, save for the few hours when they were permitted to sleep.
On the morning they were dismissed from their retreat, directly after matins and long before the first false dawn began to lighten the sky, André was summoned by Brother Justin.
With an absolutely clear conscience, aware that he had done nothing wrong, André presented himself immediately before the Master of Novices, suspecting and hoping that this might have something to do with the Order of Sion. Brother Justin appeared as ill tempered and intolerant as ever, but he said nothing disparaging, merely nodding to André and informing him without preamble that he had been instructed to send him at once to Sir Robert de Sablé, whose quarters were inside the city of Messina.
André, struck by a sudden thought, looked down at the filthy surcoat he had been wearing for months. “Should I go as I am, Brother, dressed like this?”
Justin frowned. “Aye, you should, of course you should. How else would you go? Sir Robert knows you're a Temple novice and you have nothing to hide. Were you to go out differently, and be recognized, it could lead to the kind of questions we don't want people asking. But take a horse from the stables. De Sablé may have other work for you. Here.” He held out his hand, bearing a small scroll that he had been holding all along. “Give this to the stable master and he'll give you a decent mount. And if anyone asks you where you are going or what you are about, tell them you are on an errand from me to your father. That's what is in the scroll. Now be off with you, and whatever Sir Robert may require of you, be careful.”
IT WAS CLOSE TO NOON
that morning when Sir Henry St. Clair was finally able to return to his quarters, duty free for the time being, and he was surprised and pleased to find his son in his day room waiting for him, perched on the wooden bench that ran along the wall where Tomas, Sir Henry's loyal assistant, sat permanently on guard against those who would waste the time of the Master-at-Arms. It had been several weeks since father and son had last spoken to each other, but Sir Henry wasted no time in leading André into his private chamber and closing the door firmly behind him.
“What's wrong, Father? You look concerned.”
“I am. Why are you here? I am happy to see you, of course, but I know you must be here for some specific reason, some reason grave enough to justify your
being granted leave to come a-visiting at this stage of your training.”
André's eyebrows shot up. “How would you know about that? The details of our training are supposed to be secret.”
“Aye, like so many other things. Sit down.” As André moved to obey, taking one of the two chairs by the single large work table in the room, Sir Henry continued, “I have many friends, my son, as befits an aging man, and some of them are Knights of the Temple. As it happened, I shared a pot of ale with one after dinner a few days ago and we talked of many things, one of which was the training of this latest batch of Temple novices. He knew, of course, that you are one of those and he was merely attempting to console me for not being able to see you.” He eyed his son closely. “So come on, spit it out. Why are you here?”
“Jews, Father.” André spoke the word bluntly, deliberately, watching to see what effect it might have on his father, but whatever reaction he might have anticipated, he received nothing. Sir Henry merely blinked, then sat down across the table.
“What about them?”
“That is why I am here.”
“You make no sense, son.”
“No, Father, I fear I do, to my own ears at least. Do you recall the last time that we spoke of Jews and of the King's regard for them?” He did not wait for his father's response. “I have come here directly from Sir Robert de Sablé, and at his urging. He sent for me this morning and
had me released from my duties for the day, purely so that he could pass along to you, through me, his grave concern for your safety.”
When André paused, Sir Henry spoke out. “Well, while I am duly grateful for Sir Robert's concern for my safety and well-being, I believe that what I do and how I behave has nothing at all to do with him and should be beneath his attention. Be so good as to pass that information along to him, with my gratitude, of course.”
“No, Father, with respect, I will do no such thing. You are being obtuse. Sir Robert has no interest in chiding you for misbehavior. He fears for your welfare, because he sincerely believes it to be in the interests of the armies and the venture upon which we are engaged. He could have sent a warning to you by other means, but he chose to communicate through me for a variety of reasons, the very least of which is that he and I are friends. But the issues that concern him in this are far greater than any personal friendship.”
Sir Henry frowned slightly. “Issues such as what?”
“Policy, ambitions, politics, and schemes. William Marshall, Marshal of England, and Humphrey, Baron of Sheffield.”
Sir Henry leaned an elbow on the table's edge, tapping his pursed lips with two fingers. “Explain.”
“Do I need to, Father? It took no great understanding when it was explained to me this morning. Richard is King of England, but he is also Duke of Aquitaine and of Normandy and Count of Anjou, Poitou, Brittany, and
a host of other territories, none of which are English and all of which have offered up their men to this mission to free Outremer. You are, by title, the King's Master-at-Arms, but in reality you are Master-at-Arms to your liege lord Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, and as such you represent in your very person the identities and the hopes of every soldier in the armies of Richard and Philip who is not English. If you fall from favor and are dismissed, then William Marshall will assume your place and this entire army will fall under English control. That must not be permitted to happen.”
Sir Henry nodded slowly, agreeing but conceding nothing. “I can understand how that might be of concern, but what of Humphrey of Sheffield?”
“I am surprised that you would even ask. I know the fellow, Father. He is a gross, slovenly pig, without honor and unworthy of his knighthood, let alone a barony. It has come to Sir Robert's attention, from a source he claims is unquestionably truthful and well informed, that you have crossed paths with this swine ⦠and have, in fact, come nigh to crossing blades with him.”
Sir Henry shook his head abruptly. “Not so. I do not like the man, but I have had no active quarrel with him.”
“Can you be sure of that, Father? Would he agree? The information that Sir Robert received was that you had come to Humphrey's attention, unpleasantly, over the matter of a certain Jew called Simeon, here in Messina. Simeon was a well-known figure in this city, apparently, a merchant but not a money lender, but he
disappeared from sight, with his entire family, at an inopportune moment and has not been seen since.”
“An inopportune moment for whom?”
“For Sheffield. Who else would care? Humphrey is a rabid, dedicated Jew hater. It is one of the things, and probably the single most significant thing, that enables him to maintain the friendship, if such it is, that he shares with Richard. It is Humphrey's responsibility, it seemsâ although it is something not openly acknowledgedâto provide Jews for Richard's dinner entertainment spectacles. According to Sir Robert's informant, this Simeon had been earmarked for one such spectacle, after an altercation with one of Humphrey's associates over a debt. But he vanished, as I said, along with his family. Your name came up in connection with the disappearance, something about a warning in advance of a nocturnal visit from Baron Sheffield's men-at-arms. Humphrey believed the report and took it to the King. Fortunately for all of us, the King was ⦠preoccupied and did not have time to listen to the report. In the meantime, Sir Robert, having heard of the matter from his own spies, took it upon himself to intervene, providing an unsolicited explanation for your conduct that was a direct contradiction of the tale Baron Humphrey had received. The Baron, who is deeply in Sir Robert's debt and had no reason to suspect the Master of the Fleet would even know you, believed what he was told, and so nothing more will come of it. But Sir Robert wishes you to know what happened, and while he would not presume to tell you how to behave, he begs that you will at least be more circumspect in future.”