Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (20 page)

“Yes, sir,” said Will, raising his head.

“I met him a few times when he visited the preceptory. He is currently stationed in Acre, I believe, under Grand Master Bérard?” The Visitor shook his head. “This is very disappointing. I would have expected better from the son of such a highly respected knight.”

“One moment, brother.” It was Everard who had spoken. He had stepped forward. “Might I have a word in private?”

“Of course,” said the Visitor, looking mildly perplexed. “Wait outside,” he told Will.

As Will left the room, he noticed that Everard was looking at him interestedly. He found this somehow far more discomforting than the priest’s angry glare.

Garin lay back on his pallet, gingerly touching his split lip. The dormitory was dark and silent. The sergeants had finished their evening meal and would now be completing their chores before the last office. The bed was uncomfortable, the straw digging into Garin’s back through his thin undershirt. After a moment, he moved to the window. He didn’t want to wait till dawn when the boat would be ready; he wanted to leave Paris now. Garin stared down at the men moving through the torchlit courtyard below.

The door opened. A servant in a brown tunic entered the dormitory, holding a pile of blankets under one arm and a flickering candle in the other. The servant kept his head bowed as he shuffled into the chamber. Garin turned back to the window and chewed hard at his thumbnail, which was already bitten to the quick. The servant’s footsteps padded on the stones as he lit the candle on the table with the one he had brought. He moved from pallet to pallet, changing the blankets. Garin heard a rustle of straw then the faint clinking of coins. He spun around. The servant was by his pallet, pulling out his sack.

“No!” cried Garin, springing forward as the servant reached inside the sack and drew out a small velvet pouch. “Take your hands off—!” He halted, his words sticking in his throat, as the straggly haired, lantern-jawed servant looked up at him and grinned, showing brown stubs of teeth.

“Take my hands off what?” enquired Rook, holding up the pouch. “This?” He gave the pouch a shake.

“What are you…?” Garin looked over at the door. It was shut. “How did…?”

“Servants,” said Rook, following his gaze, “are beneath the regard of knights.” He gestured to his brown tunic. “Not worth a second look I wasn’t. A kindly sergeant told me where to find you.” He lifted his tunic, revealing the curved dagger that was in a sheath at his belt. The ill-fitting garment’s voluminous folds had concealed the blade. “You didn’t think you would get away with it, did you?”

Garin watched Rook tie the velvet pouch to his belt beside the blade. “That’s mine,” he said faintly.

“Yours?”

Garin took a step back and bumped into the window ledge as Rook drew the dagger and advanced on him.

“This gold was payment for your service, if you remember.” Rook made a circle in the air with the dagger and brought the tip to rest over Garin’s heart. “But you didn’t serve us, did you, boy? You served yourself.”

“I did what Prince Edward asked of me! I informed him of the plans for the voyage and met your men in the Golden Fleece at Honfleur to tell them
Endurance
had left.” Garin had been terrified when, two days before the voyage, Rook had brought a message from Edward, demanding that he go to the alehouse at Honfleur when the ship docked to give the mercenaries, who would be in hiding there, the signal to attack. Until that moment, Garin had hoped fervently that the prince wouldn’t act on the information he had been given; that Edward would just let the matter drop. “It wasn’t my fault your men died!” he cried, feeling the dagger’s tip press into him.

“Our men were well prepared for death. What they weren’t prepared for was being attacked by a child. A child who, after so loyally informing them
Endurance
had left, killed the one who had the jewels, giving the knights time to block their escape. Incidentally,” he said, pinching Garin’s cheek viciously between his thumb and forefinger, “they described you most accurately, the four that survived. Yellow-haired, blue-eyed, horse-faced scrap of shit, one of them said.”

“Your man was going to kill a girl!” Anger flooded through Garin, drowning his fear. “He told me no one would get hurt!”

Rook laughed scornfully.
“He told me no one would get hurt!”

“You killed my uncle!” yelled Garin, shoving Rook hard in the chest. Rook stumbled back. “I did what you asked!
And you killed him!
”

Rook recovered and slammed him back against the wall. Garin gasped as the dagger was pushed into his chest, piercing his skin. “And, now,” hissed Rook, “you’ll join him!”

Garin struggled, but Rook jammed an arm across his throat. Garin felt blood trickle down his chest inside his undershirt.

Rook leaned closer, his sour breath hot on Garin’s face. “You warned the knights, you little shit! You told them about my master!”

“No!” Garin began to choke as his air was cut off by Rook’s arm. “You have…my word!”

“Your word means as little as your life to me.”

“I didn’t tell anyone!” Garin sagged weakly against the wall.

“Stand up straight, you sniveling little wretch! You warned the knights, didn’t you?”

“No!”

“You lost us the jewels!”

“I…I can’t
breathe
!” Garin was panicking, clutching wildly at Rook’s arm. His vision was clouding. The world was turning gray. “God, please!
Don’t kill me!
”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I know things…secrets! There’s a book that was stolen…important to the Temple…a…a group in the Temple…and King Richard was involved…and…”

“What are you gibbering about?” demanded Rook disgustedly. But he loosened his hold a little.

“There’s a secret group in the Temple,” breathed Garin, taking great gulps of air. “They had a book stolen from them, from this preceptory. It could ruin the Temple.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why.”

“Horse shit.” Rook drew back the dagger. “I know you told the knights.”

Garin met Rook’s gaze. “Do it then!” he gasped. “Just do it! But I didn’t tell the knights. I swear!” He closed his eyes, tensing for the strike, the bright shock of pain. His eyes snapped open as he heard a snorting sound. Rook had stepped back, a crooked grin splitting his face. He was laughing.

“I didn’t come here to kill you, boy.” Rook laughter subsided. “But I needed to know if you had informed on us and terror makes all men honest.” He sheathed the dagger. “The loss of the jewels has aggrieved my master greatly, but he believes your continued service will, one day, repay the debt you now owe him. Before your blunder at Honfleur, he thought you most useful.”

“No,” said Garin, swiping at his wet cheeks with a shaking hand, “I cannot do it. I will not leave the Order.”

Rook’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t want you to leave the Temple. You are of much greater use to him inside than out. Your status, even as a sergeant, gives you power, power you can wield over others.”

“No,” repeated Garin forcefully. “It was on his orders that my uncle died. I won’t serve him again.”

“You will serve him, boy!” growled Rook. “And what’s more, be glad to!” His tone softened. “What awaits you in London now that your uncle is dead?”

Garin flinched at Rook’s words. “I…I don’t know.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Rook smiled sagely. “Sir Jacques was a powerful man, a man of influence. There’s few in his position, few who could offer you the same great future as he could have and you are as much to blame for his death as the one who ordered the attack.”

“The mercenaries killed him! It wasn’t my fault!”

“Their swords delivered the blow, but your tongue delivered the information that made it possible.” Rook sighed. “By your own deed, you’ve forfeited your greatest opportunity to raise up that once-noble name of yours. Wasn’t that what you wanted? Didn’t my master say he could do that for you?” Rook lifted his tunic and pulled the velvet pouch from his belt. “Here.” He tossed it at Garin, who caught it. “My master is a fair man. Keep the gold. Agree to his request and he’ll see you right, refuse and I cannot say what will happen. He, too, is a man of influence. He can make your life easy. And he can make it unbearable.”

Garin stared at the pouch for a moment, then threw it back to Rook. “It was my uncle who wanted to return our household to its rightful place. I did all this for him. Now he is dead. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

Rook was silent for a time. “And your mother?” he enquired softly. “Does it matter to her?”

Garin stiffened. “You know nothing of my mother.”

Rook looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “The Lady Cecilia is tall, a little thin for my tastes, and she has blonde hair.” He looked back at Garin. “Beautiful, isn’t it? She wears it in a cap. But she’s a pretty vision when it’s hanging all down her back.”

“You’ve never seen her.”

Rook placed a hand over his heart. “I saw her only a few days back. My master likes to know who he has in his service.” His expression hardened. “And that which is precious to them. He sent me to find your home in Rochester the day after you agreed to aid us.”

“You’re lying,” whispered Garin.

“Like I said, your mother is a pretty vision, but I didn’t think much of her charity when I knocked on her door, a poor beggar seeking alms. She had one of her servants send me away.” He leaned in close to Garin. “If I have to knock on her door again, she’ll find herself obliged to treat me more liberally. In fact, more liberally than any true lady should ever have to.” He grabbed Garin’s hand and thrust the pouch of gold into it. “So, you see, you will serve us.”

Garin, white-faced and trembling, looked up at him.

“Won’t you?” demanded Rook.

Garin gave a small nod.

“Say it, boy.”

“Yes,” spat Garin.

“That’s better. Now, I’ll send word to you at New Temple within the month. I believe my master has a few little tasks for you to be getting on with. And you can tell him all about that book you was talking about just now.” Rook chuckled as he headed for the door. “I think he’ll be very interested in that.”

“I will kill you if you hurt her,” murmured Garin, watching him go.

Rook didn’t look back.

Garin threw the pouch onto his pallet when the door had closed. He turned away, his eyes falling on the table that held the night candle. With a sweep of his arm, he sent the table flying. The candle was extinguished, plunging the room into darkness.

Will looked around as the black-painted double doors swung open and a knight came out of the Visitor’s solar. It was Sir John. Will had been standing in the passage for over an hour. He had seen Everard leave shortly after he had been told to wait outside, then return with the knight a little while later. Sir John gave him a disapproving look, then headed off down the passage. Will, his stomach churning, looked back to see Everard standing in the doorway. The priest motioned him inside. As Will entered, shutting the door, Everard moved to the hearth and stood before it, holding out his gnarled hands to the leaping flames.

“Sit,” ordered the Visitor, motioning Will to the stools before the table.

Will crossed the room, his footsteps muffled as he walked across a rug. He perched on one of the stools, his hands resting on his knees. “I’m sorry I drank the Communion, sir,” he began, having practiced this speech outside. “I missed supper and I was thirsty. But I really am sorry and…” Will trailed off and pressed his lips together at the Visitor’s unresponsive stare.

“I am glad you are repentant, sergeant, but I’m afraid that is not enough. This is a serious offense. Under different circumstances you would be brought before the weekly chapter, stripped of your tunic and expelled.”

“Different circumstances?” said Will hoarsely.

The Visitor sat back and smoothed his beard with his fingers, running them down either side of his mouth. “You apparently showed courage and initiative at Honfleur. From what I’ve been told, you are a sergeant of high caliber, a talented young man of great potential. You won the tournament at New Temple, I believe?”

Will nodded.

“I do not wish to deprive the Temple of someone with your capabilities,” said the Visitor. “And it would appear that God is watching over you.” He glanced at Everard, only briefly, but Will caught the look.

“Sir?”

“Taking these circumstances into account,” said the Visitor, ignoring him, “your punishment, we have decided, shall be thus. When you come of age in five years, you will not take the vows of knighthood as other sergeants of your status. You will forfeit the mantle for a year and a day after the appointed time of your inception.”

Will gripped the edge of the stool. Six years? Six years to wait until he took the mantle?

“You will also be whipped. If you behave like a dog you’ll be treated like one. I’ll not tolerate those who are to take the habit of the warriors of Christ behaving in a manner that is more befitting the habit of the heathen. Brother Everard has agreed to deliver the thrashing.” He nodded to Everard. “You may take him, brother.”

Will thought he saw a flicker of what might have been triumph pass across the priest’s wizened face, before Everard bowed to the Visitor and opened the doors. Will walked in a daze as Everard led him back down the passage and out into the courtyard. They walked in silence to the chapel, every step compounding Will’s dread. He had never been beaten.

After shutting the doors, Everard motioned Will toward the altar. “Quick, boy. I do not have all night.”

Will went slowly.

When they reached the dais, Everard pointed to the floor. “On your knees.”

Will knelt, his eyes catching the figure of Christ that hung from the crucifix on the altar.

“Now,” said Everard, frowning, “where is it?” He patted his black robe, then moved to the door in the side wall and disappeared into the sacristy. The silence seemed to ring in Will’s ears. When Everard returned he was holding something in his hands. Will stiffened as he saw the whip.