Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (23 page)

Passing the grand houses of the Lombardy merchants and Jews that looked out over the river, he struggled to recall how it was to look at Elwen without a shiver running through him. It seemed impossible, like trying to forget his own name. But he couldn’t allow himself to feel this way. By engaging in this sin, outside wedlock, he risked his knighthood, and if they married, as she had once suggested, he would never gain the white mantle, but would remain forever garbed in the black of human sin.

Forcibly banishing thoughts of Elwen from his mind, he crossed the wide bridge to the Île de la Cité, the king’s seat of power. On the streets around Notre Dame, dusty footprints marked the passage of the masons who had retired from their work on the cathedral to seek shelter from the midday sun. Will followed the footprints for a time, before crossing another, smaller bridge to the left bank.

The Latin Quarter, which housed the many colleges of the university, was bustling as usual. The colleges, established from pious donations, had sprung up over the last one and a half centuries, and men came from across the kingdoms of France, England, Germany and the Low Countries to study medicine, law, the arts and divinity under some of the West’s most eminent masters. Negotiating his way through the crowds of professors, priests and students, Will turned onto the rue Saint-Jacques that led to the Dominican college, near the parchmenter’s. Ahead, two men were blocking his path, one of whom, barefoot, clad in a ragged black robe and wearing a wooden cross around his neck, was recognizable as a Dominican. The stocky young man with the friar was speaking crossly. Will went to go around them.

“I weren’t being rude, sir,” the stocky man was saying. “I want to get to the preceptory. The Temple, the…” He waved his hand, frustrated, and said something in broken Latin.

The Dominican gave a terse reply that the young man obviously didn’t understand, then swept off down the street.

“Hell’s fire!” muttered the young man, glaring after the friar. “You’ll never get a straight answer out of a priest!”

As he passed, Will noticed that the man was wearing the tunic of a Templar sergeant. He walked over, thinking to offer directions, then stopped in amazement. The young man was taller than he remembered, although still short in comparison to himself. His face was full and broad, as was his beard, and his chest was even more barreled. The sparkling brown eyes and scruffy thatch of hair were the same, however. “Simon!”

Simon turned. After a few moments, recognition dawned across his face. “My God!
Will?
”

Will laughed and embraced him, ignoring the grumbles of a passing student who had to go around them. “What are you doing here?” he said, stepping back and looking his old friend up and down.

Simon hoisted the sack he was carrying higher on his shoulder. “I just arrived with a company of knights from London. I was following them to the preceptory, but I stopped to look in a shop and when I came out they’d gone.”

“You are definitely lost then. You reach the preceptory via the right bank. This is the left.”

Simon scratched his head, further disheveling his hair. “I was asking for directions, but no one seemed to understand me.”

Will grinned. “It may have helped if you hadn’t just asked one of the inquisitors the way to his wife’s cowshed.”

“He was an inquisitor?” Simon blew out his cheeks as he stared down the street. “Trust me.” He turned back, shaking his head in happy wonderment. “It’s so good to see you, Will. Though I’m surprised you’re not off waving your sword at Saracens.” He gestured at Will’s tunic, black like his own. “Brocart told me you hadn’t been knighted when he came back from Paris last year, but he didn’t say why.”

Some of Will’s gladness at seeing his old comrade faded. He had purposefully avoided Brocart, whom he had known as a sergeant in New Temple, when the youth had visited the preceptory. “It’s a long story.”

“You’ll have a willing ear if you’ll show me to the preceptory.”

“I have a better idea,” said Will suddenly, tucking his hand into the pouch that hung from his belt beside his falchion. He brought out the coins Everard had given him for the bronette. “Let’s find an alehouse.”

“Lead the way,” said Simon, grinning.

Will scanned the signs above the doors of the buildings. In a matter of moments, he found what he was looking for. The two youths entered a gloomy doorway that smelled of sweat and mutton, Will feeling satisfactorily rebellious.

After ordering the cheapest bottle of wine and a slab of bread from the surly proprietor, they seated themselves on a bench beside the half-open shutters. Flies drifted over the sticky surfaces of the trestles around which huddled groups of priests nursing jars of ale and arguing in slurred tones over the correct administration of the Eucharist and the wingspan of angels. Some of these establishments, Will had heard, were fronts for a darker indulgence, places where the price of a woman was less than a tankard of ale.

“You first then,” said Simon, tearing the hunk of bread in half. “What’s happened since you came to Paris?”

“Little.” Will took a drink of wine, the taste of which made him wince. “I’ve done nothing much for the last six years that didn’t involve a quill and a bad-tempered priest.”

“Brocart said you was working for a priest. I was sorry to hear about Sir Owein,” Simon added solemnly. “He was a decent man.”

“Yes,” agreed Will quietly, “yes he was.” Over time, his sense of loss had diminished, but the memory of his former master still haunted him. Perhaps more so than it would have had his new master not been quite so disagreeable.

Simon handed him some bread. “I remember King Henry coming to the preceptory soon after the knights returned from escorting the jewels. He was livid. No sooner had he jumped off his horse and he was bellowing at Master Humbert, red as a fox, saying how we shouldn’t have taken the jewels in the first place and how we’d put them and his wife in danger.” Simon whistled through his teeth. “We were all taking wagers who would throw the first punch—Master Humbert or the king. They investigated him, you know.”

Will nodded. “No one could find any proof that Henry was involved.”

“They didn’t have much chance to. When the civil war came all that was stopped.” Simon shook his head. “It’s been a strange few years. We’ve been secure enough in the preceptory; no one’s really bothered us much. But London’s been a mess and the kingdom…? We didn’t know who was in charge half the time. One day it was the king, the next, Simon de Montfort and the barons. It wasn’t long before the barons openly rebelled, saying they wanted to give more power to the people. They seized Gloucester and the Cinque Ports and part of Kent, then met the king and his army head on at Lewes.”

“We heard about that battle.”

“I’m not surprised. People were talking about it for months in England. They said Prince Edward fought like a legend, charging the rebels’ ranks at the head of his men.”

“I thought that was what lost them the battle?” said Will, biting into the hard bread. “Edward’s rashness in that charge?”

Simon shrugged. “I’m only saying what I heard. But anyway, after he was captured at Lewes, Edward escaped from de Montfort’s custody and fought the rebels at Evesham. He killed de Montfort himself and then freed his father. After that most of the rebels fled, or surrendered.”

“The war’s over now though?”

“De Montfort’s loyal supporters are still holding out at Kenilworth, but King Henry’s army has been at them for months. I reckon it’ll fall soon.” Simon drained his wine and poured himself another goblet.

The two of them lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, unused to one another’s company.

“So,” said Simon, sitting up. “Is Sir Owein’s niece still here?” He chuckled. “We all heard about her.”

Will coughed around a mouthful of wine. “Heard what?”

“That she stowed away on the ship.”

“Oh,” said Will, nodding and clearing his throat.

“Is she still in Paris?”

“Yes.” Will felt a slow flush spread across his cheeks. He sat back, sweeping his hands through his hair in what he hoped was a suitably nonchalant gesture. “Elwen is working as a handmaiden to Queen Marguerite. I see her sometimes when our duties permit. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here?”

“I’ve been promoted. The Marshal of the Paris preceptory requested me.” Simon looked embarrassed. “He was in London a few months back and his horse took sick. I managed to save it.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t hard; just had to give it the right herbs to quell its fever and keep it on its feet for a night. But I reckon I must’ve impressed him because he wrote to Master Humbert and said he wanted me as head groom in Paris.”

“All praise to you.” Will had to force his smile: Simon, son of a tanner from Cheapside, was now in a position of higher regard than his own.

“Thanks,” said Simon modestly.

Will finished his wine and stood, his head spinning a little. “I should tell you how to get to the preceptory.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

“I’ve an errand to run. I’ll be a while yet and you need to report to the Marshal. You said you came with a company of knights? I expect they’ll have reported to him already.”

“Yes, the—” Simon stopped. “I haven’t told you, have I? Someone else you know was on the ship from London. Garin de Lyons.”

“Garin?”

“Yes,” said Simon, rising and gripping the trestle to steady himself. “Mother of God, I’m drunk. Of course, he’s too stuck up his own mantle to wait for the likes of me. I reckon I’d have been walking about this place for days if I hadn’t met you.”

“Garin is a knight?” asked Will, already knowing the answer.

Simon nodded. “Well.” He clapped Will’s shoulder. “Tomorrow we can nurse our aching heads and you can tell me why you’re still a sergeant. Not that I’m disappointed,” he added cheerfully. “Who wants to be a knight?”

“Who indeed.”

After giving Simon directions to the preceptory, Will trudged down the rue Saint-Jacques, his stomach soured by the wine and his mood soured by Simon’s news. However glad he was to see his old friend, that two of his former comrades were here in Paris and established in the proper, commendable positions for men of their age and status was merely one more thing to heighten his own frustration. He tried to imagine Garin as a knight, but could only see a thin, golden-haired boy with bruises on his face. Elwen’s words came back to him.
He cannot ignore your right to the mantle forever.
A month or so back, after Everard had last refused to speak of his initiation, Will had made a promise to himself: That before the year was out he would go the Holy Land. He knew his father was stationed at Safed. If he could only get initiated within the next few months he could request a transfer. Will touched the disk-shaped pommel of his falchion. He had been quiet for too long.

Near the Dominicans’ college, he entered the narrow alley that led to the parchmenter’s. A large man came stumbling out of an inn in front of Will and they collided, upsetting the stranger’s flagon of ale, the contents of which sloshed up and spilled over his front.

“God damn it!” exclaimed the man.

“Sorry,” said Will, stepping back and seeing, by the white cross on the man’s black surcoat, that he was a Knight of St. John: a Hospitaller. “I didn’t see you.”

“Didn’t see me?” demanded the knight, swiping ineffectually at the ale soaking into his surcoat. “Are you blind?”

“As I said, I’m sorry.”

As Will went to move off, the Hospitaller grabbed his arm. “That’s not good enough!” His eyes focused slowly on Will’s tunic and he sneered. “A Templar, eh?” By his pungent breath and heavy-lidded gaze, Will guessed that the ale wasn’t the knight’s first of the day. “What are you going to do about this?” He waved the flagon.

Will pulled his arm from the knight’s grip. “I’ve apologized. I see no need to do more.”

“What’s this, Rasequin?”

Will turned at the voice to see four knights coming out of the inn, carrying flagons and looking almost as worse for wear as their companion.

The Hospitaller staggered around to face them and gestured at Will. “This Temple scum is spilling my ale and thinking to get away without paying.”

“Apologize to our man!” demanded one of the knights, a pimple-faced youth who looked only a year or so older than Will.

“I already have,” said Will, gritting his teeth. “And if your comrade wasn’t such a mule he would have accepted it.”

“You whelp!” slurred Rasequin, tossing the flagon aside and reaching for his sword.

His companions came forward as he tried to draw the sword with fumbling fingers.

“Leave the boy alone, Rasequin,” said one, who looked older than the rest. “He’s only a sergeant.”

Will flushed and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Come on, Rasequin,” insisted the older knight placidly. “I’ll buy you another.”

“After,” said Rasequin, his sword finally swinging free and causing him to lurch back a few paces, “I’ve taught this runt a lesson!”

Will drew his falchion as Rasequin staggered toward him.

“Stand down,” said the older knight to Will, “I’ll deal with this.” He grabbed Rasequin’s shoulder. “Cease, brother!”

The pimple-faced knight pointed at Will’s sword. “Look at that blade!” He sniggered. “It must be an antique!”

The knight’s laughter ceased abruptly as Will raised the sword and lunged forward. Three of the Hospitallers stepped back. The tip of Will’s sword was pointed at their comrade’s throat. Will was oblivious to everything except the face of the man in front of him. The release of anger intoxicated him: It was much more pleasant vented than dammed.

“Come on,” he goaded Rasequin, his lips pulled back in a half-grin, half-snarl. “Fight me!”

Rasequin, too drunk to be cautioned by the ferocity of Will’s gaze, lifted his blade.

“Stand down!” repeated the older knight. “Stop, God damn you!” he said to Will, who took another step forward and drew back the falchion as if to strike.

Will was halted by a tight grip on his wrist. He turned to confront his assailant, but was silenced when he saw it was a Templar who had hold of him.