Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (26 page)

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but Campbell has served you faithfully for six years, even though you have kept him from his inception, without cause.”

“The initiation isn’t something to be rushed, much as all young men seem to think it is these days.”

“You told me how invaluable he has become to you.”

“Campbell’s training isn’t finished,” said Everard shortly. “And until I have decided he is ready, he is to have no part in this.”

“He will never be able to prove himself unless you give him a chance. You are holding him back. He could be useful to you. To us. I know James would be pleased for him to be invited into the circle. And, brother,” continued Hasan gently, “you are not as young as you think you are. Who will continue the work here when you are gone? I cannot. Not in the West. Our work—the gathering and dissemination of knowledge—is important, but you must soon return to the East. The others need their master, especially now the conflict grows there. More must be chosen and elected.”

“You do not need to remind me of this, Hasan,” said Everard tiredly. “Had the book not been stolen I would have gone back to Acre years ago. I know I am needed there and that others must be found to replace those we have lost. But it is for my sergeant’s own good that I’ve kept silent. Once a man becomes one of the Brethren, he can never live completely in this world. He will always feel apart from it.”

“Or is it that you have kept our secrets for so long you fear to let them go? Be careful that you do not hold our ideals so close that you smother them.” Hasan pulled his cowl over his head. “You got burned by Grand Master Armand. I understand that, brother. But it is time to forget the past and look to the future. The Brethren’s aims will only be realized if there are men to uphold them. If no new members are recruited, the Anima Templi will die with this generation.”

The sun was almost down by the time Will finished the translation. He had been closeted in the dormitory all day and his hand was cramped, aching. Setting down his quill, he gathered up the two bound sheaves of parchment, the pages of one covered with a neat, flowing text, the other crowded with dark brown lines written in his own blunt hand, and left the dormitory. Will had been working on the Arabic treatise for weeks, laboring long into the night by the light of a single candle, the scratching of his quill out of time with the snores of his fellows. Because of his haste today, the ink on the last few pages was smudged and some of the lines a little askew. He had been planning to decorate it with one of the intricate borders Everard favored, but after meeting Simon yesterday, he had been filled with a sense of urgency. The finished treatise provided a good excuse with which to confront the priest.

Will made his way from the sergeants’ buildings. The sky was bloodred and the air was humid, stagnant. Approaching the main yard, he saw a figure in gray walking toward the donjon. Will slowed his pace, his gaze on Hasan, who was striding along the passage that led past the donjon to the preceptory’s entrance. After a few moments, Hasan disappeared from view. With a frown, Will continued. Reaching the knights’ quarters, he went to push open the door, but it swung inward before he touched it. A knight came out, almost knocking into him. It was Garin de Lyons.

Garin stepped back. “William.” He said nothing further and the two of them studied one another in silence.

Garin looked older than his nineteen years, older and handsome. His beard was a darker blond than his hair, which was as golden as ever. Reflected in Garin’s dark blue eyes, Will saw himself: black tunic stained and crumpled; scuffed boots; hair hanging in his eyes. When the silence became unbearable, he forced himself to smile and extend his hand. “Simon told me you had come. It’s been a while.”

Garin took his hand after a pause. “It has. Are you well?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yes.”

There was another long pause.

“How’s London?” asked Will, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Dirty, smelly, crowded.” The corner of Garin’s mouth twitched in a smile. “The same as ever.”

“What are you doing here?” Will realized that the words had come out more forcefully than he’d intended.

“I requested a transfer. There are very few opportunities for advancement in London. I have more chance of becoming a commander here under the Visitor.” Garin’s eyes flicked briefly to Will’s tunic. “Now that I’m a knight. I hear you are working as a scribe?”

Will managed to keep any sign of shame from his face. “Yes, my master, Everard, is a priest here.”

“Everard?” Garin frowned. There was a look of recognition and something else, perhaps resentment, on his face.

“Do you know him?”

Garin shook his head and the look vanished. “No. I was thinking of someone else. Well.” He moved past. “I have a meeting with the Visitor. I’d better go.”

“Listen, Garin,” said Will quickly. “I know it was years ago, but I never did tell you that I was sorry for hitting you that day. That day in the graveyard.”

“It is forgotten.” Garin paused. “We both did things back then we regret.” He nodded to Will, then swept off, the hems of his white mantle sweeping the ground.

Will watched Garin go. He rolled his shoulders, surprised by how tense he felt. It was a shock to see his former friend looking so much older. It didn’t seem so long ago that they were climbing trees and stealing fruit in New Temple.

When he reached Everard’s room, Will rapped on the door three times and waited for the summons. Everard had given him his own knock a long time ago. It was, he had decided, just another of the priest’s methods for keeping him in his place.

After a pause, came a rasping voice from within, “Enter.”

Everard was one of only a handful of men who had their own private solar and Will had never been able to discover why the priest had been afforded the luxury. On the back wall, above a narrow bed, was painted a map of the Holy Land, with Jerusalem at the center and above it the cities of Acre and Antioch. Whenever Will looked at the painting he was reminded of a knight in New Temple speaking of Antioch; one of the five most holy sees of Christendom, where the first Christians had worshipped in secret services led by St. Peter himself. The knight had spoken of a vast city, overflowing with riches and encircled by walls eighteen miles long, with a citadel raised so high on a mountaintop that it touched the clouds. Will hadn’t believed that something could be so high as to touch clouds but the first time he had seen the painting, with the castle rising from a mountain, he had thought that it might have been true after all.

Everard was sitting at the table where he worked at his translations, hunched over a book, his threads of white hair drifting like broken cobwebs about his face. A single candle spluttered in the faint breeze that came in around the edges of the tapestry covering the window. The priest glanced up as Will shut the door, scowled, then returned to his study of the pages. “What do you want, sergeant?”

Will held out the parchments. “My translation of Ibn Ismail’s treatise. I’ve finished it.”

Everard continued reading for several moments longer, then put the book down and beckoned to Will. “Give it to me.”

“Why is Hasan here, sir?”

“He is running an errand for me.” Everard snapped his fingers. “Come on, come on!”

Will was curious as to why Hasan was in Paris: He hadn’t seen the man for over a year, but he could tell that he wasn’t going to get an answer out of Everard tonight. The priest seemed in a fouler mood than usual. Will lingered by the door, thinking that perhaps this wasn’t the best moment to talk to the priest about his initiation. But Everard was waiting. Will walked over and handed him the parchments.

Everard placed the original copy carefully on the table, then flicked brusquely through Will’s translation. He glanced at the original.

“I was wanting to speak with you about something, sir,” began Will.

“Tell me what the Arabic word
asal
means, sergeant.”

“What?”

Everard looked up at him.

“Honey,” answered Will, after a pause.

“Then why is it that instead of
honey
mixed with oil of olives and cloves, your work states that oil of olives mixed with wing of buzzard is a suitable cure for fever?” Everard raised an eyebrow. “I may not be an expert in such remedies, but I would be most sceptical of the abatement of any fever should I be plied with such a broth.”

“I did tell you the text was barely readable.”

“Perhaps by the light of day the words might have been clearer. I do not doubt it will be riddled with such errors, knowing, as I do, that you hastened through this translation when it was probably too dark for you to see past the end of your nose.” Everard tossed the parchment at Will’s feet. “Do it again.”

In that moment, Will wanted to strike the priest down. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I spent hours on this transl—”

“Were you in an alehouse yesterday, sergeant?”

“What? No.”

“How odd. I was speaking with the Visitor when a young man, a groom, came to report his arrival from London. I overheard him talking to the Marshal. He seemed most excited about meeting his old comrade, Will Campbell, in the city and, one might say, rather drunk. And we both know, sergeant, how fond you are of a potation.” Everard flicked his hand toward the door. “Go. Leave me.”

“Why can you
never
finish a conversation!”

Everard looked startled at Will’s shout, then he slammed his hand down, making the small table rock. “You seem to have forgotten who is the master and who the apprentice!” He rose to his feet and took a few stuttering steps toward Will. “I whipped you once, boy. I’m quite prepared to do so again.”

Will stood his ground. “Do you think that one instance of agony could compare to six years in your service?”

Everard’s eyes widened, then he gave a harsh bark of laughter that caused him to succumb to a coughing fit. “Well,” he spat through the spasms, “if…whipping be too lenient a…punishment perhaps you should be…” He took a long rattling breath. “…sent to some God-forsaken desert garrison on the front line of war!”

“Do you mean the front line my father is fighting on? If so, then please send me there. It wouldn’t be a punishment. It would be a blessing.”

Everard grasped the edge of the table. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, making his skin look like melting tallow. “Foolish boy,” he whispered. “You haven’t seen war. Haven’t stood on a battlefield with your arms on fire from the weight of your sword, drenched in the blood of your comrades, not knowing when that final strike will deliver you to the Kingdom.”

“I was thirteen when I killed a man,” murmured Will.

“Nothing you have seen or done in your short life could
possibly
prepare you.” Everard slumped in his chair.

“Then teach me,” said Will, going to the priest. He planted his hands on the table, the divide between them seeming so much greater than the two feet of wood. “Tell me how to prepare. I
want
to know.”

“No,” muttered Everard, turning the page of his book with a trembling hand. His missing fingers ended in their withered stumps. “You aren’t ready to know.”

“What is it that I have done to deserve your scorn? Have I wronged you in some way? If I have then please tell me how I can make it right. All I’ve ever wanted is to stand at my father’s side as a Knight of the Temple. Why would you keep me from this? I don’t understand. What have you got to gain by it?”

Everard didn’t reply.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me,” continued Will hoarsely. He was horrified to feel tears prickling in his eyes, but he pushed on. “I’ve swept your floor and cleaned your chamber when you could have had the servants do it for you. I’ve sent messages, fetched and carried for you. I’ve translated God knows how many badly written, indecipherable, boring treatises on…” Will snatched up the book Everard was reading. “
Understanding the Curious Nature of Rain.
Christ!” He tossed the book onto the table.

“And how,” spat Everard, “have you performed these duties? In good grace? Without complaint?”

“If I complained it was because I was supposed to be training for knighthood. You gave me no choice but to be your scribe. It was either that, or leave the Temple. It didn’t mean I had to like it!”

“Ha!” Everard jabbed a finger at him. “So it’s all down to your position under me is it? What about your former master? Did you obey and respect Sir Owein? Never utter any objection of his demands on you?”

Will looked away. “I was young then. I’ve changed.” He looked back at Everard. “You know I have.”

“Your trouble,” growled Everard, “is that you think yourself better than anyone else. Too good to clean a floor, that’s what you think you are. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you. Here is a haughty little lord who is used to getting his own way, I said to myself!”

“That isn’t true! I’m the son of a merchant’s daughter and knight whose father paid for his admittance to the Temple and I’m proud of it. When I lived with my family, I did every chore I was given gladly.”

“And you are still proud!” shouted Everard. “That’s why you’re angry at being kept from your inception. Wounded pride!”

“No! That isn’t…”

“You look to knighthood as a source of elevation. You hate that you are beneath your friends.”

“It is hard, yes, but it isn’t the reason I want to take the vows. I told you, my father—”

“Your father!
Your father!
” Everard threw up his hands. “He isn’t here, boy! Why do you want to be a knight? If not for your father, if not to be in the same position as your friends? Why do
you
want to be a knight?” When Will didn’t reply, Everard shook his head. “Then why,” he said quietly, “should I put you forward for initiation?”

Will stood there staring at Everard’s wizened face, the silence loud in his ears. All he wanted was to see his father, to beg for forgiveness and be a son again. Since the death of his sister he had felt severed—from his family, from his position in the Temple. For the past seven years, the one thing that had kept him going was the thought of reestablishing that connection, if he did that then everything else would, he believed, fall into place. He would be a knight, like his father had wanted, he could move on from the past, begin again with a clean slate, stainless, sinless. The only thing standing in his way was this frail, unrelenting old man in front of him.