Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (3 page)

“Through the bars of a prison cell maybe. Listen to your elder for once.”

“Elder?” scoffed Will. “By one year.”

“One year in age maybe.” Simon tapped his head. “But at least twenty years in sense.” He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. “No, I’ll stay. Who else is fool enough to watch your back?”

Will returned his eye to the cleft. The priest was stepping down from the dais holding a sword. The bare-chested sergeant rose to his feet, keeping his head bowed.

Will had seen in his mind’s eye the priest descending to him a thousand times with the sword and had seen himself sheath the blade in the scabbard at his side. But most of all, he had imagined the hand of his father, firm on his shoulder, as he was accepted as a Templar Knight; clothed in the white mantle that signified the cleansing of all past sins.

“I’ve heard they station archers on the rooftops of some preceptories when the ceremony takes place,” continued Simon, prodding a bulge in the sack that was pressing into him. “If we’re caught they’ll probably shoot us.”

Will didn’t answer.

Simon sat back. “Or expel us.” He groaned and prodded the sack again, viciously. “Or send us to Merlan.” He gave an exaggerated shudder at the thought. When he had first arrived at the preceptory a year ago, one of the older sergeants had told him about Merlan. The Templar prison in France had acquired an ominous reputation over the years and the sergeant’s description of it had deeply affected Simon.

“Merlan,” murmured Will, not taking his gaze from the priest, “is for traitors and murderers.”

“And spies.”

The kitchen doors opened with a bang. The shafts of light filtering into the storeroom intensified in their brightness as sunlight filled the chamber beyond. Will ducked down, his back to the wall. Simon scrabbled between the sacks and wedged himself in beside Will as the sound of heavy footsteps drew nearer. There was a clatter and a muttered curse, followed by a scraping sound. The footsteps stopped. Ignoring Simon who was shaking his head, Will inched forward easing himself out from between the sacks. Padding to the door, he peered through one of the cracks.

The kitchen was a large, rectangular room divided by two long rows of benches where the food was prepared. At one end, near the doors, was a cavernous hearth in which a fire smoked and spat. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with bowls, pots and jars. Stacked on the floor were barrels of ale and baskets filled with vegetables, and suspended on hooks hanging from the rafters were pairs of rabbits, joints of salted pork and dried fish. Standing at one of the benches was a brawny man, clad in the brown tunic of a servant. Will groaned inwardly. It was Peter, the kitchen supervisor. Peter hefted a basket of vegetables onto the bench, then took up a knife. Will glanced around as Simon sat up, his scruffy thatch of brown hair appearing over the sacks.

“Who is it?” Simon mouthed.

Will moved back to him and crouched down. “Peter,” he whispered. “It looks like he’ll be here for a while.”

Simon pulled a face.

Will nodded toward the door. “We’ll have to go.”

“Go?”

“We can’t stay in here all day. I’m supposed to be polishing Sir Owein’s armor.”

“But with him out there?”

Without giving Simon a chance to refuse, Will went to the door and opened it.

Peter started, his knife poised in midair. “God in Heaven!” He recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing as he saw Will. Setting down the knife, he wiped his hands on his tunic, glancing past Will as Simon hastened out and shut the storeroom door. “What were you two doing in there?”

“We heard a noise,” said Will calmly. “We went to see what it…”

Peter pushed past him and yanked open the door. “Pilfering rations again?” He scoured the storeroom’s shadows, but could see nothing out of place. “What was it last time? Thieving bread?”

“Cake,” corrected Will. “And I wasn’t thieving, I was…”

“And you?” Peter turned on Simon. “What need has a groom in the kitchens?”

Simon hooked his thumbs in his belt and shrugged, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“The stable broom was broken,” said Will. “We came to borrow one.”

“Takes two of you to carry it, does it?”

Will stared back at him in silence.

Peter scowled. He had served the preceptory for thirty years and refused to have his intelligence insulted by these upstart adolescents. But he didn’t have the authority to force a confession from them. He looked from the storeroom to Will, then ceded with a grunt of annoyance. “Take your broom and be off then.” Returning to the trestle, he snatched up the knife. “But if I see either of you in here again, I’ll report you to the Master.”

Will hastened through the kitchen, pausing to grab a besom from the wall by the hearth. He headed outside, blinking at the sun’s brightness and turned, grinning, as Simon came out behind him. “Here.”

“How kind,” said Simon, as Will handed him the broom. “I hope your curiosity is satisfied. If a knight had found us…?” He sucked in a breath. “The next time you want someone to keep watch for you, I’ll be in the Holy Land. I expect I’ll be safer there.” He shook his head, but gave Will a broad smile that revealed his jagged front tooth, broken when a horse had kicked him. “Will I see you before Nones?”

Will wrinkled his nose at the mention of the afternoon office. He hadn’t even begun his chores and the morning was already drawing to a close. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day for all the things he was expected to do, however fast he tried to work. Between mealtimes, daily training on the field with the sword, and all the menial tasks he had to undertake for his master, there was very little time left for anything else, let alone the seven offices to God. Will’s day, as all sergeants’, began before dawn with the office of Matins, when the chapel, summer or winter, would be cold and gloomy, after which he would see to his master’s horse, then be given his orders. At around six was the office of Prime and following this, Will and his fellow sergeants would break their fast, while listening to a reading of the scriptures, then return to the chapel for the offices of Terce and Sext. In the afternoon, between lunch, chores and training, he attended Nones. At dusk there was Vespers, followed by supper, and the whole day ended with Compline. Some Templars might be proud to be known as the warrior monks, but Will resented seeing more of the inside of the chapel than his own bed. He was about to complain of this to Simon, who was already well versed in his objections, when he heard someone shout his name.

A short, red-haired boy was running toward them, scattering the hens that were pecking in the yard. “Will, I’ve a message from Sir Owein. He wants to see you in the solar immediately.”

“Did he say why?”

“No,” replied the boy. “But he didn’t look pleased.”

“Do you think he knows what we was doing?” murmured Simon at Will’s side.

“Not unless he can see through walls.”

Will grinned, then sprinted off across the yard, the sun warm on his back. Diving down a passage that led past the fragrant-smelling kitchen garden, he came out in a large courtyard surrounded by gray stone buildings. Beyond the buildings to the right rose the chapel, a tall, graceful structure built with a round nave in imitation of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Will made his way toward the knights’ quarters, which lay at the far end of the courtyard near the chapel, dodging groups of sergeants, squires leading horses and servants moving purposefully about their various errands. New Temple, the principal English preceptory, was also the largest in the kingdom. As well as extensive domestic and official quarters, the compound contained a training field, armory, stables and its own private wharf on the Thames. Commonly, up to one hundred knights were in residence, as well as several hundred sergeants and general laborers.

Reaching the doors of the two-story building that was set around a cloister, Will slipped inside and ran down the vaulted passage, his footsteps echoing. Upstairs, he halted before a heavy oak door, breathing hard, and rapped his knuckles on the wood. Glancing down, he saw that his black tunic was smudged with dust from the storeroom floor. He brushed at it with his sleeve as the door swung inward, revealing the imposing figure of Owein ap Gwyn.

The knight gestured sharply. “Inside.”

The solar, a room that some of the more high-ranking Templars shared, was cool and dark. There was an armoire against one wall, several stools in a shadowy corner that was partially concealed by a wooden screen, and a table and bench beneath the window, which looked out over the cloisters onto a square of well-kept grass. A small piece of colored glass in the trefoil cast a green glow across the piles of scrolls and sheaves of parchment on the table. Will held his head high, keeping his gaze fixed on the view outside the window as the door banged shut behind him. He had no idea why his master had summoned him, but hoped he wouldn’t be kept too long. If he managed to polish Owein’s armor before Nones, then he might be able to spend an hour on the field before the training session later that afternoon. There wasn’t that much time left available in which to practice: The tournament was fast approaching. Owein came to stand before him. Will saw displeasure etched in the furrows of the knight’s brow and his steel-gray eyes. His hope sank. “I was told you wanted to see me, sir.”

“Do you comprehend how fortunate you are, sergeant?” questioned Owein, the accent of his birthplace, Powys, thick with anger.

“Fortunate, sir?”

“To be in your position? A position denied to so many of your rank that grants you tutelage under a knight-master?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why do you disobey my commands, betraying both myself and your eminent station?”

Will said nothing.

“Mute, are you?”

“No, sir. But I cannot reply when I don’t know what I’ve done to displease you.”

“You don’t know what you’ve done to displease me?” Owein’s tone roughened further. “Then perhaps it’s your memory and not your mouth that is deficient. What is your first duty after Matins, sergeant?”

“To see to your horse, sir,” replied Will, realizing what must have happened.

“Then why, when I passed the stables, did I find the hayrack empty and my horse not groomed?”

Following Matins, the first office, Will had forsaken this chore to investigate the hole he’d discovered in the storeroom wall in readiness for the initiation. Last night, he had asked one of the sergeants with whom he shared quarters to feed Owein’s horse for him. The sergeant must have forgotten. “I am sorry, sir,” said Will in his most contrite voice. “I overslept.”

Owein’s eyes narrowed. He strode around the table and seated himself on the bench behind it. Resting his arms on the table, he laced his hands together. “How many times have I heard that excuse? And countless others? You seem incapable of following the simplest orders. The Rule of the Temple isn’t here to be broken and I will not tolerate it any longer!”

Will was slightly surprised: He had done worse than neglect to feed his master’s horse before. He began to feel uneasy as Owein continued.

“To be a Templar you must be willing to make many sacrifices and abide by many laws. You are training to be a soldier! A warrior of Christ! One day, sergeant, you will almost certainly be called to arms and if you cannot follow orders now, I cannot see how you hope to maintain order as a knight on the field of battle. Every man in the Temple must obey, to the letter, the commands given to him by his superiors, however trivial they might seem, else our entire Order will fall into chaos. Can you imagine the Visitor in Paris, or Master de Pairaud here in London failing to follow any task appointed to them by Grand Master Bérard? Failing, for instance, to send a requested number of men and horses to help fortify one of our strongholds in Palestine because they overslept on the morning the ship was due to leave?” Owein’s gray eyes bored into Will’s. “Well, can you?” When Will didn’t answer the knight shook his head irritably. “The tournament is only a month away. I am considering excluding you from entering.”

Will stared at Owein for a long moment, then breathed a sigh of relief. Owein wouldn’t bar him from the contest: His master wanted him to win as much as he did. It was an idle threat and Owein knew it.

Owein studied the tall, wiry boy, whose tunic was dust-stained and whose posture was erect, defiant. Will’s dark hair had been cropped raggedly across his forehead and several strands hung in his green eyes, giving him a hooded look. There was an adult keenness in the hard angles of his cheeks and his long, hawk-like nose, and Owein was struck by how much like his father the boy was starting to look. It was no use, he knew; anger and threats had never worked. Probably, he thought with some chagrin, because he could never stay furious with the boy for long, or recourse to more brutal punishments employed by other knights.

He glanced at the wooden screen that partitioned the solar, then back at Will. After a moment, Owein rose and looked out of the window to give himself a chance to think.

Will’s uneasiness returned as the quiet dragged on. Rarely had he seen Owein so pensive, so ominously silent. Perhaps he was wrong: Perhaps his master would bar him from the tournament. Or perhaps this was worse, perhaps…The word
expulsion
flashed in Will’s mind. After what seemed an eternity, Owein turned to face him.

“I know what happened in Scotland, William.” Owein watched Will’s eyes widen, then narrow to fierce slits as the boy averted his gaze. “If you want to make amends, this isn’t the way. What would your father think of your behavior? When he returns from the Holy Land I want to be able to commend you. I don’t want to have to tell him I’m disappointed.”

Will felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. All his air had gone, leaving him dizzy, sick. “How…? How did you know?”

“Your father told me before he left.”

“He told you?” said Will weakly. He hung his head, then shook it and looked up. “Can I receive my punishment and be dismissed, sir?”

To Owein, it was as if a mask had come down over Will’s face. That fragility was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. He watched a vein in Will’s temple pulse as the boy clenched his teeth. The knight recognized that stony resolve. He had seen it in James Campbell’s face when he had advised the knight not to pursue a request for transfer to the Temple’s preceptory in the city of Acre. James hadn’t been called to Crusade and as well as Will in London, he had a young wife and daughters in Scotland, but he had refused to listen to Owein’s counsel. Owein wondered whether he was getting through to the boy at all. It was time, he decided, to speak plainly. “No, Sergeant Campbell, you may not be dismissed. I’m not finished.”