Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (32 page)

“Are you sure?” Adela asked Garin.

Rook slowly relinquished his hold on Garin’s throat, his eyes on the Herculean manservant.

Garin drew a breath and nodded. “Can you let us alone for a moment?”

After a pause, she waved the manservant away. He left without a word and Adela went unhurriedly to the wicker screen that partitioned her work area and pulled down a red silk robe. She drew it around her shoulders, ignoring Rook’s poisonous gaze. She had seen plenty like him in her profession; sly, brutish men who only knew how to communicate with forked tongues and fists. As she crossed to the door, she caught Garin’s gaze. “I won’t be far.”

When she had gone, Rook looked to Garin, who swept his hose from the floor and stepped into them, yanking the laces tight. “Slut’s got a mouth on her. But I guess you’d know all about that.” He sneered. “Well, you’ve broken every other oath you took in the Temple. Poverty and obedience went a while ago, didn’t they? I suppose it’s long past time your chastity went. She’s a tasty bit too. When she’s not talking.” He looked at the closed door. “Might try her out myself.”

“You can’t.”

Rook’s eyes narrowed at Garin’s rapid response. After a moment, he began to laugh. It was a harsh, hateful sound. “You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? You, a high and mighty Templar, in love with a whore? A warrior of Christ tender on some cheap slut? Oh, this’ll keep me in humor for days this will!”

Rook’s words stung Garin’s ears. “How did you find me?” he said through gritted teeth.

Rook’s laughter subsided. “You want to be careful. I followed you from the preceptory. I take it they don’t know what you’ve been up to?”

“What are you doing here?” said Garin quickly, before Rook could start sniggering again.

Rook sat on the pallet and slid off one of his mud-spattered boots. He massaged a bony, black-soled foot. Time had not been kind to him and although he was only ten years Garin’s senior, he looked much older. He inspected a ridge of hard, yellow skin on his heel, then picked at it. “We’ve got business, you and I. Business for our master.” He glanced up at Garin and grinned. More of his teeth had succumbed to the rot that infested them since Garin had seen him last. His brown and yellow gums were warped, raw-looking. “You didn’t think we’d forgotten about you, did you?”

Garin didn’t respond. Just looking at Rook made him feel physically sick with loathing.

“Remember that book you told our master about? The one that was stolen?”

Garin decided that it was better to play along rather than resist. The sooner he answered, the sooner Rook would leave. “What of it?”

“We reckon we know where it is,” said Rook, easing a worm of black dirt out from between his toes. “There’s a troubadour who’s going to perform for the king. He’s got it, so we think. I’ve had myself a little ask-about and I’ve heard he’s already here and is going to do his recital on All Hallows.” Rook wiped the dirt from his toes on the pallet. “What do you know of Everard de Troyes?”

“He’s a priest at the preceptory. Possibly the man my uncle said was head of the Brethren. He’s also the master of a former comrade of mine from London, Will Campbell.”

Rook frowned. “Do you think this Campbell knows about the Anima Templi?”

Garin shrugged moodily. “How should I know?”

Rook scowled. “You’ll keep a civil tongue with me, boy, or your whore will miss her pleasures when I rip it out. I’ve heard the Dominicans have been trying to stop the troubadour’s performance. They’ve enlisted the help of the Temple, so my source told me. Have you noticed any unusual visitors to the preceptory these past few weeks?”

Garin kept silent for a few moments. “Yes,” he answered finally. “I’ve seen a Dominican and an old comrade of my uncle’s, Hasan.”

Rook looked pleased. “That fits with what we suspect. Hasan has been associated with both your uncle and the priest. We believe he’s some sort of mercenary for their secret group.” Rook slid his boot on with a grunt and stood up. “Our master reckons the priest will try to get the book from the troubadour. We’ll let him do the hard work, then we’ll take it from him.”

“How do you know the priest will take it?”

“Well, I guess that all depends on whether or not what you told us was the truth, doesn’t it?” Rook took a few steps toward Garin. “If it’s as precious as you said it was, then we’ve no doubt they’ll want it back. Just as they’ll want it back when we have it.”

“I told you what my uncle told me. If there was a lie uttered, it was his.” Garin paused. “What happens if the Dominicans get the book?”

“It would be better if they did. It would be easier to take it from their college than from the Temple’s vaults.” Rook grunted. “We’ll deal with that if it happens. Until the performance, you’ll be our ears and eyes in the preceptory. You’ll keep close watch on the priest and his Saracen friend for the next few days. If they take the book from the troubadour, you’ll be waiting to steal it from them.”

“What are you going to do while I’m doing all this?” protested Garin.

Rook glanced at the door. “I’ll be keeping your sweetheart company,” he said, looking back at Garin with a sly grin, “and making sure you do it right. There’ll be that lordship in it for you if you do, our master said. And this.” He reached into his russet cloak and pulled out a pouch. He held it up so Garin could see it. “Get the book and you’ll be swiving that bitch for a year.” He stuffed the pouch back into his cloak and crossed to the door. “Get dressed. I’m going to have one of those pretty little girls downstairs make me something to eat. We’ll talk about our plan some more when I’m done.” Rook headed into the passage, pushing past Adela who was standing outside.

She entered after he had gone. “Who was that?”

Garin, his cheeks flushed and his breaths shallow, didn’t answer. He chewed viciously at a fingernail, then pulled his undershirt from the screen. He paused, his hands tightening around the thin material. He wanted to rip it, feel it break and imagine that it was Rook’s neck. He gave a short cry of frustrated rage.

“Hush.” Adela crossed the chamber and eased the shirt from his grip. She let it drop to the floor and laced her hands around his neck. She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his mouth.

Garin didn’t respond at first, then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, taking deep breaths of her hair, which smelled of oranges and a spice he couldn’t place. It was a warm, exotic smell that reminded him of his mother.

On the death of her husband, after she had been forced to relinquish the estate in Lyons, Lady Cecilia had become very protective of the few valuable belongings she had been able to take to Rochester with her. One of these possessions was a box of spices that she had kept by her bedside. She used to play a game with Garin when he had been especially good, or done his lessons well. She would sit him beside her on the bed and make him close his eyes, then she would take small pinches of the different spices in the box and hold them to his nose for him to guess their names. If he got them right, he would get a taste, just a lick, of the residue on his mother’s finger. That most of the spices had lost their flavor from being taken out so often didn’t bother him, it was the soft, playful tone of his mother’s voice and her gentle touch that he had relished. Those rare, intimate moments were the only times he had ever truly felt her love.

Garin relinquished his hold on Adela abruptly. “I have to get dressed.” He went to the trestle and took up his leather sack that was lying there.

“Who is he, Garin?” repeated Adela behind him.

Garin didn’t answer.

“Tell me.”

“Mind your own business, God damn it!”

Adela’s violet eyes glittered. “I can quite easily have you
both
thrown out of here.”

“I’m sorry. I just…Can you let me alone for a moment?” Garin looked round. “Please, Adela.”

She nodded after a moment, then left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Garin pulled on his undershirt and opened his sack. At the bottom of the bag was his stained and crumpled mantle. He touched a finger to the white cloth: symbol of a knight’s purity. Rook’s words sounded in his mind, searing him.
You, a high and mighty Templar, in love with a whore?
They were so close to the words his own mind had taunted him with. But when he was here, in Adela’s bed, his status did not matter, nothing mattered except the smell and taste and feel of her. Sometimes he wondered if she had drugged him with some potion that kept him coming back to her, always hungry, never sated. As he shook out his mantle, something fell out of the folds. It was his uncle’s eye patch. He picked it up and ran his thumb in a circle over its center, where the leather was cracked with time and use. Holding it up to his eye, Garin stared at himself in the dusty, silver mirror hanging on Adela’s wall.

E
lwen lifted her skirts and stepped lightly through the mud. It had begun raining in the night and the area around the chapel was sodden. In the damp morning the majestic structure seemed rather gray and forlorn, the many stone faces that peered from its walls darkened by rain. Opposite the porch was an old yew. Elwen stooped under its low, brushy branches and waited, her eyes on the closed doors of the chapel.

In her service to the queen, Elwen had been inside Sainte-Chapelle on several occasions. But the first time had been the most memorable. She had discovered the two-story structure, hidden by a wall and surrounded by trees, two days after her arrival in Paris. She had entered the porch to peek through the doors, and it was there that King Louis had found her. Terrified that she would be reprimanded, Elwen had been astonished when the king, smiling down at her, had ushered her inside. She had tried to look everywhere at once as the king had led her through the ground floor. Her gaze was saturated by the magnificence of the interior: the monumental stained glass, the vivid colors of the murals, the lifelike statues bowing from the walls. On the first floor, the king’s private chambers, was a marble stand before an altar on which was placed a small, crooked piece of wood. Elwen had been amazed to discover that this seemingly worthless object, conveyed from Constantinople, had compelled the king to build the chapel that enclosed it. But when Louis had told her in deep, reverent tones that it was a piece of Christ’s crown of thorns, Elwen had understood completely. It was like the treasures she collected: The stick wasn’t really a stick, but the external manifestation of all that the king held dear—his faith, his dreams. They had knelt together before that fragment of ancient wood for almost an hour. Elwen had never felt so safe, so warm as she had when kneeling on the icy stones beside the King of France. She in her plain white apron and gown, hardly daring to breathe in that stillness, him in his vermilion cloak trimmed with ermine, eyes closed in prayer. Since that day, the king had rarely acknowledged her presence in his household, but, for Elwen, that single moment had been enough.

She wrapped her arms tighter about her, worried that the enchantments of Sainte-Chapelle might delay the troubadour for some time yet. She had been waiting for an opportunity to meet with Pierre de Pont-Evêque for four days, but a persistent following of twittering ladies and inquisitive lords had been continually clustered around him. Everard had said that she had to take the Book of the Grail from Pierre before the reading.

The Great Hall was now being readied for the performance: trestles set with jugs and goblets; walls decked with banners; torches lit. There was an added air of excitement and festivity as today was All Hallows. That evening, the royal court and the visiting nobles would be joining the king and his family for a special Vespers service in Sainte-Chapelle, after which would be the recital and the banquet.

In the city, the mood surrounding the troubadour’s arrival had been mixed. Many people who had been waiting to see him had been disappointed to learn that Pierre would only be performing for the king. Others, mostly priests from the local colleges, led by the Dominicans, had continued campaigning to have him banned. Louis had spent a great deal of money on the evening’s celebrations and wasn’t willing to let the performance be ruined and his guests disappointed, but Elwen had gleaned from the queen that he secretly felt he’d got more than he had bargained for by inviting Pierre to his court. He had, however, soothed some of the local colleges by saying that if he felt the code of conduct was being broken he would stop the reading immediately.

Just go to his room and take it while he’s gone.

But Elwen stayed where she was. Other than the immediate nerves the thought provoked, there was another reason why she wanted to delay her retrieval of the book. Everard had not told her everything and those missing details and the priest’s obvious desperation in coming to her intrigued her greatly. In return for undertaking this assignment, Elwen had made Everard promise to initiate Will. The priest had had little choice but to accede to her demand; she would have refused if he hadn’t. But despite the fact that she would gain something from this dangerous task, namely in Will’s gratitude and the realization of his dream, there was also a part of her that was excited by what she was about to do. She felt like one of the heroines in the stories she read. The troubadour probably has it on him anyhow, she told herself, stamping her feet in an effort to ward off the chill that was seeping into her bones.

A short time later, the chapel doors swung open and two men came out. Elwen felt a rush of anticipation. She watched them through lowered eyes as they stood in the porch talking, acutely aware of how ridiculous a figure she must look, bedraggled and half hidden by the branches of the yew. Pierre de Pont-Evêque was, as Maria had said, a comely man. Although short and slender of build, what he lacked in height and girth he made up for in the way he held himself—erect and self-assured like a man of rank. He had fine brown hair and bright blue eyes that shone with an inner intensity. Elwen averted her gaze as those eyes turned toward her.

“I look forward to entertaining you tonight, my lord,” she heard Pierre say. The troubadour’s voice was rich and resonant. “I ask that you pass on my thanks to his majesty for allowing me to view his private chapel. It is, as people say, a wonder of this world.”

His companion left the porch, cursing as the rain pelted him. Elwen, breath held, watched Pierre stroll toward her, his hide boots sloshing through the mud. His blue hose and velvet tunic were beaded with rain.

“And there, by the mist-wreathed lake, she stood. Guinevere beneath her bower, waiting for Lord Lancelot.” Pierre smiled as he parted the branches of the yew. “Tell me, lady, is it any drier in there? And, if so, might I join you?”

“No,” said Elwen, with a laugh, ducking out from under the tree. “It isn’t drier at all.”

Pierre studied her. He was shorter than she was, but Elwen felt herself shrink beneath his potent gaze.

“Then why do you stand beneath it, half frozen, when a roof of stone would offer better shelter?”

Elwen didn’t answer.

“You are one of the queen’s handmaidens?”

Elwen was surprised. She thought, if he knew her position, he might also know her purpose in speaking with him. Perhaps he was a sorcerer? “I am.” She felt her confidence ebb further. “How did you know?”

“I enquired who she was, my pretty shadow, lingering behind me these past few days. Everywhere I turned you were there.”

“Oh.” Elwen was crestfallen; she thought she had been careful.

“What is your name?”

“Grace.”

“How apt,” said Pierre, his blue eyes shimmering. “And you, Grace, do you wish to know if the tales about me are true? Was my Romance written by the Devil? Am I an evil mage, come to tempt the king from the arms of God by my sorcerer’s guile?”

“No.” Elwen stood a little straighter and made herself look him in the eye. “I seek answers from a poet of his art.”

Pierre looked slightly surprised. “Do you?” He smiled and seemed to think. “Well, I have a little time left before I must prepare for my reading. You may ask your questions, Lady Grace, but in a drier place. Perhaps we might adjourn to my chamber?” He gestured for her to walk on ahead of him. “And speak of poetry?”

On the walk through the palace, Elwen kept her head low, hoping that no one would hail her. The passages were busy with servants, clerks and courtiers, some aiding in the preparations for the performance, others going about their daily duties. Every step she took, Elwen heard the troubadour’s footfalls a little way behind her, felt his gaze on her back. When they reached the room where he had been lodged in a tower that looked down on the river, her heart was beating so hard against her chest she thought it might break free and fly off like a bird. Pierre glanced quickly up and down the empty passage, then opened the door of his chamber, ushering her inside. As he closed the door, Elwen scanned the small chamber. There were a few chests stacked against one wall and a small sack bag on a pallet, half covered by a blanket.

“The view compensates for the lack of comfort.”

Elwen turned as Pierre moved up behind her.

“Please,” he said, motioning to the window seat.

Elwen glanced out of the window as she sat. The Seine flowed far beneath her, as gray as the sky. Beyond the banks, the city was obscured by mist. She shivered as Pierre sat beside her.

“You are cold,” he murmured, clinching one of her hands between his palms and rubbing it gently.

“I was pleased when I heard you were going to perform here,” said Elwen, watching his hands making slow circles around hers. “I have always enjoyed the Romances. I’ve read some works of Chrétien de Troyes and the poems of Arnaut de Mareuil, but I’ve never had the opportunity to ask a poet where he draws his inspiration from.”

“And is that your question of me, lady?” asked Pierre, lifting her hand to his lips and blowing. “From where do I draw my inspiration?”

She nodded, feeling his breath hot on her icy skin.

“My inspiration takes many forms.” Pierre lowered her hand and took up the other. “A whispered conversation, the smell of rain on fallen leaves.” He breathed across her skin again.

“What about the works of others?” said Elwen, delicately removing her hand from his and folding it in her lap. “I have heard that many poets take inspiration from their fellows.”

“For some works.” Pierre leaned back against the curve of the window, his eyes half lidded by the upward tilt of his head. “Ancient tales, for example, that draw upon the great men and women of history. Such works are divined, of course, in the first instance from sources other than our own. But I do not need another man’s words to tell me how it is to love.” He smiled. “Therefore, most of my work comes from my heart and mind alone.” Pierre studied her, his head cocked to one side. “Have you had your fill of questions, lady?”

Elwen pushed on. “I only ask because I heard a rumor that the Romance isn’t your own work.”

“What?” Pierre’s eyes focused sharply on her. “Where did you hear this rumor?”

“Someone in the palace,” said Elwen, surprised by the change in his manner. Gone was his indolent posture. He was as alert as a deer sensing a hunter. “A servant.”

“And what did this servant say, exactly?”

“That you might have stolen the book you read from,” she replied tentatively. Elwen gasped as Pierre grabbed her arm.

“I am no
thief
!”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’re not. It was only what I heard.”

He released her slowly, as if fearing she might bolt. “I am no thief,” he repeated. “Neither am I a sorcerer, nor a Devil worshipper.”

Pierre slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees. He seemed suddenly smaller, withered somehow, as if all the air had been sucked from him. The fire was gone from his eyes and his gaze was now dull, downcast.

“When one achieves status, those without it seek to destroy you. Envy is a most effective poison. It seeps inside men’s hearts and turns them into wretches. I have spent half my life seeking fame. Now that I have it, I’m no longer sure I want it.” He looked at Elwen. “No, I didn’t write the Book of the Grail,” he said, his tone hard again, “but neither did I steal it. The rumor you heard is, as with all the rest, false and I ask that you do not repeat it.”

“I promise I won’t,” said Elwen. Pierre’s sudden change had unnerved her. She didn’t feel excited anymore. “I’m sorry,” she said, rising. “It was wrong of me to take up your time. I will let you prepare yourself for your performance.”

“Wait!” called Pierre as she made for the door.

Elwen turned nervously.

“Don’t go.” Pierre gave her a sad smile. “Many in the palace have sought my company since I arrived: ladies wishing to be immortalized in poetry, lords looking to entice me into their households where I will be a mark of their status. I’ve found myself uncommonly nervous at the prospect of entertaining such a rapacious throng in a place where I was once scorned and rejected. But your presence and your interest in my art are welcome in equal measure. I apologize for being short with you when you questioned my ownership of the Romance, but since I have been traveling I have been beset by rumor and evil accusation and, I am fairly certain, pursued.”

“Pursued?” said Elwen, pretending shock. Everard had told her that he had sent someone after the troubadour.

“In several inns I visited on my journey from the south I learned that a man had been asking questions about me, where I had stayed and when I had left and the like. A foreigner, I was told.”

“Perhaps he just wanted to see you perform?”

“Perhaps,” said Pierre, sounding unconvinced. “I stayed with a friend for several weeks in Blois and must have evaded him.” He patted the window seat. “Will you sit, lady?”

Elwen hesitated, then returned to the window seat, feeling a little surer. An idea came to her. “Might I have the loan of a blanket? I’m wet through.”

“Of course,” replied Pierre gallantly. He went to the pallet and whipped off the blanket, which he wrapped carefully around her shoulders.

Elwen held the blanket to her with one hand and took off her damp cap. She shook her hair loose, noting the way Pierre’s eyes were drawn to her tumbling curls. She had often noticed men looking at her in this way: merchants in the markets; guards in the palace corridors; Will before he checked himself; all with that same hunger in their eyes. She liked it. It made her feel unconquerable, yet, at the same time, desiring to be conquered. Whenever she saw that look, she knew, in a world dominated by men, that she, a woman, held all the power.

With a smile she sat, closer to Pierre this time, her body turned toward his. “You were speaking before of where you found inspiration for your work? I would like to hear more about that.”

“Yes,” said Pierre. “My work.” His eyes were alight again. He went to the pallet and picked up the sack bag that the blanket had partially covered. Reaching inside, he drew out a vellum-bound book and a sheaf of parchments. As he returned to the window seat, Elwen recognized the book in his hands from Everard’s description. “This is my work,” Pierre said, placing the Book of the Grail between them and handing her the sheaf of parchments. “My true work.”