Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (43 page)

Elwen’s eyes searched his face.

“And I want to marry you,” finished Will.

“You don’t mean that,” she said with a short, astonished laugh.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

“But you can’t, you’re a knight! You’ve taken your vows.” Her tears spilled over. “Now we’ll never…” Her words vanished as he bent to kiss her. Slowly, she kissed him back. Will’s hold on her tightened as she opened her mouth to explore his with her tongue. She felt a flush of desire bloom on her cheeks. She reached out, took his hand in hers and tentatively placed it on her breast. She felt him tense, then relax.

Will wasn’t even aware that he was breaking his first vow as he ran his hand across her and heard a tiny sigh rush from her lips.

There was a snigger behind them.

They broke away from one another to see a servant passing by with a tray of goblets. He was still chuckling as he moved off down the corridor.

Will took her hands. “We can marry in secret. No one has to know.” Everard’s words filled his mind.
James Campbell began something. It is up to us to finish it.
“But there is one thing I must do first.”

A
dela fastened the red and gold necklace at her throat and stared at herself in her silver mirror. The glass beads were cold against her bare skin. She touched the necklace, remembering Garin saying she looked pretty in it. He had been gone for almost three hours and Rook was still downstairs, drinking her ale for free.

Earlier, Garin had come to her, pale and agitated. “I have to go to the preceptory,” he had told her. “But I’ll return as soon as I can. If all goes well, Rook will be gone tomorrow. Whatever happens, keep out of his way until then.”

“Why won’t you tell me what he’s doing here?” she had asked him. “Why does he have this hold over you? I can have Fabien make him leave. Just ask me to and I will.”

“No! Don’t anger him. Let me help him do what he came here for. He’ll leave when he’s got what he wants.”

“You are a Templar, Garin, why are you letting a snake like that treat you this way?”

He hadn’t answered.

Adela rose and went to her workbench to fetch a bottle of jasmine oil to scent her hair. A group of merchants from Flanders had arrived just after Vespers and it looked to be a busy night. Her eyes fell on her herbal, which was open at a page with a recipe for a contraceptive solution. In the margin were a few notes she had made on the best method for aborting a baby if the solution failed. A traveling physician who had stayed for a night had shown her how to do it on one of her girls who had fallen pregnant. But Adela didn’t want to abort babies: She wanted to make them. She wanted a little house with land enough for an herb garden and happy, cherubic children laughing in her kitchen while she made lavender cakes and solutions for grazed knees and nettle stings. She closed the book. Could Garin really give her that? Sometimes, in the months he had been coming to her, she had thought he might be able to, then something would upset him and he would become childish and withdrawn. Adela had never met a man who could be so selfish in one moment and so tender in the next. She wouldn’t have put up with it, only she knew that curled up beneath that irascible veneer was a tired, frightened boy with no real sense of himself, or his place in life. Some nights, he had just lain in her arms spilling hot, silent tears across her breasts. She had found herself wanting to mother and love him at the same time. She had even found herself believing the promises he had made in his euphoria—that he would take her away from this place, that she could come and live with him when he was rich and owned an estate. Time and time again she had instructed her girls over the necessity for detachment. Her weakness for the handsome, volatile knight had made her doubt herself, her life.

The door opened and Rook entered. His face was flushed with drink, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Adela reached for her robe and pulled it around her, covering her nakedness. “Is Garin back?”

“No,” said Rook, scowling. His expression changed as he watched her tie the robe at her waist, a malignant grin splitting his face. “But don’t worry, he’ll return soon enough. He knows what’ll happen if he doesn’t.”

Adela flinched at the threat within his words and the way he looked at her as he said them. But she stood her ground as he came into the room, closing the door behind him. She tensed as he walked toward her. “What are you doing?”

Rook didn’t answer, but moved past her to the stool that was placed before her mirror. He picked it up, seemed to test its weight in his hands, then frowned and dropped it carelessly to the floor. His gaze roved around the room and alighted on the bed, his frown replaced by a nasty grin. “Have you got any rope?”

“Rope?”

“Yes, rope,” he said gruffly. “With luck we’ll have a guest this evening.” He chuckled. “And we’ll want to make him comfortable, won’t we? I need rope, or strips of cloth, or…” Rook stopped, noticing the girdle on her robe. “That’ll do.”

Adela gasped as he snatched at the length of braided material. She pushed at him. “Get your hands off me!”

Rook backhanded her viciously across her face. She staggered back and sprawled to the floor with the force of the blow, her silk robe riding up to her thighs. Adela cried out as Rook bent down over her and yanked the girdle through the loops on the robe.

“Your place is on your back, whore,” he growled, standing. “Know it.”

Adela sat up, her hand pressed to her cheek, which stung as hotly as if she had been burned. She tasted blood and realized that the slap had split her lip. “Get out.” She rose, clutching her robe shut. “I don’t care who you think you are, or what you think you are doing here with me, with Garin. It stops now.”

Rook tossed the girdle onto the bed and looked back at her. “Garin should have warned you what would happen if you interfered. You’ll do as you’re told or I’ll hurt you some more.”

“And I’ll have Fabien break your legs, you bastard!” she snapped back at him, heading for the door.

Rook was on her in two strides. Wrenching her around by the arm he pinned her against the door, pressing himself on her so that she couldn’t move. Adela fought him like a cat, flinging her long-nailed hands at his face and neck, but although he wasn’t a large man, Rook had a surprising, wiry strength. He pushed his arm up under her throat, forcing her head back and crushing her windpipe so she couldn’t call out. With his free hand, he drew his dagger and held it to her eye.

Adela stopped fighting immediately. Her breaths came short and sharp from the pressure on her throat and from terror. The dagger tip glinted in her vision.

“Now,” murmured Rook, his voice low, almost soothing. “Are you going to keep quiet and find me another cord for our guest, or are you going to make me take out one of these pretty eyes?”

“Yes,” she breathed quickly.

“Yes what?” he asked, placing the dagger’s cold tip ever so lightly into the corner of her eye.

She didn’t dare move, or even blink. “I’ll help you.”

“Good,” he said, nodding his approval, “because if you kick up a fuss again, I’ll make sure there’s not enough left of you, your whores or this stinking hole to fill a tankard.” He held her for a moment longer, finding himself aroused by the little gasps she was making and the feel of her trembling body against his, then released his grip on her slowly, in case she tried to bolt.

She didn’t. Holding her robe shut with a shaking hand, Adela rooted through her gowns until she found another girdle.

Rook smiled as she passed it to him without a word. “That weren’t too hard, was it?” he said, expertly tying the lengths of braided cord to the short, squat legs of the bed. He tugged hard on each of the tethers to check that they were secure, then straightened. “Now we just have to keep ourselves busy till that wretch returns.” He turned to her. “Get on the bed.”

“What?” she said, startled by the emotionless way in which he spoke the words.

“You’re here to service men, aren’t you?” Rook nodded to the pallet. “So, service me.”

“You’ll have to pay,” she told him, trying to sound defiant, but feeling tears welling in her eyes.

“Garin will see to my bill.” Rook watched her twist her head away, the sight of her distress pleasing him. “I didn’t think it would take much to break you.” He went to her and pulled apart her arms so that her robe fell open. He stepped back, appraising her until he felt his arousal build again, then grasped her wrist and led her to the pallet.

Adela told herself that he was just another customer, that he wasn’t much worse than some of the brutes she’d had to service over the years. But she couldn’t stop the tears falling as Rook climbed on top of her, his fetid breath hot on her face.

THE TEMPLE, PARIS, NOVEMBER
2, 1266
AD

“How long will you be gone for?” asked Simon, placing a second saddle on the bench.

“I don’t know,” said Will. “A few weeks maybe.” He shivered and wiped his brow, which felt cold and clammy. His hand came back wet.

“I don’t like this,” said Simon adamantly. “What will you do if you catch up with Nicolas? There’s four of them and, I don’t mean to be rude, but Everard’s hardly up to a fight and you…?” Simon sucked on his lip as he looked at Will. “You look as if you couldn’t pick up a sword at the moment, let alone wield one.” He went to Will and put a hand awkwardly on his friend’s shoulder. “You haven’t said a word about your father, Will, not since we heard about Safed.”

“We’re not going to confront Nicolas,” said Will, moving away and taking down two sets of reins from one of the hooks on the stable wall. He passed them to Simon. “If he’s planning on going to Acre, he’ll have to wait for a ship. Everard will enlist the help of knights from our base at La Rochelle. We’ll arrest and detain Nicolas and his brothers there.”

“But why do you have to go? Can’t Everard have the Visitor send knights after them from here?”

“There would be too many questions asked that Everard doesn’t want to answer just yet. The knights at La Rochelle won’t know Nicolas.”

“Well, I’m surprised the stable master’s even letting you take these horses,” said Simon, irritated at Will’s lack of regard for his concerns. “He told me you lost the other ones.”

“We got them back,” said Will, picking up the sacks Everard had given him that were to be filled with supplies from the kitchens. That afternoon, a knight riding in from one of the preceptory’s farmsteads near Saint-Denis had come across the two missing palfreys wandering loose in a field and, seeing that they bore the Temple’s brand, had brought them in. The stable master had had no choice but to agree when Everard had come to the stables an hour ago ordering two mounts to be shod and readied for dawn.

“Sir Campbell?” A sergeant appeared in the stable’s entrance. He bowed to Will. “I’ve a message for you. I was given it some time ago, but I haven’t been able to find you.”

“I’ve been out. What is the message?”

“A boy delivered it to the gate when I was on duty. He said a woman called Elwen had told him to pass it on to you. He said she wants you to meet her in an alehouse in the Latin Quarter called the Seven Stars. It’s on the street that leads up the hill to the Abbey of Saint Geneviève, he said.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, sir,” replied the sergeant. “That was it.” He bowed again, then headed off.

Frowning, Will slung the sacks onto the bench.

“What are you doing?” asked Simon, watching as Will picked up his mantle, which he had taken off and placed on a hay bale. “You’re not going, are you?”

Will didn’t answer.

“You’ve got to get ready, get your supplies,” said Simon. “And what’s she doing in an alehouse anyway?”

“I don’t know,” replied Will, wearily slinging his mantle around his shoulders. “But I asked Elwen to be my wife this evening. I have to go.”

“You did what?” said Simon, staring at Will as he opened the stall door and led out a sprightly tan gelding. “How could you? You’re a knight! Will, you can’t!”

“I won’t be long,” insisted Will, “just pass me one of those saddles.”

THE SEVEN STARS, PARIS, NOVEMBER
2, 1266
AD

Garin entered the tavern by the back door and, slipping through the crowded downstairs room, hastened up the stairs. He pushed open the door to Adela’s room. Rook was standing by the pallet, tying up his hose. Adela was sitting hunched on the bed, knees pressed to her chest. There was a red imprint shaped like a hand on her cheek and her lip looked swollen. She was naked.

Garin looked at Rook as Adela turned away and picked up her robe, unable to meet his gaze. “What did you do?”

“You took your time,” said Rook shortly. He took in Garin’s expression, savored it, then grinned. “You shouldn’t have been so long, should you.” He finished tying up his hose. “Well? Is it done? Did you get the message to him?”

Garin took one last look at Adela, then turned and sprinted down the passage, ignoring Rook’s shouts for him to stop. Pounding downstairs, he threw open the alehouse door and fled into the cold darkness, tears of rage burning his eyes.

T
he alehouse door was barred. Will pushed against it with his shoulder, but it didn’t budge and so he pounded on the sturdy wood with his fist. The sounds of voices and laughter from within didn’t dissipate. In the square outside the building were several horses and wagons and a few men, possibly drivers or squires, standing around a small fire, their conversation made visible by their white plumes of breath. It was fully dark now and a half-moon had risen, high and bright, turning the rooftops silver. Will was about to knock again when a bolt rattled and the door swung open. The noise became instantly louder and washed out over him, along with hot air that smelled of perfumed oils and beer. A mountain of a man with black hair and thick, shaggy eyebrows was framed in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“I’m meeting someone here,” said Will.

The man didn’t answer, but stepped aside.

Will stopped just inside the chamber as the huge man shut the door behind him. It took once glance around the room for him to realize that, although he had never visited one, this was a certain type of alehouse that he and Robert had sometimes joked, nebulously, about. There were twenty or thirty men in various states of dress and inebriation: sitting at benches where the remnants of an evening meal were scattered; dancing to the energetic sawing of a half-cut fiddle player; standing about talking and laughing raucously. But it was the room’s other occupants that so arrested Will’s attention. For every two men there was a woman, bejeweled and redlipped. Many of them wore revealing silk gowns, others just long skirts and some nothing at all. Will’s eyes refused to look away as his gaze fell on one woman, who was sitting at a bench in front of him on the lap of a well-dressed man. The man, a merchant by the cut of his clothes, had a hand curled around one of her breasts and was sucking greedily at her large, brown nipple. The woman, meanwhile, was chatting animatedly over his shoulder to a plump brunette. Will tore his gaze away to look around at the large man. “I think I might have got the wrong place.”

“Is it Elwen you are meeting?” asked the man, his eyes on Will’s white mantle.

Will couldn’t answer. His mind, already dazed, refused to make any connection between the orgiastic scene before him and his future wife.

“I was told to look out for a Templar,” explained the man into Will’s silence. “She’s waiting upstairs.” The man pointed to a set of stairs. “Last door at the end of the passage.” He moved off, leaving Will standing alone.

Seeing a blonde woman with scarlet lips wearing nothing but a large gold toque weaving her way purposefully through the crowd toward him, Will headed for the stairs. He took them slowly, his limbs heavy and his mind filled with trepidation. As he climbed, he tried to think of the reasons Elwen might have for bringing him to this place, but only one remained as he reached the top and was faced with a long passage. He remembered the lewd book she had shown him, the way she had pressed him down and kissed him in the field outside Saint-Denis’s Gate, how she had placed his hand on her breast in the palace and all their fumbling, nervous trysts. He paused as he reached the door at the end. He didn’t want this, not tonight, nor in this squalid building with his head thumping and his throat raw. But neither was he willing to leave her in this place and so he opened the door, hoping she would understand. The room was dimly lit and smoky. Standing in front of a bench lined with bottles and jars, her back to him, was a woman. She wore a red silk robe and a lacy cap over her hair.

“Elwen?” said Will cautiously into the gloom. He moved into the room. As he did so, the door slammed shut behind him and a curved dagger flashed up to his throat. The man holding it had been pressed against the wall next to the door.

“Take off your sword,” said the man, moving in behind him, still holding the dagger to his neck.

Will hesitated, then felt a sharp pain when the dagger cut into his skin.

“Do it!”

Will slowly unbuckled the sword belt. The man with the dagger took it from him and tossed it onto the pallet. The woman standing at the bench turned. It wasn’t Elwen. Her expression was fearful and she looked as if she had been beaten.

“You can go now,” said the man.

Will realized after a pause that he was addressing the woman.

“Make sure we’re not disturbed. And if that wretch comes back you tell him to come up here.”

As the woman slipped past, she looked at Will, her violet eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

After she had gone, the man kicked the door shut. “The bed. Go and sit on the floor in front of it.”

Will walked slowly toward the large pallet. The man was right behind him, walking with him. Will could smell his rancid breath. The dagger was still pressed against his throat. His heart was thudding in his chest, but fear had sharpened his mind, clearing the daze he had been in. He was almost at the bed. Suddenly, he grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand, forcing the dagger from his throat, and pivoted around, ducking away from the blade as he pulled the man’s arm wide. Will caught sight of his face, which was concealed by a triangle of black cloth so that only the eyes were visible, dark and glittery, as he slammed a fist into the man’s stomach. The man doubled over with a winded gasp and Will brought a knee up into his face. The man’s wheezy exhalation became a sharp, whistling intake of breath. He dropped the dagger. Will let go of the man’s wrist and ran for the door, but the man barreled into him on his way past. It was a clumsy movement; he was still fighting for breath and half bent over, but this awkwardness aided him and as he staggered heavily into Will, the knight stumbled sideways and went down. As Will pushed himself up on his knees, a wave of dizziness came over him, causing his vision to cloud. He swayed forward, throwing his hands out to stop himself falling. His vision cleared in seconds, but the pause was all the man needed to recover his own balance.

The man threw himself on Will, forcing him back down to the floor, punching him in the kidneys, the side, the back, hissing curses and threats in a vicious, breathless stream. Will tried to twist away, but the man was on top of him, pressing him into the floor and each blow knocked the last of the breath and the strength from him, until finally he crumpled under the torrent, the room darkening around him. He felt the man’s weight leave him, then hands grabbing his shoulders, hauling him roughly back. Dimly he felt something, rope, or cord, being looped around his wrists, securing him painfully tight.

THE TEMPLE, PARIS, NOVEMBER
2, 1266
AD

“Where is he, then?” asked Everard irritably. “He should have collected our supplies by now. I wanted to go over the plans for our journey.”

Simon continued brushing at the horse’s flanks with his grooming brush. “He went out, sir,” he muttered uncomfortably, after a moment.

Everard’s eyes alighted on the two leather sacks that he had given Will that were lying on a hay bale by the stable’s entrance. They were empty. “Out? Where?”

Simon sighed heavily and turned to the priest. “He went to see Elwen. She sent him a message asking him to meet her.”

Everard’s eyes narrowed. “Meet her where? Answer me!” demanded the priest when Simon went quiet.

“An alehouse in the city.”

Everard’s face was thunderous. “Do you know where? Good,” he snapped, as Simon nodded. “Then you’ll take that horse and fetch him back this instant!”

“Sir…!” began Simon.

But Everard would not let him argue and, an hour later, Simon was riding across the bridge to the Île de la Cité, making for the Latin Quarter.

In a market square some distance from the palace, a group of traders had set up a late pitch for people coming home from feast day prayers and celebrations. There were less than two hours to go before Compline, but they were doing a roaring trade and the little square was packed. The smell of smoke and burned meat made Simon’s stomach growl as he maneuvered his horse at a walk through the people who had spilled into the road. There were stalls selling pastries and beer and spices and one selling silk, lengths of which floated ethereally like butterfly wings. Beside the silk stall, standing stationary on the road, was a wagon. It was covered with a scarlet cloth on which was embroidered a gold fleur-de-lis. Two richly caparisoned mares were haltered to the front where there was a small bench on which sat a driver, dressed in a black cape and cap. Standing by the horses, stamping his feet and looking cold and bored, was a royal guard. Simon frowned as he saw a woman approaching the wagon, her arms draped with several folded lengths of silk. He brought his horse to a standstill. It was Elwen.

Dismounting, Simon threw the reins over a hobbling post where several other mounts were tethered. Elwen looked up as he jogged toward her, passing the wagon.

“Simon?” she called out in surprise.

Before he could reach her, Simon felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder, forcing him to halt.

“What are you doing?” said the royal guard, frowning down at him.

“It’s all right, Baudouin,” said Elwen, coming over. “I know him.”

Baudouin let go of Simon’s shoulder. After a moment, he went back to the wagon, but kept a firm eye on the groom.

Simon turned back to Elwen. “Where’s Will? Has he left?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, disconcerted by the abruptness of his tone. “He went back to the preceptory with the others.”

“Others?”

“The knights. After they finished their parley with the king.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” said Simon flatly. He glanced at the guard and dropped his voice slightly. “I know about the Seven Stars.” Simon, studying Elwen’s perplexed expression, realized that she didn’t know what he was talking about. His annoyance turned to confusion, then concern. “You didn’t meet him there?”

“No,” she replied, becoming annoyed. “I’ve been in the palace all evening, then I came here. The queen sent me to buy material for a new gown she wants made before the assembly tomorrow evening.”

“Assembly?”

“Where the king will announce to the court his decision to take the Cross. Simon, what is this about? Who told you I was meeting Will? The last thing I knew was that he was going away for a few weeks with Everard.” She lowered her voice. “Something to do with the book.”

“He told you about that?”

“We should get back, miss,” called Baudouin. “The queen might want her carriage.”

“She won’t be going anywhere this late,” said Elwen quickly. She heard Baudouin mutter to the driver and the stamp of hooves as the mares grew restless. Simon was staring uncertainly at her, but she could see that he wanted to share his concerns with someone. “Please tell me what this is about,” she encouraged.

Simon sucked on his bottom lip, then shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’ve got to go.”

“Go where?” she demanded, following him. “Simon, talk to me! What is the Seven Stars?”

“Seven Stars?” said Baudouin, glancing around. “What do you want with that place?”

“You know it?” asked Elwen, stepping between Simon and the guard.

“I know
of
it,” said Baudouin, looking embarrassed. “It’s in the Latin Quarter, near the Sorbonne.” He ruffled his sandy hair uncomfortably. “It’s a…well, it’s a whorehouse to be frank, miss.”

“Why do you think Will would be meeting me there?” asked Elwen, staring at Simon. “Is he there now?”

Simon nodded after a moment. “I think so.”

Elwen turned to Baudouin. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, but…”

“We’re going there,” Elwen said to the driver of the wagon, before Baudouin could finish. The driver looked nonplussed, but nodded. “And you’re coming with me,” she told Simon. Her voice was stern, but she looked upset. “Then you can both explain to me what is going on.”

Elwen was about to make her way around to the back of the wagon, when the guard stepped in front of her. Baudouin was a big man, filling his scarlet uniform to the seams, and he seemed to grow even larger as he spoke. “I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t allow you to do that. We’re going back to the palace.” He shot Simon a warning look. “Alone.”

Elwen went to protest, but she could already see that it wouldn’t be of any use. Baudouin could be as placid as an ass and as stubborn as a mule and, right now, his mulish side was quite apparent. She fell silent, feeling beaten, when she thought of something Maria had told her a few months ago. “If you don’t allow me to go where I will, Baudouin, I shall feel forced to tell the captain of the guard that you have been seeing his daughter.”

Baudouin stared at Elwen’s defiant expression, then turned to the driver. “Do as the lady says.”

As Elwen climbed into the wagon with Simon and settled herself on the cushioned seat, she sent up a quick prayer for Maria and the handmaiden’s inability to keep a secret.

THE SEVEN STARS, PARIS, NOVEMBER
2, 1266
AD

Adela surveyed the room. There were men dancing on the tables and she had lost count of how many jars of wine had been dropped and smashed on the flagstones. Fabien had thrown one customer out for hitting a girl and two others were unconscious in a corner, but everyone else looked as if they would be up for some time. It was the busiest night she had had in a long while. A man nearby was watching two girls dancing together. Adela felt sickened by the way his gaze lingered on them. She looked away, unable to shake the memory of Rook’s hands on her, his sour breath. She wanted to have Fabien go up there, drag him out and beat him senseless in the yard outside. But she knew Rook’s threats were real.

“Adela.”

She turned at the voice to see Garin standing behind her. His face was flushed and despite the evening chill there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “You came back.” Her voice was lost in the room’s din.

Garin touched her bruised cheek. “I know you’re not to blame for what he did.”

“No,” she said suddenly, drawing away from his touch. “I’m not the one who brought him here.”