Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (45 page)

Adela hesitated, then steeled herself. “I have to dispose of the knight’s body before anyone sees. It is time you left.”

“I’ll not tell you again.”

As she stared at Rook—his mean, pockmarked face lined with cruelty and contempt, the sly malice in his black eyes—loathing and anger rose within her, quelling her fear. “Just go,” she snapped huskily. “Or I’ll bring the royal guards in here myself and show them what you’ve done.”

“Are you threatening me?” he said in a low voice.

“It’s finished. You’ve got what you came for. Go now and I’ll not say a word of it to anyone.”

Rook’s face was unreadable. He said nothing for what seemed, to Adela, several minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. Her breaths sounded loud in the dim passage, the music and laughter in the room behind her a long way away. Finally, Rook took a step back.

“You’d better get on with it then. It wouldn’t be good for either of us if he was found now would it?”

“No,” she said after a moment, the surprise she felt at his submission almost making her smile at the bastard. She watched him walk toward the back door, then, trembling with relief, she turned and headed for the main chamber, the sawing of the fiddle player growing louder with each step. She had almost reached the end of the passage, when a hand was pressed hard over her mouth. She gave a muffled cry as she was dragged away from the light and the noise, and shoved against the wall by the kitchen door.

“You think to threaten me?” hissed Rook in her ear. “Think to tell me what to do?” Adela twisted like an eel, but his grip was too strong. “You’d inform on me, would you? Tell the guards what I’d done, you worthless slut?” With his free hand he yanked his dagger from its sheath. “You’ll tell them nothing!” His hand still clamped over her mouth, Rook pulled back her head, exposing her long, white neck to the indomitable edge of his dagger. One quick movement of his wrist drew a spray of blood across the wall. Adela’s body bucked and convulsed against him. Tears slipped from her violet eyes as she slowly crumpled, her red robe darkening, the stain spreading as the blood kept coming.

Kicking open the kitchen door and seeing it was empty beyond, Rook hauled her limp body inside. Her blood had left a dark smear across the floor. He shoved his dagger, still wet, into its sheath, shut the door and moved out into the passage. Rook entered the bright chamber, and was making his way toward the stairs when he saw Fabien heading toward him through the crowd.

“Where’s Adela?” asked the large man, looking at Rook with undisguised hostility.

“I don’t know,” responded Rook. “I was looking for her myself.” Glancing down, he saw he had blood on his hand. He moved it slowly behind his back.

“There’s a royal guard and a sergeant from the Temple outside. She’ll need to speak to them.”

“From the Temple?” asked Rook worriedly.

“Yes,” replied Fabien coldly. “They are no doubt here for their friend.” He lowered his voice and took a step toward Rook. “My mistress has told me to afford you every courtesy while you’re here, but if you’ve brought trouble down on her, I’ll be forced to disobey her.”

“Why don’t you keep them busy,” responded Rook swiftly, “and I’ll go and find her.”

Fabien frowned, studying Rook intently. “Be quick. I won’t be able to bar entry to a royal guard for long.”

As Fabien turned away, Rook moved quickly for the opening at the back of the room. Passing the kitchen, he hastened out of the back door.

Garin turned as Rook dashed out.

“We’re leaving,” said Rook, grabbing the reins of one of the horses.

“But Adela…?” Garin started to say, wondering if Rook had been foiled by his ruse after all.

“Can wait,” snapped Rook. “We ride now.” He climbed into the saddle. “Or you can stay behind and explain to a Templar and a royal guard why there’s a knight dead upstairs.”

Garin looked to the back door, fearfully, wistfully, then mounted his horse. Together, he and Rook cantered out down the alley, the hooves of their horses clattering in the night.

“It’s no use,” muttered Simon, stepping back from the door and craning his neck to look at the upstairs windows. “They aren’t going to open up.”

“Let me try again,” said Elwen determinedly. She curled her hand into a fist and banged on the door until it hurt. “Let me in!” she shouted, causing Baudouin to wince and look around worriedly. As she went to hit the door again, it swung open. She just managed to catch herself from falling into the huge man who was revealed.

“Yes?” he said, frowning down at her.

Elwen recovered her poise. “We’re looking for a friend of ours.”

“You’ll have to wait outside for him. This is a private guesthouse.”

“Just let the lady find her friend and we’ll be on our way,” said Baudouin, stepping up to the door.

“You’re not here on official business?”

“No!” said Baudouin quickly. “Nothing official.”

“Then, like I said, you’ll have to wait out here.”

“Please!” called Elwen, as the man went to close the door.

Simon pushed past her, wedged his foot against the door and shouldered it open. He punched the huge man in the stomach. As he dropped to his knees with a groan, Simon rushed into the chamber, heart thumping. Ignoring the naked women, he searched for Will. He couldn’t see him, but his gaze fell on a little staircase winding upward and he started toward it, not waiting for Elwen and Baudouin, who had sidestepped the groaning man and entered.

Elwen halted in shock at the scene in the ale room, but the guard steered her toward the stairs.

“Come on. The sooner we’re gone the better.”

Simon took the stairs two at a time, using the walls as leverage. At the top, he was faced with a long, narrow passage lit by a single torch, with eight doors leading off. Faint light issued from under several of them. The first couple Simon burst in on sat up, startled. Ignoring their indignant calls, Simon moved on to the next. Hearing footsteps behind him, he spun around, then relaxed as he saw Elwen and Baudouin. “We must check each room,” he said to the royal guard.

Baudouin headed down to aid the search. Elwen watched the royal guard disappear into one room, heard a few alarmed shouts, then pressed herself against the wall as a naked girl darted out and dashed past her down the passage.

“Fabien!” she was yelling as she pounded down the stairs.

Simon was almost at the end of the passage, opening another door, when a half-naked, bull-shouldered man charged out. He barreled into the groom so hard that the two of them crashed through the door on the opposite side. From the room came the sounds of a fierce struggle.

“Baudouin!” Elwen shouted.

The royal guard appeared in one of the doorways and rushed into the room to help the groom, as more people exited their rooms and ran past her down the stairs. She heard grunts and splintering sounds coming from the chamber Simon, the bull-shouldered man and Baudouin had entered. She stood there helpless, not knowing what to do. Her eyes fixed on the last door at the end of the passage. It was still closed. Elwen headed for it, running past the open doors, anticipating more people to come flying out of them at any moment. She pushed it open. And halted in the doorway of the smoky chamber, where embers had turned white in the hearth.

Her eyes went first to the silver mirror on the far wall, where she saw herself reflected: cheeks flushed; copper hair coming free of its pinioning wires. Her gaze flickered quickly over a wicker screen, trestle, shelves lined with pots, the pallet against the wall nearest to her. She locked eyes momentarily with the pale-faced girl with the cascade of golden curls who was on the pallet. The girl was sitting astride a man, her skirts bunched up to her waist. Elwen felt her world turn upside down as her gaze came to rest on the man recumbent beneath the girl. His face was turned away from her, but she recognized the ragged cut of his black hair and the line of his neck and jaw. She vaguely felt hands gripping her shoulders and moving her aside.

Jacqueline, who had frozen on hearing the commotion in the passage, rolled off Will and scrabbled back against the wall, her face a mask of fear, as Simon rushed into the chamber. He too halted, just for a moment. Then he was at the pallet, drawing down Will’s undershirt to cover what was displayed.

As he laced up Will’s hose, his fingers shaking, Simon heard Elwen cry out behind him. Will’s skin was ashen, his face badly bruised. Simon gently lifted one of his eyelids. His eye was rolled up to the white. Will uttered a breathless groan. In it, Simon thought he heard a name. Garin.

“Will!” Elwen’s cry became a sob and she tried to go toward the pallet, but Baudouin, who had dispatched the bull-shouldered attacker, held her back. “What’s wrong with him? Why won’t he wake?
Will!
”

Simon looked back at Will. He recognized those rolled-back eyes; he had seen the same with horses when they had been sedated with opiates for surgery. He felt a rush of fury.

“What’s wrong with him, Simon?
Tell me!
”

Simon met Elwen’s gaze. He gave a slight shrug. “He must have got drunk, or something. I don’t know.”

“No! He wouldn’t have done this! He
wouldn’t
!” Elwen collapsed against Baudouin’s chest.

The guard lifted her into his arms. “That’s it. I’m taking you back to the palace.”

Elwen was crying too hard to protest as Baudouin carried her out of the room, leaving Simon kneeling beside Will.

When they had gone, Simon, feeling shaken, carefully pulled Will’s boots on. The girl, who was still quivering against the wall, suddenly rushed out of the door. Simon let her go. Once he had dressed Will, he looped the sword belt around his waist and hefted his unconscious friend over his shoulder. He wondered why the man he had punched hadn’t come after them and why he could now hear screaming as he descended into the ale room. It looked much emptier and the music had ceased. There was a knot of people clustered around an opening at the back of the room. The screams were coming from several women. With all the occupants’ attention focused elsewhere, none of them noticed Simon carrying Will out of the front door.

W
ill dreamed he was in a boat. He was with his father out on the loch, fishing. The motion of the water was soothing. His father kept hooking enormous, silver-skinned fish. But he didn’t keep them.

“This is a beauty!” he would exclaim, unhooking the fish and tossing it back into the water.

Will wasn’t catching any. He could see them weaving around the boat in vast glimmering shoals just below the surface, but none were biting his line.

“Rotten bait,” said his father knowingly.

Will started to feel queasy. The rocking motion became more intense as the shoals of fish swam faster and faster, spinning the boat round and round with their momentum. His father was laughing and pulling them up by the fistful.

Will came awake, grabbing hold of the pallet he was lying on to stop himself from falling. He lay there, thinking he was going to be sick and blinking at the ceiling until, gradually, the sensation passed. His tongue felt swollen and there was a foul taste in his mouth. He had no spit when he tried to swallow and his throat hurt with the action. Everything felt wrong: the light; the odd shapes of furniture around him; the softness of the blanket he was wrapped in. Even the smell of his own sweat was unfamiliar. Will sat up slowly, the daylight coming through the gap in the tapestry making his eyes ache. His muscles were sore and although he was drenched in sweat, he was freezing. Teeth chattering, he pushed off the blanket and swung his legs over the pallet. As he stared at the room, he realized that he did know it. He was in Everard’s solar.

The door swung open. “Good,” said Everard, seeing Will sitting up. “You’re awake.” He closed the door and crossed to the window seat, on which he placed two large leather bags. One was empty and the other was crammed with stuff. Will could smell fresh-baked bread. Everard went to his writing table and picked up a jar. He paused to pull a length of white cloth from a stool with his free hand. As he dropped the cloth onto the pallet, Will saw that it was a surcoat: the sleeveless white tunic that went under his mantle. “I got it from the tailor this morning,” said Everard. “It should fit.” He held out the jar to Will. “Drink this and get dressed.”

As Will took the goblet, which was filled with a dark liquid, the memory of the night before came to him in a series of confused images. “What happened to me?”

“What do you remember?”

“Garin,” said Will suddenly. He tried to rise, but his limbs were too weak and he collapsed.

“Simon said you mentioned his name several times,” said Everard intently. “Was he at this tavern?”

“I went there to see Elwen,” said Will slowly, trying to make sense of the confusion of images. He glanced at the priest, but Everard made no comment. “She sent me a message. At least, I was told it was from her. But when I got there, I was…” He frowned. “I was attacked by someone…a man in a mask. He knew about the Book of the Grail.” Will felt his face carefully with his fingertips. His lip felt twice its normal size and there was a lump on his brow above his eye. He winced as it stung. “He beat me. I think I must have told him about Nicolas de Navarre because I didn’t see him again. Then Garin came in with a woman.” Will nodded, his memory gradually becoming clearer. “They were together, Garin and this man.” He looked up at Everard. “How could Garin have found out? Would Jacques have told him about the Anima Templi?”

Everard sighed. “I would not have thought so, but I do not see how else he would know. This man. Do you remember anything about him?”

“No. As I said, he was wearing a mask.” Will paused. “Rook,” he said, finally. “I think the woman called him Rook. Garin forced me to drink something. I don’t remember much after that, just a door opening and light.” Will frowned. “A woman’s voice.” An image of a girl with golden curls, pale face taut in the firelight, came into his mind. The goblet slipped from his grasp and clanged on the floor. “The woman,” he breathed. “She…” But he felt sick and couldn’t finish.

Everard, however, seemed to understand. He bent and picked up the goblet. “I will absolve you. You need not worry about breaking your vow of chastity. I will not tell anyone.”

“Elwen!” said Will, his head snapping up. “She was there! I heard her voice!”

“Simon told me, yes.”

Will rose, queasily. He looked around for his clothes and spotted his undershirt on a stool, under which were placed his boots.

“What are you doing?” said Everard, watching him.

Will tugged his shirt over his head. “Where is my sword?”

“William…”

“Where’s my pissing sword?”

Everard took a step back as Will spun to face him, eyes blazing. “Over there,” he said, motioning to one of the chests.

Will snatched it up. After putting on the new surcoat, which did fit, he fastened the sword belt around his waist.

“What are you going to do? William?”

“I have to see Elwen.” Will’s teeth were chattering. He clenched his jaw to stop them. “I have to explain.”

“You don’t have time.” Everard’s voice was calm, but firm. “Nicolas already has a day on us and if you are correct, it sounds as if de Lyons and the man who tortured you will be going after him also. Simon carried you here from the alehouse. He has our horses saddled and is waiting for us outside. He will be coming with us. I have requisitioned him as our squire.”

“You’ve told Simon about the Anima Templi?”

“No. But he has proved his use and already knows about de Navarre. The Visitor thinks we are going to Blois to view a seminal treatise on seafaring. I’ve told him that de Navarre had to leave urgently on personal business. The last thing we need is an investigation into his disappearance.”

“I cannot go.” Will looked around for his mantle. He found it balled up on the foot of the pallet and swung it around his shoulders. He made for the door.

Everard stepped in front of him. “If Elwen feels as much for you as you do her, she will forgive you. Whether you explain it to her today, tomorrow, or next week.”

“Get out of my way, Everard,” said Will flatly. “You don’t command me anymore.”

Everard grabbed his arm. “De Lyons drugged you and put you in bed with a filthy, no doubt pox-riddled slut! Are you going to let him get away with it?”

Will tried to push Everard away, but he didn’t have the strength. Everard’s words stung his ears and made him feel sick to his core. “Stop!” His voice cracked. “Don’t say it! I don’t want to hear!”

“He had a woman violate you,” hissed Everard, his bloodshot eyes narrowed to fierce slits. “That worthless shit
violated
you!”

“Shut up!”

“He made you break your vow, the vow you made to the Temple in honor of your dead father!” He grabbed Will’s other arm and shook him. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to kill him!”
Will collapsed against the priest, shaking. Images of the girl and Garin and his father and Elwen crowded and clamored in his mind.

Everard stumbled, then caught him. “We will find him together,” he murmured in Will’s ear. “I will get my book and you will see de Lyons hang. I promise you that.”

CAESAR’S ROAD, JUST OUTSIDE ORLÉANS, NOVEMBER
5, 1266
AD

For two days, they had pursued Garin and Rook, heading gradually west along Caesar’s Road toward La Rochelle. On the first, they had made good progress and had been rewarded when they had rested for the night in Etampes, a prosperous town that had built up around several cloth mills, to find that people had seen a Templar and another man pass through that afternoon. Everard hoped, if they impeded Garin and Rook’s pursuit of Nicolas de Navarre, or got ahead of them, they could continue unhindered to La Rochelle and execute their plan to arrest the Hospitallers.

In Etampes, Will, Everard and Simon had shared a room in a guesthouse, the owner of which, on seeing their mantles, had invited them to dine with him and his wife on wild boar. The rich meat had sat badly on Will’s stomach, however, and, much to Everard’s frustration, he had been slower in the saddle the next day. His sore throat had grown steadily worse throughout that morning until he could hardly bear to swallow, and his nose and eyes streamed continuously, causing him to ride almost blind. Even though it was bitterly cold, he had been soaked in sweat and last night, when they had sheltered in a farmer’s stable, he had kept the others awake with his fitful tossing and talking. Simon had been watching him worriedly. But Everard had been too focused on retrieving the book to pay Will’s rapidly declining health much heed.

“He’ll be fine in a day, or two,” said the priest testily, when they dismounted at around Nones and Simon pointed out Will’s feverish color.

They had stopped a short distance from the road by a copse of stunted trees, alongside which ran a narrow river, swollen by recent rains. The banks were shallow enough for them to water their horses. A light drizzle misted the air and clouds hung low in the sky. The land around them was brown and bleak with winter.

Will had gone down to the water’s edge to fill their skins. Simon took Everard’s reins, as the old priest unpacked some bread and cheese from his bag and set them on a tree stump. The groom watched Will drag the skins in the rushing river, desperate to go to him, yet unable to move. He had tried several times to speak to Will since they had left Paris, but his tongue kept cleaving to the roof of his mouth and no words would come. He had endeavored to rid his mind of the sight of Elwen’s distraught face when he had told her that Will must have got drunk, but it kept returning. The lie had slipped from his mouth so readily. Once out, it had been too late to put back in. Now, when he looked at Will, his betrayal was all he could think of.

“Water the beasts then,” said Everard crossly, rousing Simon from his helpless inertia.

While Everard went off to find a suitable bush to take his toilet, Simon walked the horses down to a low bit of bank, where they hung their heads to drink. He patted the flanks of his tan packhorse, a young mare they had laden with most of the supplies, and glanced at Will out of the corner of his eye. He called out, startled. Will had removed his mantle and surcoat and had tossed them carelessly on the muddy bank. He was now pulling off his undershirt. Will didn’t look around at Simon’s call. Leaving the horses, Simon ran along the bank as Will kicked off his boots and staggered down the muddy slope, into the brown, foaming water. It was only waist deep, but the current was strong and Simon knew it would be freezing.

“Will! Come out!”

Will didn’t turn. Instead, he started splashing water up his arms and chest, rubbing at his bare skin.

Simon swore, yanked off his own boots, then waded, with a torrent of curses and grunts of pain, into the river.

Will’s lean body was starkly white against the dark water, but there were hectic spots of color on his cheeks. He turned as Simon clutched his shoulder. His green eyes were wide and unfocused. “I have to get clean.”

“Come back in and I’ll wet a rag for you then,” gasped Simon, the cold slicing through him like a scythe. As Will tried to wade further in, Simon held him back. Despite his weakened condition, he was surprisingly strong and it took all of Simon’s might to stop him. “Please, Will! We’ll catch our deaths!”

“All I see when I close my eyes is her!”

“Elwen?” said Simon, now clinging to Will, no longer able to feel his feet, or legs.

Will’s gaze seemed to focus. “I thought it was her, Simon. I thought that girl was her. It felt like a dream. And I wanted her. I…I
touched
her…and…” He shook his head deliriously. “Then when I saw her face, her
real
face, I tried to tell her to stop. I tried, Simon, you have to believe me. But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move! I can still…
smell
her on me. And I can’t
stand
it!”

“It’s going to be all right,” Simon told him. The rush of the river was loud in his ears.

“Elwen saw me.”

“Once we get the book and go back to Paris you can explain. Tell her what you just told me.”

“Tell her what, Simon? That I bedded a whore thinking it was her?” Will let out a fierce sob. “Why did she go? I don’t understand. She must have known I wouldn’t do that? I don’t understand!”

“Elwen will forgive you.” Simon faltered, churned up in a maelstrom of emotions. He wanted that to be true: He was desperate to make amends and to alleviate his own guilt. But his words stuck in his throat, choking him. “And if not, maybe it’s for the best,” he stammered.

“How could it be best?” cried Will, his voice hoarse.

“Sometimes bad things happen for a reason, don’t they? Maybe it was too soon, you asking her to be your wife? Maybe you should wait a bit to be sure it’s what you really want?”

“I cannot wait!” Will struck out toward the bank, but he slipped and went under. Simon grabbed him and pulled him up, choking and coughing. “You don’t see, do you?” Will shouted at him. “I waited all those years for my father to forgive me and he died!” He grasped Simon’s shoulders. “I cannot wait for her!” As Will crumpled, Simon just managed to catch him. “Let me go,” Will whispered, his voice fading.

“Not on your life,” said Simon, able to haul Will to the bank now that he had stopped resisting.

“What have you done!” cried Everard, coming out of the bushes to find Will and Simon collapsed in the mud, soaked and shivering.

While they built a small fire to warm Will by, Simon bore the brunt of Everard’s wrath in silence. The priest was fuming at both of them for the needless delay, but Will, in delirium, was oblivious to his rage. As Everard ranted and packed up their supplies, Simon tried to persuade Will to eat some bread, but with little success. Will hadn’t opened his mouth since he had come out of the water, except to cough. Simon hated the chesty, whooping sound immediately. His father would have called it a graveyard cough.

Finally, Everard stamped out the mean little fire and they set off again, hoping to reach Orléans by nightfall. As Will was too weak to ride, Simon sat behind him, one arm firmly around his waist to hold him in the saddle. Everard led Simon’s packhorse alongside his own, muttering to himself every now and then. Their pace was dreadfully slow, but they did, as hoped, reach the city that evening.