Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (5 page)

Omar shook his head. “It wouldn’t work this time. Kutuz is always guarded. You would be killed.”

A voice from the shadows made them both whip around, Baybars reaching instinctively for the dagger in his boot.

“Oh, it would work. It would! It would!”

A cackle of laughter followed the words and Baybars relaxed. “Come here.”

A moment later, something crawled out of the shadows. It was an old man with a toothless grin, matted black hair and dark skin that was as wrinkled as old fruit. He wore a threadbare cotton robe and his feet were bare and scarred. The nails on his toes were yellow and his eyes were milky with cataracts. Omar relaxed, slightly, as he recognized Khadir, Baybars’s soothsayer. Hanging from a chain around Khadir’s waist was a gold-handled dagger, the hilt of which was inlaid with a glossy red ruby. This dagger was the only indication that the wretched figure had once been a warrior in the notorious Order of Assassins, an elite group of radical fighters founded in Persia just prior to the First Crusade. As adherents of the Shi’ah branch of Islam, a Muslim minority who had split from the traditionist Sunnis over Muhammad’s succession, the Assassins’ mandate was to destroy enemies of their faith and this they did with brutal efficiency. From secret strongholds high in the mountains of Syria they slipped unnoticed to fall like black spiders, silent, deadly, upon their chosen targets, poison or a dagger their preferred methods of murder. Over the years, Arabs, Crusaders, Turks and Mongols had learned to fear them, and with good reason. But occasionally they had also used them for their own purposes, at a high price, for there were none better skilled in the art of murder.

Omar didn’t know why Khadir had left their ranks. As far as he was aware, the soothsayer had been expelled from the Order, but other than a few unsubstantiated rumors, the reasons for his dismissal were unclear. All Omar knew was that the old man had arrived in Cairo, wearing the same shabby robe he wore now, shortly after Baybars had been handed control of the Bahris, and had offered the commander his allegiance and services.

As Khadir came closer to the braziers’ dancing light, Omar noticed that a viper was entwined around the soothsayer’s hand.

“Speak,” commanded Baybars.

Khadir crouched in the sand, watching the snake coil around his wrist as if mesmerized, then leapt to his feet. His eyes focused on Baybars. “Kill Kutuz,” he said coolly. “You will have the support of the army.”

“You are certain?”

Khadir giggled and dropped to the sand, where he sat cross-legged. Pinching the head of the snake between his thumb and forefinger, he drew it from his wrist and whispered to it, before letting it fall to the ground. The viper slid across the sand, making a thin, waving trail toward the couch. Omar resisted the urge to lift up his legs as it slithered over his boot. It was only young but its venom was still potent.

Khadir clapped his hands as the snake glided closer to Baybars. “See! It shows you the answer!”

“His sorcery is an affront to Allah,” said Omar quietly. “You shouldn’t allow him to perform it.”

Khadir’s hooded gaze swiveled to Omar, who looked away, unable to meet those white eyes.

Baybars was watching the snake slide between his feet seeking the darkness beneath the couch. “Allah has given him this gift, Omar, and he has never been wrong.” Before the viper could disappear, Baybars lifted his boot and stamped down on its head. He scuffed the dead snake across the sand with his foot and looked at Khadir. The soothsayer was scratching a sore on his leg.

“You say the army would support me in this action, but what of the Mu’izziyya regiment? Surely the Royal Guard would stand with Kutuz?”

Khadir shrugged and rose to his feet. “Perhaps, but enough of their loyalty can be purchased with gold and
your
men guard today’s plunder.” Walking over to the couch, he picked up the dead snake. After staring sadly at its crushed body, he stowed it in his robes. He looked at Baybars with something akin to fatherly pride. “I see a great future for you, master. Nations will fall and kings will perish and you will stand above them all on a bridge of skulls that spans a river of blood.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he knelt at Baybars’s feet. “If your hand wields the knife that kills Kutuz, you will be sultan!”

Baybars gave a bark of laughter. “Sultan? Then Aleppo would be the least of my treasures.” His laughter died as his mind clamped around that thought like a vice.

When Baybars had deposed Turanshah, it had been the privilege of the man who had ordered the killing, the then commander of the Bahris, Aibek, to take the throne. But Baybars hadn’t been properly rewarded for his part in it and, refusing to serve the man whose rise he had aided, he had left Cairo. He had returned one year ago, after Kutuz had deposed Aibek’s successor, hoping that the new sultan would prove more faithful than the others: to the men and to the cause. He had been sorely disappointed.

Rising from the couch, Baybars moved to the entrance of the tent. Outside, the sky was ruddy from the flames of the pyres and the moon had risen red above the desert. The hills rose and fell in black peaks and troughs, tumbling into darkness as they reached the flat plain that was spread out beneath him. In the south, the Pools of Goliath glinted like steel in the moonlight. The Franks had once come to this plain to challenge the Egyptian sultan, Saladin, with their crosses and swords. Their army had been surrounded, their supply routes cut, but they had survived by fishing the Pools for food, and Saladin, unable to invade their camp, was forced to retreat. For almost two centuries, the Franks had eaten their food, slaughtered their people and defiled their places of worship. Where once Allah had been revered, pigs now rooted in excrement.

But as Baybars stood there, his gaze on the Pools, a sense of anticipation began to replace his rancor. Khadir’s words crackled in his mind like fire. He had a destiny, a part to play in the Franks’ demise. He could feel it inside. “If I were sultan,” he murmured, “I would fight the barbarian Franks so fiercely that not even the buzzards would find a feast of their bones.”

Omar came to stand beside Baybars. “I know you long for their blood to be spilled, but don’t mistake the Franks for mindless savages. They are seasoned warriors and cunning strategists and it won’t be easy to destroy them.”

Baybars turned to him. “You are wrong. They are barbarians. In the West, the Franks live like swine. Their homes are hovels, their ways uncultured and coarse. They looked to the East and saw the beauty of our cities, the elegance of our people and our great schools of learning. They looked to the East and they wanted it for themselves and so they came on their Crusades. Not for their God, but for the plunder.” Baybars closed his eyes. “Every day that they have spent in our nation must be avenged.”

“The sultan has given his orders,” said Omar. “It is the Mongols we go to fight.”

“They won’t take long to crush. Once that is done we will make our plans for Kutuz.” Baybars grasped Omar’s shoulder. “Will you stand with me?”

“You have no need to ask that.”

“Take what gold I own,” said Baybars, pointing to a small chest, “and see that the officers are paid. Pay them well, for if I’m to take this action against Kutuz we must bind as many to our cause as possible.”

“And then?”

“Then?” Baybars looked at Khadir, who was crouching in the sand, eyes gleaming in the braziers’ red glow. “Then we prepare for war.”

T
he wooden swords collided with a sharp crack. Will tightened his grip as the concussion rang in his arm. His opponent, a golden-haired sergeant called Garin de Lyons, staggered, feet slipping in the mud. It had rained heavily for the past three days and the field was sodden, pocked with puddles of brown water. To the right, the field stretched down to the banks of the Thames, where a thick fringe of reeds and shrubs concealed the water. To the left and behind stood the preceptory buildings, half obscured in the misty air. There was a damp chill that the sun wasn’t yet strong enough to burn away, but the youths’ faces were streaked with sweat. Will’s black tunic was stuck to his back and itched uncomfortably. He swept Garin’s blade away as it came in at him again. Feinting to the left, he swung in an arc toward the youth.

Garin parried the blow and moved back to drop into a fighting stance, keeping his dark blue eyes on Will. “I thought you Scots were the war dogs of Britain?”

“I’m just warming up,” responded Will, circling him. “And I’ve yet to decide what you are today.”

Garin grinned. “Well, I’ve chosen what you are. You’re a Saracen.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Again?” He lifted his sword higher. “Fine. Then you’re a Hospitaller.”

Garin pulled a face and spat on the ground. The Knights of St. John, founders of the pilgrim hospitals, were bitter rivals of the Templars. Both military Orders might be formed of noble Christian men who fought for God and for Christendom, but that didn’t stop them warring over land and trade and other conflicts of interest.

Will lunged forward. He just managed to duck and fling up his blade as Garin swung a powerful stroke at his head.

“Halt!”

The two boys moved away from one another, breathing hard, at their instructor’s command. The knight strode toward them, the hem of his mantle stained with mud.

“You are supposed to be disarming your opponent, de Lyons. Not trying to kill him.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Garin, lowering his head. “The blow was ill aimed.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed the knight, the hardness of his gaze not diminished by the fact that he only had one eye. The other was covered with a worn leather patch. “Continue!” he barked, returning to the edge of the field where sixteen boys of Will and Garin’s age were standing in a line.

Not all sergeants in the Temple were instructed in the art of combat. Many would serve as laborers: cooks; blacksmiths; tailors; grooms, in the numerous preceptories and estates, and would never go to war. But those who were candidates for knighthood were expected to be accomplished warriors by the time they came of age at eighteen. Basic schooling—the trivium of rhetoric, grammar and logic, which most monks in holy orders would be privy to—was considered far less important, although the sergeants were expected to know, by heart, all six hundred clauses of the Rule. So, by the age of fifteen these boys could ride a horse at full tilt carrying lance and shield, but other than a few exceptions, Will and Garin included, they couldn’t write their own names.

Will faced Garin, keeping his weapon locked in front of him. The sword was scarred with use, the edges splintered. Garin made the first move, yelling as he charged. Will avoided the first strike, but Garin pressed the attack, forcing him back with a series of short, cutting blows. Will recovered his stance and they crashed together. Swords locked, they pushed against one another, neither willing to give quarter. Their breath steamed on the air and their feet churned the mud to a slick, black slime. Will snarled into Garin’s face and shoved his blade forward. Garin’s eyes widened as his foot slid sideways in the wet. He fell, his grip loosening. With a quick, stiff-armed strike, Will slapped the sword from his opponent’s hand, sending it flying and, as Garin sprawled on his back, Will stood over him, pointing the tip of the blade at his throat. A few cheers rose from the sergeants on the sidelines.

The knight silenced them with a brusque wave. “The battle wasn’t worthy of praise.” He gestured to Will and Garin. “Stand down.”

Will withdrew his sword from Garin’s throat and offered his hand. Accepting it, Garin pulled himself up and collected his blade. They jogged to the sidelines, their tunics and hose soaked. Will scowled as the knight began to address the group.

“Campbell’s defense was weak. A strong defense could have allowed him to weaken de Lyons, whose opening assault was disorderly and easily anticipated.” The knight turned to the two youths, his eye falling on Will. “Then you wouldn’t have had to resort to such crude methods by which to beat de Lyons. Your final move consisted of brute strength alone and lacked technique. But at least Campbell used the terrain to his advantage.” He turned to Garin. “Where was your balance, de Lyons?” As Garin opened his mouth to speak, the knight cut him off. “Brocart. Jay.” He nodded to two of the waiting sergeants. “Take your places.”

Will flexed his arms, loosening his stiff muscles, as the sergeants headed for the center of the field. He glanced at Garin, whose gaze was on the knight. “Your uncle is in his usual good mood, then.”

“I think he’s concerned about the meeting tomorrow.” Garin turned to Will. “I hear you will be there.”

Will hesitated. Owein’s threat was still fresh in his mind, as were the blisters on his hands from cleaning the stables’ stalls, mending tack and polishing saddles.

Garin leaned closer. “You can tell me,” he said, out of earshot of the other sergeants. “I’ll be at the king’s parley also. I’m bearing my uncle’s shield.”

“Sorry,” said Will, relaxing. “Owein forbade me from speaking of it.”

“My uncle did too, but he let slip this morning that you would be there.” Garin gave Will a rueful look. “I’m afraid the prospect of your presence at such an important event has displeased him.”

Will looked over at the grim-faced knight, who was studying the battling sergeants. Jacques de Lyons, a retired Templar commander, had fought the Muslims at the battles of Herbiya and Mansurah. At the former he lost an eye to a Khorezmian Turk’s blade and at the latter he lost three hundred of his fellow knights. At New Temple, his injury and temperament earned him the name given to him by his tutees: Cyclops. This was a name that was only ever whispered as, according to rumor, the last sergeant to use it openly had been permanently consigned to a fly-infested village, six leagues south of Antioch.

“Everything I do displeases your uncle.”

“It wasn’t you he slighted just now,” murmured Garin, chewing an already ragged fingernail and watching the two sergeants on the field circle one another. He looked back at Will. “And can you blame him? You have to be more careful. He says you’ll be expelled if you break any more rules. He’ll make sure of it, he said.”

The two sergeants came together. Brocart, the smaller of the two, shouted as Jay barreled into him in an ungainly charge, cracking him on the shinbone with the edge of the blade.

“At least we were better than them,” said Will, as the two sergeants went down in a tangle of limbs.

“Are you even listening?”

Will glanced at Garin. “What?”

Garin gave him a pained look. “I was saying you’ve got to be careful. You neglected a chore for the sake of an hour’s sleep and you’ve spent the last ten days paying for it. I’ve hardly seen you.”

“It wasn’t for sleep. I…” Will paused, then dropped his voice to a whisper and told his friend about the initiation he had watched with Simon.

“Are you
crazy
?” Garin shook his head, incredulous.

“I had to see.”

“But you’ll see it firsthand one day.” Garin’s face still showed disbelief and something else now too.

“I couldn’t wait five years. We’ve always talked about it, haven’t we? Always wondered what happened?” Will grimaced. “I would have seen more if that beak-nosed servant hadn’t come in.”

“And Simon?” said Garin stiffly. “Why involve him?”

“I needed someone I could trust to keep watch for me.” Will stopped, noticing Garin’s expression. “I would have asked you,” he said quickly, “but I knew what the answer would be. I would have rather asked you, you know that.”

Garin shook his head, although Will thought he looked a little placated.

“It wasn’t right that you witnessed the initiation, much less a groom. Simon isn’t the same as us.”

“He wears the same tunic.”

Garin sighed. “You know what I mean. Simon is the son of a tanner. We are the sons of knights. Simon will never be a knight, never be noble.”

Will shrugged. “If kin makes a man noble, then I’m only half high-born. The rest of me is as common as any groom.”

Garin laughed mildly. “That isn’t true.”

“You know it is. My father may be a knight now, but my grandfather wasn’t and my mother was a merchant’s daughter. We weren’t all born with the advantage of your family’s heritage.”

“Well, your father is a knight and that is enough to make you noble.” As Garin turned away, his tunic slipped to one side, revealing a livid, scarlet welt just below his collarbone.

Will frowned and pointed to the mark. “How did you get that?”

Garin followed Will’s gaze, then yanked up his tunic. “You caught me with your blade yesterday.” He forced a smile. “You don’t know your own strength sometimes.”

Out on the field, Brocart disarmed Jay with a sloppy cut to the wrist that caused the boy to drop his sword in pain. The sergeants on the sidelines shuffled nervously as Jacques headed over followed by the two combatants, Jay clutching his hand. At the end of training, the knight would deal out punishment, usually a grueling ten circuits of the field, to the sergeant who had fared the worst in combat. Will picked at a splinter on his sword, unconcerned. However much Jacques disliked him, he had never been punished after any session. Jacques walked down their line, studying each of them in turn. Will met the knight’s gaze, but Garin lowered his head.

Jacques passed them both, then stopped. “De Lyons. You will run today.”

Garin’s head jerked up, his face a mask of disbelief. The other sergeants wore similar expressions. Brocart, whose performance had been pitiful, looked especially bewildered.

“Sir?” Garin fought to keep his voice steady. Like Will, he had never received the punishment before.

“You heard me,” said Jacques gruffly. “Twenty circuits.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Garin. “Thank you.”

As Garin stepped out of the line and the knight turned away, Will touched his friend’s arm. “This isn’t fair,” he whispered. “Jacques is wrong.”

“Campbell!”

Will dropped his hand to his side as the knight rounded on him.

“What did you say?” demanded Jacques.

“Say, sir?”

Jacques’ eye narrowed to a slit. “Do not play with me, boy. What did you say to de Lyons?”

Will glanced at Garin, who gave a tiny shake of his head. “Nothing, sir. I just…” He paused, looking to the other sergeants for support. They all avoided his gaze. Will huffed and turned back to Jacques. “I just wondered why you picked Garin to run, sir.” He tried to keep his tone light, forming the words as a question. “I didn’t think he was the worst?”

There was a long pause. “I see,” said Jacques, his voice all the more disquieting for its softness. “Then who, would you say, deserves the punishment?”

Will glanced down the line at his fellows, then back at Jacques.

“Come now, Campbell,” insisted the knight. “If you do not think de Lyons was the worst, then you must have an idea of who was.” As Will went to speak, Jacques held up his hand. He moved back, gesturing to his place. “Step forth, Sir Instructor!”

Will did as he was told. His eyes darted briefly to Brocart and Jay. Brocart was staring straight ahead, but Jay caught his look and scowled, knowing what he was thinking.

“Well?” demanded Jacques.

Will remained quiet for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Speak up!” barked Jacques, his voice lashing out like a whip.

“I don’t know who was the worst, sir.”

“Of course,” said Jacques, a humorless smile raising the corners of his mouth. He turned to the other sergeants and pointed to Will. “For how could a boy with no experience of battle, graced with a lineage that stretches back a mere generation and afforded only the acclaim he gives himself know anything of such matters?”

Will noticed that Jay was smirking. Garin was staring fixedly at the ground.

“In future, Campbell,” said Jacques, stepping closer to Will, “keep your opinions to yourself. It will be less embarrassing.” He bent forward until his face was level with Will’s. “Don’t
ever
question my judgment again,” he murmured, a fleck of his spittle striking Will’s cheek. Jacques straightened. “De Lyons!” he said, not taking his eyes off Will. “Campbell has just granted you an extra ten circuits.”

Will stared at the knight, aghast. Hearing a small, hoarse voice thank the knight for the punishment, he turned to Garin, trying to communicate an apology with his eyes and beg forgiveness at the same time. But the boy didn’t meet Will’s gaze, or anyone else’s as he stepped out of the line and set off at a run. Will, his face burning, watched Jacques stride toward the preceptory buildings. His hands were trembling, wanting to curl into fists and slam that smug smile from Cyclops’s face. Around him, the other sergeants collected their weapons in silence and began to file from the field. Will caught a few sympathetic glances from some and accusatory glares from others. Ignoring them all, he watched Garin loping away across the muddy field, which now seemed much larger than it ever had before. After a few moments, Will began to run.

Jacques rifled through the scrolls on the table, until he found what he was looking for. He read the report again slowly, his eye straining in the gloom. The candle had burned low and the solar was in shadow, apart from a slice of moonlight that slanted through the window, bleaching the flagstones. Outside, an owl shrieked. Jacques passed his hand across his brow as the words on the parchment blurred into meaningless black lines. Lifting the leather patch, he ran his finger in a slow circle around the deep indent where his eye used to be. The hollow was riddled with ridges of scar tissue. Even though he’d lost the eye sixteen years ago it still seemed to ache whenever he read for too long. He had been closeted in the solar for hours, missing both his meal and the last office. Owein had appeared earlier to suggest that he retire to his bed, saying that if they weren’t prepared for tomorrow’s meeting by now they never would be. Jacques had declined the advice, wanting to make absolutely certain that Henry wouldn’t be able to parley his way out of the situation. But he was tired. Placing the parchment down, he went to the window, welcoming the refreshing breeze. The moonlight turned his skin the color of ash and the contrasting shadows made knife-edge angles of his cheeks and nose. There was a flash of white as the owl flew out of the cloisters beneath him and disappeared beyond the rooftops. Jacques turned at a rapping on the solar’s door.