Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (53 page)

Garin was standing before a table in his quarters, on which was a dish of water. Behind him, the knights he shared the room with lay snoring on their pallets. Garin trailed his hand through the water, watching it eddy and swirl in the candlelight. The movement was soothing, but it wasn’t doing much to clean the blood off. He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had entered the room. It felt like only minutes, but he thought it was probably longer. As he cupped his hands in the water and bent forward to splash his face, the door opened. Garin straightened and looked around. A few of the men turned over in their sleep as three knights entered.

“Garin de Lyons?” said one of them.

Garin nodded, feeling the water trickling away between his fingers.

“By order of the Seneschal, you are hereby charged with the crime of desertion.”

The knights were stirring and waking now.

“Desertion?” murmured Garin.

“It has come to the Seneschal’s attention that you deserted your designated post in the Paris preceptory and came here without the permission of the Visitor of the Kingdom of France. This crime is punishable by life imprisonment.”

Garin went to defend himself, but the words failed to come. He had no doubt that the charge was really being leveled at him because of his part in Rook’s attempted theft of the book. But what could he say? The charge itself was true enough.

“You will be taken now to the cells beneath this preceptory. You will not be granted the opportunity to appeal against this decision until you have served no less than five years.” The knight came forward. He was, Garin saw, holding a pair of manacles. The other two had swords drawn and were poised to spring if Garin tried to resist.

They needn’t have worried.

Garin watched listlessly as the irons were fastened around his wrists. It felt like it was happening to someone else. When he stumbled as he was led out of the room, his captor caught him.

“Thank you,” said Garin.

W
ill looked around as the tavern door opened. He watched a tall, thin man dressed in a garish cerulean robe enter. The man caught Will’s eye briefly, without any show of recognition, then headed to a table where a group of merchants were gathered. Pulling out a stool, the man said something that made the others laugh as he sat and helped himself to wine from a jug. Will turned back to his drink. The sun slanted in through the gaps in the shutters, drawing white lines across his table. A wasp tilted fretfully at the light. It was hot and Will was tired of waiting. Often these days he felt impatient. He slept badly, more so since the weather had turned humid, and, just recently, he had begun to feel that he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs no matter how deeply he breathed.

The door opened again some time later and a stocky, olive-skinned man in brown hose and a homespun cape entered. He looked around, saw Will sitting alone and walked over. “A beautiful day,” he remarked in an unplaceable accent.

“The good Lord graces us,” replied Will in Arabic.

“That He does,” agreed the man, chuckling. “Will Campbell, I trust?”

Will nodded and held out his hand. The man looked at it, then seemed to recognize the gesture. He took Will’s hand and pumped it vigorously. His grip was strong. “Can I offer you a drink?” asked Will.

“Water,” said the man, sitting. He swatted the wasp away with a quick flick of his hand.

Will beckoned to the serving girl, who was sitting at one of the tables fanning her damp face with a large, dry leaf. “We’ll have two jars of water,” he told her, when she traipsed over.

She frowned. “I’ll have to charge you.”

“Fine.”

“You can’t sit in here and drink Adam’s ale all day for nothing,” she grumbled.

“I said I’ll pay,” said Will sharply.

“No need to take that tone,” she snapped back, turning on her heel and heading for the kitchen.

The olive-skinned man leaned across the table. “A wise man might advise against rudeness with one who is about to bring you food or drink.” He sat back. “I will make sure not to take the one she offers you. I expect she will have spat in it.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

While they waited for the drinks, Will appraised the man. There was nothing special about him. With his stout frame and large hands he looked like a tradesman of some physical, earthy craft—a smith or a tanner or maybe a lower-class merchant, a trader from the iron mines at Beirut perhaps. He didn’t look at all how Will had imagined. The Pisan merchant who had arranged the meeting hadn’t told him what to expect.

The serving girl returned with the waters. She placed one jar before the olive-skinned man and the other she plunked in front of Will, spilling some. Will grudgingly handed her some pennies. He studied his drink when she had gone. The man chuckled.

“Let’s get on with it, shall we?” said Will irritably, pushing the jar to one side.

“Of course, of course. You have the money?”

Will showed the man the bag that was hanging from his belt, which girdled the plain linen shirt he wore over his hose.

The olive-skinned man sat back and sipped at his water. “Then let us discuss, exactly, what it is that my Order can do for you.”

THE TEMPLE, ACRE, JUNE
4, 1271
AD

His business concluded, Will returned to the preceptory. The mood in the fortress, as in the rest of the city, was black; almost as black as it had been the autumn before when they had received news of King Louis’ death. The king, having taken the advice of his brother, Charles de Anjou, had made for Tunis, but following his successful capture of Carthage, a pestilence had ravaged his army. Louis had eventually succumbed to the fever and his great Crusade, the eighth since Pope Urban II had called men to arms almost two hundred years earlier, had ended before it had begun. His body was taken back to France to be buried in the Abbey at Saint-Denis.

Now, the collective despondency of Acre’s citizens was caused by tidings of the fall of Krak des Chevaliers to Baybars’s forces. Krak, considered to be the most indomitable fortress in Eastern Christendom, had been the largest stronghold of the Hospitallers. The garrison had capitulated after five weeks of intense fighting and with its destruction the last game-piece of the Franks had been swept from the Palestinian hinterland. In the past three years, Baybars had pushed them gradually, yet inexorably, back until they controlled just a few scattered towns and cities along the coast.

Will studied the faces of the men as he walked through the compound. He saw exhaustion and fear. At one time, the Temple had owned nearly forty major bases in Outremer. By the time Baybars came to power that number had dropped to twenty-two and now they held only ten.

In the last few weeks, doubts over what he had been planning for so long had begun to gnaw at Will, but it helped to see the defeat in the eyes of his fellows. It affirmed that he was doing the right thing. The only thing. A few of the knights greeted him in passing as he made his way to the seaward tower in the northwest corner. The tower, which had been built by Saladin, formed the oldest part of the preceptory. The sand-dashed stones were cracked and tufts of spiky grass had sprouted up through the fissures. There were two sergeants standing to either side of the entrance. They both had swords.

“Morning, sir,” said one cheerily, as Will approached. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I’ve been busy, Thomas.” Will went to duck through the low archway.

“Just to warn you,” cautioned Thomas, “he’s not a pretty sight.”

Will paused.

“It’s the leonardie,” explained Thomas. “He came down with it last week.”

“Leonardie? How bad?”

“Wouldn’t like to say. Don’t look good though.”

Will entered the tower, stepping from warm June into damp November. A short passage curved around to a set of steps that led to the upper levels of the tower, which housed the treasury. Three armed sergeants guarded the stairwell. Will turned right before he reached the steps into a drafty, circular room, which was occupied by two knights: one sitting at a table studying a ledger; the other standing sentry beside a trapdoor that was covered with an iron grate.

The knight at the bench looked up as Will walked in. “Brother Campbell,” he said unenthusiastically. “Here to see the prisoner, I take it?”

“One of the guards told me he is sick. Is he comfortable?”

The knight raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t our job to make prisoners comfortable. We just hold them here until their sentence is served. But,” he added dryly, as he rose, “I’m sure your visit will be comfort enough.” He nodded to his companion, who slid back the bolt that kept the trapdoor’s grate in place, then lifted it. Stairs fell away into darkness.

The steps were uneven and Will brushed his fingertips along the walls to keep his balance. A faint draft that smelled of brine and mildew and decay lifted his hair. The walls were soft and crumbly in places like stale biscuits. A rhythmic booming sound that vibrated in the stone grew louder the farther Will descended. The treasury tower was so close to the sea that the waves would lash it with each white surge. As Will neared the bottom, he saw torchlight. Moving down the last few steps, he came out in a narrow passage that had been hewn out of the bedrock. Puddles on the floor gleamed blackly. The area was below sea level and the rough walls cried moisture that slowly pooled, then equally slowly drained through a gutter cut through the floor. Along one side of the passage were ten doors, each reinforced with iron strips and barred with timber beams. Along the other side was a trestle and bench where three sergeants were playing drafts.

“Morning,” said Will.

“Is it?” asked one of the guards. He shook his head as he rose. “I swear time moves different down here.” Leaving his fellows to continue the game, he went to a door at the end of the passage. The guard raised the timber beam that was resting on two brackets to either side of the door. He kicked the door twice, then opened it. “You can take that torch there, sir.”

Will took the brand from its holder and entered the cell. Immediately he was struck by a thick wave of the sickly odor of decay he had noticed on his way down. The guard shut the door behind him and there was a heavy
thump
as the timber was dropped back into place. After three years of coming here, Will was still unnerved by that sound and the rush of claustrophobia that followed it. The torch flared in the draft from the door, then settled into a pale glow that struggled to push back the shadows of the dank cell. On the floor was a bowl filled with an oleaginous-looking stew, over which had formed a wrinkled skin. Beyond the bowl, sitting with his back against the wall, one arm held up over his face against the light, the other chained by the wrist to an iron ring set into the wall, was Garin.

At first, Will couldn’t see anything wrong. Garin looked the same as he usually did. His once-golden hair was gray with dirt and lack of sunlight, and fell in tangled hanks to his chest, matting with his beard, which was equally long and filthy. His shirt and hose—the only things he had been left with on imprisonment—were threadbare, the cloth rotting in the damp, and his chest was hollow, the bones protruding through pallid skin. The fingernails on his free hand were bitten to the quick, but the nails on the hand bound to the wall, which was set at such a height that he could just crouch over his toilet bucket, were as long as talons. It was only when Garin took his arm away, blinking painfully at the light, that Will saw what the guard had warned him about.

He had heard of the leonardie—the disease Richard the Lionheart had once suffered with on campaign—but he had never seen anyone with it. As well as reducing men to utter weariness, the illness blighted certain areas of the skin. Garin’s face had been ravaged. His cheeks and forehead were red-raw where his skin had cracked, flaked, then peeled away. His lips were split and bleeding and one of his eyes was crusted shut where the lid had opened, bled, then formed a scab. There were signs of the disease on his hands and arms.

“My God,” murmured Will, setting the torch in the wall bracket and crouching before Garin. He tried to ignore the rancid smell coming from the toilet bucket.

Garin peered at Will accusingly through narrowed, weeping eyes. “You haven’t been for days.”

Will didn’t tell the knight that it had been over a fortnight since his last visit. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re the only one who tells me what is going on.” Garin’s voice was insubstantial as a breeze and his mouth hardly moved when he spoke, but Will could clearly see his agitation. “You said Prince Edward had come. What’s happening? I need to know, Will. I need to…” He gave a high, frustrated cry as his lip cracked where he opened it too wide. Blood welled up.

“I’m here now,” said Will quickly. “I’ll tell you anything you want.” He picked up the bowl of stew. “But first you should eat something.”

“I’m dying, Will,” said Garin softly.

“Don’t be a daff. King Richard had the leonardie and he didn’t die.” Will went closer to Garin and tried to put the bowl in the knight’s hand. “You just need food and rest.”

Garin pushed the bowl away. “It hurts too much.”

Will looked at the open sores around his mouth, then at the wide-rimmed bowl. Sitting cross-legged before the knight, he picked a lump of gristly meat from the stew. Carefully, so as not to touch the corners, he pushed the meat between Garin’s desiccated lips.

When Garin had first been imprisoned, Will had visited his cell rarely, and only then because Garin had begged the guards repeatedly to ask him to come. But the part of him that had still blamed Garin for what had been done to him in the whorehouse, had gradually been subdued by the high price the knight was paying for a crime that had not been solely his fault.

Over time, the visits had become more frequent, until they were now part of his weekly routine; a part, despite himself, he often found he looked forward to. He hadn’t been able to talk to Everard or any of the Brethren about his feelings and thoughts, nor anyone outside that circle. Garin, who already knew about the Anima Templi, but was not loyal to it, had become the only person Will had been able to share certain things with. He had come to value the knight’s opinion more and more over the past months.

Sometimes, too, they talked about ghosts. Jacques, Owein, James, Adela, Elwen: the sum of their collective loss. The latter only rarely. Garin had once suggested that Will contact Elwen, but Will had opposed the idea so vehemently that it had never been mentioned again. Will had long given Elwen up to memory, telling himself that she would be happily married to some rich duke. But she was a wound that had never properly healed and still caused him pain. Now and then, he craved the empty darkness that was Garin’s existence, where weeks went by in days.

“There,” said Will gruffly, pushing another piece of meat between Garin’s lips, aware of how demeaning it must feel, “I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

Garin chewed the tough meat slowly, then swallowed with effort. He looked sixty, not twenty-four. “Talk to me,” he whispered, insistent.

“There’s not much to tell. Everyone has been shocked by the fall of Krak. Prince Edward has sent ambassadors to the Mongols to ask for their help, but Grand Master Bérard and most of the others in Acre’s government aren’t expecting to receive any. The prince held a few councils with the barons and tried to rally them, but so far the only things he has managed to fire up are tempers.”

“What do you mean?” said Garin, chewing another piece of meat Will fed to him.

“It’s like everyone who comes here for the first time. Edward doesn’t understand it yet,” sighed Will, who had been in the company that had greeted the thirty-two-year-old English prince, who had come with one thousand knights. King Henry, complaining of ill health, had apparently been excused from taking the Cross. The leaders of Acre had welcomed the fresh troops and the prince’s enthusiasm. At least, for a few days.

“He thought the war was a simple matter of us against them. He was furious when he found out that the Venetians sell arms to Baybars, the Genoese supply him with slaves and the nobles of Acre endorse it all, while quarreling with each other over who should have the biggest cut. And they have the gall to complain when Baybars takes their lands and properties with his nice new weapons and soldiers?” Will sighed roughly as he fished more meat from the bowl. “But none of it will matter soon.”