Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (6 page)

“Enter,” he called, his voice rough with an evening’s disuse.

A servant in a brown tunic appeared in the doorway, looking distressed. “I’m sorry, sir, I know it’s late, but there’s someone here wants to see you. He…well, sir, he insists it’s urgent.”

Jacques frowned, partly at the interruption and partly because he wondered who would need directing by a servant. “Send him in.”

The servant stepped obligingly to one side and a tall figure in a threadbare gray cloak entered the chamber. The servant shifted his body so that the man wouldn’t touch him on the way past. Jacques’ eye widened as the man drew back his low-pulled cowl and inclined his head in greeting. “Hasan,” murmured the knight.

“Is there anything you would be wanting, sir?” came the servant’s voice, tentatively from the doorway. “Perhaps refreshment for your…” His gaze flicked dubiously to the man in gray. “Guest?”

“No,” said Jacques, still staring at the figure, “leave us.”

The servant bowed gratefully and shut the door. He hastened away down the passage, his hand passing over his chest in the sign of the cross.

SCOTLAND, JUNE
9, 1257
AD

Will stood in the doorway, his hand clutching the frame. The fire in the hearth spat and crackled. On the trestle where the maid prepared the food the evening meal lay unmade, seven white fish, gutted and silvery in the candlelight. James Campbell was seated at the table, back turned, legs outstretched. Will could only see his father’s face in shadowed profile: the angular jaw; brow jutting sheer over a long straight nose. His hair was dusted silver at the sides, but his beard was as black as a crow’s wing. James’s gaze was on the open door through which filtered a warm breeze that smelled of mint and yarrow. In daylight, the view would be of fields and woods stretching from the small estate all the way to the city of Edinburgh, which, on a clear day, was just visible as a patch of gray on the horizon. Now, all was dark. Faint on the wind came the gurgling of the stream that flowed through a rocky gully, leading to a loch that lay several miles in the west.

James had returned that evening from a week spent at Balantrodoch, the Temple’s Scottish preceptory, where he kept the accounts for the Master. Over the back of his seat was draped a black mantle. James was a donatus to the Temple and was forbidden from wearing the garments of an initiated knight. Although he spent much of his time at Balantrodoch, working, living and praying with members of the Order, he hadn’t taken the vows of chastity and poverty, only the vow of obedience, and was therefore permitted to continue in his duties as a husband and father, dividing his time between the Temple and the estate. His black mantle was the color of human sin, only the pure being able to don the white of a Templar.

Will lingered by the door, watching his father’s chest rise and fall with each breath. He had been concerned when his father had summoned him in an unusually solemn tone. Laughter floated from the adjacent room where Will’s elder sisters, Alycie and Ede, were playing with Mary, the youngest.

James Campbell turned at the sound and smiled as he saw Will. “Come here, William. I have something for you.
”

As Will sat at the table, his father planted a large hand over his. James’s long fingers were stained brown with the oak gall ink he used to keep the preceptory’s ledgers and his palms were soft, unlike the hands of the few knights Will had met, whose skin was coarse with calluses from the regular handling of a sword. During his thirteen years working for the Temple, James had spent several seasons with the knights, learning how to ride their war-chargers and how to fight, but his main obligation had always been to his work. To Will, however, James was as fine a warrior as any man he had ever known; finer, the boy had always thought, as he was also able to read, write, count and speak Latin as well as the pope. Will had even heard him utter a few words in a chanting, musical tongue that James had told him was Arabic, the language of the Saracens.

“
Do you remember me speaking of a gift your grandfather left to me when he died?
”

Will’s first thought was the estate. The spacious yet comfortable dwelling, nestled at the foot of a moor with its outbuildings and barns, had once belonged to his grandfather. Angus Campbell had been a wealthy wine merchant who, tired of family squabbles, had left his clan to set up a business alone. Rich and worldly, he had raised his son as a gentleman, had found him a suitable bride, and, shortly after James’s first two children were born, Angus had pledged him to the Templars at Balantrodoch, with whom he had forged close trade links over the years. On his death, Angus had left his gold to the Order and the estate to his son.

“
Our home?
”

“
Not the house. Something else.
”

Will shook his head.

“
I suppose you were too young then to recall it now.
”

James rose and headed to the fire where something was propped against the hearthstones. At first glance, Will thought it was a poker, but as his father picked it up and returned to the table, Will saw that it was a sword, a falchion. The short, curved blade, which widened at the tip, looked, from the scars on its convex edge, to have seen battle. The pommel was disc-shaped and the hilt was crisscrossed with a band of silver wire to enhance the grip. It was a stocky blade designed for an infantryman. Will watched as his father laid it on the table.

“
This sword is a birthright. Your grandfather was given it by his father and before he died he passed it to me. It is now yours, William.
”

Will stared at his father. “A real blade?
”

“
You cannot fight with a stick forever.” James smiled. “Well, the day you wield it in battle will be far in the future; God willing never. But I believe you’re old enough to bear it now. I have spoken with the Master at Balantrodoch and he has agreed to accept you as a sergeant-in-training.
”

Will touched the hilt lightly. It was warm from where it had stood by the fire. “I’m really going?
”

“
Going?
”

“
To Balantrodoch.
”

James studied his son’s face. “I’ve trained you the best I can, William. I’ve taught you your letters and how to ride and to fight, but the skills you’ve learned must be sharpened and by better instructors than I. One day, William, you will take the white mantle and be admitted as a Knight of the Temple and when you are, in God’s name, I will be at your side.
”

Will leaned back as the words sunk in. He was going to be a sergeant in the Order of the Temple. Since he was a toddler that name had filled him with awe. There was no organization on the Earth, his father had told him, that wielded as much power as the Temple, except, of course, the Church itself. Will would lie in bed in the room he shared with his younger sister and dream he was a knight, one of the greatest men in all the world, standing tall and dignified like his father: noble in spirit; honorable in battle; generous in heart.

Will sat up suddenly. “Can we finish the boat first?
”

James laughed and ruffled Will’s hair.
“
You won’t be my sergeant for a year or so yet. We have more than enough time to finish the boat.
”

“
Would that be your father’s sword, James?
”

Will looked around as his mother entered, carrying a crock of mint. She was tall in a simple gown of dyed wool, her hair the color of wild cherries. Her belly pressed against the thin material of her gown, arching with child. Behind her skipped Mary, his eight-year-old sister. Will huffed at the interruption as Mary ran to James.

“
That it would, Isabel,” said James, catching hold of Mary and swinging her, squealing, into the air. “Although it’s William’s sword now.
”

Isabel raised an eyebrow at her husband as she placed the crock on the table. “I don’t care if it is the pope’s. What is it doing on my table?
”

James let go of Mary and pulled Isabel, protesting, onto his lap.

She swatted him around the head. “There’ll be no food unless you remove that lump of iron and let me be!
”

James feigned a shocked expression. “That is a blade of our clan, woman, not a lump of iron!
”

“We don’t have a clan, father,” remarked Alycie, the eldest daughter, as she entered with Ede. Like their mother, they both had dark red hair, whereas Mary’s was the color of honey.

“No,” agreed James, “not since your grandfather left the family, but it’s part of our heritage nonetheless.” He let Isabel off his lap and took up the sword. “Look. This is good Scottish iron.” He gave the air a powerful swipe. The blade caught the crock of mint, which shot off the table and smashed in a corner. Will began to laugh.

NEW TEMPLE, LONDON, SEPTEMBER
15, 1260
AD

The hilt was cold beneath his fingers. The sword was slightly rusted around the cross-guard and the bands of silver wire were a little loose. Will glanced round as a snore sounded from the pallet beside his. The flame of the nightlight danced and flickered over the forms of the eight other sergeants with whom he shared the chamber. Like all quarters in the sergeants’ building the dormitory was a gloomy, low-ceilinged room. Nine pallets were in a row against one wall, each covered with a rough woolen blanket. Facing the berths were two armoires that held clothes and the sergeants’ few belongings, and a table for the candle. A cold wind streamed in through the narrow windows, lifting the sacking that was placed across them and bringing with it the dank, briny smell of the Thames. As sergeants and knights were forbidden from sleeping naked, Will was clad in an undershirt and hose, but the air was cool and he’d wrapped his short winter cloak around his shoulders. Shadows swayed on the walls and hidden cobwebs shone silver as the night candle flared and lit up dark spaces between the beams.

Will placed the sword carefully on the pallet before him and hugged his knees to his chest, wincing as his back twinged. Every time he moved, a new pain would flare in his muscles. His feet were swollen and a blister had formed on the heel where his boot had chafed him. It was gone midnight and he was exhausted, but discomfort and his thoughts kept him from sleep.

When he had caught up with Garin on the field, his friend hadn’t said anything for some time and they had run the first few circuits together in silence. Eventually, Garin had spoken.

“Why are you doing this?” he had panted.

Will had shrugged as if it wasn’t important. “I thought you might want the company.”

It was all that needed to be said. In between breaths, their hair hanging in their eyes, they had talked and laughed their way through Jacques’ punishment, encouraging each other when the field seemed endless and their limbs were singing with pain. Afterward, in a small, but satisfying, act of rebellion, Garin had kept watch as Will climbed one of the orchard’s tree s to pick a handful of plums. Hidden between the curving buttresses at the back of the chapel they had devoured the fruit thirstily as the sun burned away the last of the mist and dried their clothes. For Will, the reminder of how things used to be revealed just how much they had changed.

It was over two years since Will had first met Garin, on the morning after his arrival at New Temple. Will, who had never gone to Balantrodoch like his father had promised, had been led to the training field where he was introduced to the sergeants with whom he would spend the next seven years of his life. Garin had himself recently arrived and Will, making their group an even number, was assigned as his partner-in-training. The other sergeants had been friendly and curious, crowding around him, but Garin had hung back. Will, having answered none of the sergeants’ questions, had taken the wooden sword he was handed and had followed Jacques’ commands without a word. At mealtimes and in chapel he had sat alone, the rumbling of the priests’ voices as they read from the scriptures at dinner and during the offices a constant, dull drone in his ears.

Things had gone on this way for almost a fortnight and the initial interest in Will had waned, his fellows having concluded he was either mute, or arrogant. He might have languished in his silence for much longer had it not been for Garin. Garin had never asked him about his home, or his family. Neither had he questioned why James Campbell was so rarely seen outside the solar where he worked alongside Jacques and Owein as a bookkeeper in place of a sick clerk—the position that had brought James and his son to London.

Several months after their arrival, James had entered the chapter house and had taken his last two vows, those of chastity and poverty. Will had been shocked to see his father dressed in the white mantle of a fully professed knight. The man who had become almost a stranger to him, reserved, formal, was now unreachable, cold and distant in that stark white cloth. Will, in his black tunic, still sinful, still human, had felt as though he had lost him for good. His mother and sisters, his father had told him, had been moved into a nunnery close to Balantrodoch, the estate having been given over to the Order in return for James’s acceptance as a knight. There they would be supported by the Temple and would, his father had told him, not want for anything. But that hadn’t alleviated Will’s grief, or quelled the knowledge that he was responsible for the loss of his father, his family and the one place he had known and loved.

Garin’s disinterest in things that Will had neither the strength nor the desire to speak of had put him at ease and when Garin suggested that they practice in their spare time, he had welcomed the boy’s incurious company. Haltingly, over the following weeks, Will had begun to talk, about sword moves at first, then asking Garin about the preceptory, then finally speaking of himself. The shadow that had followed him from Scotland never left him, but when they were together it became invisible.