Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (8 page)

“Their summons was most impertinent, my liege,” continued the chancellor when the king didn’t speak. “No details of their agenda, only a request that myself and the treasury staff attend.” The chancellor’s face was subtly turning from white to blanched pink with his rising indignation.

“That should tell you all you need to know, Chancellor,” said Henry dryly, rubbing his brow. “I would assume it regards our debt.”

“But you spoke with one of them on this matter only recently.”

“Brother Owein. A persistent man indeed. I told him I would pay the debt when I was able and he accepted.”

“If so, my liege, why the summons?”

Henry opened his mouth to respond, but his son spoke before him. “Perhaps they wish to discuss a new Crusade?”

The chancellor and Henry looked around to see the prince watching them.

Edward’s pale gray eyes glinted in the reflected sunlight coming off the water. That one of his eyelids drooped, giving him the look of someone forever deep in thought, didn’t detract from his good looks. His voice was soft and he spoke slowly and carefully to disguise the slight stammer that had affected him since childhood. “It is certainly long past needed. There has been no sustained, effective drive eastward since King Louis’ campaign and that ended six years ago. Now we have vague reports that the Mongols have widened their invasion and the Mamluks are preparing to march on Palestine to confront them.”

“For the moment,” responded Henry, “I need to concentrate on domestic problems rather than foreign troubles that can be dealt with, in the first instance, by the military Orders. That is what they are there for, after all.”

“It’s been ten years since you took the Cross, father,” said the prince mildly, but with a challenge to his tone. “I thought you wanted to go on Crusade? That is what you told the knights when they asked you what the money they were lending you was for.”

“And I will. In time.” Henry turned away, signaling the end of the conversation, but behind him, he could still feel Edward’s eyes on him. It made him uncomfortable. Last year, rumors had begun to circulate in the royal household that his son was involved in a plot to overthrow him, masterminded by Henry’s brother-in-law, the man he had made the Earl of Leicester, Simon de Montfort. He had confronted the earl and his son, but without proof he had eventually been forced to reconcile himself with them. The incident had, however, left a rift between him and Edward that seemed to broaden a little more each day.

“Well, we will just need to be firm with the knights, my liege,” said the chancellor decisively, “whatever it is they want from us.”

Henry lapsed into a brooding silence as the barge passed beyond the city walls. In the distance rose the Templars’ preceptory.

NEW TEMPLE, LONDON, SEPTEMBER
15, 1260
AD

The chapel doors boomed shut and the last few knights seated themselves as the priest stepped behind the altar. Will darted to his place in the nave with his fellow sergeants and knelt as the priest opened the office of Terce with the usual fervor. Will clasped his hands in prayer, but it wasn’t praise for God, or even the impending parley with the king that filled his mind. He had been late for the office and hadn’t yet seen Garin. Eyes open a crack, he scanned the nave and breathed a sigh as his gaze fell on his friend. Garin was kneeling several rows in front, head bowed, hair hanging like a curtain across his face.

Will shuffled uncomfortably as the priest launched into a reading of the scriptures. He had sat through seven of these readings every day for two years, and that didn’t include Mass, which they heard once a day after the office of Sext, or the vespers and vigils said for the dead each afternoon. Still the readings didn’t seem to get any shorter. There were also special services for festivals: the Christ Mass; Epiphany; the Feast of the Annunciation; the Feast of the Assumption; the Feast of St. John the Baptist, to name but a few. At least with those, there was always a good meal to look forward to afterward.

A spider in a crack between the flagstones, disturbed by Will’s shuffling, scuttled toward the effigies of knights that were imprisoned in the floor of the nave, solemnity carved into their faces, granite swords at their chests. The nave was a lofty, circular chamber, ringed with the stone heads of sinners and demons that leered from the walls, faces contorted in various expressions of pain and malevolence. It opened out into a choir aisle that led to the altar. Pillars divided the aisle, rising to the vaulted ceiling, and the benches between were filled with knights.

Eventually, the priest raised his hands. “Arise, brothers. Humble servants of God, defenders of the true faith and upholders of the Divine Law. Arise as we say the Paternoster.”

Will rose, legs tingling, to recite the Lord’s Prayer. His voice joined with those of the other two hundred and sixty men in the chapel, their words colliding until they spoke as one in a voice that was as resonant as the surging of the sea.

“Pax vobiscum!”

There was a scuffle of feet as the priest shut the breviary, signaling the close of the office.

Will waited impatiently with the other sergeants for the knights to go. When it was the turn of his row to leave, he hastened out, jostling his fellows. After the chapel’s gloom the sun seemed overly bright and he shaded his eyes as he stepped through the archway. The sergeants were heading in a line behind the knights, making their way to the Great Hall to break their fast. The buildings around the main courtyard were golden in the autumn morning. The sky was a magnificent, hazy blue, and the smell of ripe apples and plums in the orchards was a sweet perfume masking the general odor of sweat and horse dung that permeated the preceptory. Something in the color of the morning light, the way it seemed to illuminate everything from within, reminded Will of the day he arrived at New Temple.

Saddle-sore and weary from the fortnight’s ride from Edinburgh, he and his father had ridden down out of the Middlesex Forest, through cornfields and vineyards to see London stretched out before them. It had been autumn then too, the leaves russet-red on the branches. They had stopped to water their horses at a stream and Will had stared down over the sprawling city in wonder. Outside the walls, to the right, he had glimpsed several impressive estates stretched along the sweeping riverbanks, one of which he had guessed must be the Temple. Everything had looked so large and grand and hallowed that Will had imagined angels, not men, dwelling within the buildings. He had turned to his father, exalted, and had been met with that same sad blankness in James’s face that he had been confronted with for months.

Will pushed the memory aside with effort. Once the shadow took hold it was difficult to shake and he refused to let that darkness in today. Catching sight of Garin in the line of sergeants filing out of the chapel grounds, he ran down the steps, forcing a smile.

Garin looked around as Will ran up beside him. “Are you coming to the armory?”

Will caught his arm. “Where were you last night?”

Garin grimaced. “In the infirmary with Brother Michael, and the cramps. He said it must have been something I’d eaten. I didn’t tell him about the plums.”

“I thought…” Will stopped, laughing to cover the near-utterance of what was unspoken between them. “That’ll teach us. Luckily, I’ve got an armored stomach.”

“We should collect the shields,” said Garin, moving across the yard. “This is one meeting I don’t want to be late for.”

The two boys headed for the armory, ignoring the curious glances of the younger sergeants as they broke their ranks.

After collecting their masters’ shields they made their way to the inner courtyard, Will hefting Owein’s shield higher on his arm as the leather straps pinched his skin. The shields, which were stained white with quicklime and sectioned with a crimson cross, were almost as big as they were. Set in the center of the knights’ quarters, the courtyard lawn was ringed by cloisters where arched doorways led into the lower levels of the buildings. The grass, beaded with dew, glowed with a green phosphorescence. A large trestle and boards had been placed at the center and a host of servants were bustling around it in the complex, unfaltering dance of those bred for service, carrying benches, trays of food and wine from the kitchens. Will moved over to Owein, Garin following. The knight was talking intently with one of the Temple’s clerks. He looked up. Will opened his mouth to greet his master, but another voice called out before he could speak.

“Brother Owein.”

Will turned to see Jacques heading toward them.

Jacques, ignoring Will and Garin completely, nodded to Owein. “The royal barge has arrived.”

“Very well, brother. I believe we’re ready.” Owein motioned to Will. “To your place, sergeant, and remember, only speak if spoken to.”

“Yes, sir.”

They headed for the trestle and boards where two other sergeants were bearing the shields of their masters. Garin stood beside Will, holding the shield, one-handed, before him. Will’s gaze drifted to Jacques, who was standing with Owein on the edge of the lawn. Cyclops’s sour face and stiff, arrogant posture made Will bristle with dislike. A short time later, he heard the sound of voices and many footsteps approaching. The double doors on the far side of the courtyard swung open.

At the head of the company that filed out onto the lawn was Humbert de Pairaud, the Master of England. The Templar Master was a lofty, broad-chested man with a mane of iron-dark hair, whose presence seemed to fill the courtyard. Walking at Humbert’s side was King Henry. His ashen hair was curled at the ends in the current fashion, his face pleated with age. At the king’s right hand was Prince Edward. The fair-haired youth was almost a head in height above the rest of the company and, at twenty-one, already had the poise of a monarch. A pale-faced man with hollow cheeks dressed in black, and a company of pages, clerks and royal guards followed them.

Owein stepped forward and bowed, first to the Master, then to the king and prince. “My lords, it is an honor to welcome you to the Temple. Lord Chancellor,” he added, greeting the man in black with a nod.

Henry smiled wanly. “Sir Owein. How good it is to see you and so soon after our last meeting.”

Will looked at Owein, surprised. He didn’t know that his master had met with the king.

“My lord,” Humbert intervened, his voice gruff with age and authority, “let us sit and discourse in comfort.”

“Indeed,” conceded Henry, with a dubious glance at the seating. Two attendants draped the head chair with a square of scarlet silk. The Temple’s servants retreated to the cloisters as Henry sat, his pages fluttering around him like moths. He dismissed them with a wave. “How you can reside in such barren strongholds is a mystery to me, Master Templar. Surely the wealthiest men in Christendom can afford a little luxury?”

“Our service is to God, my lord,” replied Humbert smoothly, taking the seat to the left of the king. “Not the comfort of our flesh.”

Will stepped back to allow Owein to sit beside the Master. Edward was at the king’s right and three knights, including Jacques, and five clerks, two from the palace and three from the Temple, took up the rest of the places around the trestle. There was one space left empty. Will guessed it was for the chancellor who had chosen to remain standing behind the king, like a raven perched on the back of his chair.

Henry looked at the trays of fruit and jars of wine. “Thankfully, you have been gracious enough to furnish us with more earthly pleasures.”

“Yes, Lord King.” Humbert beckoned a servant to pour the wine. “The Temple is glad to greet its guests in the custom and manner of their own halls.”

Henry stared at Humbert for a moment, then looked away as the servant poured wine into a goblet and passed it to him with a bow. His gaze swept the company and fell on Will.

“Your soldiers seem to get younger each year. Or perhaps it is I who grows older? How old are you, boy?”

“Thirteen and eight, my lord.” Out of the corner of his eye, Will noticed that Jacques was looking at him.

“Ah!” said Henry, unaware of Will’s discomfort. “A Scotsman unless my ears fail me?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you are privileged to have been a subject of two of these islands’ most beautiful ladies. My wife and my daughter, Margaret.”

Will bowed in acquiescence, but said nothing. He had been only four when Henry had married his ten-year-old daughter to the King of Scotland. But he’d grown up with his father’s thoughts on the matter and understood that through Margaret, Henry had established a firmer hold over Scotland—a country that the English kings had coveted for centuries.

“It is in the young that old men must place their hopes for the future,” continued Henry, taking a sip of wine. “Last month I commissioned the best artist in England to re-create the fall of Jerusalem in my private quarters at the Tower. That was the golden age of chivalry, when brotherhoods were Orders of the highest renown and men like Godfrey de Bouillon walked in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ, sacrificing themselves for the glory of God and Christendom. Perhaps,” he added dryly, “those days may yet come again.”

Humbert raised his brow. “I was of the belief, my lord, that the monies we lent you were for your planned Crusade in Palestine, not those across the walls of your palace?”

“Do not fret about your gold, de Pairaud, it is well spent. You care too much for such things. The Temple trades in the supply of goods across the lands and sea, charges pilgrims for passage on its ships, takes donations from nobles and kings and, in the service of money lending, charges almost as much interest as the damn Jews!” The king met Humbert’s gaze. “I think the name Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ, by which I’ve heard you prefer to be known, is somewhat misleading.”

“The Temple must use all means available to generate funds on this side of the sea if we are to continue the fight beyond it. Indeed, we must utilize every facet of our Order to achieve what has been the dream of every man, woman and child in Christendom for the last two centuries: the reclaiming of Jerusalem from the Saracens and the establishment of a Christian Holy Land. As monks we pray for this, as warriors we build arms and send men to fortify our garrisons in Outremer to aid this and as men we produce and sell whatever is in our capacity to do so in order to accomplish this. And if we do not do this,” added Humbert, his eyes boring into Henry’s, “who will, my Lord King? The West may still long for this dream, but few are those who now rush to fulfil it.”