Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (21 page)

“Pull up your tunic and put your face to the floor.”

Will lifted his tunic and undershirt, feeling the cool air prickling his skin. He bent forward, pressing his forehead to the stone, and planted his palms on the floor. “Why didn’t the Visitor expel me, sir?” he questioned, the interruption delaying the moment when the whip would fall, however inevitable. “He could have.”

“It was agreed that your expulsion would serve no one,” said Everard calmly, “and this way, you and I both get something we want.”

“What is that?” Will tried to sit up, but Everard put a foot on his back, pressing him down.

“You get to stay as a sergeant in the Temple, and I,” said Everard, removing his foot from Will’s back, “get an apprentice.”

“An apprentice?” Will flinched as he heard the whip crack above him. When no pain followed he realized that Everard had merely snapped it taut in his hands. He drew in a breath. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Everard slowly, deliberately, “that you are now a sergeant of the Paris Temple. And
I
your new master.”

The whip cracked again. A searing agony struck Will’s spine like lightning, wrenching a cry from his lips. As it swept through him he dug his fingers into the stone, as if in an attempt to ground the pain, and dimly heard another crack. Will forced in a breath and tried to speak, but the next stroke came before he could form any words. This time the pain was different, worse somehow because it was anticipated. The whip cut down, again and again, the pain making him retch. Will closed his eyes, tears burning from them.

When he had finished, Everard folded the whip in his hands and crossed himself before the altar. Will put his cheek to the stone, where his tears and saliva had pooled.

“On your feet.”

Will’s back was on fire and his legs felt like water. He stood, stifling a gasp as his tunic brushed against his torn skin. He wanted to curl up and cry, but he wouldn’t give the priest the satisfaction: The loss of pride would be somehow worse than the pain.

There were two high spots of color on the priest’s pale cheeks. “Why do…?” Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his back. “Why do you, a priest, have need of a sergeant?”

“I am a collector and translator of manuscripts in the fields of medicine, mathematics, geometry, astronomy and the like,” said Everard, carelessly tossing the whip onto one of the benches. “But although seventy years in this accursed world may have brought wisdom to this mind, they haven’t been so gracious to this body.” Everard tapped his temple. “My eyesight is failing me. I have need of a scribe.”

“A scribe,” echoed Will, trying to keep his voice steady.

“I have been petitioning the Visitor for months, but so far he has been unable to spare me a sergeant for the task.” Everard smiled at Will. “It’s fortunate for me that you are here.” His smile widened. “And that you chose to defile my Sacrament.”

Will stared at the priest in horrified disbelief. “A scribe?” he repeated.

“Unlike many of your age and rank you can read and write, can you not?”

“I’m training to be a
knight
, not a clerk!”

“Do you believe that a Templar needs only his sword, boy?” Everard shook his head. “Your former master taught you to use your arm. I shall train you to use your wits.” He peered at Will through narrowed eyes. “If you possess any.” He turned away. “Return to your quarters. After Matins tomorrow, come to my chamber. You can begin your duties by cleaning my floor. By the smell of it one of the cats got in again.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I won’t do this!”

“Then walk out of those doors.”

Will opened his mouth, then shut it. He stared at the priest. “What?”

“Walk away, I cannot stop you.”

Will glanced at the doors. “Is this a jest?”

“No.”

“Very well,” said Will after a moment. He took a step toward the doors. “I shall.”

“Walk through those doors, boy,” said the priest behind him, “and keep on walking until you have left this preceptory. You are no longer a sergeant of the Order of the Temple. I release you from your bond.”

“That isn’t what…”

“If you cannot obey your master, you shouldn’t be here.”

Will stood in the aisle between the doors and the altar. He had never had the same desire to be a knight as other sergeants he knew; to fight for Christendom against the infidel and win glory in arms; to better serve God and receive the power and privileges knighthood brought. But Owein had said that when a man puts on the mantle he is reborn, cleansed of all past sins. Will had understood that. It wasn’t the mantle that was important—it was the absolution. He needed his father to see him in that cloth; to see he had been reborn; that he was no longer the boy who had killed his sister. “No,” he whispered. “I will not walk away.”

“Then, Sergeant Campbell, I will see you at dawn.”

Everard watched the boy trudge from the chapel. After Will had gone, the priest tutted to himself, then began readying the altar for Compline.

A short time later, the chapel doors opened and a tall man in a gray cloak entered.

“Ah, there you are,” said Everard, peering down the aisle. “I take it you have given your testimony of the battle?”

“Yes, brother,” said Hasan, coming forward. “I told the Visitor that I was in London to meet a contact of yours, a bookseller.”

“He didn’t question you further? Good.” Everard placed the breviary he was holding on the altar and stepped down the dais to Hasan. “We can ill afford any further difficulties. Jacques’ death has dealt us a heavy enough blow as it is. However, we must continue the search for the book as soon as possible. If Rulli had already handed it over by the time you caught him, whoever may have the book now might still be in the city. Did Jacques speak to you of his thoughts while you were in New Temple?”

“He worried, as you, that whoever forced Rulli to steal the Book of the Grail wants it to use as proof with which to expose the Anima Templi and its plans.” Hasan went to sit on the bench, then saw the whip that was lying there. He picked it up. “Someone has been in trouble?”

Everard grunted and took the whip. “James Campbell’s son, would you believe.”

“James’s son?”

“William. A sergeant at New Temple. He came here on the boat from London. I’ve just taken him on as my apprentice as a matter of fact.”

Hasan raised an eyebrow. “William? Then he is the one I told you about; the one I caught following me at Honfleur. Do you think he knows?”

Everard shook his head after a moment. “James knew what was at stake. He wouldn’t have told him. And the boy certainly showed no sign that he knew who I was. He was probably just being inquisitive. It’s not as if you’ve never had anyone curious, or concerned about you before, Hasan.” Everard shuffled over to the side room. “At least I’ll get some use out of him while he’s here.”

Hasan watched Everard stow the whip on a shelf. “I know you have been looking for a servant, brother. But if you do not mind me saying, I am not certain that was what James had in mind when he asked you to take care of his son.”

“What better way is there for me to keep an eye on him?” responded Everard curtly. “He is without a master. What do you think James would have me do? Send him back to England alone, or keep him here under me?”

Hasan nodded after a pause, knowing not to push. “Perhaps we should think again about contacting the rest of the Brethren to inform them that the book has been stolen,” he said, as Everard crossed to him.

“Our brothers in the East have their own work to attend to. War is brewing between the Mamluks and our forces. They will need all their attention focused there if we are to succeed in the trials that I fear will soon be upon us.”

“But without their support it will prove a hard task to find it. Perhaps impossible. If the Book of the Grail is brought to light and the Anima Templi exposed, everything we have worked for could perish. This is surely the greater threat?”

“The book is my responsibility, Hasan,” said Everard firmly. “I will take care of it.” He rubbed irritably at his forehead. “Damn Armand!” he snapped suddenly. “The Grand Master had to have his pomp and ceremony, didn’t he!” He sighed and looked at Hasan. “That book has been a stone around my neck since its creation. When Armand died at Herbiya I should have destroyed it, not brought it back to Paris. Because of me everything all of us have worked so hard to achieve has been put at risk. Our work is too important to this world to be lost, Hasan.”

“It is not your fault, brother.”

“No? I wrote the damn thing. If it isn’t my fault I don’t know whose fault it is. It was vanity that made me keep it, Hasan.” Everard shook his head. “Vanity.”

Hasan was silent for a few moments, unsure of what to say. Eventually, he reached into his sack bag and pulled out a cracked, yellowed parchment that he handed to Everard. “I took this from Jacques after he died. I did not want anyone finding it.”

Everard took the parchment wearily. “Did he read it?”

“Yes. He was pleased that James had managed to achieve so much in such a short time within the Mamluk camp.” Hasan paused. “Will you tell your new apprentice about his father’s involvement?”

“No,” said Everard shortly. Tearing up the parchment, he stowed the pieces in his robes. “That one has much to learn.”

J
ames Campbell rose and crossed himself before the altar. The chapel was cool and silent. It was not yet dawn and most of the fortress’s inhabitants were either asleep, or manning the walls. James had risen early for the peace the chapel’s emptiness offered, a peace that, just for a few moments, could help him forget where he was. When the Matins bell rang, the benches would fill with people, so many that those who came last would have to kneel outside. Every morning for almost three weeks it had been the same. Before then, only the fifty knights and thirty sergeants who garrisoned Safed would rise at dawn to attend the first office in the privacy of their chapel. But, now, everyone had a reason to pray and the priests didn’t have the heart to turn them away. “In these coming days we will need every prayer,” Brother Joseph had said.

Turning from the altar, James walked down the aisle. He paused before a statue that stood guard at the door. The eyes of St. George were directed to the vaulted ceiling, so too was his sword, raised in triumph. On his chest was a carved cross and under his left foot was a serpent, jaws splayed in death. James touched the saint’s foot. “Protect us.”

The doors swung open and a large figure in a white mantle entered the chapel. In the candlelight the knight’s hair and beard, thick and dry as straw and bleached white by the sun, took on a golden tinge. “I thought I might find you here,” he said with a smile. His skin, burnt from recent long watches on the walls, crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Do you think God listened to you today, brother?”

James looked up at the knight, who was a good foot taller than he was. James was, himself, neither short nor slender of build, but he always felt rather diminutive when in the presence of this huge man. “God always listens to us, Mattius.”

“I wonder sometimes, when so many call out to Him at once, how can He hear us all?” Mattius half shrugged. “I hope you’re right. They are preparing for another assault. The commander believes it will come at dawn; we’re needed on the walls.”

James forced a determined smile and motioned to the door. “Then I’ll show you He hears us when we beat them back again.”

The two men headed out of the chapel and into the night gloom of the inner enceinte. The chapel, storerooms and cisterns that occupied the central space were dwarfed by the featureless heights of stone that surrounded them. At one end of the enclosure rose the massive keep that housed the quarters and hall of the knights, priests and sergeants. Ranked along the rest of the walls were the towers that held the infirmary, armory, wardrobe and kitchens.

The two knights walked quickly, heading for a postern at the base of the wall. In the distance, the clinking of hammers echoed from the outer enceinte. Closer were the cries of a man as they passed beneath the infirmary. Once through the postern, they entered a dank passage that cut through the thirteen-foot-thick wall. A faint shimmer of torchlight shone through a grated opening in the passage roof, down which burning oil could be poured from a gallery above. Mattius opened the door at the end and stepped out. The guards manning the postern turned, reaching for their weapons, then relaxed as they saw the two knights.

“Glad to see you’re still awake,” said Mattius, shutting the door, which was reinforced on the outside with iron plates. He clapped one of the guards on the back, causing the man to gasp and step forward with the force of it. “Only, I don’t think trouble will come from the
inside
.”

“You may have to eat your words, Mattius,” said James, moving off. “From the inside is how most fortresses fall.”

Mattius grunted and followed him through the outer enceinte, along narrow passages between the buildings and into open areas filled with people huddled around fires, curled up in the doorways of towers. The smell of dung from the animal pens and stables was strong and sickly sweet. Above the calls of guards on the dawn watch, the murmuring of the waking inhabitants and the whinnying of horses rang the ever-present clinking of hammers as the masons continued the repairs on the barbican. From the curtain walls jutted corner and flanking towers, interconnected by covered walkways that bristled with mangonels and archers. The yellow tongues of torches flickered over the shadows of men moving on the battlements. In peacetime and during sieges the outer enceinte served as a barracks for the soldiers and servants. If an enemy breached the outer walls it would become a killing ground into which the defenders could pour oil, stones and arrows. Should the outer enceinte fall, the garrison would withdraw to the inner, making Safed a fortress within a fortress, one of the most impregnable of all the Crusader strongholds in Outremer. It was the pride of the Temple.

As he walked, James’s gaze flitted over the groups of people, some of whom looked up at him, their expressions a mixture of hope and fear. Other than the knights, sergeants and servants, Safed housed a garrison of sixteen hundred Syrian Christian soldiers—lightly armed mercenaries paid to man the fortress. But, in recent weeks, the population had swelled as farmers and their families and herds had fled their homes for the safety of the stronghold. James assessed their numbers. He had set down his quill in London, but his years of bookkeeping at Balantrodoch had never left him and he still viewed everything in the black and white simplicity of a ledger. It was all a question of figures and whether they balanced. So much grain could feed so many people for so long: the more mouths to feed the shorter the time. True, there was no shortage of food or water as yet. But no one knew how long they would be imprisoned here, unable to leave, unable to send word to request more forces. Sieges could last for months.

“They could have at least brought something useful,” muttered Mattius, looking over at a man and woman with three skinny children who were sharing a blanket near one of the fires.

James followed his gaze. He saw a small collection of pots and pans stacked on the ground beside the family. The man kept one protective hand on the stack as if he feared someone might steal them. James imagined them in some mud-brick farm out in the pastures, hearing the distant hoofbeats, or seeing the beacons, snatching the pots and pans from a shelf and running for the door. Out across the fields, the mother carrying the youngest in her arms, the father looking over his shoulder.

“After the Battle of Mansurah, when the Egyptian forces stormed Louis’ camp, the king’s brother was saved by cooks wielding skillets. Almost anything can be used as a weapon,” said James.

Mattius pursed his lips and looked to the sky for inspiration. “A feather?”

James grinned. The expression lit up his eyes and smoothed the lines of his brow, making him look years younger. “A feather can be turned into a quill. With a quill you could sign a man’s death warrant, draw up laws or edicts, declare war.”

They ascended a set of narrow steps leading up to the battlements. “I was thinking of something a little more suited to our current predicament,” said Mattius, as they passed a row of archers kneeling at the loopholes in the wall.

“I suppose,” replied James, enjoying the game, “that the tip of a feather would be sharp enough to blind a man.”

“A flower then?”

James opened his mouth to retort when his gaze fell on a group of young men standing on the walkway ahead. The five Templar sergeants had been garrisoned in the fortress two months ago, fresh from training at Acre. He saw them stand a little straighter as he and Mattius passed by. The torchlight shone on their pale, beardless faces. “Dear God, Mattius, they are younger than my son.”

Mattius noticed James’s temple pulse as he clenched his jaw, his humor spent. “And how is your boy?” he asked in a jovial tone. “I believe, in his last letter, he said he had taken the vows?” Mattius already knew the answers to his questions for James had read him the letter as soon as it had arrived.

James knew that Mattius knew, but accepted his comrade’s attempt to lift his spirits. “William is well, brother, and, yes, he’s now a knight. I was concerned when I received word from him whilst I was stationed in Acre. The death of his master, Owein, was a sore blow and he sounded lost, unhappy in Paris. But he seems settled now and his master, Everard, obviously taught him much. His lettering is better than mine.”

“Always the scholar,” said Mattius with a grin.

“I wish I could have been there for his inception, Mattius. It feels like a lifetime since I saw him last.”

“You’ll see him again soon enough. Once word reaches the West of what has happened, your son will come with an army to fight at our side.”

James looked back at the sergeants. “And we will have much to speak of.” He lapsed into silence as they headed along the ramparts to a corner tower.

James had, at first, been overjoyed when he had received the letter from Will, speaking of the inception, but that joy had soon become tainted by feelings of regret and envy. In one sense, he was incredibly grateful that Everard had taken care of his son. After Jacques de Lyons, impressed by James’s diplomatic manner and knowledge of Arabic, had recruited him into the Anima Templi back in London, James had met Everard only once before the priest had asked him to undertake an assignment in the East. The assignment had excited James: It was fundamental to the Anima Templi’s aims, aims he had come firmly to believe in, and he’d thought he had a chance to succeed. He had agreed on the condition that Everard keep an eye on Will and, should anything happen to him, make sure that his son was cared for. But although he was glad that the priest had taken the boy on after Owein’s death, he was envious that Everard, not he, had raised Will, had been there at his inception.

More and more these past few weeks, Will had been in James’s thoughts. Perhaps because there was now the fear that he would never see the boy again, never hold his son, or say he was sorry for leaving the way he had. Standing on the docks at New Temple, James had longed to take Will in his arms and tell the distraught boy that he no longer blamed him for Mary’s death; that he had to leave because he was going to do something important, something that could change the world. But all he had been able to do was squeeze his son’s hand.

As they approached the corner tower, James glanced at the huge man beside him. Mattius had been a good friend to him over the past few years, but knew nothing of the real reason he was in the Holy Land, or what he did in between his obligations to the Temple and his various postings at garrisons like Safed. Sometimes, James felt so lonely he thought the pain of it would bury him. He missed his daughters, the smell of their hair and the sound of their laughter. He missed the feel of his wife’s warm skin against his. He missed his son. At those times, James had to remind himself that the mission, not his family, or friends, or his duty to the Temple was the most important thing. He was doing it, he told himself, for them.

James pushed open the postern at the tower’s base and, together, he and Mattius ascended the spiral steps. A cold wind whistled down toward them, blowing specks of dust into their eyes. The wind grew stronger as they neared the top, as did the glare of torchlight. They came out through a hole in the round tower’s crenellated roof. The sky was beginning to lighten, the stars fading to turquoise blue. A short, thickset man with a tanned, leathery face turned to them as they appeared. With him on the tower were eight other Templars, two sergeants and the captain of the Syrian soldiers.

“Good morning, brothers.”

James inclined his head. “Commander.”

“I hope you slept well, this looks to be a long day.”

“Mattius has informed me of the possibility of an assault, sir.”

The commander motioned to the parapet. “Come see for yourself.”

James followed him and looked out. Safed was built on a wide, high hill of craggy rock, offering a clear vantage point from all sides over the surrounding lands. One of several Crusader castles ranked along the Jordan Valley, it guarded the road from Damascus to Acre, looking out across Jacob’s Ford, the most northerly crossing over the River Jordan. In daylight the view would be of hills and pastures, scattered with the villages that lay under Safed’s dominion. Five miles to the south, the Jordan flowed into the Sea of Galilee and the fields stretched up into dusty, pink mountains. In the darkness, James could see nothing but the vast Mamluk army stretched out below the fortress. Thousands of torches were burning, throwing a hellish glow over the encampment of tents, wagons, horses, camels and fluttering banners. Men in colored cloaks and turbans moved in the pools of light between the skeletal frames of siege engines that rose like monsters from the plain.

“It looks even larger than it did yesterday,” muttered James. “Have reinforcements joined them?”

“Not reinforcements,” answered the commander. “Last night, after you retired, they sent heralds to inform us that they had captured another two hundred Christians from the outlying villages. We saw them being brought in cages.”

“Dear God.”

“They should have fled when they had the chance. We can do nothing for them.”

James felt that he should protest. But he didn’t. Harsh as the commander’s words were, James knew he was right.

The commander pointed to a shadowy area not far from the base of the hill, where a steep, winding path led up to the barbican that guarded the fortress’s gate. “Take a look.”

James and Mattius, who had joined them, followed his finger. Squinting into the shadows, James saw the figures of men moving around a long, rectangular shape that was only visible because it was blacker and more solid than the weakening darkness.

“They’ve built a cat.”

The commander nodded. “It could prove a problem. We have only just completed the repairs on the barbican after the last two assaults.” He laughed bitterly. “And they weren’t even aiming for it. If that stone hadn’t gone so wide of their mark…” He shook his head. “They know it’s a weak spot now.”

James realized that he could no longer hear the hammers: The masons had been pulled back, their job done. He frowned as he studied the cat. A stout frame set on wheels with a sloping timber roof, it would have to be brought right up to the base of the walls to be used. From under its shelter men would go to work on the gate with pickaxes, or else there would be a ram strung from chains attached to the roof, its head iron-plated. The weapon could, indeed, prove a problem. But there were ways of dealing with it.