Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (40 page)

“What is the meaning of this, brother?” asked Everard, trying to sound incensed but only managing to sound fearful.

“I am not your brother. Give me the book.” Nicolas aimed the crossbow at Everard’s throat. “I will not ask you again.”

Everard’s eyes moved slowly to the weapon. “My God, it was you, wasn’t it?” he breathed. “You forced Rulli to steal the book from the vaults and killed him in the alley? That is why you are alone. You aren’t here for the Visitor, or the Dominicans. You are here for yourself.”

Will glanced down at the dagger that was protruding from Hasan’s side. While Nicolas’s eyes were fixed on Everard, he took a step closer to the grave.

“I might have let the clerk live,” said Nicolas, “if Hasan hadn’t interfered. But I couldn’t allow him to reveal my identity.”

“How did you learn of the book?” demanded Everard.

“I have spoken to some of those who broke your circle after Armand’s term in power. I know all about you, Everard; your secrets, what you’ve done.”

“You have been here all this time? A snake in my midst.” Everard’s voice was low, but his eyes did not stray from the crossbow.

“I have been waiting for this moment for more than seven years. Seven years since I left my home to come to this country; was forced to don this false mantle, pretend to be one of you, your brother.” Nicolas’s eyes were filled with enmity. “Justice has been long in coming. But we will have it now. Too long have the Temple and its leaders hidden behind the pope’s robes. When he sees what it is that you do at your initiations, when he sees what filth you have written as your secret code, he will have no choice but to destroy you. Every last one.” Nicolas’s olive skin was flushed with triumph and open fury. “You are a man of words, Everard. You have, I am sure, heard the tale of David and Goliath?”

Everard didn’t respond.

“And as with just one tiny stone, David slew the beast before him, I will bring down the mighty Temple with nothing but a book.”

Will took another step toward the grave.

“Why would you do this?” murmured Everard. “Who are you?”

“I am one of the men your Order betrayed at Acre. One of the men you and others under that bastard, Armand, had barricaded in our stronghold, refusing to let food or medicines enter and any, even the sick and the dying, leave. I am a Knight of the Order of St. John. And the man who will bring about your end.”

Will stared at the knight, remembering how Nicolas had so easily resolved the situation he had found himself in with the drunken Hospitaller several months ago.

“I and others in my group petitioned Armand to stop that madness,” Everard was saying. “We tried, believe me. What Armand did was inexcusable, yes, but it was not our doing.”

“You tried? While you were trying, Everard, I was watching friends and brothers die from wounds, or sicknesses that could have been treated. We begged the Templars to allow medicine and food through the blockade for the sick. They refused and when those same men died they wouldn’t even open their lines to let us take out the corpses for burial. For months, we choked on the stink of our comrades’ rotting flesh. Inexcusable?” Nicolas’s tone was implacable. “I cannot think of a strong enough word to describe it.”

“Will destroying the lives of so many more rebalance those scales?”

“It will be a start.” Nicolas held out his free hand.

“You cannot know what this truly is!” said Everard, clinging desperately to the Book of the Grail. “If you did you would not seek to destroy me and my Brethren. We are not the ones who wronged you, I tell you! Armand is dead and buried. He was served his justice in a Cairo jail.”

“You and the other leaders of the Temple and your secret group defended his treachery. All of you must pay for what you did. If the laws of courts and kings will not serve to punish you for your sins, then we will.”

“By destroying the Temple, you destroy us all!”

As the priest shouted these last words, Will dove for the dagger and wrenched it from Hasan’s side. It stuck fast for one awful second, then came free with a sucking sound. He turned the blade on Nicolas.

Nicolas swept the crossbow around to point it at Will. The two of them stared at one another. In Nicolas’s eyes, Will saw none of the humor or friendliness he had seen that day outside the parchmenter’s. It was as if he were looking at a different man.

“I warned you once about drawing a weapon so readily, Campbell.” When Will didn’t move, Nicolas addressed Everard. “Tell your sergeant to stand down, Everard, or I will kill him.”

Will felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Do as he says,” murmured Everard. He sounded defeated.

Will hesitated, but Everard gripped his shoulder tighter and he lowered the weapon.

As he did so, Everard tossed the Book of the Grail at Nicolas’s feet. “You do not know what you are doing.”

Nicolas reached down and picked up the book. “I have never been clearer.” He backed away, still training the crossbow on Will. When he had reached the chapel, he turned and sprinted off. Within a moment, he was out of sight.

Will went to go after him.

“Wait, sergeant,” said Everard.

Will looked back. “He’s going to get away.”

“And we will let him. For now.” Everard took the dagger from Will’s hand and laid it on Hasan’s chest. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he whispered, snatching the shroud over the Arab. “Come,” he said to Will. “We shall return to the preceptory. We need help.”

But when Will and Everard got to the gate, they found their palfreys gone.

THE SEVEN STARS, PARIS, NOVEMBER
2, 1266
AD

Garin took the rickety stairs two at a time. His head was pounding and a large bruise had swollen on his scalp, which was tender to the touch. He felt sick. Seven doors lined the gloomy passage at the top, with an eighth at the end. Light issued out from beneath some, along with faint noises: cries and groans that hinted at pleasure, or pain, or both. The floorboards were rotten in places and creaked ominously beneath Garin’s boots as he walked down the passage, his eyes on the door at the end. He paused before opening it, afraid of what lay beyond. Steeling his nerves, he entered. Rook was sitting at Adela’s workbench, devouring a chicken leg. Grease had dribbled down his chin and tiny scraps of flesh clung to his stubbly cheeks. He was alone.

Garin closed the door. “Where’s Adela?” he asked nervously, glancing around the chamber.

“In the yard,” said Rook through a mouthful of meat. “Do you have it?”

Garin didn’t reply for a moment. Through the window he heard a scraping sound, followed by Adela’s voice. He guessed she was having fresh barrels brought in for the evening. The sound of her voice reassured him. “No,” he told Rook. “I don’t have it.”

Rook dropped the chicken leg to the platter. “Where is it then?” he growled, rising and wiping his greasy mouth with the back of his hand. “My source tells me the troubadour was arrested last night, but no book was found. So, if you don’t have it, you better damn well know who has.”

“I saw Will Campbell, Everard’s sergeant,” replied Garin, not coming any closer into the chamber, which was filled with smoke from the hearth that swirled in the shafts of sunlight coming through the window coverings. “He was talking with Elwen outside the preceptory this morning.”

“Who?”

“They knew one another at New Temple. She is a handmaiden at the palace.” Garin paused. “I don’t think Hasan took the book. I think she did.” Garin told him what Etienne had said about the serving girl with the false name who fitted Elwen’s description; the serving girl de Pont-Evêque had accused of stealing the Book of the Grail. “I think she might have given it to Will,” he finished.

“And?” demanded Rook impatiently.

“I saw Will and Everard leaving the preceptory about two hours ago. I was going to follow them, but…” Garin faltered, pressing his lips together. “But I was hit over the head by someone and I…I didn’t see who it was,” he finished into Rook’s unnerving silence.

“I see.” Rook came around the workbench and walked toward Garin. “So our one chance of getting this book is gone, is it? All because you were stupid enough to let yourself get seen.” He rushed at Garin, slamming the youth into the door.

Garin cried out as his bruised head connected solidly with the wood. “Don’t, Rook! My
head
!”

“Hurts, does it?” said Rook. He grabbed a fistful of Garin’s blond hair and smashed the knight’s head against the door.
“Does it?”

The pain almost blinded Garin with its intensity. “I don’t think they went far! They didn’t have any supplies and Will was unarmed. Wherever they went it must be within the city! We can still find it!”

“How?”

“I’ll think of a way!”

“You’d better hope you do, or I swear by my life, I’ll make you sorry. You and that bitch downstairs.”

Garin, fighting off waves of nausea from the pain in his head, stared at Rook, hatred rising in him like bile, bitter, stinging.

He was a Knight of the Temple, a nobleman of a grand lineage stretching back, his uncle had said, to the time of Charlemagne. Rook was a glorified thief, a bastard born on Cheapside’s streets, one of a notorious pack who had terrorized London for years until one of their own mothers had informed on them and they had been caught and sentenced to hang. Rook had been spared the gallows by Edward and lifted from the gutter. But he was still nothing but a dog.

Garin forced himself to concentrate on the rewards he would reap for completing this task, not least, Rook’s departure from the city. “We’ll have to be careful whatever we do,” he said, touching his scalp gingerly. His fingers came back dotted with blood. “I don’t know who attacked me in the stables. Either they were after the book too, or they saw me watching the priest and wanted to stop me from following.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it was Hasan? I haven’t seen him since yesterday evening.” An idea of what he would have to do came into Garin’s mind, but he hesitated before voicing it. If he went down this road, it might be hard for him to return. “I think we should turn our attention to Will,” he said finally, unable to think of any other solution and unable to bear any more pain. “He knows, I’m sure, where the book is now.” Garin took a deep breath. He thought of his dreamed-of estate, his title and riches. He thought of his mother’s pride and happiness and he thought of Adela, sharing his bed only, of having her every night he wanted her. He exhaled decisively. “We’ll bring him here and you can ask him where it is.”

“How do we get him to come here?” said Rook, after a pause.

Garin met his gaze. “You use Elwen.”

“A
re you going to tell me any more of what this is about?” panted Simon, as he jogged along the road beside Will, skirting the groups of people who thronged the streets. It was market day and the Ville was bustling with traders and shoppers. “It’s plain you haven’t told me everything.”

“I’ve told you all I can,” said Will, glancing at him. He felt guilty, having dragged Simon into this without a proper explanation, but Everard had insisted he take someone with him to watch his back and Simon was the only one he trusted with that responsibility. Having the brawny groom alongside did make him feel a little surer.

“Don’t confront de Navarre alone,” the priest had warned, as Will had strapped his falchion to his hip back at the preceptory. He had planted a bony hand on Will’s shoulder. “I’m relying on you. Get me the book and, I swear, I will see you knighted.”

“Nicolas de Navarre a traitor?” breathed Simon, his face red and sweaty with the exertion. “I can hardly believe it. And what was this book he stole?”

“A valuable text belonging to Everard. We think he plans to sell it, as I said, so we must hurry.”

“And he’s sent us to get it back for him?” Simon shook his head. “I don’t understand it. Why didn’t he send armed knights?” He glanced worriedly at the falchion on Will’s hip. “Are we expecting trouble? Because, Will, you know I can’t fight.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to. But if Nicolas sees two of us, he’ll be less willing to confront us.” Will hoped this was true. He knew he was good with a sword, but he had no idea of Nicolas’s capabilities and didn’t much fancy his chances against a crossbow. That was if Nicolas had even gone to the Hospitallers’ preceptory. If he hadn’t, Will had no clue of where they might find him.

“We would have been quicker on horses,” Simon told him.

Will didn’t answer. Simon hadn’t been in the stables when he and Everard had returned from the lazar hospital without the two palfreys they had taken. Everard had had to explain to the stable master that their mounts had been stolen. The master had subsequently refused to allow the priest to take any more horses from the stables without a proper report being filed with the Visitor, which was why he and Simon were now running to the preceptory of St. John instead of riding.

Will hated that he was putting his friend in danger. But above and beyond his guilt he felt clear, determined. His initiation was in sight and, for the first time in years, perhaps ever, he had purpose. His promise to himself, that he would go to the Holy Land and see his father, was no longer a fantasy. It was real. What was more, he was finally doing something that he knew his father would be proud of. Absolution wasn’t just achievable; it seemed inevitable. What better way to atone for his sins than by saving the Anima Templi and bringing peace to Outremer? Whatever happened, he would get that book. He would not let Nicolas ruin this for him, however understandable or justified the man’s anger seemed. He too had been waiting for this moment for many years.

They picked up the pace as they left the crowds around the cattle market. Ahead, above the rooftops, Will could see the gray towers of the preceptory rising from its walled enclosure. Pulling his black cloak tighter to cover the red cross on his tunic, he led them down a tight alleyway that opened out onto the street the preceptory bordered, Simon struggling to keep up behind him. Through the narrow opening ahead, Will could see the gates. They were open. He slowed to a walk, breathing hard, but as he reached the opening, four knights rode out of the gates on war-chargers. They were clad in plain riding cloaks, but Will, coming to a halt in the alley mouth, saw that they wore long black surcoats beneath, upon which was embroidered the white cross of the Hospitallers. He recognized two of them. One was Rasequin, the man he had challenged outside the parchmenter’s. Rasequin didn’t look drunk now; he looked watchful. One of his hands was on the pommel of his sword as he swept out of the gate, the hooves of his destrier kicking up great clods of mud from the street. Beside him rode Nicolas de Navarre. He too was wearing the uniform of a Knight of St. John.

Will shouted as they passed him, but the thunder of their hooves was too loud for any of the knights to hear as they galloped off down the street, people scattering out of their way. On the backs of their saddles were tied sacks and blankets. They were set for a journey. Will cursed as he watched them disappear around a corner and the street filled slowly with people again. The gates of the preceptory clanged shut.

Simon leaned forward, hands on knees, panting. “That was Nicolas, weren’t it? Why was he dressed as a Hospitaller?”

“He was sent in by their Order to take the book,” admitted Will after a pause. Before Simon could ask any more questions, he gestured to a side street that bordered the preceptory’s wall. “We’ll go inside. Find out where they’re going.”

“Aren’t we going the wrong way?” said Simon, as Will led him down the side street. “The gates are back there.”

“I don’t know who else in there knows about Nicolas. They might all be in on it.” Will came to a stop, looking up at the flint wall, beyond which was a line of trees and the spire of the preceptory’s chapel. “We can’t just walk in.”

“I can’t get up there,” said Simon adamantly, as Will began to climb, his fingertips clutching for purchase on the jagged, protruding stones.

Will reached the top and pulled himself up onto his arms, muscles straining. He peered over the wall. Beyond the trees was a large area of open ground dotted with stone crosses—the knights’ cemetery. Will could see a yard and several tall buildings behind the chapel. There were men moving about in the yard, but the wall he had hoisted himself onto, covered by the trees, was out of plain sight and he and Simon could only be seen if someone was looking directly at them. “Come on,” he urged Simon, who was peering anxiously up at him.

“Christ,” muttered the groom, clumsily scrabbling up the wall after a moment’s hesitation. “You’ll be the death of me,” he panted, wincing as he skinned his knuckles on the sharp stones. He dug his foot into a tiny hollow as he neared the top, but it was too small for his booted foot and he slipped.

Will grabbed his wrist and held on. Gripping the top of the wall with his thighs and gasping at Simon’s weight, Will hauled the groom up the last few inches, until Simon managed to seize the top. For several moments afterward, Simon was too shaken to do anything but sit astride the wall. Finally, Will coaxing him on, the two of them dropped down into the cemetery and, using the tree cover, made their way along the wall.

“I don’t know who you think is going to tell you where Nicolas has gone,” murmured Simon, rubbing his grazed knuckles. “If they’re all involved in stealing this book, I doubt the Hospitallers will tell you anything.” He looked up at the towers of the main building. “Most likely they’ll just throw us in their dungeon.”

“I’m not going to ask a knight,” replied Will, heading for a long timber building bordering the yard, outside which were stacked several bales of straw: the stables. As he and Simon came out of the cemetery, they saw a group of knights standing in the porch of a building opposite the stable’s entrance. Will checked that the crosses on his and Simon’s tunics were covered, then struck out across the yard. “Act normally,” he said beneath his breath to Simon, who was looking surreptitiously over at the men. The knights paid the two youths no heed as they crossed the yard and disappeared inside.

Will looked around as they entered, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. A boy of about twelve was standing at a bench farther down, polishing a row of saddles. “Check the rest of the stables,” Will murmured to Simon, as he approached the boy.

“Check them?” said Simon, looking baffled. “For what?”

“To make sure they’re empty.”

Will smiled. The boy had stopped polishing the saddles and was looking at him.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, his voice high-pitched, childish.

“I hope so,” replied Will, still smiling. “You saddled four horses for a company of knights just now, didn’t you?”

The boy nodded. “I did, sir.”

“Can you tell me where they were going?”

The boy glanced at Simon who was moving down through the stables, peering over the stall doors. “Who are you?” he asked, frowning. “I’ve not seen either of you before.”

“We’re new,” said Will. “These knights. Tell me where they went.”

The boy put down his cloth uncertainly. “I think you better ask the Marshal.” He went to move past Will. “I’ll go and fetch him for you.”

Will caught his arm in a strong grip. “There’s no need to bother him.”

“Let go of me!” said the boy, looking panicky. “You’re hurting!”

“Jesus, Will!” hissed Simon, as Will forcibly dragged the struggling boy farther into the stables and pinned him against one of the stall doors.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” murmured Will, “but I need to know where the knights were going. It’s very important that you tell me this.”

“Please let me go,” said the boy in a small voice. His lip began to quiver.

“Will…” began Simon, watching the exchange in shock.

Will glanced at him and Simon fell silent at the look in Will’s green eyes. It scared him.

“Tell me,” insisted Will, drawing aside his cloak slightly, so that the boy could see the falchion.

“La Rochelle,” blurted the boy, his gaze transfixed by the blade. “They were going to La Rochelle. I heard them talking about Acre and the Grand Master.”

“Acre?”

“That’s all I know,” sobbed the boy. “Honest it is!”

Will searched his face, then nodded. “Get in,” he ordered, unbolting the stall door he had pushed the boy against and opening it.

The boy did as he was told. They could still hear him sobbing as they left the stables.

“I can’t believe you did that,” muttered Simon as they made their way back through the cemetery toward the wall.

“He’ll be fine,” replied Will, distractedly.

Simon stopped. “You didn’t need to scare him like that!”

Will turned back to him. “Simon, come on. We have to get back to the preceptory.” He went and grasped Simon’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to do it, but I had to. He would have run off and got the Marshal and where would we be now? None the wiser and probably in a cell, like you said.”

Simon said nothing, but followed him.

Morning had turned into early afternoon by the time they passed through Temple Gate and hastened up the rue du Temple. The wind had picked up and huge white clouds were rearing in the east, scudding fast across the sky and casting shadows across the hillsides. As they were nearing the preceptory, the chapel bell began to toll.

It wasn’t the slow, sonorous call to prayer. It was fast and frantic: a call of alarm. The sound filled Will with foreboding.

When he and Simon reached the main courtyard, they saw a large company of knights filing into the chapter house. Others were joining them, hurrying across the yard. The bell was still clanging.

“Campbell!”

Will turned to see Robert de Paris jogging toward him.

Robert swept his fine blond hair back and nodded to the chapter house. “Do you know what’s happening?”

Will shook his head. “No, I’ve been out in the city.” He saw a group of knights, including the Visitor, Everard and Hugues de Pairaud, coming toward them. With the company were several knights in travel-soiled mantles. Will took a step forward, thinking to call to Everard, but something in the men’s faces stopped him. The group passed him and headed into the chapter house, but Hugues hung back at a questioning signal from Robert.

Robert went over to him. “What’s going on?” Will heard him ask.

Through the open chapter house doors came the sound of shocked, raised voices. Above the clamor, Will heard Hugues say something to Robert that made him forget all about Nicolas de Navarre and the Book of the Grail. He hastened over.

Robert’s face was troubled. “Will…” he began.

“Did you say something about Safed?” Will cut across him.

“Yes,” said Hugues, answering for Robert. Years of training had stripped most of the fat from Hugues’s body, but there was still something unfortunately pig-like about his small dark eyes and blunt nose. “It has fallen.”

Will opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and looked at Hugues as if he hadn’t heard the knight correctly.

“Brother Marcel has come from our base at La Rochelle,” continued Hugues, gesturing to a darkly tanned man who was standing inside the chapter house porch. “He’s the captain of one of our warships, which arrived at the port last week. Grand Master Thomas Bérard sent him from Acre as soon as it was known. Safed was taken in July by the Mamluk sultan, Baybars. There were no survivors.”

“How do you know it has fallen then?” asked Simon.

“Baybars sent a message to Grand Master Bérard, detailing the fate of our brothers. He beheaded the entire garrison and put their heads on pikes around the fortress.” Hugues scowled bitterly. “Apparently to warn us all of what to expect. Captain Marcel has brought only a small crew from Acre. The rest of our forces in Outremer have been sent to reinforce our garrisons and towns throughout the Kingdom of Jerusalem. As many men as can be spared will be sent East.”

“Hugues,” murmured Robert, touching his shoulder.

Hugues glanced at him, but continued speaking gravely to Will and Simon. “Baybars and his army have retired to their base at Aleppo, but that they will attack again is certain. Baybars has declared the Jihad against us. We are at war.”

“Hugues,” said Robert, firmly now.

“What?” said Hugues.

“Shut up.”

They watched as Will suddenly staggered away and vomited into the mud.