Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (7 page)

After his father had left for the Holy Land, Will’s boldness had grown. Both he and Garin had found the tedium of the daily chores and offices a bind on their freedom and had rebelled against the rigid regime. They weren’t the only sergeants to do so, but together, as Owein had often said, they were flint and tinder. Once, last winter, when the marshes outside London’s north gate had frozen, the two of them had even dared to slip out of the preceptory in the middle of the night to go skating. Tying blocks of ice to their feet with leather, like they had seen boys from the city do, they had spent several unforgettable, exhilarating hours racing one another across the ice until, half frozen and exhausted, they had made the long trek home, vowing never to tell anyone.

Will couldn’t imagine Garin doing anything like that now. He reached for the sword again and placed the length of iron in his lap, tracing the flat of the blade with his fingers. His friend had been absent during the evening meal and when neither Garin nor Jacques had attended chapel for Compline, he’d begun to worry. He wondered what he should do. The answer came back the same as always; there was nothing he could do. Jacques was a knight and he was a sergeant, he had no authority. Will ran his fingertip down the sword’s hilt feeling the subtle change between silver and iron. He sometimes thought he knew how Garin felt. And he sometimes wondered whether it was worse to have an uncle who mistreated you, or a father who wouldn’t speak with you at all.

H
asan settled his lean frame onto a stool, his dark eyes surveying the solar.

Jacques pushed the parchments on the table aside with a sweep of his arm and sat down. Offering one of the two goblets he held, he smiled when Hasan declined it.

“It is water.”

“Thank you.” Hasan accepted the goblet and returned the smile. “I am unused to the company of friends. The habit of declining most well-intended offerings is hard to break.” He took a sip, the water clearing the road dust from his throat.

Jacques was listening carefully, struggling with Hasan’s accent that rendered some of his clipped speech difficult to comprehend.

“I apologize,” continued Hasan, “for the surprise and lateness of the hour, but there was no time for notice of my visit. I arrived in London this evening.”

Jacques waved the apology aside. “What brings you here, Hasan? I haven’t heard from Brother Everard in quite some time.”

Hasan placed his drink on the table. “The Book of the Grail has been stolen.”

Jacques was used to Hasan’s plainspoken manner; he usually welcomed it on the infrequent occasions that the two of them met. But if the appearance of the man himself had been a shock it was nothing compared to the abrupt impact of those words. Jacques suppressed the exclamation that almost freed itself from his mouth and remained silent for some moments, letting the words sink in. “When did this happen?” he said eventually. “And how?”

“Twelve days ago. It was taken from the preceptory’s vaults by a clerk.”

“You know who stole it?” Jacques pushed a hand through his flint-gray hair and checked his impatience with effort.

“Its theft was discovered when the treasurer found the unconscious body of one of the two senior clerks who maintain the coffers. When revived, the clerk said he had gone down into the vaults, hearing a disturbance. He had been attacked by one of his fellows, a young clerk by the name of Daniel Rulli, who had beaten him half senseless with an alms bowl.”

“This Rulli had taken the book?”

Hasan nodded. “The Visitor ordered a search of the preceptory, but Brother Everard believed Rulli had fled. I was sent into the city to hunt him down. I caught him near Saint-Martin’s Gate.” Hasan told Jacques what the clerk had said before he was murdered.

“He was coerced into stealing it?”

“That is what he said, brother.”

Jacques frowned. “If he was telling the truth, might we assume that the killer and the man who compelled Rulli to steal the Book of the Grail are one and the same, or at least working together?”

“I would think it so. It seems reasonable to guess Rulli was on his way to hand over the book. He might have been killed to stop him revealing where it was, or the identity of his enforcer, or both. Why he did not have it on him I cannot say. He might have hidden it somewhere when he realized I was hunting him.”

“Or the transfer had already taken place.”

“That is also possible. Unfortunately, I could not pursue his killer. The watch arrived and I had to flee. I doubt I would have had the chance to explain why I was standing over a corpse; my appearance alone would have damned me in their eyes. I doubled back to search, but found nothing.”

Jacques made no reply. He took a long drink from his own goblet, which was filled with wine.

“When I returned to the preceptory, Everard went to the Visitor and asked to question the treasurer and the two senior clerks who, other than Rulli and the Visitor, have access to the vaults. None of them had any idea why the clerk committed this crime, or who may have forced him to do so. A comrade of Rulli’s, a sergeant, we also questioned. This sergeant told us Rulli had seemed troubled for some days, but he had no idea why and denied knowing anything of the theft. Even when threatened with incarceration in Merlan.”

“Does anyone know what was stolen?”

“The clerks and the Visitor know only that it is a valuable document belonging to Brother Everard. They are ignorant of its true importance.”

“That is something at least.” Jacques drained the rest of his wine in one draft.

“When the watch came to the preceptory to inform us of Rulli’s murder, the Visitor declared it a theft for monetary gain. A joint investigation by the Temple and the king’s Seneschal came to nothing.”

“The king must have taken it seriously then, having his chief minister for justice investigate the matter?”

“The Visitor insisted.”

Jacques rose and poured himself another drink. “The Paris vaults contain many priceless treasures. In terms of gold, the book is worth very little. Was anything else taken?”

“Nothing at all.” Hasan’s dark eyes didn’t leave the knight. “May I speak frankly, brother?”

“Of course.”

“As perilous as this situation is, I have doubts over the ability of whoever may have the book to make sense of it. To a common reader it would appear no more than a Grail Romance, though an unorthodox one.”

“Unorthodox?” countered Jacques, returning to his seat. “That is too mild a word for sacrificial rites and desecration of the Cross. Anything that goes against the grain of the Church is considered heresy, Hasan. I’m sure you are aware of what happened to the Cathars?”

Hasan nodded. He hadn’t been in the West when the Crusade against the Cathars had begun, but he knew of their fate. The Cathars, a religious sect that had flourished in the southern regions of the Kingdom of France, had recognized two gods, one of supreme goodness, the other of absolute evil. In following their own doctrine they had adhered to the Old and New Testaments, but had believed them to be allegorical rather than literal interpretations of the faith. The evil god, they had believed, had created the world and everything in it and that all matter was therefore corrupt. Because of this belief they did not regard Jesus as truly human, denying that the divine, which transcended the polluted Earth, could have ever been a part of it.

Advocating personal experience of the sacred, they had opposed the Church, its priesthood and temporal luxuries. When their teachings had spread and had grown in popularity, the Church had declared them heretics and had gone to war against them. The Crusade had been fought on native soil, had lasted thirty-six years and had seen the extermination of most of their sect. The most devastating blow to the Cathars had come sixteen years ago, with the fall of their last major stronghold and the burning of two hundred men, women and children. To the Church, heresy was a disease that needed to be cut out, severing the limb if necessary, to save the body from infection.

“Besides,” continued Jacques, setting his goblet down, “I do not believe that the book will be in the hands of any common reader, as you put it. I think we can be certain that whoever coerced the clerk to steal it must know it belongs to the Brethren. Why else would they go to the trouble of forcing the clerk to steal something so seemingly worthless from our treasure-laden vaults?”

“But only a handful within the Temple know, let alone outsiders.”

“There have always been rumors.”

“Rumors, yes, nothing more,” responded Hasan carefully. “The Soul of the Temple is a legend. In all these years no one has been able to prove your existence.”

“Because there has been no proof to be found, only the testimonies of those involved, who swore oaths on pain of death never to divulge our secrets. And that damn book.” Jacques sat back wearily. “Not all those who left the circle following our dissolution are dead. Maybe the oaths they swore no longer concern them? Maybe one or more of them has discovered that the Anima Templi is continuing its work without them? That our plans are still in motion? Perhaps the thief means to use the Book of the Grail as evidence against us, or to bribe us with the threat of exposure?” Jacques shook his head. “Make no mistake, Hasan, we are indeed in grave peril while the book remains lost. If our plans were exposed, the Temple could face destruction, the Brethren could face the stake and everything we have worked toward for the last century will have been for nothing. And if the Church was to discover our ultimate plan? Well, I’m not sure a punishment fittingly cruel enough has yet been devised, even by its inquisitors.” Jacques picked up his goblet, put it to his lips, then set it down without drinking. “Without the Temple’s power, without the vast resources of men and money that it unwittingly provides us with we cannot continue our work.”

Hasan was silent, thoughtful for a few moments. “If the thief knows of the Brethren, perhaps through a former member divulging your secrets, then who might it be? Who would want to destroy us, or the Temple?”

“Over the years we have made many enemies: people envious of our power and our wealth. The Temple answers to the pope alone and stands beyond the laws of kings and courts. As knights we pay no tax or tithe and are given license to open churches from which to generate donations. We trade in almost every kingdom this side of the sea and have more influence than most beyond it. To annoy us is a crime and to kill or even wound one of us is punishable by excommunication. Who might it be?” Jacques spread his hands expansively. “The Hospitallers, the Mamluks, Genoese or Pisan merchants whose trade we have taken, any number of kings or nobles, the Teutonic Knights? The list is long.”

“I shall find the book, brother,” said Hasan quietly, “if I have to turn over the bed of King Louis himself to do so.”

Jacques stared at the parchments on the table, the contents of which had occupied his waking thoughts for the past two weeks. They now seemed nothing more than a petty annoyance. “How long can you stay?”

“As long as you need me to, although the sooner I return the better.”

Jacques crossed to the armoire by the window. “I have business to attend to here. Unfortunately, it isn’t something I can abandon. There would be too many questions. But I will return with you to Paris when I am able and aid in the search.”

Opening the double doors, he reached behind a Bible on the bottom shelf and pulled out a small box. Taking a key from the top shelf, he unlocked the box and brought out a pouch. He shook several coins into his palm and handed them to Hasan, before returning the key and the box to their places.

“I will have my horse saddled for you. There is an inn on Friday Street, west of the Walbrook. Look for the sign of the Crescent Moon. Give the gold and my name and you will be welcome there. I will send for you when my business here is done.”

Hasan smiled slightly. “An aptly named lodging.” He stowed the coins in a pouch at his belt. “Everard will be glad. He sent me as soon as the Temple’s inquiry was ended. I know he hoped you would be free to return with me.”

“I’m sure the priest will be glad. Though he’ll not show it.”

Hasan rose from his stool and fished inside the sack bag that he had kept on his lap throughout the meeting. “There is one last thing, brother.”

Jacques watched as Hasan pulled out a leather scrollcase that was bound with wire to hold it shut. “What is it?” he asked, taking it.

“The one item of good news I bear.”

Jacques uncoiled the wire and opened the leather sheath. A piece of parchment was rolled inside. As Jacques pulled it out, he could smell the sea, trapped in the thick, yellowed skin. The page was covered with a neat script. He scanned the first few paragraphs, then looked up at Hasan. “This is good news indeed. I must confess I didn’t expect him to have achieved this quite so soon. May I keep hold of it? I should like time to read it properly.”

“Of course.”

Jacques tucked the letter beneath the scrolls on the table and motioned to the door. “Come. I’ll escort you to the stables.”

THE RIVER THAMES, LONDON, SEPTEMBER
15, 1260
AD

Henry III, the King of England, shielded his eyes as the sun appeared from behind a cloud and turned the river a dazzling shade of silver. It was still early, but the sun was surprisingly warm on the heads of the monarch and his large entourage of pages, clerks and guards who sat stiffly on benches, or stood to attention. There was a shout as the captain of the royal barge ordered a rowing boat off the starboard bow to move out of the way. The Thames was busy with fishing boats and merchants’ cogs and the crew of the unwieldy, ponderous craft had to negotiate their way carefully upriver, long oars dipping and sweeping.

Henry patted his head where his gray hair was thinnest, checking for the sun’s heat on his age-mottled skin. Despite the warmth and his voluminous black velvet robes that were trimmed at the collar and cuffs with the pelt of a wolf, he felt cold. He shifted restlessly on his cushion and tried to catch the eye of his eldest son, who was seated on the bench behind him, but Prince Edward’s gaze was fixed on the two men in the offending craft who were rowing frantically out of the barge’s path. Henry turned instead to the man dressed in a black cloak and hat who was seated to his left. The man’s pale face looked whiter than usual.

“The water bothers you, Lord Chancellor?” enquired Henry.

“No, my liege. It is the motion that unsettles me.”

“It’s the quickest way to the Temple from the Tower,” said Henry briskly, as if this might make a difference to the man’s discomfort. He waved away a page who attempted to come over with a tray of drinks.

“This way is at least a little more secluded than by horse,” responded the chancellor, “and for that I’m grateful. The fewer people who see us entering the Temple the better. It is well known that your only dealings with the knights these days lie in their treasury. Your subjects might question why you have need of more gold when you are taking so much of theirs. The new taxes are unpopular enough as it is.”

Henry’s frown deepened. “Those taxes were raised on your counsel, Chancellor.”

“And I assure you, my liege, it was good advice. I merely point out what is in your best interests, and what is in your best interests today is to make our attendance at the Temple as swift and unobserved as possible. It is ill enough that we’ve agreed to attend their meeting. The Templars grow ever above their station.”

Henry stared out over the water and massaged his jaw, which felt as if it was being slowly clamped shut by a vise. The riverbanks were packed, as always, with the continuous flow of traders and merchants, errand runners and bargain hunters. All along the streets they walked, rode or clattered past on horsedrawn bronettes and carts pulled by oxen. Beyond, the city was a forest of stone and timber dwellings, wooden wharf houses, shops, mansions and priories, all broken by the lofty spires of chapels and the roof of St. Paul’s. The sun’s glare, the smells from the fish docks and the collective, frantic movement of his citizens made Henry’s head throb.