Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (14 page)

“Listen, Garin,” said Will quietly, “there may be a way to stop him treating you like this. I think he’s up to something. First of all, he loaned his horse to someone, a man who…”

“You’ve never understood why he treats me this way,” Garin interrupted, not listening. “He just wants me to do well. Maybe if Owein treated you firmer
you’d
be a better sergeant.”

“What?” said Will, taken aback.

“You get away with everything just because you’re good with a sword. You don’t take anything seriously, but you’re not going to be a commander like me. You’re really just no one!” Garin’s words hung in the air. He sighed roughly. “I didn’t mean that,” he muttered. “But it’s what my uncle thinks. He says you are bad company and that he would forbid me from speaking to you if we weren’t training partners. He blames you for a lot of things I do wrong.”

“Oh.” Will sucked his lip. Taking a stone from the ground beside him, he flung it at the hull of the ship. It hit with a soft
plink
, then dropped into the water.

Will stood up. He put his hand in his tunic pocket, his fingers touching the badge, his prize. He had been going to give it to his father; proof, he had thought, that he was worthy of his father’s pride; still good enough to be his son. But his father wasn’t here. His father hadn’t seen him training for hours every morning, hadn’t seen him win the tournament, hadn’t seen him sitting awake at night, holding that damn sword and staring into the darkness, trying to forget. Will paused for a moment, then drew the badge from his pocket. He ran his fingertip over the two brass knights, before handing it to his friend. “Here.”

Garin rose and stared at the badge. “I don’t want your prize,” he said stiffly.

“It isn’t a prize anymore,” said Will, taking Garin’s hand and pressing the badge into his palm. “It’s a gift.”

Garin said nothing for a few moments, then his hand curled around the badge. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

Will nodded and stuffed his hands back into his tunic. Garin opened his mouth as if to say something, then walked away. Will sat on the wall when his friend had gone and leaned back on his elbows, watching a merchant’s cog glide upriver. The Thames here was always crowded. The ships brought spices, glass, cloth and wine from Bruges, Antwerp, Venice, even Acre, for trade across Britain. Last spring, the captain of a Genoese merchant galley had sailed close enough to throw Will two large oranges and a fistful of dates. On that night, he and Garin had feasted like kings.

Will picked another stone from the wall and tossed it into the river. The stone struck the water and disappeared, leaving rings rippling across the surface. Garin was wrong. He didn’t break the Rules because it was fun. The endless chores and prayers and meals, all performed in reverent silence, trapped him inside himself, giving him time to think. Only fighting on the field, the thrill of it, the fierce concentration, would banish those thoughts. It was the same whenever he was doing something he shouldn’t; the excitement made the shadow disappear, the memories fade.

As evening drew in and the temperature dropped, Will headed slowly down the narrow passage that led into the preceptory. He made his way past the armory and on toward the chapel. A figure in a dark blue cloak was sitting on the low wall that ringed the cemetery. It was Elwen. She was looking out across the orchard, her long hair whipped by the wind. He made to go past, then changed his mind.

“Elwen?” Even in the gloom, Will could see she had been crying.

“What do you want, Will Campbell?” she said, looking away.

He shrugged and turned to leave.

“Wait!” called Elwen. “Stay,” she said, as he looked back. “I’d like the company.”

Will sat on the wall beside her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, studying her downcast expression.

“I’m leaving.” Elwen picked at a speck of dirt beneath her fingernail and told him what Owein had said.

“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly when she had finished.

She bristled at his tone. “Why should you be sorry? You aren’t going to be married off to some ugly old man!”

“I meant about your guardian. I’m sorry she died.”

Elwen wiped her face with her sleeve and avoided his eyes. “So am I, but…” Her tone softened. “I don’t want to go to Bath.” She laughed bitterly. “I’ll not see the Holy Land now, will I?”

Will was surprised. “You want to make a pilgrimage?”

“Not a pilgrimage.” She faced him, smoothing the folds of her cloak over her skirts. “There was a man in the village I lived in who went to the Holy Land. He said there are cities with castles and towers of gold and the sea is so blue it hurts your eyes. He said there are places where it never rains. It always rained in Powys.” Elwen’s eyes were shining in the last of the light. “I want to see it.
All
of it. Everything and everywhere I used to make up stories about. If I had stayed in Powys it wouldn’t have been long before my mother gave me to some farmer as a bride. I would have raised pigs and children and seen nothing more than the fields outside whatever hovel I lived in. I had a friend in Powys, the same age as me, who was betrothed to a man twenty years older than she was. I expect she’s wed now and scrubbing his floors. And the same fate awaits me here.” Elwen rose to her feet and pulled her cloak around her. “I want to travel, see different places, not grow old and unhappy and poor like everyone else where I come from. Like my mother. I’d die before I do that,” she added fiercely, “I really would.” Will opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “And don’t tell me it’s only men who can travel. Plenty of women have gone to the Holy Land and girls as well. My guardian told me about the Children’s Crusade.”

“The Children’s Crusade doesn’t count. They only made it as far as Marseilles where they were sold off as slaves. But I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say that I understand. If I could, I would go tomorrow. Believe me, I would,” he added fervently.

“For the war,” she said flatly.

“No.”

“Why do you train if not to fight?”

Will sighed. “When I go to the Holy Land it will be for war,” he acceded, “but it isn’t why I want to go.”

“Why then?” she asked simply.

“I want to see my father,” he said quietly.

“I was right then, in what I said? You do miss him?”

Will rose. “You don’t know that you won’t see the Holy Land. Owein said you would only be in Bath for a year.”

“And do you think my
husband
will let me go? No,” she sighed. “I think I should be too busy with babies and making bread. That’s what wives do, isn’t it? That is their duty?”

“Not always,” said Will uncertainly.

“No? Didn’t your mother do those things?”

“I’m just saying,” replied Will, “that you never know what will happen.” He glanced around as a group of sergeants marched past, their boots stamping the ground. A few of them looked inquisitively at Elwen. “I should go.”

“It was good to meet you again, Will Campbell.”

Will went to walk away, then looked back. “Owein once told me that a man makes his own destiny. Perhaps it can be the same for a woman?”

“Yes,” said Elwen, with a small smile. “Perhaps it can.”

E
ndurance
cut through the swell, spray misting the bowsprit. The sky was a deep, cloudless azure and the triangular sails billowed from the lateen yards. The calls of men rang out, relaying orders.

Endurance
had a Templar captain and five knight-officers, but the rest of the crew was made up of sergeants and contracted seamen. Will rested his arms on the sides and peered down into the water. He had traveled on barges on the Thames, but those slow, sedate journeys were nothing like this. Every way he turned he could see nothing but the wide expanse of blue. It felt like flying. Nearby, an ashen-faced sergeant was vomiting noisily over the side.

Will turned from the sergeant’s retches, his gaze coming to rest on the figure sitting on the quarterdeck above him. The man’s long legs were dangling over the edge, his gray cloak pulled tight about him. In the bright daylight, the cloak’s cowl offered little concealment of his face. Everything about him was dark: his eyes were charcoal-black; his hair and beard raven; his skin a glossy mahogany. Will wasn’t the only one who had been studying him. Earlier, he had overheard two of the older sergeants in the Temple’s party talking about the stranger in hushed tones.

“He could be a Genoese,” one of them had whispered to the other, “or a Pisan. But what he’s doing here, I cannot guess. I heard a knight say he’s a comrade of Sir Jacques.”

“No,” the other sergeant had murmured, giving the man in gray a grim look. “He isn’t from the Maritime Republics. I believe he is a Saracen.”

The first sergeant had crossed himself and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Will averted his gaze, pretending to study something in the water, as the man locked eyes with him and smiled. When Will looked back he was staring out to sea, a thoughtful expression on his face. Could he be a Saracen? Will didn’t think it was possible: an enemy of God on board a Templar ship? But he thought of the man’s strange accent and the letter in the solar and he wondered.

Will glanced over at Garin, keen to share his concerns about the stranger. His friend was sitting alone on one of the benches near the stern. The swelling on his face had gone down slightly, although his right eye was still partially closed. Will took a step toward him, then sank onto the bench beside the sack that held his belongings: a spare tunic and hose and his falchion. Over the past few days, Will had tried talking to Garin, but the boy’s withdrawn indifference had just frustrated him. He decided he would let Garin come to him.

Stretching out his legs, Will looked over at the captain’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck, the door of which was ajar. The ten knights from the Temple were seated around a table inside, drinking wine with their afternoon meal. On the floor beside Owein’s stool, Will could see a large black trunk upon which, gilded in gold, was the king’s crest. He guessed that in the trunk lay the crown jewels. Queen Eleanor and her retinue were stationed in the adjacent cabin.

After they had sailed out of the Thames estuary the queen had appeared on deck with two of her handmaidens. Her dark brown hair was piled beneath a lacy coif, a few escaped strands floating about her delicately boned face, and her crimson silk gown was embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis, the royal emblem of the Kingdom of France. Eleanor, who had come to Henry as a young bride from Provence, was the sister of Marguerite, wife of King Louis IX.

She had watched the southern skyline anxiously as they sailed around the eastern tip of England and a short while later had disappeared inside her cabin, followed by her attendants. Occasionally the twinkling notes of a softly played harp had drifted out through the scarlet drapes that covered the cabin’s window.

Leaning his head against the side, Will closed his eyes.

Some time later, he was woken by the sound of gulls. He yawned, tasting salt on his lips. The sun was low in the sky, the sea mirroring the purple underbellies of the clouds. They were approaching land. The green ribbon slowly unfurled into low, sweeping hills chiseled with sheer, white cliffs. Will was disappointed by the sight. He had thought that the Kingdom of France would offer something more of a revelation, but the green fields and pebbled beaches looked the same as the English coastline. The galley rounded a narrow peninsula that pointed like a finger out to sea and, as it sailed into the wide mouth of a river, Will, listening to the crew’s conversation, realized that they had arrived at Honfleur.

The hills fell back to reveal a small port nestled in a sheltered cove on the starboard banks. Beyond the harbor, houses formed a ring around a square, which was packed with people, their faces golden in the evening light. A market had been set up and above the stalls brightly colored flags were flapping in the breeze. The sounds of laughter, music and the words of a language Will didn’t understand floated out over the water. He picked up his sack, steadying himself as the galley grated against the harbor wall. Jacques and the man in gray were standing below the quarterdeck, talking quietly. Will wandered closer to them, but the two men fell silent as Owein’s voice called out.

“Hail, brother!”

Will saw a short, portly man with a tonsured head and a bushy, mousy-brown beard hurrying across the docks. He was wearing the black mantle of a Templar priest.

The priest raised a hand at Owein’s call.
“Pax tecum,”
he puffed, the sweat gleaming on his bald pate.

Owein stepped down the planks to meet him. “
Et cum spiritu tuo.
I take it you are expecting us?”

“We received the message from Humbert de Pairaud last week. Her majesty’s rooms have been readied,” said the priest, pursing his lips, “though I’m afraid our quarters are most humble, more fit for a commoner than a queen.”

“I’m sure it will suit for one night. Is our boat ready?”

“Yes, brother.” The priest pointed to the other end of the harbor. “
Opinicus
arrived this morning from Paris.”

Will followed the priest’s finger and saw a squat, sturdy vessel with one mast and a square sail. There was a picture of an Opinicus on the sail—a heraldic beast composed of a lion, a camel and a dragon.

“Her crew are taking supper with us. Our lodgings aren’t far.” The priest motioned up the hillside to a gray stone building surrounded by a crumbling wall. “Will you be joining us for food and the evening prayer? We are but a simple company here and rarely receive word from our brothers.” He smiled beatifically and clasped his hands together, resting them on his expansive stomach. “In following in the footsteps of the blessed Bernard de Clairvaux our service to the Order lies solely in spiritual deeds. We, here, prefer to think of ourselves as monks rather than warriors. But,” he added quickly, “it would be an honor to dine with such grand company.” He looked up at the ship and her large crew doubtfully. “Though it may be difficult to feed so many mouths.”

“Perhaps later,” replied Owein. He glanced at the sky. “We’ll wait a few hours, then escort the queen to your estate. The less attention we draw to our presence the better. Send
Opinicus
’s crew to meet us at the vessel.”

The priest looked somewhat peeved by Owein’s brusque manner. “As you wish, brother,” he said stiffly, before waddling away, hitching up the girdle around his mantle.

Several hours later, Will found himself on the dockside guarding a mounting pile of chests, crates and casks that the crew and the sergeants were off-loading from
Endurance
. Most of the cargo belonged to the queen, including the harp he had heard being played, but some of the crates and casks, filled with salt and ale, were to be delivered to the Paris preceptory. Will heard a shout and a giggle and turned to see a group of children staring at him curiously. The market was still bustling even though it was almost midnight. Torches had been set up around the area and the smell of roasting meat from the spits made Will’s stomach groan. One of the older sergeants had told him that the celebrations were in honor of the last harvest of autumn. Many of the women wore crowns of corn and the men had donned grotesque masks fashioned in the likeness of wolves, hounds and stags. It was an eerie sight; these parodies of beasts that danced and twirled in the torchlight beneath the shadow of the church.

Will turned from the square to see two crewmen lugging a crate down the planks. Behind them, a slender figure in a dark blue cloak, hood pulled low, was struggling with a heavy-looking box. The figure stumbled. Will moved to help, but the two crewmen who had deposited the crate were already there.

“Let me take that, miss,” said one of the men.

The woman hesitated.

“I doubt your mistress would want her handmaiden to injure herself,” said the crewman taking the box from her, “or her goods,” he added, hefting the box easily onto his shoulder.

Will heard footsteps behind him and saw a tall man he didn’t recognize clad in a sergeant’s tunic.

“Where’s Sir Owein?” asked the man, glancing up at the ship.

“On board,” replied Will.

“Tell him
Opinicus
is ready. I’ll send some of my crew to help.”

Will looked back to the ship as the man headed across the docks.
Endurance
’s crewmen had gone to fetch more crates. There was no sign of the queen’s handmaiden. Owein disembarked with two sergeants, one of them Garin, who were carrying the black chest, gilded with the king’s crest. Will told Owein what the crewman from
Opinicus
had said.

“Good,” said Owein. “Sir Jacques will oversee the loading.” He turned as three knights and the queen and her entourage stepped down the planks.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Owein asked the queen, as one of her pages helped her down the last few feet. Her guards were scouring the dockside warily.

“Yes,” replied the queen, her voice soft and musical. “My belongings…?” She gestured to the pile Will was guarding.

“Are to be loaded onto
Opinicus
immediately,” assured Owein. “Come, my lady, we’ll escort you to your lodgings.”

Garin and the other sergeant had hefted the black chest over to the rest of the cargo. The queen paused. “I should prefer it if my husband’s jewels remained with me.”

There was a clatter as Garin lost his grip on the chest and it crashed to the ground. “I assure you, my lady,” said Owein, glowering at Garin, who was bending over, red-faced, to right the chest, “the jewels will be safe with us.” He glanced at the children who were gawking at the queen and her stately entourage. “We should go,” he urged, motioning to the three knights who had joined him on the dockside.

The queen and her entourage moved off across the harbor wall, flanked by Owein and the knights. The group of children followed them, chattering excitedly, until one of the knights shouted at them and they ran off.

“That’s the last of it,” said Jacques, heading down the planks with the remainder of the knights and sergeants. With them was the man in gray.
Endurance
’s crew hauled in the planks and loosed the mooring ropes. “Let’s move these crates,” barked Jacques, “quickly.” He ordered two knights and two sergeants to guard the pile, then set off with the others toward
Opinicus
, bearing the chest containing the crown jewels himself.

Will found himself hauling a crate of salt. The gray man, as Will had privately dubbed him, was walking in front, carrying a sack slung over his shoulder and a small cask. The area was shadowy with just a few torches throwing pools of light over the slimy stones. The party passed several members of
Opinicus
’s crew on the way, hastening across the docks to help. When they reached the boat, Will set the crate down where it was loaded with the others. The vessel was much smaller than
Endurance
, with a single cabin beneath the raised deck at the stern.

Jacques passed the black chest up to one of the boat’s crew. “Leave that here, Hasan,” he said, motioning to the cask the man in gray was carrying.

“What did I tell you,” hissed a sergeant behind Will. “Hasan is an Arab’s name!”

“Campbell!”

Will tore his gaze from the gray man to see Jacques glaring at him.

“Help de Lyons with the rest of the crates.”

“Yes, sir,” said Will curtly. He loped back across the docks. But when he reached the pile of cargo his friend was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Garin?” he asked one of the sergeants.

The sergeant shrugged distractedly. “With
Opinicus
, I think.” He turned from Will and picked up one of the crates, which he handed to another sergeant.

Will scanned the dockside, thinking he must have passed Garin coming back and not seen him. As he glanced over at the market square, his gaze fell on a tall man who was weaving between the stalls. It was Hasan. Will bent down, pretending to adjust his boot as two sergeants passed him, and kept his eyes on the gray man. Hasan was moving around a crowd of men who were singing in loud, drunken tones. After casting a glance in the direction of
Opinicus
, he disappeared in the throng. Will’s curiosity overtook his caution. He headed for the square, crouching behind some rotten crates that stank of fish to avoid a knight who was carrying the queen’s harp.

After the darkness of the dockside, the light from the fires and the sounds of music and singing were disorientating. A heavyset woman danced past him laughing, her skirts twirling. Hasan was lingering at a stall some distance ahead, inspecting rows of bread and cakes. Will moved closer, careful to keep out of sight. Nearby, a garishly dressed jongleur was juggling apples. Beside him sprawled a large, mangy dog. The jongleur threw the apples high into the air, turned a cartwheel and caught them to the cheers of the crowd. Will sidestepped the dog, which opened one yellow eye and snarled. He stood on his toes to see over the heads of a group of men. Hasan had moved from the stall and was near the tall buildings at the back of the square. Will struggled his way through the press of bodies. By the time he emerged, Hasan had vanished.