Requiem: The Fall of the Templars (24 page)

“Like you say, we have that,” responded Adam. “And with him, we can get more. You said he was a groom. That must make him valuable.”

“Exactly.” Will thrust a hand at Simon, but kept his eyes on Wallace. “No one knows horse lore like he does. You said you’ve had him for a few months, so you cannot be that desperate to ransom him. At least let him prove his worth. He would be an asset. If not, you can keep my gold and sell us both back to the Temple with nothing lost.”

“Unchain the prisoner,” said Wallace, gesturing to one of the guards by the cage.

“William, no,” protested Adam.

“I’ve been around English soldiers long enough to know something of deception, cousin,” Wallace said. “I believe he is telling the truth.”

The other prisoners began to complain as Simon was released, but were soon silenced by the guards’ spears.

Simon limped out of the cage. Faded bruises on his face were visible as darker patches beneath the dirt as he entered the sphere of torchlight. “Will.

Thank God.”

Will grasped him by the arm, ignoring his wince at the contact, and led him as far as he dared from Wallace and the others, who continued to watch him closely. “What are you doing here?”

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“I came looking for you. Robert got me transferred to Balantrodoch.”

Will gritted his teeth at the way Simon said it, as if the groom were surprised he would even ask this; as if it were a foregone conclusion. “Why?”

Simon’s relief turned to puzzlement. “You left the Temple, Will. Did you think I wouldn’t want to know the reason?”

“I had hoped you would respect my decision.”

“Respect?” demanded Simon, puzzlement giving way to anger. “What was there to respect? You abandoned the order, your brothers, your friends, your
daughter
. I know you were grieving for Elwen, but that’s no cause for you to desert your duties like a coward and—” Simon’s words were cut off as Will struck him in the face. He reeled back into a tree, which he clung to for support.

Will went still as Simon clutched his face. Blood trickled onto his tunic, loose on a frame wasted by ill-treatment and lack of food. Shame rose in Will and his fists unclenched. “Simon.” He took a step toward him, then stopped, the apology sticking in his throat. To utter it would admit that Simon was in some way right. And he couldn’t do that, not after all this time; after the supreme effort it had taken to bury his past. He hadn’t asked him to come searching for him like some pining hound. He didn’t want him here. Leaving Simon sagged against the tree, Will turned and walked away.

13

Selkirk Forest, Scotland

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Simon walked purposefully through the camp, heading for Will’s shelter.

Even before he reached it, he could see that it was empty, a coarse blanket lying crumpled under the screen of twigs and leaves. He halted outside and stared around. Here and there men sat in groups, tending fires, or else moved between the rows of shelters, carrying wood or pails of water. There was no sign of Will. After a moment, Simon sat down on a patch of dewy grass and slumped against a tree. He had been awake for hours going over the fall of the templars

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what he would say and he had been ready, eager even, to talk. Now all the words were gumming up inside him.

It was over a month since Will had entered the rebels’ camp and secured his release from Wallace’s prison. In the weeks that followed, his friend had hardly said two words to him, avoiding his gaze at mealtimes, sitting on the opposite side of the fire. Secretly, Simon had taken this for guilt. The bruise on his face took some weeks to heal and he had hoped that when it faded so too would Will’s detachment. But, if anything, Will just avoided him more, until Simon began to realize his hope had been unfounded. Will truly did not want him here and that punch had been intentional.

Last night, going over what he should do, he had pondered, briefl y, the idea of returning to Paris, but however much he would rather be back in the stables, in comfort and safety, he knew he couldn’t make that choice. If he left now, he doubted he would ever see Will again and that wasn’t something he wanted to live with. He loved Will as a brother and in other ways he had never fully understood, and a life without him in it seemed unthinkable. The only thing he could do was to persuade Will to return with him to Paris and the only way to do that was to gain his trust again.

In the early hours, it had dawned on Simon that to do this he would have to submit to Will’s choices. He would have to go where he went and do what he did, even if that meant fighting in the battle everyone said was coming. He had followed Will into a war before and survived. His experiences in Acre, as well as his torture and imprisonment at the hands of the Scots, had toughened him. True, he wasn’t a skilled fighter, but he had more strength than many men and knew how to use it. He hadn’t come all this way to turn around now.

Simon looked up as a shadow fell across him.

It was David. The young man was holding a bow. “Do you want to come hunting?”

Simon glanced at the empty shelter, then pushed himself up and brushed down his hose. He would come back later to tell Will his decision.

The water splashed on Will’s face and neck, numbing his skin. He let it drip onto his bare chest as the water in the bowl grew still and his refl ection settled.

Slowly, he raised the blade and set it to his cheek, the metal colder than the water. He scraped it against his jaw, removing the last of the black bristles, drawing beads of blood whenever he pressed too hard.

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When it was done, he cleaned the blade, feeling strangely naked and exposed. He hadn’t seen himself without a full beard since he was eighteen. But only old men wore them, old men and Templars, and he was neither.

Picking up his shirt, Will walked down through the quiet glade and along the banks of the river. Dawn had brought a mist and an amber haze lingered between the trees, the sun struggling to pierce the canopy. The air was humid, fragrant with the smell of grass. Ahead, he heard laughter and splashing. A group of women were gathered on the rocks around one of the deep pools into which the river bubbled, washing clothes. There were a fair number of women in the camp and not a few children, most of them wives and daughters of those men who had been proclaimed outlaws and who feared for their families’ safety in the towns they left behind, crawling with English soldiers. Alice and Margaret were sitting together, rubbing wet shirts on the stones, each pass and press of their hands making
slap-slapping
sounds on the rocks. Ysenda was a little way away beside a young woman with red hair, plaited thickly down her back.

Outwardly, his sister seemed to be enduring her grief for Duncan’s death, but Will guessed she had been shielding the girls from the depth of her sorrow in an effort to lessen their own. Still, he did sense she had found some solace in the forest; a world away from her old life and the violence that had brought her here, sheltered in this haven of routines and camaraderie. Even Alice and Margaret were calmer now, settling into the rhythm of the days.

The women looked up at his approach. Ysenda’s eyes widened at his changed appearance. The young, red-haired woman, who was called Christian, smiled. Nodding to them, Will headed away from the river toward an area cleared of trees, where sounds of sawing and hammering grated on the stillness. In the clearing, huge shapes reared out of the mists; outlines of half-built siege engines. The air was green with pine resin. There was a shout and a creaking groan as a tree toppled and crashed into the undergrowth. He moved on, passing a line of men with short bows shooting targets pinned to distant trees and a knot of youths being instructed in the use of the long spear by a thickset Highlander.

Reaching his area of the camp, Will threw his undershirt over a branch. He saw David and Simon’s shelters were empty and guessed they had gone hunting. After handing the blade to the man he had borrowed it from, he knelt on the mossy ground and murmured the Paternosters he had been taught to say whenever he was in the field and unable to hear the seven offi ces. There were some things he would not give up.

As he was reciting the last prayer, Will sensed someone move up behind the fall of the templars

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him. Turning, he saw a whip-lean man in a hooded robe. “Good morning, Father.” He rose to tower over the man, who had been introduced to him a fortnight ago as John Blair, Wallace’s chaplain.

“I’m sorry to disturb your prayers,” said John, in his quiet voice.

“I was fi nished.”

“I was wondering, William, why do you not join the others for Mass in my chapel? You would be welcome.”

Will tried to hide his mockery at John’s use of the word; the chaplain’s church was a clearing in the forest with a tree stump for an altar. “I am used to praying on my own, but thank you.”

“Then perhaps you might speak to the men of the Holy Land at one of my sermons?” ventured John, as Will went to head off. “You could inspire them.”

“Inspire them?” Will turned back. “The Holy Land isn’t the Paradise men want it to be. When we went there with our crosses and swords we defi led it.

What would I say to inspire them, when all I could speak of are death and horror? If what the scouts say is true and the English Army is on its way? Well, these men will soon see enough of that for themselves.”

John frowned. “These men have held out so far, against forces greater than their own.”

Will lowered his voice. “I do not dismiss their bravery, but their battles have been won through guile; ambushes against ill-prepared garrisons and supply lines.”

“They took Perth and Glasgow.” John’s placid tone deepened. “Routed the English justice at Scone, overthrew that bastard, the sheriff of Lanark, and slew fifty of his soldiers.”

Will had heard tell of these events almost every night he had been in the camp and with each telling and every cask of wine that was opened, many of which had admittedly been stolen from English troops, the tales got more lurid and outlandish. At first, Will had been impressed. Out on the estate, little news had come to them and he’d had no idea how widespread and effective the resistance had been.

The uprising had begun in earnest in the spring, headed by Wallace in the south and in the north by a young nobleman named Andrew de Moray, whose father had been the justiciar of Scotland. Before long, most of the realm was in open revolt. Wallace and his forces struck out on daring assaults against Perth, Glasgow and other English-held towns, then melted back into the vast wilds of Selkirk, laden with plunder. Now the magnates of Scotland were starting to take notice, some even forsaking their English estates to join the rebellion.

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Will wanted to be buoyed up by the triumphs of Wallace and his men, feel that same confi dence, flowing hot and determined in him. This was what he had sought by coming here: a new sense of purpose, a way to continue his fight against Edward, and perhaps he could have had it, but for Simon. The groom had entered his world like a shadow, a reminder of everything he had tried to shut out: the pain, the memories, discarded obligations and burdens of duty. Now, staring into John Blair’s inquiring face, Will felt more of that same unwanted pressure bearing down on him. “Wallace and his men have taken towns crowded with abused people, desperate to be rid of the English.

They haven’t stood on an open field against a thousand heavy cavalry.”

“Our liberty is not an easy task,” replied John, after a pause. “Each of us knows this. We have bled hard for it already, in body and spirit.” The chaplain’s eyes were thoughtful, almost sad. “But each man here has something on his side. Something I think you might have lost.”

“And what is that?”

“Belief.” John inclined his head before Will could answer. “My chapel is always open should you change your mind. Good day to you.”

Will watched him go, part of him struggling against his doubts, wanting to believe the chaplain was right and the Scots could win through, for he was desperate for a victory after the defeat at Edinburgh. But ever since word had come that the English Army under Cressingham and de Warenne had set out from Berwick, he had felt only a creeping unease. He had seen that force. Unlike Wallace and his close comrades, sons of knights, trained to fight, most of the men were shepherds and farmers, blacksmiths, merchants. However val-iant their leaders, this ragged band could not match the English might.

Pulling a dry shirt over his breeches, Will headed for the circle of tents near the center of the camp, resolved to speak to Wallace. He found the young giant with his generals. They were a motley crew, all battle-scarred and dirty, but laughing, relaxed, seated together around a spitting fire, over which an iron pot was suspended. Will smelled venison and herbs and his stomach groaned.

David had killed the hart the week before. Wallace, his nephew told him elat-edly, had said it was one of the best shots he had ever seen.

“No,” Adam was saying, shaking his head. “It was that time in Ayr. That wrestler.”

Gray chuckled. Wallace smiled, but said nothing. Will paused a short distance away, reluctant to talk while the others were there.

“What happened?” The rasping voice belonged to a man called Stephen, a warrior from Ireland.

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“There was an English soldier in the town, a wrestler, who wagered he could beat any opponent,” said Adam. “You had to pay to fi ght him. What was it, cousin?” he asked, looking over at Wallace. “Three pennies?”

“Four,” answered Gray, before Wallace could speak.

“Well, William paid eight,” Adam went on, smirking. “And broke the idiot’s back.”

“Jesus,” muttered Stephen.

“The man’s comrades then set upon him and William killed seven.”

“I killed three,” said Wallace, his deep voice silencing them, “and you left out the part where they threw me in jail. They tortured me for fi ve weeks.

Starved and beat me. I felt my life draining with every day that passed until finally . . .” He shrugged. “I slipped away.”