Brethren, p.13
Brethren, page 13
Edward held up his hand for silence. “I want you to help me achieve this, Garin. My mother, the queen, will be escorting the jewels at the behest of my father, but the knights have kept the details of the journey secret. As the nephew of one of the knights involved in this arrangement, you will, I am sure, have access to these details.”
The realization of what the prince meant hit Garin like a slap. He rose, his head spinning from the wine and the revelation. “I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t!” He almost stumbled over the bench as he hastened for the door, wanting to be out in the daylight, the air, away from this chamber of shadows and adult intent.
Edward’s voice sounded behind him. “Don’t you wish to restore your family name? For the de Lyons to again be the grand and noble household they once were in the Kingdom of France?”
Garin faltered. As he looked back at Edward, he didn’t see Rook step forward, unsheathing a curved dagger.
“Isn’t that what you told the Lord Chancellor when you escorted him to the Master’s solar?” questioned Edward. “Didn’t you say that it was hard to be the nephew of a high-ranking knight? That you felt burdened by the pressure of duty that had been placed upon you to restore the wealth and nobility of your family?”
Garin shook his head. That wasn’t what he had said, exactly.
“I can do this for you, Garin. I can make you a lord, bestow lands and titles upon you. I can make you rich.”
Garin stayed where he was. Behind him, Rook’s dagger glinted.
“You need only tell me what you know of the voyage. That is all. And I will give you anything I can in return.”
“What if someone found out?” whispered Garin, his voice sounding strange in his ears.
“No one would ever know.”
“But how . . . ?” Garin fought to meet the prince’s eyes. “How would you take back the jewels?”
Edward finished his wine and set the goblet down. “You don’t need to worry about how it will be done. No one will be hurt.” Rising, he came around the bench to Garin. To the boy, the tall, handsome prince seemed like a warrior from an ancient poem, both terrifying and impressive, more myth than man. “The jewels belong to my family. I am only doing what I must to safeguard our property, as I’m sure you can understand.” He picked up the candle on the table. “Walk with me, Garin.”
Garin hesitated, but after a moment, he followed the prince to the large wall at the back of the chamber. As they got closer, the candle flame lit up the paintings, the dark swirls flaring into color.
“My father had this painted for him,” said Edward, holding the candle up to the pictures, “in honor of those who gave their lives wresting Jerusalem from the infidel almost two hundred years ago.”
Garin’s gaze moved over the scene of a walled city. Jerusalem. White buildings with onion-shaped, gold domes marched up a hillside to a vast, ornate structure on the summit that he guessed was the Dome of the Rock, an important Islamic shrine before the fall of the city, after which it had been converted into a church. The whole scene was one of majestic beauty and gave Garin the feeling that he wanted to stand on the grass that was painted in the foreground and walk through the olive groves up to those high, white walls. But as Edward moved along, the image faded and the candle lit a new scene. This time the city was closer and some of the buildings obscured by plumes of smoke. In front of the walls was an army, a dark, sprawling mass of men and machines of war, horses, wagons, tents and banners.
“When Pope Urban II preached the call to Crusade in the year of Our Lord 1095 many men took up the Cross: knights, nobles, kings and peasants, and set out to claim the Holy City from the hands of the unbelievers. But it wasn’t until four years later, after an arduous journey across land, during which many lost their lives, that they saw these walls before them.” Edward pointed to the siege engines that were lined up between the city and the Crusaders’ camp. “They spent almost a month building weapons for the battle. Then, on the thirteenth of July, worn down and weary from the long campaign and the many privations they had suffered, they began their assault.”
The candle moved again and this time the colors were all dark; black and scarlet for the smoke and the tongues of fire that licked around the rooftops of buildings; crimson and purple for blood.
“They took the Holy City by the sword and within just one day their dream, and the dream of all those they had left behind, was realized. Jerusalem was ours. Its streets were cleansed of Saracens and Jews by our knights. The holy sites where Christ chastised the moneylenders, the tomb where He rose from the dead, the place where the Virgin once slept, all were sanctified by our priests. It was a day unlike any other.” Edward’s eyes were gleaming in the candlelight, his face animated. “I only wish I could have seen it.”
Garin looked on in silence as the scene elongated and he saw rivers of blood flowing through the streets, men and women cut down by knights, hauled from mosques and houses, mountains of gold and plunder beside piles of corpses. The victory on the faces of the Crusaders looked gleefully demonic in the ruddy light from the fires that had been painted on their cheeks.
Edward turned to Garin. “The Saracens took Jerusalem from us sixteen years ago. We must recapture it if the lives of those who plowed the way eastward for us are not to have been in vain and if the hope of Christendom is to be once again rekindled. Do you want them to worship their false god in halls that have been blessed by our own priests?”
Garin didn’t know what to say. He just shook his head.
“If my great-uncle, Richard the Lionheart, were still alive, do you think he would wait until the enemy had taken all of our strongholds before doing something about it? Of course he wouldn’t.” Edward’s expression hardened. “My father will not lead a Crusade in this life. Of that I am certain. But I will. The jewels are rightfully mine and I will be crowned with them when I become king. Neither myself, nor my father can afford to repay the debt we owe to the Temple when we, all of us, have need of a new Crusade. I want the same thing as the Templars, but I will do it on my own terms, not theirs. Do you understand that, Garin?”
Garin chewed on a fingernail and nodded.
Edward smiled, then turned from the wall and headed for a chest that was placed at the foot of the bed, leaving the paintings to fade into darkness.
Garin followed cautiously, watching as Edward lifted the lid of the chest and reached inside. He pulled out a velvet drawstring pouch that he handed to Garin. “Here.”
The velvet bag clinked as it landed, soft and heavy, in Garin’s palm. It was filled with money.
“That is just the start,” said Edward, watching the boy, wide-eyed, squeeze the bag in his hand. “Help me, Garin, and, I promise, I will help you. You will lose nothing. In my service you will only gain.”
Garin thought of his mother in the cramped house in Rochester, weeping in her bedroom at night, her gowns and finery gone, sold off, she had often reminded him, to pay for his tuition. The contents of the bag in his hand could, he guessed, buy her all the gowns she could ever wish for. Garin thought of his uncle, of all his failures and mistakes. Was there, he wondered, any way to make him proud? He had tried. God, he had tried. But it had never been enough. He looked up at Edward.
“You will restore my family name? Make us noble again?”
“In time, yes.”
Garin looked into the prince’s face. He saw shrewdness there, ambition and ruthlessness, but he did not see deceit. “I just want my mother to be happy,” he said in a whisper. “To make my uncle proud.”
“I know how hard it is to live up to the expectations of family,” said the prince softly.
Garin blinked away the tears that threatened. “Our ship, the Endurance, won’t take us all the way to Paris,” he said in a rush. “She will be loaded with cargo, wool from our London looms, for trade in the Kingdoms of France and Aragon. Endurance will put in at Honfleur on the mouth of the Seine, where we will disembark with the jewels, then she’ll sail for our base at La Rochelle.”
“You will be in the company?” asked Edward keenly.
“Yes. My uncle has sent word to the preceptory in Paris, asking them to send a smaller vessel to meet us at Honfleur. I think the queen will spend the night in a smallholding we own at the port, then we will sail the next morning.”
“You’ve done very well, Garin. I’m impressed.”
Garin bit his lip and looked at the floor. He felt sick.
“Now,” said Edward, brusquely, “you had best return to the preceptory. Go about your daily business as usual. If I need to contact you again before the voyage, I will send Rook. Hide the gold in a safe place where it won’t be found.” As Edward reached the door, he turned abruptly and looked down at Garin, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “And if you tell anyone about this meeting, I shall deny that it ever took place and I will make sure that you and your family spend the next life staring at the view from London Bridge. Do you understand me?”
Garin nodded quickly, his mind filled with the misshapen, maggoty heads hanging from the posts. His bladder felt full from wine and fear and he was desperate to leave. “I won’t say anything, I swear.”
“Make sure of it.” Edward gestured to the door. “Wait outside. Rook will take you down.”
Garin reached for the door. For a moment, Rook remained standing there, eyes full of menace, then he gave a contemptuous chuckle and moved out of the way allowing the boy to rush out into the passage.
Rook pushed the door to. “Do you think we can trust the little rat to keep his mouth shut?” he murmured.
“If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t have let him leave this chamber,” responded Edward quietly. “We had no other choice. This will be the only opportunity we have to take the jewels back. Once they are in the Paris vaults, I doubt we will ever see them again.”
“Do you’ll reckon the runt’ll cooperate if we have need of him again?”
“I believe so. But find out what you can on his family to make certain of it. Meanwhile, we must set our plans in motion. Five days doesn’t give us much time.”
“Don’t worry, the jewels will never see those vaults.”
Edward smiled. “I’m glad my efforts to free you from your sentence weren’t wasted, Rook. A man of your talents shouldn’t be squandered on the gallows.”
Rook inclined his head. “My life is yours.”
9
New Temple, London
OCTOBER 18, 1260 AD
Will flicked his hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head, his attention on the bull-shouldered sergeant in front of him, a boy a year older than he called Brian. He was used to the wooden practice swords and the iron blade was heavy in his hand. He wore a jerkin of stiff rawhide, studded across the chest, and leather greaves and vambraces shielded his shins and forearms. He circled the sergeant, whom he hadn’t fought before today. It had taken Will one round to get his measure. Brian was strong, but slow.
Ignoring the scattered calls of encouragement from the sidelines, Will stayed where he was, poised on the balls of his feet. Brian charged. Will parried the first strike, ducked under the second and spun, bringing his sword, two-handed, into the sergeant’s back. The swords had been blunted as a precaution against serious injury, but the force of the strike knocked Brian to his knees with a grunt. Lifting the blade, Will brought it, point down, over the boy’s neck in a move that would have killed him had it struck. A cheer erupted from the edges of the field, sending several birds flying into the air from a nearby oak, wings clapping. The herald called Will’s name and Brian struggled to his feet and embraced his victor briefly before walking from the field.
The cheers died away as Humbert de Pairaud stood. On the bench beside the Master of England, sat the Masters of Scotland and Ireland. On the trestle before them lay the prizes: a sword for the winner of the older group and, for Will’s age group, a brass badge displaying two knights astride a single horse—a trophy replica of the seal of the Order. Will bowed to the three Masters.
“I declare William Campbell, sergeant to Sir Owein ap Gwyn, master of the field,” Humbert’s voice resounded. “Campbell will fight in the final duel.” He looked to Will. “You may leave the field, sergeant.”
Will bowed again, then sprinted for the tent that had been erected on the sidelines.
Only an hour before, he had been fifth in the running out of the thirty sergeants in his group. He had come fourth in the rounds at the quintain, almost falling from his horse and missing the ring with his lance three times. But when Garin had won and Will had seen victory slipping from his grasp, he grew dogged, coming first in the foot race and beating his three opponents in the duels. His sword-arm was numb, but triumph was hot in his veins, burning away his exhaustion. He had won through to the last duel and was one fight from possible victory. He wished his father were here.
When Will entered the tent, he saw Garin by the trestle where the weapons were laid. He was testing the weight of a sword, swinging it back and forth. There was an older sergeant in one corner, untying the straps of his jerkin. Outside, the field was being readied for the next duel.
Placing the blade on the trestle, Garin looked around at Will. “Well done.”
“Thanks,” said Will, not noticing the flatness of his friend’s tone. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “My opponent was fierce. I didn’t think I could best him.” He grinned. “If you win your duel, we’ll meet in the last battle.”
Garin nodded dully.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Garin shrugged as Will frowned at him. “There’s no prize for second best.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Will offhand. “If we fight in the final duel we’ll both be the champions of the day, whichever of us wins.” He glanced around as the older sergeant pulled off his jerkin and headed out. “Where were you yesterday?” Will asked Garin, lowering his voice.
“Nowhere,” said Garin quickly. “I mean, in the armory,” he added, moving away to pick up another of the swords on the bench.
“I tried to find you. I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” Will paused. “When was your uncle last in the Holy Land?”
“He came back after he was injured at Herbiya, after the Saracens took Jerusalem. Why?”
Will sucked on his lip. “Has he kept in contact with anyone out there, perhaps someone foreign, someone who might have visited him?”
Garin turned back. “Why are you asking this?” He gestured at the field. “I’ve got to go out there and fight any minute. What is it?”
Will looked around, hearing the heralds call Garin’s name. “It’s nothing. Just a question I had about the Holy Land. I was wondering whether I should ask him. You’d best go.” He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
Garin stood staring at the field beyond the tent flaps for a long moment, then strode out, the sword grasped tightly in his fist.
Garin’s opening charge was fierce, his sword cutting in a series of mighty strokes that pushed the other boy back. His opponent recovered, moving in, face set in concentration. The two of them stamped and cut across the center of the field. The air was hushed, the only sound the ring of the swords. Within a few moments of the opening assault, Garin had slashed the boy’s tunic, scoring a red line down his arm. A brief roar sounded from the sidelines. Will had never seen his friend fight so well. Garin was moving gracefully, every blow precise and powerful. His opponent was tiring quickly.
Garin deflected several short thrusts, pivoted lightly on his feet and swept around to the sergeant’s left. Two of his lightning-quick lunges were turned aside, the sergeant having to spin awkwardly to counter. Garin feinted right, but his opponent didn’t fall for the trick and instead stepped up to meet him. They collided heavily, Garin lost his balance and stumbled to his knees. It wasn’t over. Blocking the sergeant’s blows, Garin staggered to his feet and hammered at the boy, forcing him back once more. As the sergeant pulled away, Garin glanced briefly to the judges’ bench. Jacques was deep in conversation with the Master of Ireland.
The sword now looked awkward in Garin’s hand. His wrist was no longer loose, allowing the fluid moves he had made in the earlier round, but locked tight, meaning that every strike was slower, every parry more jarring. Will saw him lose the chance of a side thrust and only just manage to block a low, sweeping cut to his thigh. His opponent had also noticed the change and now stepped up the attack. The sergeants began to cheer, sensing victory. Garin took a half-hearted swing. Will saw his grip slacken. The sword fell from his hand, he made an attempt to retrieve it, but wasn’t fast enough. His opponent rushed in to cut a line across his leather jerkin. The sergeant shouted triumphantly, raising his blade as the herald called out. Will watched as Garin, not even bothering to pick up his sword, stood there, staring at Jacques. The knight was on his feet, his expression cold as death. Garin set off toward the tent, his head lowered. Will pushed through the crowd of cheering sergeants to go after him, but was stopped by his name being called for the final duel. He hesitated, then walked onto the field.
As Garin entered the tent, he tore off his jerkin and let it fall to the floor. He planted his palms on the bench, the lump in his throat swelling to constrict him. His vision became blurred and he swiped at his eyes angrily, determined not to let the tears fall. If he started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop.
“Get out.”
Garin started at the voice. Jacques stood in the tent opening, his tall form filling it. The light behind him was too bright for Garin to see his face, but the boy didn’t need to know the expression that was there. It was all in the voice. Garin’s dread coiled around his gut, a cold snake, winding tight. “Sir,” he managed to say. “I’m sorry . . . I . . .”
“Save your excuses,” said Jacques, still speaking in that low, frigid tone that Garin hated. “Come with me.”
“But the tournament . . . ?” Garin drew back, banging into the bench as Jacques came forward.
