Brethren, p.19
Brethren, page 19
Will saw no point in lying. He told the knight that she had stowed away on board Endurance.
The knight cursed and shook his head in disgust. Bending down he grabbed Elwen by her arms. “On your feet, girl!”
Will stepped forward as Elwen screamed.
“Stand down, sergeant!” the second knight barked, helping his comrade to pull Elwen away. “Owein is dead. Her weeping won’t bring him back.”
Between them the knights half dragged, half carried Elwen onto the Opinicus, where they left her slumped on one of the benches. Their brutality shocked away her tears and she sat in an exhausted silence, staring blankly as Owein’s body was laid out on the deck and covered with his white mantle.
Three of the knights, along with the priest and the brothers from the preceptory, left to scour the port for any sign of the four surviving attackers. They soon returned. The knights ordered the men from the Honfleur preceptory to continue the search at daybreak. But no one held out much hope. The priest and his brothers were also given the task of burying the mercenaries.
“Don’t put them in consecrated ground,” John had added.
“Brother,” said the priest, shocked, “surely we cannot consign their souls to Satan without trial or fair judgment?”
“They’ll receive judgment in Hell.”
Will had climbed on board behind the knights, carrying Owein’s sword, which he placed next to his master. It was then that he had seen Garin kneeling beside Jacques’ body. Garin had drawn back the mantle from the knight’s head and was staring at his face, which was frozen in the grimace he had worn at the moment of death. Garin’s cheeks were wet and his hands were balled into fists on his knees. He reached out to his uncle’s face, then stopped, his hand hovering in the air over Jacques’ eye patch. As Will put a hand on his shoulder, Garin started and twisted around, his face contorted with grief. “Don’t touch me!”
Will stepped back, startled by the vehemence in his voice. Leaving Garin to stare at Jacques’ body, he crossed the deck to a bench, where he sat, head in hands.
The chaos following the battle had been hard. But worse had been the silence that descended as Opinicus sailed down the Seine: a silence that had closed around the company like a fist. The queen’s guards and pages sat on the benches with the knights and sergeants. There was just enough room for the queen and her handmaidens in the cabin, cramped as it was with her belongings. Of them all, only Elwen seemed capable of expressing her sorrow. Her sobs had begun again in the night and continued through till dawn. Even Will, who shared her grief over Owein’s death, had wished she would be quiet. Eventually, one of the sergeants had shouted at her, his voice terribly loud in the stillness. The cabin door had banged open a moment later to reveal Queen Eleanor, her pale face framed in the doorway.
“Have you no heart?” she had said to the sergeant, who had stared at her open-mouthed.
The queen had gone to Elwen and helped her to her feet with soft-spoken words of encouragement that reminded Will of the way Simon always soothed the horses in New Temple’s stables in a storm. She led Elwen into the cabin, where they remained for most of the journey, which had passed, for Will, in a haze. There had been nothing to do but wait and watch the slow-changing landscape and the flies that buzzed around the bodies on the deck.
When Opinicus arrived in Paris, late in the evening, one of the crew went ahead to the preceptory to have carts sent down to the docks for the crates of salt and ale, and the dead. The queen ordered two of her guards to the palace, where her sister, Queen Marguerite, was expecting her. When a wagon and a carriage pulled by four black horses arrived, Elwen was ushered inside with the handmaidens as the queen’s belongings, everything except the crown jewels, were loaded onto the wagon.
“I will take her to the palace,” the queen said to the knights, stepping into the cushioned interior. “Your preceptory is no place for a woman. Certainly not one who is grieving,” she said with a glance at the sergeant who had shouted at Elwen.
As the carriage pulled off, the knights and sergeants had trudged through the winding streets of the Ville, past rows of workshops, the preceptory of the Hospitallers, then on up the rue du Temple to the preceptory, which lay outside the city walls in a pleasant expanse of fields. Will had taken in little of his surroundings. When they reached the preceptory, he had been shown to a dormitory where he had spent most of the following day.
Today was his second day in Paris, the day of Owein’s funeral.
When the Matins bell chimed, Will remained sitting on the window ledge as the other sergeants rose from their pallets with a chorus of yawns and muttered conversation. Their accents were strange to Will, but as they spoke Latin he understood them. In the preceptories, with so many knights from different countries living together, Latin had become the communal language.
The sergeants threw their black tunics over their hose and undershirts and took turns at the ewer and basin, splashing their faces. Outside, it was still fully dark. Three of the sergeants had already gone by the time Robert came to the table to cup his hands in the icy water. He patted his face dry with the hem of his tunic, swept back his fine blond hair, and nodded to Will.
“Are you coming to chapel?” he asked, heading to the armoire in the corner of the room and opening the cabinet’s double doors.
Will shook his head.
“Let him stay, Robert, if that’s what he wants.”
Will looked at Hugues, who was straightening his tunic.
Hugues gave him a pointed look. “Perhaps you should sleep while we are gone. Then we won’t have to share your dreams.”
Robert rolled his eyes. He had taken a twig from one of the armoire’s shelves and was scraping at his teeth, which were unusually white. “Don’t mind him,” he said to Will, removing the twig from his mouth. “Hugues just needs his sleep.”
Hugues glared at Robert. “Don’t speak about me as if I weren’t here! You always do that!”
Will, watching them, felt the twinge of a smile. The two youths, who were both a year older than he was, couldn’t have been more different. Robert was tall and slender, with almost feminine good looks in the delicate angles of his high cheekbones and arched brows. Hugues was short and chubby, with close-set, dark eyes that peered out from beneath a mop of lank black hair to either side of a blunt, turned-up nose.
Hugues turned his back on them both and went to the armoire. He took out a black cloak, which he tugged over his shoulders.
“Pay no attention to him,” said Robert quietly to Will. “He’s just wary of anyone he doesn’t know.” When Will didn’t say anything, Robert added, “Because of his name.”
“His name?” asked Will flatly.
“Hugues de Pairaud. Humbert, the Master of England, is his uncle. The Pairaud family has served the Temple for years and Hugues fears that some sergeants, those of less noble birth, may seek friendship with him for their own advancement.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Hugues, smoothing his cloak as he crossed the room.
Robert turned. “I was just telling Will that you are going to be Grand Master some day.”
“That’s right,” replied Hugues haughtily. “Or at least Visitor of the Kingdom of France. It is what I’ve been groo—”
“If you say groomed again I’ll flog you,” Robert cut across him. He tossed the twig onto his pallet and steered Hugues toward the door. “Come on, Hugues. God gave you a soul, let’s see if He can give you a little heart to go with it.” He winked at Will as he left the chamber.
Some time later, the Matins bell ceased its chimes, signaling that the office had begun. Will didn’t leave the window ledge. Every day for the last four years, first with his father, then at New Temple, he had risen before dawn for the first office. He wouldn’t kneel today. Instead, he watched the sky gradually lighten and listened to the birdsong begin.
The sergeants’ quarters were set around a quadrant near the stables. Over the stable roof, he could see fields stretching off, ringed by gnarled oaks and silver birch. Wicker domes were scattered about one of the fields for the bees that provided the preceptory with honey. A stream cut through the grass to a watermill. Beyond the mill, fishponds reflected the pale dawn sky and the blurred shapes of outbuildings and barns that Robert had told him housed the servants’ rooms, armory, wardrobe, bakehouse and granary. There was even a potter’s kiln. If Will leaned out of the window far enough he could see the tall towers of the donjon. The Paris Temple, the West’s principal preceptory, was much larger and grander than New Temple, which now seemed, to Will, rather humble by comparison.
When the aching in his back and legs became unbearable, Will slipped down from the ledge. He stared at the sack he’d placed at the foot of his pallet. Crouching down, he pulled out his sword and the tunic and hose he’d been wearing during the fight. The bloodstains had dried into the weave. Will dipped the clothes in the basin and began to scrub. The water soon turned a reddish brown. He scrubbed harder. Water sloshed over the basin’s rim, pooling on the table and trickling to the floor. The rancid smell of the blood permeated the chamber, making Will’s stomach churn. He saw the eyes of the mercenary widen behind the skull mask as the blade in his hand swung in. He felt again that sickening impact. It shocked him to know how easy it was to kill another man, to know how frail flesh was. He was glad, at least, that he had not seen the man’s face. He could have; the bodies of the mercenaries, removed of their disguises, had been piled up on the dockside at Honfleur. He could have found out which one had been his kill, but he had kept well away. A man in a mask was inhuman; without family, history, future.
A boy’s voice called out in the passage outside the chamber. Footsteps echoed, then faded away. Will laid the clothes on the window ledge, wondering if anyone would notice that he wasn’t attending chapel, that he hadn’t even left the dormitory. But the only person he really knew here was Garin and they hadn’t met since they had arrived and were shown to separate quarters.
He set about cleaning the falchion. The blade was no longer a child’s toy to play at soldiers with, or a gift from a loving father. It was an instrument of death. As he wiped the length of it, the dry blood peeling and flaking away from the edge, Will tried to imagine his father sitting beside him, telling him that he had done the right thing; that it was necessary and what he had been trained to do; that it was his duty. But all Will could hear was his father, in a flat monotone that betrayed him, saying that it wasn’t his fault and that it was an accident and that he didn’t blame his son.
The bell tolled as the knights and sergeants followed the priest, who had led the Requiem Mass, out of the chapel. Will walked behind Owein’s coffin, which was held aloft by four of the knights from New Temple. The two other knights who had survived the battle, the crew of Opinicus, Garin, and a host of knights, priests and sergeants Will didn’t recognize carried or walked behind the eight other coffins. Robert and Hugues were both there, but of Elwen, there was no sign. Will resented so many people who did not know Owein being here for his burial. He felt protective of his master and of his own importance as Owein’s sergeant.
The priest led the procession into the chapel grounds, which were set within a walled enclosure. Beside him strode the Visitor of the Kingdom of France, Commander of the Western strongholds, the post of which was second only to that of Grand Master. The Visitor was a regal-looking man with a beard shaped like a trident. On the far side of the cemetery, nine graves had been dug in a row. The men formed a circle around the graves as the coffins were lowered into the earth. Will averted his gaze as Owein’s coffin disappeared, jerking down on the ropes, inch by torturous inch.
The priest began to chant. “Requiem aeternam dona eis, domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.” Eternal rest give them, O Lord, and let everlasting light shine upon them.
After his prayers, the priest reached down to the earth, picked up a handful of soil and tossed it onto Owein’s coffin. He passed to each grave in turn and did the same.
“Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.”
The Visitor stepped forward and drew his sword. Holding the hilt clasped in both hands he lifted the blade. “What we sacrifice below shall be rewarded above. As our brothers pass into the Kingdom, may they find peace in the arms of God.” He sheathed the sword and moved back to stand beside the priest as the gravediggers hefted their shovels. The thuds of the clods of earth hitting the coffins had the blunt tone of finality.
Will remained by the graves as the company began to file out of the chapel grounds. Garin left through the arch in the wall. Garin hadn’t said a word to him, hadn’t even looked at him throughout the ceremony. Will, too exhausted to go after his friend, knelt down, the damp grass soaking his hose. Back at Honfleur he had wanted to tell Garin about the letter he had found in the solar, but it didn’t matter now. His concerns over Jacques’ allegiances had paled into petty insignificance in the face of what had happened over the past few days. Will saw the Visitor move over to the knights from New Temple.
“We’ll leave for London the day after tomorrow, sir,” said John, the knight who had taken command after the battle. “With the jewels safe in your vaults and our brothers laid to rest there is little need for us to stay. The Master of England will need to be informed of what has happened. An investigation into this matter must be conducted as soon as possible.” He lowered his voice. “Although I fear it may prove difficult. No one outside of the Temple knew the details of our voyage, but King Henry made it plain that he was giving up the jewels unwillingly. It isn’t inconceivable that he could have attempted to retake them.”
“I will have a boat readied,” replied the Visitor. “Inform Master de Pairaud that whatever he requires for the investigation, be it force of arms or financial aid, is at his disposal. He has full authority in this matter. I’ll send word to Grand Master Bérard in Acre.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the last grave was filled, masons brought slabs of granite to cover the mounds. Tomorrow, so as not to disturb the passing of the men’s souls to Heaven, the masons would chisel the outlines of the knights’ swords onto the tombstones.
Will looked up as someone touched his shoulder and saw Robert.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“No,” said Will, looking away and wiping his eyes roughly with his sleeve.
“I have duties in the armory. I’ll be there for the rest of the day, if you need the company.”
Robert walked away, but Will was still not alone; a priest stood to his left. The face was partially hidden by the halo of a cowl, but Will could see that the man was old, older than anyone he had ever met. Strands of hair, white and fragile as cobwebs, floated about the priest’s neck and his beard was patchy around his chin where an ugly scar twisted his mouth in a permanent scowl. He was hunched and still like a gnarled black tree, showing no sign that he had even noticed Will.
Will briefly touched the turned soil around Owein’s grave and rose. The priest’s silent proximity made him uncomfortable. “Wait,” he said, jogging after Robert. “I’ll join you.”
Robert nodded, but said nothing as Will fell into step beside him. As they walked down the path, Will looked back at the priest. “Who is that?”
Robert looked around. “Father Everard de Troyes.” He gave a half smile. “But don’t be fooled by his apparent dotage. I’d sooner cross the Devil.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see his hand? The one with two fingers missing?”
Will hadn’t, but he nodded anyway.
“He lost them in Jerusalem when the Khorezmians retook the Holy City sixteen years ago. He fought off and killed ten warriors single-handed. He was in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre when the attack came and had to hide under the corpses of the dead priests for three days to avoid capture.” Robert’s tone was grave, but Will had the impression that he enjoyed telling this story. “Can you imagine it? Three days in that heat with the flies and the stench? They say he was the only Christian to survive the massacre.”
Just before the two of them entered the arch that led out of the chapel grounds, Will glanced around to see the old man still standing motionless beside the graves. He thought a strong gust of wind might topple the frail-looking priest who had fought off ten warriors.
THE TEMPLE, PARIS, OCTOBER 27, 1260 AD
The next day, his last in Paris, Will returned to Owein’s grave after Nones, unsure of where else to go. He was glad to be returning tomorrow to the familiarity of New Temple—and dreading it. As he rounded the corner of the chapel where a moss-clad gargoyle leaned out from a buttress, its toothy, lunatic smile directed at the sky, Will saw Elwen kneeling by Owein’s grave, a bunch of lilies clasped in her hands. Her gown was plain and black, edged with white along the hem and her hair was tucked beneath a cap. As he approached she glanced up briefly, then looked back at the grave.
“Do you think he would mind that I wasn’t here for his burial?”
“No,” said Will quietly, kneeling beside her.
“No one came to the palace to inform me of the funeral. I am his blood, I should have been there.” Elwen placed the lilies on the tombstone. “I asked Queen Eleanor if I could come this morning. One of her guards escorted me.” She reached out to straighten one of the lilies. “What was it like? The ceremony?”
Will shrugged listlessly. “Like all funerals.”
“I keep wondering if he would have died if I hadn’t been there. He might have been more careful. He might have seen that dagger sooner, or . . .”
“You cannot think that,” said Will, watching her run a finger over the tombstone where flecks of quartz glimmered in the granite. Her finger came back white with dust from the chiseled outline of Owein’s sword. “What will you do when you return?”
“I’m not going back to London,” said Elwen, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m staying here.”
“In the preceptory?” Will was surprised.
“In the palace. When I told Queen Eleanor that I couldn’t return to my mother, that I didn’t have anywhere to go, she said she didn’t want to see any more grief come from this tragedy. She spoke with her sister, Queen Marguerite, who agreed to take me into her employ. I am called a handmaiden.” Elwen turned to Will. “You should see the palace. It’s so big I cannot leave my room without a servant, or I’ll get lost. There are gardens on the riverbank, beautiful lawns, hundreds of trees. It feels like home, a proper home filled with people and laughter.” She looked at Owein’s grave. “And I’ll be close to him.”
