Читать книгу: «Order In Chaos»

MEN OF GOODWILL
1

Sir William Sinclair strode through the main gate tower and emerged into the spacious quadrangle of the headquarters complex. It was enclosed by four buildings, each three stories high, and he angled left immediately towards the heavy double doors that fronted the main administrative building containing the offices and living space of the garrison’s senior personnel. Tam Sinclair almost had to run to catch up to him, but when he did he grasped his taller cousin by the sleeve and pulled him around.

“Wait, damnation, wait now! Just hold hard for a minute. What are we rushing into here? What’s amiss? Why are you running?”

“Because I don’t like the smell. Something stinks here, Tam. Didn’t you hear what Tescar said?”

“Aye, some, but not all of it. The two o’ you were whispering like lovers. Who’s this other knight, this Godwinson?”

“I don’t know, but whoever he is, he’s a liar. There is no brother knight involved in this with tidings from de Molay. You know yourself, de Molay sent no other messenger but us. And there was no other Templar waiting to get in at the South Gate while we were there.” They had stopped at the foot of the shallow flight of steps up to the doors. “So who is this Godwinson and where did he come from? Not from the South Gate—you know that. Do you recall seeing de Nogaret in Paris, two weeks ago?” Tam nodded, his face troubled, and Sir William continued, walking up the steps. “Aye, you do, but obviously not as well as I do. D’you recall who was with him at the time? Think hard now. They had just emerged from the King’s residence and were waiting for a carriage.”

“Aye, I remember seeing the fellow, but I don’t know who he was. I was too busy looking at de Nogaret himself, bad luck to him. But the other one was a big, red-bearded—By the Christ!”

“Aye, big and red bearded, with a white streak in his beard. But was he a Templar? I think not. Nor was he dressed like one. No, Tam, the Christ has nothing to do with this one, not if de Nogaret’s involved.” They had reached the top of the shallow steps fronting the administrative building’s entrance, and Sir William swung the doors open wide before striding through, his men behind him fanning out and looking about them, plainly not knowing what they were looking for.

“Keep your wits about you, lads,” Sir William said quietly, “and tread softly. I don’t know what we may find in here, but this is no time to be clattering around, so move quietly. And be prepared for the worst.”

He led them to a passageway that bore away to the right from the far end of the cavernous entranceway, but he suddenly stopped short. Tam Sinclair bumped into him.

“What is it?” Tam’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

“No guards.” Another pair of closed double doors was set into the wall ahead of them, and Sir William drew his sword with a long, slithering of steel. “I’ve been here a score of times, Tam, and never have I seen those doors unguarded. Hold! Someone’s coming.”

Now they could clearly hear the sounds of shod feet coming from farther down the passageway, rapidly growing louder, and then a white-mantled knight stepped into view. He saw them immediately and gasped in alarm at the sight of Sir William’s bare blade, but Sinclair was already approaching him, raising his finger to his lips in a signal for silence.

“Admiral,” he whispered urgently, “stay there. It’s me, William Sinclair.”

Admiral Charles de St. Valéry was clearly astonished, but he remained where he was.

“Where’s de Thierry?” Sinclair asked him.

St. Valéry looked as though he might answer angrily, but then he merely shrugged. “I have no idea. He was in the Day Room when I saw him last, but that was half an hour ago. I have been upstairs ever since. What need have you and your men of bared blades here in the Commandery, Sir William?”

Sinclair was looking about him, but the passageway was empty on both sides, save for his own men.

St. Valéry spoke again, his voice still soft, but with an edge to it. “Do you not intend to answer me, sir?”

“Aye, I’ll answer you, my lord Admiral.” Sinclair threw him a quick glance, but then looked back to the closed doors of the Day Room where the Commandery’s business was conducted. “In a few moments I hope to be able to tell you that no, we have no need for bared blades here, but for the present that is not clear. Where are your guards?”

“My—?” St. Valéry looked beyond Sir William to where his two guards should have been. “Where are my guards?”

“What of this Godwinson, where is he?”

“What are you talking about? Who is Godwinson?”

“Aye. You’ve been upstairs for half an hour, you say?”

“I have.”

“Then you were gone when Godwinson arrived. And I see you are neither armed nor armored.”

“No, I am not. What need have I of arms or armor in my own house?”

“Come with me, Admiral, and do as I say.”

He turned on his heel and led the admiral back to where Tam Sinclair and his sergeants stood waiting. “Tam, two of your men to guard the admiral here and keep him safe from harm.” As Tam signaled two sergeants forward, Sir William turned back to St. Valéry. “I have reason to believe enemies are waiting for you on the other side of that door, Admiral, and that whoever goes in there first had best be well armored. I hope I am wrong, but I fear I am correct. So you stay here, against the wall, until we find out what’s inside. Tam!”

“Aye, Will.”

“Four of your men back outside, quickly, to Tescar at the gates. Tell him they need crossbows. Do it quickly, but without attracting attention.”

“Aye.”

While they waited for the four sergeants to return, Admiral St. Valéry studied Sinclair, who, in turn, stood gazing silently at the closed doors to the Day Room.

“What are you thinking, Sir William?”

“About armor, my lord Admiral. You have armor in your quarters?”

“Of course.”

“And have you a metal cuirass?”

“I have.”

“Go then, if you will, and don both, as quickly as you can.”

The admiral smiled wryly. “Don both? I have an extra tunic, too, of the finest Moslem chain mail, the strongest, lightest armor ever made. Should I put that on, too?” He was being facetious, but Sinclair was not.

“Aye, you should.” He saw the widening of the admiral’s eyes and held up a hand. “The first man through that door, Sir Charles, might well take a crossbow bolt in the chest, and so a triple layer of protection would be no excess. I would take your mantle myself and play your part, but I have no beard today and am fresh shaven, whereas your appearance is…otherwise distinctive. So you should enter first. I will be beside you, and we will have four crossbows of our own trained on whatever lies inside that room.”

“Hmm. Who is in there?” No one had ever accused St. Valéry of being excitable or lacking courage, and now his voice revealed only curiosity, with no trace of alarm.

Sir William’s headshake was brief. “I know not, but I suspect we will find two dead guards, and the preceptor, Sir Arnold de Thierry, either dead or being held captive. We have been infiltrated, Admiral. Our defenses have been breached, and all I know of our visitor is that I saw him last in the company of the King’s chief lawyer, William de Nogaret, less than two weeks ago in Paris. I do not know his name, but he gave the English name of Godwinson to Sergeant Tescar at the gates and was admitted. He is dressed as a knight of the Temple, but he is no Templar and no friend of our Order.”

“You recognized him?”

“No, I have not yet set eyes on him, but I recalled him from Sergeant Tescar’s description.”

St. Valéry was frowning. “Then how can you know this is the same man? Descriptions are vague at best. This man may well be a visiting brother from England.”

“Then where are your guards, Admiral? Or did this Godwinson merely see fit to dismiss them? Tescar’s description left little room for doubt. A big man, wearing a full, red beard with a bright white streak down the left side of it. Now, there may be two men in France with long red beards so singularly marked, but until I know I am wrong, I’ll act as though I’m right. Please, go and put on your armor. We will wait for your return. Whatever has occurred within that room is long since done, and plainly no one is anxious to come out.”

Tam Sinclair’s four sergeants arrived back moments after St. Valéry left to put on his armor, and Sir William drew them aside and explained what he wanted them to do. Two of them then took up positions on each side of the double doors, their backs to the wall, while the other two lay on their bellies on the floor, their bodies angled away from the entrance, their loaded, drawn weapons trained on the doors. Sir William would enter first with the admiral, he told them, and would thrust the older man aside as they went in, in the hope of saving him from attack. He himself would dive to the other side, leaving the crossbowmen free to shoot from the floor into the open room. To the best of his knowledge there were only two men inside, he told them, but he could not be sure of that. Treachery spread in France like dry rot today, he said, pointing out that William de Nogaret had spies and employees everywhere. In any event, there would likely be only one crossbow inside the room, and once it had been fired, its wielder would have to reload. If the two men on the floor could not finish him, it would be the turn of the two by the doors. They would enter the room immediately, at the run, and switch sides. Among the four of them they should be sure of dealing with one bowman. Sinclair himself would take care of the red-bearded impostor.

Admiral St. Valéry returned, looking distinctly larger and walking with far less ease, his sword slung from his shoulder. Sir William swished his own sword through the air and then concealed it behind his back.

“By me, if you will, Admiral, on my left, and let’s find out what lies in wait for us. Those doors do open inwards, do they not?”

“They do…Ready?” St. Valéry went quietly forward until they stood facing the doors, side by side. He took hold of the black iron rings of the handles, raising them gently, one in each hand, then drew a deep breath, twisted both handles, threw the doors wide, and stepped inside.

At first Sinclair could see nothing at all. The large room appeared to be empty. But then he saw the broad smear of blood on the floor to his left where someone must have dragged a body aside, and at the same time he saw a flicker of movement to his right.

He reacted instantly, thrusting out his arm, straight and hard, in a blow to the admiral’s shoulder. The older man had been tense, and the unexpected push sent him spinning, barely in time as a hard-shot missile smashed into him, jerking him bodily off his feet and hurling him sideways to crash on the floor against the wall. Sinclair had used the strong, straight-armed blow to push himself sideways, in the other direction, and even as his shoulders slammed into the open door he saw another blur of motion from his left, and a second steel bolt, this one intended for him, half buried itself in the solid oak of the door by his head.

From below him he heard the thrum of a crossbow then and looked to see the man who had tried to kill him, his crossbow still at his shoulder, transfixed by a bolt from one of the sergeants on the floor of the passageway. Angled upwards as it was, the bolt passed cleanly through the man’s neck, beneath his chin, and shot out through the base of his skull before digging itself into the crevice between two of the stone blocks of the wall.

Sir William thrust himself forward from the door, whirling, sword in hand, as the rest of his men stormed into the room.

The red-bearded man in the knight’s mantle stood against the wall, still holding the crossbow that had struck down St. Valéry, and as he looked at Sinclair and the men pouring through the doorway he opened his hands and dropped the useless weapon, then shrugged out of his great Templar mantle and let it fall to the floor behind him as he drew his sword and fell into a crouch. Beneath the beard, his mouth was a snarling rictus.

“Mine,” Sinclair said.

The red-bearded man circled away from him, and Sinclair followed, waiting for him to make a move. Then came a whirling blur, a loud, meaty-sounding blow, and the stranger fell to his knees and pitched onto his face as Tam Sinclair’s dirk clattered on the stone floor beside him.

Sir William straightened slowly from his crouch. “Was that well done, Tam?”

“Aye, sir, it was. A perfect throw, hilt first. Unless, of course, ye really wanted to give the whoreson a second chance to kill ye.”

“He would not have killed me, Tam.”

“No, likely not. But you would ha’e killed him, and there would ha’e been an end o’ it. But now he’s still alive, I think, and we’ll ha’e a chance to find out what he came here for.”

“I know what he came here for, and he succeeded. He came to kill the admiral and the preceptor.”

“Shit, aye, but why?”

“To cause chaos tonight. In preparation for tomorrow.”

“Then he’s missed his aim. The admiral’s alive. The bolt but caught his hauberk and threw him away, but it didna hit him. He’ll be fine. Battered about a bit, but he’s no’ even bleeding.”

Sir William turned quickly to look to where a couple of his men were raising the limp form of the admiral from the floor. “Thank God for that. I thought I had been too slow. Send someone to the infirmary to fetch a surgeon or a physician, and have someone else remove the admiral’s armor before the fellow comes. Where is the preceptor?”

“Over here, sir.” The voice came from the far end of the room, where another sergeant was standing looking down at the floor behind one of the room’s long tables. “Him and the two guards. All dead.”

“Ah, God!” Sir William slowly walked the length of the great room until he stood looking down on the three corpses that had been dragged out of sight behind the table. Two were sergeants of the Order, their brown surcoats now black with blood. The third man was much older, dressed in the white mantle of the knights, with the Temple cross embroidered on its left breast. He, too, had been killed by a crossbow bolt, shot from a distance short enough to drive the lethal bolt clean through his chest, so that half of its length protruded from his back. There was little blood, apart from the exit wound itself, so the elderly man’s death must have been instantaneous.

Sir William knew the old preceptor’s story as well as he knew his own. Arnold de Thierry, a childless widower of one-and-twenty, had joined the Order on the island of Cyprus, thirty-one years earlier, on the fourth day of July in 1276, and had become one of the Temple’s most honored knights in fifteen years of campaigning in the Holy Land. His career there had ended when he was wounded in the earliest stages of the final siege of Acre in the year 1291 and was shipped out by sea and committed to the care of the Knights Hospitallers at Rhodes. There he was expected to die, but he fought instead for life, earning himself an undying reputation for futile bravery by refusing to allow the surgeons to amputate his wounded arm when it was deemed to be gangrenous. The wound, it transpired, was merely infected, and de Thierry in time regained almost full use of the limb. But while he was undergoing his long, slow recovery, his comrades in Acre were overrun and slaughtered by the Seljuk Sultan’s Mamelukes.

Hampered by his crippled arm, which was too gravely disabled for swordplay, de Thierry eventually returned to duty and was rewarded for his years of faithful service with the post of Preceptor of the Commandery of La Rochelle, a posting that he had rightly regarded as the highest honor he could have earned.

Preceptorship of a commandery was a military posting, as opposed to the administrative rank—something of a cross between an abbot and a small-town mayor—held by the preceptor of a Temple. Throughout Christendom the Temples run by the Order were civil institutions, financial and administrative posts, and their members, all nominally Templars, were artisans and traders of all stripes. Commanderies, on the other hand, were garrisoned posts, staffed by the fighting members of the Order, the knights and sergeants, and their purpose was purely military—the protection and guardianship of the Order’s affairs. The preceptor of a commandery was the first officer, responsible for all aspects of the installation, and nowhere was that responsibility more onerous or honorable than in La Rochelle, the most important location in France for the Order’s trading activities.

The commandery in La Rochelle, fronting the harbor with its extensive and easily defensible anchorage for ships of all sizes and types, was the primary garrison in the entire country, utterly essential to the worldwide welfare of the Order and its business. All of the industries and activities that the Templars pursued throughout Christendom and beyond—manufactories, plantations, orchards and farms; warehousing and storage facilities for the trading and sale of goods; distribution channels for commodities of every kind; real estate holdings and international banking activities—intersected at one time or another in the Commandery of La Rochelle, on the wharves and piers of the harbor or in the holding warehouses or the cargo shipping sheds.

Now, staring down at the preceptor’s still form, it came to Will that in merely witnessing this death, he was witnessing the end of an epoch. De Thierry was gone, and with him had vanished an era of unshakable integrity, absolute honor, and the purity of an ideal.

No more, Sinclair thought now. No more honor in the eyes of the law. No more fearlessness in the faithful performance of duty. And no more trust in the integrity of kings from men of goodwill. Farewell, old friend. You will be sorely missed, but you will suffer nothing by missing what will come tomorrow.

He turned away with a sigh and looked at Tam Sinclair, standing across from him on the other side of the three corpses. “Tam, send someone to bring Tescar. Tell whoever you send to say nothing but to bring him directly to me.”

“What in God’s holy name has happened here?” The voice was loud, and Sir William turned to look at the man in the doorway, then raised his hand to attract his attention. When the white-robed brother looked at him in outrage, the knight raised one finger, bidding him wait, then turned back to Tam. “Remember now, your man must say no word to Tescar.”

“Aye, I’ll send Ewan. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Sir William made his way then to the newcomer. “What is your name, Brother?”

The other man blinked at him, plainly wondering who he was, pale faced and clean shaven yet wearing the surcoat of a Temple Knight. “I am Brother Thomas,” he said. “I run the infirmary. What has happened here?”

“Are you surgeon or physician, Brother Thomas?”

“I am both, but—”

“Excellent. Now listen closely. I am William Sinclair, recently appointed to the Governing Council. I am beardless because I came here tonight in disguise, bearing instructions from our Grand Master in Paris to the preceptor and the admiral here in La Rochelle. And what has happened here is assassination. The preceptor has been killed, and the admiral has had a narrow escape. He is unconscious but unwounded, it appears. Listen carefully, therefore, to what I require of you, and take this under your vow of obedience. There are four dead men in this room. That one over there by the wall was one of the assassins. Behind the table at the back there you will find the bodies of two of your own garrison who were posted here tonight as guards, and the Brother Preceptor himself.

“You will bring your people here immediately, enjoining them to silence and obedience as I have enjoined you, and remove the bodies to the hospital. And then you will set them to cleaning this place up, removing the bloodstains and restoring the room to its former condition. As soon as you have issued your instructions, I need you to bring Admiral St. Valéry back to awareness. I have orders for him from the Grand Master, and their gravity permits no further loss of time. I need him—our Order needs him—awake and alert. Do you understand me, Brother Thomas?”

Brother Thomas nodded, but his eyes were drawn to the red-bearded man slumped unconscious over a table, closely watched by two of Tam Sinclair’s sergeants. “Who is that?”

“A prisoner. The second assassin. We will see to him. He will be in no need of your assistance for a while yet.”

“Yet?”

“Hurry, Brother Thomas.”

Tescar and Brother Thomas passed each other in the doorway, and Tescar stopped, mouth hanging as he gaped at the unconscious Godwinson. Wasting no words, the knight quickly told the sergeant what had happened, and then asked him for the names of the two deputy commanders, naval and garrison based. He remembered both names and sent Tescar to summon the men, again with a warning to say nothing of what he knew.

2

An hour later, having done everything that he could do to repair the ravages caused by the man Godwinson and his murderous associate, Sir William finally found himself back in the Day Room, with nothing to do but wait upon events that he could not control. He crossed his legs, shifting his backside as he sought a comfortable spot in the wooden armchair by the fireplace of the great, freshly scrubbed room that was the center of the Commandery’s daily affairs. He no longer wore his mail hauberk and surcoat, having changed them for a plain white monk’s habit, covered by the simple but richly textured white mantle of a Templar knight, with the embroidered cross on the left breast. He had not, however, set aside his sword, and now he sat staring into the flames and frowning, one hand supported on the cross-hilt of his upright weapon as though it were a staff. The entire room smelled of lye soap, and his eyes were burning from the stench of it, but he could tell it was fading, if only gradually. Nonetheless his head was aching from the stink, and he had spent much of the past hour outside, conducting the business of the garrison in the fresh air.

Godwinson, whatever his true name might be, was safely locked up in a heavily guarded cell. He had regained consciousness eventually, but had refused to say a word when they interrogated him, and Sinclair, finding himself growing dangerously angry, had ordered him taken away and confined. He had then briefed the two deputy commanders on how to pacify the outraged and humiliated garrison, although he had said nothing to either of them about the purpose of his mission there. They had accepted his credentials and had carried out his wishes obediently, accepting it as their duty.

He could tell them nothing of the truth, however, before he had informed St. Valéry of his reasons for coming to La Rochelle. He had returned from the infirmary a short time earlier, where Brother Thomas had assured him that the admiral was showing signs of returning to consciousness and that he expected no complications as a result of the violent fall. The crossbow bolt had missed the admiral’s body by the narrowest of margins, striking his cuirass and glancing off to lodge in the metal mesh of his hauberk, the violence of its delivery throwing the old man to the floor.

It still lacked three hours until midnight, and all the Scots knight could do was wait and try to hold himself in patience until St. Valéry was well enough to talk to him and listen to his tidings. Once those were formally delivered, Sir William could take over the admiral’s command, at least until such time as the man was fit to resume his post properly. Sinclair had the authority to do so in an emergency, granted him by the Grand Master in person.

Across from him, Tam stood against the far wall, his eyes downcast and his hands clasped quietly in front of him. They had discussed the evening’s events at length, but Sir William had been out of sorts and was well aware that he had abused his friend several times, deflecting much of his own anger and frustration onto his faithful kinsman’s uncomplaining shoulders. Now he felt stirrings of guilt and sought to make amends.

“You’re very quiet, Thomas. Why?”

Tam raised his head and looked at him, one black eyebrow lifted high, then turned away and stooped to throw three large logs onto the fire, pushing them firmly into place with the sole of his boot until he was satisfied that the new fuel would catch quickly. He stood straight again, wiping the dust from his hands with an edge of his surcoat, and turned at last to Will.

“Are you still fretting about me and that woman this afternoon?”

Will sat straighter in his chair and stared wide eyed at his sergeant cousin, who leaned against the mantel, looking down at him.

“Fretting, about you and a woman? I hope I need have no such concerns, Thomas.”

“No, well, you needn’t, but that’s about the tenth time you’ve called me Thomas this night, and that usually means you’re no’ pleased wi’ me. And when you say things the way you did just then, all proper and prim, that means the same thing. But I misspoke. I didna mean about me and the woman, the way you took it. I meant about me helpin’ the woman.”

“I know what you meant, and I have been thinking about it. What you did was wrong.”

Tam whipped his head down and away quickly, as though he might spit into the fire, but then, equally quickly, he swung back to face his cousin, and his voice was tight with aggravation. “How was it wrong, in God’s name? I told ye before, I only helped a fellow Scot escape from a man we despise. That she was a woman’s neither here nor there. She needed help, Will, and I was there to provide it, and all’s well. Had it been a man, you would ha’e thought nothing of it.”

“Not so. It might have put our mission at risk either way, Tam.”

“Och, Will, that’s rubbish and you know it. You’re bein’ pigheaded for the sheer pleasure o’ it. Our mission was ne’er in danger. Had it been you there, faced with her plight and her plea, and no’ me, you would ha’e done the same thing. You know you would.”

“No, I would not. I would have walked away from her.”

“You would ha—? You would ha’e walked away? Why, in the name o’ God? Because she was a woman? Sweet Jesus, Will, what if it had been your mother or one of your sisters? Would you not want someone to offer her help?”

“It was not my mother, Tam. Nor was it any of my sisters.”

“Well she was somebody’s mother or sister, or both.”

“Not so. She was a single, unescorted woman, traveling alone. An occasion of sin, waiting to avail itself of opportunity.”

“Och, for the love o’ Christ!” The disgust in Tam Sinclair’s voice was rich and undisguised. “How long have we known each other, Will Sinclair?”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Thirty years?”

“Aye, and more than that, and I swear you’ve become two people in those years.”

The knight tilted his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know you don’t, and that’s the shame o’ it. The lad I knew back then would ne’er ha’e spewed such canting, canonical rubbish. But since you came back from Outremer and began to grow involved in the Inner Circle, you’ve changed, my lad, and little for the better.”

Will stiffened. “That is insolent.”

Tam folded his arms over his chest. “Oh, is that a fact? After thirty years I’ve grown insolent, have I? Thirty years of encouragement from you to speak up and say what’s in my mind, to tell ye the truth where others might not want to, to be comfortable in being your equal when there’s just the two o’ us around, and all at once I’m insolent?”

Will’s ears had reddened and he sagged back into his chair. “You’re right,” he said. “That was unworthy. Forgive me.”

“Happily. But what’s eating at you, Will? This isna like you.”

Will tensed and then sat forward, tightening his grip on his sword’s cross-guard and narrowing his eyes as he stared right into the heart of the fire. “I don’t know, Tam. I just don’t know. It’s this thing tonight, I suppose—the malice of it, the sheer evil. A King’s minister—his chief lawyer—arranging murders. It’s insanity, unthinkable. And yet it happened…And I’ve been wondering about God’s will this past half hour. Was it God’s will, think you, that we should be in that part of Paris that day, at that particular time when de Nogaret and this scum Godwinson were emerging from the residence? Had we not been there and seen them, him with his white-streaked red beard, I would never have reacted when Tescar told us about his arrival, and St. Valéry would now be dead, too.”

“Ach, you would have reacted anyway, as soon as you heard that shite about his coming from Paris wi’ word from de Molay. You knew that was a fleering lie as soon as you heard it, and you would have behaved the same way, even if you hadn’t seen the whoreson in Paris and recognized the description. No God’s will there.”

“Well then, was it His will that this creature should succeed and take the life of Arnold de Thierry? There was a man who never offended God in all his life.”

“Whoa there now.” Tam threw up his hands as though conceding defeat. “You’re getting into things too deep for my poor head. I canna tell you anything about that, and neither can you. You’ll just drive yourself daft. Master de Thierry died an ill death, I’ll grant ye, but he died at his post and on duty, and that means he died on God’s business, so he’ll be wi’ all the others now, enjoying his reward.”

“All what others?”

“What others?” Tam sat blinking at him. “The other thousands like him who died blameless doin’ their duty. Ye surely dinna think he’s the first man ever to die the way he did? What about your ain family? Sinclairs ha’e been involved wi’ the Temple since the start o’ it. We canna say how many o’ them ha’e died uselessly in the service o’ God and His Church, but they died nonetheless. Three o’ your ancestors at once, and no’ so long ago—blood uncles and cousins—French and Scots, St. Clair and Sinclair, the three o’ them in Outremer at the same time, under that whoreson Richard Lionheart, fightin’ God’s ain Holy War against the Saracen Saladin and his Muslims…D’ye think God in His wisdom had decreed their deaths for standin’ wi’ the Plantagenet, a man weel-kent for his depravity an’ foul habits?” Tam shook his head. “It’s no’ left to the likes o’ us to judge God’s reasons, Will. God knows we ha’e enough o’ our ain faults to live wi’…”

“Have I really changed that much, Tam? Am I really the prig you described, spouting cant and nonsense?”

“Aye, you can be, sometimes, a wee bit.” Tam grinned suddenly, his whole face lighting up. “But not often, thanks be to God.”

Will stared into the fire again, and just as Tam began to think he would say nothing more, he spoke.

“I have been thinking about that woman, Tam.”

“Aye, well, she was a fine-looking woman. There’s nothing wrong wi’ that.”

“But there is!” Will whipped his head around to look in his sergeant’s eyes. “I am bound by oath to avoid women.”

“Ach, come away, Will, that’s not true, and the young Will St. Clair I knew, knew that as well.”

“It is true. I undertook a vow of chastity.”

“Aye, you did, that’s right. A vow of chastity. You swore not to fornicate, with either women or men. Fine and well—a vow’s a vow and I’ve taken a few mysel’. But tell me this, is fornication wi’ a man more evil than fornicating wi’ a woman?”

Will looked shocked. “Lust between men is unnatural, the foulest of mortal sins.”

“Aye, it is, I’ll grant ye that. And it’s disgusting even to think about, but it still happens. But is it worse than fornicating wi’ a woman?”

“Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because you started it. Is it worse?”

“Of course it’s worse.”

“Because it’s unnatural.”

“Yes.”

“Aye. So the other way—with a woman—is that then natural? Don’t get angry, I’m only asking you because I wonder why it is that you never try to avoid men.”

“Avoid men? What are you talking about?”

“I thought I was being clear. If fornication between men is unnatural and worse than the other, natural kind, then why do you not avoid consorting with men? A man wi’ the will for things like that could corrupt you into sin.”

Will reared back in his chair. “That is ridiculous. Not one man in ten thousand would ever dream of thinking such a thing. The very idea is laughable.”

Tam nodded. “I agree. It is. But so is the thought of your lumping all women into one mass of sin, as though they threatened your chastity.”

“That’s different. It’s not at all the same thing. I have no attraction to men. But I might find a woman attractive. And that would confound my vow.”

“What vow? Oh, aye, your chastity. Right. But tell me, when did you ever swear to deny a woman the right to live—the right to seek freedom or to escape an enemy the likes of de Nogaret and his animals? When did you vow to shun them all as people?”

“I never did any of those things.”

Tam’s face was somber. “You must have, Will, somewhere deep inside yourself. And you’re doing it now. All this muttering and mumbling only started when you saw that woman with us today.”

“That’s not true. I never even saw her from near enough to be aware of her as a person.”

“And yet she has been in your mind ever since?”

A brief silence fell between them, and Tam moved to sit in the armchair next to Sir William’s. “Have you ever really known a woman, Will?”

“That’s an asinine question. Of course I have known women.”

“Who? Name me one.”

“My mother. Several aunts. My sisters, Joan and Mary and Peggy.”

Tam shook his head. “Those are all relatives, Will. I was asking about women, flesh-and-blood people who are not kinsfolk. Have you?”

Sir William faced his friend again. “No, I have not, and you know that. You have been with me constantly these thirty years.”

“Aye, I was afraid you would say that. The sad part is that I believe you. But I was hoping I’d be wrong. As you say, I’ve been with you these thirty years. But I’ve had women, now and then, and you knew nothing of it.”

Tam watched the younger man stiffen in horror. “What can I say, lad? I’m a sinner. I’m a Templar sergeant, but I’m a man, too, first and foremost. I’ve been tempted, and I’ve yielded to it—not often, mind you, I’m no goat—and I’ve enjoyed it most times. And then I’ve confessed and been shriven. Forgiven by an all-forgiving God. You remember Him, the All-Merciful?” He leaned forward anxiously. “Say something, man, and breathe, for you look as though you might choke.”

Will’s eyes were enormous, his lips moving soundlessly, and Tam Sinclair laughed. “What is it, man? Speak up, in God’s name.”

That was effective, for the knight’s mouth snapped shut, and then he found his voice, although it was a mere whisper. “In God’s name? You can invoke the name of God in this? You took a sacred vow, Tam.”

Tam’s mouth twisted. “Aye, I know that. And I broke it a few times. But as I said, I confessed and was shriven and did penance thereafter, as all men do. We are men, Will, not gods.”

“We are Templar monks.”

“Aye, but we’re men first and beyond all else. And we have Templar priests and bishops to match God’s other priests and bishops everywhere, and nary a one of them that I know of but has a whore hidden somewhere. What kind of world have you built for yourself, Will, in there behind your eyes? Are you deaf and blind to such things? You must be, for they’re plain to hear and see.”

The knuckles of William Sinclair’s hand were white with the pressure he was exerting on the hilt of his sword, and when he spoke again his voice was icy. “We…will…not…speak…of…this.”

Nor did they, for at that moment the doors behind them opened and they looked over to see Sir Charles de St. Valéry watching them from the threshold.

3

Sir William was on his feet instantly, crossing towards the older man, but the admiral held up a hand to signal that he required no help. As the others watched him, St. Valéry looked slowly around the room, his eyes coming to rest on the raw scar in the wall where the bolt that killed Godwinson’s fellow assassin had chipped out a large splinter.

“It stinks of lye in here.”

“Aye, Admiral, I was thinking the same thing myself. But it is getting better. An hour ago, you could hardly breathe in here without choking.”

St. Valéry nodded absently and made his way towards the fireplace, and Sir William stepped aside to let him pass, but instead of sitting, the admiral leaned against the high back of one of the armchairs fronting the fire. He looked as though he had aged greatly in the few hours since they had last met. His face was pallid, his eyes sunk deep into his head, and the skin beneath them appeared liverish purple. But he held himself erect, and his posture was defiant.

“I have seen Arnold,” he said in a calm, flat voice. “The surgeons tell me there was little blood and that his death was instantaneous, which means he felt no pain. In truth, it means he might not even have seen death approaching. I would like to think he died that way, without feeling himself betrayed, for if he saw his murderers, he must have thought them Brethren of the Order. Such a betrayal, even the semblance of one, would have pained Arnold greatly. I shall regret his passing. He and I were friends for many years…more years than most men are allowed to live. I will miss him.” He stiffened his shoulders and drew a great breath, then turned to face Sir William, every inch the Admiral of the Fleet whose personal concerns must always be subject to the dictates of his duty. “But I fear I may be forced to postpone my mourning until later. I have been told you come bearing urgent tidings, Sir William. Tidings from Master de Molay himself.”

“I do, Admiral.”

St. Valéry swept out an arm to indicate the room in which they stood. “Do they have any bearing on this obscenity that took place here?”

Sir William glanced at Tam Sinclair, who merely nodded, his lips pursed.

“Yes and no, Admiral. I believe there’s a very real connection between what happened here and the tidings I carry, but I cannot yet be sure. I have no proof—merely suspicions. Tam agrees with me.”

“Hmm.” St. Valéry grasped the back of his chair and pulled it away from the roaring fire. “Then we had best be seated where you can deliver your charges in comfort.”

The other two men took the armchairs flanking the admiral, although in normal circumstances Tam would never have thought of doing such a thing. As a mere sergeant, he seldom mixed directly with the knightly brethren, but he had known Charles de St. Valéry for so long that his own conduct had earned him the right to both sit and speak up in the admiral’s presence, at St. Valéry’s own insistence.

“There is little of comfort in what I have to say this night, my lord Admiral,” Will Sinclair said as he sat down.

“Aye, well, that’s appropriate, Sir William. There is little of comfort anywhere this night. Tell me what you have. I presume it is in writing?”

“Aye, Admiral, in the Master’s own words. Tam?”

Tam Sinclair removed the heavy leather satchel that was slung across his chest. Then, holding it on his knees, he opened the buckle and withdrew two thick parchment-wrapped packages, one of which he handed to St. Valéry, who hefted it thoughtfully in his hand while he eyed the other package that Tam was returning to his satchel.

“The Master had much to say, it appears. Who is the other for, if I am permitted to ask?”

“Aye, Admiral.” Sir William waved a hand, and Tam passed the second package to the admiral as well.

St. Valéry looked at the inscription, and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “‘For Sir William Sinclair. To be opened on the Feast of the Epiphany, Anno Domini 1308. Jacques de Molay, Master.’” St. Valéry looked at Sir William. “The Epiphany?”

Will Sinclair shrugged, opening his hands to indicate his ignorance. St. Valéry grunted as he handed the bulky package back to Tam and took a fresh grip on his own, making no attempt to break the seal.

“Are you aware of what this contains?” Will Sinclair nodded. “And your own?”

“I have no idea, sir. The Master made no effort to tell me. He merely drew my attention to the inscription, so I shall find out on the Epiphany.”

“That sounds ominous. Frightening, even, since this is October. Three months for you to wait, in which time much could happen to affect your instructions—if instructions they be. Give me the gist, if you will, of what this one of mine contains. I’ll read it afterwards.”

Sir William inhaled sharply and stood up, moving to stand by the side of the fireplace, where he could look directly at the admiral. “As you know, the Pope himself summoned the Master home to France from Cyprus more than eight months ago, giving Monsieur de Molay no hint of why he was called or what was expected of him other than that he was to meet with Pope and King on matters pertaining to the future welfare of the Order and the proposed amalgamation of the Orders of the Temple and the Hospitallers, which Master de Molay has always vehemently opposed on several grounds.”

St. Valéry grunted. “I am familiar with the Master’s objections. Are you opposed?”

Sinclair nodded. “I am, Admiral. The Master fears the loss of our identity were we to join with Hospital. We all do, to some extent.”

“Tell me more, then.”

The younger knight brought his hands together in front of him. “Well, for one thing, the Hospital is far larger and more complex than our own Order—more diverse in its activities and less strict in its interpretation of its role and its duties. The Hospitallers have never been warriors before all else, and the Master fears we would lose our imperative need to win back the Holy Land in consequence. He also fears the duplication of installations in the cities—who would survive the amalgamation of those, Temple or Hospital? And who—which administration—would survive the consolidation? All of these things concern him, and he has found little satisfaction in the course of several meetings with Pope Clement in Poitiers and with King Philip in Paris, but nothing concrete has resulted in either case. And so our Master has sat waiting in Paris these two months past, wondering what might be afoot, but obedient to the King’s will. But then, less than a month ago, Master de Molay received a warning of a plot against the Order, which he treated with the utmost urgency. I have no idea whence it came, but I received the strong impression, purely through listening to what was and was not said, that it sprang from a trustworthy source close to King Philip himself, or to his minister and chief lawyer, de Nogaret.”

St. Valéry nodded, his expression serene. “I see. And to what end does this plot exist? Our money, obviously, and a move to confiscate it, since de Nogaret is in charge. What is involved, and how extensive is it?”

“More than you could possibly imagine, Sir Charles. When I found myself sitting across from Master de Molay and being entrusted with this secret, the scope of it appalled me to the point of thinking the Master had gone mad and was seeing demons everywhere. But in fact he had known of the plot for ten days by then and had had doubts of his own on first hearing of it. The source, he told me, was unimpeachable, and that had caused him sufficient concern to begin making arrangements, just in case the threat proved real.

“The warning was confirmed the very morning of the day I saw the Master, less than two weeks ago now. A second, more detailed report had arrived from the same trusted source. By the time the Master called me into his presence, his plans were in place, and I have been working at them ever since.”

St. Valéry was now frowning. “You make it sound like the end of the world.”

“It is, as far as we are concerned.” Sir William’s response was that of a commander to a subordinate, and St. Valéry took note of it. “It is the end of our world, here in France. Philip Capet, our beloved King, has his armies poised to act against us. His armies, Sir Charles. And his minions. The entire assembled powers of the Kingdom of France are being brought to bear upon us in one single, unprecedented coup. His creature, William de Nogaret, has issued instructions from his monarch to his army to arrest every Templar in the realm of France at daybreak on the morning of Friday, the thirteenth of October.”

St. Valéry stiffened. “That…that is simply unbelievable!”

“Aye, it is. It is also tomorrow.”

“This is preposterous.”

“I agree. No argument on that from me. But it is also true. The King’s men will be hammering at these doors tomorrow morning at first light.”

St. Valéry sat dumbstruck, and Sir William could guess the thoughts that must be surging through his head. Every Templar in the realm of France, arrested and imprisoned in one day? That was preposterous. There were thousands of Temple brethren in France, from one end of it to the other, and very few of them were soldiers. For the past hundred years the vast majority of so-called Templars had never borne arms of any kind. In reality they were honorary or associate brethren: merchants and bankers, clerics and shopkeepers, traders and artisans, guildsmen and local governors; the men who made the massive empire of the Temple function smoothly. The Order of the Temple was the richest civil institution in the world, and for two hundred years its military arm had been the standing army of the Church, the only regular fighting force in all of Christendom, with never a blemish on its record of probity and service. The vaunted Hospitallers were rivals nowadays, but beside the Templars, the original military order, their record was unimpressive. Small wonder that the admiral was stricken dumb by the mere idea that such an edifice as the Temple could be even threatened, let alone toppled, by a single, greedy King.

St. Valéry, however, was showing his mettle. Rather than fulminating in disbelief, he had brought his attention to bear on the situation with which he was faced. He looked now at Sir William, his jaw set in a hard line. “So what are my instructions? Am I to surrender my fleet?”

Will Sinclair actually smiled. “Never. You are to work all night tonight, in preparation for tomorrow, and then withdraw your laden vessels to safety offshore, where they cannot be reached. There is still some doubt in the Master’s mind about whether the warning is real or not, but there is none in mine.

“If tomorrow brings disaster, as I expect it to, you are to take your fleet out of France to safety, to await a resolution of this affair, for reason demands that it must be resolved eventually. But until it is, and reparations have been made by either side, you will remain at sea if need be, husbanding your resources. And you will take me with you, as escort to our Order’s Treasure.”

The admiral’s jaw dropped. “You have the Treasure here? The Templar Treasure?”

“Not here in La Rochelle, but close by.”

“How did you get it out of Paris?”

“It was not in Paris, has not been for the past ten years. It has been buried safely in a cavern in the forest of Fontainebleau since then. The Master ordered it moved secretly at that time, to keep it safe.”

“Ten years ago? Safe from whom, in God’s holy name?”

“From the men now seeking it, Sir Charles. From Philip Capet and William de Nogaret. There was no threat at that time. Master de Molay was merely being a careful steward, as is his duty.”

“So…” St. Valéry cleared his throat. “Am I to understand that you two men, accompanied by a small group of sergeant brothers, transported the entire Treasure of the Temple half the length of France unaided? How large is this treasure? Has it grown much since last you saw it?”

Sir William shook his head. “Not at all, Commander. The Templar Treasure is not the Order’s worldly wealth. Those are two different things. I saw the same four chests that were shipped out from the siege of Acre, and as closely as I could calculate, they contained the same bone-crunching weight they owned formerly.”

St. Valéry looked directly at the younger knight and posed the question foremost in his mind. “What do they hold? Did you ever learn?”

Sir William smiled. “You know I am bound by oath to tell no one anything on that subject, Sir Charles. Even so, I know no more than you.”

St. Valéry nodded. “Of course. And yet neither I nor my dear friend Arnold, God rest his soul, after our lifetimes of service, ever set eyes on the Treasure, whereas you have been entrusted with its safety twice now.”

“Not quite, Admiral. I have accompanied the Treasure twice and seen the chests containing it on both occasions. But the responsibility for its safety on the first occasion lay with our late Master Tibauld Gaudin. His was the charge to bear it northward to safety from Acre to Sidon. I merely sailed with him.”

“But this time the charge is yours. How did you transport it here?”

“Under heavy escort. I told you the Master had been planning ever since he first heard of this plot. He summoned me to Paris as soon as he received the first warning, and at the same time he began assembling a substantial force for the duty of protecting the Treasure.”

St. Valéry sat forward intently. “Substantial? How many?”

“Five score, a hundred of our brotherhood, fully equipped and supplied: horses, armor, weapons, squires, grooms, smiths, everything.”

“A hundred knights? Where did you find so many at one time?”

“In one place, you mean? We didn’t. Forty of the hundred are knights, Admiral. The remaining three score are sergeants, and the force was summoned in secrecy from all across the country. Master de Molay sent out the word a month ago for volunteers to assemble immediately, but discreetly and in small numbers, at several gathering points, and from those points they made their way to the forest of Fontainebleau, where my brother Kenneth was waiting to marshal them. Tam and I joined Kenneth in the forest and recovered the Treasure, and once our expected men were all assembled, we led them here to the coast by routes that kept us hidden from hostile eyes.”

“And the Treasure is safe now?”

“Completely, Admiral. Else I would not be here. It is safe, and my brother and his men have it secure.”

“And if they are betrayed? Such things can happen.”

Sir William Sinclair nodded. “True, they can. That is why we are here today with such appalling tidings. Treachery is bred of greed. But betrayal’s barely possible in this case. A thief would have to know in advance where the Treasure had lain hidden, in which case it would have been gone when we arrived to dig it up. Failing that, he would have to know that we have it, that we recovered it from Fontainebleau, and that we would then go where we went to hide it again. We scarce knew that ourselves until the last possible moment.”

“I see. And what will become of your hundred brethren should events come to pass as predicted tomorrow?”

“They will escape to fight another day.”

“On my galleys.” St. Valéry’s voice was wry. “Sufficient of them to transport a hundred armed men and their mounts.”

“Aye, and all their gear, grooms, and smiths, together with the Templar Treasure. Of course, Admiral. Those are the Master’s specific instructions.”

St. Valéry grunted, then grinned. “Of course. So, if we have to leave, we will take more than one treasure in our train…”

“That is the truth, Sir Charles. But any of your vessels that we leave behind will quickly be put to his own uses by the King of France, and that, I think, would please none of us.”

The admiral nodded, and then waggled the package he still held. “You know, had you come to me yesterday with this tale, I would have thought you as mad as you thought de Molay. But with the murder of my friend Arnold tonight, and the fact that someone sent assassins into this commandery, I believe your tale as told. And now I must read these documents.”

“Not someone, Sir Charles. There’s no question of identity here—no doubt concerning who is responsible. It was William de Nogaret himself who sent these people. Tam and I saw him talking with the Englishman Godwinson in Paris not two weeks ago.”

“Then may God damn his black and grasping heart to Hell. But it makes no sense. Why would he do such a thing? He would have arrested de Thierry and me tomorrow anyway, if what you say is true.”

Sir William returned to his chair. “True enough. But it makes grim and frightening sense to me when I consider the fact that La Rochelle is the strongest commandery in France, and it houses the fleet. And consider that no battle plan ever devised has gone unchanged after battle begins. Things go wrong. But if you and the preceptor had been killed tonight, what kind of chaos would have reigned here inside the Commandery? Discipline would have gone by the board, confusion and fear and speculation would have been rampant, and there would have been no organized resistance to tomorrow’s coup.”

“Aye, I take your point. Pardon me then, for a moment, while I read my orders.”

For the next quarter of an hour the only sounds in the vast room were the roaring crackle of the fire and the occasional slither of paper as St. Valéry shifted the pages in his hands. Finally he sat up straight again and waved the papers in the air, looking at William Sinclair with a speculative expression on his face. “Do you know everything this contains?”

The younger man shook his head. “No, sir. The Master told me what he believed I needed to know, no more than that.”

“Aye, well…you may learn more tomorrow, but let us hope that won’t be necessary.” He brandished the papers in his hand again. “In any case, my deputies must know of this, de Berenger and Montrichard. Guard!”

When the summoned guard stepped into the room, the admiral sent him to find the two deputies at once. As the man closed the doors behind him, St. Valéry hesitated and turned back to Sir William.

“What would you have done had I been killed tonight? Would you have delivered the Master’s instructions to de Berenger?”

Sir William nodded. “Of course. And to the other man, Sir Arnold’s deputy Montrichard. They would have assumed command immediately, and so the orders would have applied to them.”

“You have been very tactful, Sir William, but it is clear that I am now your subordinate. Only a member of the Governing Council would be entrusted with the safety of the Treasure.”

Sir William merely inclined his head in response to that.

St. Valéry pursed his lips slightly. “May I be curious, then, while we await the arrival of the others? Where do you intend to go when we leave here? Where will you take the Treasure for safety? Do you have orders from Master de Molay?”

“No, Sir Charles. At this moment, all I know is that we will go to sea, and I am still hoping against hope that this is all some kind of elaborate hoax.” He held up his hands to indicate that he knew nothing more. “To sea. That is all I know. Master de Molay originally wished me to sail to England, to the court of Edward Plantagenet, but word reached us while I was in Paris that King Edward died several months ago, on his way to invade my homeland again. So that changed everything, since Edward’s son is manifestly not to be trusted.”

“The King of England is not to be trusted, even before he assumes the Crown? How so? And how can I know nothing of this? Am I so insulated, here in La Rochelle, that I know nothing of the outside world?” St. Valéry’s voice betrayed genuine surprise.

Sir William looked directly at the older man and shrugged his wide shoulders. “The Order is your world, Admiral. You have had no time to waste on lesser things, and the nature of the new King of England is not something that would interest you at the best of times. The fellow is unnatural, sir. A pederast who would rather play the woman than the man. He flaunts his deviance openly in front of his barons, uncaring what they think, and he is notoriously indiscreet in matters of state. He parades his lovers shamelessly, showering them with gifts and privileges and bestowing rank upon them that they are not qualified to exercise. His barons have neither respect not tolerance for the man, and it is anticipated that he will not be long for this life unless he mends his ways. In the meantime, he is certainly of no value to us in this affair of ours.”

“I see. Then be equally blunt about this, if you will: where will you go, should things come to pass as you predict? You must have some idea.”

Sinclair straightened his shoulders and pushed himself up from his chair, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. “To Scotland,” he said, as though issuing a challenge.

A long silence followed his words as the admiral absorbed what he had said, weighing his words against those he had uttered mere moments earlier about England. Finally, St. Valéry exhaled loudly and exchanged an expressionless glance with Tam before turning his head towards Sir William.

“Scotland…Aye, indeed. We have a strong fraternity in Scotland.” There was no discernible hesitancy or uncertainty in the older man’s voice, and yet his words somehow conveyed both.

“Aye, we do,” Sir William said, “and it has flourished these two hundred years. Our black and white baucent has been a common sight the length and breadth of the land, most recently engaged against the English Plantagenet on behalf of the people of Scotland. We will be welcome there.”

“Aye, by our brethren in the Order, certainly. But what of this new King of theirs, this Robert…?”

“Robert Bruce, King of Scots. I know him. He will not turn us away.”

“You know him?” St. Valéry frowned. “How so, as a friend, or as a king?”

“Need there be a difference?”

The admiral’s frown deepened in annoyance. “No, my lord Sinclair, there need not, but all too frequently there is. Kings are not ordinary men, and even I, immured in my ignorance, have heard that this new King of Scots is wild—rash and headstrong, and a sacrilegious murderer to boot, killing a man on the steps of God’s own altar.”

“Aye, Admiral, I know all that, and much of it, although not all of it, was as you say. But I know whereof I speak. The provocation was dire, and I doubt the Bruce was even aware of where he was at the time. I dare say the blow was struck and beyond recall before he even took note of his surroundings. Yet it was not a killing blow, and it was not Robert Bruce who killed the Comyn Lord of Badenoch. He stabbed him, certainly—struck him down with a dagger and then fled from the church, distraught at what had happened. But it was his men who, hearing him tell what he had done, rushed back inside and killed the Comyn. The killing was done, and there’s no denying that, but I would hesitate to call the Bruce himself a murderer.”

“You would? For the killing of a man on the steps of the altar? How can you say such a thing?”

Sir William cocked one eyebrow. “It was not I who said it, my lord Admiral. It was the Church in Scotland, in the person of Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow, with the full backing of William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrew’s and Primate of the Realm, who absolved Robert Bruce of the taint of murder less than a week after the event and thereafter had him crowned King of Scots. The Bruce had few possessions of his own at the time, and clothing was the least of those. He was crowned King wearing Bishop Wishart’s own ceremonial robes, lent to him by the Bishop himself for the occasion.”

He paused to let that sink home. “I would submit that no churchman, even the most venal and corrupt, would dare to align himself so openly and publicly with a man he truly suspected of the crime of murder, in a church or anywhere else.

“I would remind you of your own words, Sir Charles,” said Sir William as he crossed to sit in the armchair again. “Kings are not ordinary men…nor was this killing an ordinary matter. It was not a petty quarrel, a squabble that went wrong. It was a confrontation between two strong, proud, ambitious men, each of them jointly Lords Protector of the Realm of Scotland, each of whom believed the crown rightly belonged to him alone. Bitter, angry words led to sudden blows. One man left the chancel, and thereafter the other died.

“It was John Comyn’s supporters, one of them Pope Clement himself, who called the outcome murder at the hands of Bruce. What, I wonder, would they have called it had it been Bruce who died on the altar steps? Would John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch and the Pope’s favorite, now stand condemned? He would be King, certes, but would he be papally damned and excommunicate? Bear in mind, this is the same pope who now colludes to permit Philip Capet and de Nogaret to destroy our brotherhood. Was this pope, I wonder, less greedy and more honest last year than he is today?”

St. Valéry cleared his throat. “By your own admission, we do not really know if that is true or not, Sir William. The destruction of our brotherhood, I mean. It is merely what we have been told, and it may yet be proved false.”

“Aye, well, we will know tomorrow, beyond doubt, but I know what I believe this night.” Sir William stood up again suddenly, clapping his hands together decisively. “Robert Bruce is a true man, Sir Charles. He is young, I will grant, and he is rash and he tends to be hot-headed when provoked, which is not the greatest attribute a king may have. But he learns quickly and he never makes an error twice. Fundamentally, I trust the man and hold great hopes for him. But I firmly believe that we, our Order, may trust him. We have been strong in Scotland these two hundred years, but most recently we have been stronger than ever, in Scotland’s cause and for the King himself against the English. The Bruce will acknowledge that and give us refuge.”

St. Valéry grunted. “Does Jacques de Molay know you intend to go to Scotland?”

The Scots knight hesitated. “No, sir, he does not, although, to be truthful, I suspect he might anticipate my going there. But we did not speak of it, and the name of Scotland was never mentioned between us. Master de Molay left the choice of finding sanctuary to me and made no attempt to influence my judgment. It is my belief that he himself is not really convinced that the events we are preparing for here will actually take place. He is hoping the warnings that have come to us are false, but as a prudent warden, he has taken steps to avoid the worst of outcomes. In the event that tomorrow proves to be the day we have been warned against, he told me that God will make clear to me where I should go when the time is right, and he instructed me to require of you, as I have now done, that you hold yourself prepared, with all your fleet, to safeguard my flight.”

“But…? I hear a ‘but’ in your tone.”

“Aye, you do. It is my own belief the Master had no wish to know my destination. In ignorance of that, I think he believes he could not divulge it under torture.”

“Torture! Torture the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple? They would never dare commit such an outrage. The Pope would condemn them publicly.”

Sir William’s expression did not change. “The Pope, Sir Charles, will do whatever Philip Capet requires of him. Philip made him pope. He can unmake him just as quickly. And as for outrages and condemnation, de Nogaret already stands excommunicate for having kidnapped the last pope at King Philip’s behest. The old pope died of that outrage, but de Nogaret does not seem to be unduly inconvenienced by the consequences.”

They sat silent for a moment, and then Sir William spoke again.

“What will you do about the Englishman, Admiral? The assassin Godwinson.”

“Do about him? He will be brought to justice, condemned for murder.”

“When? And by whom, my lord? Come dawn, de Nogaret will set him free, and Godwinson will laugh as our own men file past him into his present cell. Little justice there, it seems to me.”

The admiral turned a little paler. He sat blinking for a moment and then shook his head in bewilderment. “What would you have me do, then? Kill him out of hand? That would be murder.”

“No, Sir Charles, I would merely remind you of your own words spoken earlier. As a member of the Governing Council, I hold higher rank than you. Thus the responsibility for such decisions is mine, not yours.”

“And what will you do?”

“I will see justice done. And I will do it now, tonight. I should have done it earlier. Godwinson forfeited his life when he left Paris with this deed in mind, and to allow him to evade just punishment would be a travesty. Tam, gather our men who witnessed what occurred in here and bring them to the cells. I’ll join you there.”

Tam nodded and left without a word, leaving the two senior men alone.

“You really intend to do this, to kill the man?” St. Valéry’s question was matter-of-fact.

“What option have I, Sir Charles? To let him live to boast about his triumph? You may wait here, if you so wish. No need for you to see this. We have sufficient witnesses to bear testimony to the man’s crimes.”

The admiral stood up and arranged his mantle carefully, then stepped forward to Sir William and did the same for the younger knight, adjusting the white garment so that it hung perfectly, the emblem of the Order pristine upon the left breast. He stepped back and examined his efforts critically, and then nodded, satisfied. “Good. And now I will bear witness with the rest of your tribunal. I owe it to Arnold’s memory and to his lingering soul. Lead on, Sir William.”

4

The judicial proceedings did not take long. Tam Sinclair and his sergeants were waiting at the entrance to the cells when Sir William and the admiral arrived, and Tam led the way into the gallery lined with individual cells, those on the left equipped with solid, iron-studded wooden doors with tiny inset grilles, and those on the right open cages, with thick iron bars on three sides and a solid stone wall at the rear. Godwinson was in one of the latter, sitting in deep shadow on the edge of a narrow wooden bunk and shackled hand and foot. His two guards sprang to attention and backed away as Sir William, St. Valéry, and their companions entered and then grouped together, looking into the prisoner’s barred cage. The Englishman grinned at them and spat sullenly.

“Come to gloat, have you? Gloat away, then, and be damned to you. But don’t take too long about it, for I won’t be here much longer.” He spoke in French but he was unmistakably English, his broad-voweled accent butchering the French words.

Sir William ignored the man after his first glance and looked about the space between the cells. It was a narrow, dark, windowless coffin of a place, with a high, peaked roof of red clay tiles over bare rafters, and it was filled with chill drafts that would, Sir William knew, keep it cold and dank even in the heat of summer. The walls were bare, uneven stone, chinked with plaster or dried mud, and the only furnishings were a long, narrow table of plain wood, three chairs, and a smoldering charcoal brazier set on a stone slab against the wall by one end of the table.

He crossed to the brazier and examined it, ignoring the awestruck silence of the two garrison guards. The charcoal had burned past its prime, and a hard, brittle crust of cinders covered the glowing ashes beneath. Behind him, Godwinson was still ranting, his raucous voice sounding more and more guttural as his diatribe grew more intense. Sir William picked up one of the iron pokers from its place by the fire basket and thrust it through the crust of clinker, breaking the carapace and sending up a shower of sparks. He stirred the embers hard, churning them into a sullen mass of flames, then left that poker in the fire and grasped the second one, forcing it into the burning embers beside its twin. That done, he hoisted up the guards’ bucket of fresh charcoal, using both hands to tip it forward and fill the brazier with fresh fuel, and as he did so, Admiral St. Valéry stepped beside him.

“What are you doing, Sir William?”

“I am remaking the fire, Sir Charles. It is cold tonight, and this place is drafty. Can you not feel it?” He moved away, to the front of Godwinson’s cell, where he crossed his arms over his chest, tucked in his chin, and then stood silently, staring at the raging man on the other side of the cage’s bars.

It seemed to take a long time before Godwinson realized that his rage and scorn were making no impression on the tall, white-robed knight who was obviously the one in charge of this party, but eventually his ravings died away and he sneered contemptuously at Sir William, who gazed back at him stonily, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then, just as the silence in the high, dark chamber approached the absolute, he stalked away again, towards the table.

“Bring him out here.”

Godwinson fought strongly as they laid hands on him, but he was shackled and his struggles were useless against the six men who picked him up bodily and carried him out to where Sir William now sat at one end of the long table, his hands flat on the boards in front of him.

“Sit him there,” the knight said, pointing to the chair at the table’s other end. “Wrap his chains around the chair legs, lest he try to rise.”

Once again, Godwinson was powerless to resist, and quickly accepted it as two sergeants knelt by his sides and looped his leg chains around the legs of his chair. As soon as they had finished, however, he spoke to Sir William, his heavy voice filled with disdain.

“Who are you, whoreson? I promise you—”

“Stifle him.”

Tam had been standing by with a piece of filth-stained, wrinkled cloth in his hands, awaiting this command, and now he ripped the cloth in two, wadding one piece and forcing it into the Englishman’s mouth before tying it in place with the other half.

William Sinclair sat forward, resting his weight on his elbows, his chin on his raised fists. “Now, Englishman, listen to me. That man there,” he said, pointing to St. Valéry, “is the other man you came to kill tonight. Sir Charles de St. Valéry, Admiral of the Temple Fleet. You failed, failed even to wound him, and your master will not be pleased by that. But you succeeded in killing his oldest friend, the preceptor of this commandery, a man who was a hundred times more worthy of life than you have ever been. You murdered him, and every man here will bear witness to that. And you shot down two garrison guards, also brothers of the Temple. For any one of those, you deserve death, and were I your sole judge you would die here and now.

“For reasons of his own, however, Admiral St. Valéry does not wish me to kill you out of hand.”

He was watching Godwinson closely and saw the man’s eyes widen involuntarily as hope surged into him with the realization that he was not to die this night, for if he could survive the night, he knew he would walk free come the dawn. Sir William took grim satisfaction in stepping on that newborn hope before it could burgeon. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his breast again.

“I have fought men among the Turkish Sultan’s Mamelukes who know more of honor than you do, Englishman. Heathens they may be, and beyond redemption, but at least they fight in defense and belief of their God and his false prophet. Your only inspiration is greed.” He saw the assassin’s eyes narrow down to slits.

“Do you really think de Nogaret expected you to survive this day’s events? That would make you a fool, as well as a murderer. And do you think he will welcome you back, knowing you failed in what he set you to do? William de Nogaret is a hard man, Englishman. He will not raise a hand to help you now.

“Oh, I know…” Sinclair held up one hand, palm outward. “I know he will be here tomorrow. At dawn. I know that.” He saw consternation blossom in the Englishman’s eyes, but he kept talking, spacing his words evenly and allowing each thing he said to register before he said more. “But how think you he will react when he discovers that the admiral yet lives, and that the fleet is at anchor offshore, out of his clutches? Will he be happy with you?

“Of course, you may tell him that I arrived here in time to thwart you, and that I was aware of the festering plot he has dreamed up with the Capetian King and had come to remove the fleet from their greasy grasp. But will he take the time to listen, Godwinson? Will he let you speak?

“If he does, then I would wish you to tell him that I, William Sinclair, Knight of the Temple and member of the Order’s Inner Circle, have removed the fleet from France, and with it the fabled Templar’s Treasure for which he and his malevolent master lust so avidly. I would wish you to tell him that from me, and I would also wish you joy of his reward for your faithful service.”

Sir William stood up then, aware that Godwinson’s eyes were very different now above the gag that stifled him, and tipped his chair forward so that its back rested against the table’s end.

“Of course, that is only what I would wish, if I believed you would be able to tell him anything. Hear me now, assassin, for I am passing judgment on you, in my capacity as senior member of our noble Order and duly witnessed by these assembled here. You are thrice condemned for foul and cowardly murder, carried out under the concealment of the robes of this Order, which adds blasphemy to your crimes. At the request of Sir Charles de St. Valéry you may live on, but you will never thank us for that. You will never kill a man again, Godwinson, unless you choose to kill yourself. And you will never speak to anyone, ever, of what you did this day.”

He turned to Tam. “Hold him steady. Now, two of you seize the manacle chains and pull his arms straight, towards me. Good. Now tie the slack around the back of this chair. Make the chains secure.”

In moments, Godwinson was stretched face down along the table, incapable of struggling, his hands secured against the chair at one end, his feet restrained by the chair he was in. Sinclair’s face remained expressionless as he turned to one of his veteran sergeants, pointing to the heavy battle-axe that hung as always from the man’s belt and then extending his hand to receive it.

The sergeant fumbled at his belt and unclipped the weapon. Sinclair took it with a nod, testing its edge with the ball of his thumb. From the table, Godwinson began to moan, stifled by his gag and knowing what was coming. Sinclair pressed his lips together, and then intoned, “For the triple crime of murder you will lose the hands that killed. For the heinous sin of plotting those same murders, you will lose the tongue that accepted the task and thereby sealed your fate. So mote it be.”

The two heavy, chopping blows from the razor-sharp axe silenced Godwinson’s muffled screams.

“There are irons in the fire. Cauterize the stumps. Quickly. Now remove the gag.” He laid the axe down and drew the dagger from his belt, then bent down to open the unconscious man’s mouth and insert the point of his knife.

A moment later, he straightened up again, his face white, his mouth a lipless line. “Take him to the surgeons, as quickly as you may. And carry him face downward, lest he choke on his own blood.” He dropped his dagger into the heart of the fire in the brazier, then wiped his bloody fingers on the cloth of the maimed man’s gag.

“So mote it be,” he said again, mouthing the Templars’ ancient invocation, and then he turned and walked from the cell block.