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“And you did nothing? I find that hard to credit.”
“What could I do? For that matter, what could they do? André was beyond their reach at that time, and I knew I needed to make sure he stayed there, for I saw no hope of his receiving justice in this matter in the verdict of the Church. I asked myself what man of goodwill, in his right mind, would publicly give consideration to the possibility that three distraught priests might have beheaded their companion and disposed of his head to protect themselves, or that the single man accused in this case, who made no denial of having killed the dead man, might be telling the truth when he condemned his three priestly accusers for the rape and the murder of an innocent girl?
“And so I have not set eyes on my son or spoken with him since.”
“Not once? Why not?”
“Because I dare not, my liege. I am watched constantly and, with very few exceptions, I know not whom to trust. There is a price on my son’s head, sufficiently high to tempt any man to turn him over to the Church and what it must see as justice.”
Sir Robert de Sablé glanced at Richard. “May I speak, my liege?”
“Of course you may. Speak up.”
“It unsettles me that the woman has not been either identified or claimed, or even reported missing. I find that to be not merely incredible but deeply troubling, for much of it makes nonsense of both sides of this sorry tale.” He looked directly at St. Clair. “Have you discussed this with your son at all?”
St. Clair’s headshake was brief. “No. When first he told me of it, her identity did not appear to have great import. The urgency for me at that moment lay in taking immediate steps to retrieve her body, and her assailant’s. There should have been ample time thereafter to establish who she was. But then the bodies vanished, and that set everything at odds.”
“But surely—”
“Surely we should have discussed it later, is that what you were about to say? We would have, without fail, but la Fourrière’s people arrived soon after dawn the following morning and by then André was already gone.”
“Hmm…” De Sablé looked down at his hands and then back to his host. “I trust you will believe me when I say I have no wish to cast doubts upon what you have told us, Sir Henry, but much of this affair, as I see it, bears upon the total absence of this woman’s body and the apparent fact that no one has stepped forward to enquire about a missing woman. That, in itself, speaks strongly on behalf of your son’s accusers, as I am sure you are aware. So I must ask you this, because your son’s accusers will present it as their case: is it possible, or is it even remotely probable, that there never was a woman there and that these priests are telling the truth? Might not your son, taken in a guilty and forbidden act, have panicked and done murder to protect himself? And then might he not have taken the step of beheading the priest to conceal the true nature of the man’s fatal wounds? If that were the case, then, he might easily have lied about the supposed woman and lied to cover up his own guilt and save his own life.”
Richard laughed aloud, interrupting his earnest vassal, and as de Sablé’s eyes opened wide in astonished protest, the Duke rose swiftly to his feet and turned his back on both men, walking away only to swing around again and lean forward against the high back of his own chair.
“Then where’s the boy, Robert, the boy who was being buggered? Think you a gaggle of mortified priests would not have turned this county of Poitou upside down to find the little brat—and all of Anjou and Aquitaine too, should that have been required—merely to prove their case beyond all doubt?” He grinned. “Besides, it’s evident you know nothing at all about young André St. Clair. I do. I knighted him myself three years ago, and he was foremost among all my candidates that year, and most other years, to tell truth. I found him honest, upstanding, courageous to a fault, and utterly, completely masculine in every aspect of his character. I swear to you, Robert, I have never met—and nor could you—a more unlikely pederast. André lacks nothing in charm and seductive powers, but it is all of it reserved exclusively for women, and he has never suffered from any lack of those. So let there be an end of this nonsense. The priests are lying, and I feel sure God in His Heaven is amazingly unsurprised. And as for the missing head, were it to be produced in evidence, transfixed from crown to chin with a bolt that obviously fell on it, it might cast the priestly version into doubt, would you not agree?” He glanced from one to the other. “Surely both those points are self-evident?
“I would find it far more interesting to know how André knew precisely how to aim that shot he loosed? It was no accident, I swear, for though fate may play a part in where a cast shot falls, it takes skill and unerring confidence to cast it perfectly in the first place. I doubt I could have done what he did, so smoothly and unerringly. I will have to speak with him about it as soon as may be.”
Neither man responded to that, although both were now convinced, through Richard’s expostulations, of André St. Clair’s innocence of homosexuality, and therefore of all the charges against him. For there could be no doubting the Duke’s championship of the younger man, it being known, but seldom openly discussed, that Richard shunned the company of women and surrounded himself at all times with young and comely men and boys of his own persuasion. It was the single aspect of Richard’s character that repelled the staid St. Clair most profoundly. He found himself marveling now that he could ever be grateful for it.
Now, however, the regal Duke was leaning towards him, frowning and pointing an admonitory finger. “So,” Richard said, more softly than his frown had led Henry to expect, “we agree that this nonsense of the priests is tomfoolery, and murderous tomfoolery at that. But before I decide what I must now do, there is one more thing I require of you, for Robert is right. The matter of the woman troubles me, too. Bring in your son, Henry, and do it tonight. I have a need to talk with him, and no one will dare accost him here, with me present.” He crossed to where the two long swords lay on the arms of the chair, tossing de Sablé’s to him and hefting his own like a walking staff. “Now it is late, and Robert and I will need some sleep before we make such a momentous decision as is in my mind, so take us to where we can lay our heads, my friend, and then send for the boy. Have him here when we awake and we will talk with him after we three have broken fast.”
TWO (#u183db421-6a00-549a-ad14-91c1c5436974)
Sir Henry found his son asleep the following morning on a bench in the great hall, and he stood over the young man for long minutes, taking note of the disrepair of his clothes, the ragged, unkempt look of his hair and short beard, the reek of his unwashed body, and the lined gauntness that marked his face after two months of solitary hiding. He did not know how long his son had been sleeping there, but it had been after two in the morning when he had sent Jonquard, his stable master, to fetch the lad, and it was not yet seven, so it was improbable that the two could have returned more than an hour ago. He heard noises coming from an anteroom, where servants were cleaning up the debris of the previous night, and he decided to leave the boy to sleep undisturbed for as long as he could, for he doubted that his guests would be stirring for at least another hour and perhaps longer. He went directly then to the kitchens, where he instructed the cook to prepare enough hot water for a full bath, and to have some of his scullions transport it upstairs to the master’s chamber; they were to light the fire in the brazier there and then to prepare his bath and summon him when it was ready.
The cook offered no sign that he saw anything strange in any of that, although Sir Henry had not used the wooden bath in his chamber since his wife died, but had bathed in the kitchens, like everyone else in his household, as recently as two months earlier. He merely nodded and told his master it would be done immediately.
Henry then made his way to the main gate tower, where he stood for a while, observing the scene beyond his walls and searching for any sign that he and his were under surveillance. When a servant came looking for him, something over a half hour later, to tell him that his bath had been prepared, Henry went to wake André.
André sprang awake, wide eyed and tense, as soon as his father touched him, and then he spent several moments peering about him, as though wondering where he was. Henry put him at his ease at once.
“You could not have had much rest, I fear.”
André blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes of sleep. “Enough to do me, Father. I had slept for almost seven hours before Jonquard came with your summons, so I am well rested. I lay down here simply because the house was quiet when I arrived, and I must have dozed. What’s wrong? Why did you send for me?”
“Duke Richard is here. He came late last night, alone save for another knight, and I told him your story. He asked me many questions, but he believes your tale, although he requires more information than I could give him, before he can do anything. And so he ordered me to summon you.” He smiled down at his son. “But you are hardly fit to meet a Duke and a future King, looking and…smelling as you do. There is a fresh hot bath prepared in my chamber. Go you and use it, then make yourself presentable. Dress in some of your own finery so that you look like a knight rather than an indigent beggar. You have time. There is no need for breakneck speed, for Richard has not yet risen, although he may at any moment. When he comes down he and I will break fast together, and he told me last night he will wish to see you immediately after that, so do not fall asleep in the bath, no matter how tempting it might be. I will send for you when it is time.”
André’s relief was plainly evident to Sir Henry, who felt much the same way, and a moment later the boy was gone, obedient to his father’s wishes.
The Duke appeared not long after that, in company with de Sablé, and both men greeted their host cordially, Richard asking immediately if André had yet appeared. Henry confirmed that he had and would join them when summoned, and then he led them into the anteroom, where Ector, showing remarkably few signs of having been awake for half the previous night, awaited them with a solid breakfast that he cooked personally for them, over a brazier set in the main fireplace, now swept clean of ashes from the previous night’s fire. As soon as they were ready, he served the three men fresh duck eggs whisked in a flat pan with goat’s milk and butter until they were solid, then salted and folded over fresh mushrooms and onions and accompanied by light, fluffy fresh-baked rolls straight from the kitchen ovens. They ate him out of stock, and after Ector had supervised the removal of the remnants of their meal and left the room, Richard turned to Sir Henry.
“Bring in young André and let’s hear what he has to say for himself. But before you do, let me warn you that, if my suspicions prove correct, you might hear things for which you are unprepared. If that should be the case, I want you to say nothing, is that clear?”
St. Clair nodded, not even curious about what Richard thought he might be unprepared for. In his estimation, nothing could surpass his relief at seeing his son’s name cleared. “It is, my liege.”
“WELCOME, SIR ANDRé ST. CLAIR. You look older…more mature than when we last met. But then you are…two years older, at least. As are we all. Stand easy.”
The young knight relaxed from the upright military stiffness he had maintained since marching in the door and coming to a halt before the table to salute his liege lord formally and ceremoniously, fist clenched upon his breast. He spread his feet more comfortably and placed his arms behind his back, gripping one wrist with his other hand, but continued nevertheless to stare respectfully at a spot somewhere slightly above the Duke’s head.
“Your father has been telling us about your recent misadventures, and I admit I am surprised to see you looking as wholesome as you do, after two months of living in hiding. You look remarkably well.”
He looks miraculously well, Sir Henry thought, hardly able to believe the change in his son’s appearance. You should have seen him but an hour ago.
André had made good use of his father’s stout wooden bath and had obviously used Henry’s short grooming shears and metal mirror to trim his hair and beard in the morning light from the window. Now he stood before them as a knight, complete in a suit of supple mail over which he wore a mantle the twin of his father’s own, the blazon of St. Clair embroidered finely on the left breast. He carried no weapons, however, and his mailed hood hung down at his back, leaving his head uncovered, for as an accused felon, he had no right to bear arms, especially in the presence of his Duke.
“Remarkably well,” Richard repeated, musingly. “And remarkably guiltless, for an arraigned priest-killer.”
André St. Clair did not even blink, and Richard, who had pushed his chair back from the table, waved a hand towards his companion. “This is Sir Robert de Sablé, who rides with me for Paris, to meet with King Philip. He is a man of great wisdom and sagacity, for all his apparent youthfulness, and he is familiar with your situation, explained to us by your father…although I know not whether he be convinced of your innocence in this matter. You may greet him.”
The young knight swiveled his head towards de Sablé and inclined it respectfully, and de Sablé returned the nod, his face expressionless.
Richard crossed his long legs and locked his hands below the upper knee, then bent forward and spoke quietly to André.
“This is not a formal court, Sir André, but an inquiry into the details of your story, as one of my vassals. And I must tell you here and now that, irrespective of my own beliefs, my main concern is this matter of the vanishing woman. With her dead body to back up your tale, your allegations against the priests would be unshakable. But lacking her completely as you do, without even a name or a description, you cannot provide even a smidgen of proof that she ever existed. We have no complaints of a missing woman anywhere, no knowledge of who she was or where she came from, and no possibility, it appears, of that knowledge miraculously appearing. Look me in the eye.”
André did as bidden, and the two gazed at each other for long moments before Richard said, “It was the sodomy report that convinced me yours is more probably the true account of what occurred. But this other matter, your lack of evidence to demonstrate the truth of what you allege, could prove insurmountable. That, in itself, is likely to hang you…unless, by some miracle, you could conjure the woman’s name.”
“Eloise de Chamberg, my liege.”
“Eloise de Chamberg…And whence came she, this spectral Eloise?”
“From Lusigny, my liege. It’s nigh on thirty miles south of Poitiers.”
“I know where it is, man. I own the place. But why have you said nothing to anyone about knowing who she was?”
St. Clair shrugged. “I could not, my lord. I have spoken scarce a word to anyone in months. Jonquard, who knew my hiding place and showed it to me that first day, never came near it afterwards for fear of being followed. He would ride by every few days and leave provisions for me in a clump of bushes under a nearby oak, and I would collect them after he had gone. It was only last night, on my way here, that I learned from him the full extent of what has been going on. That may sound strange to you, knowing how much time has passed, but it is true.”
Richard sprang to his feet and began to pace the room with the irrepressible energy that Sir Henry, watching him closely, recognized from the Duke’s early boyhood. Even then, Richard Plantagenet had been incapable of sitting still in one spot for more than a few minutes, and as he paced he ground his palms together, pressing them firmly one into the other and twisting them constantly so that, when he was most intellectually engaged, the sound of his weapons-hardened calluses rubbing against each other was clearly audible.
“Strange it may be,” he growled eventually, “but no more strange than this: how come you, a knight of Poitou, to know a woman called Eloise de Chamberg from Lusigny?”
André accompanied his answer with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “By accident, my liege. I met her by sheerest chance when I attended a tourney in Poitiers two years ago.”
“And fell in love, eh? But why so secretive?”
For the first time, a trace of color showed on the young knight’s face. “Because I had no choice, my liege. At first I seldom saw her, for my duties kept me far from Poitiers, and so I never spoke of her to anyone.”
The Duke stopped, almost in mid-stride, and looked André straight in the eye. “And later?”
The flush spread farther, suffusing André’s temples. “And later it became impossible to speak of her.”
“I see, and I can hazard why. She is from Lusigny, and yet you met her in Poitiers and visited her there later. Why was that?”
“She lived in Poitiers then, with her parents. But fifteen months ago…she was wed, by her father’s wishes.”
“Aha! For most men that would spell finis.”
André nodded. “True, my liege, it would. But hers was a loveless marriage from the first, with a man almost three times her age who lived in Lusigny. It was her father’s wish, not hers, and she was an obedient daughter.”
“But plainly not an obedient spouse. You continued seeing her.”
“I did, my liege, although we met far less often then.”
“And how came she to be here in Poitou at the time of her…misfortune? Need I remind you that, married or not, the lady is now dead and beyond the reach of clacking tongues, whereas you are very much alive and stand in need of her? Speak out, then.”
A swift, uneasy glance at his father preceded the younger St. Clair’s response, but then he raised his chin and looked directly at the Duke. “I received word from her, nigh on three months ago, that her husband would soon be traveling southeastward from Lusigny to spend a month visiting an aged, ailing brother in Clermont, and she had a plan, set in place months before, that would permit the two of us to meet. And so I arranged for an escort to conduct her on a prearranged visit to a distant cousin of hers, a recently bereaved widow who lives close by here, on the outskirts of our lands.”
He glanced again at his father, whose face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “It was complex in some ways, yet in others exceedingly simple, for no one knew her here, and her cousin knew nothing of me, or of the relationship between us.” Again he gave the tiniest of shrugs, almost imperceptible. “It was straightforward and it worked well. The widowed cousin made her farewells to Eloise on the morning of the day she was killed, believing her safely on her way home to Lusigny, escorted by her husband’s men-at-arms. But the men were in my pay, hired through a friend in Poitiers, and they brought her to the spot where she and I were to meet for the last time, for we had decided that to continue this charade was purest folly, tolerable to neither one of us. They settled her comfortably there to wait for me, and then they departed as ordered, to await my later summons…I can only presume that when they heard no more from me, they eventually returned to Poitiers. They had been well paid, and in advance, and they knew our meeting was a tryst, so they would have—must have—assumed the lady had decided to remain here with me.”
He paused, frowning in recollection. “Be that as it may, the priests found her before I arrived, and you know the rest, my liege, save for this: when Eloise failed to return home to Lusigny, no one could have begun to imagine where to look for her, because she had told her own household attendants that she was traveling north and west, towards Angers, to visit yet another cousin, whose husband had sent an escort to accompany her. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that no one has come seeking her here.”
“Hmm…” Richard crossed the floor and stood behind his chair, grasping the knobs on its high back. “Explain, if you will, why you did not tell your father you knew this woman? It would have saved everyone a great amount of grief and frustration.”
André’s face had flushed bright red before Richard finished speaking, and he nodded, miserably. “I know now how foolish and misguided that was, but I only saw it today. It had not occurred to me before. I was distraught when I reached home that day and at the time it seemed the right thing to do…to protect her name and reputation.”
“And where were you the following morning, when the Baron’s men came to arrest you?”
André St. Clair’s eyebrows rose as if in disbelief that anyone could ask him such a thing. “I was at the Devil’s Pit searching for her body. I had not slept all night and could not believe that two bodies could vanish without trace. I found the tracks my father’s man had reported, and followed them to edge of the pit. Then I attempted to climb down into the hole, but it proved impossible. Within twenty paces down from the only point of access on the rim, I reached a spot where I could descend no farther without falling to my own death, and when I attempted to turn back I almost despaired of climbing out again. It took me more than an hour to make my way back up and even then I would not have succeeded without help at the end from Jonquard, whom my father had sent to find me and to warn me to stay far from home. He found me and pulled me out.”
Duke Richard moved around his chair and sat down again, silent after that, staring at the younger knight, then turned to Sir Robert de Sablé.
“Robert? What think you?”
De Sablé inhaled deeply, and Henry, noticing the flattening of his nostrils, the frowning brows, and the implacable set of the man’s mouth, braced himself for the condemnation he felt sure must follow. But de Sablé turned his eyes instead to where the Duke sat watching him. Unfazed by Richard’s gaze, he shook his head slightly and raised one hand in a plea for patience and time to make his decision, while André, who had most to lose or gain from what would be said next, stood still, looking at no one.
Having watched the young knight as he was telling his tale, de Sablé now believed the man implicitly, and he was making a great effort to contain his own sense of outrage. No one would ever accuse Robert de Sablé of being naïve, and he had been fully aware all his life of the rampant corruption among the clergy at all levels of the Church’s hierarchy. But his knowledge and his critical acumen had been sharpened through a more radical circumstance than any that influenced the vast majority of his fellow men. Robert de Sablé was a member of the secret Brotherhood of Sion. He had been admitted into the Order on his eighteenth birthday, and since then he had learned much, and studied more, about the Order’s teachings, and the accuracy of its lore and its archival sources regarding the errors and misguided policies of the Catholic Church over the preceding thousand years. The corruption within the Church was worldly and cynical, certainly, and it cried out for correction. But murder and rape such as were involved here was beyond his experience and insulted his credulity. He drew himself upright.
“My lord Duke,” he said, his frustration evident in his tone, “I know not what to say, other than that I am convinced we have heard the truth spoken here. But admitting that, I must admit, too, my own relief that the burden of responsibility is yours and not mine. You are Duke of Aquitaine, and this matter rests squarely within your jurisdiction, but I fear I can offer nothing of guidance in how you must proceed henceforth.”
Richard rose to his feet again and resumed his pacing, his palms grinding together relentlessly, his eyes shining with a zeal that Henry recognized with both pleasure and misgiving.
In the course of the years he had spent shaping, training, and grooming the boy, he had learned to read Richard Plantagenet like a book, and now he found himself observing the Duke dispassionately, guessing, before Richard even opened his mouth, at what he would say. When swift, unprecedented judgments and decisions were required, Richard had proved, time and again with overwhelming consistency, that no man in Christendom, even his own formidable father, could match him in ruthless and precise decisiveness. Richard was brilliant, cynical, mercurial, overwhelmingly ambitious, relentlessly manipulative, and every inch the warrior Duke, and his proposal, whatever form it might take, would, Henry knew, be simple, clean, straightforward, and drastic. He clasped his hands together in his lap and crossed his ankles, knowing from the Duke’s expression that a decision would quickly be forthcoming. Even so, the swiftness of Richard’s response surprised him, demonstrating clearly to the older man that, once again, his former protégé had made up his mind beforehand and that his consultation of de Sablé had been no more than a formal courtesy.
“So be it,” Richard said. “I concur. It is my task and my responsibility alone, as Duke of Aquitaine, to make the decision on what is to be done in this matter. When we ride out of here today, Robert, we will go together to visit this vindictive fool of a baron, de la Fourrière, and if he escapes my wrath with his barony intact I will be more astonished than he. I have more than enough pressing problems to occupy my time without having to step aside from all of them to kick the arrogant arses of my petty vassals. And speaking of arrogance, before we even set out, I’ll send a captain and four men to arrest the unsaintly Abbot of Sainte Mère…what was his name? Thomas?” This was flung at Henry, who merely nodded. “Well, he will lose his every doubt, just like his doubting namesake the Apostle, when he finds himself being frog-marched in chains to confront me.”
De Sablé spread his hands. “And then, my liege?”
“And then they will both find themselves dealing with me in fourfold jeopardy, judging them as Count of Poitou, in which domain they hold their power, and then as Count of Anjou, as Duke of Aquitaine, and atop all of those as the future King of England, sired by a father who long since demonstrated his impatience with troublesome barons and meddlesome priests. By my decree, they will agree immediately to quash and annul this ridiculous charge of murder—and the laughable but despicable implication of pederasty against Sir André.” He laced his fingers together. “The contumacious and murderous priests involved will be arrested, tried, and hanged. And should either one of their erstwhile patrons, Baron or Abbott, prove reluctant to proceed with that immediately, I will deal with them and their murderous brood as my father, the old lion, dealt with Becket. So help me God!” The Duke’s voice was chillingly absolute in its sincerity.
“You may stand down, Sir André,” he continued, not bothering to look at the young knight. “You are absolved and this matter is concluded, save for the final details.”
Even before Richard turned to look at him, Henry’s mind had skipped ahead to the quid pro quo that must come next. Richard Plantagenet did nothing without a quid pro quo being involved, and this one had been self-evident from the outset.
“My liege,” he murmured, the rising inflection of his voice turning the appellation into a question.
“Aye, Henry, as you say, your liege.” The King’s mouth broke into a sardonic little grin. “I came here looking for you, but I will now require both of you to entrain with me in the coming venture in Outremer, for only thus will all threats against your son’s life be annulled. André cannot safely remain in France once I be gone. Surely you see that, and you, too, André?” Both men nodded, and Richard smiled. “Then let us be resolved on it. We go to war together, for as powerful as I may be when I am here, I tend to create powerful foes, and these churchly knaves would find a way to arraign you again and kill you quietly as soon as they believed my back was turned.
“So! Henry, you will be my Master-at-Arms. And you, Sir André, will join the Temple.”
“The Temple, my liege?” André eyes widened. “How may that be? I am no monk, nor fitted to be one.”
Richard barked a short, humorless laugh. “Perhaps not now—you have made that amply clear—but such things can be arranged, and you may warm to the thought. But monk or no, you are nonetheless a knight, raised to that estate by my own hand, and you are a St. Clair, of the bloodline that produced one of the nine Founders of the Temple Order. And God surely knows the Order has need of you and will welcome you to ride beneath its black-and-white standard.”
He glanced then from son to father. “Hear me now, and hear what I say. Two years ago—no,’ twas even less than that by half a year—two hundred and thirty knights of the Temple were lost in a single day at a place called Hattin—that was the battle I told you of last night, Henry. But more than a hundred of those were executed as prisoners, after the fighting, on Saladin’s own orders. Think upon that, my friends. This fellow calls himself Sultan, the exalted ruler, but that atrocity alone demands the dog’s death. Two hundred and thirty Temple Knights lost in a single day, and nigh on half of them murdered out of hand when the fighting was all over. And then, hard on the heels of that, he slaughtered hundreds more after he took Jerusalem the following month. And his stated reason for that butchery? That the Temple Knights are the most dangerous men on earth.” His eyes moved from father to son. “Well, they may have been the most dangerous men on earth before Hattin, but he has now ensured that they will be even more perilous to him and his in time to come.”
He ground his palms together again. “But irrespective of its origins, the reality of this slaughter has left us facing a truth with which we have to contend, my friends: The Templars have been worse than decimated, for they have lost five men in ten, not merely one. They may be the most powerful and celebrated warriors on earth, the standing army in the defense of Christianity in Outremer, but not even they can endure losses on such a scale as has been seen these past two years. It has been accepted since the days of Julius Caesar that no military force can continue to function effectively once its strength has been reduced by more than one third of its complement.”
He stopped again, giving those words time to sink home to his listeners before he continued. “There have never been more than one thousand Templars at any single time in the entire area of the Holy Lands. That is not something that is widely known, for most people today think the Temple is ubiquitous and indomitable. But their recent losses have amounted to more than five hundred, leaving a mere fragment of their former force in place. So the Order is hungry for qualified recruits.” He looked directly at André. “They seek young knights, debt free, without worldly responsibilities, and sound of mind and body. Think you that description might apply to you, my young friend?”
André shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It might, my liege, were it not for the shadow hanging above my head.”
“That shadow has been banished. Forget it ever existed.”
“I wish I could, my liege. But even were I to succeed in forgetting it, it will still be kept alive and reported on by others, perhaps even in Outremer, and the Temple is notably rigid and unyielding in its scrutiny of recruits. I have heard it said, if you will forgive me for being thus blunt, that not even kings or dukes have the power to impose their will upon the Order.”
Henry St. Clair stiffened on hearing his son’s words, fully expecting that they would infuriate Richard, but to his astonishment, the Duke merely smiled.
“True, that is absolutely true, so my influence would normally be little use to you in gaining entry. But look again, if you will, at my friend Sir Robert de Sablé here, and believe me when I tell you that there is more to him than meets the eye. In certain things, Robert has influence that I could never gain. He is, for one thing, one of the finest mariners in all of Christendom, albeit he holds that to have but little import in his life nowadays.” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at de Sablé, and the knight nodded in return, apparently submitting to some unspoken request. Richard grinned broadly and turned back to the others, drawing the long-bladed dagger from his belt and flipping it into the air, end over end, to catch it easily as it came down. Twice more he did it, and the others watched him, wondering what was to come next.
“I can tell you both a certain secret known to very few at this time. Sir Robert, like you, André, is not a member of the Temple.” He spun suddenly and threw the dagger towards one of the wooden pillars that supported the high roof above them, and it crossed the space as a whirling blur, to hammer itself home point-first into the densely grained timber. In the silence that followed, Richard ambled over and worked the blade free, examining the point critically before he sheathed the weapon again.
“But Sir Robert has been invited, by the Governing Council of the Templars, to join the Order, and not merely as a serving knight but as the newly designated Master of the Temple, to replace the man Gerard de Ridefort, the current Master who has recently been reported missing yet again, believed captured in battle and very probably dead.”
He grinned again with satisfaction in seeing the jaws of both St. Clairs sag open and their heads swivel slowly to gaze at de Sablé. When he considered they had had sufficient time to gape and be impressed, Richard continued. “Let me repeat that: Sir Robert has been invited by the Governing Council of the Order of the Temple to join its ranks. Never has such an invitation been issued before now. It is unprecedented because the Temple has always been jealous—and zealous—about those to whom it permits entry to its ranks. But it has an even deeper meaning here, and now especially for you, Sir André, because it makes it possible—and even likely, given that Sir Robert professes himself convinced of your innocence—that you could be admitted to the Order, as a novice without formal vows, prior to our leaving France. Thus both of you could travel together in my train until we reach the Holy Land, each of you preparing for the task that lies ahead, so that when we arrive you, André, would enter the Order of the Temple as a serving knight and you, Henry, would assume your own duties on my behalf.”
Henry St. Clair bowed his head deeply.
“Excellent,” the Duke said. “Now, let us be about our business. First this pious, sanctimonious Abbot Thomas. He may not have much fear of God in him, but by God’s holy throat he will discover such a fear of me this day as will make him howl with penitence. André, go and find Godwin, the captain of my guard. He is an Englishman, enormous, but he speaks our tongue. You won’t mistake him. Bid him take four men and ride to the Abbey of Sainte Mère, to arrest the Abbot Thomas and to bring him to me in chains at the castle of la Fourrière. In chains, mind you, and afoot. He is to make the Abbot walk! I want this holy lout to suffer pains and fears the like of which the sanctimonious hypocrite has never imagined before this day. And send one of your own men with them, to show them the way from here to there. Go. No, wait.” He clicked his fingers. “While you are there, tell Pierre, Godwin’s corporal, to prepare our horses and bring them to the entrance within the half hour. You have all that?”
André nodded, murmured “My liege,” and left the room. Sir Henry watched him go, admiring his son’s upright posture and still mildly surprised at the ease of his own acquiescence to what had been wrought here. He had known almost from the outset of Richard’s visit exactly what must result for himself from the Plantagenet’s wishes, and resentment and bitter frustration had been bubbling within him, tightly suppressed, since first he heard Richard’s demands the night before. But now, as if by magic, all traces of resentment had left him, replaced by a grudging sense of admiration for this man who controlled all of their lives.
Despite his thoroughgoing awareness that Richard Plantagenet was being even more manipulative than usual, Henry had reasons of his own, besides the obvious, for accepting the Duke’s will now, for there was no question in his mind that without Richard’s ducal and regal support, his son André could have no life to speak of here in France. To avoid eventual arraignment and execution—or even assassination—after Richard’s departure—and with him, Henry’s—his son’s sole option would have been to join the assembling armies anonymously and without escutcheon, as a free lance. Now, however, thanks to Richard’s self-interest—for Henry did not believe for an instant that the Duke he knew so well was moved by any altruistic love of justice—both he and his son had been accorded an acceptable alternative. That his own involvement in the Holy Land campaign was a sine qua non of the entire proposal was an element no longer worthy of consideration to the veteran knight, for its validity worked now to the advantage of both of them, liege lord and vassal. In accepting Richard’s proposal, Sir Henry had made a virtue out of necessity, seizing the opportunity to keep his son alive and share his future. Now, all things considered, no more than a small, niggling sense of foreboding remained in him, unable to be dislodged, and Henry knew he would have to accept that and live with it, because its cause was deeply rooted in the dark side of the complicated and unpredictable man.
He became aware that Richard was watching him closely, and he drew himself up to his full height, self-consciously sucking in his belly.
“We are going to have to toughen you up, Henry. You’ve gone soft.”
