Now Bartholomew was a man, and they both would return to France.
“The preceptor seeks you, sir.”
“Brother Terricus can wait a few moments,” Gaston said mildly, but the younger man shook his head.
“I do not think so. He declares the matter to be of great urgency. I was bidden to find you immediately.”
Gaston was concerned. Little was truly urgent in the daily routine of the order, and Terricus was not quick to alarm. “Where is he?” he asked, quickening his step.
“In the chapel.” As was characteristic of Bartholomew, he provided Gaston with all the information he knew, even as they strode toward the chapel. “A messenger arrived from Nazareth, his steed in a lather, not moments ago. I have never seen Brother Terricus so white as after he read that missive.”
Gaston’s heart sank. Had some dark fate befallen the company of Templars ridden to war with the king? He strode more quickly, and Bartholomew, even without an injured leg, was compelled to run to keep up with him.
“He wished to know if you were prepared to leave as yet, and when I said you were nearly so, he bade me fetch you.”
Gaston suspected then that not only were the tidings poor, but that Terricus would dispatch him with a message for one of the priories in Europe. They turned the last corner before the chapel to find a fair-haired knight waiting there, the red cross on his white tabard revealing that he, too, was sworn to the order. The knight was as tall as Gaston, tanned from the sun and had a scar upon his cheek. Gaston did not know him but instinctively disliked him. It was not the stranger’s hardened manner that irked him, but his obvious impatience. He was slapping his leather gauntlets across his palm, pacing, while two boys watched with wide eyes. Gaston could only conclude that they were his squires and that the new arrival was a demanding master.
It was not this knight’s place to be intolerant of waiting on a superior.
“I am here before you,” the other knight said with crisp authority, giving Gaston a hard look. “The preceptor will see me first.”
Gaston bristled.
“I suspect you are mistaken,” he replied, his tone milder than his mood. “For the preceptor sent for me.” Gaston made to step past the other knight and reached for the door, only to have the stranger seize his forearm.
“I said I was here before you,” that man insisted. “And dispatched to the Grand Master himself. Are common courtesies not observed in the Jerusalem priory any longer?”
Gaston lifted that man’s hand from his sleeve with distaste. “They are, which is why a summoned brother shall take precedence. The Grand Master has ridden to war, leaving the preceptor in command.”
The knight’s eyes flashed and he opened his mouth to argue, proving that his was a stubborn nature. The door to the chapel was opened abruptly in that moment, sparing Gaston the need to dispute the matter. The preceptor himself stood before them, no surprise in his dark eyes when he glanced between the two knights. Gaston assumed he had heard their conversation through the door and expected to be chastised.
Brother Terricus was clearly concerned, for his manner was as different from his usual steady calm as might have been possible. “Who are you?” he demanded of the stranger. “And who dispatched you to the Grand Master?”
This was not the messenger who had arrived so recently, then.
The stranger bowed his head. “I am Brother Wulfe, from the Gaza priory. I have been sent to add my blade to the battle…”
Terricus interrupted him crisply. “You are too late.”
Wulfe’s shock was clear, and Gaston had trouble hiding his own surprise that Terricus spoke with such finality. “I would have you both join me in prayer,” he continued, his gaze flicking between the two men. “Immediately. And Bartholomew, you will join us as well.” Without awaiting a reply, Terricus strode to the altar.
Prayer? That was the last action Gaston would have undertaken before bad tidings, but he bit his tongue. What had Terricus learned? This Wulfe inhaled sharply in disapproval, and Gaston was amused that they had even one perspective in common.
After the two knights and squire followed the preceptor into the small chapel, Terricus glanced back to nod at Bartholomew. The younger man secured the door behind them. The chapel was empty, save for the four of them. It was quiet in the space, the lack of windows and the thick walls ensuring that sounds from outside the chapel were muted. Terricus dropped to his knees, pointing to the floor on either side, as Gaston understood.
They could hear no one, and no one would be able to hear them.
His scalp prickled, and he feared whatever Terricus had learned. Gaston fell to his knees on the left of the preceptor, folded his hands before himself, and bowed his head as if in prayer. Brother Wulfe did the same on the preceptor’s right, and Bartholomew knelt beside Gaston.
“The fortress of Tiberias was besieged two days ago,” Terricus murmured.
“But it is doughty,” Wulfe protested, earning a sharp glance from the preceptor.
“Saladin himself led the forces and refused a payment of tribute to cease his attack. A tower was mined and when it fell, they breached the walls and took the fortress.”
Gaston winced, guessing that there was more to be told.
“And Raymond of Tripoli?” Wulfe demanded. “Was he killed defending his holding?”
Terricus spared him a glance. “He left his lady in charge of the keep’s defense when he rode to Jerusalem to muster troops with the king.”
Wulfe’s lips tightened. “He should have left a knight in command.”
“It is said that Eschiva is as fierce in battle as any man, and truly the holding comes to Raymond through her lineage,” Terricus said. “All the same, the numbers are reported to be such that no commander could have held out against this assault.”
“Not if they came prepared to mine beneath the towers,” Gaston agreed, thinking of what he knew of the Saracen leader. It was no accident that this attack had occurred when Raymond was away.
This was vengeance.
“He avenges the party that was given safe passage by Raymond, but then attacked at Cresson,” he said beneath his breath.
“Do not attribute honor to infidels,” Wulfe chided. “They have none!”
Gaston held his tongue, knowing otherwise.
Terricus eyed him for a moment, then continued. “She was defending the citadel when she dispatched the messenger, but he said there was word that Saladin’s troops mined that tower as well.”
“It must have fallen by now,” Wulfe muttered, his agitation clear. “Two days!”
“Did Raymond ride to her defense?” Gaston asked, wondering whether this attack had been a lure.
Terricus shook his head. “The tidings are that he advised against defending Tiberias. He was prepared to lose it, rather than have the Christian forces leave the fortification at La Saphorie.”
“He would sacrifice his own holding?” Wulfe was outraged.
Gaston was more outraged that Raymond would sacrifice his wife, but said naught on that matter. “He believed that Saladin desired to draw them out of their strong position,” Gaston speculated instead. “He saw the lure.”
Terricus nodded. “They argued, two nights ago, according to the messenger. King Guy chose to lead the Christians out, in defense of Tiberias.”
Gaston caught his breath. “Folly,” he whispered. Wulfe looked sharply at him over the head of Terricus. “Water,” he reminded the knight. “La Saphorie was chosen because of the abundance of water there. If they abandon it, they will be done.”
“But they must know this,” Wulfe argued.
Gaston bit back his protest, thinking of the impetuous nature of Gerard de Ridefort, combined with that of King Guy. It appeared that Saladin taunted them, knowing their respective characters, and that they took the bait.
“I must send word to the priory in Paris of these events.” Terricus spoke with resolve, and Gaston was surprised that he would send a missive so soon as thi
s.
“But you know only half the tale,” Wulfe protested.
“I fear I can guess its end,” Terricus said. “I pray that I am mistaken, but still will send word when I can.”
Gaston blinked at the realization that the preceptor believed Jerusalem itself would be lost. Surely, it could not be so dire as that? Surely their stronghold in the Holy City would not be compromised?
But Terricus spoke with resolve. “You must take the missive for me, Gaston. You are the only one prepared to depart.” His voice dropped lower. “You are the only one not of the order whom I would trust with such a quest.”
He was the only one who could be spared. Gaston understood and was glad of the assignment.
Before he could nod understanding, Terricus removed a sealed scroll of parchment from his sleeve, where it had been hidden, and offered it to him covertly. Gaston took it quickly, slipping it into his own sleeve, then gave every appearance of continuing to pray.
“And you, Brother Wulfe, will accompany him.”
Gaston remained silent with an effort.
Wulfe did not. “I answer to the master at Gaza, who dispatched me to Jerusalem to kill Saracens in defense of the Jerusalem priory…”
“And now you kneel in that very priory—” Terricus interrupted with finality “—which makes you subject to my command.”
“I will not be a messenger when there is a war to be fought!”
“You will act as couriers, both of you,” Terricus said with force. “For I have commanded as much and no Templar defies an order.”
Wulfe was seething, but he responded with what Gaston imagined was the closest he could come to subservience. “Aye, sir.”
“While the letter is the official reason for your journey, I entrust you with a quest far more important.” Terricus took a breath, as if bracing himself for a confession he did not wish to make, and spoke so softly that Gaston had to strain to hear the words. “I have removed the treasure from the crypt.”
Gaston’s heart stopped, and he heard Bartholomew inhale sharply. The Templars were known to have a remarkable treasure secreted in the Jerusalem priory. He had seen items from that hoard, but never the whole of it. He had only heard rumors of the greatest prize in their possession. The import of this choice shook him as little else might have done.
“You expect Jerusalem to fall,” he whispered, wanting Terricus to correct him.
“How can it not?” Terricus asked, fury in his tone. “We are too few and they are too many. If they win this battle, the slaughter will be fierce. There can be no recovery in the short term, not with nigh every man summoned to follow the King of Jerusalem. We will lose the Temple.” He took a steadying breath, carrying on before either knight could argue. “The best we may be able to hope is that a new influx of troops, a new crusade, will allow us to recapture the Holy City after it is lost, if it is lost. I must see my responsibilities served, in anticipation of failure. I dare not delay, lest any choice be stolen from me in future days.” He looked at Gaston. “The success of this quest lies with you, Gaston.”
It would be Gaston’s last mission for the order, and perhaps the one that ensured the survival of the organization he so loved. Still, he could not believe that matters would become so dire. Surely Terricus was but cautious, or overly fearful.
But an order was an order, however mistaken it might prove to be.
“I will do my best, Brother Terricus.”
“No man can ask for more of another.” Terricus took a breath. “You are ordered directly to accompany Gaston, Brother Wulfe, and you will cede to his authority in all matters on the journey you undertake. Officially, you are the one to carry the missive to Paris, and you simply travel with Gaston for security.”
Wulfe scoffed slightly under his breath, and Gaston felt the other knight’s gaze slide over him in assessment. “Then I should be the one to carry the missive.”
“You will do as you have been instructed,” Terricus said.
“Of course, sir,” Wulfe said, his tone hard.
“Officially, Gaston has left the order, but I still grant him command of this party.”
“People will see the truth immediately,” Wulfe argued. “No Templar takes orders from a secular knight.”
“Surely you can understand that you will appear to lead, while following my direction,” Gaston said with a mildness he did not feel.
Wulfe’s lips pinched so tightly that they were nigh invisible. Only the fierce glare of the preceptor ensured his silence.
“The parcel entrusted to you has been sealed and will be opened only by the Master of the Temple in Paris. This is for the security of all of you, as well as for the contents themselves.”
“Aye, sir,” both knights replied in unison. Gaston wondered if Wulfe was as curious as he as to the specific item entrusted to them—but a pledge was a pledge. Perhaps it would be shown to them in the Paris Temple.
“You will accompanied by others, to make the party larger and less readily assailed. This will be presented as a matter of practicality and convenience.”
“Others?” Wulfe asked.
“Another knight leaves the order as scheduled, to attend his own nuptials in Scotland.”
“Brother Fergus?” Gaston asked, suspecting it could be only that man.
“The very man,” Terricus agreed. “He awaits your instruction in the stables even now, with his baggage.”
Terricus gave this last word an emphasis so slight that none but a man who was holding his gaze—and one who knew him well—would have noted.
Baggage.
Fergus had been entrusted with the treasure.
Gaston nodded as Terricus continued. “Plus two pilgrims have requested protection.”
“Pilgrims!” Wulfe muttered but Brother Terricus lifted a finger.
“I remind you, Brother Wulfe, that it is our sworn task to defend pilgrims. Everard de Montmorency returns home in the hope of speaking with his dying father one last time, and the merchant, Joscelin de Provins, doubtless flees while he can.”
Gaston nodded. Everard was familiar to him, as a regular visitor to the king’s court, although he did not know the merchant.
“You will depart on the morrow, as if your riding forth is routine,” Terricus continued softly. “Though it is anything but. I would not have you arouse suspicion as to the truth of your quest.”
“Of course, sir,” Gaston agreed. No man rode at night in these lands, for to do so invited not just curiosity but the assault of bandits.
There was but one more detail to resolve. He would have to speak to the priest about wedding him to Ysmaine before their departure.
He should speak to Terricus about even bringing a woman into the Temple. Gaston felt torn between his loyalties for the first time in years. He would have preferred to have collected Ysmaine immediately, but no woman could remain overnight within the Temple. He assured himself that the nuns would have secured their portals by this hour and that the city was safe for this night. He felt protective toward his bride and wished he could have ensured her welfare himself.
Had he and Terricus been alone, he would have asked for counsel, but he was well aware of Wulfe listening.
Terricus crossed himself and rose to his feet, bowing before the altar. “Go with God,” he said beneath his breath. “That He may see fit to save us all.”
But what was the treasure? Which of the prizes from the crypt would they carry?
How much force could he use to defend it?
Terricus appeared unlikely to confide such details, so Gaston hoped that Fergus knew more. Bartholomew hastened to the door to the chapel as the preceptor retreated from the altar. The squire bowed there as he opened the portal. A small crowd of men had gathered in the corridor while they were sequestered, making it impossible to ask more questions.
He would seek Terricus out later, to ask about the exchange of vows.
First, all had to be made ready for their departure.
Gaston
stood in his turn, crossing himself before he glanced at his unwilling companion knight. “You must be hungry after your journey,” he said, speaking as if nothing untoward had been said. “Now that you have prayed, I will show you to the dormitory and the hall.”
Wulfe’s eyes narrowed. “I thought…”
Gaston flicked a glance at the curious onlookers in the corridor.
Wulfe followed his look and nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I should appreciate your assistance,” he said with a bow. “This priory is far larger than the one I know.”
“Come and refresh yourself, brother.” Gaston indicated the portal and let Wulfe precede him.
“I would meet the others in the departing party, with your assistance,” Wulfe said, his tone commanding. “The better that we can ensure all is prepared for the morning.”
Gaston’s thoughts flew with his own plans. He had to confer with Fergus as to the defense of the treasure, as well as pack for his own departure. He had to speak with the priest and brother Terricus again. He would have to take Ysmaine to Fatima in the morning and hoped her maid was sufficiently recovered for a journey so soon as this. His schedule might have changed and his plans been modified, but he would not leave Jerusalem without his bride.
Indeed, if the Saracens meant to attack Jerusalem, Gaston might offer the lady’s sole chance of survival.
Sunday, July 5, 1187
Feast Day of Saint Fragan and Saint Gwen of England.
Chapter Three
There was nothing like a hot meal in one’s belly to restore one’s confidence in the future. Ysmaine could not believe the difference in her own perspective and the health of her maid. She had managed to find accommodation in their dormitory for herself and Radegunde, and she liked the tranquility of their cloister. The sound of the bells punctuated each day and the sweep of the nuns’ linen kirtles on the stone whispered softly when they moved.
Indeed, she felt blessed that evening as she had not in years. Ysmaine gave the potion to Radegunde, in small portions just as the apothecary had decreed, marveling all the while that the Virgin had been so good to her.
The Crusader's Bride Page 4