by Jack Whyte
“He’s there somewhere, Brother Justin. He will be in the thick of it, among the throng. Has to be. He organized this whole thing on King Richard’s side— protocol, procedure, order of precedence, everything— so he must be in there somewhere.”
As St. Clair spoke, Etienne de Troyes uttered a disgusted curse. His patience with the distant proceedings was exhausted. Sawing savagely on the bit, he swung his horse around and sank his spurs into its flanks, spurring it up the hill, his entire body radiating the intensity of his displeasure. Brother Justin watched him go from the corner of his eye before he breathed out and spoke again, in what passed for his normal voice.
“The Marshal is plainly not pleased with what’s going on down there. Nor should we be, I think. We can see everything there is to see, except those things we want to see—and that includes action—but do we understand any of what’s going on? The only thing I can recognize with any certainty is that huge, unholy cluster of bejeweled bishops in the middle yonder, between the two armies, waiting to play their part in this mummery. If even half of those prating, pathetic whoresons are allowed to pray at us, we’ll all die of old age before we ever get off this hill.”
St. Clair was astonished to hear such words from the mouth of the Master of Novices, but he had the good sense to betray no reaction. Despite that, however, he felt a need to say something, and so he cleared his throat. “Little fear of that, Brother Justin. Richard Plantagenet is in charge down there. He has no more affection for high priests than his father had. Those bishops will all pray, but they will pray together when the time for prayer arrives.”
The Master of Novices grunted but made no other response, evidently having remembered that he was speaking to the merest nonentity. But then he added, unexpectedly, “Aye, they will, like as not. The Archbishop of Lyon will lead them—and the Abbot of Vézelay will assist.”
They were interrupted by the clattering of hooves as one of the senior knights, whose name André did not yet know, rode forward and reined in on Brother Justin’s left, speaking to him as though St. Clair did not exist.
“What’s happening down there? De Troyes is angrier than a wet cat.”
“I know he is, but nothing’s happening. He simply can’t stand the waste of time. It would make a saint angry. There’s a hundred thousand men down there, and they’re all due to leave this day, but they are up to their armpits in bishops, panting to pray again.”
The other knight hawked and spat. “These past three days have been a bishop’s dream—one endless, sweaty Mass with panoply and chanted prayers and roiling clouds of incense. But enough’s enough. Now it is time to pack up all the tents, load all the wagons, marshal the armies, and strike out on the road.”
He turned his head, his eyes taking in St. Clair but dismissing him instantly as of no import, and nodded to the Master of Novices. “You mark my words. We’ll either be off this hill and on the road by noon today, or Richard Plantagenet will stand excommunicate.” His voice sank to a cynical growl. “And with Holy Mother Church relying on him to lead this entire campaign, exterminate Saladin and his Saracens, and win the Holy City back for Rome, excommunication would appear to be unlikely.”
“De Chateauroux!” The voice cracked from the heights behind them like the sound of shattering rock, and the knight beside Brother Justin straightened up with a jerk. “Shit! Keep an eye out. See if you can detect any movement between the camps. Anything at all! Here, Brother Marshal!” De Chateauroux shouted an acknowledgment and pulled his mount into a dramatic, rearing turn, setting his spurs to it before its front hooves reached the ground, plainly having no wish to draw the displeasure of de Troyes.
From the corner of his eye, André saw Brother Justin turn to watch the other man leave, then swing back towards him. “You stay here,” he snarled, “and if you see anything change down there, any movement of any kind by a large group, send for me at once.”
André heard him clatter off in pursuit of de Chateauroux, but made no effort to watch him. He already felt conspicuous sitting where he was, a mere postulant, not even a novice, yet clearly being accorded preferential treatment. He had noticed no signs of resentment from any of his fellows, but he was shrewd enough to anticipate that it might be there somewhere, hidden beneath a veil of seeming indifference, and he had no wish to make matters worse by appearing to gawk or to preen.
A short time later, during which nothing of any moment had happened below, Brother Justin came back.
“You, St. Clair. Marshal de Troyes wants to go down there, in his official capacity as Marshal, to spur the sluggards along. You are to ride down and find your father the Master-at-Arms and inform him that the Marshal of the Temple wishes to confer privately with the two monarchs. Do you think you can manage that?” When André did not react to the sarcasm, he went on, “You see that boulder over there?”
“Aye, Brother Justin.” The boulder was too enormous not to see, a singular, inexplicable stone of gigantic size, dwarfing the mounted knights who sat in its shadow.
“You will ride down there and find your father, but you will go escorted, as a formal courier from the Marshal, riding under a baucent pennant.” He turned in his saddle, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly, attracting the startled attention of a young knight behind him who clutched a long lance bearing the triangular baucent banner of his squadron. “Come over here, you,” he shouted, and waited, arm outstretched, until the young standard-bearer obediently came to join him. Different from the great banner, the lesser baucent was the battle standard of the Temple—a plain, black, equal-armed cross on a white field—and the right to carry it was a great honor that was hotly contested among the rank-and-file brothers of each squadron formation. Brother Justin nodded an abrupt acknowledgment of the man’s courtesy, then waved a thumb towards St. Clair without removing his gaze from the standard-bearer.
“I need you for extra duty, Brother. You will ride down to the valley below, escorting this courier who, although he is but a postulant, has well-hidden virtues. You will stay with him until he concludes his business with the Master-at-Arms of King Richard’s army, then return here with him. I will inform your squadron commander of where you are and what you are about.” He turned now to André. “As for you, as soon as you have completed your task and know where the Kings choose to meet with the Marshal, you will climb to the top of the boulder down there and signal us with this baucent. For the English camp, hold the pennant in your right hand, for the French, the left hand. If they choose to meet between the armies, close by the bishops, raise it above your head with both arms. I’ll have the sharpest eyes here on watch for you and you’ll stand out with your virgin’s shroud.” He was referring to the still-new, brilliantly white postulant’s robe that St. Clair was wearing. André nodded wordlessly. “You send the signal yourself, you understand? The standard-bearer’s red cross might well be lost to sight among all the other crosses down there.” He looked again at the standard-bearer. “You understand that? You are to give him your baucent and let him use it to send the signal. That’s important. Is it clear?”
“Aye, sir. I am to give him the baucent for the signal. But will I take it back again?” Brother Justin pulled back his head as though he had been slapped. “Aye, of course you will. It is a baucent, in God’s name, not a walking staff.” He hesitated, then sniffed loudly and spoke again to André. “As soon as you send us the signal, the Marshal and his party will make their way down to the appointed place while you make your way back up here and report to me. Clear? Then go, and waste no time. Marshal de Troyes will be awaiting your word and fretting.”
St. Clair nodded and followed his escort as the standard-bearer hitched his shield higher, tightened the reins in his left hand, raised his lance in salute to the standard, and spurred his horse forward and down the hill.
IT WAS TWO HOURS LATER by the time St. Clair returned, and the first thing he noticed when he reached the crest of the hill was that they had broken camp in his absence;
all the tents were dismantled and stowed for travel. He saluted the Master of Novices, who dismissed him immediately with a contemptuous flick of one hand. Nothing loath, André moved gratefully to join the fifteen hopefuls with whom he would share his life for the foreseeable future, both as postulant and novice brother. There were no prospective sergeant brothers among them; all were of the knightly class and were already either knighted or advanced in their training, ranking at least as squires. Their formal induction as novices, they had been told, would take place in the cathedral in Lyon, and until they reached there they would continue to wear the shapeless garment known as the virgin’s shroud. But until they were formally accepted as novices they would continue to act, and to be treated, as servants of the Order. This was in keeping with the way of the Temple, and none of the postulants was dissatisfied with their lot. Lyon lay but a five-day march southeast of Vézelay, and thus within the week they would be launched as knights of the Temple.
They ranged in age from a gangly, knock-kneed stripling of about sixteen to a serious-looking, darkskinned man of about André’s own age, with whom St. Clair had shared his entry ceremony two days earlier, but with whom he had not spoken since. Now, as André approached silently to sit alongside him, the fellow spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth, taking care not to move his head or attract any attention to himself.
“What was all that about? A postulant riding with a baucent escort? Who are you?”
“Name’s St. Clair. André.”
“Ah! I know who you are now. They sent you on an errand to your father.”
André frowned, wondering what had prompted the tone of that comment. It had sounded like bitterness, perhaps cynicism. He answered evenly nonetheless. “They did. Do you disapprove of that?”
“It’s no affair of mine. I was simply curious. Don’t be offended by my lack of manners. I’m a Frank.”
St. Clair risked a quick sideways glance at the man, more than half convinced he had heard a smile in the fellow’s voice, but there was nothing to be seen. “Who are you?”
“They call me Eusebius, after the holy man. My mother was devout. I’m from Aix. Provence.”
“Ah! That explains the outlandish speech. Well met, then. I’m from Poitou.”
He saw the slightest inclination of the other man’s head, and then they both fell silent and sat rigid as a sergeant rode by, frowning as his eyes passed from man to man. When he had gone, Eusebius cocked an eyebrow and glanced down to where a leather bag was cinched to André’s belt. “What’s in the bag?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t have it when you rode down the hill.”
“Observant.” André smiled to himself, intrigued. The stranger was astute, articulate, intelligent, and might even be likable. “Dried figs, compliments of Tristan Malbec, King Richard’s sutler.” Tristan Wry Nose, as he was known, was senior quartermaster of Richard’s armies, but long before that he had been senior steward and quartermaster to Eleanor of Aquitaine for years, until she was imprisoned in England, and then he had become Richard’s.
The man called Eusebius smiled too. “It sounds as though you know the sutler passing well.”
“Well enough to ask no quarter of him. I have known him since before I learned to walk, and as a friend of my mother and father, he has been feeding me sweetmeats and dainties since before that. He warned me not to eat these all at once, because it might be years before I see another one. I’ll give you one later, if you like.”
Eusebius stared straight ahead, but nodded. “My thanks for that. I will enjoy it. I have not eaten a fig in years. So what is happening down there now? And where is the Marshal?”
The man fell silent again as the sergeant, who had finished his inspection, swung around and began to make his way back towards them, glancing from man to man and clearly hoping to find someone who would give him a reason to play the tyrant. Neophytes as they were, however, none of them was sufficiently naïve to give him the slightest opportunity to be displeased, and when he was less than halfway along the formation someone called him and interrupted his scrutiny of the ranks. From the way he rode off rapidly in answer to the summons, it was clear to all of them that he was just as glad to be quit of them as they were of him. But still, apart from a very minor stirring in the ranks, none of the postulants moved, and only St. Clair spoke, still soft voiced and for Eusebius’s ears alone.
“Everything’s over down there now,” he said, as though he had been speaking all along, “thanks to our humorless Marshal de Troyes. From the moment of his first greeting to the Kings, it took less than an hour to organize the closing service, short and solemn, with only one brief Te Deum sung before the final blessing. And then the trumpets started blowing the assembly. Now, even though we be too far back in the ranks here to see it, the armies are moving out—and we are yet more than an hour shy of noon. I think that is remarkable.”
“Hmm.” Eusebius glanced at St. Clair and then returned his gaze to where it ought to be. “What I find remarkable is that I have no least idea of what you are talking about. What is remarkable about the fact that the armies are moving?”
“Because for the last two days it has been looking more and more unlikely that they ever would. The Kings, Philip and Richard, were at odds, unable to agree to anything. Two days of incessant parley had produced nothing in the way of concord. But according to my father, much was achieved last night, on the surface at least. The Kings called a privy council that went on until near midnight, under heavy guard, with Richard swearing that the army would strike out for Lyon today, no matter what, and that no one would sleep until the entire agenda drawn up by the bishops had been dealt with. And so it was.”
The blast of a bugle brought them to attention, and junior sergeants began to move up and down the lines, straightening the formations and preparing everyone to evacuate the hilltop. For a while there was no more talk, with everyone’s attention concentrated upon the task of an orderly withdrawal. It was not until their squadron was riding down along the hillside, still far above the immense spectacle of the armies eddying in the valley below them, that the two men were able to resume their conversation, and again it was Eusebius who initiated the discussion, having looked around to ensure no officers were watching them or listening.
“So, this meeting last night. What did it achieve?”
“Agreement,” André responded, keeping his voice low, although the noise of the column’s movement, with the clatter of hooves, the clanking rattle of armor and weapons, and the creaking of saddle leather, would have made eavesdropping impossible. “A formal treaty of friendship and mutual amity and trust, all signed and sealed and witnessed by an army of priests. A solemn cessation of hostilities. England, including all of Anjou, Poitou, and Aquitaine, along with the remaining territories belonging to the House of Plantagenet, to be at peace with France and its allies henceforth, abjuring all conflict while England and France remain jointly engaged in the service of the Lord God. In the event that either monarch be killed before the war is ended, the other will assume command of his armies and redouble their efforts on behalf of Christ and Holy Church. Should either monarch break that pledge, he will stand excommunicate and the united bishops of both realms will attest to the justice of the punishment.”
“You there! You, with your lips moving! I hope you are praying, insect, but even if you are, do it in silence. I see your lips move one more time and you’ll be drawing extra latrine duties for the coming month. You hear me?”
“Aye, Brother Sergeant.” André kept his face blank. Neither man had seen the sergeant approach, but now that he had singled out André, the two became models of dutiful decorum. For the next four hours, until they reached the point where they would stop for the night, they behaved themselves, making no attempt to communicate. Between them, for all that, a comradeship was born and grew stronger throughout the remainder of that day.
After dinner that night—a chaotic event, it being the first time the field kitchens had made shift to feed
a thousand men at once—the two men sat by a fire for the hour before curfew. It had been a long, tiring day, so they soon found themselves alone, the rest of their companions gone to sleep, and they returned to the topic they had been discussing earlier that day.
“So Philip and Richard both agreed to that arrangement you described?” Eusebius was impressed and made no secret of it, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “I would not have believed that had I heard it yesterday. I have been told those two have been squabbling like jealous, ill-tempered fishwives ever since they arrived here, yowling and circling each other like two long-clawed cats in heat—” He broke off, looking warily at St. Clair. “Does that offend you, to hear such things?”
André merely looked at him, straight faced. “Why should it offend me? Because I count myself a friend of Richard, or because you suspect me of unnatural tastes?”
Eusebius stared back at him, unsure of how to respond and unable to decipher the look on his face, and André allowed him to hover on the edge of apprehension for several heartbeats longer before he said, “In truth, I found the long-clawed-cats-in-heat image was an apt one. Very good. Now hear me, my friend. If we are to be friends, and it seems to me we could be, then we have to start trusting each other. I swear to you that no matter what you say to me, I will not run off and report you to the Master of Novices. Not for speaking what is in your mind. Are we as one on that?” He watched until Eusebius nodded. “Good, then carry on with what you were saying. You had them fighting like cats in heat.”
Eusebius sat blinking for several more moments, then nodded his head. “Excellent. So be it … Fighting bitterly is what I was saying, with that unmatchable venom of former lovers. The queenly side of Philip’s nature has been on hugely admired display, I’m told. Probably because his royal nose is out of joint.” He paused, and then grinned with relish. “Mind you, you can hardly blame him if you think about it at all. He has been the only king in all this land for ten years, and now his former lover has a king’s rank, too. That, plus a bigger army, a deeper treasury, a more appealing personality, and a stronger, well-earned reputation as a warrior, to boot. Not to mention that he owns a bigger fleet, even stronger than the Genoan navy that Philip has had to hire at great expense to ship his own army. And none of that is made any easier for him to bear by the fact that Richard is too cock-a-hoop and too flamboyant ever to consider sparing Philip’s dignity by toning down his own performances.” He shook his head again. “That must have been a stodgy bowl of oats for Philip Capet to choke down all at once. It must have really stuck in his throat. And yet you say he has swallowed all of it, his pride as well as his bitter gall, and come to terms? What about the matter of Alaïs?”