Standard of Honor

by Jack Whyte

  No one else among the tribunal had said a single word, but as St. Clair turned away he saw a face he recognized at the rear of the tent, behind the gathering: one of the postulants with whom he had been inducted. Assigned even at this ungodly hour to some kind of menial duty on the Marshal’s behalf, the fellow now hurried away, head bowed, but André was convinced the fellow had missed nothing of what was said. He was surprised that the foul-tempered Brother Justin had not noticed him and had him ejected at the outset. But just then one of his own guards took him by the elbow and led him outside, swinging him to the right outside the flaps of the Marshal’s tent, to where he saw the bulk of the mobile jail again, outlined in the flickering torchlight and hitched this time behind a heavyset horse.

  His guards hustled him forward, and then he was lifted and pushed, almost thrown, and he fell on his knees in a corner of the jail box as the heavy door slammed at his back and the wagon lurched into motion. He was weak and trembling, his legs suddenly bereft of strength, and he had to fight hard against the urge to vomit. In misery more abject than any he had ever imagined, he felt his heartbeat surge towards panic as he grappled with the impossibility of the only explanation of all this that would come to him: somehow, against all probability, the false testimony of the three dead renegade priests must have resurfaced, so that he stood accused again of murder.

  He sought to calm himself by practicing the new discipline he had been forced to acquire as a Temple novice, reciting the Paternoster of his daily prayers. He shut out everything from his mind except the repetitive drone of the words until his mind was numb, keeping count by numbering the knots on his prayer cord until he had repeated the prayer the requisite number of one hundred and forty-eight times for the day. Day had not yet broken by the time he finished, the cell was too narrow to permit him to lie down, and the rocking motion of the wagon was such that he could not possibly sleep. And so he lodged himself upright again and began anew to count his prayer knots against the next day’s required tally.

  He had recited one thousand and twenty-six Paternosters, ten fewer than a full week’s quota, before the wagon swayed to a halt, and in the time that had elapsed he had discovered, much to his surprise, a stoic inner calm that felt secure. He had also calculated that one hundred and fifty of the prayers, repeated deliberately and clearly, would fill up roughly one hour of time. He had to close his eyes tightly against the blinding brilliance of the light when the door to his cell swung open, and he was content to allow his guards to move him about and guide him downward slowly until he was standing on the ground again. He felt the sun’s heat on his face and arms, and then they pushed him forward into the coolness of shade, and he opened his eyes cautiously.

  He had been aware of their arrival in a city, one he had presumed to be Aix, for he had heard and felt the rumble of cobblestones beneath the wheels of the cart some time before, and the sound of raised voices echoing from close-crowding buildings had been unmistakable. Now he could see that he was in some kind of enclosed yard, with buildings on all four sides, one of them pierced by opposing doors through which the wagon had entered. The two guards who had escorted him from the Templar camp were moving about now, occupied in minor tasks and paying no attention to him for the moment. Directly in front of him was a wide doorway, framed in pale yellow sandstone and fronted by a broad flight of shallow steps of the same stone. Set into the arch above the doorway, a shield bearing the arms of the Temple had been carved in deep relief, and two white-clad guards, wearing the red flared-arm cross of the Temple on their left breasts, stood beneath it, flanking the great oaken doors. One of them gazed at St. Clair incuriously while his companion watched the men who had accompanied him.

  Even had he not known their destination, St. Clair would have recognized the details he could see. He knew this must be the new Temple House of the Aix commandery, for he had heard it being described admiringly several years earlier, by someone who had watched it being built and had been crowing about the rich color of the stone, quarried on his own land nearby.

  He closed his eyes, lulled by the warmth of the afternoon, and felt himself swaying, but before he could even straighten up, he felt his escorts’ hands on his arms again and he was propelled gently towards the doorway, where the guards leaned in to pull open the heavy doors. It was dark and cool inside, and his guards led him forward for some twenty paces before they stopped again, this time in front of a broad table, flanked by two more of the Temple House guards, behind which a wide passageway ran right and left.

  His escorts snapped to attention and saluted a knight who had stepped from behind the table, his face expressionless. The knight listened while the senior escort explained who they were and why they were there, and then he took the warrant the man offered, thanked the two men courteously, nodding to each of them in turn, then dispatched one of his own men to escort them to the refectory in search of food. As they left, he turned slowly and gazed at St. Clair for long moments, until the sound of departing footfalls had dwindled into silence. Then he spoke to the single remaining guard.

  “Find Brother Preceptor and tell him the prisoner has arrived.”

  The man snapped a brisk salute and spun on his heel to march away, and the knight’s gaze came back to where St. Clair stood straight backed, staring at him defiantly.

  “Follow me.”

  He walked away, along the wide passageway on St. Clair’s right, moving with the authoritative gait of a man who had never doubted his own power. André blinked, tempted for the briefest of moments to stand firm and be as defiant as he felt, but then he remembered that he did not know what kind of trouble he was in and realized that defiance might not be in his own best interests. The man ahead of him was pulling away rapidly and had not even glanced around to see if he was following, and so André grunted and set out after him. He stepped out briskly, surprised to find himself enjoying the simple movement.

  Twenty paces farther along, another passage crossed the one they were using, and just beyond that junction their passageway ended in a pair of doors that filled it entirely, height and width. The knight threw open one of the doors and stepped sideways, holding it for St. Clair, who hesitated at the unexpected courtesy, glanced at the man, then walked right through and came to an abrupt halt. A second set of heavy doors now barred his way, exactly like the first and separated from them by the distance of three paces.

  “Sound barrier,” the man said, and stepped past André to swing open the second set of doors. André blinked and walked past him again, then halted just inside the doors, looking about him. The only need for a sound barrier that he could imagine was to shelter the ears of the sensitive innocent from the screams of the tortured guilty, and the thought instantly banished the stoic calm he had achieved with his Paternosters.

  The large chamber they had entered appeared to be windowless, and yet light was spilling into it from somewhere. He tilted his head back and looked up, but still he could see no windows. High walls on both sides of him were paneled with wood and draped with richly woven tapestries. Ahead of him, on each side of a stone wall containing a massive fireplace, stood more ceilinghigh doors, and he realized that daylight was streaming through from behind them, too.

  An enormous iron basket in the hearth contained a roaring log fire that threw heat out to where St. Clair was standing, just inside the door, and three vast stuffed couches fronted the fire in an open box formation, with the pelt of a great beast that St. Clair knew, from paintings he had seen, to be a tiger spread on the floor between them and the fire. Throughout the room oversized iron sconces, some of them with several arms apiece, held what appeared to be hundreds of fine, clear-burning candles. On his left, against one wall, a long, heavy table held an array of cups and tall, decorative ewers, together with what appeared to be an abundant supply of foodstuffs covered with cloth. The very sight made his mouth water, and he reflected, bitterly, that this bounty was unlikely to benefit him in any way. He was the prisoner here, mired in ignorance of
what he had done, but under no illusions about the seriousness with which his transgression was being viewed.

  St. Clair distinctly heard the doors close quietly at his back and turned to see the unknown knight in the act of unhooking a ring of keys from the belt at his waist. Without a word, the fellow stepped forward, gently turned St. Clair around, and unlocked the manacles that bound him, removing them and tossing them carelessly against the wall by the fire, where they clattered to the floor. Unbound, St. Clair tensed and prepared himself for whatever might come next. If the chance came to defend himself, he would not hesitate.

  “Subterfuge, Sir André, subterfuge … Elaborate by necessity. This will all be explained to you, once the others arrive. In the meantime, I’ll wager you might enjoy a cup of wine.”

  Without waiting for a response, and clearly not expecting one, he stepped to the table and picked up two heavy, long-necked ewers, turning back to cock one eyebrow at St. Clair, who had been eyeing the scuffed and battered condition of the sheathed broadsword that hung from the belt at the Templar’s waist. He hoisted one of the containers slightly higher than the other.

  “We have a choice, thanks to the Bishop of Aix. One of these contains the deep blood-red nectar of Burgundy, the other, pure amber magic from the Rhine. Which would you prefer? I’m Belfleur, by the way. Plain Jean Belfleur, of Carcassonne. Red or gold?”

  “What? What is this about? Why am I here? What—?” “As I said, all will be explained. Have the red.” Belfleur busied himself pouring, and handed St. Clair a brimming cup. “But we must wait until the others join us.”

  “What others?”

  “Patience, my friend, contain your curiosity, I pray you.” He waved towards the three couches fronting the fire. “Come, have a seat. I will not ask you about your journey here, for it could not have been pleasant, but I will tell you that when our business here is concluded, you will have access to a hot bath, to wash away the stink of your imprisonment, both literally and symbolically, and to fresh clothing, fitting for your rank. Your own weapons and armor will be returned to you.”

  St. Clair could do no more than nod reluctantly, acknowledging his recognition of the other’s goodwill and feeling oddly abashed at his own feelings of resentment. But he moved obediently to one of the couches and sat down slowly, relaxing gradually and gently over the next quarter hour as the full-bodied red wine spread its own goodwill inside him. Neither man spoke again, but the silence between them held no trace of strain. Both were content, for different reasons, to await developments.

  The effect of the wine, the heat of the fire, and the long night without sleep all combined to seduce André, who had no awareness of nodding off until he heard the doors swing open at his back and leapt to his feet, dropping the empty cup he still held as he swung around to face the imposing group of men who now strode into the chamber and spread out in a loose crescent, facing him. There were nine of them, of varying ages, some of them wearing armor and one, a Templar, standing half a head taller than any of the others. Red haired and ruddy faced, with bright, pale blue eyes, there was something about this man that reminded St. Clair instantly of Richard Plantagenet. This man was every inch a soldier and warrior, and he exuded the same kind of reckless self-confidence. He was the first to speak, tilting his head a little to one side as he looked directly into André’s eyes.

  “Sir André St. Clair. Welcome to our House. I am Benedict of Roussillon, Count of Grenoble and Preceptor of the Temple Commandery of Aix.” He extended his hand, and André stepped forward to bend over it, but before he could begin to bow he felt the unmistakable pressure of Roussillon’s grip on his own hand pulling him up, and he returned it, his eyes widening in astonishment. The preceptor of the Temple of Aix was a Brother of the Order of Sion.

  But the Count was already turning to indicate the others in his group, the first of them another Templar. “Here you have Henri Turcot, the Castellan of Grenoble and my staunchest ally, as well as deputy preceptor of the commandery there. Henri has just arrived, having ridden all night from Villeneuveles-Avignon. And with him came this young man, Henry, Count of Champagne, a brother of our ancient Order, but far removed from his home.”

  The young Count smiled and inclined his head towards St. Clair, who responded by bowing deeply. Henry of Champagne was known to him by repute, nephew to both Philip Augustus of France and Richard of England through Eleanor of Aquitaine’s first marriage to King Philip’s father.

  As Count Benedict went on to introduce the others in his company, some of whom were far advanced in age, St. Clair found himself becoming more and more awe-smitten as the awareness grew in him that the people he was meeting so casually here were the most powerful and influential men in the territories ruled by the two monarchs leading this third great expedition to the Holy Land, and that they were all members of the Governing Council of the Order of Sion. Their names were familiar to him because they were already legendary within the Order, honored and revered by all the brotherhood, but it was becoming more and more disturbingly evident to him that they had all assembled here in this place to meet with him.

  Recognizing St. Clair’s confusion, one dignified member of this cadre, whose name was Germain of Toulouse and who appeared to be the eldest among them, called the others to order and reminded them that their guest had not yet been informed of what was taking place here, and within moments they had all removed their outer garments and made themselves comfortable wherever they could find a seat. When they were settled, Benedict of Roussillon stood up again and, speaking clearly and courteously, described the circumstances of this strange situation for St. Clair’s benefit.

  St. Clair had been brought here, he explained, because the Council of the Order had assigned him a momentous task, a task for which he was uniquely suited, for a number of reasons, all of which would be explained to him in due course. Because of its importance, however, it was also a task that demanded utter secrecy, over and above the standards of secrecy already demanded by the brotherhood. No one, de Roussillon emphasized, other than the nine elders present here plus one more—the man to whom St. Clair would report during the performance of his task—could be permitted to have any inkling of what St. Clair would really be doing in Outremer after his arrival there. De Roussillon reiterated that, driving the point home not merely to St. Clair, it seemed, but to the entire assembly: no one must ever have any suspicion that André St. Clair had any other purpose in being in Outremer beyond his duties as a knight of the Temple. So important, and so sensitive, was this assignment that it had been deemed crucial for St. Clair to be brought here for instructions.

  Having set the proper tone of gravity for what was to follow, Sir Benedict then added that the chambers within which they now sat had been secured against any possibility of disturbance or infiltration. All discussions relating to the matter in hand would be held behind closed and guarded doors, and St. Clair would be given a thorough explanation of the background underlying his mission, along with explicit and unambiguous instructions on how to proceed, once he had committed himself to achieving the objectives set him.

  When he had finished explaining that, Sir Benedict asked André if he had understood everything he had been told, and when St. Clair responded that he had, de Roussillon immediately declared a half-hour adjournment for food, since many of the people assembled had not yet eaten that day. After this, he explained, all meals would be served formally and, as was usual, in the refectory of the Temple House with the other Temple brethren, and would be eaten in silence, to the accompaniment of scriptural readings from the daily office. On this sole occasion, eating together in private would permit the various brethren to exchange information from their various home locations. The meeting broke up at that point and everyone moved to the tables, where the food was uncovered and proved, although all of it was cold, to be something of a banquet.

  André St. Clair enjoyed himself thoroughly, making polite conversation with everyone who spoke to him, and acutely aware that
he might never again be able to eat, drink, and relax in such an august and distinguished company. The allotted time passed quickly, and at the end of it the gathering was reconvened and the serious business of André St. Clair’s instruction began.

  The white-bearded Germain of Toulouse began the proceedings, speaking from his place at the center of the semicircle of chairs that faced the single chair where André sat alone.

  “Sir André St. Clair, welcome to this formal session of instruction, initiated with the concurrence of the plenary Governing Council of our Order. We are aware of the circumstances under which you were brought here, and would be unsurprised to find you angry and frustrated. Unfortunately, it was necessary to have you removed from your situation under the threat of official displeasure and investigation, and to have those events witnessed and reported. You are a member of the novitiate of the Temple, and had you been summoned in any other fashion, the very fact of your being summoned might have generated precisely the kind of attention we wish to avoid. When our business here is completed you will be returned as a free knight, your honor vindicated and your reputation unblemished … Have I said something amusing?”

  André had flicked a hand, indicating that he wished to interrupt, and now he smiled in embarrassment over the elder’s question. “Forgive me, Brother, for my temerity, I had no wish to smile, but the thought of returning to Brother Justin, the Master of Novices, with my reputation unblemished has a certain … resonance that engaged my attention. The smile was merely unwilling disbelief … mixed, perhaps, with a small amount of terror.”