by Jack Whyte
“No, he was married to Queen Isabella, until very recently. Conrad of Montferrat took care of that. I know not how he achieved it, or how much it cost him—he must have had to dig deep into his purse—but he had the marriage annulled. Because it was a royal marriage, there must have been substantial and elaborate briberies involved—although one has to wonder where Conrad could have found a sufficiency of corrupt priests and bishops to achieve that kind of thing.” He waited to see if André would respond to his sarcasm, but St. Clair showed no reaction. “Whatever it cost, it was achieved quickly and effectively. Humphrey’s indiscretions and public misconduct were sufficiently notorious that it surprised no one when he was finally brought to account for them and his marriage was annulled. So Humphrey de Toron is no longer wed to the Queen of Jerusalem, and Conrad de Montferrat will be, as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Ah! And I presume Guy must have learned of this before he left in search of Richard?”
Douglas dipped his head. “That’s what drove him out. The word arrived soon after noon on the Friday, and Guy was gone from here, with all his followers, by dawn on Saturday. They struck for the coast and clearly they found a galley to transport them.”
“They found three, and they wasted no time in seeking Cyprus. And so, what is happening now with this impending marriage, do you know?”
“How would I know that? I’m a monk, André, a Templar like you. Potentates and kings do not consult me when making their decisions.”
“Well what do your cronies say? It is a juicy topic, made for speculation. Surely you must have heard something?”
“Nothing, save that it has not yet happened. The two lovers have been unable to coordinate their travels and their duties … and it seems both of them must be present for the wedding to take place.”
“No, that is not so. Not when the Church is involved. It could be done by proxy, were the officiating priests sufficiently powerful. And the Patriarch of Jerusalem, who would officiate in such a match, could make it so. Conrad is of the Eastern rite, I know. I presume the Queen, Isabella, would be, too.” He inhaled sharply. “I am going to have to find out more on this matter, for it sounds more urgent than I would have thought a month ago.” He looked about him again, then grasped his friend by the shoulder. “Thank you for this, Harry, for bringing me out here, but now I must return to camp. There are some people to whom I need to speak.” He did not mention that one of those was the senior Templar commander in the line, nor did he add that his current credentials were sufficiently impressive to ensure the commander’s cooperation, and anyway, Harry had already started walking back, content with the explanation he had been given.
A WEEK DRIFTED BY, during which André heard not a word from his cousin but was kept occupied by infrequent, minor skirmishes that kept him and his brethren patrolling various points along the walls of Acre. Then one morning, directly after matins, on his way to the camp refectory for a breakfast of water and chopped nuts and grain, someone clamped a hand on his right shoulder, and he spun around to find his cousin at his side. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sinclair cut him off with a gesture.
“You and I have to speak, now, and I have no wish to sit in the kind of company we are likely to find where you would go, so come with me and let’s find a horse for you. I have food enough for both of us, and the quicker we are gone from here the more pleased I shall be.”
André followed Alec wordlessly, aware that several of the men around them were casting unhappy looks at Sinclair, but even trying to avoid attention, walking with their eyes cast down, they were not able to escape unobtrusively. Someone raised his voice in a jeering catcall, announcing that there was a Saracen-lover among them, and within moments the two cousins were walking through a storm of verbal abuse. André reached reflexively for his sword hilt, but Sinclair seized his elbow, telling him to keep walking, look at no one, and say nothing. And that worked for a spell, until a burly bullock of a fellow deliberately walked in front of them and barged straight into Alec, leading with his shoulder. André had tensed as he saw what the other intended, but before he could do anything to intervene, Alec stiffarmed him from the side, knocking him off balance for a moment, and took the brunt of the other man’s shoulder charge upon his own shoulder, so well braced in anticipation that he barely rocked to the impact. He then sprang back and away, raising both hands in placation as though the collision had been his fault.
“Forgive me, Brother,” he said, both hands still upraised.
The other man blinked in amazement and then his face clouded in fury. “Don’t you ‘Brother’ me, you infidel turncoat,” he snarled, then crouched and shuffled forward, arms spread like a wrestler. The last thing he expected at that moment was the speed he encountered. Alec Sinclair’s hands shot forward and grasped the lout by the front of his surcoat, pulling him strongly forward and off balance to crash, nose first, into the flat steel brim of Sinclair’s helmet as Alec thrust his head forward. He then released the man, leaving him to rear up in agony, both hands to his ruined face, while he stepped quickly backward for a second time, raising his knee to his chest and pivoting slightly to kick out viciously, and driving his booted heel into the other man’s midriff, below the peak of his rib cage, making nonsense of the protective powers of the chain-mail hauberk the other wore.
André stood gaping at the swiftness of the punishment, but then he bethought himself and looked around defensively, only to see that everyone else appeared to be as shocked by the violence as he himself was. They were all Templars and all monks, and violence to a brother was unconscionable. Name calling was one thing, and apparently acceptable, but physical violence to a brother was a violation of the Temple Rule and endangered the immortal soul. And yet Sir Alexander Sinclair had been provoked and assaulted. Only when he was threatened with further assault had he reacted, and the fact that he had done so briefly, effectively, and with finality did not go unremarked.
No one offered to interfere this time as the two kinsmen walked away in the direction of the horse lines, and neither André nor Alec spoke a word to each other until they had retrieved Alec’s horse and one for André and had ridden obliquely into the dunes southeast of the siege works, remaining close enough to their own lines to give them a reasonable certainty that they would be safe from Saracen patrols, yet removing them completely from the threat of interruption by their own.
“Why do they all dislike you so much?”
For a moment, St. Clair thought his cousin was not going to answer him, but Alec was merely looking around, checking the lay of the land. “This will suffice,” he muttered, almost to himself, then set about laying out food and drink. He kicked a hole in the side of a sandbank, large enough to accommodate his hips and allow him to sit in comfort, his lower back supported by the rising bank, and as soon as André saw what he was about, he did the same. Alec then went to his saddlebags and took out a number of wrapped bundles before returning to lay a plain cloth out on the sand between their seats and piling it with surprisingly fresh-looking bread, some slices of cold meat that looked like goat or lamb, a twist of salt, a small jar of olives in spiced oil, and a flask of water.
“They dislike me because they are afraid,” he said eventually. “Afraid of what I might have done, of what I might have learned, of what I might know, or even of what I might not know. They know no shortage of things to be afraid of.”
“But they are monks, Alec, men of God.” That earned him a swift, sidelong glance filled with skepticism, and he flushed quickly, remembering their earlier discussion. “Well, you know what I mean. They should know better than to doubt a brother simply on hearsay.”
Alec looked at him in astonishment. “That is the first truly stupid thing I have heard you say since your arrival, Cousin. They should know better … How could they know better? They have no way of learning otherwise and no one is willing to teach them differently. These men are monks in name only, André. You know that. And they are far from being what I call men o
f God. And because of that, their observance of the monkish code is limited to attending prayers all day and night, and muttering endless Paternosters in between. Most of these men believe their entire salvation depends upon killing Muslims and saying one hundred and fifty Paters a day, yet none of them can count … How does a man who cannot count keep track of one hundred and fifty repetitions of a prayer? The truthful answer is that he does not, and so he simply never stops, preferring to say a few more prayers in sanctity than to run the risk of not saying enough and thereby sinning.
“These are simple, ignorant, unimaginative men, André. They believe what they are told to believe, they behave as they are told to behave, and they are all convinced, utterly and beyond hope of change, that no one among them is capable of engendering a single worthwhile thought. They believe that thoughts and opinions, along with planning and directives, emanate from above, from beyond their experience. And so they listen to what they are told, and they behave accordingly because none of them would ever dare to question anything that came down to them from on high. Thus, they have heard that I am intractable, that I hold opinions that run contrary to the Order’s view of things, and since they know that means I ought to be punished, yet can see that I have not been punished, they are confused. And confusion breeds fear and panic.”
“And so they abuse you, rather than remain silent and be thought to agree with you?”
“Something akin to that, yes.”
“So tell me, then, about Muslims. What is it you believe that so upsets everyone?”
Alec Sinclair nodded, then busied himself with eating, chewing his food thoroughly and making no attempt to say anything further until he was replete and had washed down his meal with water from the flask. André, who finished at the same time, leaned back in his sand chair and folded his hands over his belly.
“That was good. Thank you. So, are you going to tell me?”
“Of course I am. I believe that Muslims are people, just like us, with all the same needs, desires, duties, and obligations, albeit they differ in interpretation.”
“So you have said. But that belief hardly seems radical enough to cause the kind of concern I see on the faces of your brethren when they look at you.”
Sinclair nodded again. “Carry it, then, to the next step.”
“I don’t understand what you are saying. Carry what to which next step?”
“The belief I have. Take it beyond a casual thinking about the ordinary people, and think of it from the viewpoint I am about to suggest. It will make things easier for you to understand.
“I have been out here for more than a decade now … closer to two decades, in truth.” He reached up and removed his helm, then loosened the bindings that held his mailed hood tightly in place. He pushed it back and off his head, and scratched vigorously at his shorn scalp. That done, he squirmed, twisting his buttocks in the sand until they were more comfortable, then leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. “There! That’s much better. Now, back to history.
“I was of middle status in the brotherhood, just like you, which meant that I had learned enough of the Order’s lore, in certain specific areas, to enable me to go forth and build upon what I knew. Like you, I had learned the tongue of the Saracens before setting out, taught to me by men of great learning, Arabs all, who had much in common with our senior and most learned Councillors of the brotherhood. I could have gone to Outremer alone, right then, but that would have meant operating alone thenceforth, with no support, thousands of miles from home. Much simpler, the Council thought, for me to join the Order of the Temple, where we already had a well-established network of the brotherhood working in secrecy. And so I joined the Temple and came out here, and since then, until I was captured after Hattin, I went about my primary work … Does the name Masyaf mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“Probably not, but that was where I was sent first by the brotherhood, after my arrival here in Outremer. I was attached to an intake of Templars assigned to garrison duty in the fortress at Safita, the one the Templars call Castel Blanc. It’s in Syria, north and east of Tyre. My instructions were to establish myself there, and then to contact Rashid al-Din Sinan, using an intermediary in the town of Masyaf.”
“Sinan? I know that name. Isn’t he—?”
“The Old Man of the Mountain. Aye, he is. The imam of the cult called the Assassins.”
“God’s eyebrows! Why would you be asked to contact him? To what end?”
“To several ends. There are certain matters in which the imam and our ancient Order share a common interest, not the least among those being what would appear to such as you and me as ancient and indecipherable mysteries. Rashid al-Din Sinan prides himself upon being something of a mystic and a clairvoyant, and he is an ascetic. He is also supposedly pious and demonstrably ruthless, and his reputation frightens even Saladin, who should twice have died at an Assassin’s hands long since and remains alive today only through the best of good fortune and blind chance. How Sinan and the brotherhood first came into contact with each other I know not, but the relationship is now more than forty years old.”
“And you were commanded to contact him …”
“Aye, I was. Jacques de Saint Germain, who had been the Council’s main liaison with the imam for more than twenty years, had died some time earlier, and I was his replacement. Sinan knew I would be coming, so I had no difficulty in finding him, especially through the Temple.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Then pin your ears back, lad, for there are clearly huge gaps in your knowledge. The Assassins are a terrifying group and they hold all of Outremer in a thrall of fear. But forty years ago, in seeking to expand their power and influence within a new territory, they overreached themselves and killed King Raymond II of Tripoli. In retaliation, the Templars were turned loose against them, operating from their bases at Castel Rouge and Castel Blanc, and they wrought havoc among the local populace until Sinan was forced to sue for truce. And ever since then the Assassins have been paying a heavy annual tribute to the Temple in return for the liberty to conduct their own affairs.”
“But they are Muslims … how can the Temple treat thus with the enemy?”
“Because they are not the enemy. Your interpretation is wrong. They are Shi’a. Ismaeli Shi’ites descended from Persian roots. They are the deadly enemies of Saladin and his Sunni followers, but any enmity they may feel for us is merely incidental. Rashid himself, the Old Man, was born in Basra, in Iraq, but he came into Syria as dai, or Imam of the Cult, only a short time before the killing of Raymond of Tripoli. That may have been one of his early moves to assert his dominance, but if it was, it was a costly error. Soon after that, he entered into a relationship with the Temple. The two organizations have much in common, when you sit down and think about it. Both are closed societies with arcane rites that they conduct in secrecy, far from the sight and hearing of ordinary men. Both are ascetic, too, in every sense of the word. And both are dedicated to death, in a manner of speaking—dedicated to high and vaunting ideals and prepared to die gladly in battle to achieve and protect them. Neither one has much difficulty in appreciating the objectives of the other.”
There was a silence then, and when André accepted that his cousin had no more to add, he prompted, “So this is why your brethren distrust you, this association with the Assassins?”
“No, by God’s wounds! None of them even knows about that. That liaison was a personal relationship, a clandestine thing that I did not particularly enjoy. It ended when I was taken prisoner by Saladin’s people. I have not spoken to the Old Man since—although now, as you will see when you read my orders, I will have to. In telling you of this, I was trying to give you some idea of how much I have learned of many things … and how little I truly know. The simple truth is that I made a friend among the Muslims when I was their captive, a close friend and perhaps the best I ever had. He was my captor, the man who took me, although the reality wa
s nowhere near as simple and straightforward as that sounds. His name is Ibn al-Farouch, an emir in Saladin’s personal guard.” He smiled as he saw the astonishment spread over his cousin’s face. “It’s a long tale, but I think you might find it worth the hearing, if you have the time.”
André looked about him. “I seem to have no pressing engagements to detain me from listening.”
Thus, for the next hour and longer, André sat rapt while Alec Sinclair told him first the story of the Battle of Hattin and the loss of his friend, Sir Lachlan Moray, and then of his encounter with the injured Saracen and his subsequent capture by the search party who came looking for their missing leader, al-Farouch. And thereafter he listened eagerly as Sinclair described his life among the Saracens and his eventual and reluctantly acquired admiration and respect for his enemy and their ways.
“They have so much more than we do,” Alec concluded. “They have everything that we possess, but all of it, it seems to me, in greater measure, and they appear to appreciate it more than we do. Certes, they live in a harsh land, and most of them spend the major part of their lives living under tents instead of a solid roof. But even that permits them to remain largely clean. They pick up their tents and move to a fresh area whenever they so wish, whereas our peasants at home build a hovel in one squalid spot and there they stay for years, living in their own stink and sharing their abode with swine and cattle. And when the Prophet’s followers do aspire to build fine buildings, they construct them, it appears, out of light and air, with only gracious, swirling, weightless lines of stone and marble to hold them together. Completely unlike our dark, dank, and windowless piles of heavy granite stone.
“And they are clean, André. Saracens are clean in a way that we in Christendom can never comprehend. The words of the Prophet Muhammad lay upon them, as a burden, an obligation to purify themselves weekly at least, and before all religious festivals. They see no sin in cleanliness, whereas we, in our world, avoid it as we would the plague. Cleanliness, in our world of Christendom, is looked upon as some form of sinful depravity, as some Devil’s lure that will lead straight to fornication and the evils of the flesh. However, I am grown convinced since my return to freedom and the civilized company of my companion brothers that the rank, rancid stench of foul and filthy unlaved bodies and stinking, unwashed nether garments must militate strongly against any temptation to sin willfully with a bearer of such odors.”