by Jack Whyte
“He is your liege lord, Cousin.”
“No, Cousin, he is not. That status was forfeit, by his own design, when I became a Templar. You know that, because you had to forfeit your own liege in the same way. It was Richard’s own idea that I should join the Temple, and he knew when he made the suggestion that it would result in losing my services and my fealty. That has come to pass. Richard Plantagenet can make no more claims on me. But even there he was being duplicitous, seeking to sway my father into joining his Great Venture … and not because he needed him. Sir Henry St. Clair had no great, vaulting skills that Richard of England could not have found elsewhere. No, the simple truth is that Richard dreamed up, or was given, or otherwise conceived the thought that Sir Henry St. Clair should go with him to war, as a perfect foil against the ever-present threat of having his own father’s favorite factotum, William Marshall of England, thrust upon him as his Master-at-Arms. And once that thought was in his head, it became his will, and my father was powerless against it …”
Sinclair must have noticed the change in his expression. “What? What is it?”
St. Clair held up a hand to stem the questions. “It simply came to me that by the time Richard came with de Sablé to my father’s house on that occasion, to talk the old man into going with him, he had already decided on a path. Robert de Sablé was already destined then to be Grand Master of the Temple, and Richard knew it. And if truth be told, it might come out that Richard was the author, somehow, of that nomination. It would certainly not surprise me. But even so … If Richard knew that his friend Robert was to be the Grand Master, then he must have thought, too, being Richard, that he would be able to control the man, playing on his gratitude and his sense of obligation … and that would mean, in turn, that Richard must have thought the entire Temple would fall, more or less without volition, into his grasp. If so, he misread his man badly, for Robert de Sablé will play the dupe to no man, be he pope, king, or emperor. He has been Grand Master of the Temple for less than three months and already his independence is manifestly obvious. But he is also a member of our ancient brotherhood, loyal to the core and honest and trustworthy to a fault, and that is something Richard will never even begin to suspect. He will never know where his dear friend’s true loyalty is owed and paid. But that is of no help to us, here and now.”
He stood chewing on his lower lip for a few moments before lowering himself to sit on the saddle by his feet. “So,” he said then, looking up at Sinclair, “where do we go from here, you and I?”
Alec Sinclair laid his crossbow on the ground, then sat on his own saddle. “I have no idea, so I will be grateful for anything you might suggest.”
“Hmm … Well, speaking for myself, I have no wish to go anywhere near Richard or his armies. I might be content to hover on the outskirts of things for a while, but I doubt even that would satisfy me. What I really wish is that I were months and the breadth of seas removed from here, back in my home in Poitou, but that is plainly an impossibility. So in the meantime, I intend to immerse myself in my duties here, serving the Temple in whatever capacity is deemed to be suitable for me.”
“And what happens when we return to fighting? What will you do then?”
André looked up in surprise. “I shall fight. What else would I do?”
“You see no contradiction there?”
“In fighting? How should I? I am a knight-at-arms.
I’ve trained all my life to fight, as have you.”
“Aye, mayhap, Cousin, but I have had ten more years to weigh the verities than you have.”
“What verities? What is that supposed to mean?”
Alec Sinclair grunted, then grinned wryly. “I don’t know, Cousin. I don’t know what it was supposed to mean. It simply seemed strange to me that you could be so righteously angry over the slaughter of three thousand Muslims at one moment, and then at the very next be talking blithely about killing more of them. That, to me, is a contradiction.”
“No, Alec, it is not. Yesterday was an atrocity— murder, pure and simple, the victims bound with ropes and then shot down. What I am speaking of, on the other hand, is warfare, cleanly waged, hand to hand.”
“Infrequently, at best. More often from afar, with those things there.” Alec nodded towards the crossbows they had come out here to use, and André shrugged.
“Perhaps so, but each side has an opportunity to win and emerge alive, if not unscathed.”
“They still leave many people dead, to bloat and rot in the desert sun …”
St. Clair’s eyes narrowed. “You are mocking me. Why?”
“Not mocking you, Cousin, not at all. Merely questioning the truth of what you appear to believe, because I believe that, at root, you don’t believe it at all.”
St. Clair pointed a finger at his cousin’s face. “Even in your forested homeland, Cousin, that would be obscure and confusing.” He reached behind him and pulled his saddlebags to where he could drape them across one knee, and then he dug in one of them and pulled out a cloth-covered bundle that he began to unwrap. “Sand grouse,” he said. “Much like the grouse we have at home, save that they are even smaller. But I bribed a cook last night and purchased four of them for an outrageous price. Had I known you would be here today, I would have tried for eight. Here, have some. There’s even some salt in the twist of silk cloth there.”
They ate in contented silence for a while until Alec asked, “What think you of Philip of France? Will he recover from the disgrace of quitting the fight?”
André shook his head. “Philip will see no disgrace in what he did, and no one will question him. He rose from his sickbed and fought valiantly to bring down Acre at the Accursed Tower and was widely acclaimed for doing so, and within days of his final effort, Acre fell. Thereafter, he could state verifiably that his assault had been successful and his task completed. After that, he can argue, it was Richard who brought about all the troubles of the alliance, seizing the spoils of Acre, including captured lands, and refusing to share them with anyone, as though he alone was responsible for the two-year siege and the eventual fall of Acre. He offended not only Philip but even the Archduke of Austria, the lastsurviving and most puissant vassal of Barbarossa in the Holy Land. Not to mention that he alienated the entire nobility of Outremer, whose lands had been confiscated in the aftermath of Hattin and were now won back to be confiscated yet again by the upstart newcomer from England. Philip will argue that Richard’s arrogance and greed made the French Crown’s continuing presence here in Outremer untenable, particularly in the light of Philip’s extended and much-reported illness, with its attendant loss of hair and teeth. Bear in mind, he merely sailed away, almost alone. He did not simply pick up and flee. He left his army behind, to continue fighting under the Duke of Burgundy, and no one can complain about that choice of deputy … No, Philip will be treated as a hero by everyone who hears of his exploits without having to undergo the dubious pleasure of meeting or observing him.”
Sinclair nodded, looking pensive. “And the underlying truth? Why did he really leave, André? Your own opinion.”
“Greed, and politics. I believe he started planning his departure the day that Flanders was killed in front of Acre’s walls, at the beginning of June.”
“Flanders? Do you mean Jacques d’Avesnes, that Alsatian fellow? Was that his name?”
“No, d’Avesnes is a knight of Alsace, one of Flanders’ vassals, and he is very much alive. I meant the Count of Flanders himself, and I do not think I have ever heard his full name, or if I did I have forgotten it. He was an amazing man, from all reports, prodigiously strong, powerfully engaging, and unforgettable to all who met him.”
“What did he have to do with Philip, apart from being a neighbor and an ally?”
“Nothing, on the surface, but his unexpected death takes on enormous significance to Philip when you remember that he died without an heir. Flanders counted Artois and Vermandois among his holdings, and it is common knowledge where I come from that P
hilip has lusted after those territories—plus Flanders itself, with Alsace and the rest of Belgium to boot, all of them belonging to the Count—since he first mounted the French throne, nigh on a score of years ago. To have all those lands come open to dispute, and leaderless, while he was stuck out here must have galled him badly. That is why I believe he started making preparations to sail home the moment Flanders was killed … and those preparations included his heroic, widely witnessed, and much-lauded assault on the Accursed Tower. I believe he planned and carried out all of those things well enough to ensure that he will arrive home almost as quickly as the tidings of the Count’s unfortunate death, and the French Crown will move swiftly to secure the County of Flanders and maintain good order on France’s northern boundaries thereafter. Philip may not be the world’s greatest soldier, but he ranks highly among its most able administrators.”
“Speaking of which,” St. Clair added quietly, “I have not even asked you about your Cyprus duties. Those were administrative, were they not?”
“Aye, they were, after a fashion. I was to scout out and procure a suitable headquarters site for the people we will be sending in there to set up our operations on the island.”
“I presume, when you say ‘our’ you are talking about the Temple … or is the brotherhood involved in this?”
“No, not at all.” Sinclair’s denial was emphatic. “De Sablé and myself are the only two of the brotherhood involved at this stage, and I do not believe there are any plans to change that.”
“So you found a suitable place?”
“I did—in one of the Comnenus castles, naturally enough, close by Nicosia. A preliminary occupation party of twenty knights and a company of sergeant brothers left to sail there yesterday. We passed them at sea on our way in, but we did not see them. Just as well, perhaps.”
“Why so?”
“Because the bickering has already begun and I have no wish to be involved in any part of it. De Sablé doesn’t, either, but he has little choice in the matter. He is Grand Master and it was he who made the sale possible, through his friendship with Richard. But he has specific instructions from the Chapter House on what needs to be done. Not precisely what needs to be done, but sufficiently close to be causing confusion already.”
“I don’t follow. I thought the Grand Master had complete power within the Order. Are you now telling me that is untrue? How do you know that?”
“I know it because de Sablé told me when I spoke with him this morning, on my return. The senior brethren expressed grave concerns about these latest developments, and he agreed to be guided by their consensus in this single instance. The Order has never had a secure, self-contained base of its own before, and the brethren are anxious to make no mistakes at the outset of such a momentous advance into unknown waters, for the potential could be enormous—far greater than many people have ever considered.”
“How so?”
“Think about it, André. Think what is involved.” André shrugged, with one shoulder, as though to indicate his lack of interest. “I don’t have to think about it. You’ve already told me: a free, self-sufficient base of operations, close enough to Outremer to provide a solid, versatile launching point for future endeavors, and far enough removed from Christendom to be free of the prying and interference of snooping kings and priests. I can understand why that would be attractive to the Order. Anyone could.”
“Ah, but you are wrong. You see what I mean? You missed the import entirely.”
André frowned slightly, then dipped his head in submission. “Very well then, enlighten me. What, exactly, did I miss?”
“The scope of it, Cousin. You see, you and I, as mere men, think in man-sized terms. But the Order perceives a greater opportunity here—not merely to establish a base of operations but to set up an entirely independent state! An island country of their own, defensible and governable, ruled by and answerable to the Temple alone. That is their vision, and they intend to make their dream a reality.”
“By the living God! That is a grand scheme indeed, for the price of a hundred thousand gold bezants.”
“They only set down forty thousand, bear in mind. The rest is payable in time to come.”
“Aye, but still, that is … that is nigh on incomprehensible. And Robert de Sablé would rule it?”
“As Grand Master, aye, for as long as he holds the title. But I think Robert made a mistake at the outset, in agreeing to share any portion of his power as Grand Master, no matter how temporarily, even for such a grand scheme. I believe when he did that, he doomed the entire venture, because already too many mediocre men who should have no voice in such matters have differing opinions and are splitting into different camps. We now have factions, created almost overnight, with overt jealousies between them, and they are already squabbling over money. Besides—and I appear to be the only one aware of this—the Order itself has no respect for the Cypriots, with whom it must share the island. There is no thought of sharing. They are already talking about taxing them, brutally, and keeping them subservient to the wishes of the Order, but no one has said a single word about making any effort to befriend them or enlist their support or loyalty. And the place has only been in the Order’s possession for a matter of weeks, not even a month. I swear, it is a venture doomed to failure, mark what I say.” He stopped, noticing the set of André’s head, and then sat up and turned to look where he was looking.
“Someone coming, and not one of us.”
Alec Sinclair stood up, raising a hand to shield his eyes against the sun’s glare, and quickly located the shape of a man on a donkey, approaching along the crest of the dune on their left. He grunted and raised one hand high in the air. “It’s Omar,” he said. He lowered his hand, and the approaching figure, who was still far off but close enough for André to recognize him as the familiar old Palestinian who scraped a living as a water carrier, stopped and sat motionless for a count of ten, and then Alec raised his hand again, and the old man tugged at the donkey’s reins, turning it around, and set off back in the direction from which he had come.
“What was that about?” André asked.
“A summons. I am to meet Ibrahim tonight at our place of stones. He has something for me, probably a message to pass along to de Sablé. D’you want to come with me?”
“Do I? Of course I do. But I don’t understand what happened there. How did old Omar know where to find you, and how did he know you were you, from so far away?”
“There are not many places I could be, if you think about it. And he knew me by my clothes.”
“Be serious, you lying Scots heathen, and tell me the truth,” André exclaimed, for Alec Sinclair was dressed exactly as he himself was, identically to everyone else in the Templar community, in the white surcoat bearing the red cross of the fighting knights.
Sinclair grinned. “He knew me when I raised my hand in the air the first time. No one else would normally greet him that way. If they wanted him they would wave to him, or beckon him over. Then, when I lowered my hand, he counted to ten and I raised my arm again, confirming that I had understood his message, which is that Ibrahim will expect me tonight, or by noon tomorrow at the latest if I have difficulty tonight.”
“And how did you understand the message? Tell me that.”
His cousin made a moue, shrugging slightly. “The urgency is in the fact that Omar came out here to find me. Had it not been urgent, he would not have come but simply waited until we saw each other in the camp. The fact that he wore what he was wearing tells me that Ibrahim has something to pass on to me from his people. Omar has two kufiya head coverings, one black, the other white. When he comes to me wearing the black, it is simply to inform me I must meet with Ibrahim as soon as it becomes convenient. When he binds the black kufiya in place with a white band, it denotes some urgency and requires a more prompt response. The white kufiya, on the other hand, means that the meeting is urgent, and the black binding holding it in place told me Ibrahim has a message to pass o
n. It is really very simple. The code was developed years ago. I’m told it goes all the way back to the days of the first Templars, to Hugh de Payens.” He looked up at the sky, gauging the height of the sun.
“It’s nigh on mid-afternoon. We had better return to camp right now. I will have to meet with de Sablé briefly, to inform him that we are going and that he should expect a communication from Rashid al-Din. While I’m doing that, you can requisition fresh horses for us and have them saddled, and pick up some oats for the nose bags—enough for three days, in case we run into any difficulties. We’ll need three days’ rations, too, against the same possibility.”
“What about clothing? Will we wear armor or local dress?”
Alec Sinclair made the Islamic gesture of sala’am, touching breast and forehead in salutation. “One of the greatest advances made by the original forces who came here from Christendom long ago, before you and I were born, was the discovery that the people of these parts knew better than any newcomer ever could know what was best to wear in desert conditions. We will travel as locals and be undisturbed. When you are ready, bring everything to your tent and set up your squadron deputy to cover for you. I’ll meet you there. No point in flaunting our preparations under the noses of my fellow staff officers.” He glanced up at the sky again. “Let’s say, in one hour.”
André nodded. “Fine, but don’t forget, you have to tell me what you found in Cyprus.”
“You won’t forget it. How then could I? We’ll have plenty of time for that along the road.” They set spurs to their horses at the same moment and struck out for camp, not even bothering to collect their makeshift target.