Shroud of Dishonour tk-5

by Maureen Ash

  Shroud of Dishonour

  ( Templar Knight - 5 )

  Maureen Ash

  Maureen Ash

  Shroud of Dishonour

  Prologue

  Acre, Outremer-Late autumn, 1201

  The Templar Commandery on the southwest side of a Cre lay still and silent under the silver shimmer of a crescent moon. Just before midnight, two figures slipped out of the postern gate and melted into the darkness of the city streets. They were both brothers of the Order and wore black cloaks with hoods over plain dark tunics from which the Templar insignia had been removed. Under their cloaks they were lightly armed, each wearing a dagger at his belt. Their faces were shrouded by the hoods so that only their beards could be seen, one dark in colour, the other tinged with a coppery hue. The dark-bearded man’s stride seemed confident as they reached the main street and started down its length, but there was a nervous agitation about his movements that belied his certainty. His confrere regarded him worriedly as he followed in his wake.

  It did not take them long to reach the entrance to the souk, a marketplace which, in the daytime, was filled with stalls piled high with bolts of cloth, silver jewellery, shoes, hides and spices. During the hours of daylight, it bustled with activity and sound-the babbling voices of merchants and their customers, the rumbling growl of camels, and the plaintive importuning of beggars-but now, in the darkness of the night, it was quiet and almost deserted. A few mendicants, young children amongst them, slept curled up on the ground here and there, protected from the chill night air by tattered rags swathed haphazardly about their bodies. The sliver of moon cast little light, but both men knew the way to their destination and threaded the labyrinth of mean streets around the perimeter of the souk with ease. The air was redolent with the pungent stench of excrement. Camel and goat droppings slimed the ground underfoot and human dung overflowed the sewage runnel that ran along the edge of the byway. Neither man took any notice of the offensive reek; both had been in Outremer for over a year and had become inured to the intense heat and noxious odours.

  The Templar with the dark beard continued to lead the way and did not falter until they approached the entrance of a brothel. As he came to a halt, his companion put a hand on his arm.

  “I do not think this venture is wise,” he cautioned. “Our absence from the enclave is certain to be noticed before long. There will be a dire punishment awaiting us when we return.”

  “If you are so fainthearted, go back!” was the angry response. “I did not ask you to accompany me. It was your own choice to do so.” His manner softened as he saw the concern in the eyes of his comrade. “Try to understand, I beg of you. You know I have not long to live, that in just a short time, I will be gone from this world. Before I get too weak, this is a task that must be done.”

  At these words, the other Templar’s shoulders slumped in resignation. “So be it, but I refuse to be an accomplice to this act. I will wait outside and keep watch.”

  With a nod of grateful thanks, his friend pushed aside the leather curtain that screened the door of the bawdy house and went in.

  A babble of voices was briefly heard before the curtain swung back into place. Among them, mingled with the native tongue, were accents from many nations. The port of Acre attracted traders from all parts of the world-France, Venice, Portugal and England, as well as travellers from eastern climes. The brother who had remained in the street slipped into the shadows a small distance from the entrance to the brothel. Nearby, a couple of burly Arabs stood, drinking from a goatskin flask. Both had curved daggers swinging from belts wrapped crosswise around their muscular torsos. These were the guards employed by the owner of the brothel. At the first sign of trouble, the whoremaster would bang on a drum and the two men would come running and use their fists and, if necessary, their blades, to restore order.

  After a few moments, the waiting man began to relax. There was no sound of disturbance from inside. Perhaps his companion would carry out his mission without his identity being discovered. If so, it might be possible for them to return to the Templar commandery and slip back inside, their absence unnoticed. How he prayed that would be so. As the minutes passed, he began to believe his prayer had been answered.

  Suddenly, the sound of voices raised in argument came from inside the brothel. It was followed seconds later by the crash of furniture being upended and the frantic beating of the whoremaster’s drum. The two guards dashed towards the entrance, pulling their curved swords loose as they ran. Just before they reached the doorway, a figure came hurtling out. It was the dark-bearded Templar.

  “Quick!” he said. “We must get away from here.”

  The pair ran back along the perimeter of the souk and melted into the darkness of the winding side streets. Not until they could be certain they were not being followed did they halt to catch their breath.

  “What happened?” asked the Templar who had waited outside the brothel. “Did you find the girl?”

  “Yes. But that is not why the alarm was raised.” The response was made in a tremulous voice and streams of perspiration ran down the ailing Templar’s face and trickled into his beard. The night’s exertions had taken a toll on his weakened body. With a shaky hand, he held the dagger up to the dim light of the moon. On the triangular blade, blood glistened darkly. “I think I may have killed someone,” he said. “An Englishman. If he is not dead, then he is sorely wounded. I cannot stay in Acre. I must get away from here as quickly as possible.”

  One

  Lincoln-May, 1202

  Just outside Pottergate in the city of Lincoln a prostitute stood. Her slim frame shivered slightly in the pre-dawn chill. She was a comely girl, not as pretty as some of the other whores in the stewe where she worked, but attractive all the same. She had pale blond hair, an impudent manner and a mischievous smile. Now her expression was touched with a hint of anxiety.

  She looked up the track that led alongside the city walls but could see no more than a few feet in the inky darkness. Daybreak would not lighten the sky for two hours yet, but this was the time she had been told to arrive and she was certain she was not late. Impatiently, she waited for the man she was to meet and, when a figure at last materialised from the gloom, breathed a sigh of relief. She had been promised ten whole shillings for her help in winning a wager that had been made, and she needed the money desperately. It would take only a couple of hours of her time, she had been told, and she could do it after she finished work for the night. At first, when she heard what was expected of her, she had been frightened, but the assurance that it was only a jape and she would not get into trouble had persuaded her to consent. She had to admit, even though the venture was daring, she was experiencing a pleasurable thrill of excitement at the prospect.

  A quiet word of greeting came to her as the man approached. “Hello, Elfie. Did you wear the cloak I gave you?”

  Elfreda nodded and twisted around so that he could see the hood hanging down her back. Her companion wore a similar garment; both were of brown wool and capaciously made. Hers hung well below the hem of her kirtle, almost sweeping the ground.

  “Good,” he said approvingly. “Now, pull the hood up over your head. Your hair is far too bright to escape the notice of any who might see us, even though it is so dark.”

  She did as she was told, pushing her blond hair back and covering it with the cowl.

  “You remember what you are to do?” he asked.

  “I am to pretend I am a man,” she replied dutifully, “so we can get through the gate of the Templar preceptory. Once we are inside, I am to hide in the chapel behind the statue of the Virgin Mary until the monks come in. Then I am to show myself.”

  The man nodded. They had known each other o
nly a few hours, since he had come to the stewe where she worked last evening. It had been while they were in the cubicle where she entertained her customers that he had proposed the scheme, claiming he wanted to win a wager he had made with a friend. The stake hinged on a challenge that it would be impossible to smuggle a woman into the Templar enclave and he was willing to pay Elfie for her assistance in winning the bet. The convincing argument that it would also be an enjoyable caper to play on the sanctimonious warrior monks had added an extra incentive to accept. His words still echoed in her ears. “They take a vow of chastity and swear to avoid the company of women, but Christ revered the Magdalene, did he not? Why shouldn’t a harlot, or any other female, be made welcome in their place of worship?”

  The words had been spoken in an educated fashion and the clothes he was wearing were of good quality. Probably the son of one of the rich merchants in the town, she thought, a lazy clodpoll that had nothing better to do than get up to mischief.

  “We have to walk along the outside of the city wall until we get to the enclave,” he told her. “Once we’re at the gate, don’t say anything, even if the guard asks you a question. Just nod or shake your head if he speaks to you, lest your voice betray you are a woman. I’ll do any talking that needs to be done. Do you understand?”

  With a saucy smile that carved two dimples in her cheeks, Elfie gave a solemn nod.

  The man chuckled, not loudly, but distinct enough to be heard. “Good. Here is the two shillings I promised to give you before we start; the rest will be yours when we are inside the chapel.” He handed Elfie a small leather pouch. She felt inside to make certain it truly contained silver pennies and gauged the weight by hefting it. When she nodded her acceptance, he gave her further instructions.

  “Now we have a brisk walk ahead of us. We must be in the preceptory before the Templars go into the chapel for the service at Matins. So step out, my girl, and lengthen your stride. You must walk like a man, not mince your steps like a female.”

  Motioning for her to go ahead, they walked along the footpath. It led upwards, for the city of Lincoln was built on the side of a hill. At the top of the knoll were the castle and Minster and, on the eastern shoulder, just before the slope began its descent, was the Templar enclave. It was surrounded by a high stone wall and no one was allowed entry without permission. To their right, at the bottom of the hillside, the distant light of a torch could be seen and, on the soft spring air, came the occasional sleepy whicker of horses.

  “Like I told you,” her companion breathed in Elfie’s ear, “there are so many Templars in the commandery just now they haven’t got room in the stables for all the horses, so they’ve put some of them into a makeshift pen down there.”

  As Elfie nodded her understanding, additional details were given. “That’s why my ruse will work. The commander had to hire some local men to help look after the mounts. I’ll tell the guard on the gate we’re two of the men that have been taken on and were told to arrive early. He won’t suspect a thing.”

  “Are you sure?” Elfie asked nervously.

  The man nodded impatiently. “The monks sleep until it is time for them to attend Matins. And they will be sleeping soundly, for it is only recently that the hour of the service has been put back to comply with the earlier arrival of dawn in the summer. They will not yet be accustomed to waking betimes and will value their rest. The guard won’t dare rouse them to check if we are telling the truth.”

  Elfie shivered. Suddenly her stomach began to quiver with fear. She had seen the Templar knights a couple of times, riding along the streets of Lincoln. They had been wearing chain mail covered by white surcoats with a red cross emblazoned on the chest, their faces sober and forbidding. And they were monks, too, protected by God, religious soldiers who travelled to far off lands to fight against the enemies of Christ. Would she be mocking God by going into their enclave? Would her soul be damned for what she was about to do?

  The harlot’s step faltered a little as misgiving gripped her.

  “Don’t worry, Elfie,” her companion said, giving her a gentle push in the small of her back. “You will suffer no recriminations. And you do want the rest of the money I promised, don’t you?”

  Reluctantly the bawd nodded her head and stepped out a little more boldly. The man smiled at her naivety and fingered the leather cord he had wrapped around his wrist, concealed by the sleeve of his tunic. It would make an excellent garrotte. His promise had not been a lie. No one, not even a Templar, could punish a woman who was dead.

  Two

  Two days later, Everard d’Arderon, the preceptor and senior officer in the Lincoln enclave, stood with two other Templar monks watching a troupe of knights and men-at-arms leave for Portsmouth on the southern coast of England. The bright spring sunshine glittered on their polished helms as they rode through the gate, and illuminated the black and white pennant held aloft by the standard bearer. The banner was not in the rigid rectangular shape of the Beauseant that is carried into battle, but was formed of two streamers that fluttered in the breeze, the black representing the sinfulness of the world the monks had left behind and the white the purity of their life in the Order. Once the contingent reached Portsmouth, they would board a galley and sail across the Bay of Biscay to Lisbon in Portugal, and then travel on horseback a little over eighty miles northeast to the Templar castle at Tomar.

  “May the hand of God speed their ship,” said d’Arderon, a solidly built older knight of over sixty years with a broad weathered face. “Our brothers on the Iberian peninsula are hard pressed by the Moors.”

  His companions added their prayers to his. Long exposure to the sun while on duty in hot climes had permanently darkened all of their visages. One of them was Emilius, a knight who held the post of draper and was second-in-command to Preceptor d’Arderon. He was a man of middle years, with sandy-coloured beard and hair, the wiry texture of both clipped extremely short. His left arm, irreparably damaged by a sword slash, was strapped to his chest in a sling.

  The other monk was a younger knight named Bascot de Marins. Although barely past his mid-thirties, his dark hair and beard were threaded with grey, premature signs of aging resulting from the ordeal of having spent eight long years as a prisoner of the Saracens in the Holy Land. Over the socket of his missing right eye-a legacy of the torture he had been subjected to while in captivity-he wore a black leather patch. He also walked with a slight limp, his ankle having been badly injured during his escape from the infidels. Until recently, he had been in the retinue of the hereditary castellan of Lincoln castle, Nicolaa de la Haye, and had spent two years in her service after his return to England. A crisis of faith had made him reluctant to immediately rejoin the ranks of the Templar Order on his return but, while staying in the castle, he had recovered both his bodily strength and his devotion to Christ. Now he had finally rejoined his Templar brothers and was looking forward to taking up arms in the ongoing battle against the encroachment of the infidel.

  “It will be only a few days now, Bascot, before you go on the same journey,” Emilius said, sensing his companion’s eagerness. “I wish I were going with you.”

  “And so you would be, Draper, were it not for your arm,” Bascot replied. It had been just outside the walls of the Templar fortress at Tomar, during a skirmish with a band of marauding Moors, that Emilius had sustained the wound that had sliced through the muscles of his upper arm and smashed the bone beyond healing, rendering the limb useless. No longer fit for active duty, he had been sent to the Lincoln preceptory to assist d’Arderon in running the enclave. The duties of both men were diverse-along with overseeing the training and outfitting of new initiates, they also bore the responsibility of administering the many properties in the Lincolnshire area that had been donated to the Order. The fees obtained from these lands were used to provide supplies and arms for brothers on active duty in overseas commanderies, as was the revenue obtained from a small trade in commodities imported from Outremer. Although both wer
e aware of the importance of the parts they played in support of their brethren, it did not lessen their longing to wield their swords in protection of Christians too weak to defend themselves.

  The three knights turned and walked across the compound towards the refectory. The enclave was modest in size, encircled by a stone wall with buildings lining the inside of the perimeter. On the northern side was a round chapel; next to it a two-storied building with an eating hall on the lower floor and a dormitory above. Adjacent to the chapel, alongside the western gate into the compound, was the armoury, a capacious granary and a storehouse. At the southern end stood the stables and blacksmith’s forge and, lining the eastern perimeter, was a gate out onto the hillside, the kitchen, a well and a wooden shed housing the latrine. The open area in the middle of the compound was used as an exercise and training ground.

  As the gates swung closed behind the departing troupe, the rest of the men in the commandery resumed their duties. Some of these would join Bascot in the next contingent, scheduled to depart in a few days. Now, under the watchful eye of Hamo, a brown-robed serjeant, a dozen brothers picked up blunted swords and returned to practise in the centre of the compound. The serjeant was a rangy monk with a craggy face and taciturn demeanour. He had been with d’Arderon for many years in the Holy Land, serving the knight as squire. When d’Arderon had been sent back to England in a weakened state from recurring bouts of tertian fever, the serjeant had accompanied him. Hamo’s devotion to the Templar Order was absolute, but his allegiance to d’Arderon ran a close second.

  As the three knights walked around the edge of the exercise area towards the refectory, the air was filled with the clash of steel and the grunts of the men as they strove to overcome their opponents. Dust swirled, the clang of the blackmith’s hammer rang out from the forge and horses whickered in excited anticipation as grooms led them out for exercise on the hillside below the enclave.