by Jack Whyte
NINE
It took a full week of hard work, collecting wagonloads of wood—always in scarce supply in Palestine—before the monks, impatient with what they saw as yet another frustrating impediment to their success, had assembled enough fuel and torches to enable them to go back to work exploring the chamber, but it could have taken much longer had not Montdidier remembered hearing a report, several months earlier, of a wildfire that had destroyed a large olive grove a few days’ journey to the southeast. A train of five rented wagons, accompanied by a strong escort of sergeants, was sent out in search of the grove and, by one means or another, they managed to bring back four complete wagonloads of heavy, charred tree trunks, suitable for splitting and making into torches. Every candle maker in Jerusalem had been bought out of stock by then, and an entire barrel of pitch, purchased from one of the Arab traders, had been set in place below ground, and the monks began immediately making torches that would burn long and cleanly.
St. Clair was happy enough to find himself uninvolved in the search for fuel that week; de Payens, mindful that the younger knight had returned from patrol and gone straight to work on the underground explorations, granted him a three-day rest period, completely free of duties. St. Clair spent much of the first day simply lying around in slothful bliss, enjoying the sheer simplicity of doing nothing, but it was not in his nature to remain idle for long, and the following morning, after attending to the few allocated chores he had, he set out with the package that he had promised to deliver to Hassan the horse trader from his cousin and namesake, Hassan the Shi’a warrior. He had felt no urgency about the task until then, and undertook it when he did simply for diversion, because he knew that the trader would not yet have returned to the city.
Even before he left the stable precincts that morning, however, Stephen became aware that something unusual was afoot, because the streets were crowded and he could hear the hubbub even from a distance. None of the sergeants on guard was able to tell him what was happening, but it was clear the mood of the throng below was festive, and so he slung his sword belt comfortably over his shoulders, out of the way and yet easily reachable, and struck out for the marketplace beyond the walls, where Hassan’s horse stalls were located. He had an inbred distrust of exposing himself needlessly to the dangers of being a Frankish knight alone in a close-packed crowd of potential enemies, but the mood of the crowd seemed benign, and he felt reasonably sure that his heavy, mailed hauberk would protect him against the kind of sneak attack that would involve nothing heavier, in such circumstances, than a sly knife. He entered the flow of bodies and was quickly hemmed in on every side, the press growing thicker as he began to approach the city walls, and by the time the enormous wooden gates came into view over the heads of the people around him he was barely making any progress at all.
Finally, no more than thirty paces from the gates, he could go no farther. The huge, wooden barriers were closed, which was unheard of at this time of day when there was no attack expected, and now he saw that the crowd ahead of him was being held in check by a line of the King’s Guard, who had linked arms and were facing into the crowd, their backs to the empty street. He began to push his way forward to the front, ignoring the complaints of the people he displaced, many of whom turned to see who was pushing and then bit back their angry protests at the sight of the towering, blue-eyed ferenghi in the mailed coat. Before he could reach any of the guards to ask what was going on, however, there came a blare of trumpets, and the massive gates began to swing open, the noise of their ponderous groaning quickly drowned out by the excited shouts of the people around him, and the tension on the faces of the guards increased visibly as they hunched even harder against the pushing of the crowd. Knowing then that questions were pointless, St. Clair gave up the struggle to advance and simply stood there, looking over the heads of the people in front of him and waiting to see what would develop.
He could not have been better positioned to witness the arrival in Jerusalem of a truly magnificent cavalcade of newcomers, most of them fitting his concept of what he and his fellow veterans called damsels, in that they were fresh faced and obviously unweathered by the desert climate, their clothing, weapons, and accoutrements new and shining with bright, unfaded colors and heraldic devices he had never seen before. Three score of these bright-eyed warriors rode at the head of the procession, in fifteen ranks of four abreast, preceded by a tight, magnificently burnished and caparisoned formation of twelve of King Baldwin’s senior commanders, mounted on the King’s finest horses. The newcomers were followed by a group of musicians, drummers and trumpeters, marching to the cadence of a quartet of drums, and after those came the royal party, all aglitter with gilt and jewels and embroidered surcoats. King Baldwin himself sat on a throne mounted on an elaborately decorated bier surmounting three long poles, carried by four men to a pole, twelve in front and twelve behind, and as he passed by, royal servants walking beside his bier threw sweetmeats and honey cakes to the watching throng. And then, riding directly behind the King, on a well-sprung, flat-bottomed wagon drawn by a team of four stocky, well-matched, solid-looking blacks, came the Patriarch Archbishop, seated comfortably on his Bishop’s Seat, resplendent in his full episcopal finery and accompanied by his secretary, Bishop Odo of Fontainebleau.
At their rear, separated by another corps of drummers marching to a single drum beat, came yet another band of damsels, their magnificence outshining even Baldwin’s, and the young man who rode at their head, on a breathtakingly splendid horse of pale gold with a silver mane and tail, appeared as the very embodiment of a Christian paladin, tall and broad shouldered, with long, blond hair, darkly bronzed skin, and startling, flashing blue eyes. This was obviously the welcome guest, whoever he might be, St. Clair thought, and he was plainly glad to be here, smiling widely and displaying perfectly white and even teeth. His armor, in the Byzantine fashion, shimmered as he moved, its cuirass covered in individual leaflike plates of what appeared to be solid gold, and his booted legs, solid and strong looking as young trees, bore greaves of the same fashion, covering him from knee to ankle. From his shoulders, hanging down his back and draped across his horse’s withers, a full cape of thick, ivory-colored silk, bearing a brightly embroidered coat of arms, draped flawlessly, prompting St. Clair to wonder, looking at its perfection, if it had somehow been pinned in place.
The magnificent young man rode on proudly, followed by his bodyguard of damsels, who were followed in turn by the rear guard, appropriately another contingent of King Baldwin’s own guard, impeccably turned out and marching smartly, despite the age and worn condition of their armor, as though acknowledging that they could not compete with the finery ahead of them but were prepared to fight to keep their guests from being overtaken by the mob before they reached the palace.
As the last of the rear guard passed by, the crowd began to break up, many of them following the cavalcade but others beginning to go about their normal business. The guards lining the street formed up in ranks, preparing to return to their barracks, and St. Clair recognized the knight who supervised them. He stepped into the road and called him by his name, and the knight looked down and recognized him, returning the greeting.
“What was that all about? Who is the young demi-god?”
The other man grinned, but barked an order to one of his subordinates before he turned back. “That was Prince Bohemond of Antioch, new come from Italy to claim his father’s throne and pausing here to claim the hand of his betrothed, the Princess Alice. Where have you been, that you do not know that?”
St. Clair shrugged. “I’ve been on patrol, smiling at brigands. Came back but yesterday. The young man seems impressive. He is to wed the Princess Alice, you say?”
“Aye, as soon as it may be arranged, for he has a kingdom—or at least a principality—to set in order. It has been too long ungoverned.” The knight glanced away, towards his men, then raised a hand in salute to St. Clair and turned back to his duties.
St. Clair stood where he was for a fe
w moments longer, watching the other man marshal his troops and set them marching, but his thoughts were far from what he was watching. His mind was filled with thoughts of the princess and her coming nuptials, and he found himself, without expectation or rational cause, resenting the noble and handsome youth who was to be her husband, aware of a tight ball of envy and frustration forming deep in his chest and sending out discomfiting tendrils to afflict his loins, reminding him of images he had no real wish to recall. He hung there a little longer, hesitant, fighting an unreasonable and ludicrous temptation to follow the parade back to the King’s palace, then swung sharply on his heel and stalked away, surprised to find the streets now almost empty.
He was still fighting to empty his mind of thoughts of the princess when he came to the railed enclosure fronting the premises of Hassan the horse trader, and he paused to admire the three animals penned there, one white, one a pale dun color, and the third a beautiful dappled gray. All three were stallions and all bore the clean lines and unmistakable narrow muzzle of the pure Arab bloodlines. He wondered idly what they might be worth, smiling ruefully as he remembered that, even before the days of his joining the Brethren of the Mount, the poorest of the three would have been far beyond the reach of his purse.
“They are magnificent, are they not, Lord St. Clair?”
He swung around to find himself looking at a man he recognized but could not place, and he was sufficiently flustered by being addressed in his own tongue to neglect correcting the fellow’s mode of addressing him. Instead, he remembered where he had seen the man before and drew himself up, reaching beneath his surcoat for the package in his belt, then spoke in Arabic.
“You are the man called Nabib, who works for Hassan, are you not?”
The other inclined his head graciously and answered in the same tongue. “I have that honor, praise be to Allah. What may I do for you?”
“Nothing at all. I am merely the bearer of tidings. I was making my way towards your stall in the market when the procession approached.” He pulled out the package he was holding and extended it. “I was asked to deliver this to you to give to your master when he returns. It was sent by his cousin Hassan.”
The other’s eyebrows rose, but he allowed nothing else to show on his face. “His cousin Hassan? The warrior Hassan?”
St. Clair nodded. “The warrior. I met him in the desert, close to Jaffa, and he asked me if I would deliver this on my return.”
The hint of a smile flickered around one corner of the Arab’s mouth, but he merely inclined his head again. “Then it must be of great import, for a Shi’a warrior to entrust a ferenghi warrior with its safety. You may be sure of our lasting gratitude, Lord St. Clair.”
“Not Lord St. Clair, Nabib. I am but a monk nowadays, known as plain Brother Stephen.”
Again Nabib nodded. “The Prophet teaches that we should not belittle others by disbelieving what they say in truth, but in this I have to speak. Brother Stephen you may be today, but no ferenghi who can speak of Hassan the Shi’a as a friend could ever be plain. Accept our thanks and go with God, my friend.”
On leaving the Arab’s enclosure, St. Clair was briefly tempted to stroll through the market and indulge his love of sweetmeats, but the more he sought to forget about her, the more strongly the Princess Alice intruded into his thoughts, and he soon found himself becoming aroused, even in the crowded marketplace, as he pictured her with her new husband in the intimacy of her chambers, so that soon, verging close upon outright panic, he quit the marketplace and strode off homeward, towards the stables and the recent discovery that lay in the tunnels beneath them, renouncing any and all claim on the time off that de Payens had granted him, and uncomfortably aware that in the space of another single day, without the blessing of hard work to distract him, he could be lost again in the morass churned up by his awareness of temptation. He would be better off by far, he knew, floundering through the darkness of the place he had discovered beneath the tunnels of the Temple Mount, and he was relieved beyond words that in merely thinking about the massive chamber and the secrets it contained, he was able to purge his mind of thoughts about Alice le Bourcq.
Some of the brotherhood, he reflected, had begun to refer to the newly discovered chamber as “the Temple” when they withdrew that first day, purely because of its size and scale. But André de Montbard would have none of that and quickly set them to rights. The hall they had discovered lay beneath the level on which the original Temple of Solomon had stood, he told them, and he cited several sources from the Order of Rebirth’s own hallowed Lore to reinforce his claims, so that the others had no option but to believe what he said, and the new term for the place they had discovered became “the Hall.”
Much as the brothers liked and admired him, André de Montbard had always been something of an incongruity among them, in that he had been sent from France to join them—virtually co-opted to their brotherhood—by Count Hugh of Champagne, the Seneschal of the Order of Rebirth. It was a distinction Montbard shared with St. Clair, but St. Clair’s selection had been self-evidently attributable to his youth, strength, piety, and fighting skills, whereas Montbard’s abilities lay in other areas, which had only begun to be seen since the discovery of the underground tunnels.
That distinction alone set de Montbard apart, and might have been a serious impediment to his acceptance by the others had he been a different kind of man, for vassal to the Count though he might nominally be, all of them knew that de Montbard was far more wealthy and powerful in his own right than any other among them and could easily have made their lives intolerable simply because of that. That he had chosen not to do so surprised several of the brethren who had initially been prepared to resent him as a spy set to watch them. And thus he was an anomaly—a man of immense personal power in France, choosing to display or pursue no vestige of that power here in Jerusalem, and voluntarily sublimating himself in true fealty to serve as deputy for another. It was the very stuff of feudalism, but few people in the real world of ambitious and venal men ever made even a pretense of placing any other man’s demands and priorities—feudal lord or no—ahead of their own best interests.
Following his unexpected arrival, the others had soon come to see that de Montbard was, in fact, exactly what he appeared to be, no more and no less, and they had adjusted to the strangeness of that truth as being simply a part of the man. No one among them had ever had the slightest cause to complain about his bearing or his behavior in any respect, and he had comported himself exactly as one of them from the outset, assuming neither airs nor privileged expectations. Now, however, from the moment of discovering the Hall, de Montbard had begun to dictate requirements and instructions that were obeyed without demur by de Payens and St. Omer, making it clear to all of the brothers, without need of explanation, that he was following long-standing instructions of his own and that this situation was the precise reason for his presence in their midst.
St. Clair found de Montbard waiting for him a few days later when he emerged from his own cell, soon after the return of the wood-gathering expedition, and he paused, almost in mid-step, and cocked his head slightly, his eyebrows rising in curiosity.
“I’m going down,” de Montbard said without preamble. “Will you come with me?”
“Aye, give me a moment.” He spun on his heel and went back into his cell, emerging a short time later with his belted sword, slinging it over his head so that the belt hung across his chest, the long sword hanging at his back and the sheathed dagger dangling by his belly. De Montbard made no attempt to mask his grin.
“You think we might find opponents down there?”
“You do, too, obviously. I only came for these because you’re wearing yours … You never know, my friend. There might be demons, waiting to suck us into Hell the moment we lift that ankh. Should that be the case, I would rather go clutching my good, sharp sword than anything else I can think of. If it transpires not to be the case, on the other hand, we can use the dagger point to scra
pe the dirt from the grooves in the stone, and perhaps even use the sword as a lever.”
It took the two men the better part of half an hour to reach the subterranean hall and lower themselves to the floor in the basket hoist, with an ample supply of freshly made torches that St. Agnan, who had made them himself, swore would burn for hours. De Montbard carried two armloads of the torches, while St. Clair carried two small iron braziers, modified so that they would stand on the floor and support a brace of burning torches apiece. A short time later, the torches set and placed where they cast most light, the two knights knelt facing each other on each side of the ankh carved into the floor. De Montbard nodded, and they went to work, using dagger points to gouge out the dirt that had settled into the grooves over a millennium. It soon became apparent that de Montbard had been right again: once cleared of dirt, there was sufficient space beneath each cross-arm of the ankh to permit each half to be grasped on its own side like the hilt of a sword.
St. Clair took a firm grip and looked at Montbard. “Ready?”
“I am, but I think you might be better off on this side, too. Then we can lift together, from the same direction.”
St. Clair crossed to kneel beside the other man and gripped the “handle” de Montbard had dug out. But before the other man could move, he tilted his head back and looked his companion in the eye, a taut little smile on his lips. “You know,” he said, “it occurs to me that what we are about to do here might have a momentous outcome.”
De Montbard quirked one eyebrow. “Like what?”
“How could I know that? We haven’t done it yet, have we? But we have been scrabbling about in the dark down here like rats for a long time, a very long time, and now we may be about to do something from which there can be no turning back. The world we know might never be the same again once we have pulled on these handles. Should we not, perhaps, say something portentous? Something profound?” He frowned. “I thought I was about to say something tongue in cheek when I began that, but suddenly what I was saying feels true.”