by Jack Whyte
Will looked shocked. “Lust between men is unnatural, the foulest of mortal sins.”
“Aye, it is, I’ll grant ye that. And it’s disgusting even to think about, but it still happens. But is it worse than fornicating wi’ a woman?”
“Why are we even talking about this?”
“Because you started it. Is it worse?”
“Of course it’s worse.”
“Because it’s unnatural.”
“Yes.”
“Aye. So the other way—with a woman—is that then natural? Don’t get angry, I’m only asking you because I wonder why it is that you never try to avoid men.”
“Avoid men? What are you talking about?”
“I thought I was being clear. If fornication between men is unnatural and worse than the other, natural kind, then why do you not avoid consorting with men? A man wi’ the will for things like that could corrupt you into sin.”
Will reared back in his chair. “That is ridiculous. Not one man in ten thousand would ever dream of thinking such a thing. The very idea is laughable.”
Tam nodded. “I agree. It is. But so is the thought of your lumping all women into one mass of sin, as though they threatened your chastity.”
“That’s different. It’s not at all the same thing. I have no attraction to men. But I might find a woman attractive. And that would confound my vow.”
“What vow? Oh, aye, your chastity. Right. But tell me, when did you ever swear to deny a woman the right to live—the right to seek freedom or to escape an enemy the likes of de Nogaret and his animals? When did you vow to shun them all as people?”
“I never did any of those things.”
Tam’s face was somber. “You must have, Will, somewhere deep inside yourself. And you’re doing it now. All this muttering and mumbling only started when you saw that woman with us today.”
“That’s not true. I never even saw her from near enough to be aware of her as a person.”
“And yet she has been in your mind ever since?”
A brief silence fell between them, and Tam moved to sit in the armchair next to Sir William’s. “Have you ever really known a woman, Will?”
“That’s an asinine question. Of course I have known women.”
“Who? Name me one.”
“My mother. Several aunts. My sisters, Joan and Mary and Peggy.”
Tam shook his head. “Those are all relatives, Will. I was asking about women, flesh-and-blood people who are not kinsfolk. Have you?”
Sir William faced his friend again. “No, I have not, and you know that. You have been with me constantly these thirty years.”
“Aye, I was afraid you would say that. The sad part is that I believe you. But I was hoping I’d be wrong. As you say, I’ve been with you these thirty years. But I’ve had women, now and then, and you knew nothing of it.”
Tam watched the younger man stiffen in horror. “What can I say, lad? I’m a sinner. I’m a Templar sergeant, but I’m a man, too, first and foremost. I’ve been tempted, and I’ve yielded to it—not often, mind you, I’m no goat—and I’ve enjoyed it most times. And then I’ve confessed and been shriven. Forgiven by an all-forgiving God. You remember Him, the All-Merciful?” He leaned forward anxiously. “Say something, man, and breathe, for you look as though you might choke.”
Will’s eyes were enormous, his lips moving soundlessly, and Tam Sinclair laughed. “What is it, man? Speak up, in God’s name.”
That was effective, for the knight’s mouth snapped shut, and then he found his voice, although it was a mere whisper. “In God’s name? You can invoke the name of God in this? You took a sacred vow, Tam.”
Tam’s mouth twisted. “Aye, I know that. And I broke it a few times. But as I said, I confessed and was shriven and did penance thereafter, as all men do. We are men, Will, not gods.”
“We are Templar monks.”
“Aye, but we’re men first and beyond all else. And we have Templar priests and bishops to match God’s other priests and bishops everywhere, and nary a one of them that I know of but has a whore hidden somewhere. What kind of world have you built for yourself, Will, in there behind your eyes? Are you deaf and blind to such things? You must be, for they’re plain to hear and see.”
The knuckles of William Sinclair’s hand were white with the pressure he was exerting on the hilt of his sword, and when he spoke again his voice was icy. “We … will … not … speak … of … this.” Nor did they, for at that moment the doors behind them opened and they looked over to see Sir Charles de St. Valéry watching them from the threshold.
THREE
Sir William was on his feet instantly, crossing towards the older man, but the admiral held up a hand to signal that he required no help. As the others watched him, St. Valéry looked slowly around the room, his eyes coming to rest on the raw scar in the wall where the bolt that killed Godwinson’s fellow assassin had chipped out a large splinter.
“It stinks of lye in here.”
“Aye, Admiral, I was thinking the same thing myself.
But it is getting better. An hour ago, you could hardly breathe in here without choking.”
St. Valéry nodded absently and made his way towards the fireplace, and Sir William stepped aside to let him pass, but instead of sitting, the admiral leaned against the high back of one of the armchairs fronting the fire. He looked as though he had aged greatly in the few hours since they had last met. His face was pallid, his eyes sunk deep into his head, and the skin beneath them appeared liverish purple. But he held himself erect, and his posture was defiant.
“I have seen Arnold,” he said in a calm, flat voice. “The surgeons tell me there was little blood and that his death was instantaneous, which means he felt no pain. In truth, it means he might not even have seen death approaching. I would like to think he died that way, without feeling himself betrayed, for if he saw his murderers, he must have thought them Brethren of the Order. Such a betrayal, even the semblance of one, would have pained Arnold greatly. I shall regret his passing. He and I were friends for many years … more years than most men are allowed to live. I will miss him.” He stiffened his shoulders and drew a great breath, then turned to face Sir William, every inch the Admiral of the Fleet whose personal concerns must always be subject to the dictates of his duty. “But I fear I may be forced to postpone my mourning until later. I have been told you come bearing urgent tidings, Sir William. Tidings from Master de Molay himself.”
“I do, Admiral.”
St. Valéry swept out an arm to indicate the room in which they stood. “Do they have any bearing on this obscenity that took place here?”
Sir William glanced at Tam Sinclair, who merely nodded, his lips pursed.
“Yes and no, Admiral. I believe there’s a very real connection between what happened here and the tidings I carry, but I cannot yet be sure. I have no proof—merely suspicions. Tam agrees with me.”
“Hmm.” St. Valéry grasped the back of his chair and pulled it away from the roaring fire. “Then we had best be seated where you can deliver your charges in comfort.” The other two men took the armchairs flanking the admiral, although in normal circumstances Tam would never have thought of doing such a thing. As a mere sergeant, he seldom mixed directly with the knightly brethren, but he had known Charles de St. Valéry for so long that his own conduct had earned him the right to both sit and speak up in the admiral’s presence, at St. Valéry’s own insistence.
“There is little of comfort in what I have to say this night, my lord Admiral,” Will Sinclair said as he sat down.
“Aye, well, that’s appropriate, Sir William. There is little of comfort anywhere this night. Tell me what you have. I presume it is in writing?”
“Aye, Admiral, in the Master’s own words. Tam?”
Tam Sinclair removed the heavy leather satchel that was slung across his chest. Then, holding it on his knees, he opened the buckle and withdrew two thick parchment-wrapped packages, one of which he handed to St. Valér
y, who hefted it thoughtfully in his hand while he eyed the other package that Tam was returning to his satchel.
“The Master had much to say, it appears. Who is the other for, if I am permitted to ask?”
“Aye, Admiral.” Sir William waved a hand, and Tam passed the second package to the admiral as well.
St. Valéry looked at the inscription, and his eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “‘For Sir William Sinclair. To be opened on the Feast of the Epiphany, Anno Domini 1308. Jacques de Molay, Master.’” St. Valéry looked at Sir William. “The Epiphany?”
Will Sinclair shrugged, opening his hands to indicate his ignorance. St. Valéry grunted as he handed the bulky package back to Tam and took a fresh grip on his own, making no attempt to break the seal.
“Are you aware of what this contains?” Will Sinclair nodded. “And your own?”
“I have no idea, sir. The Master made no effort to tell me. He merely drew my attention to the inscription, so I shall find out on the Epiphany.”
“That sounds ominous. Frightening, even, since this is October. Three months for you to wait, in which time much could happen to affect your instructions—if instructions they be. Give me the gist, if you will, of what this one of mine contains. I’ll read it afterwards.”
Sir William inhaled sharply and stood up, moving to stand by the side of the fireplace, where he could look directly at the admiral. “As you know, the Pope himself summoned the Master home to France from Cyprus more than eight months ago, giving Monsieur de Molay no hint of why he was called or what was expected of him other than that he was to meet with Pope and King on matters pertaining to the future welfare of the Order and the proposed amalgamation of the Orders of the Temple and the Hospitallers, which Master de Molay has always vehemently opposed on several grounds.”
St. Valéry grunted. “I am familiar with the Master’s objections. Are you opposed?”
Sinclair nodded. “I am, Admiral. The Master fears the loss of our identity were we to join with Hospital. We all do, to some extent.”
“Tell me more, then.”
The younger knight brought his hands together in front of him. “Well, for one thing, the Hospital is far larger and more complex than our own Order—more diverse in its activities and less strict in its interpretation of its role and its duties. The Hospitallers have never been warriors before all else, and the Master fears we would lose our imperative need to win back the Holy Land in consequence. He also fears the duplication of installations in the cities—who would survive the amalgamation of those, Temple or Hospital? And who—which administration—would survive the consolidation? All of these things concern him, and he has found little satisfaction in the course of several meetings with Pope Clement in Poitiers and with King Philip in Paris, but nothing concrete has resulted in either case. And so our Master has sat waiting in Paris these two months past, wondering what might be afoot, but obedient to the King’s will. But then, less than a month ago, Master de Molay received a warning of a plot against the Order, which he treated with the utmost urgency. I have no idea whence it came, but I received the strong impression, purely through listening to what was and was not said, that it sprang from a trustworthy source close to King Philip himself, or to his minister and chief lawyer, de Nogaret.”
St. Valéry nodded, his expression serene. “I see. And to what end does this plot exist? Our money, obviously, and a move to confiscate it, since de Nogaret is in charge. What is involved, and how extensive is it?”
“More than you could possibly imagine, Sir Charles. When I found myself sitting across from Master de Molay and being entrusted with this secret, the scope of it appalled me to the point of thinking the Master had gone mad and was seeing demons everywhere. But in fact he had known of the plot for ten days by then and had had doubts of his own on first hearing of it. The source, he told me, was unimpeachable, and that had caused him sufficient concern to begin making arrangements, just in case the threat proved real.
“The warning was confirmed the very morning of the day I saw the Master, less than two weeks ago now. A second, more detailed report had arrived from the same trusted source. By the time the Master called me into his presence, his plans were in place, and I have been working at them ever since.”
St. Valéry was now frowning. “You make it sound like the end of the world.”
“It is, as far as we are concerned.” Sir William’s response was that of a commander to a subordinate, and St. Valéry took note of it. “It is the end of our world, here in France. Philip Capet, our beloved King, has his armies poised to act against us. His armies, Sir Charles. And his minions. The entire assembled powers of the Kingdom of France are being brought to bear upon us in one single, unprecedented coup. His creature, William de Nogaret, has issued instructions from his monarch to his army to arrest every Templar in the realm of France at daybreak on the morning of Friday, the thirteenth of October.” St. Valéry stiffened. “That … that is simply unbelievable!”
“Aye, it is. It is also tomorrow.”
“This is preposterous.”
“I agree. No argument on that from me. But it is also true. The King’s men will be hammering at these doors tomorrow morning at first light.”
St. Valéry sat dumbstruck, and Sir William could guess the thoughts that must be surging through his head. Every Templar in the realm of France, arrested and imprisoned in one day? That was preposterous. There were thousands of Temple brethren in France, from one end of it to the other, and very few of them were soldiers. For the past hundred years the vast majority of so-called Templars had never borne arms of any kind. In reality they were honorary or associate brethren: merchants and bankers, clerics and shopkeepers, traders and artisans, guildsmen and local governors; the men who made the massive empire of the Temple function smoothly. The Order of the Temple was the richest civil institution in the world, and for two hundred years its military arm had been the standing army of the Church, the only regular fighting force in all of Christendom, with never a blemish on its record of probity and service. The vaunted Hospitallers were rivals nowadays, but beside the Templars, the original military order, their record was unimpressive. Small wonder that the admiral was stricken dumb by the mere idea that such an edifice as the Temple could be even threatened, let alone toppled, by a single, greedy King.
St. Valéry, however, was showing his mettle. Rather than fulminating in disbelief, he had brought his attention to bear on the situation with which he was faced. He looked now at Sir William, his jaw set in a hard line. “So what are my instructions? Am I to surrender my fleet?”
Will Sinclair actually smiled. “Never. You are to work all night tonight, in preparation for tomorrow, and then withdraw your laden vessels to safety offshore, where they cannot be reached. There is still some doubt in the Master’s mind about whether the warning is real or not, but there is none in mine.
“If tomorrow brings disaster, as I expect it to, you are to take your fleet out of France to safety, to await a resolution of this affair, for reason demands that it must be resolved eventually. But until it is, and reparations have been made by either side, you will remain at sea if need be, husbanding your resources. And you will take me with you, as escort to our Order’s Treasure.”
The admiral’s jaw dropped. “You have the Treasure here? The Templar Treasure?”
“Not here in La Rochelle, but close by.”
“How did you get it out of Paris?”
“It was not in Paris, has not been for the past ten years. It has been buried safely in a cavern in the forest of Fontainebleau since then. The Master ordered it moved secretly at that time, to keep it safe.”
“Ten years ago? Safe from whom, in God’s holy name?”
“From the men now seeking it, Sir Charles. From Philip Capet and William de Nogaret. There was no threat at that time. Master de Molay was merely being a careful steward, as is his duty.”
“So …” St. Valéry cleared his throat. “Am I to understand that
you two men, accompanied by a small group of sergeant brothers, transported the entire Treasure of the Temple half the length of France unaided? How large is this treasure? Has it grown much since last you saw it?”
Sir William shook his head. “Not at all, Commander. The Templar Treasure is not the Order’s worldly wealth. Those are two different things. I saw the same four chests that were shipped out from the siege of Acre, and as closely as I could calculate, they contained the same bone-crunching weight they owned formerly.”
St. Valéry looked directly at the younger knight and posed the question foremost in his mind. “What do they hold? Did you ever learn?”
Sir William smiled. “You know I am bound by oath to tell no one anything on that subject, Sir Charles. Even so, I know no more than you.”
St. Valéry nodded. “Of course. And yet neither I nor my dear friend Arnold, God rest his soul, after our lifetimes of service, ever set eyes on the Treasure, whereas you have been entrusted with its safety twice now.”
“Not quite, Admiral. I have accompanied the Treasure twice and seen the chests containing it on both occasions. But the responsibility for its safety on the first occasion lay with our late Master Tibauld Gaudin. His was the charge to bear it northward to safety from Acre to Sidon. I merely sailed with him.”
“But this time the charge is yours. How did you transport it here?”
“Under heavy escort. I told you the Master had been planning ever since he first heard of this plot. He summoned me to Paris as soon as he received the first warning, and at the same time he began assembling a substantial force for the duty of protecting the Treasure.”
St. Valéry sat forward intently. “Substantial? How many?”
“Five score, a hundred of our brotherhood, fully equipped and supplied: horses, armor, weapons, squires, grooms, smiths, everything.”