Standard of Honor

SEVEN

André St. Clair did not doubt for a moment that his life had changed radically with the formal conclusion of the induction ceremony in Lyon, for after it no single element of his daily life remained as it had been before. The rigid schedule of the Order’s regimen, based upon the ancient Rule of Saint Benedict, with variations and extensions added by Saint Bernard for the Rule of the Temple, stipulated an unvarying rotation of formal prayers and scriptural readings that occupied most of the monks’ time both day and night, and that was merely the most obvious of the changes affecting him and his fellow novices. But there were no intervals in the work periods between these prayer sessions in which a novice might snatch a moment for himself. It was as though the entire Rule by which they now lived had been designed to deprive the arrivals, collectively, of any memories or comforts that they might have retained from earlier, more familial times.

André watched the ceremony unfold with a feeling akin to amused incredulity, for he recognized elements of the proceedings that echoed, and sometimes came close to aping, passages and fragments of the ritual he had undergone years earlier on his Raising to the Order of Sion. But although this occasion resonated with pomp and solemnity, he experienced none of the sense of revelation that had overwhelmed him throughout the other. It was, he thought, as though the ceremony had been cobbled together by a group of men groping selfconsciously for ways to impart a sense of occasion to an otherwise sterile event. There were prayers and incantations aplenty, intoned by Templar priests and dignitaries among clouds of incense, and there were formalized, secretive rituals carried out in near-darkness, lit only by one or two candles, but it was glaringly obvious to St. Clair that there was no substance to the reality and no meat in the broth of the concoction. The induction ceremony was a spectacle designed to awe and intimidate those who participated in it, and most particularly the inductees. By the time they had undergone all the variations of the ritual involved, they were benumbed with visions of the greatness of the commitment they had made, and convinced that they were doomed to live thenceforth in perpetual meditative silence and would never again have time for frivolous personal pursuits.

In the few furtive moments when they did manage to scratch out whispered conversations among themselves, the former postulants tried to pretend that things were not as awful as they seemed, and that every monk within the Order suffered the same hardships, but they could see that was not true. The novitiate was a period of deliberately engineered trial and tribulation, intended to cull each intake of recruits remorselessly, to winnow out those who were unfit for the monastic life that lay ahead of them.

Well warned of that in advance, André was resolved not to be discouraged, determined to bite down on his dissatisfaction and struggle through, single-mindedly, to the end of this purgatorial process. He told himself that he was prepared for anything the Order’s martinets might throw at him, and he set himself to obeying every command and instruction instantly and meticulously, no matter how demeaning or dehumanizing the tasks set him might seem. And in what little spare time he had, greatly assisted by his ability to read, he learned huge sections of the Temple Rule, hundreds of paragraphs with numbers and subsections, by rote. Even so, he grew incredulous each time it occurred to him—and it did so daily—that the rules under which they were all struggling had been greatly relaxed in order to accommodate the rigors of life on the march.

It had taken them five days to win free of Lyon when all was said and done. The bridge over the Rhone there had collapsed on the first of those days, buckling under the weight of men and wagons crossing it, killing more than a hundred men. Richard had been forced to spend the next three days collecting boats and skiffs from miles away, up and down the river, to ferry the remainder of his troops across to the south bank. Thereafter, fortunate if they could travel twelve miles in a single day, the sixty thousand men of Richard’s corps had made their way steadily south for eight more days, marching on a three-mile-wide front until they reached the town of Avignon and swung down towards Aix, another day’s march distant. And as they progressed, to everyone’s astonishment, they continued to attract recruits.

On that eighth night, however, to the wide-eyed astonishment of those of his peers who witnessed the event, André St. Clair was summarily arrested and taken into custody by a squad of sergeant brothers acting under the orders of the Master of Novices. With no explanation, or even an opportunity to collect any of his meager possessions, he was confronted, his wrists and arms were shackled at his back, and he was marched away.

He spent the next few hours under close guard, locked in a mobile jail, one of the four that traveled with large bodies of Templar soldiers. It was a windowless, wagon-mounted, solidly built box of heavy wood, ventilated only by an iron-barred slit. No one informed him why he had been taken, or of what he stood accused, and he felt hopelessness and dismay like balls of lead in the pit of his stomach because, after less than two weeks as a Temple novice, he knew that he had no voice and no identity, no authority with which to challenge this injustice.

Then, in the middle watches of the night, after vigil and long before matins, when the darkness was still absolute, he was taken before a tribunal of senior knights assembled by torchlight in the Marshal’s tent. There he was arraigned by Brother Justin, the Master of Novices. He read out St. Clair’s full name—just his name—from a scroll of parchment that bore several ornate and official-looking waxen seals before raising his head and looking André up and down in silence. André stood erect, his head held high, sick with tension. He could smell the unwashed odor of Justin’s notorious sanctity from where he stood, four paces from the man, who stood slouched and scowling, his bottom lip sagging pendulously and his potbelly bulging against the stained fabric of his surcoat.

“You stand accused of perfidy, André St. Clair, accused of crimes so grievous as to annul all claims you might have held to entitlement for membership in this great Order.” He lowered his head, perusing the scroll again before he proceeded. “And yet … there would appear to be some doubt … some minor doubt … concerning the details of the charges.” He lowered the scroll abruptly, releasing it to close upon itself before he began to twist it into a tighter roll. “You are to be taken under guard to Aix, to the Temple House of the Commandery there, to answer the charges against you, in the faint hope of demonstrating that they are false and that you have been maligned and remain, in truth, faithful to the depositions you have made in joining this Order. May God assist you. Take him away.”

No one else among the tribunal had said a single word, but as St. Clair turned away he saw a face he recognized at the rear of the tent, behind the gathering: one of the postulants with whom he had been inducted. Assigned even at this ungodly hour to some kind of menial duty on the Marshal’s behalf, the fellow now hurried away, head bowed, but André was convinced the fellow had missed nothing of what was said. He was surprised that the foul-tempered Brother Justin had not noticed him and had him ejected at the outset. But just then one of his own guards took him by the elbow and led him outside, swinging him to the right outside the flaps of the Marshal’s tent, to where he saw the bulk of the mobile jail again, outlined in the flickering torchlight and hitched this time behind a heavyset horse.

His guards hustled him forward, and then he was lifted and pushed, almost thrown, and he fell on his knees in a corner of the jail box as the heavy door slammed at his back and the wagon lurched into motion. He was weak and trembling, his legs suddenly bereft of strength, and he had to fight hard against the urge to vomit. In misery more abject than any he had ever imagined, he felt his heartbeat surge towards panic as he grappled with the impossibility of the only explanation of all this that would come to him: somehow, against all probability, the false testimony of the three dead renegade priests must have resurfaced, so that he stood accused again of murder.

He sought to calm himself by practicing the new discipline he had been forced to acquire as a Temple novice, reciting the Paternoster of his daily prayers. He shut out everything from his mind except the repetitive drone of the words until his mind was numb, keeping count by numbering the knots on his prayer cord until he had repeated the prayer the requisite number of one hundred and forty-eight times for the day. Day had not yet broken by the time he finished, the cell was too narrow to permit him to lie down, and the rocking motion of the wagon was such that he could not possibly sleep. And so he lodged himself upright again and began anew to count his prayer knots against the next day’s required tally.

He had recited one thousand and twenty-six Paternosters, ten fewer than a full week’s quota, before the wagon swayed to a halt, and in the time that had elapsed he had discovered, much to his surprise, a stoic inner calm that felt secure. He had also calculated that one hundred and fifty of the prayers, repeated deliberately and clearly, would fill up roughly one hour of time. He had to close his eyes tightly against the blinding brilliance of the light when the door to his cell swung open, and he was content to allow his guards to move him about and guide him downward slowly until he was standing on the ground again. He felt the sun’s heat on his face and arms, and then they pushed him forward into the coolness of shade, and he opened his eyes cautiously.

He had been aware of their arrival in a city, one he had presumed to be Aix, for he had heard and felt the rumble of cobblestones beneath the wheels of the cart some time before, and the sound of raised voices echoing from close-crowding buildings had been unmistakable. Now he could see that he was in some kind of enclosed yard, with buildings on all four sides, one of them pierced by opposing doors through which the wagon had entered. The two guards who had escorted him from the Templar camp were moving about now, occupied in minor tasks and paying no attention to him for the moment. Directly in front of him was a wide doorway, framed in pale yellow sandstone and fronted by a broad flight of shallow steps of the same stone. Set into the arch above the doorway, a shield bearing the arms of the Temple had been carved in deep relief, and two white-clad guards, wearing the red flared-arm cross of the Temple on their left breasts, stood beneath it, flanking the great oaken doors. One of them gazed at St. Clair incuriously while his companion watched the men who had accompanied him.

Even had he not known their destination, St. Clair would have recognized the details he could see. He knew this must be the new Temple House of the Aix commandery, for he had heard it being described admiringly several years earlier, by someone who had watched it being built and had been crowing about the rich color of the stone, quarried on his own land nearby.

He closed his eyes, lulled by the warmth of the afternoon, and felt himself swaying, but before he could even straighten up, he felt his escorts’ hands on his arms again and he was propelled gently towards the doorway, where the guards leaned in to pull open the heavy doors. It was dark and cool inside, and his guards led him forward for some twenty paces before they stopped again, this time in front of a broad table, flanked by two more of the Temple House guards, behind which a wide passageway ran right and left.

His escorts snapped to attention and saluted a knight who had stepped from behind the table, his face expressionless. The knight listened while the senior escort explained who they were and why they were there, and then he took the warrant the man offered, thanked the two men courteously, nodding to each of them in turn, then dispatched one of his own men to escort them to the refectory in search of food. As they left, he turned slowly and gazed at St. Clair for long moments, until the sound of departing footfalls had dwindled into silence. Then he spoke to the single remaining guard.

“Find Brother Preceptor and tell him the prisoner has arrived.”

The man snapped a brisk salute and spun on his heel to march away, and the knight’s gaze came back to where St. Clair stood straight backed, staring at him defiantly.

“Follow me.”

He walked away, along the wide passageway on St. Clair’s right, moving with the authoritative gait of a man who had never doubted his own power. André blinked, tempted for the briefest of moments to stand firm and be as defiant as he felt, but then he remembered that he did not know what kind of trouble he was in and realized that defiance might not be in his own best interests. The man ahead of him was pulling away rapidly and had not even glanced around to see if he was following, and so André grunted and set out after him. He stepped out briskly, surprised to find himself enjoying the simple movement.

Twenty paces farther along, another passage crossed the one they were using, and just beyond that junction their passageway ended in a pair of doors that filled it entirely, height and width. The knight threw open one of the doors and stepped sideways, holding it for St. Clair, who hesitated at the unexpected courtesy, glanced at the man, then walked right through and came to an abrupt halt. A second set of heavy doors now barred his way, exactly like the first and separated from them by the distance of three paces.

“Sound barrier,” the man said, and stepped past André to swing open the second set of doors. André blinked and walked past him again, then halted just inside the doors, looking about him. The only need for a sound barrier that he could imagine was to shelter the ears of the sensitive innocent from the screams of the tortured guilty, and the thought instantly banished the stoic calm he had achieved with his Paternosters.

The large chamber they had entered appeared to be windowless, and yet light was spilling into it from somewhere. He tilted his head back and looked up, but still he could see no windows. High walls on both sides of him were paneled with wood and draped with richly woven tapestries. Ahead of him, on each side of a stone wall containing a massive fireplace, stood more ceilinghigh doors, and he realized that daylight was streaming through from behind them, too.

An enormous iron basket in the hearth contained a roaring log fire that threw heat out to where St. Clair was standing, just inside the door, and three vast stuffed couches fronted the fire in an open box formation, with the pelt of a great beast that St. Clair knew, from paintings he had seen, to be a tiger spread on the floor between them and the fire. Throughout the room oversized iron sconces, some of them with several arms apiece, held what appeared to be hundreds of fine, clear-burning candles. On his left, against one wall, a long, heavy table held an array of cups and tall, decorative ewers, together with what appeared to be an abundant supply of foodstuffs covered with cloth. The very sight made his mouth water, and he reflected, bitterly, that this bounty was unlikely to benefit him in any way. He was the prisoner here, mired in ignorance of what he had done, but under no illusions about the seriousness with which his transgression was being viewed.

St. Clair distinctly heard the doors close quietly at his back and turned to see the unknown knight in the act of unhooking a ring of keys from the belt at his waist. Without a word, the fellow stepped forward, gently turned St. Clair around, and unlocked the manacles that bound him, removing them and tossing them carelessly against the wall by the fire, where they clattered to the floor. Unbound, St. Clair tensed and prepared himself for whatever might come next. If the chance came to defend himself, he would not hesitate.

“Subterfuge, Sir André, subterfuge … Elaborate by necessity. This will all be explained to you, once the others arrive. In the meantime, I’ll wager you might enjoy a cup of wine.”

Without waiting for a response, and clearly not expecting one, he stepped to the table and picked up two heavy, long-necked ewers, turning back to cock one eyebrow at St. Clair, who had been eyeing the scuffed and battered condition of the sheathed broadsword that hung from the belt at the Templar’s waist. He hoisted one of the containers slightly higher than the other.

“We have a choice, thanks to the Bishop of Aix. One of these contains the deep blood-red nectar of Burgundy, the other, pure amber magic from the Rhine. Which would you prefer? I’m Belfleur, by the way. Plain Jean Belfleur, of Carcassonne. Red or gold?”

“What? What is this about? Why am I here? What—?” “As I said, all will be explained. Have the red.” Belfleur busied himself pouring, and handed St. Clair a brimming cup. “But we must wait until the others join us.”

“What others?”

“Patience, my friend, contain your curiosity, I pray you.” He waved towards the three couches fronting the fire. “Come, have a seat. I will not ask you about your journey here, for it could not have been pleasant, but I will tell you that when our business here is concluded, you will have access to a hot bath, to wash away the stink of your imprisonment, both literally and symbolically, and to fresh clothing, fitting for your rank. Your own weapons and armor will be returned to you.”

St. Clair could do no more than nod reluctantly, acknowledging his recognition of the other’s goodwill and feeling oddly abashed at his own feelings of resentment. But he moved obediently to one of the couches and sat down slowly, relaxing gradually and gently over the next quarter hour as the full-bodied red wine spread its own goodwill inside him. Neither man spoke again, but the silence between them held no trace of strain. Both were content, for different reasons, to await developments.

The effect of the wine, the heat of the fire, and the long night without sleep all combined to seduce André, who had no awareness of nodding off until he heard the doors swing open at his back and leapt to his feet, dropping the empty cup he still held as he swung around to face the imposing group of men who now strode into the chamber and spread out in a loose crescent, facing him. There were nine of them, of varying ages, some of them wearing armor and one, a Templar, standing half a head taller than any of the others. Red haired and ruddy faced, with bright, pale blue eyes, there was something about this man that reminded St. Clair instantly of Richard Plantagenet. This man was every inch a soldier and warrior, and he exuded the same kind of reckless self-confidence. He was the first to speak, tilting his head a little to one side as he looked directly into André’s eyes.

“Sir André St. Clair. Welcome to our House. I am Benedict of Roussillon, Count of Grenoble and Preceptor of the Temple Commandery of Aix.” He extended his hand, and André stepped forward to bend over it, but before he could begin to bow he felt the unmistakable pressure of Roussillon’s grip on his own hand pulling him up, and he returned it, his eyes widening in astonishment. The preceptor of the Temple of Aix was a Brother of the Order of Sion.

But the Count was already turning to indicate the others in his group, the first of them another Templar. “Here you have Henri Turcot, the Castellan of Grenoble and my staunchest ally, as well as deputy preceptor of the commandery there. Henri has just arrived, having ridden all night from Villeneuveles-Avignon. And with him came this young man, Henry, Count of Champagne, a brother of our ancient Order, but far removed from his home.”

The young Count smiled and inclined his head towards St. Clair, who responded by bowing deeply. Henry of Champagne was known to him by repute, nephew to both Philip Augustus of France and Richard of England through Eleanor of Aquitaine’s first marriage to King Philip’s father.

As Count Benedict went on to introduce the others in his company, some of whom were far advanced in age, St. Clair found himself becoming more and more awe-smitten as the awareness grew in him that the people he was meeting so casually here were the most powerful and influential men in the territories ruled by the two monarchs leading this third great expedition to the Holy Land, and that they were all members of the Governing Council of the Order of Sion. Their names were familiar to him because they were already legendary within the Order, honored and revered by all the brotherhood, but it was becoming more and more disturbingly evident to him that they had all assembled here in this place to meet with him.

Recognizing St. Clair’s confusion, one dignified member of this cadre, whose name was Germain of Toulouse and who appeared to be the eldest among them, called the others to order and reminded them that their guest had not yet been informed of what was taking place here, and within moments they had all removed their outer garments and made themselves comfortable wherever they could find a seat. When they were settled, Benedict of Roussillon stood up again and, speaking clearly and courteously, described the circumstances of this strange situation for St. Clair’s benefit.

St. Clair had been brought here, he explained, because the Council of the Order had assigned him a momentous task, a task for which he was uniquely suited, for a number of reasons, all of which would be explained to him in due course. Because of its importance, however, it was also a task that demanded utter secrecy, over and above the standards of secrecy already demanded by the brotherhood. No one, de Roussillon emphasized, other than the nine elders present here plus one more—the man to whom St. Clair would report during the performance of his task—could be permitted to have any inkling of what St. Clair would really be doing in Outremer after his arrival there. De Roussillon reiterated that, driving the point home not merely to St. Clair, it seemed, but to the entire assembly: no one must ever have any suspicion that André St. Clair had any other purpose in being in Outremer beyond his duties as a knight of the Temple. So important, and so sensitive, was this assignment that it had been deemed crucial for St. Clair to be brought here for instructions.

Having set the proper tone of gravity for what was to follow, Sir Benedict then added that the chambers within which they now sat had been secured against any possibility of disturbance or infiltration. All discussions relating to the matter in hand would be held behind closed and guarded doors, and St. Clair would be given a thorough explanation of the background underlying his mission, along with explicit and unambiguous instructions on how to proceed, once he had committed himself to achieving the objectives set him.

When he had finished explaining that, Sir Benedict asked André if he had understood everything he had been told, and when St. Clair responded that he had, de Roussillon immediately declared a half-hour adjournment for food, since many of the people assembled had not yet eaten that day. After this, he explained, all meals would be served formally and, as was usual, in the refectory of the Temple House with the other Temple brethren, and would be eaten in silence, to the accompaniment of scriptural readings from the daily office. On this sole occasion, eating together in private would permit the various brethren to exchange information from their various home locations. The meeting broke up at that point and everyone moved to the tables, where the food was uncovered and proved, although all of it was cold, to be something of a banquet.

André St. Clair enjoyed himself thoroughly, making polite conversation with everyone who spoke to him, and acutely aware that he might never again be able to eat, drink, and relax in such an august and distinguished company. The allotted time passed quickly, and at the end of it the gathering was reconvened and the serious business of André St. Clair’s instruction began.

The white-bearded Germain of Toulouse began the proceedings, speaking from his place at the center of the semicircle of chairs that faced the single chair where André sat alone.

“Sir André St. Clair, welcome to this formal session of instruction, initiated with the concurrence of the plenary Governing Council of our Order. We are aware of the circumstances under which you were brought here, and would be unsurprised to find you angry and frustrated. Unfortunately, it was necessary to have you removed from your situation under the threat of official displeasure and investigation, and to have those events witnessed and reported. You are a member of the novitiate of the Temple, and had you been summoned in any other fashion, the very fact of your being summoned might have generated precisely the kind of attention we wish to avoid. When our business here is completed you will be returned as a free knight, your honor vindicated and your reputation unblemished … Have I said something amusing?”

André had flicked a hand, indicating that he wished to interrupt, and now he smiled in embarrassment over the elder’s question. “Forgive me, Brother, for my temerity, I had no wish to smile, but the thought of returning to Brother Justin, the Master of Novices, with my reputation unblemished has a certain … resonance that engaged my attention. The smile was merely unwilling disbelief … mixed, perhaps, with a small amount of terror.”

“Ah, Brother Justin. Of course.” Germain of Toulouse smiled. “He is redoubtable, is he not? But you need have no fears of the Master of Novices. His fraternal loyalty is beyond question.”

“Fraternal? He is one of us?” The question was jerked out in astonishment.

“Of course he is one of us, and of incalculable value, considering the post he holds and the influence he wields within the Temple ranks. He will have no idea of what you are about, under his care, but he will do everything in his power to assist you upon request, and if you ever need to be away for any length of time, it is Brother Justin who will make it possible for you to do what you must do.”

St. Clair was flabbergasted, reviewing a mental image of the irascible Master of Novices, with his evil-smelling body, his stained and ragged clothing, and his pendulous lower lip that protruded almost as much as his swollen, tunic-straining belly, but the elder was speaking again and he quickly pushed all other thoughts from his mind, concentrating on the old man’s words.

“You have a cousin in Outremer, already with the Temple, is that not so?”

“Yes, sir, I have. A cousin of my father’s, from Scotland. Sir Alexander Sinclair.”

“And you have met this man?”

“I have, albeit briefly. He lived with us for a while when I was a boy.”

“And the two of you were friends.”

It was not a question, but André thought for a few moments before he responded. “No, sir, I cannot say that is accurate. We liked each other, I believe. I certainly liked him. But I was a mere lad, less than twelve years old, and he was already a trained and dedicated knight, sworn to the Temple. He was kind to me, and gracious, in that he spoke to me freely and with courtesy, and always showed me great consideration. Never once do I recall him speaking down to me or belittling me for anything I said to him. I admired him greatly, but I would be flattering myself to say that we were friends.”

“I see. And so, were you ever to see him again, would he remember you, think you?”

André shrugged his wide shoulders. “I do not know, Brother Germain. I would like to think he would know me, but I cannot be sure, after such a long time.”

“Would you know him?”

“Again, I think I would, and I would love to be able to swear I would, but I might not. He might have changed beyond recognition.”

“Aye, he might …” The older man’s words were almost sighed, and he sat silent for the space of several heartbeats before he nodded, as though to himself, and continued. “The truth is, he may be dead.” He inhaled sharply and looked directly at St. Clair, his voice gaining strength and clarity. “We simply do not know, nor does anyone we have been able to contact in Outremer. Sir Alexander Sinclair fought at Hattin and has not been seen since. No one saw him die, and no one saw his body on the field thereafter. Nor was he numbered among the knights slain on Saladin’s command after the battle. He might well be alive somewhere, a prisoner of some Arab sheikh or emir, being held in slavery or perhaps for ransom, albeit it has been more than two years now, closer to three. Your first task on reaching Outremer will be to find him. Find Sir Alexander Sinclair. Either that or establish his death beyond dispute.”

St. Clair had been watching the faces of the other brethren as Germain of Toulouse made this announcement, and what he saw in them prompted him to make a comment that he would not normally have considered uttering in such company.

“You make him sound very important, Master Germain.”

“And so he is. Your cousin, Sir André, is one of our most valuable agents in all of Outremer. His reputation among his peers is legendary, his military prowess equally so, but he has other qualities, undreamed of by his fellow knights. Gifted with an ear for languages, he was tutored by a trio of erudite Shi’ite philosophers from Aleppo, Damascus, and Cairo, who, for reasons of their own, taught him not only to speak Arabic fluently and without an accent but also to write it effortlessly and beautifully. They also taught him about Islam and the differences between the Shi’ite and Sunni sects, placing great emphasis, as was only natural, upon the disadvantages suffered by their own, the minority Shi’a sect, and its persecution at the hands of Sunni caliphs. Do you know much of that?”

“Not really,” St. Clair said. “I know that the religion of Islam has two kinds of followers, Sunni and Shi’a, and there is little love between the two. I know too that the Sunni are more numerous, greatly outnumbering the others.” He hesitated, then added, “I have also been told that their differences stem from the death of the Prophet, Muhammad, created by the quarrel over who should be his successor. The Sunni caliphs assumed the mantle of his leadership, but the Shi’ites believe the Prophet himself named his son-in-law to follow him and the caliphs disregarded his wishes and seized the leadership from the righteous claimant.”

The old man nodded, visibly impressed. “You know more than most of your fellow travelers, for the ruck of them believe simply that all Saracens are the Devil’s henchmen, existing only to be put to the sword. More than that, as Christians, they have no interest in either knowing or learning. The purpose of the armies, they believe, is straightforward and to the point: they are going to Outremer to wipe the enemy from God’s Holy Land, and in the doing of that, should they capture lands and territories that will enrich their kings and leaders, then those leaders will give thanks—humbly, one supposes—to God. There is but one enemy, to the Frankish warrior, and he is the Muslim Infidel. The fact that he may be Sunni Muslim or Shi’a Muslim goes ignored.”

Germain looked around the assembly, catching each man’s eye before he continued. “Of course, among the Christian leadership, that difference, that schism, is viewed as proof of the falsity of the religion of Islam. That it should have such a profound split at the very base of its existence, they say, demonstrates clearly that its foundations are fatally flawed, and that, of course, is a vindication of the purity and wholeness of Christianity, in that there are no comparable differences of belief or basic philosophy in its ranks.”

The old man’s mouth quirked in a grin and he cocked his head slightly to include his friends in the audience. “The difference between the Eastern, Orthodox rites of Byzantium and the Roman rites of our homelands are, of course, not differences at all, according to these theologians. They are merely nuances of interpretation. And of course, those same theologians do not even suspect our Order’s existence, so how could they suspect a difference in our philosophy or beliefs? We must educate them one day, my friends, for their own good.”

Most of the men listening to him were smiling at his little joke as he turned back to St. Clair. “But I was talking about your cousin and how important he is to our affairs in Outremer. By the end of his time with his tutors, your cousin had been transformed into a man who could effortlessly pass as a Muslim among Muslims. He traveled to Outremer and spent three more years living and working as a civilian trader attached to a Cairo-based trading house, traveling widely out of that city and uncovering and providing us with information.

“From there he moved to the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, abandoning his trader persona and taking up the duties of a Temple Knight within the Jerusalem garrison, circulating throughout the kingdom, ostensibly as a high-level courier but truly functioning as liaison between the brotherhood and certain active but equally secretive sects within the widespread but small Shi’a community—activities which he knew would not endear him at all to the Sultan Saladin and his Sunni supporters, among whom his current companions must number.

“It is one of the greatest ironies of our existence that, despite the overwhelming importance of Jerusalem and Palestine to everything it stands for, our Order is, and for the time being must remain, very poorly represented there. Were we discovered, was our existence even suspected, the Church would root us out and destroy us as heretics. And so that need for secrecy makes it nearly impossible for us to function in Outremer. We have been thrust into a situation there where we have had to make use of every advantage available to us, and that has included befriending the Shi’a community, which in Jerusalem is almost as small and endangered as our own. The Saracen Sultan, Saladin, is Sunni, as are all his hosts. We therefore have actively sought out friendship and alliances among the Shi’a community, proceeding on the ancient theory that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Your cousin Alexander was our main liaison in those activities, and most particularly in our dealings with an association that operates within the Shi’a community much as our own Order does within ours. They call themselves the Hashshashin, the Assassins. I see you have heard of them.”

St. Clair’s eyes had widened on hearing the name and he nodded, mute.

“Well, do not let what you have heard harden you against them. As usual in such things, where little is known and much is feared, what is broadcast is seldom even close to the truth. The Sunni have used their numerical superiority and their ill will, both political and religious, to blacken the name and reputation of the Assassins. But that is unimportant here. What is important is that the Assassins represent no threat to us. On the contrary, they and we are natural allies and have mutual interests, not the least among those being a fascination with the geometry and the arcane lore of the Ancients. Like us, the Assassins are a closed, secret society, and theirs is the repository of a vast wealth of knowledge that we hope one day to share in equality. We had suspected that was so for decades, but Alex Sinclair established it beyond dispute … I can see you have a question. Ask it.”

“But …” St. Clair frowned, shaking his head very slightly in his impatience, “how could he have established that beyond dispute, without—?”

“Without betraying our own Order’s existence? We had been aware for some time that, in order to gain the trust and confidence of the Assassins, we might have to show our own trust by exposing our own existence to them. Sir Alexander had the authority, at his own discretion, to proceed on that basis. When the time was right, he chose to do so, and his judgment has been amply rewarded.”

“And what if he had misjudged? What if he had trusted the wrong people with his information, what then?”

Germain shrugged. “What then? All that anyone would have is the word of one man, unsupported by evidence. What harm could ensue from that? No, there were checks and counterchecks in place. Nothing irreparable could have occurred.”

“And what now, then, should he be dead? Are you telling me you do not know how to proceed from there?”

“On the contrary, we know that your cousin left a complete and up-to-date report for us before setting out for Hattin. We even know where he left it. But the messengers, and there were three of them, who were entrusted to collect and forward that report to us, were all killed in the aftermath of Hattin. To the best of our knowledge, the report must still be where Sir Alexander left it. Should you be unable to find him when you reach Outremer, you will have that location in your possession so that at the very least you may find the report and send it to us.”

“And if I do find my cousin?”

“Then you will deliver the Council’s dispatches to him and work with him thereafter, assisting him in his endeavors.”

“I see.” St. Clair nodded slowly, his gaze moving from one to the other of the assembled group, although he continued to address Germain of Toulouse. “May I ask another question, one which you might find presumptuous?”

“Of course. We are putting your life doubly at risk, so ask us anything you wish to know.”

“Why is this more important now, today, than it was a month ago? I was arrested and brought here in haste. I could have been more subtly contacted weeks and months earlier, without risk or difficulty. I have been working with members of the Council for at least that long, on Sir Robert de Sablé’s behalf.”

Germain hesitated, then nodded. “Correct. And you would have been brought in a month ago, save that several developments occurred about that time and had to be verified and then considered at great length for their … political import. It would have been pointless to involve you before we were sure of what our path must be. Now we are sure, and our decisions have been made. But I am not the man to tell you about what they involve. Master Bernard, will you continue from here?”

Germain of Toulouse moved away and sat down, making way for another speaker, only slightly younger than he was. André St. Clair felt his heartbeat speed up slightly as the newcomer smiled at him before beginning to speak. André knew, from the information he had received from Robert de Sablé, that this was Master Bernard of Montségur, one of the trio of Joint Masters who supervised the affairs of the Order of Sion within the three ancient territories in which it functioned. The first and oldest of these three “regions” was the Languedoc, covering the entire region north of the Pyrenees, including the provinces of Aquitaine and Poitou and the walled towns of Montségur and Carcassonne; the other two were known as Poitou and Champagne, and together they covered the remaining area of what had once been Roman Gaul, with the Champagne region covering the northern third and Poitou the entire central area. Each of the three Masters—their ranks elected and held for life— was responsible for the Order’s affairs within his own region and acted as coordinator of the Regional Council. Of the three Joint Masters, de Sablé had told André, Bernard of Montségur was the most influential. He was also the one who conducted the Order’s direct liaison with the Order of the Temple and the network of Brothers of Sion who functioned within the Temple on behalf of its much older avatar.

“As my brother Germain says,” Bernard began, “much has changed in recent months, and, as always, we are late once again in learning of those changes. My brethren here all know what I am speaking about, but we have judged it important that you, too, Sir André, should be aware of what is involved. A ship arrived in Marseille from Sicily a month ago, and it carried information that might, in itself, have been encouraging, had it not been connected with another, more troublesome development. Does the name Conrad of Montferrat mean anything to you?”

St. Clair shook his head. “No, Master. Nothing at all.”

“Hmm. Well, are you aware of Barbarossa’s expedition?”

“To the Holy Land. Yes, I am. Everyone is. He is riding at the head of an army of two hundred thousand men, traveling overland from Germany. His host alone will outnumber the combined armies of King Richard and King Philip.”

“Correct. And do you know what this man calls himself?”

“Barbarossa?” St. Clair nodded. “Frederic of Hohenstaufen, Holy Roman Emperor, named Barbarossa for his red beard. Is that what you meant?”

“Yes, it is. But as Holy Roman Emperor, he rules an entity that is neither holy nor Roman. Nor is it an empire. It is a polyglot mass, a sprawling federation of barbaric and decidedly unholy German tribes. And it is far more Greek than it ever could be Roman.” Bernard saw the confusion on St. Clair’s face and added, “I speak now of religion, Sir André, not race. Barbarossa cleaves to the Eastern rites of the Orthodox Church, as it calls itself, and the See of Jerusalem has always been maintained by the Eastern Church, headed by a Patriarch Archbishop.”

“Aye, Master, I knew that. Warmund of Picquigny was Patriarch there when first we took Jerusalem. It was he who, along with the second King Baldwin, gave Hugh de Payens his charter to proceed with setting up his knights. Yet I detect something in your tone that hints at friction there, and to the best of my knowledge there never was any such friction.”

“Correct again. There was none. Not then, and certainly not on the surface. The Church’s presence in Jerusalem then was dominated by the Eastern rite, but the military power there was all Frankish, which meant it was Roman. The war that brought them there was called Pope Urban’s War, after all. But now things have changed, as I said. After he recaptured Jerusalem, Saladin permitted the Orthodox Christians to return to the city last year, with no other penalty than a light tax, and he allowed them once again to take over the administration of the holy places. That means that all the sacred Christian sites in Jerusalem are now back in the hands of the Patriarch, and the imminent arrival of Barbarossa and his hordes has thrown everything into hazard, because once they arrive and Saladin has been defeated and thrown out again, the predominant weight and power there will be that of the Eastern rite, and Rome’s power will be eclipsed.”

He stopped, watching narrow eyed as St. Clair thought about that, but before the knight could comment he continued. “Why should we care about that? Eastern or Roman rite, they are both Christian and therefore misguided in the eyes of our Order, correct?” St. Clair nodded, and Bernard brought his hands together in a single loud clap. “No, Sir André. Wrong. The moment Barbarossa seizes power in Jerusalem—and think not for a moment that he will fail to do so—one of his first concerns will be to establish preeminence for his own Teutonic knights. They will take over all the duties and responsibilities of the existing Orders there—the Templars and Hospitallers. They may leave some of the Hospitallers in place, the serving Benedictine brothers who minister to the sick and wounded, but they will remove the military brothers, and they will most definitely expel the Templars. They have no choice if they are to establish preeminence for their own Teutonic Order—the Temple has to go. And since the Temple constitutes the veil disguising and enabling our presence in the Holy Land, that means that we, the Order of Sion, will be ousted, too, our works, indeed our entire mission, abandoned unfinished. Do you begin to see why your cousin is so important to us now?”

St. Clair was frowning openly now, plainly uncomprehending. “No, Master.”

Master Bernard nodded. “Your lack of understanding stems purely from the enormous dimensions of the next logical step. If Sir Alexander Sinclair has been sufficiently successful in forging alliances with his Shi’a counterparts, he may be able to establish a solid presence for our ancient Order there, even after the Temple has been dispossessed.”

“Forgive me.” St. Clair held up one hand in entreaty. “I am still struggling with what you said about the Temple being ousted from Outremer. I find it difficult—no, more than difficult, I am finding it impossible—to imagine anything like that. It would take an open act of war by Barbarossa to achieve such a thing.” St. Clair looked around the assembly, seeking support but seeing only solemn faces. “The Temple will not meekly surrender its power in Outremer and simply sail away … will it?”

“No, it will not. That is what we ourselves would have said until mere weeks ago. But then the ship that I mentioned earlier arrived in Marseille, with tidings that altered everything we knew. The man who brought the information to us was familiar with what he described, and he bore written testimony from others to reinforce his claims. And here is what we now know to be true.” He nibbled at his clean-shaven upper lip as he sought the proper words for what he would say next.

“From all that we have been able to gather from reports, we have become convinced that Guy de Lusignan, the King of Jerusalem, is a fool and a weakling. Guy was driven into the folly of the fight at Hattin by conflicting advice, all of it bad, from the Master of the Temple, Gerard de Ridefort, and his arrogant and disgusting cohort Reynald de Chatillon. Had Guy been anything less than a poltroon, he might have ignored both of them and made his own decisions, but he did not. And his folly did not end at Hattin. He was captured there by Saladin, who treated him well and later released him, upon Guy’s promise to fight no more but to return home to France.

“No sooner was he free, however, than he broke his promise, on the unsurprising grounds that an oath issued under duress to an infidel cannot be binding. He then proclaimed himself King in his own right. But he was already late and feckless yet again, because a new player had arrived in Outremer. Do you know anything about Tyre?”

St. Clair shrugged. “It is a city. I know no more than that.”

“A coastal city and a great port. It was once an island, until Alexander the Great captured it by building a causeway to it from the mainland. That causeway is still there, forming an isthmus and straddled now by a great defensive wall that makes the city almost impregnable from the landward side. Saladin besieged Tyre hugely within days of winning the fight at Hattin, and so hopeless were the defenders that they were already negotiating terms of surrender when a ship sailed into the harbor there. Aboard that ship was an adventurer called Conrad of Montferrat. He and his companions were headed for Jerusalem and knew nothing about the war, nor about Saladin or Hattin. They had sought to land at Acre the previous day but had been warned off, with word that the Saracens had captured the city four days earlier, and so they had sailed for Tyre.

“As soon as he learned what was going on, Conrad took charge. He immediately cut off the surrender negotiations and prepared the city for a long defense. Saladin, who saw that he was now facing a long, sustained siege rather than an easy capitulation, promptly left Tyre and marched off southward with his armies to capture Jerusalem and Ascalon. He knew that Tyre was isolated and posed him no immediate threat, whereas Jerusalem was a prize ripe for the picking.

“Conrad, now the acknowledged commander of Tyre, became the de facto leader of the Franks, but Guy himself arrived in Tyre, having broken his oath to Saladin, and demanded to be acknowledged as King. Conrad shut the gates against him. The kingship issue was unresolved, he said, and should await resolution when the armies of the Frankish kings arrived in Outremer.

“The following spring, Guy led a tiny army, supported by a few ships, in an attack on Acre, further down the coast.” The old Master paused and shook his head, looking at no one in particular. “That was sheer stupidity, a gesture fully worthy of Guy of Lusignan, whom no one, even in his finest moments, ever accused of being either sensible or wise. The Acre garrison alone, I am told, was more than twice the size of his entire army, and Saladin, who was resting but a short march to the south, could have stirred at any moment and annihilated the upstart King and his followers as one might swat a fly. But Guy had no other option available to him. If he failed to attack Acre, making a last defiant and insane attempt to engage the enemy and win, he faced extinction. And so he did the only thing he could do, stupid though it might appear to be. Perhaps he had hopes of a miracle. He certainly had need of one. And by the living God of Moses, he found one.”

“As the sole conflict being waged directly against the Muslims in Outremer, Guy’s silly little siege attracted attention. A fleet of Danish and Frisian ships arrived later in the year, followed quickly by another from Flanders and northern France, and then Louis, the Margrave of Thuringia, arrived from Germany, leading another contingent. They all went directly to Tyre to Conrad, but it seems that Conrad, for no reason anyone can name, somehow made himself intolerable to all of them, so that eventually they all marched and sailed south to join Guy outside Acre, where Saladin had finally moved to attack the tiny Frankish army. It was then that our informant left to bring home the tidings of what had occurred, and the last word he heard before leaving Outremer was that Conrad had finally condescended to join the other Franks and lend Guy his support against Saladin.”

As Master Bernard’s words faded away, André had a vision of the scene before the towering stone walls of Acre and the tents and banners of the besieging Franks, but he had no time to dwell on it before another voice demanded his attention.

“So there you have the situation now in force—at least as far as we may perceive it.” The young Count of Champagne had risen to his feet. “The situation appeared to be tolerable when all we had to concern ourselves over was the advancing threat of Barbarossa, still half a thousand miles distant. But the addition of this new element has altered everything.”

St. Clair was aware of feeling stupid, as though he had missed something self-evident, and on the spur of the moment he decided to confess his ignorance. “Pardon me, my lord Count—”

“Your lord nothing, address me as a brother. We are all brethren here.”

“Aye, forgive me. But I am missing something. What is the relationship between Guy’s siege of Acre and the threat of Barbarossa?”

Henry grinned, a wide, attractive flashing of white teeth, dipping his head to one side at the same time. “I am glad you asked that. I knew you ought to ask it, but I was beginning to wonder if you might not. Good man. On the surface, there is nothing at all connecting the two, until you think about it, Brother. We here have had time to do that. You have not.

“The siege of Acre itself is not important to us, but the people involved in its execution are, and most particularly the newcomers: Louis, the Margrave of Thuringia, and Conrad of Montferrat himself. Both are high born, German, and proud in the arrogant ways of their kind. Both, by birth and feudal loyalty, are sworn vassals to Barbarossa. Conrad is a cousin. Their mere presence in Outremer ahead of his arrival paves the way for his conquest and for our dispossession.” He raised a hand quickly to forestall any questions St. Clair might have.

“You must bear in mind that the Templars in Outremer hold the line of battle on our behalf, but they are no longer the Army of Jerusalem, as they have been for eight decades. Now they are merely warriors fighting for a victory and a homeland, like everyone else in the field. And no matter what the people here at home might think of them and their supposed invincibility, the Templars have competition now that did not exist in earlier times: Barbarossa’s Teutons. He created them and shaped them. Here in the West we know little about them, but what we do know is troublesome. We have no yardstick with which to take their true measure at this time, but we know that he modeled his Teutons specifically upon the Knights of the Temple and the Hospital and we know that among their own kind their reputation is unsullied. But their motivations, obscure to us but dictated by Barbarossa, are, we fear, greatly different from those upon which they were originally modeled. The loyalty of both Templars and Hospitallers is to the Pope and the Roman Church, and the Teutons are loyal to Barbarossa and the Orthodox Church. And nothing, Brother, nothing on God’s earth is more dangerous than military campaigns based upon religious differences.”

Count Henry crossed his arms over his chest and cocked one eyebrow at André, almost but not quite smiling. “You said that it would take an open act of war by Barbarossa to dispossess the Temple, but you said it in a tone that made it clear you think that could not be. My suggestion now is that you might wish to review that opinion and consider clearly what is at stake here, when all is said and done. Do you really believe such a war to be impossible, while openly recognizing the current war between Christianity and Islam, and the ongoing internecine war between the Sunni and Shi’a branches of Islam itself? You believe it to be impossible that Roman and Orthodox Christians might clash in the same way and for more or less the same reasons—mere form and ceremony—that Sunni and Shi’a do? How can you think in such an illogical manner? Remember, we are discussing a potential struggle for ultimate hegemony, Brother André, with the prize being the minds and souls of all the world’s Christian folk—plus, of course, all that they possess in worldly goods—and the winner’s strength will surely rest upon the stewardship and possession of Jerusalem and the Holy Land.”

The Count eyed St. Clair again with the same amused expression he had used earlier. “Are you convinced of that now? Or must I seek other words to bring you to understanding?”

“No, Brother, I understand. How could I fail to, after that? But it is nonetheless disheartening to hear.”

“Aye, it is, but the fact that you should say exactly that makes it heartening that you are one of us. So, now that you have a basic, albeit hazy, understanding of what is involved, here is what will happen next. You will spend the next three days listening to all of it again, related from other perspectives and made relevant by others among our brethren here, so that by the time you leave, even should you be disinclined to believe me at this moment, you will be completely aware of what you are about and what you must do when you arrive in Outremer. From the moment you leave here after that, you will deal with one man alone, in everything related to this task that we have set you. You already know that man. He is Robert de Sablé and he will be your liaison with this Council. He himself will have two deputies, neither of whom will know your name unless something happens to de Sablé, at which point the first of them will open written instructions and learn your identity.

“In the meantime, you will return to your own detachment bearing documents that exonerate you completely of all charges and explain, officially, that you were taken in a case of mistaken identity. You will then leave for Outremer as scheduled, and your primary task will begin the moment you set foot in Outremer. By that time you will be a fully fledged knight of the Temple, your acceptance formalized on the journey, most probably in Sicily, where Richard is scheduled to stop for reprovisioning. But you will have another duty, too, and its importance will be paramount to you. As soon as you embark for Outremer, even before you leave Marseille, you will begin to learn to speak and read Arabic. That has been arranged, and we already know you have a quick ear and a gift for learning languages.” He paused and looked around at his companions. “Does anyone wish to add something, or may we set Brother André’s schedule for the next few days before we adjourn again?”

No one had anything to add, and so André St. Clair received his instructions and fell into a world of intense tutelage the like of which he had never imagined.