Katherine Kurtz - Knights Templar 01 - Temple and the Stone

KATHERINE KURTZ AND DEBORAH TURNER HARRIS

For Richard Bruce McMillan, "Mr. History," whose name recalls one of Scotland's most illustrious kings.

Without doubt, teaching our young about their past is one of the most noble of human occupations.

PROLOGUE

ON A STORMY, SNOW-DRIVEN NIGHT IN MARCH OF 1286, fulfilling a prophecy of Thomas

the Rhymer, Alexander III of Scotland met his death untimely when his horse plunged over a cliff near

Kinghorn, across the firth from Edinburgh, as he hurried to rejoin his young bride of less than a year. No

children had come of this union, and all three children of his previous marriage had predeceased him,

both sons dying without issue. His daughter, married to King Eric Magnusson of Norway, had died giving

birth to her only child: a princess called Margaret like herself, to be known as the Maid of Norway.

Upon this solitary grandchild of Alexander III now devolved all the hopes of the noble house of

Canmore, whose royal line had ruled Scotland for more than two centuries.

But de jure succession to the Scottish throne and de facto accession to it might be entirely different

propositions, for the new Queen of Scots was a child of less than three years, and King Edward of

England had been casting acquisitive eyes at northern neighbor for nearly two decades. Knowing that

Edward must be appeased, Margaret's father and selected representatives of the Scottish nobility

declared a regency in her name and began immediately to explore ways and means by which the child

might take up her birthright. Four years of careful negotiation concluded in an agreement whereby

Margaret would be wed to Edward's eldest son, Edward of Caernarvon, their issue eventually to rule

Scotland and England under one crown, thereby achieving by diplomacy what the English king had

feared he must win by force-though that specter remained a veiled threat that was never far from the

minds of the Scots nobility.

So confident was Edward in his aspirations that, even before the marriage treaty was drawn up at

Birgham in July of 1290, he had dispatched an English ship to fetch his son's child-bride home, its hold

laden with gingerbread, sugar loaves, and toys for the little Maid.

But Margaret's father returned it empty and without her, preferring to entrust his daughter to a ship of his

own choosing.

Part I

Chapter One

IN MID-SEPTEMBER OF 1290, UNDER CLEAR SKIES AND WITH a brisk following breeze, a

stout Norse-built cog set sail from the Norwegian port of Bergen, carrying to her wedding with England

the seven-year-old Margaret Queen of Scots, known as the Maid of Norway.

The marriage had been arranged, in part, through the offices of the bearded, white-cloaked man standing

at the taffrail of the Maid's ship. Fr‚re Arnault de Saint Clair, Knight of the Temple of Jerusalem, had

been among a number of outside negotiators whose assistance had facilitated the Treaty of Birgham; for

the Temple's reputation for impartial arbitration was recognized universally, and the fortunes both of

Scotland and of England were of great interest to all of Europe.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

A singular array of qualifications commended Fr‚re Arnault to his present assignment. Though a veteran

of nearly twenty years' service as a Knight Templar, much of it in and around the Holy Land, he had been

based for most of the past decade at the Order's Paris Temple, where he was regularly entrusted with

sensitive financial and diplomatic missions on behalf of the Visitor of France, who was second only to the

Grand Master, and the highest ranking Templar in Europe.

Landless youngest son of a prosperous Breton knight, facile in a handful of languages besides his native

French, Arnault moved with equal ease among courtiers and churchmen as on the battlefield, as glib of

tongue as he was quick of wit and fleet of sword. Coupled with the fortunes of his birth, an

accompanying spiritual inclination might have led him to a rich sinecure as clerkly chancellor of some

great house or even an eventual mitre; but a parallel excellence in the knightly pursuits at which his elder

brothers excelled had directed him instead to a vocation as a Knight Templar.

These circumstances, along with an awareness of Scottish affairs-by dint of collateral cousins in

Scotland-had earned him an appointment to the Birgham delegation beside Fr‚re Brian de Jay, the

English-born Preceptor of Scotland, who had knowledge of both English and Scottish law. The two had

not met prior to their present assignment, and Arnault could not say that he had warmed to Jay in the

months they had spent at the negotiating table; but the English knight did seem to know his business

where the law was concerned. Having seen the treaty signed and sealed, the two men were now

accompanying the little princess to Scotland, where she would be met by a suitable escort of her Scottish

nobles. From there, she would travel south to London, where a new life and a new home awaited her.

The wind freshened, shifting a few degrees to the north, and Arnault breathed deeply of the brisk sea air,

always welcome after the years spent in the deserts of Outremer. Unarmored here at sea, though his

sword was girt always at his side, he wore beneath his mantle the formal white habit of Templar monastic

profession, emblazoned on the breast with the splayed, eight-pointed red cross of the Order. His dark

hair was barbered close to his head, as required by the Rule, but he had leave to keep his beard neatly

trimmed, out of deference to the more fastidious circles in which his diplomatic duties obliged him to

move.

He allowed himself a contented sigh as he swept his gaze around him. The royal ship was threading her

way along the last of the deep fjords leading out to sea. The rigging was bright with pennons in the colors

of Norway and Scotland, lifting gaily on the wind, and the princess's half-dozen Norwegian attendants

made a colorful gathering around her on the deck below.

Margaret herself was almost lost in the midst of them: a diminutive, flaxen-haired doll muffled in furs,

sheltering in the grandfatherly embrace of Bishop Narve of Bergen. To Arnault's discerning gaze,

watching from the machicolated platform of the ship's stern castle, she appeared somewhat frail and not

entirely well, her small face pinched and white under its rich coif of silk and gold netting.

Less than reassured at the sight, Arnault found himself uneasily aware how the welfare of the entire

Scottish nation was now dependent on the indifferent health of this one small girl. Even as that thought

crossed his mind, he was joined at the rail by his Templar companion, who nodded somewhat

distractedly.

Somewhat older than Arnault, Brian de Jay was a big, muscled man with short-cropped blond hair, a

white-toothed grin within his curly blond beard, and eyes of a glacial blue. Leaning indolently on the

railing, he cast a sour glance upward toward the ship's rigging, where the freshening wind was fretting at

the reefs in the ship's great square sail.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"I would have preferred the English ship that King Edward sent," he remarked. "Even more, I would have

preferred to sail six weeks ago. I like not these fickle seas in the north."

Arnault shrugged. "No doubt King Eric preferred to entrust his daughter to a ship of Norse crafting."

"The king will have been affronted at the snub," Jay replied. "It makes for a less than auspicious beginning

to the alliance."

"The Norse shipwrights take great pride in their work," Arnault said neutrally, surprised at this somewhat

partisan statement regarding the English king. "King Eric evidently felt that a Norwegian-built vessel

would prove the more seaworthy in the event of a storm."

"Well, the delay makes storms more likely," Jay said with a grimace. "I hope he doesn't have cause to

regret his decision. Aside from the political repercussions, I'd hate to see all our efforts wasted-especially

when we could have been putting our energies to better effect in defense of our domains."

He was referring, Arnault knew, to the Templar strongholds of the East: Acre and Tripoli, Tyre and

Sidon, Athlit and Haifa-all that now remained of the former crusader Kingdom of Outremer. Since the fall

of Jerusalem, over a century before, the great crusading Orders of the Temple and the Hospital had

managed-just-to retain those strongholds, bolstered by sporadic infusions of aid from the West; but their

position in recent years had become increasingly perilous.

"Look at us," Jay continued disparagingly. "We are meant to be men of war. Surely our place is in the

Holy Land, where the danger is-not trailing like lapdogs about the skirts of these diplomats! Our proper

vocation is fighting- not matchmaking on behalf of young children."

Arnault gazed out to sea, reflecting that these militant sentiments might have carried more weight if Jay

had been speaking from previous experience in the East. As it was, the Preceptor of Scotland owed his

present position of eminence to the favor of the Master of England, who had groomed him for

administrative function and then sent him north to oversee the Scottish houses of the Order. Unlike

Arnault, who had seen active service in the Holy Land and carried the scars to prove it, Jay had yet to

match words with deeds on the field of battle.

"We go where we're ordered, and do as we're told," Arnault said mildly. "And don't underestimate the

value of what has been achieved by the Treaty of Birgham. If this marriage succeeds, it could bring us a

step closer to redeeming the Kingdom of Outremer."

Not that the auguries were good for such an outcome. Only a few months before, the delicate balance in

Acre- most crucial of the Order's remaining holdings in the East- had nearly come unstuck when a band

of peasant levies newly arrived from Tuscany went on a rampage and massacred a number of Muslim

merchants in an unprovoked attack. The Mameluke Sultan Qalawun had been justifiably incensed by the

incident, and only some frantic last-minute negotiations on behalf of the Franks had averted an outbreak

of full-scale reprisals. A fragile truce was holding thus far, but the threat of war remained ever present.

The Order's military strategists hoped that if hostilities could be kept at bay long enough, the sovereign

powers of Christendom might be more readily persuaded to lend their aid to the defense and eventual

reclamation of the Frankish Kingdom.

"I suppose the marriage might pry loose some support from King Edward," Jay replied. His expression

turned speculative at the prospect of a new crusade. "He certainly knows the Holy Land from the pilgrim

campaigns of his youth. Given the part we have played in securing this Scottish alliance, perhaps he will

show his gratitude by returning to Acre at the head of another army. I'll wager the Mamelukes would find

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

him a formidable opponent."

Arnault merely nodded his agreement. At his best, Edward Plantagenet was a strong leader, shrewd in

his judgments and farsighted in his aspirations. But he was also capable of being unconscionably

vindictive; and his appetite for power, once roused, was insatiable. Having set his sights on Scotland, he

would stop at nothing now to acquire it. If this marriage compact were to fail-for whatever reason-

Edward's next recourse might well be invasion.

The weather held, despite Jay's uneasiness. Princess Margaret, her female attendants, and the bishop and

his clerk were quartered beneath the stern castle, where partitioning had been installed to create cramped

shelter for sleeping. The princess's military escort, including the two Knights Templar, slept out on deck

with most of the crew, under the sheltering lee of the forward castle.

Some time after midnight during their second night out from Bergen, Arnault awoke to an awareness that

the ship's momentum had changed. Casting off his blanket, he rose quietly to investigate, bracing himself

against the rail. They had emerged from the shelter of the Norwegian coast shortly before sunset. The

stars had vanished behind a thick pall of cloud. Light from the ship's lanterns showed whitecaps building

on top of the waves. The captain was up on the forecastle in close consultation with the ship's

weatherman.

Making his way forward against the pitch and roll of the deck, Arnault clambered up the ship's ladder to

join them. When he inquired about the ship's status, the captain's response was blunt.

"I don't like the signs. There's a storm moving in from the northwest. The currents in these waters prohibit

trying to outrun it. We can only hold our course and hope to ride it out."

"How bad is it likely to get?" Arnault asked.

"I can't say," the weatherman replied. "The signs might be worse. But we will see rough winds and high

seas not long after first light."

The weatherman's predictions were borne out within the next few hours. Darkness yielded to an

uncertain dawn, under ominously lowering skies. The ship's crew went grimly to work, dousing the

lanterns and lashing down everything on deck that was not already secure. When the sail had been

trimmed and the hatches closed, the captain and the helmsmen took to their stations fore and aft and

braced themselves for the coming gale.

With the arrival of the first squall, the little Princess Margaret succumbed to retching seasickness and had

to be confined to her bed while the ship plunged and rolled. By midday, most of her personal attendants

were similarly affected, as well as a few of the crew. Bishop Narve and the young canon who served as

his secretary were among the few to be spared, and set themselves to caring for those who were not.

Meanwhile, the ship's helmsman fought to keep her headed into the waves, in the teeth of a blustering

wind and a day that never really got light.

Arnault had been to sea often enough to be accustomed to stormy weather. When Brian de Jay proved

equally resilient in keeping his sea legs and the contents of his stomach, the two Templars joined the crew

in helping keep the ship battened down against the storm, which continued throughout that day and all

through the night without any sign of abating.

By morning, the state of the ship's passengers was one of abject misery. Every roll of the vessel drew

groans from those lying prostrate on their pallets. The air trapped in the makeshift sleeping

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

accommodations smelled sourly of sickness as Arnault made his staggering way to the little princess's

curtained alcove.

Here he found Bishop Narve and Freu Ingabritt, the little Maid's favorite lady-in-waiting, attempting to

ease the child's sufferings with infusions of herbs and other folk remedies. The elderly prelate was

cradling the little girl in his arms with a grandfather's tenderness, singing softly to her in the Norse tongue.

The simple rhymes and melodies were those of folksong and lullabye.

"How is she?" Arnault asked from the entryway.

The bishop looked up, his expression grave. "Not well, Fr‚re Arnault. So young a child is too delicate for

rigors such as these. If this storm does not soon abate, I fear she may not survive the journey."

All that day and the next, the ship rode the storm like a leaf in a millrace, making but little headway.

Towering waves tossed the ship like a toy, often crashing over the prow and sending sheets of foam

racing the length of the deck. Crew and passengers alike spent their fifth night at sea without heat or

comfort. On the morning of the sixth day, the ship's timbers began to crack, and the hull began letting in

water. As most of the able-bodied were set to bailing, others helped move Princess Margaret and her

attendants out onto the deck, in case the ship should founder and they be trapped inside.

Oilskins and blankets were rigged to create a berth for them under the forecastle, but this was poor

shelter at best. The little Maid herself seemed wholly insensible to her surroundings, and lay white and

motionless in Bishop Narve's arms, with only the merest flutter of a pulse to show that she still lived.

Arnault and Jay took their turns in the bucket brigade with the rest of those who were still on their feet,

working in relays in a ceaseless effort to keep the hold from filling with water, but Jay clearly was

unhappy with the arrangement.

"This is no fit occupation for a knight," he grumbled, as he and Arnault labored alongside the crew and

the military escort.

Arnault was fighting the temptation to inquire whether Jay would prefer the alternative, when there came

a sudden shout from the masthead lookout.

"Land ho! Land ahead, off the port bow!"

Abandoning their labors, the two Templar knights made their way forward. Peering hard through the rain

and sea spray, Arnault was just able to make out a rocky headland jutting from the waves at the

outermost limits of visibility. The deck shuddered underfoot as the ship came about, its prow bearing

hard on this newfound landmark. Catching sight of the captain on the forecastle, Arnault clambered

swiftly up the ladder to join him.

"Have you any idea where we are?" he asked, pitching his voice loud above the roar of the wind and

waves.

The captain gave a tentative bob of the head, not taking his eyes from that speck of land. "By my

reckoning, we've reached the Orkneys. I would guess this to be one of the outlying islands. There should

be settlements, if we can make it to shore."

The land loomed closer. A ragged cheer went up from the crew as the ship cleared the headland and the

fury of the storm somewhat abated, though rain continued to fall. Beyond, sheltered by a ridge of high

ground, lay a stretch of calmer water fronting a beach of pebbly shingle. Even more welcome was the

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

sight of a plume of smoke trickling skyward from what appeared to be a substantial farmstead, perched

on the grassy slope overlooking the lagoon.

Details became clearer as they drew nearer the shore. Built Norse-fashion with walls of turf and roofs of

slate, the compound encompassed several barns and a number of outbuildings, all clustered around a

central dwelling, the source of the rising smoke, vented off by holes in the roof slates. Encouraged by

these clear signs of habitation, the captain drew as near to the shore as he dared before ordering the

anchor dropped and the ship's boat put over the side. While preparations were made to ferry the little

princess and the sickest of the other passengers ashore, a delegation was sent ahead to commandeer

assistance from the farm.

By the time the boat could return to the ship and bring the little princess and the bishop ashore, the farm

owner and some of his household had gathered on the shore with oilskins and warm blankets and even a

cart for those too ill to walk the short distance to the farmhouse. The little Maid herself was swaddled in

furs and tenderly carried to the farmhouse by the bishop's canon, with Bishop Narve trailing anxiously

beside them.

The two Templars were among the last of the ship's company to arrive. Gratefully accepting a bowl of

hot broth from one of the maids, and changing his sodden mantle for a dry blanket, Arnault shifted his

attention to the other end of the long, smoky room, where the farmwife and two girls he judged to be her

daughters were clucking anxiously over a small, white-faced form bundled into a bed before the roaring

fire. From their tight-lipped expressions, he inferred that there was little sign of improvement in the Maid's

condition.

Bishop Narve and his canon joined the women a moment later. Arnault was taken aback to see that the

old man had donned a white vestment and stole over his sober clerical array; the canon bore a lighted

candle and several other items. The bishop made the sign of the cross over the child's frail, unconscious

form and laid his hand on her brow as his own head bowed in prayer. From the snatches of Latin that

reached his ears, Arnault realized that the old man was administering the viaticum, the Communion rite

reserved by the Church for those at the point of death.

"If I were a vassal of the house of Canmore," Jay remarked in an undertone, "I would be on my knees in

prayer."

"God may yet vouchsafe a miracle," Arnault murmured.

Sick at heart, he drank down his broth and withdrew to an adjoining room of the house with others of the

company to await further developments. Jay followed, but joined one of the men of the princess's military

escort miserably warming his hands over a brazier of hot coals. Having no desire for his own comfort,

Arnault made his way numbly to the opposite side of the room, where an alcove heaped with sheepskins

suddenly beckoned with an insistence that, after so long without proper rest, would not be denied.

He folded to his knees like a man sinking into quicksand, but he made himself shift to sit with his back

against the wall as his heavy eyelids closed, stubbornly dragging his exhausted mind toward something

approaching a suitable composure for prayer-or would appear to be prayer, or sleep, to anyone

observing him.

Thus blind to his surroundings, he could still feel the wayward motion of the ship, tugging him insistently

toward the sleep his body craved, but he applied long familiar disciplines to turn his focus inward,

drawing a deep breath as he sought the still point at the center of his being and then conjured an image of

the little princess before his mind's eye: not the frail, colorless doll barely breathing before the fire in the

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

next room but the solemn, wide-eyed child for whom he had developed a distant fondness while he

waited for her ship to sail from Bergen.

With body and mind now bending to the will of soul, he slowly found himself apparently drifting with

disembodied lightness back to the threshold of the central hearth chamber where the little Maid was

being tended. The sensation of being in two places at once was one he had encountered before, a state

over which he had some control. Conscious of having temporarily left his physical body behind, he willed

his consciousness closer toward the ailing princess. The area surrounding the child's bed was like an

island of light in the midst of softly muted shadows.

He caught his breath slightly as he sensed that the source of the brightness was the little Maid herself-not

the fragile, wasted shell of her physical body, but the shimmering angel-form of the virginal soul softly

overlaying that body. Joining the two was a silvery cord as finely spun as spider silk.

A faint flutter of relief briefly suffused him, for he knew that as long as that link remained unbroken, there

was reason to hope for the little girl's recovery. But even as he allowed himself to hope, he became

conscious of a chill descending suddenly upon the room, not at all related to the rain and storm outside.

All the lights in the room guttered and shrank as a shade of moving darkness seemed to permeate the

room. Cold as Arctic winter, a darker core of it billowed toward the little Maid. Even as her spiritual

aspect recoiled, flickering faintly brighter, the shadow-entity struck out at the fragile silver lifeline linking

body and soul.

Horrified, Arnault tried to interpose himself in spirit, but to no avail. An icy buffet dashed him aside even

as the little Maid's lifeline snapped. Though her soul broke free in a flash of silvery light, the shadow

swooped to engulf it. Defensive instincts flaring, Arnault surged between them in spirit, deflecting an

almost overwhelming wave of sheer malice as he called on the Light to aid him. But this time his

intervention was enough, if only barely.

Arrested in mid-flight, the shadow briefly turned on him, furious to be kept at bay. At the same time, the

roof beams of the house seemed to melt away, simultaneously opening the way to the vault of the

heavens.

Fast as summer lightning, the little Maid's child-spirit soared upward. Living stars dropped out of the sky

to meet her, surrounding her with a host of bright companions to guide her safely on her homeward flight.

The shadow again attempted to follow, but again Arnault surged upward in spirit to block and restrain it.

The shadow at last wrenched free with a violent twist, but too late to pursue its quarry. Flinging a parting

blast of hatred in Arnault's direction, it disappeared into the night. The violence of its departure snapped

Arnault back into his body with a dizzying spin of images that left him gasping for breath, heart pounding,

momentarily too giddy to move.

Groggily, hardly able to see, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, catching his balance against the wall

of turf, momentarily uncertain whether he possibly could have been dreaming. In the same moment, he

felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, as Brian de Jay asked, "What's the matter? You look as pale as

death-as if you'd just seen a ghost."

Before Arnault could frame any kind of response beyond a blank blink, a sudden doleful cry went up

from the next room. Shaking himself loose, Arnault rushed to the doorway-and halted on the threshold in

time to see Freu Ingabritt drawing breath for another wail. Beside her, Bishop Narve had tenderly

gathered the little princess to his breast, his lined face contorted in a soundless grimace of grief. Around

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

them, the little princess's other ladies-in-waiting were clinging to one another and weeping, their shoulders

shaking with muffled sobs.

As Jay murmured something unintelligible at Arnault's shoulder, the farmwife came mournfully toward

them and the others crowding close behind, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of her ample apron and the

sorrow of a mother who has lost children of her own.

"Poor, wee lamb," she managed to whisper. "May our Lord and His dear Lady Mother receive her

kindly."

Arnault drew a short, sharp breath and drew back, stunned, letting the others mill past him as he

attempted to comprehend the enormity of what had just occurred. Mingled with the stark political

implications of the Maid's death was his sinking certainty that his own experience had been no mere foray

into dreams. The shadow he had glimpsed, and with which he had sparred, was no gentle angel of death,

bringing welcome release from suffering, but rather, some malevolent entity come to destroy the innocent.

All at once he felt the need for fresh air. Closing his ears to the sounds of grieving, he wrapped himself in

his blanket and stumbled outside. The rain had ceased, but the sky was still stormy, the wind still tossing

at the ship anchored just offshore, now become a funeral barge instead of a wedding ship. Mercifully, Jay

had stayed within.

This was not the first time Arnault had encountered evil in spiritual form. But such entities rarely entered

the world of men save in response to human summoning-which meant that the attack on the little Maid

had been no chance occurrence, but deliberately contrived as murder. Arnault did not doubt the

testimony of his inner senses; but when he tried to imagine who could have compassed such a deed, and

in such a manner and for what purpose, his thoughts reeled back on themselves in bewilderment.

He turned his face to the wind while he asked himself once again whether what he had witnessed could

have been his own fantasy. But he knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that there was no

question of that.

He dared not confide in anyone in the present party; certainly not the brash and insensitive Jay. But he

would certainly convey his suspicions to the appropriate superiors at the earliest opportunity.

The closest of those superiors, and one who might be strategically placed to ascertain who most might

have benefited from the Maid's death, was currently assigned to the principal Scottish preceptory at

Balantrodoch, just south of Edinburgh, where Brian de Jay was Master. Arnault had orders to return to

Paris for reassignment after concluding his escort duties to the now dead Queen of Scots; and news of

the tragedy would have to be carried abroad in any event. But since transport back to France could be

arranged most expeditiously from farther south, he decided that traveling with Jay as far as Balantrodoch

could be easily justified. In fact, certain of his superiors in Paris would expect it.

One thing was certain: If the little Maid's death had been compassed by agents of the Dark, Arnault's

assistance eventually would be called upon to counter their intentions.

Chapter Two

THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE MAID OF NORWAY WAS OVER-shadowed in the following year

by two closely connected events that shook the foundations of Christendom and utterly claimed the

attention of Fr‚re Arnault's Templar superiors at all levels. The first was the sacking of the Christian city

of Tripoli, at the instigation of the Sultan Qalawun. The second was the destruction of the city of Acre by

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

the armies of Qalawun's successor, Al-Ashraf. The Mameluke conquest of these two cities left the Latin

West bereft of their last bastions in the Holy Lands of the East. All that now remained of the Frankish

Kingdom of Outremer was the island fortress of Ruad, two miles off the coast.

Those most immediately affected by the loss were the Military Orders, who for nearly two centuries had

vied with one another in upholding the fervor of the Crusades. Subsequently, the knights who survived

the fall of Acre became wholly preoccupied with plans for a campaign of reconquest. While some

returned to Europe to recruit new members, others remained in the East, based at Cyprus, to monitor the

movements of the enemy.

On the last day of June 1292, a Templar galley entered the Cypriot port of Larnaca and dropped anchor

within sight of the town. The first boat ashore carried two disheveled and disreputable-looking

passengers in tattered desert robes, who immediately set out on foot along one of the cobbled streets

adjoining the waterfront. A brisk ten minutes' walk brought them to a walled town house on a terrace

overlooking the bay. The keystone of the gate arch bore the distinctive inscription of a cross patt‚e,

proclaiming the house to be a dependent preceptory of the Knights Templar.

The warden at the gate was a grizzled, bull-chested serjeant with a patch over one eye. As soon as he

caught sight of the two travelers his scarred face lit up in an incredulous grin.

"Fr‚re Arnault! And Fr‚re Torquil!" he exclaimed, quickly swinging the gate wide to admit them. "Praise

be to God, then you made it to Ruad! It's been nine weeks. I feared we would never see you again, this

side of heaven."

Arnault de Saint Clair produced a smile that flashed startlingly white in his black beard and dirty,

sun-bronzed face. "You may laugh to hear it, Ruggiero, but our old friend Eliphas ben Ephraim said much

the same thing when we met up with him in Beirut."

The Milanese serjeant's jaw dropped. "Beirut? You did well to get that far!"

Arnault's long-limbed companion, some fifteen years his junior, swept back his hood and Arab headdress

and ran a big-boned hand through shaggy black hair. The afternoon sun picked up glints of copper at the

roots, where a disguising application of dye was beginning to fade.

"Och, we didn't stop there," the younger man stated cheerfully. "Fr‚re Arnault had arranged for the galley

to pick us up at Caesarea. Of course, we did have a few-ah-unexpected side jaunts. But nothing we

couldn't handle."

Arnault chuckled and merely shook his head at the youngster's ebullience, cocksure with the confidence

of youth. Torquil Lennox had come a long way from his native Scotland to fight beside Arnault and their

brother-knights on the walls of Acre thirteen months before-and the younger man's promise had been

emerging steadily during the months of their association.

On previous assignments in Palestine, Arnault had established an extensive network of informants and

friends of the Order among its indigenous neighbors. Following the withdrawal of the Order to Cyprus,

his prior successes had earned him the dangerous job of venturing ashore north of Tripoli to gather

information about the strength of the Mameluke occupation forces. By then Torquil had proven himself

upon the walls of Acre. Blessed with youth, a strong fighting arm, an iron constitution, and the tongue of a

born linguist, the young Scot had been Arnault's first choice of companions for the venture.

Mentally calculating the distance the two knights had traveled through what was now very hostile

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

territory, Serjeant Ruggiero whistled softly through his teeth.

"I cannot believe that Al-Ashraf's hounds didn't sniff you out. What did you do, use some kind of magic

to put them off the scent?"

"Hardly," Arnault said, with an amused side glance at his Scottish brother. "We merely adopted the

example of Saint Simeon Salus."

Ruggiero screwed up his face. "Salus" was the Syriac word for "crazy." The saint bearing that appendage

to his name had been a sixth-century mystic and teacher in the Syrian town of Emesa, where he had gone

about in the guise of a fool in order to minister to the community's outcasts.

"You don't mean to tell me that the two of you went about posing as madmen?" the serjeant said

doubtfully.

Arnault chuckled. "As far as the Mameluke authorities were concerned, we were just a pair of vagrant

lunatics."

"It's true," Torquil chimed in, mossy-green eyes showing a glint of amusement at the memory. "So long as

we didn't get in the way of their horses, they never deigned to notice our existence. If we get back to

Nicosia in time for the blessed Simeon's feast day, I intend to light a candle in his honor!"

"I'll do the same," Ruggiero promised, as he closed the gate behind them. He glanced about, then asked

softly, "Forgive me if I presume, Fr‚re Arnault, but-what are things like now in Outremer?"

A shadow crossed Arnault's face. "Different from what they were," he allowed. "More than that, I am

forbidden to say, until the Grand Master himself gives me leave."

"Fair enough," the serjeant agreed. "I won't delay you, then."

With a genial nod, the visitors continued on across the courtyard and inside. Once they had paid their

respects to the preceptor of the house and apprised him of their needs, they were quickly supplied with

proper habit to replace their desert garb and a pair of good horses. It being noontime, they joined the

resident community for the office of Sext and the Mass that followed-for Knights of the Temple were

monks as well as warriors-then stayed for the midday meal in the refectory before setting out on the road

that led north toward Nicosia.

For over a hundred years, since the crusading days of Richard Coeur de Lion, Nicosia had been the

jewel in the crown of Cyprus. Throughout that time, its Lusignac kings had played gracious host to

countless pilgrims, prelates, and warriors bound for the Holy Land. But the wrath of Al-Ashraf had

stemmed that tide, transforming Nicosia into a haven for refugees. In token thereof, the noble women of

the city had taken to veiling themselves head to foot in long black cloaks, as a sign of mourning for those

who had been left behind.

The battle-weary core of the Templar high command- what remained of it-had adopted the preceptory at

Nicosia as their new headquarters. It was late afternoon of the following day when Arnault and Torquil

rode into the shadow of the preceptory's castellated walls. The young knight who met them at the gate

was a new recruit whose white habit had yet to show the rigors of life in the East, and who spoke

Norman French with a strong German accent. After Arnault and Torquil had identified themselves and

their mission, the man looked down his long nose and informed them that the Grand Master was most

probably to be found in his personal quarters.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Katherine Kurtz - Knights Templar 01 - Temple and the Stone

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: