“Come, Angel!” I called to her. But she didn’t move.
“Is she sick?” Maryam asked, concerned. “She always comes when you call her.”
“I don’t know. Angel, come!” I called again. Yet she remained where she was. The three of us strode down to the church steps and studied her. She stared up at us, her brown intelligent eyes shining in the morning light.
“Come on, girl,” I said. “It’s time to go.”
Angel whined, then stood and pushed her head against my hand. I rubbed her head and ears, and she moved to Robard and he did the same. When she reached Maryam, she flopped onto her back and Maryam rubbed her belly vigorously.
“Angel,” I said. “Stop this. It’s time to go.”
She barked once, then darted away around the corner of the church, heading down the alley between it and the adjacent building.
“What in the world . . . ,” I said, and we all trotted after her. But when we reached the corner and peered down the alley, she was gone.
“Where is she?” Maryam spoke, her voice shaking as if she might cry.
I thought back to how I had found her, lounging in the sun in the alley in Tyre, near the place where I had hidden the Grail. How she had kept it safe and delivered it to me when I returned for it. On our entire journey she had guided us, barking out warnings, sniffing the air, sounding the alarm whenever danger was near. But always, she safeguarded the Grail. Maybe her journey was over as well. Maybe God wanted her here in Rosslyn, keeping the Grail safe.
“I think . . . ,” I said.
“What?” Maryam said, tears forming in her eyes.
“Perhaps her duty is here,” I said.
“No . . . ,” Maryam said.
But I felt it was true. Where the Grail was, Angel would stay. She was its guardian, not ours. We stared at the empty alleyway for a few more moments, then turned and left for the Templar camp.
It was time for new beginnings.
38
Robard and Maryam were mounted up. In his generosity, Sir Charles had given them two fresh steeds and a packhorse with enough supplies to Sherwood. He also told Robard that when he reached the nearest commandery, he would send a letter to William Wendenal explaining how Robard Hode had done great service to the Order, and asking him for forgiveness of all crimes and transgressions.
“I can’t promise it will do any good,” Sir Charles said, “but I am not without some influence with Prince John, and I will make every effort to see to it that you and your folk are not bothered by this troublesome Shire Reeve.”
“Thank you, Sir Charles,” Robard said, giving him a small salute. Sir Charles stepped away, giving me privacy while I said good-bye to my friends.
“Take care, Tristan,” Robard said, extending his hand. I shook it firmly.
“And you as well, Robard. You have a chance to do something good in Sherwood, to help the poor and the weak. If this Shire Reeve . . . well . . . just promise me you’ll always fight with honor,” I said.
“I promise,” he said, smiling. Maryam jumped down from her horse to give me one last hug good-bye.
“You be careful. We won’t be there to save you from your outrageous plans anymore,” she said.
“I know. I’ll be careful, I promise. And try to keep Robard out of trouble, will you?” She laughed and mounted her horse again.
“What trouble?” Robard asked indignantly. “Me? Trouble? I hardly think so! You’ve been nothing but a trial since I rescued you from those bandits in the Holy Land. Why does everyone always think I’m the one who will get into trouble?”
“And one more thing: please watch over Tuck. He’s the only family I have left—well, at least family that’s not trying to kill me. And I feel like he’s found a new home in Sherwood. Please try to make him understand I’ll return to see him someday.”
Maryam nodded her assent. And Robard stared at me and smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“I heard it,” he said.
“Heard what?” I ask.
“Your vase. The Grail. On the cliff at Montségur, when I was falling, I heard it. A soft musical hum. It was the strangest thing. As I was hurtling to my death, I felt no fear, only comfort. I knew, I don’t understand how, but I knew you would catch me,” he explained.
“Perhaps you are more righteous than you claim, archer,” I said smiling.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to think so,” he said softly.
We were silent for a moment, not wanting our time together to end. Then they reined their horses around and headed home. I watched them ride until they disappeared from sight.
Sir Charles was suddenly there beside me. “Are you ready, lad?” he asked, his voice reminding me so much of Sir Thomas that it made my heart ache.
“Yes, sire, I am ready.” We mounted our horses, Sir Charles taking Sir Hugh’s fine stallion and myself happy to be sitting atop Charlemagne once again.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a different horse?” he asked.
“I’m quite sure, sire,” I said.
We left Rosslyn, turning southeast toward the coast. My new life would start once we reached Dover.
Two weeks later inside the chapel of the Dover Commandery, I knelt before Sir Charles, Master of the Order of the Knights Templar. With Sir Thomas’ battle sword, he touched me on the shoulder. I had asked Sir Charles for membership in the Order as a knight. Since he knew I was of noble birth, he agreed to sponsor me. He also granted my request for the ceremony to be held in Dover. During our ride back from Scotland and in the past few days here, he had instructed me on all the rules and laws a Templar Knight was required to obey. With his blessing, I knelt before him.
I looked up at the tapestries lining the chapel walls, each of them showing moments of our history as Templar Knights. Studying them, I felt a part of something in a way I never had before. We were not a perfect order, but perfection was not a human trait. Yet men like Sir Thomas and Sir Charles understood that honor, duty and sacrifice were more than just words. Now I would join them in spirit and make a commitment to live my life as they lived theirs, bound by a promise of service to those less fortunate, to defend the weak and the defenseless. The thought of it humbled me beyond all measure.
“In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I dub thee Sir Tristan, Brother Knight of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and King Solomon’s Temple, with all the rights and privileges such rank accords.”
The other brothers in attendance cheered, and when I stood, Sir Charles handed me Sir Thomas’ sword, which I sheathed at my belt. Someday, I would send word to Little John that I needed a new short sword for when I selected a squire. Carrying the big sword felt right now.
“You’re a Brother Knight, Tristan. How does it feel?” Sir Charles asked me.
“It feels wonderful, sire,” I said, looking down at my bright white tunic with the red cross emblazoned across my chest.
“Have you thought about where you would like to be posted?” he asked.
“Yes, sire. I have. With your permission, I wish to be assigned to a commandery in the south of France.”
“Really? So far from England?” he asked, his eyebrows arching up. I thought of that day in France, when Celia and I had stood high atop the walls of Montségur. I saw the wind whip her hair around her face and the impossibly blue color of her eyes. Thinking of her again made me smile.
“Yes, sire. I have business there,” I said. “Unfinished business.”
GODSTOW NUNNERY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND ONE WEEK LATER JANUARY 1192
EPILOGUE
The nunnery appeared deserted as I rode through the main gate, but there was no doubt I had already been watched for some time. It was a beautiful winter morning, spring would be here soon, and it would be welcome. Last evening I had spent a great deal of time polishing my chain mail and sword, and they glinted in the warm sunlight. In Dover, I had been newly outfitted with boots and mail, and my white tunic had remained relatively mud-free on my morning
ride.
I dismounted and tied Charlemagne to a nearby hitching post. The old plow horse stamped his foot at the grass beneath the light dusting of snow as I waited patiently in the courtyard.
Finally the main door opened and an elderly nun made her way down the steps, approaching me cautiously.
“Greetings to you, traveler,” she said meekly.
“Thank you, Sister. My name is Tris . . . Sir Tristan”—I still was getting used to the sound of it—“of the Knights Templar and I wonder if you could help me.” When I told her what I wanted, she smiled and, pulling her cloak up tightly around her, led me behind the nunnery to a small gated cemetery. She pointed out a small stone inside the graveyard and left me there alone.
I knelt before her marker, the final resting place of my mother, Rosamund Clifford.
Looking up at the sky, I closed my eyes, letting the warm sun strike my face, and for a moment I imagined the sunlight was her touch embracing me. I prayed silently, asking God to grant her peace had he not already done so. I crossed myself and stood. Then I removed Sir Thomas’ Templar ring from my cloak and placed it upon the stone marker. I did not think the nuns would accept it from me if I offered it to them directly. But they would find it when I left, and such a ring when sold would feed the nunnery for many months. I thought it would make Sir Thomas happy. Besides, I now had my own Templar ring to wear.
Looking down at the marker one last time, I said good-bye to my mother. I left the cemetery, closing the gate behind me, and returned to the courtyard where Charlemagne waited patiently for me. Jumping into the saddle, I gave a small salute to the nuns I knew were watching from the windows.
Then I turned the gentle plow horse toward the gate, and together we rode off into the cool, fine morning.
THE END
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CALAIS, FRANCE EARLY DECEMBER 1191
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
SOMEWHERE IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
THREE DAYS LATER
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
GODSTOW NUNNERY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND ONE WEEK LATER JANUARY 1192
EPILOGUE
Orphan of Destiny Page 20
