by Robyn Young
“Where do you think the money from the family who lives below us goes?” Marco demanded. “Father rented our house so he could keep visiting the taverns! When are you going to open your eyes, Luca? It’s just you and me and Mama now. We have to take care of ourselves!”
“Sclavo’s a bad man,” sobbed Luca. “You’ve come back with blood on you. I’ve seen it on your clothes. And I’ve seen how people look at you, like they’re scared. They say you do bad things.”
“I have no choice, Luca. Who else will feed you or buy Mama the potions she needs?” Marco cupped his brother’s chin in his hand. He licked his thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt from Luca’s cheek. “This is the last time I will do anything for Sclavo, I promise.”
“You said that before.”
“This time it’s different. Sclavo will pay me enough money that we won’t have to worry about anything for the rest of this year. I can look for other work, down at the docks or collecting night soil for the market gardens, anything.”
Luca looked at the dagger that was lying on the floor, its blade glinting dully. “You’re going to hurt someone,” he murmured.
Marco’s jaw tightened. “If I don’t, Mama won’t survive the rest of the winter. You have to let me go, Luca. And you cannot tell Father. Will you do this for me?” When Luca hesitated, Marco added, “For Mama?”
Luca gave a small nod and Marco forced a reassuring smile. Letting go of his brother, he crossed the bare boards and picked up the dagger. He snatched up a lumpy-looking sack bag and stowed the blade inside, between a coarse blanket and a loaf of hard bread.
“How long will you be gone?” asked Luca, watching him tie a knot in the sack. A chill wind that smelled of rain gusted through the window behind him, making him shudder. “What if Mama gets worse?”
Marco paused, glancing at his brother. “I’m going to the harbor. I don’t know how long I’ll have to wait for his ship. Maybe days, maybe longer.” He sounded nervous for the first time. “It should be here soon, that’s all I know.”
“Whose ship?”
“You know where Mama’s potion is. If she gets sick, you can give it to her.” Marco went to his brother. “Tell her I’m working. You can tell Father the same, if he asks.” He gave Luca a rough hug, then headed out, bundling the sack over his shoulder.
Luca crept into his mother’s room. It was dominated by the straw-filled mattress on which she lay, fragile as a wounded bird, a worn-out blanket pulled up to her face. He crouched and felt her brow. It was neither too hot nor too cold. He kissed her cheek, soft as parchment, then left, closing the door quietly behind him.
THE TEMPLE, ACRE, 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276
Will Campbell planted his hands on the ledge and looked out of the narrow window. The view before him fell dizzyingly into space. Far below, waves crashed against the rocks at the base of the adjacent treasury tower that jutted from the preceptory’s curtain wall. Will felt the impact vibrate in the stone. The wind coming off the blue Mediterranean was freezing, and he was glad of the thick mantle he wore over his surcoat and undershirt, the splayed red cross at his heart blood-scarlet against the white. He remembered winters in Scotland and in London and Paris, where he’d spent his adolescence, being bitterer than this. But after eight years in the Holy Land, he had grown accustomed to the warmer climate and had been surprised by the plummeting temperatures.
It had been a hard winter. The coldest, some had said, for forty years. Northerly winds raced up from the sea to be funneled through the stone maze of churches, palaces, shops and mosques of the Crusader capital, chasing rubbish into the air, snatching back hoods and flicking off caps, whipping tears from eyes. Now the ice that rich nobles paid to have brought to them from the peak of Mount Carmel in the summer sprouted freely from window ledges and door lintels for street children to snap off and suck. In the outer harbor, galleys rose and fell with the waves that curled in past the breakwater, spewing gusts of foam into the air as they struck the base of the Tower of the Flies, a sentry fort positioned on the extremity of the eastern mole. No ships had ventured out of the harbor for several weeks and none had entered. The knights of the Temple now kept constant vigil on the preceptory’s seaward walls, squinting at the storm-dark horizon and cursing the weather as they waited for a glimpse of the longed-for vessel that would bear their grand master to the shore for the first time since his election over two years ago. The mood among the hundreds of knights, priests, sergeants and servants that inhabited the preceptory was one of feverish impatience.
The door opened and a man entered, joining the nine others in the chamber. Will looked around as he heard a familiar rasping cough and saw Everard de Troyes shuffling to a stool that had been left free beside the fire. The ancient priest’s wrinkled face, with its ugly scar that furrowed his cheek from lip to brow, was pale against the black of his robes. A pair of spectacles was pushed high on his nose, the glass almost touching his bloodshot eyes. Fragile wisps of white hair floated around his face from beneath his cowl. “I apologize for my lateness,” he said, his voice, though frail, commanding the attention of every man in the room. “But the walk here almost defeated me.” He sat heavily on the stool and frowned at the strapping man with iron-black hair who sat opposite him. “I do not see why we must always meet in your quarters, Master Seneschal. Perhaps in my youth I could have bounded up a hundred steps like a mountain goat, but such a time is many winters past.”
“We agreed, Brother Everard,” responded the seneschal stiffly, “that this was the most appropriate setting for full assemblies of the Brethren. At least here, I can give the excuse that we are meeting to discuss Temple business. I doubt such a claim would deter interested inquirers were we to meet in your chambers. We are too large a group to gather unnoticed. We must be careful when we do that suspicions are not aroused.”
“With the exception of the marshal you are currently the most senior Templar official in Outremer, Master Seneschal. I doubt anyone would dare to question your movements.” Everard sighed as the seneschal’s brow creased. “But I agree, we must be careful.”
“Certainly we must when the grand master arrives,” said the seneschal grimly. “Then the freedom we have enjoyed these past two years will be sorely restricted.” He looked around the chamber at the other men. “Some of you have not yet borne the burden that others of us have endured; to live and work alongside a master to whom you have sworn allegiance, and whom you must deceive, even work directly against, each day. When you joined the Brethren, you were asked to swear new oaths, oaths that would run counter to those you swore when you were initiated into the Temple. When he comes, you will fully understand the weight of this charge. But it is something you will learn to overcome,” he emphasized, covering them all with his gaze. “The secrecy of the Anima Templi must be maintained at all costs. We were almost exposed seven years ago by those who, through ignorance and malice, wished to destroy us. The simplest mistake could cost us our lives.” He glanced involuntarily at Everard, who scowled, knowing that the seneschal was referring to the Book of the Grail. “Never forget,” the seneschal continued, pretending not to notice Everard’s discomfort, “you each believe our aims are laudable, but the Church would burn us at the stake were they to discover what we are working toward. And if they knew what we were using the Temple’s coffers to achieve, the men of our own order, our brothers-in-arms, would be there to help fan the flames.”
Will watched the men as they listened intently to the seneschal, who was more than twice the age of some of them and four times as imposing. The young Portuguese priest who had joined the Brethren a few years after Will, the three recently admitted knights and the sergeant, at twenty their youngest member, were transfixed. Even the two older knights who had worked alongside the seneschal for years seemed engrossed. Everard might be the head of the Anima Templi, but the seneschal was its backbone.
It was the first time in months that the ten of them had met as one. Only two of their group were missing: the knights w
ho looked after their interests in the West and were based in London and Paris. Together, twelve for the Disciples of Christ, they formed the Anima Templi: the Soul of the Temple.
Will was not quite so enthralled by the seneschal’s rousing speech. He found it hard to get on with the domineering man who, outside the Brethren, was responsible for overseeing the general administration of the Temple in the East, with particular regard to judicial proceedings within the order and the punishment of knights. The seneschal had never forgiven him for his rebellion five years ago and made it plain that he still believed Will should have been imprisoned for life for his treacherous conduct. Admittedly, it had been a grave misuse of the Anima Templi’s resources that cost one man his life and almost destroyed any chance of peace between the Christians and Muslims. But Will felt he had apologized enough and had more than proved his loyalty to the Anima Templi’s cause in the years since. If he were able to turn back time and undo the illegal contract made with the Order of Assassins for the murder of Sultan Baybars, an attempt that failed and resulted instead in the death of one of the sultan’s officers, then he gladly would. But as such a thing was impossible, he could only hope the seneschal and the other members of the Brethren would one day forgive him. He didn’t want to continue paying for his mistake for the rest of his life.
“For now, let us open this meeting,” finished the seneschal, looking to Everard, who had been gazing distractedly into the fire. “We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed,” said the priest, seeming to come to life. His pale eyes flicked to Will. “As Brother Campbell returned to us this morning with news from Egypt, I suggest he begin.”
Will stood up straight as everyone turned to him. He locked eyes with the seneschal, who stared back, hostility carved into his chiseled face. “Several months ago, Brother Everard asked me to arrange a meeting with our Mamluk ally, Amir Kalawun, to discover the Mamluks’ plans for the coming year. Twelve days ago I met with Kalawun’s man on the frontier of the Sinai Desert.”
“Forgive my interruption, Brother Campbell,” said one of the younger knights tentatively, with a glance at the seneschal, “but might I ask why you didn’t speak directly with the amir?”
“Kalawun feels it is too dangerous to meet with any of us face-to-face,” said Everard, before Will could answer. “That was the condition under which he agreed to work with us when James Campbell first secured his support.” The priest didn’t notice Will tense at the mention of his father. “It is a reasonable and prudent provision. As Baybars’s chief lieutenant, Kalawun is far too conspicuous to travel abroad unnoticed, and any absences would be difficult for him to explain. He has been using this particular servant as his go-between since he became our ally. If there were to have been any breaches in this confidence, I believe they would have occurred by now. Continue, brother,” said Everard to Will.
“The Mamluk camp has been relatively quiet since Sultan Baybars signed the ten-year truce with King Edward. For the past few months, they have mostly been concerned with preparations for the forthcoming marriage of Baybars’s son to Kalawun’s daughter. A move,” added Will, looking at the newer members, “that we and Kalawun hope will bring him closer to the heir to the throne, over whom he continues to exert his influence. From what I was told, Baybars has no immediate plans to attack our forces. He is currently more focused on the Mongols. There are reports that they are encroaching on the Mamluks’ northern territories.”
The younger knights and the sergeant were nodding, looking pleased.
“This is good news, brothers,” said Everard, watching them, “but we must remember how fragile the balance that now exists is. Many truces have been made between our forces and the Muslims over the years. Many have also been broken. It may seem a blessing that Baybars’s eye is turned from us, but any war is detrimental to our cause and we cannot allow ourselves to be thankful that his gaze has fallen upon another race. Peace, brothers, is our aim, between all nations, all people.” He fixed them with his blunt stare. “Remember that.”
“Brother Everard is right,” said Velasco, the Portuguese priest, a nervous little man who had a habit of raising his eyebrows whenever he spoke, as if continuously startled by the words coming out of his mouth. “And it’s not just the Muslims we must focus our attention on. If the peace we have helped to create is to continue, our own forces must also be enlightened.”
Will found himself frowning at the use of that word. It made him uncomfortable. He believed completely in the Anima Templi’s aims, but the more idealistic concepts or, at least, the language of them, still sat uneasily in him, like a heavy meal he hadn’t finished digesting.
Perhaps it was because for most of his life he had been taught to hate the very people he now formed alliances, even friendships, with. Saracens and Jews were enemies of God, to be reviled and fought, so the Church and the order had taught him. He no longer adhered to that doctrine, nor did he have any interest in reclaiming Jerusalem, or in fighting the so-called infidel. He had experienced the full horror of a battlefield and witnessed the undignified, senseless deaths of soldiers from both sides; had lost his father in one such conflict. He knew these were not routes to a better life. But so did many Westerners who had settled in Outremer, the land beyond the sea. In Acre, in the midst of such diversity where so many races lived and worked together, peace was not simply an ideal; it was a necessity. Sometimes, Will felt the world around them was moving so congruously with their own that they should just stand up and shout about it. Sometimes he hated the secrecy of it all. But he knew this was how the Brethren survived. The world might seem to be moving in the same direction, but delve a little deeper and the old hatreds and hostilities could be felt, like riptides below the surface, even in Acre; the city of sin, as the pope in Rome had declared it. The Anima Templi’s secrecy was its shield, protecting it from these conflicting forces.
Will was drawn from his thoughts as he noticed Everard watching him. The priest’s expression was inscrutable. Will looked away, discomforted by the intensity of Everard’s stare, feeling that the priest was reading his mind.
“Half that battle has been won for us,” one of the younger knights was saying in response to Velasco’s comments. “Until the Church accepts there is a need to reform and addresses the corruption that riddles its entire structure, it will find it a hard task to persuade the leaders of the West, let alone the people, that Crusade is a worthy route to absolution. For too long now, it has contrived these wars for its own purposes. Its motives have become transparent. Citizens of the West have no desire to make the treacherous journey here, risking life and limb, only to fall upon their swords, now it has been revealed that those who entice them to do so do it not for the glory of God, but for their own pockets.”
One of the older knights, an Englishman called Thomas, shook his head in disagreement at the younger man’s impassioned speech. “There are many Christians in the West who would gladly wrench Jerusalem from the Muslims given the chance. They still believe Muslims and Jews are blasphemers and worshippers of false gods, whose presence pollutes the Holy City. They still believe that they and only they follow the true path. Do not be so assured that the desire to Crusade is dead. It isn’t.”
“But at the Council of Lyons,” countered the young knight, “no great Western kings came forward at the pope’s call to take the Cross. Few even attended.”
“At present, the West’s leaders are too embroiled in their own struggles to commit to a Crusade,” responded Thomas. “But all it needs is one strong ruler to unite a determined force beneath him and the men of the West will throng here in the hope of liberating the Holy City. The men of our own order want this. Brother Everard is right. The peace we have helped create within this kingdom is fragile indeed. A tug in either direction and it will tear.”
“And I fear our grand master may be one such ruler,” said the seneschal, clasping his large hands. “He has made no secret of the fact that he wishes to reclaim territory we have lost
to Baybars through military means. At Lyons, he was the most credible advocate of a new Crusade. He could prove to be one of the gravest threats to peace we have faced since the treaty was signed.”
Thomas and the other veteran knight were nodding soberly.
“Then we will need to do all we can to persuade him down other courses of action,” said Velasco, his eyebrows shooting into his fringe. “We cannot allow Baybars to be given any cause to attack us whilst we are still so weak. His forces would overwhelm us. And Acre,” he looked to Everard, a little abashed, “our Camelot, would perish, along with every citizen within its walls and any hope for reconciliation between Christians, Muslims and Jews that we, and our predecessors, have been striving for almost a century to bring about. Until Baybars dies and a new sultan, one with whom we have an alliance, assumes control of Egypt and Syria, we are not safe.”
Everard gave a small smile at the mention of Camelot, his name for the city, but it quickly faded. “There may well be hard times ahead,” he said in his gruff tones, “but there always will be. This is not an easy task with an easy solution that we have pledged ourselves to. Nothing that is worthwhile in this world ever is. It is a slow process.” His eyes swiveled to Will. “But we are making progress. Despite our concerns, we mustn’t lose sight of that. We now have a powerful ally in Egypt who will have influence over the next sultan, and in Acre we have formed alliances with those who believe in our cause. It was we, through our Guardian, who brought peace to Outremer. And all the while there is peace, all the while God’s children live in harmony, we triumph.”
Will leaned against the wall as the men soaked up Everard’s speech. He saw the priest’s words fill them with hope and conviction, and found himself surprised by just how inspiring the old man could be. He had known Everard for too long to be overly awed or cowed by him anymore; had been whipped, insulted, comforted and taught by him; had seen him at his best and his worst. But every now and then he would catch something, some spark of wonder in the priest’s abrasive tone, and suddenly he would be nineteen again, back in the Temple in Paris, listening to Everard telling him about the Anima Templi for the first time.
