Standard of Honor

by Jack Whyte

  “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 ever
y 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 Christ
ian 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?”