by Jack Whyte
“Excavating a real monastery?”
The Queen bent forward, interrupting for the first time. “I think, Husband, if I may speak, that Sir Hugh is talking about digging monastic cells into the rock. Am I correct, Sir Hugh?”
De Payens flushed. “You are, my lady, but if I might make a request, please call me Brother Hugh, rather than Sir Hugh. But you are right, save that we are talking of digging into the floor, rather than the walls.”
“You mean tunneling downward?” The King was incredulous. “Why in God’s holy name would you do that?”
“For the honor of God’s holy name, my lord. Monks do that kind of thing. By tunneling downward, we will be increasing the work required, and thereby increasing the penitential value of what we are doing, while at the same time taking ourselves down beneath the level of the warmth and comfort generated by the bodies and the physical presence of the horses and kine in the stables. It would take us a long time, probably years, but eventually we would excavate a central shaft leading to a chapel, and branching out from there, each monk would then dig out and complete his own cell.”
“And you believe, truly, that this … thing … this endeavor … would be a worthwhile task?”
De Payens smiled at both royal personages. “Well, it would provide a focal point for our dedication when we are not patrolling or joined in formal prayer. It would keep us from slothfulness and from growing bored.”
“What would you use to dig your hole?”
“I know not, my lord. I am a soldier, not an engineer, but one of our people knows. He talks of chisel bars and hammers and tongs, and eventually the addition of pulleys and ropes and carts to take away the debris. I am sure he has all the necessary details in his mind.”
“And do you yourself subscribe to this idea as being worthwhile? I had the impression for a while there that you do not.”
“Oh no, my lord, not so. I think it is an excellent notion, in principle. But it would be costly to initiate, and for that reason I have not been fully supportive of it. But I certainly have no doubts about the value of the idea.”
“And what if you find treasure?”
De Payens managed to keep his face impassive. “Treasure, my lord? Forgive me, but I fail to understand. We would be digging into solid rock.”
“Aye, but mayhap not all the time. You might find something in all your digging—a hidden hoard of gold or precious stones. Such things happen. What would you do with whatever you found?”
The knight shook his head. “I … I do not know, my lord. I had not considered anything of that nature.”
Baldwin laughed. “Well, I have. Bear in mind two things: you are sworn to poverty, and Jerusalem is mine. Thus, any treasure, be it coin, bullion, or gemstones, belongs to me. I will pay you a portion of it in fair return for your labor. Will you agree to that?”
“Aye, my lord King, and happily, but—”
“Excellent, so be it! Talk then to your man with the knowledge and find out what tools you will require for your excavation. I myself will purchase and supply them, on behalf of the Queen. Is there anything else you can think of?”
“No, my lord. Nothing at all, other than the need to express our thanks.”
The King surged to his feet, still holding the Queen’s hand and drawing her up with him. “It was our thanks that needed to be expressed, Brother Hugh, and our friendship extended. Should you have need of anything further, let me know immediately.” He stopped, peering at de Payens. “What is it? You look as though something else has occurred to you.”
“No, my lord, nothing new. I simply thought of the need for privacy. If people hear the sounds of our digging, they might wish to know what is going on. But I suppose they will hear nothing, since we will be digging only within our own stables. There is, however, one additional consideration. We have, as I am sure you know, associates whom we call sergeants. They were formerly our servants and personal retainers, before we became monks, and now they assist us as before, but in a different capacity. They are warriors all, and without them we would not be able to do the half of what we do.” The King had been nodding as he listened to this, and de Payens concluded, “But they are lay brethren, not monks.”
“I don’t follow you. Why should that matter?”
“It does not, my lord, save in one respect. When we finalize our vows, they will have to remove themselves to separate quarters, so I would like to have your consent to build barracks for them, out of the stables.”
Baldwin made a harrumphing sound and flicked an imaginary crumb from the front of his tunic. “You have my consent. Build what you need. As for others wondering what you do, let them wonder all they want. I will know what is taking place there and that is all that matters. But you are right in thinking that there is no benefit in causing talk, so let this be a secret between us four. Not a word about digging anywhere, and not a single mention of treasure.” He raised a finger to his lips in an exaggerated symbol of silence. “Silence and secrecy, my friends, silence and secrecy. Fare ye well.”
The two knights stood and bowed, remaining bent at the waist until they were alone, and then they turned and made their way from the royal residence.
“WHERE DID ALL THAT come from?”
De Payens turned towards his friend, already smiling at the hostility in St. Omer’s tone. “I’ve been wondering how long it would take before you started to jump on me. I counted twenty-two paces from the palace.”
“I was being discreet. Didn’t want to start shouting at you within hearing of the King’s guards. They tend to be humorless about disturbances close to the King’s person. Now, will you tell me what that … that performance was all about?”
“What are performances always about, Goff? Diversion, amusement, enjoyment, and focus—always focus. But we’re still too close to the guards to talk about this. We will discuss it later, with the others.”
St. Omer stopped in his tracks, but kept his voice low. “No, Hugh, we will discuss it now, because I want to understand what you did this morning, before we even come close to discussing it with the others. I am finding it hard to believe I heard what I heard.”
“Very well, but let’s walk over that way, across the courtyard where we won’t be overheard … Now, what do you think you heard me say?”
“I don’t think anything. I heard you betray our plans to the King.”
“Are you sure about that, Godfrey? What did I betray?”
“That we intend to tunnel beneath the rock, into the foundations.”
“Oh, I see. I mentioned foundations, did I?”
“Well … no, you did not … But I knew what you meant.”
“But did the King know, Goff? Did he know what I meant?”
St. Omer hesitated. “No … He thought you were talking about creating a monastery out of the rock.”
“Now that is strange, because that is exactly what I thought I was talking about, too. And did the King grow angry over my presumptuousness?”
“No, but—Damnation!” St. Omer swung around and raised a pointing finger towards his friend, but then he stood silent, his frowning face working independently of his mind as he thought over what he was about to say, and then his brow cleared, his eyes widened, and he began to laugh. “Damn you, Hugh de Payens, you are the most devious, unscrupulous, and brilliantly deceitful manipulator of people I have ever known. You didn’t say or do any of the things I thought you had. And you hoodwinked the King himself as completely as you tricked me.”
“Oh no. There was no trickery of mine involved in what you thought, my friend. You tricked yourself by worrying too much about how Baldwin might see into my mind and read my true intentions. I could see that in your face, so I stopped looking at you after a time, lest someone else should see your concern as clearly as I could. And as for hoodwinking the King, I did no such thing. Nor did I lie to him. The brethren had that very discussion I described, about pretending to dig out a monastery. You were there, so you must remember it. We ta
lked about everything I described to Baldwin.”
“Aye, I know. I knew that when you were talking about it, too, but I could not understand what you were doing, and I suppose I panicked. But you were astounding, now that I see the truth of what was happening. You disarmed the King, completely destroyed any possibility that his suspicions might be aroused now by some idle report of unusual noises or activities, and then you convinced him, without even seeming to try, that he should provide and pay for all the tools we will need in our excavations. I simply cannot believe you did all that in less than a single hour.”
“Don’t forget the treasure.”
“Aye, the treasure … When first he began to speak of it, I was convinced he knew what we were about and was speaking of the treasure we are seeking. I thought I might vomit from the fear that sprang up in me. But then I realized he was only talking about ordinary treasure, gold and jewels, and not our treasure at all.”
“And he has little hope of our finding anything at all, for even he knows that there are no treasures buried in the heart of solid rock.”
St. Omer was frowning again. “What will we do if there should be gold and gemstones among the treasures we are looking for?”
“There will be. The archives speak of it quite clearly, mentioning precious artifacts, temple accoutrement, and jewels of great value. We are seeking a temple treasure, Godfrey. Irrespective of what it may contain for our Order’s purposes of knowledge and Lore, it will also contain specie. When did you ever know or hear of a priest or a temple without wealth of some description? But that is a bridge we can cross when we reach it. In the meantime, the King does not really expect us to find anything. He is perfectly content to leave us digging in the stony heart of the mount, so be it we continue to patrol the roads and byways. And so we shall, Godfrey. So we shall. Now may we go and share these tidings with the others?”
St. Omer grinned and waved an open hand in an invitation to precede him, and the two men began to make their way towards the southwest corner of the Temple Mount, de Payens whistling quietly and tunelessly through his teeth.
THE TEMPTRESS
ONE
“T he man appears to be indefatigable.” The speaker was the Patriarch Archbishop of Jerusalem, and Hugh de Payens half smiled in response, his eyes on the spectacle being enacted in front of them.
“He appears to be,” he agreed. “But you, of all men, should know that one should never trust appearances. He will grow as tired as any other man, but the difference you are seeing is that he is far younger than the others, with all the added strength and stamina of youth. Ha! Look at that. He moves like a cat. I wish I had four more like him.”
They were watching a contest, a training fight involving five swordsmen, grouped four against one, and the single man, the youngest of them, was making all four of his opponents look foolish and ineffectual. He held a large, two-handed sword with a long, tapering blade that made his adversaries’ weapons look puny, and he was wielding it with brilliant mastery, transforming it into a whirling, impenetrable curtain of shimmering movement. Two of his opponents had converged on him simultaneously, one of them catching his blade with his own, while the other seized the advantage and leapt forward to close with him, but even as he did so, the younger man spun nimbly and sprang away, his outstretched foot finding the top of a low wall that had been at his back. For a moment he hung there, his knees bent as he sought balance, and then he leapt away again, doubling the distance between himself and the others before any of them could react to his first move, and when his feet touched the ground again he laughed and grounded the point of his sword, signaling a rest, which his winded opponents were happy to share.
“Well done, Stephen,” de Payens shouted as the group relaxed and tried to catch their breath, and the Patriarch turned to him, smiling.
“I can see why you are so impressed, but why should you not have four more like him? And why only four? Why not a score like him?”
De Payens laughed aloud. “Why not? I should have a score like him, as you say, but I never will, because the lad is a phenomenon. He is … he surpasses credulity. I still have difficulty believing he is here and one of us. I mean it, my lord Archbishop, every word of it. Very few young men of his age, perhaps no more than one in five or even ten thousand, possess those fighting skills this one uses so effortlessly. But not one in a thousand of those few, young as they are, and puissant, filled with the rising sap and immortality of youth, could ever be tempted to give up the pleasures facing them in order to take up the cloth and live their lives as monks.”
“Aye, I grant you that. The world and the flesh have great attraction for young men. But where, then, did this one spring from? You brought me out here to see him, but you have not even told me his name, or anything about him.”
“I inherited him, I suppose.” A half smile played about de Payens’s lips as he watched the young knight’s performance, and he spoke to the Patriarch without looking at him. “His grandfather was my godfather, old Sir Stephen St. Clair. The Sir Stephen St. Clair, who invaded England with the Normans in 1066 and later became the trusted friend and close companion of William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy and King of England. You must have heard of him, surely?”
He looked over at the Patriarch, who was shaking his head politely.
“You’ve never heard of him at all? Sir Stephen St. Clair? That is astonishing. He was reputed to be the man who killed King Harold during the invasion of 1066. St. Clair always denied it, but King William himself claimed to have seen it happen, and swore he won his crown because of it.”
“So how does that lead to his grandson’s being here in Outremer, and looking to become a monk?”
“Young Stephen’s father and I were friends when we were young, not close, but close enough to think highly of each other, despite his being five years my senior. Anyway, Robert married young, to a first cousin of mine, and she bore him the one son, young Stephen, then died soon after, of a virulent pox that killed her and all seven of her women. They were living in the northeast of England then, in one of King William’s territorial castles, built to subjugate the local Saxons and keep them obedient to the King’s new laws. It was hostile territory and they had no allies within riding distance, so that, in the absence of women, the boy was nurtured and reared by the monks and churchmen his father had brought with him to preach the gospel to the local Saxons. Everyone liked the lad, but his upbringing among monks, as you would expect, made an indelible impression on him. He also turned out to be a spectacular fighter—two sides of a single coin—encouraged and trained by his father’s master-at-arms and his cronies, once they began to discern just how gifted the boy was.
“His father Robert’s life was a full one, his duties leaving him no time to search for, let alone find, another wife, or even to pay much attention to his son’s upbringing. By the time the lad had grown to manhood, he was invincible in the arena and in the lists, but every moment that he spent away from his military training was passed in prayer. His father thought that was unnatural—most fathers would, I suppose. But then there came a twist that worked to my advantage. You may remember that Count Fulk of Anjou came out here to visit us two years ago?” The Patriarch nodded. “Well, when he returned to Anjou, he found Count Hugh of Champagne there, in residence and awaiting Fulk’s return. The St. Clairs were there, too, father and son, visiting the family holdings in the region, and at dinner one night, the two Counts talked about our newly formed brotherhood, apparently with great enthusiasm. Sufficiently so, it transpired, to excite young Stephen’s father. Robert recognized me by name, although we two had not met in more than a score of years, and it seemed to him that what we are doing here in the Holy Land would be attractive to his son, and young Stephen agreed. A short time later, young Stephen met with Count Hugh, who recruited him immediately, and the lad was on a ship, outward bound for Cyprus on his way here, not too very long after that. He is very young, but it seems he is perfectly suited to—”
The Patriarch drew himself erect, blinking in mild indignation. “What? What is wrong? Why did you stop me?” Even as he asked the question, however, he saw the answer for himself. A magnificently dressed officer, flanked by three lesser luminaries, had approached unseen from behind them and had now passed them, treading carefully on the rock-strewn, uneven ground, to where the five former fighters stood talking. The light blue surcoats adorned with gold acorns identified the newcomers clearly as royal guardsmen, and the five knights, who were also uniformly garbed, although in plain brown surcoats with no heraldic devices of any kind, became aware of them just as the guardsmen were about to reach them. All five swordsmen turned to face the guards, their faces wary and their posture radiating challenge, and the guards halted smartly about two paces short of them. Payens and the Patriarch were too far away to distinguish what was being said, but the sound of the captain’s voice, speaking to the youngest knight, came to them clearly.
De Payens turned completely around to look behind him and saw an enclosed carriage, drawn by a pair of horses and surrounded by a strong escort of guards. The windows of the carriage were curtained and closed.
“Royal coach,” he said quietly, drawing de Picquigny’s attention. “Enclosed. Could it be the Queen?”
The Patriarch was looking back now, too, and he shook his head. “No, not the Queen, not today. Her Grace is indisposed. Has been for several days. There is a sickness going around, and she came down with it some days ago. Nothing too serious, but sufficient to keep her in her rooms. And it’s not the King, either, for if it were, he would be over here, talking to us. No, it must be one of the daughters. That carriage is large enough to hold all four, but I doubt that any of them would ever consent to spend time in the others’ company.” He glanced over to his left, where the young knight and his companions were now walking quietly with the captain, flanked subtly by the other three guards. Four of them had sheathed their swords, but the youngest, St. Clair, still carried his in his hand, its long, gleaming blade slanting backward to rest casually against his shoulder as he walked towards the enclosed carriage.
