Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  The man glanced up at Talon and Max, and then nodded. The servant left him and came back to them. Talon thought he had seen Sir Greves at the head of the great table but was not sure. The candlelight was not sufficient to see clearly who sat at that table. The candles cast huge shadows on the walls as they guttered in the drafts but failed to light the whole room well.

  The servant approached them and told them to find a place among the knights and eat supper. The Knight Master would talk to them in the morning after Lauds.

  “What are Lauds?” Talon asked Max.

  “They are the morning prayers; now they are oft-times called matins. We shall have to educate you in the ways of the knights, Talon.”

  They settled in among some younger men who were, it seemed to Talon, almost as new as he was to the whole brotherhood of the Templars. These men maintained a silence of a sort even as they regarded the two travel-stained men with curiosity. Both Talon and Max were tired and not inclined to answer questions so they ate the simple fare of bread and stew and then left for the cells that the servant provided.

  Talon woke to the sound of a bell and realized that he was probably late for the prayers called matins. He got up and dressed in his filthy clothes. He longed for a bath but knew that this would not be available here. The men he had sat next to at supper were so smelly that he had almost gagged. He wondered why they abhorred cleanliness. Long ago the doctor who had been his mentor had mentioned that filth and wounds did not go well together. These men were warriors and so wounds would be part of their lives. He shook his head with resignation; but if this order of warrior monks took him back to Palestine he would put up with it.

  Max was waiting impatiently for him out in the courtyard. “We’re somewhat late, I fear,” he said tactfully as they hurried toward the chapel that Talon remembered from his last visit here.

  The audience with Sir Greves was brief but significant. When they knelt before him he addressed Max. “You are Max von Bauersdorf. Sergeant to Sir Philip de Gilles, are you not? Where then is Sir Philip?”

  “He is dead. Slain by a coward in ambush, God rest his soul. I am here with his nephew Sir Talon de Gilles, who would join the Templars.”

  The old man with the very long beard looked down at them. “Arise, gentlemen; I would see your faces.”

  They both stood and were subjected to a close inspection by the master of the lodge. His eyesight was obviously going because he squinted as he looked at Talon’s face. Talon submitted meekly to the inspection as he stared at the huge silver clasp that held his cloak about his shoulders. The Templar seal showing the outline of a temple topped with a cross on a rounded roof supported by pillars within a ring of words De Templo Cristi.

  He had seen the other side of that crest above the gate: two knights on a single horse, illustrating the humble beginnings of the Knights of the Temple; the words ringing that crest were Sigillum Militum.

  “Ah, now I have it, you are Sir Philip’s nephew, Talon. You are the one with the languages. Is that not right? Are you then knighted? I heard the sergeant call you Sir Talon de Gilles.”

  “I am, my Lord. His highness the Count of Carcassonne knighted me in the presence of my uncle and the master of the Templar lodge in Carcassonne.”

  “Come to join us, eh?” said the old man. “Then we shall make you welcome, Sir Talon de Gilles. A man of your experience in the Holy Land will be valuable to us.” He turned to one of the men who had been hovering nearby. “See to it that Sir Talon de Gilles is entered into the roles of the order of the Templars and ensure that he is educated in our customs and rules, Sir Martin.”

  The interview was over and Talon bowed deeply, as did Max, then they followed Sir Martin out into the yard. He was a thin man who looked as though he would be better off with a pen in his hand rather than acting as the secretary for this warrior monk order.

  “You have to train with the newcomers who have already been here for several weeks, Sir Talon. I fear that they will have the advantage of you.” His voice was a high-pitched.

  “I shall apply myself, Sir Martin. I am sure I will make good on the training.”

  Max coughed respectfully. “I can vouch for Sir Talon. I think he will catch up quite quickly.”

  “We shall see,” sniffed the knight. “You, sergeant, can work with him to teach him the customs, our ceremonies, and our prayers. I trust you still remember them after all your travels abroad?”

  “Indeed, sir, I do. I shall be pleased to help as much as I can,” Max replied, his neck becoming red.

  “The first thing you must do then is to move into one of the rooms for the knights and obtain the clothing and equipment needed. Did you bring any of your own equipment? The order is not made of money, you know. It is helpful when ‘knights’ bring at least something of their own.”

  “I have my armor and my weapons, sir,” Talon said stiffly.

  “He has his own horse, too, Sir Martin. However, it is not a Destriere.”

  Sir Martin sighed and seemed to be mentally tallying up the cost of a Destriere in his quartermaster-like mind. “Then we shall have to arrange for one. You both should draw blankets and clothing from the storeroom today; and sergeant, find him a place to sleep with the others. You should report to the training field when this is done. I am relying upon you, sergeant, to ensure that he attends all the prayer times. If I am not mistaken you were both late this morning.” Sir Martin turned on his heels and left.

  Max bowed his response to the departing back. He turned back to Talon and winked. “This is going to be somewhat new for you, master Talon. But I am sure that you will manage well. Let us go and obtain the necessary items and find a bed for you.”

  Talon nodded unhappily. It seemed to him that he was losing a lot of freedoms in return for the safety and the privilege of belonging to this elite group of men. He hoped it was worth it.

  The next few days were a flurry of activity for him. Although he was by now a relatively experienced soldier and fighter he still found that he had a lot to learn about the methods and ways of this stern order, particularly the strict regimen of prayer and work. No more lying in bed waiting for the sun to come up, nor enjoying idle time with gossip.

  One day, after a meager lunch, he confided in Max that his opinion of the food was very low as it seemed the cooks held to one recipe at all times with no thought to variation.

  “I truly miss the food we ate at my father’s hearth.”

  Max chuckled. “I too had become too well used to the food that your good mother caused to be made for us, God bless her. What I would not give for the taste of a good hare stew or some duck, hmmm.” He shut his eyes and pretended that he was elsewhere.

  Talon chuckled. “Max, I do believe that the Templars nearly lost you because of my mother’s cooking. For shame!”

  Max laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I shall deny that on my deathbed, but you know a winter of hunting and eating would not have gone amiss before I would have had to come back to this.”

  They were interrupted by a shout from the yard.

  “Sir Talon de Gilles, if you would do us the honor of your company we are about to work in lines.” Sir Martin was sitting on his palfrey with a disapproving frown on his face. Around him the other mounted recruits prepared their Destrieres for the afternoon exercises.

  Talon was assisted hurriedly by Max to get his Destriere out of the stable and he mounted the huge animal under the impatient eye of another instructor, who then led the way out of the yard toward the practice fields where the knights carried out their training.

  To Talon this was very new. He had never seen the line-abreast maneuver that the knights learned as a basic tactic for going into battle.

  The sergeants went around pushing or pulling the recruits and their huge horses into a rough semblance of a line. Eventually, there were about twenty men on horses, stirrup to stirrup, at one end of the huge field. The field was still white in places from the previous night’s frost and the br
eath from the horses’ nostrils created a cloud of steam in front of the assembled men. Talon felt the cold seep through his clothing as they waited.

  Then the sergeants shouted at the mounted men to get their shields up level with their eyes. This Talon and the others found hard to do as they were so close that they bumped each other in their clumsiness and in some cases there were curses and muttered threats made by nervous and irritated men. They might have been recruits for the Order but some of these men were hardened fighters and didn’t like to be jostled.

  The man next to Talon had a scar running across his forehead and down his cheek, making him look sinister and someone not to be trifled with. He glared at Talon when the tail of Talon’s shield bumped his knee.

  “Watch what you are doing, you poor excuse for a man!” he snarled before Talon could apologize.

  “No talking in the ranks of the knights!” bellowed a sergeant nearby who had overheard.

  The men now had their shields up and were then told to bring their spears to point downfield as though they were going to charge. Again there was some confusion because of the proximity of their neighbors, but it was finally done without mishap. Now all the men were deep in their high saddles, waiting for a command to move.

  “Walk the line forward!” shouted one of the sergeants.

  The line of knights moved their massive horses forward and immediately the line began to waver and disintegrate as some of the more eager men put spurs to their mounts while others reined theirs in.

  The sergeants, many of them grizzled veterans of Palestinian wars, bellowed for the men to stop their horses, and after ten minutes of confusion and shoving, the process was repeated all over again.

  Talon was beginning to see that there might be some point to all this when, during yet another realignment phase, his unpleasant neighbor rammed his horse sideways into his, which slammed his knee.

  Talon looked into the man’s face which was very close and muttered, “Do you know how to control that animal, sir?”

  “I know to take you down a peg or two if you don’t watch who you’re talking to, you babe in arms,” the man sneered. He was a big man with a florid face covered in whiskers; his huge shoulders made him look like a troll, Talon thought, trying not to grin.

  They could not continue the conversation as Max had come up and asked challengingly of them both if there was anything wrong. His look to Talon told him that he knew there was but needed Talon to say so.

  Talon shook his head and glanced sideways at the man with the scar and said politely, “We were just discussing the art of riding, Sergeant.”

  Max nodded. “There should be no talking during this work, sirs,” he said politely but firmly and moved off.

  The man next to Talon grunted and then said out of the corner of his mouth, “We will settle this later.”

  The recruits were worked hard that afternoon and finally they were able to walk their hot and eager Destrieres along the length of the field in one long line. It was clear that the sergeants, who had worked tirelessly, had hoped for better, but it was dusk and time for them to prepare for the prayers so they were sent back to the barracks.

  Talon overheard a sergeant mutter to his companion. “They all start off like this. It is a betting matter as to when they actually get it and ride the line all the way down. I won’t give you much for this lot.”

  Max joined Talon as he rode back. “What was the problem back there, Master Talon? It looked as though there was a quarrel brewing.”

  “Perhaps, Max. He is somewhat short-tempered, it seems.”

  Suddenly the man was at their elbow. “You.” He pointed his grubby finger at Talon. “You need a lesson in manners, boy.”

  “The knights are not allowed to fight each other, sir,” Max said quickly. “We are to fight the infidel in God’s name, not our own kind.”

  “This pup insulted me and I will have the satisfaction of putting him in his place.”

  “What did he say that was so insulting, sir?” Max asked politely.

  “He called into question my skill with a horse. A mere boy should not open his mouth without permission.”

  Talon turned to Max. “It seems that we have to deal with this one way or the other, Sergeant,” He turned back to the man on his right. “If you are not afraid, sir, we can fight with sticks and this way no one can draw serious blood. If you think you can teach me a lesson, that is.”

  “I should talk to the master about this,” Max said. “He would not approve, but we do allow men to train with sticks. Perhaps we can put you two together tomorrow morning after prayers, for the stick training. Will that suffice to settle your issue with Sir Talon, Sir Montague?”

  “It will do. I shall see you in the training yard tomorrow, young whelp. Bring bandages; you will need them.” He rode off, smirking, leaving them to watch him leave.

  “I should report him and have him disciplined, Talon. The order does not put up with this kind of thing. We cannot afford to have knight fighting knight when we are all God’s soldiers training for the fight in the Holy Land.”

  “Why does the Order accept men like that, Max?”

  “We should not, in fact. But if the truth be known the Order is always short of experienced men. We need men who know how to fight and these days we are ready to even accept some who have questionable histories. I do not know of his, but I know he is from Normandy. We take men who are from all over Europe; for many this is the last place that will take them; some face the gallows or worse back at their home towns.”

  Talon realized with a start that now he, too, had come to the last place that would have him without questioning his past. It was an uncomfortable thought. “Well, tomorrow we shall see if he knows how to fight with sticks as well as his mouth.”

  “I saw your fight with the knife and stick in Montfort, Talon. I think sir Montague is in for a surprise.”

  The evening passed without incident but it was clear to Talon that the word was out that there was a grudge fight to be witnessed in the courtyard the next morning. His companions, some of them as young as he, were eying him speculatively and some even came up to him and asked him of the pending fight. His calm impressed them, but inside he was in turmoil, reliving a fight he had had in Palestine nearly eight months ago with knives and sticks which had ended with his opponent dead and he in chains.

  The knight then had been the one who had captured him and refused to allow him to leave the castle to go and find Rav’an. The same knight had challenged him to sticks and knives. Talon had been so angry that he had taken his revenge on the man.

  He observed Sir Montague with some of his friends at table and noticed that he seemed in good spirits. They were watching Talon and seemed amused at the prospect of the fight the next day. Montague even came over later after prayers when they were all making ready for bed. “Young Talon, I shall not be too hard on you tomorrow, but you understand that we have to settle an issue of honor in public, do you not?”

  “If you say so, Sir Montague,” Talon said meekly, remembering the many training classes he’d had in Samiran with Reza and the other boys who’d became fida’i.

  The man clapped him on the shoulder, laughed, then left him to get ready for bed.

  The next day dawned bright and with a brisk cold wind sweeping in from the north. Autumn was becoming winter in earnest and the men in the barracks woke up cold to find the water in the buckets outside covered with a thin layer of ice.

  Max had spoken to the other sergeants about the grudge fight and they arranged for the students to start the day off in the sword yard, but they were to be paired off and to train with poles. This was done as though the students were meant to start the day in this manner so that Sir Martin would not be aware of the event until it had taken place, as surely he would have forbidden it then and there.

  Sure enough, Talon was paired with Sir Montague. They eyed one another; both were dressed in wool breeches and leggings, leather sandals and linen undershirts,
a light quilted jacket for the cold, and a leather cap that sat close on their heads.

  Both held a pole six feet long and two inches in diameter that they would spar with. The other men were paired off in two rough lines, waiting for the word from the sergeant in charge.

  At the shouted command the men set to, trying to trip or hit their opponents with their poles.

  Montague wasted no time. He charged in with his stick high with the intent to smack Talon a heavy blow on the head or shoulders. Talon waited just long enough for the blow to start, tapped it aside with the end of his own stick, slid in sideways, backed in low, and rammed the end of his pole hard into his opponent’s midriff. Montague gave a gasp and doubled over, whereupon Talon smacked him briskly on the side of his head and stepped back out of the way.

  Montague was on one knee, holding his ear where he had been struck. He squealed with pain as Talon had not struck gently. Then he stood up and came in again. This time he was more cautious and whirled his stick in an arc as he came to confuse before he changed its direction and struck at Talon’s legs. Talon blocked the savage swing hard and then equally swiftly he reversed his stick and rammed the side of the other end onto Montague’s other ear. It stopped the man in his tracks and Talon was just about to deliver a hard poke at Montague’s face when the man stepped hurriedly out of the way.

  Then they went at it hard. Montague was no novice at the game of poles and once or twice he got in very hard blow to keep Talon from getting too confident.

  By this time the other trainees had abandoned their own sparring to watch this fight. A loose circle had formed around the two combatants which the other sergeants did nothing to stop. Everyone knew that these two men had to settle a grudge and the fight suddenly looked like it was not going to be an easy one for Montague. Talon could hear the comments being made by his companions who were clearly glad that he was able to punish his opponent.