Order In Chaos
He strode on, headed directly for the open end of the street less than thirty paces away, and soon stepped into the empty square that stretched as far as the Commandery’s main gates. Once there, he looked back to where his six men had spread themselves in a line across the road with their backs to him, facing the junction with the lane and holding their drawn swords point down on the stones of the street. As they stood there, each with sufficient fighting room to defend himself with ease, a group of unkempt garrison soldiers poured out of the lane and skidded to a halt, their clamorous shouting fading instantly into silence. There were only ten of them, and they had clearly not expected to find a line of six Templars awaiting them with drawn swords.
As he watched the confrontation take shape, Sir William became aware of running footsteps approaching from the direction of the Commandery, but when he glanced over to see who was coming, he recognized the young sergeant, Ewan, who had gone off to escort the lady.
“Sir William!”
Sir William swung back to face the young man, chopping with his hand to quiet him, but Ewan was beside him now, and urgent with tidings.
“Sir William! I—”
“Shush, boy! Be silent.”
“But—”
“Silent! And pay attention here.” He waved his arm towards the street from which he had just emerged.
Tam Sinclair had given the King’s guards no time to rally themselves but had jumped right into confrontation, addressing himself to the lout who seemed to be their leader. The loud, hectoring voice he assumed, speaking flawless street French and betraying no sign of his true nationality, carried clearly down the tunnel of the street to Sir William’s ears.
“Well, filth, what would you have of us? Eh? What? By what imagined right do you dare challenge the Brotherhood of the Temple? You accosted us, ordered us to stand, in the name of the King. Why?”
None of the guardsmen made any attempt to answer him, their ignorance of what to do next betrayed by the way they glanced at each other, avoiding looking at any of the Templars.
Tam raised his voice even higher. “Come now, it is a simple question. And it demands a simple answer. Why did you shout at us to halt? Are we criminals? Do you know what you did, making demands of any of our Order without due authority? Where did you find the stupidity to attempt to interfere in the affairs of the Temple?”
Still no one answered him, despite the open insult in his words, and he gave them no respite. “Are you all mute? Or are you simply even more stupid than you look? You are King’s men—at least you wear the uniform—so you must know who we are. And you must know, too, that you have neither the right nor the capability to call us to account, for anything. We are sergeants of the Temple and we answer solely to our Grand Master, who answers, in his turn, to the Pope. Your king has no power to bid us stay or go in our affairs. No king in Christendom has such a right.”
He paused, as though sizing up his now bemused opponents. “So what is it to be? Will you search us and die, or merely question us and die, or fight us and die? Your choice. Speak up.”
The leader of the King’s men finally found his voice at this. “You can’t threaten us,” he said, his tone more of a whine than a complaint. “We are King’s men. We wear the King’s uniform.”
Tam Sinclair spoke as though nothing had been said. “On the other hand,” he said, “you have a fourth option. You may stand here, as you are, and without argument, and watch us as we walk away leaving your blood unspilled. Then, once we are gone, you will be at liberty to leave, too, and none of us, on either side, will breathe a word of this encounter. Are we agreed?” He addressed the man who had voiced the complaint, and he was impatient with the time it took to gain an answer. “Well, are we? Do we walk away or do we fight?” He raised the point of his sword to waist height, not threateningly but emphatically.
The other man nodded. “We walk.”
“Excellent. Stand you there, then, until we be gone.”
Sir William’s men turned their backs on their hapless challengers and, swords still unsheathed, walked down the now dark street to join him. Only then did he turn to the young man beside him, and Ewan began to speak immediately.
“My lord, I have—”
“Hush you. I know you have something to say, but it will wait until later. I have more pressing matters on my mind. Rejoin the others now, and don your surcoat.”
As the sergeant walked away, crestfallen, Sir William turned back towards the Commandery, knowing he had been seen from the gates as soon as he emerged into the open square, and that the senior guardsman on duty would immediately have summoned the Guard Commander. Now, striding towards the main gates, Sir William smiled in recognition as a veteran sergeant walked swiftly from the gatehouse, followed by four men, and then stopped short, frowning as he took in the bare ankles of the beardless man approaching him in the white surcoat of a knight and followed by an escorting group of sergeants. He raised one hand slightly in a restraining gesture to his men, until the man in the knight’s surcoat had reached the gateway.
“Tescar, well met. You look distrustful. Do you not know me? Or are you to bar me from the Commandery for a shaven chin?”
The sergeant’s wrinkled frown smoothed out in astonishment. “Sinclair? Sir William, is that you? God’s holy name, what happened to you?”
“A long tale, old friend, but I have urgent tidings from Paris for the preceptor. Is he within the walls?”
“You, too? Aye, he is, but you might have to wait in line. It’s first come, first served tonight, it seems, and you’re the third to come seeking him within this half hour.”
“Then I must claim priority, Sergeant. As I said, I bring urgent tidings from Paris, from Master de Molay himself. Is the admiral, too, inside?”
Tescar grinned. “Aye, he is, and the Master’s tidings are well delivered. Your brother knight arrived not ten minutes past, straight from the South Gate, no doubt with the same message.”
“What brother knight? We came in through the South Gate just as it closed, and we had to wait. There was no other Templar knight there. We would have seen him. Are you sure he said the southern gate? Who is he?”
The Sergeant of the Guard shrugged his wide shoulders. “That’s what he said, the South Gate. As to who he is, he’s a new one on me. I’ve never seen the man before. But he and another are here from Paris, bearing tidings from the Master for the preceptor and the admiral.”
Sir William Sinclair’s hands had dropped to his sword, one on the hilt, the other on the scabbard, as it occurred to him that this must have been the urgent message that had so agitated the young sergeant Ewan. He drew Tescar away by the sleeve, out of hearing of the others, and spoke in a low voice. “Listen to me, Tescar. There’s something wrong here. There is no other messenger. I am de Molay’s sole messenger to La Rochelle. What did this fellow look like?”
“Like you but better dressed.” Tescar was frowning now, beginning to look angry. “White mantle, white surcoat, full forked beard. Said he came from Paris with urgent tidings from the Grand Master. I passed him inside. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Did you ask his name?”
“Aye. It was English. Godwinson or Goodwinson, something like that. But he’s a Templar, beyond doubt.”
“Nothing is beyond doubt, Tescar. Not nowadays.” Sinclair had started for the entrance, his pace lengthening rapidly, and he waved a hand to bring Tam and the other sergeants after. “What did this fellow look like?”
“I told you. Like you, a Templar knight.” Tescar was hurrying to keep up with Sinclair, and the others followed them. “Big fellow, long beard, bright red with a pure white blaze on one side.”
“What?” Sinclair stopped in his tracks, spinning to face the sergeant and stopping him with a straightened arm. “A full red beard with a white streak? On the left?”
“Aye, that’s the one.” Sergeant Tescar, a veteran of many years, had learned to recognize urgency when it confronted him, and he wasted no time on useless questions. “I’ll take you in directly. Come. Your fellows here can go to the refectory. They’ll still have time for dinner.”
“No, they’ll come with me and I’ll make my own way in. You stay here and bar the gates. Seal this place up right now. No one is to leave here or come in until I say so, is that clear?”
“Aye, but—”
“No time for buts, Tescar. Seal this place tight and pray we’re not too late already. Tam, quickly, with me, and bring the others.”
MEN OF GOODWILL
1
Sir William Sinclair strode through the main gate tower and emerged into the spacious quadrangle of the headquarters complex. It was enclosed by four buildings, each three stories high, and he angled left immediately towards the heavy double doors that fronted the main administrative building containing the offices and living space of the garrison’s senior personnel. Tam Sinclair almost had to run to catch up to him, but when he did he grasped his taller cousin by the sleeve and pulled him around.
“Wait, damnation, wait now! Just hold hard for a minute. What are we rushing into here? What’s amiss? Why are you running?”
“Because I don’t like the smell. Something stinks here, Tam. Didn’t you hear what Tescar said?”
“Aye, some, but not all of it. The two o’ you were whispering like lovers. Who’s this other knight, this Godwinson?”
“I don’t know, but whoever he is, he’s a liar. There is no brother knight involved in this with tidings from de Molay. You know yourself, de Molay sent no other messenger but us. And there was no other Templar waiting to get in at the South Gate while we were there.” They had stopped at the foot of the shallow flight of steps up to the doors. “So who is this Godwinson and where did he come from? Not from the South Gate—you know that. Do you recall seeing de Nogaret in Paris, two weeks ago?” Tam nodded, his face troubled, and Sir William continued, walking up the steps. “Aye, you do, but obviously not as well as I do. D’you recall who was with him at the time? Think hard now. They had just emerged from the King’s residence and were waiting for a carriage.”
“Aye, I remember seeing the fellow, but I don’t know who he was. I was too busy looking at de Nogaret himself, bad luck to him. But the other one was a big, red-bearded—By the Christ!”
“Aye, big and red bearded, with a white streak in his beard. But was he a Templar? I think not. Nor was he dressed like one. No, Tam, the Christ has nothing to do with this one, not if de Nogaret’s involved.” They had reached the top of the shallow steps fronting the administrative building’s entrance, and Sir William swung the doors open wide before striding through, his men behind him fanning out and looking about them, plainly not knowing what they were looking for.
“Keep your wits about you, lads,” Sir William said quietly, “and tread softly. I don’t know what we may find in here, but this is no time to be clattering around, so move quietly. And be prepared for the worst.”
He led them to a passageway that bore away to the right from the far end of the cavernous entranceway, but he suddenly stopped short. Tam Sinclair bumped into him.
“What is it?” Tam’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
“No guards.” Another pair of closed double doors was set into the wall ahead of them, and Sir William drew his sword with a long, slithering of steel. “I’ve been here a score of times, Tam, and never have I seen those doors unguarded. Hold! Someone’s coming.”
Now they could clearly hear the sounds of shod feet coming from farther down the passageway, rapidly growing louder, and then a white-mantled knight stepped into view. He saw them immediately and gasped in alarm at the sight of Sir William’s bare blade, but Sinclair was already approaching him, raising his finger to his lips in a signal for silence.
“Admiral,” he whispered urgently, “stay there. It’s me, William Sinclair.”
Admiral Charles de St. Valéry was clearly astonished, but he remained where he was.
“Where’s de Thierry?” Sinclair asked him.
St. Valéry looked as though he might answer angrily, but then he merely shrugged. “I have no idea. He was in the Day Room when I saw him last, but that was half an hour ago. I have been upstairs ever since. What need have you and your men of bared blades here in the Commandery, Sir William?”
Sinclair was looking about him, but the passageway was empty on both sides, save for his own men.
St. Valéry spoke again, his voice still soft, but with an edge to it. “Do you not intend to answer me, sir?”
“Aye, I’ll answer you, my lord Admiral.” Sinclair threw him a quick glance, but then looked back to the closed doors of the Day Room where the Commandery’s business was conducted. “In a few moments I hope to be able to tell you that no, we have no need for bared blades here, but for the present that is not clear. Where are your guards?”
“My—?” St. Valéry looked beyond Sir William to where his two guards should have been. “Where are my guards?”
“What of this Godwinson, where is he?”
“What are you talking about? Who is Godwinson?”
“Aye. You’ve been upstairs for half an hour, you say?”
“I have.”
“Then you were gone when Godwinson arrived. And I see you are neither armed nor armored.”
“No, I am not. What need have I of arms or armor in my own house?”
“Come with me, Admiral, and do as I say.”
He turned on his heel and led the admiral back to where Tam Sinclair and his sergeants stood waiting. “Tam, two of your men to guard the admiral here and keep him safe from harm.” As Tam signaled two sergeants forward, Sir William turned back to St. Valéry. “I have reason to believe enemies are waiting for you on the other side of that door, Admiral, and that whoever goes in there first had best be well armored. I hope I am wrong, but I fear I am correct. So you stay here, against the wall, until we find out what’s inside. Tam!”
“Aye, Will.”
“Four of your men back outside, quickly, to Tescar at the gates. Tell him they need crossbows. Do it quickly, but without attracting attention.”
“Aye.”
While they waited for the four sergeants to return, Admiral St. Valéry studied Sinclair, who, in turn, stood gazing silently at the closed doors to the Day Room.
“What are you thinking, Sir William?”
“About armor, my lord Admiral. You have armor in your quarters?”
“Of course.”
“And have you a metal cuirass?”
“I have.”
“Go then, if you will, and don both, as quickly as you can.”
The admiral smiled wryly. “Don both? I have an extra tunic, too, of the finest Moslem chain mail, the strongest, lightest armor ever made. Should I put that on, too?” He was being facetious, but Sinclair was not.
“Aye, you should.” He saw the widening of the admiral’s eyes and held up a hand. “The first man through that door, Sir Charles, might well take a crossbow bolt in the chest, and so a triple layer of protection would be no excess. I would take your mantle myself and play your part, but I have no beard today and am fresh shaven, whereas your appearance is…otherwise distinctive. So you should enter first. I will be beside you, and we will have four crossbows of our own trained on whatever lies inside that room.”
“Hmm. Who is in there?” No one had ever accused St. Valéry of being excitable or lacking courage, and now his voice revealed only curiosity, with no trace of alarm.
Sir William’s headshake was brief. “I know not, but I suspect we will find two dead guards, and the preceptor, Sir Arnold de Thierry, either dead or being held captive. We have been infiltrated, Admiral. Our defenses have been breached, and all I know of our visitor is that I saw him last in the company of the King’s chief lawyer, William de Nogaret, less than two weeks ago in Paris. I do not know his name, but he gave the English name of Godwinson to Sergeant Tescar at the gates and was admitted. He is dressed as a knight of the Temple, but he is no Templar and no friend of our Order.”
“You recognized him?”
“No, I have not yet set eyes on him, but I recalled him from Sergeant Tescar’s description.”
St. Valéry was frowning. “Then how can you know this is the same man? Descriptions are vague at best. This man may well be a visiting brother from England.”
“Then where are your guards, Admiral? Or did this Godwinson merely see fit to dismiss them? Tescar’s description left little room for doubt. A big man, wearing a full, red beard with a bright white streak down the left side of it. Now, there may be two men in France with long red beards so singularly marked, but until I know I am wrong, I’ll act as though I’m right. Please, go and put on your armor. We will wait for your return. Whatever has occurred within that room is long since done, and plainly no one is anxious to come out.”
Tam Sinclair’s four sergeants arrived back moments after St. Valéry left to put on his armor, and Sir William drew them aside and explained what he wanted them to do. Two of them then took up positions on each side of the double doors, their backs to the wall, while the other two lay on their bellies on the floor, their bodies angled away from the entrance, their loaded, drawn weapons trained on the doors. Sir William would enter first with the admiral, he told them, and would thrust the older man aside as they went in, in the hope of saving him from attack. He himself would dive to the other side, leaving the crossbowmen free to shoot from the floor into the open room. To the best of his knowledge there were only two men inside, he told them, but he could not be sure of that. Treachery spread in France like dry rot today, he said, pointing out that William de Nogaret had spies and employees everywhere. In any event, there would likely be only one crossbow inside the room, and once it had been fired, its wielder would have to reload. If the two men on the floor could not finish him, it would be the turn of the two by the doors. They would enter the room immediately, at the run, and switch sides. Among the four of them they should be sure of dealing with one bowman. Sinclair himself would take care of the red-bearded impostor.
Admiral St. Valéry returned, looking distinctly larger and walking with far less ease, his sword slung from his shoulder. Sir William swished his own sword through the air and then concealed it behind his back.
“By me, if you will, Admiral, on my left, and let’s find out what lies in wait for us. Those doors do open inwards, do they not?”
“They do…Ready?” St. Valéry went quietly forward until they stood facing the doors, side by side. He took hold of the black iron rings of the handles, raising them gently, one in each hand, then drew a deep breath, twisted both handles, threw the doors wide, and stepped inside.
At first Sinclair could see nothing at all. The large room appeared to be empty. But then he saw the broad smear of blood on the floor to his left where someone must have dragged a body aside, and at the same time he saw a flicker of movement to his right.
He reacted instantly, thrusting out his arm, straight and hard, in a blow to the admiral’s shoulder. The older man had been tense, and the unexpected push sent him spinning, barely in time as a hard-shot missile smashed into him, jerking him bodily off his feet and hurling him sideways to crash on the floor against the wall. Sinclair had used the strong, straight-armed blow to push himself sideways, in the other direction, and even as his shoulders slammed into the open door he saw another blur of motion from his left, and a second steel bolt, this one intended for him, half buried itself in the solid oak of the door by his head.
From below him he heard the thrum of a crossbow then and looked to see the man who had tried to kill him, his crossbow still at his shoulder, transfixed by a bolt from one of the sergeants on the floor of the passageway. Angled upwards as it was, the bolt passed cleanly through the man’s neck, beneath his chin, and shot out through the base of his skull before digging itself into the crevice between two of the stone blocks of the wall.
Sir William thrust himself forward from the door, whirling, sword in hand, as the rest of his men stormed into the room.
The red-bearded man in the knight’s mantle stood against the wall, still holding the crossbow that had struck down St. Valéry, and as he looked at Sinclair and the men pouring through the doorway he opened his hands and dropped the useless weapon, then shrugged out of his great Templar mantle and let it fall to the floor behind him as he drew his sword and fell into a crouch. Beneath the beard, his mouth was a snarling rictus.
“Mine,” Sinclair said.
The red-bearded man circled away from him, and Sinclair followed, waiting for him to make a move. Then came a whirling blur, a loud, meaty-sounding blow, and the stranger fell to his knees and pitched onto his face as Tam Sinclair’s dirk clattered on the stone floor beside him.
Sir William straightened slowly from his crouch. “Was that well done, Tam?”
“Aye, sir, it was. A perfect throw, hilt first. Unless, of course, ye really wanted to give the whoreson a second chance to kill ye.”
“He would not have killed me, Tam.”
“No, likely not. But you would ha’e killed him, and there would ha’e been an end o’ it. But now he’s still alive, I think, and we’ll ha’e a chance to find out what he came here for.”
“I know what he came here for, and he succeeded. He came to kill the admiral and the preceptor.”
“Shit, aye, but why?”
“To cause chaos tonight. In preparation for tomorrow.”
“Then he’s missed his aim. The admiral’s alive. The bolt but caught his hauberk and threw him away, but it didna hit him. He’ll be fine. Battered about a bit, but he’s no’ even bleeding.”
Sir William turned quickly to look to where a couple of his men were raising the limp form of the admiral from the floor. “Thank God for that. I thought I had been too slow. Send someone to the infirmary to fetch a surgeon or a physician, and have someone else remove the admiral’s armor before the fellow comes. Where is the preceptor?”
“Over here, sir.” The voice came from the far end of the room, where another sergeant was standing looking down at the floor behind one of the room’s long tables. “Him and the two guards. All dead.”
“Ah, God!” Sir William slowly walked the length of the great room until he stood looking down on the three corpses that had been dragged out of sight behind the table. Two were sergeants of the Order, their brown surcoats now black with blood. The third man was much older, dressed in the white mantle of the knights, with the Temple cross embroidered on its left breast. He, too, had been killed by a crossbow bolt, shot from a distance short enough to drive the lethal bolt clean through his chest, so that half of its length protruded from his back. There was little blood, apart from the exit wound itself, so the elderly man’s death must have been instantaneous.
Sir William knew the old preceptor’s story as well as he knew his own. Arnold de Thierry, a childless widower of one-and-twenty, had joined the Order on the island of Cyprus, thirty-one years earlier, on the fourth day of July in 1276, and had become one of the Temple’s most honored knights in fifteen years of campaigning in the Holy Land. His career there had ended when he was wounded in the earliest stages of the final siege of Acre in the year 1291 and was shipped out by sea and committed to the care of the Knights Hospitallers at Rhodes. There he was expected to die, but he fought instead for life, earning himself an undying reputation for futile bravery by refusing to allow the surgeons to amputate his wounded arm when it was deemed to be gangrenous. The wound, it transpired, was merely infected, and de Thierry in time regained almost full use of the limb. But while he was undergoing his long, slow recovery, his comrades in Acre were overrun and slaughtered by the Seljuk Sultan’s Mamelukes.