Standard of Honor (68 page)

“But not for many days. The wind changed and the smoke from the fire he lit blew back into Saladin's face when Conrad threw Guy out of Tyre and Guy marched south to besiege Acre. He took the Templars with him, under de Ridefort, and that brings me to the end of Harry's story.”

“The
end
of Harry's story?” Sinclair crossed one ankle over his knee and grasped it in both hands, leaning backward. “How can that be? Harry is still with us.”

“True, but bear with me. De Ridefort, being the man he was, saw a large and immediate advantage to be gained in promoting Harry to high rank within the Temple. Harry was popular among the brethren and equally well known and liked among the army's other elements, so de Ridefort thought to raise him to one of the key positions left vacant after the losses at Hattin. He told Harry what he had decided, and Harry declined, graciously but firmly. He wanted no part of such distinction, he said, and when de Ridefort refused to accept that, Harry, just as stubbornly, refused to be browbeaten into changing his mind. He was a monk, he told de Ridefort, and he had joined the Temple to be simply that, a monk, adhering to the Temple Rule and seeking salvation in a life of prayer and duty.”

“Harry won the argument, obviously.”

“Aye, he did. De Ridefort was beside himself, but there was nothing he could do. Faced with the simplicity of Harry's stance, and with the full light of the public scrutiny he himself had initiated with never a thought that he might be rebuffed, he had no choice. So for perhaps the first time in his life as a Templar, he accepted what he could not change. But he let it be known in no uncertain terms that he considered Sir Harry Douglas to be in breach of his vow of obedience—”

“Which he was.”

“—perhaps, that is debatable—but also derelict in his concern for the welfare of the Order and fundamentally unworthy of the high regard accorded him by so many misguided people.”

“Harsh words, but that sounds like de Ridefort. He was a vindictive man.”

“Vindictive? Perhaps. I never knew him, but I have probably heard more about him than about any other man since I came here. There were many negatives attached to him—implacable, humorless, intolerant, irascible, intractable—but I believe now that all of these were a natural outgrowth of his extreme conviction. He was a giant among men and an inspiration as a leader, passionate, given to extremes, and his greatest passion was his loyalty to his religion, even above his loyalty to the Temple. He never suffered fools gladly, and he never tolerated any threat to what he truly believed to be God's kingdom upon earth, but within those terms, Gerard de Ridefort's integrity was boundless.”

Alexander Sinclair regarded his cousin calmly, his face empty of expression, then nodded slowly. “Aye … Well, as you said, you never knew him.” His tone was as bland as his facial expression, and André could only stand blinking at him, wondering if he had been rebuked, while Alec continued: “So how has the Master's death changed your friend? He must be different, now that he is free from disapproval?”

“No, Harry is the same. He lived in isolation for months, within the Templar fraternity, for there were many who had snubbed him at the outset, afraid to do otherwise lest they attract de Ridefort's displeasure, and then when de Ridefort was killed, that October, Harry discovered that he preferred to remain alone, content with his own company. He had seen who avoided him before, and had no wish to consort with them again simply because they were no longer afraid of de Ridefort. Then, somehow, when I arrived, he and I became friends, and we have been close friends ever since.”

“How long ago did you arrive?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Hmm. You know I heard about de Ridefort's death at the time. I was still a prisoner then, but the tidings of the Temple Master's death swept right across the Saracen world, and there were celebrations everywhere. I know he was executed, beheaded, but I never did discover how he was captured. He was long dead when I was released and I had other matters to concern me then.”

“Well, it was exactly as you might have expected him to be captured: in the thick of things.” André stood up
and crossed to where Alec's sword stood propped against a stone. “May I?” When Alec nodded, he took the sword in hand, holding the long, gleaming blade out in front of him and eyeing it as he spoke. “There was a fight that day, a savage one, but not big enough to be called a battle because it sprang up suddenly, outside the walls of Acre—a spontaneous clash, rather than a strategic confrontation. And strangely enough, it was the only fight of its kind that I have heard of in which Guy commanded brilliantly and distinguished himself.” He stepped to one side, swinging the long sword with him, slowly, hefting it for weight and balance. “Stranger still, Conrad was there that day, too, and the pair of them managed to cooperate effectively. It was October fourth, 1189, and I remember the date solely because it was the day Gerard de Ridefort died.” St. Clair smiled ruefully, then returned the blade to where it had been propped against the stone. “Beautiful weapon,” he said as he sat down again.

“Classically perfect de Ridefort behavior,” he continued, “a straight frontal charge against a superior—no, an
overwhelming
concentration of enemy cavalry. It was the third recorded time in his career as Master of the Temple that the man suspended all common sense, in the blind belief that God would protect him and his righ-teousness, and committed his forces suicidally against impossible odds. And as on the two previous occasions, the enemy merely split their formations and flowed around his charge, yielding nothing in the way of ground or advantage, content to stand off and shoot
down the charging monks as they rode by, and then to smother the remainder with the sheer mass of their numbers. And de Ridefort survived again. He always did. And he was taken prisoner. But this time the Saracens executed him out of hand.”

“Sic transit gloria mundi.”

“Something like that. You didn't like him, did you?” “De Ridefort?” Alec Sinclair pursed his mouth in distaste. “Didn't like him, didn't trust him, couldn't tolerate him. He cost me too many good friends over the years, with his pig-headed, self-righteous stubbornness and bigotry. You may call it inspiration, but I called it bullying and obstinate idiocy. The man was the perfect Temple Boar. Not a thought in his head that did not have to do with the Temple, its glory, its dictates, its dogma, its needs, and when it might require him next to bathe. That is a very narrow path to walk through life.” He slapped both palms down on his thighs. “So you are here on Council business. When were you Raised, and where?”

“Like you, on my eighteenth birthday. And at a Gathering in Tours, in the house of one of the Council members.”

“And when did you decide to join the Temple?”

André waggled one hand from side to side. “I never did … not really. That decision was made for me, by King Richard.”

“The man himself, the Lionheart? I am impressed.”

“You need not be. He is my liege lord. And that, too, is a long story for another time. More important
now, I have dispatches for you—a wealth of information and instructions, I believe. They are in my saddlebags, so I'll give them to you when Harry comes back.”

“Do you have any idea what they concern?”

“Yes and no. They are from the Council. I was amply provided with dispatches when I arrived, some for the Commander of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, from his Temple superiors in France, but most of them for you. They all looked similar on the outside, so I had to be careful not to mingle them. Yours, however, were labeled in Arabic. I spent a long time receiving careful instruction in Arabic.”

“You speak Arabic?” The astonishment in Sinclair's voice was worth all the time and trouble and effort André had expended, and he permitted himself a tiny smile.

“Barely. I understand it far better than I speak it, but I do speak a little … atrociously, I've been told. ”

“And you learned it over there?”

“I did, from a number of distinguished teachers, mostly in Poitiers, some in Marseille.”

Alec Sinclair immediately switched languages. “Tell me, then, about what you have learned.”

“Many things, in a broad range of subjects. The Koran, of course, first above all, the words of Allah and His Prophet, without which nothing in the Arab world makes sense. Then much about the diversity and complexity of Islamic society, and of the various elements within it. I can also speak with authority, and from either viewpoint, on the differences between the Shi'a and Sunni sects.”

“That is amazing.” Sinclair had been grinning as he listened, but now he said in a low, serious voice, “Cousin, I swear that that is probably the worst Arabic I have ever heard spoken, even by a Templar
ferenghi
.”

“So why were you sent to find me? You, I mean, and not someone else?”

“Because the members of the Council knew we are cousins and we know each other. And because no one had heard from you in a very long time and there was very real concern that you might be dead. My understanding is that you had been entrusted with some matter of grave importance to the brotherhood and had been engaged upon pursuing it for years, until the outbreak of the war and your disappearance. My task was to find you and to acquire the information you had collected, then return it to the Council.”

“If that was all that they required of you, you had no need to learn Arabic. What do you know about this information I was collecting?”

“Nothing, really. Nothing at all.”

Sinclair looked closely at him, then looked away.

“Then there is something lacking here … something that neither one of us knows. How large are these dispatches you have brought for me? Are they heavy? Bulky?”

“They are heavy, considering that they are merely written missives. And they are in two large wallets, both of them full.”

“Aha. And what were you to do with them in the event that I was dead?”

“Read them, and then try to complete your task.”

“But then you would have had to start from the beginning, from the very outset. And I had been working at it for years. Even speaking Arabic, you would have been able to do nothing.”

“Perhaps not, but I had—I have—a list of names, three names in all, of people with whom you are known to have associated in the past. I was to contact them and try to reconstruct your activities, hoping to find whatever reports you might have left behind … in concealment.”

“Hmm.” The single sound was dismissive, perhaps contemptuous, but Sinclair had made up his mind. “Well then, we had best collect these wallets of yours and be on our separate ways. It sounds as though I have much to read, and I believe the quicker I set myself to the task, the better it will be. Can you whistle for your friend? I will ride back with you as far as I can, but I will leave you before we draw near to the camps at Acre, for I have no wish to be seen. When I have read everything and understand what is required of me, I will send them back to you, for you to read. It seems appropriate that, if you are to run the risk of being killed with me, you should understand what we are attempting to do. I presume something is required from both of us in any case, although there is little to be gained from speculating as to what. But I will also send you instructions on where to meet me next time. It will not be as difficult or far away next time, I promise. Now call for Harry.”
FOR A MILE OR TWO
the men spoke of generalities until they fell into a comfortable silence, and for some time there was nothing to be heard but the clopping of hooves and the creaking of saddle leather, and St. Clair found himself thinking about the absence of metallic bridle sounds. None of the knights wore metal bridles. That was one of the first things he had noticed on arriving here. Sound traveled far in the desert air, and many a knight had died uselessly in the early days of conquest here because of a jingling bridle. He was brought back to awareness by the sound of his friend Douglas clearing his throat before starting to speak again.

“May I ask you a question, Sir Alexander? A question I have no right to ask?”

Alec looked drolly at Harry. “An impertinent question, you mean. You may ask, but it sounds portentous and formal, so I may choose not to answer it. Ask away.”

“One of the first things you said to us today, about not knowing whether to meet us or not, was … Well, you said a few things, in fact, that have been troubling me ever since, but you began by saying that few men are worth trusting nowadays, and that you thought André's little tale about his nose might have been used as a lure to draw you out of hiding.”

“That is correct. So, what are you asking me?”

Harry threw up his hands in exasperation. “You are a monk, like me, like André here. We are all three Templars, and that means that, apart from our prowess against the enemy, we own little to cause concern or envy among our fellows, who are all as poor as we are, having taken the
same vows. Were you saying that your fellow Templars wish you ill? And if not them, then who? Wait, wait …” He slowed himself down and began again. “What I am asking you, Master Sinclair, is why an honored knight like you, a veteran of years of service here, should be in so much fear of his own kind that he feels the need to live alone and in hiding. That is my question.”

“There is no short answer to that question, Harry,” he said eventually. “Yes, there are some among my fellow Templars who, if they do not wish me ill, certainly do not wish me well. But not everyone in this army is a poverty-sworn monk with no ambitions, and I have, whether or not you choose to believe it, excellent and defensible reasons for living alone and in hiding. It is not such a great departure from our chosen way of life, if you stop and consider it, Harry. I live alone, so I find I am free of temptations most of the time. I also live very simply, feeding myself upon what I can catch, barter, or infrequently grow, and I have ample time for prayer and contemplation of the vale of tears we live in. I live, in fact, not so much like a monk as an anchorite … or even an eremite.” He fell silent then, and let the younger knights mull over his words before continuing.