Two Knights of Indulgence (3 page)

“Did your parents not send word?
 
I have won your hand as well as these
lands.
 
All here is now
mine
, including you and your brothers.
 
Be good to me, and perhaps I’ll spare their
lives.”

“My parents sent no such word.”
 
Sybille gazed at Nicolas, her eyes widening
before looking back at the bandit.
 
“And
may I ask whose hand I have supposedly been given to?”

“The name is Sir Eustache of
Rouen
, at your service.” The man bowed to his
sister and then rose to his full height, head and shoulders above Sybille.
 
“Your parents were so relieved with the bag
of gold I thrust into their hands, I doubt they stopped counting the pieces
long enough to send you word.”
 
He thrust
the same vellum at her that he’d shown to Guillaume and
Petior
before they’d killed them.
 
She didn’t
reach and grasp it, her eyes looking to him fleetingly.

“Take it, here’s your proof.”

Sybille’s fingers shook as she read over the paper,
her eyes growing large.
 
She looked to
Nicolas and
Gui
once more
before turning back to the large knight.

The man walked away and turned his back on Sybille,
looking at Nicolas and
Gui
.
 
“How old are the brats?”

“The—brats—have names.”

Sir Eustache stomped back to her, anger tightening his
shoulders before he grasped her face once more, pulling her close.
 
Nicolas held his breath, the action reminding
him of the times his father struck his mother.
 
Nicolas screwed his eyes tight for a moment, but opened them a short
time later when he heard no resounding slap.
 
“I have no time for this.
 
I asked
a question, wench.”

“Felix here beside me is eight summers.”
 
Sybille wrinkled her nose like he did when
they had liver for their supper.
 
“
Gui
is seven.
 
Nicolas is six.”

“
Ahh
,
perfect.
 
I will put them to work with my men instead of fostering.
 
I’ve already paid too much for you and this
land, as is.
 
Time for
little boys to become men.”

“Can I have the youngest to foster?” asked the boy
behind Nicolas.

“You are still but a squire yourself.
 
What do you know of fostering?”

“He’s too young to do much yet, and he’ll be
underfoot, a bother to you.
 
Let him help
me with my work to give him strength and understand what will be expected of
him.
 
I’ll be responsible for him until
he grows a bit older.”
 
The squire
glanced at Nicolas, and there was something in his gaze that told Nicolas he
would be kind to him, kinder than the other men there.

Sir Eustache stared at the squire long and hard before
speaking.
 
“You are wise beyond your
years, Matthias.
 
Fine, take the runt
under your care for now and keep him out of my way.
 
Claude, figure out who will take the other
two.”
 
Sir Eustache dragged Sybille to
him.
 
“As for me, I think I shall
acquaint myself with my bride to be.”

Nicolas watched as Sir Eustache dragged Sybille into
the keep, the men surrounding them laughing.
 
Nicolas wanted to cry, even more so when he saw fat, wet tears sliding
down her face, but he held them back.
 
He
looked up to Matthias, unsure what would come next.

“Do you know how to care for horses?” Matthias asked
softly.

“We sold our horses a long time ago.
 
They had soft tails.
 
All we had left were two asses.
 
Their tails were rough.”

“Follow me.
 
We
will take the horses into the stables and find them homes, then unsaddle and
brush them.”

Happiness suddenly filled Nicolas, some of the fear
washing away with the prospect of helping with the horses.
 
Perhaps he would be allowed to ride one of
the strong animals.
 
“I like horses.”

“You do?
 
Well
quite soon, you will not like them so much, not after you have had to shovel
their dung all day.
 
But you must learn
to care for the animals that serve us.”

Nicolas did not care for that idea very much, but
another thought entered his mind.
 
“Will
you show me how to fight with a sword?”

Matthias smiled.
 
“Let’s worry about the horses and maybe then we can teach you a little
swordplay.”

Nicolas smiled, his day much improved now that he
wasn’t facing death at Sir Eustache’s hands, until he thought of Sybille once
more.
 
“Will Sir Eustache hurt my
sister?”

“Not if she does not fight him.”

****

Constantinople
, 1307 AD

Matthias heard his brother-in-arms fighting close to
him in the crowd, the clash of his steel and his deep guttural roar
undeniable.
 
They’d gotten separated
somehow.
 
Moments before, they’d been
back to back, facing down the overwhelming odds together.
 
Ten to two was not a good set of odds,
especially against the Turks.
 
The Turks
fought with much vengeance, although they were less organized after the fall of
Constantinople
.
 

What they lacked in organization, they more than made
up for with pure, raw anger.
 
Crusaders
were scorned as they moved through their city on their way back and forth from
Jerusalem
, which was why
Matthias and Nicolas were there.
 
They
were traveling to meet a French family of noble birth and escort them back to
Paris
.
 
They were late, coming into the Ottoman city
after nightfall, which was not a good idea, but had they remained on the
fringes of
Constantinople
, they could have
faced worse foes.
 
Bandits and raiders
circled the edges, looking for easy prey.
 
Matthias and Nicolas were not easy prey, but if outnumbered as they were
now, it would be up to fate as to who won and who lost.
 
Perhaps they should have stayed in the
fringes and hoped they found luck there, instead of assuming the city would be
safer.

Matthias struck one of the men in the gut with his
sword, piercing the throat of another with his small blade.
 
His mind was on automatic, his body honed to
be the killing machine he’d become through years of training.
 
He took no pride in what he did; he was an
instrument of the Catholic Church, a dealer of death to protect the innocent, a
means to an end, just as he’d been a killer for Eustache until the man had
underestimated him one day.
 
There was no
failing in his path; he would eradicate any obstacles to his end purpose.
 
There was a fine French family awaiting his
protection.
 
He didn’t care how many
Turks he’d have to kill to get there.

Nicolas was one of those innocents.
 
Yes, he was a Templar as well and fully trained
to fight off their enemies, just as Matthias was, and Nicolas had killed his
share.
 
Matthias had spent years honing
Nicolas to be a strong fighter, but there still lay something softer inside the
younger man.
 
He was
not
as
strong a fighter as Matthias, nor would he ever be, as Nicolas could
not turn the switch off in his mind and become the thoughtless killer Matthias
could.
 
Matthias had spent the years
carrying the larger load, hoping Nicolas would never become what he was.
 
Death incarnate.

Matthias pushed down the fear that rose in his belly,
knowing it would become a liability if he allowed it.
 
Nicolas had fought many a battle, and if this
was the day he would meet his maker, then so be it.
 
A blade in his hand, the sun settling down
over his body, the Lord above smiling down on them as they fought for the name
of all Christendom, this was the way a Templar Knight was meant to face his
end.
 

Even as the thought crossed Matthias’ mind, he knew it
to be a lie.
 
Nicolas was more than a
friend, more than a brother.
 
Matthias
wasn’t ready to say goodbye, nor would he ever.
 
Nicolas might have been more a lover than a fighter, but he balanced
Matthias.
 
He was the light to his
darkness, and Matthias was bound and determined to keep it that way.
 
Fear spiked a bit more, and his sword swirled
through the air, ripping through the necks of two more of the Turks.
 
The heathens might be ruthless and hardy, but
no fighter was more ruthless and bloodthirsty than Matthias.

The last standing of his five stared at him, fear
beginning to shine in the Turk’s gaze.
 
“You are a white devil,” he spat, his words deeply accented from his
native language.

A smile twisted Matthias’ lips.
 
“You have not seen me at my best yet, Turk.”

The man barely had time to run before Matthias’ blade
sunk deep into his chest.
 
Matthias
wasted no time, pulling the blade out and jumping in to fight the two left
standing around Nicolas.
 
His friend had
felled three, but was showing signs of fatigue.
 
Matthias caught the first unaware, slicing through his throat as he
awaited his chance to sink his blade into Nicolas.

The final Turk suddenly realized he was the lone
survivor.
 
He spun in a circle, gazing at
his fallen comrades.
 
He then looked to
Nicolas and Matthias, his eyes wide, the whites glowing brightly against the
light brown of his skin.
 
The bonfires
surrounding them glistened in his stare as he watched them intently.

“You knights have killed too many of my people.”

“We had no fight with you tonight.
 
You brought it on yourselves.
 
We only sought safe passage.”
 
Nicolas stood tall, his stance still wide and
ready to pounce.

“You kill our people.
 
You take our cities.
 
You stroll
through like kings, and we are to simply let you pass?”

Matthias saw the uneasiness settle across Nicolas’ face.
 
Stories of what some of the
Templars
and other orders had done to some of these people
held truth in them.
 
They both knew there
was corruption within their group, but they had no proof.
 
There was little they could do but stand tall
and not compromise their vows.
 

“We had no fight with you.
 
You could have just let us
pass
.
We had to protect ourselves.”

“We avenge our fathers and brothers.
 
Our mothers and sisters.
 
Our pride and our respect.
 
We avenge that which you have taken from
us.”
 
The Turk lifted his sword, a
maniacal glow lighting his gaze as he began to run in their direction.
 
Matthias lifted his sword and turned to see
Nicolas at ease.
 
He wasn’t raising his arms
to protect himself.

“Fight, damn you.
 
Raise your weapon.”

“I have no fight with him.”

Matthias pushed in front of Nicolas, sliding his sword
deep into the Turk’s chest.
 
He held the
man close, the propulsion of his run pushing him even deeper onto the blade.

“We
will
have vengeance on you both …”

Matthias yanked his weapon from the man and laid his
dying body on the ground at their feet.
 
He wiped the blood from his blade on his under tunic and then placed it
back in the sheath, anger riding through his body.
 
He wasn’t angry with the Turk; he was angry
with the man still standing quietly behind him.
 
“Were you going to let him kill you?”

“He would have stopped.
 
If I did not raise my arms, he
would
have stopped.”

Matthias whirled around to face his friend.
 
“No!
 
No, he would not have.
 
He would
have cut you down, and then I would have had to kill him to protect
myself.
 
Instead of one dead, there would
have been two.”