Poul Anderson: Death and the Knight

He took a chair across the table from Reynaud's. They had backs, armrests, and cushions, an unusual luxury. After a few hasty courtesies, he snapped in Temporal, "What can you tell me about Marlow and his situation?"

"When last he called, the situation appeared unchanged," replied the portly man in the fur-trimmed robe. "He is confined to the strongroom. It has a pallet for him to sleep on. His guards bring him food and water twice a day, and at such times a boy empties his chamber pot for him. They speak to him no more than is barely necessary. I think my message described the neighbors as being wary of the Templars and therefore leaving them strictly alone."

"M-hm. But what about Marlow? Has he told you how much information he let slip, and in what style he did it?"

"That is our main concern, of course. Correct?" Reynaud rubbed his chin. Everard heard the bristles scratching; contemporary razors didn't shave smooth. "He dares not speak to us at length or often. A listener at the door could too easily realize that he isn't actually at prayer, and so may be talking to a familiar spirit or casting a spell or the like. From what he has said, and what he earlier entered in his periodic reports — until recently, he was careful. You know he had leave to make a few predictions, describe a few events in distant places, et cetera. He explained this to the Templars partly as dreams and visions, partly as astrology. Both are everywhere taken seriously; and the Templars are especially disposed to occultism."

Everard raised his brows. "You mean they are, in fact, doing forbidden things?"

Reynaud shook his head. "No. At least, not to any great degree. Everybody nowadays is superstitious. Heresy is widespread, if mostly covert; likewise witchcraft and other pagan survivals. Heterodoxy in a thousand different forms is almost universal among the illiterate majority, ignorant of orthodox theology. The Templars have long been exposed to Islam, not always in a hostile fashion, and the Muslim world is full of magicians. It is no surprise that their leaders, their intellectuals, developed certain ideas and practices that they feel are legitimate but had better not be made public. Marlow's accounts of these are fascinating."

Everard couldn't resist. "Okay" — American word—"what is this idol Baphomet they'll be accused of worshiping?"

"'Baphomet' is merely a corruption of 'Mahomet,' a smear by their enemies. It's true that the object has the shape of a head, but it is a reliquary. The relic, acquired long ago in the Holy Land, is believed to be the jawbone of Abraham."

Everard whistled. "Heterodox for sure. Dangerous. Inquisitors might recall that the ancient Greeks kept the jawbones of heroes for oracles. But still, yes, inner-circle Templars could well imagine they can venerate this while staying Christian. .

He sat straight. "Let's stick to our work." Wincing, he muttered out of an irrational need, "Sure, it's unpleasant. A lot of men, mostly simple, harmless rank-and-file, are going to be jailed, terrorized, tortured, some burned, the rest left with their lives wrecked, just to glut that son-of-a-bitch Philip. But he is the government, and governments are like that, and this is the history that produced us" — and everybody and everything they cared for. Their task was to safeguard it. Louder, harshly: "What did Marlow tell his knightly friend, and why?"

"More than a friend," Reynaud said. "They became lovers. He admits now, he could no longer endure the thought of what would happen to Fulk de Buchy."

"Hmm! So the allegations of homosexuality aren't false?"

"Not entirely." Reynaud shrugged. "What do you expect in an organization supposed to be celibate? I don't imagine more goes on than does in the average monastery. And how many kings and nobles keep favorites?"

"Oh, I'm not passing moral judgments. On the contrary." Everard thought of the lengths to which he might go were Wanda so threatened. "People's bedrooms are none of my business. But hereabouts, the state makes them its business, and may put you to the stake because you loved the wrong person." He scowled. "I'm just trying to understand what we're up against. How much did Marlow let out, and how convinced is Fulk?"

"Marlow told him in general terms that the king plans an attack on the Templars and it will be soon. He begged Fulk to make an excuse to leave France. Kings elsewhere won't follow suit at once, and in such countries as Scotland and Portugal the Templars never will be persecuted. The warning was plausible. As you doubtless know, accusations have been circulating for several years, and an investigation, officially impartial, is in progress. Fulk took Marlow seriously enough to send a letter to a cousin of his, who commands the Templar fleet, urging him to keep his crews alert for trouble."

"Hey!" Everard exclaimed. "I remember — but my briefing only said it's a historical mystery what became of the fleet. It was never seized, nor heard of again, as far as the chronicles go. . What will happen?"

Reynaud was, naturally, kept informed about future developments, as the Patrol's field scientists traced them out. "When the arrests begin, the ships will put to sea," he answered. "Most will go to the Moors, like many individual Templars ashore, the men feeling betrayed and disgusted. The Moors will, quite wisely, disperse them among the naval forces of various emirs."

"So already Marlow has had a real impact," said Everard bleakly. "What else might Fulk do, even at this late hour? Once we've rescued Marlow, we'll have to deal with that gentleman. . somehow."

"What is your plan for Marlow?" Reynaud asked.

"That's what I'm here to discuss and arrange," Everard replied. "We'll have to work out fail-safe tactics. Nothing that'll smack of the supernatural or anything else extraordinary. God knows what that could lead to."

"I expect you have ideas," Reynaud said. An unattached agent was bound to.

Everard nodded. "Can you find me a few bully boys who know their way around? My notion is that, tonight, we break into the house in Paris. Evidently nobody's staying there but the prisoner, two guards, and a scullion — a novice, I suppose. A robber gang could hear about that and decide to take advantage of it. We'll steal whatever portable goods we find and carry Marlow off with us, presumably to hold him for ransom. What with everything that's about to take place, who'll give him further thought? The robbers figured they couldn't get a ransom after all, cut his throat, and dumped him in the Seine." He paused. "I hope we won't hurt any innocent bystanders too badly."

Sometimes the Patrol must be as ruthless as history itself.

After curfew, when the city gates had closed, none went abroad without necessity, save for the watch and the underworld. The timecycle appeared in a street wholly deserted. An outsize machine bearing saddles for eight, it settled onto the cobblestones with a squelp of mire that seemed loud in the silence.

Everard and his men sprang off. Narrow between high walls and elevated galleries, the street lay blacker than any open field, its air foul and cold. Glow from two small windows well up in one housefront merely deepened the dark. The raiders saw clearly. Their light-amplifying goggles ought to be taken for grotesque masks. Otherwise they wore the patched and dirty garments of the poor. All bore knives; two carried hatchets, one a cudgel, one a quarterstaff; Everard's belt upheld a falchion, short, its blade broad and curved — plausible weapons for bandits.

He squinted at the dim windows. "Damn!" he growled in English. "Somebody awake in there? Maybe just a night lamp. Well, in we go." He switched to Temporal. His team had birthdays scattered through several future centuries and around the globe. "All right, Yan, shoot."