Jack Whyte - Standard of Honour

“Sala’am Aleikhem,” Sinclair replied, wondering whether he ever would see his home again, for these people believed his name was Lachlan Moray and no one would ransom Sir Lachlan Moray, a Scottish knight with no affiliation to any major group. There was no Templar knight with such a name, and there was no one out there, even among the brotherhood, who might be capable of divining the truth of what had happened.

Sabit stepped forward and clamped a hand on his shoulder, and Alec Sinclair moved obediently in response, taking his first real steps into captivity as he made his way, under guard, to the horse—al-Farouch’s horse—that had been reserved for him in the center of the Saracen formation.

ONE

Even before Ector shook him by the shoulder, Henry St. Clair knew he had been dreaming, caught in that wavering limbo between sleep and wakefulness that he had been visiting regularly since his wife died the year before. The noises in his dream had been disquieting and vaguely frightening—distant, but thunderous and threatening—and yet he had been incapable of doing anything about them, unable to move decisively or to raise his voice in question or protest. And then hands were grasping at his shoulders, pinioning his arms, and he awoke with a muffled cry to find Ector standing over him, weirdly menacing in the flickering light of the candle by the bedside.

“My lord! My lord Henry, wake up.”

Henry stiffened, then relaxed, recognizing both his steward and his own familiar bedchamber as the last elements of his nightmare dwindled and vanished. He scrubbed at his eyes and pushed himself up onto one elbow, peering owlishly at his visitor.

“Ector? What is it? What hour is it?”

“Long after midnight, my lord, but you have visitors. You must dress yourself, quickly.”

“Visitors? In the middle of the night?” He flung away his coverings, then paused, half in and half out of bed, squinting up at his steward. “Is it those thrice-damned priests again? For if it is they can all go to Hell, where I will supplicate the Devil to dig deeper pits among the coals for them. Their sanctimonious arrogance is—”

“No, my lord Henry, not the priests. It is the King. He bids you join him, as quickly as you may.”

“The King.” Henry’s toneless voice betrayed his bewilderment. “The King of France ? Capet? Philip Augustus is here in Poitou?”

“No, my lord, I meant the Duke. The English King, Richard. Your liege.”

“Richard of Aquitaine.” St. Clair’s voice flattened. “You dare to name him King, here in my house? His father would have us both gutted for even thinking that, let alone saying it aloud.”

Ector hung his head, abashed at his gaffe. “Forgive me, my lord. My thoughts impaired my tongue.”

Henry held up his hand. “Enough! He will be King of England soon enough, but Henry is not dead yet. And in the meantime, the son is here at my door.” He jerked his hand in warning as Ector opened his mouth to speak again. “No! Be quiet and let me think. And while I do that, pray you for Heaven to protect us all from an ill wind, for no fair breeze blows any man to another’s door at this time of night, let alone Richard of Aquitaine. Why did you not say sooner it was he?”

Still clad in the tunic and leggings he had worn the previous day, Sir Henry rose from the bed as quickly as his aging body would permit and crossed to the bowl on his nightstand, where he splashed water onto his face and scrubbed at his eyes and cheeks. Ector offered to bring heated water, but Henry simply grunted and reached for a towel, bidding him fetch a fresh surcoat and his cloak instead. By the time Ector had retrieved them from his armoire, Henry had adjusted what he was already wearing and slipped his feet into a pair of sturdy, fleece-lined boots.

“How many men has he brought with him? Is this a war party?”

“No, my lord. He is practically alone. One noble companion and half a score of guards at most. I had the impression they have ridden a long way and still have farther to go.”

Henry shrugged into the first of the two garments Ector held out to him, a sleeveless white ankle-length surcoat without blazon. He wrapped the two sides around his waist and cinched them there with a leather belt. “How is his mien, his mood? Does he seem angry?”

Ector raised his eyebrows. “No, my lord. He seems…excited, full of enthusiasm.”

“I’m sure he is.” Henry picked up Ector’s candle and held it high as he bent forward to peer into a mirror of polished metal. He dipped his other hand into the bowl and splashed water on his hair and beard, rubbing it in with his fingertips and then combing and grooming himself with spread fingers. “But for what is he enthusiastic now? I wonder. His passions ever change from week to week. I wonder where he’s bound, that he should pass by our very door. Did he say anything of that?”

“No, my lord. Not to me.”

“No, of course. He would not. Well, I shall have to go and ask him.”

St. Clair bared his teeth and nodded to his reflection in the mirror, then turned back to Ector, taking his knight’s mantle from the steward’s hands and sweeping it around above his head in a broad, circular motion, so that its voluminous folds flared out and settled perfectly across his shoulders, with the St. Clair crest prominently displayed on its left breast. He snapped shut the catch that secured the heavy cloak across his chest, then nodded again and strode towards the door to make his way down the broad, shallow staircase of stone that led to the main entrance hall, where a profusion of bright lights and bustling servants focused his attention on the large antechamber into which Ector had ushered his visitors.

“You set food and drink for him, I hope, before you came for me?”

“Of course, my lord, and replenished the fire as soon as he arrived.”

“You have prepared chambers for them?”

“They are being made ready now, fires lit and the bedding aired and warmed. His retainers are already quartered in the stables and haylofts.”

“Good man.” St. Clair halted outside the doors to the anteroom, then spread his arms to settle his cloak more comfortably, and drew a deep breath. “Well then, let’s find out what our lord and master wants now.”

“HENRY, YOU SLUGGARD! By God’s holy legs, you took your time in coming to greet us!”

Richard Plantagenet had risen to his feet as Sir Henry entered, dropping the meat he had been eating and wiping his greasy hands on the sides of his much-stained leather jerkin. But despite the apparent harshness of his shouted rebuke, there was no doubting the obvious pleasure with which he stepped towards the older man, his arms spread wide to welcome him in a great embrace. St. Clair barely had time to register a second man, also rising from the table, before he was swept up in a bear hug and swung off his feet, incapable of doing anything other than clinging to his dignity as well as he might. The big man holding him swung him around only once, however, before releasing him and holding him at arm’s length, locking his eyes with the piercing blue of his own.

“You are looking wonderful, my old friend, as well as I had hoped to find you, and that is the best tidings these eyes of mine have looked upon in weeks. How long has it been, seven years? Eight?”

“Five, my liege,” Henry murmured, smiling, aware that Richard Plantagenet would know to the day precisely how long it had been since last they met. “But do not interrupt your meal on my behalf, for you have evidently traveled far and must be hungry.” A quick glance to the right had shown him a pair of wet, mud-spattered riding cloaks thrown over the back of a high chair and two long swords lying across its arms. April had been a long and dirty month of hard rain and blustering gales, and May, mere days away now, seemed set to be even bleaker and more unseasonably hostile.