Jack Whyte - Standard of Honour

Sir Henry smiled. “It will not kill me, my liege. I shall probably enjoy it, once I begin.”

“Well, young André will have no such problem. I’ll have Robert here put him to work at once, to learn the basic, general disciplines of the Order, those elements that are generally known and accessible, at least.” He cocked an eyebrow at de Sablé. “What think you, Robert? Will he have what is required for a Templar?”

“He has it already, my liege. All that will be required, from what I can see, will be a few…adjustments.”

“Aye, to praying morning, noon, mid-afternoon, and evening, and three or four times more during the night. A damnably strange way of life for a warrior knight.”

De Sablé smiled gently, negating the importance of what Richard had said with a flick of one hand. “That is the Rule of the Order, my liege. All members, without regard to rank, must abide by it.”

“Aye, and that is why I could never join. I wonder God’s Holy Warriors have any knees left to them with which to hold themselves upright and fight.”

De Sablé’s smile widened. “They appear to manage wondrous well, my liege, by your own admission mere moments ago. Besides, I have been told on good authority that the strictest measures of the Rule are set aside in time of war, and the application of the laws governing prayer is eased in favor of fitness and fighting readiness.” He turned to the elder St. Clair. “What think you, Sir Henry? Will your son settle to harness?”

“With great good will, Sir Robert, for he has a hero of his own already serving with the Temple Knights in Outremer, and I am sure he will work with great zeal to join him there, so be it the man is still alive.”

De Sablé quirked an eyebrow. “A hero? Who might that be?”

“A cousin, from the English branch of our family, although his family’s holdings are now in Scotland, to the north, these past thirty years. He is Sir Alexander St. Clair, although, having lived among those benighted islanders since his birth, he calls himself by name according to their uncouth tongue.”

De Sablé frowned. “How so? I do not follow you. You said his name is St. Clair.”

“Aye, but he pronounces it Sink -lur, not Sann Clerr as we do.”

“Sing-klur? That does sound strange…And why is he a hero to Sir André?”

The older man shrugged and smiled. “Because that is the kind of man he is. Why else? Alec—his own name for himself—is…heroic, a fighter of great repute and a veteran of the Temple. He spent two years with us, living in our household, soon after his admission to the Order, when André was but an unformed boy.” Henry hesitated, seeing the expression on de Sablé’s face. “What is it, Sir Robert? Have you heard of Alec St. Clair?”

De Sablé’s slight frown cleared immediately. “I know not. But it seems to me I recollect…something. It is a very unusual-sounding name.”

“Yes, for a very unusual man.”

“And why was he two years here after his admission to the Temple?”

“You must ask him, Sir Robert, if ever you meet him, because I never did know more than that he was about the business of the Temple in some fashion. And that, of course, is secretive, to those who do not belong.”

The outer doors swung open and Sir André entered, announcing that the Duke’s instructions had been delivered and were being carried out. Richard moved impatiently towards the doors at once, summoning Sir Henry to join him and shouting back over his shoulder to de Sablé, as he strode from the room, that he would await him by the front doors within the quarter hour.

As soon as the other two had gone, de Sablé and the younger St. Clair stood looking at each other, the younger man clearly ill at ease in being alone with his new superior. De Sablé gazed at him for a few moments, and then nodded his head graciously.

“Your father has been telling me about your friendship with your cousin Sir Alexander Sinclair.”

André St. Clair dipped his head, smiling slightly. “I could not call it a friendship, my lord. We liked each other, but I was a gangling boy at the time and Alec was a full ten years older, already a Temple Knight. We have not set eyes on one another in eight years, perhaps longer. But if Sir Alec is alive and still in Outremer, I will be honored to meet him again, and perhaps even fight beside him.”

“So you anticipate fulfillment, traveling to the East?”

The question, innocuous as it sounded, had multiple meanings and implications, St. Clair knew, and he hesitated.

“Come here.”

André moved closer almost with reluctance, wondering at the command, following as it had upon the unanswered question, and when the elder man stretched out his hand, he would have knelt had not the knight said, “No, take it.”

No longer hesitant, André St. Clair took the proffered hand in his, and when he felt the unmistakable shape and pressure of its grasp, he answered it in kind, silently confirming their membership in the brotherhood. De Sablé released his grip.

“I had a feeling, but I should have had it sooner,” he said, musingly. “I suspected your father might be of the brethren, but he did not respond to my grasp.”

“No, Sir Robert, my father does not belong. But Sir Alec does.”

“How did you learn that?”

“After my own initiation, of course. I had my suspicions soon after that, stirred by what I was learning, and remembering things that had puzzled me about him and his behavior when I was a boy. I asked my mentor and he confirmed it.”

“So then, even as an initiate of our ancient Order, you had no thought of joining the Temple Knights?”

St. Clair’s grin was open now. “None, sir, as I suspect you yourself had none. My loyalty was, and remains, to the brotherhood, and as I said earlier, I am—or I was—no monk.”

“Well, you will be soon, although under the vows of the brotherhood rather than those of the Church. You know, of course, what I mean by that?” André murmured that he did. “I have no doubt the brotherhood will task you with some duties while you are in the Holy Land. We must both make contact with the Council soon, informing them that we have met, along with the how and why.”

André nodded in response, thinking briefly of Sir Robert’s reference to vows. Upon being Raised to initiate status within the Brotherhood of the Order of Sion, each of them had been required to swear two vows that were closely related to, but essentially different from, the clerical vows of poverty and obedience. In the Order’s breviary, the brothers swore to own nothing personally—which entailed personal poverty—but to hold all things in common with their brethren, and their oath of obedience was sworn in fealty to the Grand Master of their ancient Order, not to the Pope, and certainly not to the Master of the Temple. The third canonical vow, the oath of chastity, went unspoken within the Order of Sion because individual chastity was integral to the brethren’s way of life. Within the Order of the Temple, the vow was insisted upon, and it posed no difficulty to those of the brotherhood who belonged to both orders. As he had so many times in the past, André shook his head in wonder at how little awareness outsiders had of such things, and that led him back to Richard Plantagenet, so that he looked at de Sablé and decided to be blunt.

“May I ask you something in the spirit of our brotherhood, Sir Robert?”

“Of course. Ask freely.”

“The Duke seems mightily pleased with your appointment as Master Elect of the Temple, but for the life of me I cannot understand why that should be so. The moment you join the Temple, he will lose his influence over you, since no man can serve two masters and the Order is subservient to no temporal authority. It is unlike Duke Richard to be happy over losing a strong vassal. Can you shed light upon that for me?”