Jack Whyte - Standard of Honour

“We have talked enough about me and what I have been doing. I am far more interested in you and your activities. What have you been doing? I have been presuming that you were with Richard’s army, since he seems to want to keep Sir Robert de Sablé close to him, and from the single letter you sent me last month, I gather that wherever Sir Robert goes nowadays, you go, too.”

André tipped his head, twisting his mouthy wryly. “Not always, Father, but I admit Sir Robert has taken a keen interest in my welfare and has been extending himself on my behalf ever since the day he chose to believe my story.” He smiled more openly then, his voice growing less formal. “If the Temple Knights refuse to have me, it will not be Sir Robert’s fault. He has decided that I am suitably qualified to be a Templar, and I am tempted to agree with him now, having taken time to think upon what is involved. Would it displease or disappoint you, sir, were I to become a full-fledged member of the Order?”

“A Templar monk?” Henry was surprised by the question. It had never occurred to him that his son might take up the burden of monk-hood. He sat frowning for some time, twisting an end of his mustache. “I really have no answer for that, André. Would it displease me? I see no reason why it should, on first thoughts. And yet already there are second and third thoughts spinning in my mind. Would it disappoint me? Hmm…Two years ago, when your mother was alive, it might have, for she always dreamed of having grandchildren, but now that she has left us, God rest her soul, the urgency of that regret is gone, too. You are my only son, and the last of our particular line, which means that if you die without sons, there will be an end of us.” A tiny smile flickered briefly at one corner of his mouth. “Some might think that no great loss, I am sure. We have cousins enough, but none that are really close, and the one of those you most admire is already a Temple Knight and therefore a monk himself. So, should you decide to join the Order outright, you would be in good and noble company.” He thought again for a few moments, then concluded, “No, André, I should be neither displeased nor disappointed, so be it that was what you really wished to do. And providing that I were able to spend time with you in Outremer before you took final vows, I would have no complaints.”

“You know it would mean that I would have to give this castle and all my possessions to the Order upon your death?”

“I understand that, but what does it matter? There will be no one else with any rights to the place once I am dead and you become a monk. Better, perhaps, to donate it to the Order, where it may serve some useful purpose, than to leave it to be squabbled over after your own death by grasping relatives. No, I am convinced—if that is your wish, your chosen course, then so be it.” He clapped his hands together once. “Now, tell me about the world out there. What is happening beyond my gates that I should know about? The last thing I heard was that Richard and Philip were besieging King Henry in Le Mans. Is that debacle still going on?”

“No, not at all. It is over, long since. The city fell after only a few weeks, in late June. Richard turned the populace out and burned the place down ten days ago. King Henry escaped just before the city’s surrender and fled south, towards Chinon, and Richard followed hard on his heels as soon as he had issued the burning order. I was in Tours last night, at the Temple’s commandery there, and in the course of the evening I heard several tales of what has happened since then, but I can attest to the truth of none of them. There are so many reports, from so many sources, that it would be foolish to attempt to distinguish truth from falsehood among them.”

“Tell me some, at least, of what you heard.”

André shook his head in disgust. “Some say the old man is fallen gravely ill, on his deathbed, his spirit finally crushed by the wanton destruction of his native city. And I heard that he was robbed by his own people after the sickness struck him—the followers and fawning hangers-on who ever flock about him—and he now has nothing left.”

Sir Henry’s brow creased into a quick frown. “That is iniquitous. But you say Richard pursued him. I presume he would have caught up with him once the old man fell sick, if not before. Did he then do nothing to stop this theft you describe?”

“I doubt he was aware of it, Father. Richard had other matters on his mind, and I gather he was ruthless in prosecuting them.”

“Other matters…such as what?”

“It surprises me that you would even have to ask. The Vexin, first and foremost. Facing death, Henry did what he would never do in life. He named Richard heir to England, officially. That was three days ago, on the third of July, according to what I heard last night. At the same time and by the same report, he decreed that his wife, Eleanor, be freed from her prison in the tower at Winchester in England, where he has kept her these last sixteen years. And he formally relinquished any claim he might have held to the Vexin, agreeing to hand over the Princess Alaïs to Philip Augustus and Richard, so that Richard can marry her and settle the matter of the Vexin dowry—and with it, the entire issue of the English/French agreement to the Holy War—once and for all.”

Sir Henry sat silent for long moments before he murmured, “The old man must be sick indeed, to have given up so much…and Richard must have pressed him hard.”

“Aye, Father, and he pressed even harder than that. Henry was forced to surrender castles and estates that he has owned all his life, and to cede territories to Richard that were never in dispute. They say that Richard left him nothing at the end, not even dignity. I also heard that, after he had conceded everything Richard demanded of him, the King prayed aloud that he might be allowed to live until he could achieve a fitting revenge on his ungrateful son, but died immediately thereafter, denied even that satisfaction by a God whom he flouted too many times. I can’t swear to the truth of that, though. His death, I mean. Others present disputed that. Bear in mind I am only reporting second hand.” André’s tone assumed a note of bitterness. “Yet I heard, too, that Richard began weeping and praying for his father’s soul a few hours before the old man died, starting the moment he had wrung everything he wanted from him.”

“Who would have told you such a thing?” The frown on Sir Henry’s face had deepened to a scowl of disgust. “Who would dare speak such words? Whoever he may have been, he was no friend of Richard Plantagenet.” André made no attempt to reply, and his father went on. “You said you were in the Temple commandery in Tours, did you not? And it was there you heard such things talked about openly, among strangers? I find that hard to credit. Among the knights themselves, in their own quarters, yes, I could accept that they might discuss such things in privacy. But you are no Templar, and thus to have heard such tales, you must have been among the public crowds.”

“No, Father, not quite.” André shrugged his shoulders very gently, managing to deprecate his own importance with that gesture. “I was privileged to be in the company of a pair of Temple Knights whom I have come to know well these past few months. They work closely at all times with de Sablé, acting as couriers between him, Duke Richard, and the King of France on behalf of the Order. It was as their guest that I was able to overhear so much.”

“Aye, but even so, André, unless drastic changes have recently been made, personal friendships have no standing in such things, not when it comes to oaths and secrecy. You are not of the Order. You do not belong, and you must therefore be treated—and mistrusted—accordingly. But I mislike the entire smell of this, the disloyalty involved in even speaking of such things.”