Jack Whyte - Standard of Honor

“Ah, but you are wrong. You see what I mean? You missed the import entirely.”

André frowned slightly, then dipped his head in submission. “Very well then, enlighten me. What, exactly, did I miss?”

“The scope of it, Cousin. You see, you and I, as mere men, think in man-sized terms. But the Order perceives a greater opportunity here—not merely to establish a base of operations but to set up an entirely independent state ! An island country of their own, defensible and governable, ruled by and answerable to the Temple alone. That is their vision, and they intend to make their dream a reality.”

“By the living God! That is a grand scheme indeed, for the price of a hundred thousand gold bezants.”

“They only set down forty thousand, bear in mind. The rest is payable in time to come.”

“Aye, but still, that is … that is nigh on incomprehensible. And Robert de Sablé would rule it?”

“As Grand Master, aye, for as long as he holds the title. But I think Robert made a mistake at the outset, in agreeing to share any portion of his power as Grand Master, no matter how temporarily, even for such a grand scheme. I believe when he did that, he doomed the entire venture, because already too many mediocre men who should have no voice in such matters have differing opinions and are splitting into different camps. We now have factions, created almost overnight, with overt jealousies between them, and they are already squabbling over money. Besides—and I appear to be the only one aware of this—the Order itself has no respect for the Cypriots, with whom it must share the island. There is no thought of sharing. They are already talking about taxing them, brutally, and keeping them subservient to the wishes of the Order, but no one has said a single word about making any effort to befriend them or enlist their support or loyalty. And the place has only been in the Order’s possession for a matter of weeks, not even a month. I swear, it is a venture doomed to failure, mark what I say.” He stopped, noticing the set of André’s head, and then sat up and turned to look where he was looking.

“Someone coming, and not one of us.”

Alec Sinclair stood up, raising a hand to shield his eyes against the sun’s glare, and quickly located the shape of a man on a donkey, approaching along the crest of the dune on their left. He grunted and raised one hand high in the air. “It’s Omar,” he said. He lowered his hand, and the approaching figure, who was still far off but close enough for André to recognize him as the familiar old Palestinian who scraped a living as a water carrier, stopped and sat motionless for a count of ten, and then Alec raised his hand again, and the old man tugged at the donkey’s reins, turning it around, and set off back in the direction from which he had come.

“What was that about?” André asked.

“A summons. I am to meet Ibrahim tonight at our place of stones. He has something for me, probably a message to pass along to de Sablé. D’you want to come with me?”

“Do I? Of course I do. But I don’t understand what happened there. How did old Omar know where to find you, and how did he know you were you, from so far away?”

“There are not many places I could be, if you think about it. And he knew me by my clothes.”

“Be serious, you lying Scots heathen, and tell me the truth,” André exclaimed, for Alec Sinclair was dressed exactly as he himself was, identically to everyone else in the Templar community, in the white surcoat bearing the red cross of the fighting knights.

Sinclair grinned. “He knew me when I raised my hand in the air the first time. No one else would normally greet him that way. If they wanted him they would wave to him, or beckon him over. Then, when I lowered my hand, he counted to ten and I raised my arm again, confirming that I had understood his message, which is that Ibrahim will expect me tonight, or by noon tomorrow at the latest if I have difficulty tonight.”

“And how did you understand the message? Tell me that.”

His cousin made a moue, shrugging slightly. “The urgency is in the fact that Omar came out here to find me. Had it not been urgent, he would not have come but simply waited until we saw each other in the camp. The fact that he wore what he was wearing tells me that Ibrahim has something to pass on to me from his people. Omar has two kufiya head coverings, one black, the other white. When he comes to me wearing the black, it is simply to inform me I must meet with Ibrahim as soon as it becomes convenient. When he binds the black kufiya in place with a white band, it denotes some urgency and requires a more prompt response. The white kufiya, on the other hand, means that the meeting is urgent, and the black binding holding it in place told me Ibrahim has a message to pass on. It is really very simple. The code was developed years ago. I’m told it goes all the way back to the days of the first Templars, to Hugh de Payens.” He looked up at the sky, gauging the height of the sun.

“It’s nigh on mid-afternoon. We had better return to camp right now. I will have to meet with de Sablé briefly, to inform him that we are going and that he should expect a communication from Rashid al-Din. While I’m doing that, you can requisition fresh horses for us and have them saddled, and pick up some oats for the nose bags—enough for three days, in case we run into any difficulties. We’ll need three days’ rations, too, against the same possibility.”

“What about clothing? Will we wear armor or local dress?”

Alec Sinclair made the Islamic gesture of sala’am, touching breast and forehead in salutation. “One of the greatest advances made by the original forces who came here from Christendom long ago, before you and I were born, was the discovery that the people of these parts knew better than any newcomer ever could know what was best to wear in desert conditions. We will travel as locals and be undisturbed. When you are ready, bring everything to your tent and set up your squadron deputy to cover for you. I’ll meet you there. No point in flaunting our preparations under the noses of my fellow staff officers.” He glanced up at the sky again. “Let’s say, in one hour.”

André nodded. “Fine, but don’t forget, you have to tell me what you found in Cyprus.”

“You won’t forget it. How then could I? We’ll have plenty of time for that along the road.” They set spurs to their horses at the same moment and struck out for camp, not even bothering to collect their makeshift target.

ANDRÉ ST. CLAIR RODE into the final phase of his life as a Temple knight with absolutely no anticipation of what lay ahead of him when he stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg across his horse’s back, but as he would hear a thousand times in the life that lay ahead of him, it is not given to man to know the details of his destiny, and what is written may only be known when it has come to pass. What had been written for him before that afternoon had already come to pass, but he had not yet been informed of it. That task, the passing on of information and knowledge, had been given into the custody of his friend and cousin Alexander Sinclair.

It was close to the fourth hour of the afternoon by the time they left the camp behind them and struck out into the open waste of the desert. Six weeks had passed since the fall of Acre, and Saladin and his forces had withdrawn long since, southward towards Jerusalem and the cities along the coast, which meant that much of the danger of travel in the vicinity of Acre had been removed. Nevertheless, they rode in silence for the first few miles, each of them scanning the horizon from time to time simply to be sure that they were not being observed or followed. Then, after perhaps two hours of riding, and just as the sinking sun was approaching the last third of its daily journey down the arching sky, they breasted the highest of the dunes they had been traversing and saw, on the horizon ahead of them, the broken, serrated edge that marked the beginning of the field of boulders that surrounded their destination.