Jack Whyte - Standard of Honor

Sinclair stood wooden faced as this was all recited to him, then nodded his head.

“What of the battle, my lord? Know you the extent of our casualties?”

“I do.” There was no trace of raillery or gloating in al-Farouch’s demeanor. “The Turcomer infantry attached to your knights was destroyed, without survivors. Of your original twelve hundred knights, more than a thousand died. The Crow of Kerak, the foul beast called de Chatillon, is dead, personally cut down by Saladin in fulfillment of his oath to do so.” Al-Farouch paused, and a new expression, something unidentifiable, sharpened his gaze. Sinclair braced himself for whatever might come next, but it was not at all what he expected to hear.

“Also dead, I am told, at the express command of the Sultan, are more than one hundred Temple Knights, taken in the battle and executed later.”

“They executed prisoners? I do not believe it. Saladin’s name would never recover from such an atrocity.”

Al-Farouch’s right eyebrow twitched. “Saladin’s name ? You mean his reputation among the Franks? The Sultan’s name is revered by the followers of Allah, by the warriors of Islam. It matters nothing, to any of the Faithful, what the infidels might have to say about his name or his reputation. This is the man who has sworn the holiest of oaths to sweep Islam clean of the pollution of the Franks, and he ordered the execution of the Temple Knights because he believes them to be the most dangerous men on earth. He has issued a decree that henceforth no Templar will ever be allowed to go free and fight against us again.”

Sinclair could not think of anything adequate to say in response to that, and nodded. “What will you do with me now? Am I to die, too?”

Al-Farouch barked a laugh. “Die? No, you are not to die. I owe you a life. But you will be my prisoner, until such time as you are ransomed. Do not be alarmed,” he added quickly, seeing Sinclair stiffen. “You will not be treated harshly, so be it that you cause no trouble. We will teach you to speak our tongue while you are among us, and expose you to the words of Allah and His Holy Prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name. We may even teach you to bathe and to dress like a civilized man, but that will depend on how long you remain among us. In the meantime, I have given Sabit charge over you. You will find him swift to deal out punishment and retribution, but he really is not a harsh taskmaster unless provoked. Your Frankishness would normally provoke him grievously, but I have warned him against permitting himself that enjoyment. Go with him now, but before you go, learn your first lesson in Arabic. ‘Sala’am Aleikhem.’ It means hello, greetings, welcome, and it also means farewell and goodbye. The response to it is to repeat the same words. And so I say to you, until we see each other again, Sala’am Aleikhem.”

“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.

THE COUNTY OF POITOU 1189–90

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?”