Jack Whyte - Standard of Honor

Despite his thoroughgoing awareness that Richard Plantagenet was being even more manipulative than usual, Henry had reasons of his own, besides the obvious, for accepting the Duke’s will now, for there was no question in his mind that without Richard’s ducal and regal support, his son André could have no life to speak of here in France. To avoid eventual arraignment and execution—or even assassination—after Richard’s departure—and with him, Henry’s—his son’s sole option would have been to join the assembling armies anonymously and without escutcheon, as a free lance. Now, however, thanks to Richard’s self-interest—for Henry did not believe for an instant that the Duke he knew so well was moved by any altruistic love of justice—both he and his son had been accorded an acceptable alternative. That his own involvement in the Holy Land campaign was a sine qua non of the entire proposal was an element no longer worthy of consideration to the veteran knight, for its validity worked now to the advantage of both of them, liege lord and vassal. In accepting Richard’s proposal, Sir Henry had made a virtue out of necessity, seizing the opportunity to keep his son alive and share his future. Now, all things considered, no more than a small, niggling sense of foreboding remained in him, unable to be dislodged, and Henry knew he would have to accept that and live with it, because its cause was deeply rooted in the dark side of the complicated and unpredictable man.

He became aware that Richard was watching him closely, and he drew himself up to his full height, selfconsciously sucking in his belly.

“We are going to have to toughen you up, Henry. You’ve gone soft.”

“I told you that, my liege. Since my—”

“’Twill not take long. We’ll have you fit again within the month.” He grinned. “It may be the death of you, but if it be so, you will die in better health than you have now.”

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.”