Jack Whyte - Knights of the Black and White

Only Stephen St. Clair was left with anything to wonder about, and his curiosity was something he could share with no one else, much as he might wish to. It had been he who found the bishop’s body, and he who found the neatly penned letter, written in Latin, that, if it did not explain or expunge the crime, at least clarified the corrupt reasons underlying it. Everyone had accepted what was there, seeing it as self-evident after the fact. St. Clair was the only one who gave any significance to the penmanship of the letter—an elegant, delicate, and vaguely, indeterminately feminine script—or to the container in which the condemnatory letter had been wrapped for protection, a soft and supple envelope of bright yellow leather, with a tiny crescent moon stitched carefully into one corner, but he wisely chose to keep his own counsel.

EPILOGUE

“Go with God, Brothers, and may He guide your every footstep henceforth.”

With those words, Godfrey of St. Omer bade farewell to the three departing delegates who would, within the year, represent the Order of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ to the Church and the establishment in France and the rest of Christendom. St. Omer was now assuming command of the remaining two thirds of the fraternity of Knights of the Temple Mount, all of whom sat their horses silently at his back, their faces studiedly expressionless as they watched their three friends and comrades salute them one last time and then turn their mounts to ride away downhill, accompanied by their escort of five sergeants, towards the lengthy cavalcade that was already wending its way down to the city gates.

Their personal farewells had all been made long since, and now the homeward-bound contingent would join the procession of the royal newlyweds for the first stage of their journey, northward to Bohemond’s principality of Antioch and the port of Alexandria, where the three knight monks would take ship for Cyprus, on the first seagoing leg of their long journey home to France.

Watching the three of them ride away—de Payens, de Montbard, and Gondemare—St. Clair was aware that he was smiling, if only with one side of his mouth, because of a random thought that had come to him moments earlier, reminding him of Princess Alice and her alluring ways. He would feel much more comfortable here in Jerusalem now, he knew, than he would have riding along the route to Antioch with the constant presence of the princess in his awareness. It mattered nothing to him that Alice seemed radiantly happy and obsessed with her magnificently attractive new husband; the simple nearness of her would have disturbed and aroused his own memories intolerably, and he was honest enough with himself now to admit that. He no longer felt sinful or guilty over what had happened between him and her, and his sleep had been untroubled by thoughts of her for months, but he was still young enough, and male enough, to be curious and vulnerable. Better by far, then, that the faithful Gondemare should ride with her, in ignorance and innocence.

As soon as the departing knights had disappeared from view, St. Omer turned to St. Clair. “Have a safe patrol, Brother Stephen,” he said, raising one hand in salute. St. Clair nodded in response and pulled his mount around, his eyes seeking and finding his co-commander, Montdidier, and their senior brother sergeant, who was, on this occasion, St. Clair’s own man, Arlo. He raised a hand to Arlo and nodded, and the sergeant immediately spurred his horse away downhill, shouting the orders that would bring the already assembled patrol to attention and set them moving.

“One more time, then,” Montdidier murmured, reining his mount to where he could ride knee to knee with St. Clair. “Shoulder to shoulder against the Infidel, swords bared, for the glory of God and the safety of the pilgrim. I confess to you, Stephen, I would far rather be riding towards Anjou than to Jericho.”

“Ah, but think of how much better off you will be in ten days’ time, when you are safely back here in Jerusalem, abed in comfort and scratching idly at your lice, while those poor wanderers are being tossed on stormy seas, wretched and seasick, spewing until their entrails protrude from their heaving gullets. Much better to be here, my friend.”

Montdidier grunted. “Perhaps,” he said, “but we are not yet through the gates on our outward journey. We may have much to distract us yet, before we win home. If we win home … St. Agnan was saying something last night to de Payens, at supper, about increased bandit activity between here and Jericho. More and more hostiles gathering all the time and creating chaos, he says, although I don’t know where he finds his information. I know even less how he processes it, once he has received it. Give Archibald one fact, it seems to me, and he will build a gospel from it.”

St. Clair wanted to respond to that with some observations of his own, but he did not have the opportunity, because they had reached the city’s eastern gate—chosen on this occasion to avoid the press caused by the royal departure through the southern gate—and his attention was taken up with passing his men through without incident, after which, as soon as they were on the road outside the city, both he and Montdidier had their hands full for a while, organizing their units. It was only long afterwards, when all their scouts were out scanning the terrain ahead of them and the patrol had settled down into the routine it would pursue for the remainder of their ten-day patrol, that he had time and opportunity to return to what Montdidier had said. At first he debated with himself over whether it might be better to say nothing, since he had no wish to upset his friend as he himself had been. In the end, however, he decided to share what he knew.

“I had a fascinating talk with Brother Hugh last night.”

“I’m surprised he would have time to talk, with all the preparations for today’s departure. What was he talking about, and what was so fascinating about it?”

“About this whole affair … the treasure, the records, his return to France, and the effect that what he has to say will have on the Church. Have you thought much about that?”

Montdidier twisted lazily in his saddle and grinned his slow grin. “Thought about that … you mean about the Church? Me? Please, I pray you, Brother, I have other matters to engage me, and no time to fret over what our worthy religious brethren—outside our own Order, I mean—might be doing with their own holy orders. I would rather keep my blades sharpened for fighting Allah’s minions than save my wits for debating with God’s benighted brethren of the cloth.”

St. Clair nodded, unsurprised. “No more had I, until I asked an idle question of de Payens.”

Montdidier cocked his head. “And?”

“And received more than I had bargained for. In the space of moments, our estimable Brother Hugh offered me a glimpse of the depths of my own ignorance. I have been thinking about it ever since.”

Montdidier was no longer smiling. Something in St. Clair’s demeanor had alerted him that here was something more serious than he would have suspected, and his own bearing changed, his back now straight, his head held high. “That sounds grave, my friend. Tell me about it.”

St. Clair glanced over to where his companion sat watching him. “I asked him how long he thought it would take for our discovery to take effect, for the changes we had set in motion to take effect and become apparent. At first he said nothing, simply throwing me what I thought at the time to be a droll look. But then he pulled me away with him to where the two of us could talk alone, he said, without being overheard. We talked for a long time then. Well, he talked, mainly, and I listened. And I was … shocked, I suppose would be the most accurate word, by what he had to say.”