of the Order of the Temple to join its ranks. Never has such an invitation been issued before now. It is unprecedented because the Temple has always been jealous—and zealous—about those to whom it permits entry to its ranks. But it has an even deeper meaning here, and now especially for you, Sir André, because it makes it possible—and even likely, given that Sir Robert professes himself convinced of your innocence—that you could be admitted to the Order, as a novice without formal vows, prior to our leaving France. Thus both of you could travel together in my train until we reach the Holy Land, each of you preparing for the task that lies ahead, so that when we arrive you, André, would enter the Order of the Temple as a serving knight and you, Henry, would assume your own duties on my behalf.”
Henry St. Clair bowed his head deeply.
“Excellent,” the Duke said. “Now, let us be about our business. First this pious, sanctimonious Abbot Thomas. He may not have much fear of God in him, but by God’s holy throat he will discover such a fear of me this day as will make him howl with penitence. André, go and find Godwin, the captain of my guard. He is an Englishman, enormous, but he speaks our tongue. You won’t mistake him. Bid him take four men and ride to the Abbey of Sainte Mère, to arrest the Abbot Thomas and to bring him to me in chains at the castle of la Fourrière. In chains, mind you, and afoot. He is to make the Abbot walk! I want this holy lout to suffer pains and fears the like of which the sanctimonious hypocrite has never imagined before this day. And send one of your own men with them, to show them the way from here to there. Go. No, wait.” He clicked his fingers. “While you are there, tell Pierre, Godwin’s corporal, to prepare our horses and bring them to the entrance within the half hour. You have all that?”
André nodded, murmured “My liege,” and left the room. Sir Henry watched him go, admiring his son’s upright posture and still mildly surprised at the ease of his own acquiescence to what had been wrought here. He had known almost from the outset of Richard’s visit exactly what must result for himself from the Plantagenet’s wishes, and resentment and bitter frustration had been bubbling within him, tightly suppressed, since first he heard Richard’s demands the night before. But now, as if by magic, all traces of resentment had left him, replaced by a grudging sense of admiration for this man who controlled all of their lives.
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, self-consciously 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