Standard of Honor

few days before I left. He had a substantial number of knights and nobles with him, but he was most unhappy with Philip.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you? Then tell me why. Some of his knights told me that Philip had chosen to back Conrad against him in this matter of the kingship of Jerusalem. I know the word of that upset Richard and his supporters, but I had my hands full at that time—I was being inducted into the Order—and I did not have time or opportunity to explore what was going on. What do you know about it?”

“Not much. I was here throughout the affair, but being an intimate of none of the main players, I know little about what was involved, other than the common barrack-room chatter and the opinions of a couple of knights whom I respect.” Harry paused, considering something, and then resumed. “You know, I presume, that Guy’s claim to the throne was through his marriage to Sibylla? Aye, well, when Sibylla died, Guy’s kingship died with her. Oh, he’s been hanging on to it since for all that he is worth … which, come to think of it, is all he is worth. But the plain truth is that Guy can no longer really call himself King, because the next heir in the legal line is Sibylla’s sister Isabella, and she has been married for years to a husband whom she might already have named King, quite legally, had she been so inclined. Humphrey de Toron. Does the name mean anything?” St. Clair shook his head. “Well, he was stepson to Reynald de Chatillon.”

“Aha! Now there’s a name I recognize. The one Saladin beheaded? They called him the Templar Pirate?”

“That’s him. Saladin decapitated him in person, for just and long overdue cause. The man was a disgrace to everything the Temple is supposed to stand for.”

“So his stepson is to be King of Jerusalem?”

“God, no. Heaven forbid. The man is a bigger disgrace than Reynald ever was. He is a useless, cowardly poltroon already several times disgraced, and atop all that he is an outrageously public homosexual, which might be ignored in practically anyone else, but demands recognition in one who is married to a reigning queen.”

“Oh …” Andre decided to say nothing of what had sprung into his mind about another similarly married to a queen, and contented himself by asking, “And this man is married to Queen Isabella?”

“No, he was married to Queen Isabella, until very recently. Conrad of Montferrat took care of that. I know not how he achieved it, or how much it cost him—he must have had to dig deep into his purse—but he had the marriage annulled. Because it was a royal marriage, there must have been substantial and elaborate briberies involved—although one has to wonder where Conrad could have found a sufficiency of corrupt priests and bishops to achieve that kind of thing.” He waited to see if Andre would respond to his sarcasm, but St. Clair showed no reaction. “Whatever it cost, it was achieved quickly and effectively. Humphrey’s indiscretions and public misconduct were sufficiently notorious that it surprised no one when he was finally brought to account for them and his marriage was annulled. So Humphrey de Toron is no longer wed to the Queen of Jerusalem, and Conrad de Montferrat will be, as soon as it can be arranged.”

“Ah! And I presume Guy must have learned of this before he left in search of Richard?”

Douglas dipped his head. “That’s what drove him out. The word arrived soon after noon on the Friday, and Guy was gone from here, with all his followers, by dawn on Saturday. They struck for the coast and clearly they found a galley to transport them.”

“They found three, and they wasted no time in seeking Cyprus. And so, what is happening now with this impending marriage, do you know?”

“How would I know that? I’m a monk, Andre, a Templar like you. Potentates and kings do not consult me when making their decisions.”

“Well what do your cronies say? It is a juicy topic, made for speculation. Surely you must have heard something?”

“Nothing, save that it has not yet happened. The two lovers have been unable to coordinate their travels and their duties … and it seems both of them must be present for the wedding to take place.”

“No, that is not so. Not when the Church is involved. It could be done by proxy, were the officiating priests sufficiently powerful. And the Patriarch of Jerusalem, who would officiate in such a match, could make it so. Conrad is of the Eastern rite, I know. I presume the Queen, Isabella, would be, too.” He inhaled sharply. “I am going to have to find out more on this matter, for it sounds more urgent than I would have thought a month ago.” He looked about him again, then grasped his friend by the shoulder. “Thank you for this, Harry, for bringing me out here, but now I must return to camp. There are some people to whom I need to speak.” He did not mention that one of those was the senior Templar commander in the line, nor did he add that his current credentials were sufficiently impressive to ensure the commander’s cooperation, and anyway, Harry had already started walking back, content with the explanation he had been given.

A WEEK DRIFTED BY, during which Andre heard not a word from his cousin but was kept occupied by infrequent, minor skirmishes that kept him and his brethren patrolling various points along the walls of Acre. Then one morning, directly after matins, on his way to the camp refectory for a breakfast of water and chopped nuts and grain, someone clamped a hand on his right shoulder, and he spun around to find his cousin at his side. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sinclair cut him off with a gesture.

“You and I have to speak, now, and I have no wish to sit in the kind of company we are likely to find where you would go, so come with me and let’s find a horse for you. I have food enough for both of us, and the quicker we are gone from here the more pleased I shall be.”

Andre followed Alec wordlessly, aware that several of the men around them were casting unhappy looks at Sinclair, but even trying to avoid attention, walking with their eyes cast down, they were not able to escape unobtrusively. Someone raised his voice in a jeering catcall, announcing that there was a Saracen-lover among them, and within moments the two cousins were walking through a storm of verbal abuse. Andre reached reflexively for his sword hilt, but Sinclair seized his elbow, telling him to keep walking, look at no one, and say nothing. And that worked for a spell, until a burly bullock of a fellow deliberately walked in front of them and barged straight into Alec, leading with his shoulder. Andre had tensed as he saw what the other intended, but before he could do anything to intervene, Alec stiffarmed him from the side, knocking him off balance for a moment, and took the brunt of the other man’s shoulder charge upon his own shoulder, so well braced in anticipation that he barely rocked to the impact. He then sprang back and away, raising both hands in placation as though the collision had been his fault.

“Forgive me, Brother,” he said, both hands still upraised.

The other man blinked in amazement and then his face clouded in fury. “Don’t you ‘Brother’ me, you infidel turncoat,” he snarled, then crouched and shuffled forward, arms spread like a wrestler. The last thing he expected at that moment was the speed he encountered. Alec Sinclair’s hands shot forward and grasped the lout by the front of his surcoat, pulling him strongly forward and off balance to crash, nose first, into the flat steel brim of Sinclair’s helmet as Alec thrust his head forward. He then released the man, leaving him to rear up in agony, both hands to his ruined face, while he stepped quickly backward for a second time, raising his knee to his chest and pivoting slightly to kick out viciously, and driving his booted heel into the other man’s midriff, below the peak of his rib cage, making nonsense of the protective powers of the chain-mail hauberk the other wore.

Andre stood gaping at the swiftness of the punishment, but then he bethought himself and looked around defensively, only to see that everyone else appeared to be as shocked by the violence as he himself was. They were all Templars and all monks, and violence to a brother was unconscionable. Name calling was one thing, and apparently acceptable, but physical violence to a brother was a violation of the Temple Rule and endangered the immortal soul. And yet Sir Alexander Sinclair had been provoked and assaulted. Only when he was threatened with further assault had he reacted, and the fact that he had done so briefly, effectively, and with finality did not go unremarked.

No one offered to interfere this time as the two kinsmen walked away in the direction of the horse lines, and neither Andre nor Alec spoke a word to each other until they had retrieved Alec’s horse and one for Andre and had ridden obliquely into the dunes southeast of the siege works, remaining close enough to their own lines to give them a reasonable certainty that they would be safe from Saracen patrols, yet removing them completely from the threat of interruption by their own.

“Why do they all dislike you so much?”

For a moment, St. Clair thought his cousin was not going to answer him, but Alec was merely looking around, checking the lay of the land. “This will suffice,” he muttered, almost to himself, then set about laying out