gathering between the two armies, but many, many more among the armies themselves, armored over and beneath their vestments and accoutered for war, hungry for the blood of any Saracen foolish enough to come within their reach.
Andre St. Clair sat gazing down at the spectacle from a knoll at the front edge of the Templar formation, several horse lengths ahead of the leading rank, with his immediate superior, Brother Justin, the Master of Novices, on his left side. Justin was a scowling, grim-faced veteran who stank like rancid goat cheese. St. Clair was two horse lengths away from him, but the acrid smell of the older man threatened to take his breath away every time he inhaled. Brother Justin was flanked on his own left in turn by their expeditionary force’s taciturn commander, Etienne de Troyes, whose austerity and utter lack of tolerance for public spectacles like this were legendary. De Troyes was what his brethren in the Order of Sion called a Temple Boar—
One of the most highly ranked Templars in all the Frankish territories of what had been Gaul, de Troyes, like so many others of his ilk, was utterly intolerant of everyone and everything that was not a part of his world, and within that narrowly circumscribed world there was but one entity of any significance: the Order of the Temple. Anything that interfered with his intense dedication to the Temple and its priorities was not to be tolerated. On this occasion, however, much as he disliked the restraint, Sir Etienne could not disdainfully dismiss the goings-on below and absent himself. He was the Master of the Temple in Poitou, which made him the senior officer of the Order present in Vezelay that day, and he had thus a responsibility to observe all that happened. The Temple neither owed nor accorded fealty or allegiance to any temporal king or lord. Its loyalty and fealty lay wholly with the Pope in Rome, and its representatives were here this day as the Pope’s personal emissaries, although they would fight with both of the Kings below against the common Saracen enemy.
Brother Justin had designated St. Clair a courier that morning, against the need for someone to carry dispatches to, or gather information from, anyone in the armies below. The designation was extraordinary, everyone knew that, since St. Clair was a mere postulant to the Order, admitted a mere two days earlier, but Justin was taking blatant advantage, and to no one’s surprise, of Andre’s filial relationship with the Master-at-Arms below. At their backs, bound by the discipline of the Order’s training, the Templar ranks were utterly silent, the only sounds they made emanating from the restless movement of horses that had been standing still for too long. By contrast, the noise from the army massed ahead of them was chaotic, a low rumbling of a hundred thousand voices overscored by louder, sometimes strident shouts of command, unintelligible from this distance, and the constant braying of trumpets and horns. Andre’s horse stamped and whinnied, sidling closer to Brother Justin’s mount and fighting against the rein when Andre, almost revolted by the man’s stench, tried to bring it back.
“Where is your father? I can’t see him.”
Ignoring the frowning presence of their field commander on his left side, Brother Justin had spoken brusquely from the corner of his mouth, without moving his head, and in response, unaware of what might be permitted him in this situation, Andre leaned forward in his saddle and turned his head very slightly to his right, to peer down the slope to where the standard of St. George waved over a churning mass of brightly clad bodies, human and equine, that made nonsense of any attempt to discern order.
“He’s there somewhere, Brother Justin. He will be in the thick of it, among the throng. Has to be. He organized this whole thing on King Richard’s side— protocol, procedure, order of precedence, everything— so he must be in there somewhere.”
As St. Clair spoke, Etienne de Troyes uttered a disgusted curse. His patience with the distant proceedings was exhausted. Sawing savagely on the bit, he swung his horse around and sank his spurs into its flanks, spurring it up the hill, his entire body radiating the intensity of his displeasure. Brother Justin watched him go from the corner of his eye before he breathed out and spoke again, in what passed for his normal voice.
“The Marshal is plainly not pleased with what’s going on down there. Nor should we be, I think. We can see everything there is to see, except those things we want to see—and that includes action—but do we understand any of what’s going on? The only thing I can recognize with any certainty is that huge, unholy cluster of bejeweled bishops in the middle yonder, between the two armies, waiting to play their part in this mummery. If even half of those prating, pathetic whoresons are allowed to pray at us, we’ll all die of old age before we ever get off this hill.”
St. Clair was astonished to hear such words from the mouth of the Master of Novices, but he had the good sense to betray no reaction. Despite that, however, he felt a need to say something, and so he cleared his throat. “Little fear of that, Brother Justin. Richard Plantagenet is in charge down there. He has no more affection for high priests than his father had. Those bishops will all pray, but they will pray together when the time for prayer arrives.”
The Master of Novices grunted but made no other response, evidently having remembered that he was speaking to the merest nonentity. But then he added, unexpectedly, “Aye, they will, like as not. The Archbishop of Lyon will lead them—and the Abbot of Vezelay will assist.”
They were interrupted by the clattering of hooves as one of the senior knights, whose name Andre did not yet know, rode forward and reined in on Brother Justin’s left, speaking to him as though St. Clair did not exist.
“What’s happening down there? De Troyes is angrier than a wet cat.”
“I know he is, but nothing’s happening. He simply can’t stand the waste of time. It would make a saint angry. There’s a hundred thousand men down there, and they’re all due to leave this day, but they are up to their armpits in bishops, panting to pray again.”
The other knight hawked and spat. “These past three days have been a bishop’s dream—one endless, sweaty Mass with panoply and chanted prayers and roiling clouds of incense. But enough’s enough. Now it is time to pack up all the tents, load all the wagons, marshal the armies, and strike out on the road.”
He turned his head, his eyes taking in St. Clair but dismissing him instantly as of no import, and nodded to the Master of Novices. “You mark my words. We’ll either be off this hill and on the road by noon today, or Richard Plantagenet will stand excommunicate.” His voice sank to a cynical growl. “And with Holy Mother Church relying on him to lead this entire campaign, exterminate Saladin and his Saracens, and win the Holy City back for Rome, excommunication would appear to be unlikely.”
“De Chateauroux!” The voice cracked from the heights behind them like the sound of shattering rock, and the knight beside Brother Justin straightened up with a jerk. “Shit! Keep an eye out. See if you can detect any movement between the camps. Anything at all! Here, Brother Marshal!” De Chateauroux shouted an acknowledgment and pulled his mount into a dramatic, rearing turn, setting his spurs to it before its front hooves reached the ground, plainly having no wish to draw the displeasure of de Troyes.
From the corner of his eye, Andre saw Brother Justin turn to watch the other man leave, then swing back towards him. “You stay here,” he snarled, “and if you see anything change down there, any movement of any kind by a large group, send for me at once.”
Andre heard him clatter off in pursuit of de Chateauroux, but made no effort to watch him. He already felt conspicuous sitting where he was, a mere postulant, not even a novice, yet clearly being accorded preferential treatment. He had noticed no signs of resentment from any of his fellows, but he was shrewd enough to anticipate that it might be there somewhere, hidden beneath a veil of seeming indifference, and he had no wish to make matters worse by appearing to gawk or to preen.
A short time later, during which nothing of any moment had happened below, Brother Justin came back.
“You, St. Clair. Marshal de Troyes wants to go down there, in his official capacity as Marshal, to spur the sluggards along. You are to ride down and find your father the Master-at-Arms and inform him that the Marshal of the Temple wishes to confer privately with the two monarchs. Do you think you can manage that?” When Andre did not react to the sarcasm, he went on, “You see that boulder over there?”
“Aye, Brother Justin.” The boulder was too enormous not to see, a singular, inexplicable stone of gigantic size, dwarfing the mounted knights who sat in its shadow.
“You will ride down there and find your father, but you will go escorted, as a formal courier from the Marshal, riding under a baucent pennant.” He turned in his saddle, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly, attracting the startled attention of a young knight behind him who clutched a long lance bearing the triangular baucent banner of his squadron. “Come over here, you,” he shouted, and waited, arm outstretched, until
