the young standard-bearer obediently came to join him. Different from the great banner, the lesser baucent was the battle standard of the Temple—a plain, black, equal-armed cross on a white field—and the right to carry it was a great honor that was hotly contested among the rank-and-file brothers of each squadron formation. Brother Justin nodded an abrupt acknowledgment of the man’s courtesy, then waved a thumb towards St. Clair without removing his gaze from the standard-bearer.
“I need you for extra duty, Brother. You will ride down to the valley below, escorting this courier who, although he is but a postulant, has well-hidden virtues. You will stay with him until he concludes his business with the Master-at-Arms of King Richard’s army, then return here with him. I will inform your squadron commander of where you are and what you are about.” He turned now to Andre. “As for you, as soon as you have completed your task and know where the Kings choose to meet with the Marshal, you will climb to the top of the boulder down there and signal us with this baucent. For the English camp, hold the pennant in your right hand, for the French, the left hand. If they choose to meet between the armies, close by the bishops, raise it above your head with both arms. I’ll have the sharpest eyes here on watch for you and you’ll stand out with your virgin’s shroud.” He was referring to the still-new, brilliantly white postulant’s robe that St. Clair was wearing. Andre nodded wordlessly. “You send the signal yourself, you understand? The standard-bearer’s red cross might well be lost to sight among all the other crosses down there.” He looked again at the standard-bearer. “You understand that? You are to give him your baucent and let him use it to send the signal. That’s important. Is it clear?”
“Aye, sir. I am to give him the baucent for the signal. But will I take it back again?” Brother Justin pulled back his head as though he had been slapped. “Aye, of course you will. It is a baucent, in God’s name, not a walking staff.” He hesitated, then sniffed loudly and spoke again to Andre. “As soon as you send us the signal, the Marshal and his party will make their way down to the appointed place while you make your way back up here and report to me. Clear? Then go, and waste no time. Marshal de Troyes will be awaiting your word and fretting.”
St. Clair nodded and followed his escort as the standard-bearer hitched his shield higher, tightened the reins in his left hand, raised his lance in salute to the standard, and spurred his horse forward and down the hill.
IT WAS TWO HOURS LATER by the time St. Clair returned, and the first thing he noticed when he reached the crest of the hill was that they had broken camp in his absence; all the tents were dismantled and stowed for travel. He saluted the Master of Novices, who dismissed him immediately with a contemptuous flick of one hand. Nothing loath, Andre moved gratefully to join the fifteen hopefuls with whom he would share his life for the foreseeable future, both as postulant and novice brother. There were no prospective sergeant brothers among them; all were of the knightly class and were already either knighted or advanced in their training, ranking at least as squires. Their formal induction as novices, they had been told, would take place in the cathedral in Lyon, and until they reached there they would continue to wear the shapeless garment known as the virgin’s shroud. But until they were formally accepted as novices they would continue to act, and to be treated, as servants of the Order. This was in keeping with the way of the Temple, and none of the postulants was dissatisfied with their lot. Lyon lay but a five-day march southeast of Vezelay, and thus within the week they would be launched as knights of the Temple.
They ranged in age from a gangly, knock-kneed stripling of about sixteen to a serious-looking, darkskinned man of about Andre’s own age, with whom St. Clair had shared his entry ceremony two days earlier, but with whom he had not spoken since. Now, as Andre approached silently to sit alongside him, the fellow spoke quietly out of the corner of his mouth, taking care not to move his head or attract any attention to himself.
“What was all that about? A postulant riding with a baucent escort? Who are you?”
“Name’s St. Clair. Andre.”
“Ah! I know who you are now. They sent you on an errand to your father.”
Andre frowned, wondering what had prompted the tone of that comment. It had sounded like bitterness, perhaps cynicism. He answered evenly nonetheless. “They did. Do you disapprove of that?”
“It’s no affair of mine. I was simply curious. Don’t be offended by my lack of manners. I’m a Frank.”
St. Clair risked a quick sideways glance at the man, more than half convinced he had heard a smile in the fellow’s voice, but there was nothing to be seen. “Who are
“They call me Eusebius, after the holy man. My mother was devout. I’m from Aix. Provence.”
“Ah! That explains the outlandish speech. Well met, then. I’m from Poitou.”
He saw the slightest inclination of the other man’s head, and then they both fell silent and sat rigid as a sergeant rode by, frowning as his eyes passed from man to man. When he had gone, Eusebius cocked an eyebrow and glanced down to where a leather bag was cinched to Andre’s belt. “What’s in the bag?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t have it when you rode down the hill.”
“Observant.” Andre smiled to himself, intrigued. The stranger was astute, articulate, intelligent, and might even be likable. “Dried figs, compliments of Tristan Malbec, King Richard’s sutler.” Tristan Wry Nose, as he was known, was senior quartermaster of Richard’s armies, but long before that he had been senior steward and quartermaster to Eleanor of Aquitaine for years, until she was imprisoned in England, and then he had become Richard’s.
The man called Eusebius smiled too. “It sounds as though you know the sutler passing well.”
“Well enough to ask no quarter of him. I have known him since before I learned to walk, and as a friend of my mother and father, he has been feeding me sweetmeats and dainties since before that. He warned me not to eat these all at once, because it might be years before I see another one. I’ll give you one later, if you like.”
Eusebius stared straight ahead, but nodded. “My thanks for that. I will enjoy it. I have not eaten a fig in years. So what is happening down there now? And where is the Marshal?”
The man fell silent again as the sergeant, who had finished his inspection, swung around and began to make his way back towards them, glancing from man to man and clearly hoping to find someone who would give him a reason to play the tyrant. Neophytes as they were, however, none of them was sufficiently naive to give him the slightest opportunity to be displeased, and when he was less than halfway along the formation someone called him and interrupted his scrutiny of the ranks. From the way he rode off rapidly in answer to the summons, it was clear to all of them that he was just as glad to be quit of them as they were of him. But still, apart from a very minor stirring in the ranks, none of the postulants moved, and only St. Clair spoke, still soft voiced and for Eusebius’s ears alone.
“Everything’s over down there now,” he said, as though he had been speaking all along, “thanks to our humorless Marshal de Troyes. From the moment of his first greeting to the Kings, it took less than an hour to organize the closing service, short and solemn, with only one brief
“Hmm.” Eusebius glanced at St. Clair and then returned his gaze to where it ought to be. “What I find remarkable is that I have no least idea of what you are talking about. What is remarkable about the fact that the armies are moving?”
“Because for the last two days it has been looking more and more unlikely that they ever would. The Kings, Philip and Richard, were at odds, unable to agree to anything. Two days of incessant parley had produced nothing in the way of concord. But according to my father, much was achieved last night, on the surface at least. The Kings called a privy council that went on until near midnight, under heavy guard, with Richard swearing that the army would strike out for Lyon today, no matter what, and that no one would sleep until the entire agenda drawn up by the bishops had been dealt with. And so it was.”
The blast of a bugle brought them to attention, and junior sergeants began to move up and down the lines, straightening the formations and preparing everyone to evacuate the hilltop. For a while there was no more talk, with everyone’s attention concentrated upon the task of an orderly withdrawal. It was not until their squadron was riding down along the hillside, still far above the immense spectacle of the armies eddying in the valley below them, that the two men were able to resume their conversation, and again it was Eusebius who initiated the discussion, having looked around to ensure no officers were watching them or listening.
“So, this meeting last night. What did it achieve?”
“Agreement,” Andre responded, keeping his voice low, although the noise of the column’s movement, with the clatter of hooves, the clanking rattle of armor and weapons, and the creaking of saddle leather, would have made eavesdropping impossible. “A formal treaty of friendship and mutual amity and trust, all signed and sealed and witnessed by an army of priests. A solemn cessation of hostilities. England, including all of Anjou, Poitou, and
