Standard of Honor

might seem. And in what little spare time he had, greatly assisted by his ability to read, he learned huge sections of the Temple Rule, hundreds of paragraphs with numbers and subsections, by rote. Even so, he grew incredulous each time it occurred to him—and it did so daily—that the rules under which they were all struggling had been greatly relaxed in order to accommodate the rigors of life on the march.

It had taken them five days to win free of Lyon when all was said and done. The bridge over the Rhone there had collapsed on the first of those days, buckling under the weight of men and wagons crossing it, killing more than a hundred men. Richard had been forced to spend the next three days collecting boats and skiffs from miles away, up and down the river, to ferry the remainder of his troops across to the south bank. Thereafter, fortunate if they could travel twelve miles in a single day, the sixty thousand men of Richard’s corps had made their way steadily south for eight more days, marching on a three-mile-wide front until they reached the town of Avignon and swung down towards Aix, another day’s march distant. And as they progressed, to everyone’s astonishment, they continued to attract recruits.

On that eighth night, however, to the wide-eyed astonishment of those of his peers who witnessed the event, Andre St. Clair was summarily arrested and taken into custody by a squad of sergeant brothers acting under the orders of the Master of Novices. With no explanation, or even an opportunity to collect any of his meager possessions, he was confronted, his wrists and arms were shackled at his back, and he was marched away.

He spent the next few hours under close guard, locked in a mobile jail, one of the four that traveled with large bodies of Templar soldiers. It was a windowless, wagon-mounted, solidly built box of heavy wood, ventilated only by an iron-barred slit. No one informed him why he had been taken, or of what he stood accused, and he felt hopelessness and dismay like balls of lead in the pit of his stomach because, after less than two weeks as a Temple novice, he knew that he had no voice and no identity, no authority with which to challenge this injustice.

Then, in the middle watches of the night, after vigil and long before matins, when the darkness was still absolute, he was taken before a tribunal of senior knights assembled by torchlight in the Marshal’s tent. There he was arraigned by Brother Justin, the Master of Novices. He read out St. Clair’s full name—just his name—from a scroll of parchment that bore several ornate and official-looking waxen seals before raising his head and looking Andre up and down in silence. Andre stood erect, his head held high, sick with tension. He could smell the unwashed odor of Justin’s notorious sanctity from where he stood, four paces from the man, who stood slouched and scowling, his bottom lip sagging pendulously and his potbelly bulging against the stained fabric of his surcoat.

“You stand accused of perfidy, Andre St. Clair, accused of crimes so grievous as to annul all claims you might have held to entitlement for membership in this great Order.” He lowered his head, perusing the scroll again before he proceeded. “And yet … there would appear to be some doubt … some minor doubt … concerning the details of the charges.” He lowered the scroll abruptly, releasing it to close upon itself before he began to twist it into a tighter roll. “You are to be taken under guard to Aix, to the Temple House of the Commandery there, to answer the charges against you, in the faint hope of demonstrating that they are false and that you have been maligned and remain, in truth, faithful to the depositions you have made in joining this Order. May God assist you. Take him away.”

No one else among the tribunal had said a single word, but as St. Clair turned away he saw a face he recognized at the rear of the tent, behind the gathering: one of the postulants with whom he had been inducted. Assigned even at this ungodly hour to some kind of menial duty on the Marshal’s behalf, the fellow now hurried away, head bowed, but Andre was convinced the fellow had missed nothing of what was said. He was surprised that the foul-tempered Brother Justin had not noticed him and had him ejected at the outset. But just then one of his own guards took him by the elbow and led him outside, swinging him to the right outside the flaps of the Marshal’s tent, to where he saw the bulk of the mobile jail again, outlined in the flickering torchlight and hitched this time behind a heavyset horse.

His guards hustled him forward, and then he was lifted and pushed, almost thrown, and he fell on his knees in a corner of the jail box as the heavy door slammed at his back and the wagon lurched into motion. He was weak and trembling, his legs suddenly bereft of strength, and he had to fight hard against the urge to vomit. In misery more abject than any he had ever imagined, he felt his heartbeat surge towards panic as he grappled with the impossibility of the only explanation of all this that would come to him: somehow, against all probability, the false testimony of the three dead renegade priests must have resurfaced, so that he stood accused again of murder.

He sought to calm himself by practicing the new discipline he had been forced to acquire as a Temple novice, reciting the Paternoster of his daily prayers. He shut out everything from his mind except the repetitive drone of the words until his mind was numb, keeping count by numbering the knots on his prayer cord until he had repeated the prayer the requisite number of one hundred and forty-eight times for the day. Day had not yet broken by the time he finished, the cell was too narrow to permit him to lie down, and the rocking motion of the wagon was such that he could not possibly sleep. And so he lodged himself upright again and began anew to count his prayer knots against the next day’s required tally.

He had recited one thousand and twenty-six Paternosters, ten fewer than a full week’s quota, before the wagon swayed to a halt, and in the time that had elapsed he had discovered, much to his surprise, a stoic inner calm that felt secure. He had also calculated that one hundred and fifty of the prayers, repeated deliberately and clearly, would fill up roughly one hour of time. He had to close his eyes tightly against the blinding brilliance of the light when the door to his cell swung open, and he was content to allow his guards to move him about and guide him downward slowly until he was standing on the ground again. He felt the sun’s heat on his face and arms, and then they pushed him forward into the coolness of shade, and he opened his eyes cautiously.

He had been aware of their arrival in a city, one he had presumed to be Aix, for he had heard and felt the rumble of cobblestones beneath the wheels of the cart some time before, and the sound of raised voices echoing from close-crowding buildings had been unmistakable. Now he could see that he was in some kind of enclosed yard, with buildings on all four sides, one of them pierced by opposing doors through which the wagon had entered. The two guards who had escorted him from the Templar camp were moving about now, occupied in minor tasks and paying no attention to him for the moment. Directly in front of him was a wide doorway, framed in pale yellow sandstone and fronted by a broad flight of shallow steps of the same stone. Set into the arch above the doorway, a shield bearing the arms of the Temple had been carved in deep relief, and two white-clad guards, wearing the red flared-arm cross of the Temple on their left breasts, stood beneath it, flanking the great oaken doors. One of them gazed at St. Clair incuriously while his companion watched the men who had accompanied him.

Even had he not known their destination, St. Clair would have recognized the details he could see. He knew this must be the new Temple House of the Aix commandery, for he had heard it being described admiringly several years earlier, by someone who had watched it being built and had been crowing about the rich color of the stone, quarried on his own land nearby.

He closed his eyes, lulled by the warmth of the afternoon, and felt himself swaying, but before he could even straighten up, he felt his escorts’ hands on his arms again and he was propelled gently towards the doorway, where the guards leaned in to pull open the heavy doors. It was dark and cool inside, and his guards led him forward for some twenty paces before they stopped again, this time in front of a broad table, flanked by two more of the Temple House guards, behind which a wide passageway ran right and left.

His escorts snapped to attention and saluted a knight who had stepped from behind the table, his face expressionless. The knight listened while the senior escort explained who they were and why they were there, and then he took the warrant the man offered, thanked the two men courteously, nodding to each of them in turn, then dispatched one of his own men to escort them to the refectory in search of food. As they left, he turned slowly and gazed at St. Clair for long moments, until the sound of departing footfalls had dwindled into silence. Then he spoke to the single remaining guard.

“Find Brother Preceptor and tell him the prisoner has arrived.”

The man snapped a brisk salute and spun on his heel to march away, and the knight’s gaze came back to where St. Clair stood straight backed, staring at him defiantly.

“Follow me.”

He walked away, along the wide passageway on St. Clair’s right, moving with the authoritative gait of a man