he had retained sufficient power and influence to recruit an army more than two hundred thousand strong and to lead it in person, overland by way of Constantinople, to Outremer. He was a legend by any standard, truly a name with which to conjure.
“Barbarossa is dead? How? What happened? Are you saying Saladin defeated him?”
His father shook his head. “No, not at all. Barbarossa never reached the Holy Land. He drowned, apparently, somewhere near Byzantium, crossing a mountain river, they say. Fell off his horse, fully armored, into icy water. The armor held him down and he was dead by the time they pulled him out. He was an old man, you know. They are saying it was the shock that killed him … the icy water …”
“Sweet Jesus!”
Sir Henry’s voice was firmer now. “We had word this morning, on a ship out of Cyprus. The vessel was crammed with Barbarossa’s people—high-ranking ones, barons and counts, lords and knights, all of them making their way homeward. Apparently the army began to break apart the moment the old man died. No one strong enough or politically acceptable enough to the others to rally the forces and keep them together. Within a week of the event—his death—his army had all but disappeared. More than two hundred thousand of them, there were, and they scattered to the winds, blown into nothingness.”
“What about his son, the Swabian fellow, Frederick? What happened to him? He would not simply have abandoned his father’s body and fled. There must be more to the tale than you are telling me.”
Sir Henry shrugged. “No one seems to know anything with certainty. No one even knows if any of the army marched on towards Outremer, but no one seems willing to believe they did.”
“Hmph. No one on that ship is willing to say otherwise. If Frederick of Swabia or any of the other leaders march on to Palestine, the ones aboard this ship, and all the others like them who ran for home, are going to look like cowards, don’t you think?”
Neither man spoke for a space then, each of them thinking through the significance of these tidings, until Andre said, “This alters everything.”
“How so, everything?”
“Well, not everything … But it certainly alters the political urgencies that have been causing Richard and Philip and the Pope so much concern. With Barbarossa dead, the Eastern Orthodox threat to papal rule in Jerusalem is greatly eased, which will translate directly into breathing space for us and for our armies.”
“I don’t follow you. It won’t change anything in Outremer. Conrad of Montferrat will still be at King Guy’s throat, trying to take his place.”
“Aye, but his zeal will be considerably diminished when he hears of the death of his imperial cousin. As long as he retained the threat of Barbarossa’s power to back his movements, he strutted finely. Lacking it, I think he might be more amenable to compromise than he has been. I think it certain, however, that once the word arrives in Palestine that Barbarossa is dead and his army scattered, Guy and his followers will be encouraged enough to maintain their positions and wait for Richard’s arrival, however long that takes. And therefore I can see no flaw in your thinking. We will probably stay here for the winter and sail again come spring. That will breed an entirely new set of complications, but there is nothing you or I or anyone we know can do to alter any of that, so we may as well accept it.”
Sir Henry rose. “I had best be gone. I have taken too much time lately for my own concerns. And the King will probably want to talk with me, once he has absorbed these tidings. If he does decide we are to stay here until the spring, I’ll have to set about building winter quarters for the whole damned army. Sweet Jesus, that is going to be a painful exercise, in this godforsaken place … You stay abed and set your mind to wellness. Farewell, I will see you again tomorrow.”
IT TOOK TEN FULL DAYS for the injuries to Andre’s hand and wrist to heal sufficiently for him to clench his fist, and even then his fingers were still too tender and the bones of his hand too sore to permit him to exert any real strength in the clench. His forearm, elbow, and shoulder were completely restored by that time, their color almost returned to normal, but his hand was still a fearsome sight, a mass of multicolored bruises.
On the fifteenth day after sustaining his injuries, he finally swung his feet off the bed, set them squarely on the floor, then pushed himself upright with the assistance of a stout stick in his left hand. He stood for a moment, weaving gently until he mastered his balance again, then took a deep breath and stepped away from the bed. That, at least, was what he attempted, but his feet did not move and he fell straight forward like a log, and had to be helped back onto his cot.
Three days later Andre was walking easily, but it was to be another week before his hand grew strong enough for him to hold a sword again with any kind of authority, and only then was he judged fit to be discharged from Lucien’s care and to return to the company of his fellow novices, whose training had been proceeding throughout his absence. On the morning of the day he was discharged, Richard himself thrust open the door to the room where Andre sat breaking his fast with two other knights, and leaned in.
“Here,” he called to Andre, “you will need this.” He brought up his arm in an underhand sweep, tossing a long, sheathed sword to where Andre was rising to his feet. Andre caught the weapon and held it at arm’s length, seeing that it was wrapped in a thick but supple sword belt. He turned back towards the door, but Richard had already gone, leaving the door to swing shut at his back. Andre looked from one of his breakfast companions to the other and saw that both were gazing at him owlishly from beneath raised eyebrows. He shrugged and grinned, a little shamefacedly.
“I lost my other one,” he said, and then he unwrapped the belt from around the sheathed weapon and drew out the blade. It was magnificent, a King’s gift, and he brought it to his eyes to admire the rippling light that played along the fold patterns of the glorious blade. It was neither elaborate nor ostentatious in its finery but simply superb in every detail, and even the heavy leather of its sheath was worked and subtly embossed, its interior of sheepskin shaved until it was no more than the suggestion of a nap. He remembered the sword he had owned before, a useful, unpretentious weapon that had given him honorable service for years, and he knew that this one was worth a hundred times as much as that had been. This was a sword fit for a king, given him by a King. He had not the slightest compunction in accepting it, for he knew that he would put it to good use in the times that lay ahead.
Returned to duty, he soon lost himself in the urgency of making up the ground he had lost to the other novices, and his injured hand hardened rapidly under the daily discipline of battle training. His days were filled once again, but far more so than ever before, with the monastic rituals and daily prayers of the Temple Rule, and when he was not praying, he was completely preoccupied with training, sharpening his fighting skills and rebuilding the strength of his sword arm. The days, weeks, and months passed by without his really being aware of their going and, more importantly, without any real awareness on his part of the world beyond the walls of the Temple Commandery. He knew of Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany at the time of their occurrences, but solely because of the liturgical impact they had upon the daily discipline of the novices. And then he lost awareness of time again until the beginning of Lent, in early March of 1191, when the normal activities of the novices were suspended in order to accommodate a three-day period of increased prayer and fasting, called a retreat. During this time the novices were expected to do nothing more than pray and meditate in penitential silence, standing or kneeling at all times, save for the few hours when they were permitted to sleep.
On the morning they were dismissed from their retreat, directly after matins and long before the first false dawn began to lighten the sky, Andre was summoned by Brother Justin.
With an absolutely clear conscience, aware that he had done nothing wrong, Andre presented himself immediately before the Master of Novices, suspecting and hoping that this might have something to do with the Order of Sion. Brother Justin appeared as ill tempered and intolerant as ever, but he said nothing disparaging, merely nodding to Andre and informing him without preamble that he had been instructed to send him at once to Sir Robert de Sable, whose quarters were inside the city of Messina.
Andre, struck by a sudden thought, looked down at the filthy surcoat he had been wearing for months. “Should I go as I am, Brother, dressed like this?”
Justin frowned. “Aye, you should, of course you should. How else would you go? Sir Robert knows you’re a Temple novice and you have nothing to hide. Were you to go out differently, and be recognized, it could lead to the kind of questions we don’t want people asking. But take a horse from the stables. De Sable may have other work for you. Here.” He held out his hand, bearing a small scroll that he had been holding all along. “Give this to the stable master and he’ll give you a decent mount. And if anyone asks you where you are going or what you are about, tell them you are on an errand from me to your father. That’s what is in the scroll. Now be off with you,
