commander.
'But I do mind, sir,' snapped Bertrano. 'I do not see that I owe you any explanations. It is for you to prove yourself, or get you hence.'
'A moment longer, if you please,' said de Bracineaux. 'I do not know how this confusion has come about, but I can guess: there was a woman-not pretty, but young still, with dark hair. She had a letter-your letter-the one you wrote to the pope asking for help to save a treasure called the Mystic Rose. This woman told you I was dead.' Regarding the churchman closely, he said, 'I believe I am close to the mark.'
Archbishop Bertrano fingered the wooden cross at his belt, but said nothing.
Turning to d'Anjou, the commander said, 'You see, baron? It is as we feared – the thief has already been here before us. We are too late. The damage is done.'
'Be of good cheer, my lord,' answered d'Anjou with practised, if slightly oily, sympathy. 'All is not lost.' He turned sad, imploring eyes to the archbishop. 'With God's help we may yet be able to recover the holy relic.'
'You are right to remind me,' replied de Bracineaux glumly. 'We wait upon God's good pleasure-and upon this prince of the church.' Turning once again to the archbishop, he said, 'It rests with you, noble cleric. We are in your hands.'
Bertrano frowned and pulled on his beard. He gazed long at the two men before him and made up his mind. 'Then I will not keep you waiting, my lords. I tell you now I want nothing more to do with you.'
'I protest -' began Baron d'Anjou.
The archbishop cut him off. 'Hear me out. You come galloping into my city with your horses and men, covered with dust and stinking of the trail. You come making demands and shouting orders at everyone, raising an unholy turmoil in the streets. You command audience and bully my monks until I abandon my work to see you.' He glared at his two unwelcome visitors.
'Well, I have seen you,' concluded the archbishop brusquely. 'And I do not mind telling you that I do not like what I have seen.' He rose from his chair and stepped from the table. 'Now, sirs, I will thank you to excuse me. I have a church to build.'
D'Anjou made to object once more, but de Bracineaux waved him off. 'I see we have provoked you, my lord archbishop,' he said. 'Pray forgive us. If we have acted in haste and without sufficient forethought, it was because we have been long on the trail with but a single thought burning in our hearts-to recover the holy relic for the good of the church.'
The archbishop's scowl turned to anger. 'So say you,' he answered. 'But I do not know you. The Renaud de Bracineaux I knew perished in a Saracen prison!' He stepped toward the door of his hut. 'I bid you good day, gentlemen, and Godspeed.' With that he stepped through the door, slammed it behind him, and was gone.
'How extraordinary,' remarked d'Anjou quietly. 'I do believe the man is insane.'
'Perhaps,' agreed de Bracineaux. 'But there is more to this matter than we know. We must consider carefully what has happened before we decide how to act.' He rose stiffly from his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. 'I am tired, d'Anjou, and in dire need of a drink.'
'Come, de Bracineaux,' replied the baron rising at once. 'I sent Gislebert to secure rooms for us at the inn across the square. Follow me, and we shall have wine and meat before you know it.'
The inn was as much stable as hostel, with rancid straw on the floor and a grubby, ill-kept fire on the hearth. It was crowded with rough-handed labourers from the nearby cathedral who sat in dull exhaustion with pots of warm ale between their thick paws, drinking quietly to ease the throbbing in their joints. Several knights from the town had heard about the Templars' arrival and had come to see for themselves what manner of men they were. They were talking loudly and drinking wine as they took the measure of the much-vaunted Grand Commander of Jerusalem.
'This is a noisy place,' grumbled de Bracineaux into his cup, swallowing down the wine in gulps. 'And it stinks. Trust Gislebert to find the worst.'
'I have seen better, certainly.' D'Anjou gazed around the room with mild disgust. 'We could try somewhere else,' he suggested. 'Or would you rather stay at the monastery with the men?'
'Good Lord, no. I have had a bellyful of simpering, damp-eyed monkery.' He drank again and set the cup down heavily. 'We will stay here the night and if all goes well tomorrow we will not be forced to endure another night in this pesthole of a town.'
Baron d'Anjou refilled the cups. 'Have some more, de Bracineaux, and tell me how you plan to persuade this disagreeable priest of your sincerity.'
The commander pushed aside the cup. 'No more of this vile stuff. See if the innkeeper has anything better.'
D'Anjou rose and made his way to the board behind which the innkeeper and his haggard wife dispensed food and drink to their guests. He returned to the table with a small brown jar and two small wooden cups. He pulled the stopper and poured out a pale golden liquid, then passed one of the cups to the commander, who sampled it, then tipped his head back and swallowed the sweet, fiery liquor down in a gulp.
'That is more to my liking,' de Bracineaux said. 'What is it?'
'He called it dragon's milk-if I understood him correctly. The rude fellow's Latin is atrocious.' D'Anjou took a delicate sip. 'Not bad, whatever it is.' He refilled his companion's cup. 'It seems our friend the archbishop believes you to be someone else.'
'What else should he believe? The man thinks me dead.'
'You think it was the woman?'
'Of course, who else? She spun a tale for him and he believed her, the old fool. And you are a fool, too, baron; I should never have listened to you.' The commander tossed down another bolt of the liquor. 'Now we must find a way to convince him of his folly.'
'I wonder what else she told him-and, perhaps more to the point, what he has told her?'
De Bracineaux shrugged. 'Once we gain the archbishop's confidence, all our questions will be answered.' Placing his hands flat on the table, the commander shoved back his stool and rose. 'I am going to bed.'
He turned to make his way towards the door at the back of the room leading to the three sleeping rooms-one a common room with six grubby pallets of wood shavings and straw, and two small private chambers with slightly better furnishings. As he moved through the room, one of the Spanish knights called to him.
'They say the Templars are God's own soldiers,' the young knight said loudly. 'Have you come to enrol the brave Spanish in your holy army?'
De Bracineaux glanced around and saw four large young men sitting at a table, watching him with scowling faces. He saw the ruddy blush of wine on their smooth cheeks and knew they were half in their cups, so decided to ignore them and moved on.
'My lord Templar!' shouted the knight. There came a crash as his stool toppled over behind him. 'I asked you a polite question. Perhaps you would have the decency to answer.'
The inn grew hushed as de Bracineaux turned. 'Are you speaking to me, pigherd?'
The knight stepped around the table and into the Templar's path. 'I am Alejandro Lorca, sir. You will address me with the respect that is due a nobleman.'
'Out of my way.' De Bracineaux put a hand to the young man's chest and pushed him aside. He fell sprawling on his backside, but sprang to his feet with surprising agility. He came up fast, knife in hand.
The Templar commander backed away a step.
The youth grinned stupidly. 'Ah, now we shall see the famed courage of the Knights of the Temple.'
He lunged forward, the blade sweeping the air before him. De Bracineaux dodged to the side, took the young man's arm, spun him around and shoved him hard into d'Anjou, who stepped forward at that moment. The two collided, and the youth went down clutching his side and gasping.
D'Anjou peered blandly down at him.
The young knight pulled his hand away and gaped at it in disbelief; his fingers were covered with the blood which was rapidly spreading from the gash in his side.
'Impudent pup,' intoned the baron coolly. 'I ought to slit your throat.' He bent down and the young man flinched. D'Anjou smiled wickedly and with a flick of his hand wiped the blade of the short dagger on the wounded knight's tunic. 'Perhaps next time,' he said, then stepped over his victim and continued towards the door, the incident already forgotten.
De Bracineaux regarded the young knight with loathing. 'You want to be more careful, pigherd. You could get
