Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (33 page)

Elwen forced her eyes from the book and took the parchments. She read the words on the first skin, written in a delicate hand. It was a poem dedicated to a woman named Catherine. It was deeply sensual. “Your work is very…passionate,” she said, returning the skins to him. Her cheeks felt warm.

“It is passion without a voice.” Pierre looked despondently at the parchments. “In an age before ours the poets, whose works you’ve read, wrote with such passion as this. They wrote of the slow, painful delight of a man’s attainment of love; the anguish of waiting; the pleasures of the heart and flesh. But courtly love isn’t what it was. Now the poets write of the man who denies these pleasures and abstains from his desires. He has become the noble of the piece, not the man who would cast aside all thought of sin for the achievement of his lady’s love.” He shook his head. “But love cannot be caged. It doesn’t know reason or sin. It is the wild, ravenous beast that craves without restraint.”

Elwen said nothing, but she nodded. Pierre picked up the Book of the Grail and she watched him turn it over in his hands. The gold-leaf words on the cover glinted brightly in the dull daylight.

“This book was my brother’s. I took it when he died of a sickness two winters ago. I used some of its contents to recreate the story of Perceval: a new Romance for a new age. I knew, if I could only make a name for myself, I could give my true poems a voice. This book has given me that name. That power.” He opened it and flicked through the pages. “The people have flocked to see me.”

“Did your brother write it?”

“No,” said Pierre with a tired laugh. “Antoine couldn’t write his name. My brother’s business was wine.”

“How did he come to be in possession of it?”

Pierre glanced at her. “I must ask for your discretion.”

“You have it,” murmured Elwen. When Pierre hesitated, she placed a conspiratorial hand on his knee. “I promise.”

Pierre smiled, studying her. “He found it on his doorstep.” He nodded at Elwen’s expression and gave a short laugh. “I think my version of the angel bringing it to me sounds less absurd, doesn’t it? Don’t ask me how it got there. One morning, years ago, he opened his door and found it there. He showed it to me once when I visited him. I had a look through it, but I wasn’t interested in writing anything at that time. After I was dismissed from this court, I returned to my family home in Pont-Evêque where my father attempted to persuade me into what he deemed more suitable employment. He didn’t understand poetry, called it a fool’s occupation. I was so disheartened by the king’s rejection of my work that, I confess, I had started to believe him. But when Antoine died, the muse had begun to speak to me again and when my father and I came to Paris to deal with his possessions, I took the book and used it as my inspiration.” Pierre looked down at his hands. “It seemed like the best opportunity I would ever have. I was right. More right than I could have guessed.”

“But are you not concerned? You were, I heard, banned from the court of Aquitaine. Haven’t the colleges here been trying to have you stopped from performing? Excommunicated even?”

“My performance has been, I admit, a little strong for delicate palates. I have diluted it since then.” Pierre rose briskly and gathered up the sheaves of parchment and the Book of the Grail. “Besides, the courtiers here have been awaiting my recital with great eagerness, so I’m told. The Dominicans will not turn the king to their side.”

Elwen, cursing inwardly, watched as he returned the book and his poems to the sack bag. It had been right beside her.

“And it isn’t as bad as some say. At least the Devil hasn’t appeared. So far.”

There was a rap at the door.

For a moment, after the knock came, Pierre just stared at the door, then, shaking his head, he went over and opened it a crack. “Yes? What is it?”

“You wanted to be informed when the Great Hall was ready, sir,” Elwen heard a man’s voice say. She guessed it was a servant.

Pierre glanced over his shoulder at Elwen. “Excuse me, lady,” he said, and slipped out of the door, pulling it to behind him. “The space has been left clear as I requested?”

“Yes, sir, you’ll be performing in front of the royal seat.”

Elwen, listening to their muffled voices, left the window seat and padded to the pallet, straining to hear any creak of the door.

“And the rest of the hall? Has it been arranged as I asked?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because I performed once near Cluny where someone had set out the benches facing the wrong way. I had to sing to the backs of my audience’s heads!”

“It is laid out exactly as you asked, sir.”

“Very well. I will be there shortly.” Pierre opened the door. He looked a little startled to see Elwen standing before him, then smiled. “Alas, I must depart from your company, lady. I have matters to attend to.”

“I too must go,” said Elwen, returning the smile. “If I don’t complete my chores, I will miss your performance. But thank you for speaking to me. I feel honored,” she said, feeling utterly wicked, “that you would take me into your trust.”

“Then perhaps, Grace, you would do me the honor of a second meeting once my recital is ended?”

“If my duties permit.”

Pierre picked up his sack, slung it over his shoulder and opened the door for her. “I hope they do.” He set off down the passage. “Oh! One moment!” He pivoted. “You have something of mine.”

The skin tightened on Elwen’s face. “I have?”

“My blanket,” said Pierre, walking toward her. “I expect I’ll be cold in that tomb of a room without it.”

“It’s sodden!” she blurted. “And the only thing keeping me from freezing where I stand. I’ll have a servant fetch another for you, two in fact.”

Pierre bowed. “Then you may keep it with my blessing.”

Elwen waited for a moment, then set off in the opposite direction to the troubadour, surprised, now that her nerves had begun to calm, by the feeling of triumph that rose in her. Beneath the blanket, the Book of the Grail was a solid shape against her chest.

When she reached her chamber, she found a flustered Maria waiting for her.

“Where have you been?” cried the handmaiden, springing up from her pallet. “The queen is most displeased. You were expected to dress her after her bath!”

Elwen’s face fell. “I thought I had no duties.”

Maria flung up her hands in exasperation. “How can you be so forgetful?”

“Does she plan to punish me?”

Maria gave Elwen a stern look. “I told the queen that you had taken to your bed with a pain in your stomach. I did your duties for you. And don’t worry, you won’t miss the performance; I said your affliction would no doubt pass, it being mild and most likely caused by something you ate this morning.”

“I’m fortunate to have a friend like you.”

“You are at that,” agreed Maria. She pointed to the blanket. “What is that old thing? And where is your cap?” She frowned. “Elwen, you’re soaked through!”

“I need to ask something of you.”

Maria arched an eyebrow. “Is it your sweetheart you’ve been meeting out in the rain, while I was doing your duties?” She grinned. “Now you’ll have to tell me who he is.”

“This is important, Maria.”

Maria’s smile vanished. “What is it?” she murmured, crossing the room.

“I don’t want to involve you in this, but I have little choice. You’ve helped me already today and I promise I’ll repay you for that, but I need you to do something else for me and I cannot tell you my reasons for asking.”

Maria nodded slowly. “What?”

“I have to send a message to the Temple as quickly as possible. I need you to go to Ramon. I believe he can be trusted and I think he would be able to leave the palace without too much trouble. I know he would take this message if you asked him.”

Maria flushed self-consciously. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that. I don’t think he even notices me.”

“But he is your friend, nonetheless.”

“Perhaps. Yes.”

“I don’t want to write this message down. Ramon must deliver it in person.”

“Who is the message for?”

“A priest. Everard de Troyes.”

“A priest! Do not tell me you’re in love with a man of God!”

“No,” said Elwen, quickly, “this has nothing to do with that.”

The handmaiden sighed. “What shall I say to Ramon?”

“Have Ramon tell the priest that I have what he wants. He must send his man to meet me half an hour before Vespers. He’ll know where.”

“That’s the message?”

“Yes.”

Maria paused, studying Elwen intently. “Are you in trouble?”

Elwen’s laugh was a little high-pitched. “When am I not?” She grew solemn again. “Will you do this for me?”

“I will.”

“Then I owe you a second debt.”

“That you do,” said Maria, half seriously, both concerned for her friend and thrilled by the excuse to see Ramon.

When Maria had gone, Elwen pulled out her black box. There was just enough room for the book if she laid it flat across the compartments. Locking the box, she pushed it under the pallet with her foot and went to the clothes-perch for a dry gown.

Pierre poured himself another goblet of wine and strolled to the dais that spanned the far end of the Great Hall. He sat on the boards and leaned back on his elbow, surveying the grand chamber. On his way to the hall, he had been met by a lord who had insisted he come for a sip of wine and a discussion of his prospects in Paris and because of the delay, he had little time left in which to prepare. But the Great Hall was certainly fit for the occasion.

On the dais were placed the thrones of the king and queen, each covered with a feather-filled silk cushion. King Louis’ blue banner hung on the wall behind, the gold fleur-de-lis shimmering in the blaze of a hundred candles. Other banners were strung around the hall, decorated with the crests of the noble houses whose dukes and princes would be in attendance. The area before the dais, where Pierre would give the recital, was scattered with dried, scented rose petals. Trestles were placed in rows, decorated with sprays of autumn leaves—amber, crimson, gold—and jeweled basins filled with wine were set at intervals along the center of the boards. Following the performance, the All Hallows banquet would be served in Pierre’s honor. Or, at least, the king’s honor, but it felt like his nonetheless.

Pierre finished his wine and jumped nimbly up. His sack bag, containing the Book of the Grail and his poetry, was lying on one of the trestles. He addressed the servants who were arranging the leaves on the trestles. “My lords and ladies,” he called with a flourish. “If I may be so bold as to grace you with a verse from the Chanson de Roland?” He cleared his throat, pleased by the hall’s acoustics, and closed his eyes.

Most of the servants stopped what they were doing and listened as Pierre sang, the words lifting clear and strong from his mouth to fill the cavernous chamber.

“The day goes down, dark follows on the day. The Emperor sleeps, the mighty Charlemayn…

“Pierre de Pont-Evêque.”

Pierre opened his eyes and frowned down at the source of the interruption. Two men dressed in ragged black robes were moving through the hall toward the dais. They were barefoot and wore large wooden crosses around their necks. Pierre knew who they were for their appearance was famed. Behind the two Dominican friars came five other men, whose appearance was even more legendary. Pierre’s eyes fixed on the swords in the hands of the Templar Knights and a cold dread rose in him. The servants were backing away from the company, whispering.

“I am Pierre. What do you want with me, my good brothers?”

“We are not your brothers,” said one of the Dominicans, stepping forward as the company came to a halt.

The young man had solemn, dark eyes that Pierre felt looked right through him. Pierre tried to pull himself up to his full height, the lack compensated by the level of the dais. “Whatever this is about, you had best make it quick. I’m afraid I do not have much time for conversation.”

“Pierre de Pont-Evêque,” said the Dominican as if Pierre hadn’t spoken at all. “By order of the House of the Jacobins of Paris, disciples of the Holy Dominican Order, authorized for the elimination of heresy by blessed instrument of God, Pope Gregory IX, you are hereby arrested.”

“Arrested? On what charge?”

“The charge of heresy.”

“Listen,” said Pierre quickly, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I can assure you it is all false. I’m no heretic!”

“You will immediately hand over the book you are in possession of, this…
Devil’s
work and come with us.”

“You cannot do this!” shouted Pierre, fear taking him over. “I’m the guest of his majesty! He invited me to perform here tonight!”

“Where is the Book of the Grail?”

“Leave that alone!” Pierre’s gaze had been caught by a tall, black-haired Templar who had moved over to the trestles and was reaching for his sack bag.

The Dominican turned. “Sir de Navarre!” he barked. “Step away. I will deal with that.”

Nicolas de Navarre paused, his hand hovering over the sack. “Be my guest, Friar Gilles,” he said after a moment, moving back and motioning to the bag.

As Gilles removed the wooden cross from around his neck and laid it over the sack bag, intoning a prayer, Pierre jumped down from the dais.

“Seize him!” called the second Dominican.

“Get the king!” Pierre shouted to the bewildered-looking servants. He was silenced by a vicious cuff around the back of his head by the chainmailed fist of one of the knights.

“That will teach you to spread filth about us!” hissed the Templar in his ear.

Pierre hung limply in their grasp as Gilles finished his prayer and slid his hand carefully into the sack bag. “You cannot do this,” groaned the troubadour.

“You have sinned against God and polluted Christendom,” said the second Dominican, his tone as adamant as his gaze. “But in our house you will be given the chance to redeem yourself. We will endeavor to save you from the darkness that compelled you to go against the Lord and will attempt to exorcise the evil within you. Those who stray from the path of God must pay the price for their actions. If you ally yourself with Satan…”