Pilgrims of Promise(80)

“We do not speak your tongue!” snapped Heinrich. He stepped forward with his sword drawn.

“Non, non! I… I am voyageur. I mean no … no evil.”

Alwin stepped close to the man and held a lantern by his face. The Frenchman looked down at the Templar sword now pointed at his belly and nearly swooned. Something about the man’s sudden and inexplicable terror caught Alwin’s attention. “Cathar?” he asked.

The old man closed his eyes and trembled. Alwin lowered his sword and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Non Templar,” he said kindly as he pointed to himself.

Michel’s eyes opened in relief, and the pilgrims thought he might burst into tears. “Ah, mon Dieux!”

“Sheath your sword, Heinrich,” said Alwin as he set his own aside. “He’s a Cathar.”

“Cathar?” Heinrich was confused. “I thought he was French.”

“The Cathari are heretics from the region of Provence and Languedoc. He would not think himself a Frenchman at all, and his language is not quite the same. I don’t know it very well.”

Alwin turned to Michel and studied his clothing, then smiled at the egg clutched within one closed hand. “Credente?”

The man hung his head and nodded.

Alwin smiled. “Depuis Toulouse?”

“Non, Avignonet.”

The knight walked into the dark corners of the stable and chased away a clucking hen. He retrieved two eggs and handed them to the old fellow with a smile. At first, the man looked ashamed, but when he saw the twinkle in Alwin’s eyes, he grinned. Placing the eggs into his pockets, the Cathar cast a fleeting look at his horses and wagons, then hurried away.

Chuckling, Alwin set the sword aside and then sat with his confused friends. “Gather close.”

The four huddled atop the straw in the yellow light of a smoky lantern. Alwin stroked his beard and stared into the flame as he collected his thoughts. Heinrich thought the knight to have aged considerably since he had last seen him ride away from Stedingerland. That was six years prior, in the time when the monk had worn white robes and was known by another name. The baker remembered him as a sinewy young blond with the heart of a lion and the spirit of a saint. Still handsome and ever disposed toward compassion, Alwin had changed nonetheless. His hair and beard were now longer than the Templars allowed, and his dark eyes belied a deep sorrow. The man had become seasoned by a world of troubles, and the baker easily recognized the telltale marks of suffering. Heinrich waited quietly.

“I should tell you my story,” began Alwin. He settled comfortably against a stout post. “I was proud to serve the order,” he said slowly. “I tried to serve my Lord with both sword and alms to the very limits of my strength. I was obedient to my masters in the preceptories, kept to my prayers, my reading of the Holy Scriptures, my endless fasts, and to the service of the Church. I honored my vow of chastity and only sought to offer kindness to the helpless and sharp steel to evil.

“Yet, as God is my witness, I sit before you as a man confused.”

A voice distracted the group. It was Pieter. “Ah, I’ve come with news. Dorothea… the lord’s daughter… has been told of our presence and bids us come to first meal before prime. She thinks it best we gather before the bells.”

Slightly annoyed at the interruption, the four grumbled a bit. “Why before the bells?”

Pieter shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

“Sir Alwin is telling us his story,” said Otto.

“His story?” Pieter set himself atop a mound of hay and called Solomon to his side. “Your pardon, Alwin. Please, continue.”

The knight began again. “I kept the rules of my order and the rules of the Church, but I fear I violated the law of love.”

“Order and love are not always friends,” muttered Pieter.

The others stared at him.

“Ah, pardon, Alwin. Please, go on.”

“As I was saying, I served the order well and our Lord poorly.”

Pieter spat.

“Heinrich, when I left you in Stedingerland, I delivered the taxes to the preceptory in Cologne, where I remained until our Grand Master, William de Chartres, ordered a contingent of knights to England. I was sent as an escort along with the seneschal and three grand preceptors to the London Temple, where we met the horrid King John.

“I remained in London for a year or so. It was a terrible time. The king is surrounded by fools, save one … a man named Sir William Marshal—a Christian knight of courtesy and honor for whom I have only respect. But I found the realm odd. It is filled with a great sense of liberty amongst the nobles, and even the middling freemen speak incessantly of their ancient rights. It seems they’ve come upon another way, yet their king is as ruthless a tyrant and as greedy a thief as I’ve e’er seen … save, perhaps, the pope.”