Warlord(45)

‘If ever I get the chance to do him some damage – or shove a blade into any of his sainted Order of blood-thirsty, God-struck maniacs – I will gladly do it; as long as it doesn’t put my people at risk or harm my interests in any way. But, for the moment, it suits me to treat him as an ally. So behave yourself, Alan. As John says, play nicely with the Templars like a good boy – for now.’ And he grinned at me, his eyes twinkling with vicious amusement.

As Hanno, Thomas and I joined the column of mounted men that morning and began to ride out of the camp and towards the walls of Vendôme, less than half a mile to the south, I pondered Robin’s description of these Templar knights as ‘blood-thirsty God-struck maniacs’ – it seemed a bit too harsh to me. They were the vanguard of Christian knighthood: superbly trained in all forms of combat, deeply committed to the cause of Our Lord, and aloof from the petty squabbles of the princes of Europe. They served a higher cause: Christendom itself. Much feared by the Saracens, and merciless in battle against all infidels, they were men that I felt a good deal of admiration for: men I looked up to as an example of how to be. I would have no trouble ‘behaving myself’ in their company.

Vendôme is built into the crook of a bend in the River Loir, where that great artery of trade divides into three streams. Vendôme itself seemed to be almost floating on water; and I imagined the inhabitants must have a good deal of trouble with flooding in wintertime. We approached on the main road from the north through brown-yellow fields of ripening barley and halted our horses outside the gates of the city, which lay on the far side of the first bridge across the Loir. One of the Templar sergeants walked his horse across the bridge and in a loud, officious voice announced who we were. As if pushed by an invisible giant’s hand, the huge wooden gates of the citadel swung open to receive us.

Once through the portals, we entered the crowded, narrow streets of Vendôme, bustling with traders and ringing with the cries of its citizens. Apart from the occasional jovial curse as we forced our horses through the throng, we were almost ignored. The people seemed to have no fear of us, which I found rather odd, given that we came from a mighty and victorious army that was camped less than a mile away. Ahead of us, I could see the tall spire of the Abbey Church of the Holy Trinity – seat of Cardinal Heribert – and beyond, half a mile to the south of the abbey, the stone walls of the castle, glowering over the town from a prominence at its most southerly point. Shortly we clattered across a second wooden bridge and found ourselves riding beside the walls of the abbey itself.

I called, ‘God be with you, sir,’ to Aymeric de St Maur, who was at the head of the column, and he turned in the saddle and raised a friendly hand in salute. I had told him that, rather than accompanying the embassy to the castle where the negotiations were to take place with Lord Bouchard, Count of Vendôme, I would be heading straight for the abbey. And a few moments later, Hanno, Thomas and I were dismounted and pounding the big brass bell outside the porter’s lodge of that venerable religious house.

I gave my name to the hosteller, whose duty it was to welcome guests to the abbey, mentioning briefly that I had been acquainted with Brother Dominic. He greeted me with joy, embracing me and thanking me for saving the old monk’s life. Evidently the poor fellow had been in communication with the abbey while his feet had been healing. Then I had to deliver the sad news that Brother Dominic was dead – murdered by unknown hands – and I told the hosteller that I needed to speak to the Cardinal, hinting perhaps just a little dishonestly that it concerned Dominic’s death. I felt guilty about that, but reasoned that if I told the Cardinal my true reason for wanting to speak to him, and he had something to hide, I might well find myself escorted out of the abbey, never to be admitted again. Needs must when the Devil drives.

The hosteller sent a novice scurrying away to relay my information to the Cardinal’s secretary and to see if I might be granted an audience. In the meantime, our horses were taken away and stabled, and Hanno, Thomas and I were ushered into the refectory, offered cold spring water and rye bread with butter, and asked to wait.

After a while, the hosteller returned and told me that His Grace would see me, but only for a few moments as he had been summoned to the castle to take part in the negotiations for the surrender of Vendôme to King Richard. I nearly kicked myself – I had made a silly mistake. Of course the Cardinal would be required to receive the embassy! But I quickly stammered out my gratitude that I might be permitted a few moments of the prelate’s time before he departed for the castle.