Warlord(75)

Brother Michel seemed stunned when I explained this to him: ‘You suspect that Templars – our own warriors of Christ – are responsible for your father’s murder?’

I outlined to him my two encounters with the knights of the blue cross – or the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Our Lady and the Temple of Solomon, as we now knew they were called – and how on two occasions they had tried to kill me. Brother Michel was deeply angered: ‘This is quite insufferable, Sir Alan. Have you informed the Provost of this crime? I thought we were dealing with a tale from twenty years ago, but now this! We must bring these men to justice immediately. The Bishop is a close friend of Sir Gilbert Horal, the Grand Master of the Order – I will have him arrest these blue knights and drag them before the Provost in chains. We shall demand answers from them.’

Brother Michel had become quite incensed by my words, two twin pink spots adorned his pale cheeks. I thought to myself: I have been in war and around warriors for so long now that violence has become commonplace, but this man of God has reminded me that not all of us live with a gore-slicked blade permanently in our fists.

‘Calm yourself, Brother,’ I said to the rage-trembling monk before me. ‘We must not seek to involve the Provost nor call hysterically for the Paris Temple to be ransacked – we have no proof. And they may not truly be Templars after all – merely affiliated to them, or a group that seeks to ape them. I have been thinking a little on what I have seen of their fighting prowess, and I must conclude that it is not up to the very high standard of true Templars. Besides, it would be viewed as a preposterous accusation from one English knight, a foreigner and enemy, unsupported by any other evidence. I’m afraid I must continue to seek the proof myself – but if you could hasten the time when I might have an audience with the Bishop, I would be grateful.’

‘Well, if you think that is the best course, Sir Alan,’ said Brother Michel, doubtfully. He seemed to have swiftly regained mastery of himself. ‘I will support you, of course, and keep my counsel. I will certainly speak to the Bishop about your case this very day. And I shall pray for your soul – and your father’s too.’

‘Thank you, Brother,’ I said, and left him.


We spent that evening in a tavern with our student friends. The sign of the Cock was a bright, cheerful place much frequented by the young scholars from all over Europe who had come to hear the masters of Paris dispute. Matthew had invited us, saying that since I had been paying for the wine we consumed in the Widow Barbette’s house, it was right that he and his friends should stand me a cup of wine at the Cock to show their gratitude. The students had barely any money between them, and I knew that by the end of the evening I would be settling a sizeable account with the tavern keeper, but I did not mind. I enjoyed the company of these young, clever people and, even after depositing such a sum with the Templars, I could afford to be generous.

Matthew told me that their teacher, the famous Master Fulk, would be dropping in to join them later in the evening and urged me to stay and hear him speak. ‘He is a very brilliant man, Sir Alan, perhaps the best mind in Paris,’ said Matthew earnestly. ‘We are lucky to be his students.’

As I have mentioned, I had little proper education, save in the arts of war, and despite my unenthusiastic first impressions I was curious to see more of this thinker that my young friends seemed to prize so highly.

We were drinking merrily and swapping stories about our adventures – I had told the boys the full story of my father and the theft of the candlesticks – when the air in the tavern seemed to chill slightly, and the lively chatter of the young men ran suddenly dry. A group of students, perhaps half a dozen big, boisterous lads, had come into the tavern and were seating themselves noisily at a table on the far side of the room, shoving each other and shouting jests. My friends were whispering to each other, and seemed nervous. ‘What is the matter?’ I asked Luke, who was seated beside me. ‘It is those German fellows – we had some trouble with them a few nights ago. Just a bit of shoving and shouting, but they told us that they would beat us black and blue if they ever saw us again.’

I studied the German students: a big one, presumably their leader, was shouting jovially to his fellows and shooting his index finger over at our table.

‘What are they saying?’ I asked Hanno.

‘They want to fight with these little English boys,’ my Bavarian friend replied coolly. ‘They are making insults and calling them weaklings and women, the usual things.’

‘Let’s go and talk to them,’ I said, and stood up.