Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar by Robyn Young Page A

his arm. “Where were you last night?”

    Garin grimaced. “In the infirmary with Brother Michael, and the cramps. He said it must have been something I’d eaten. I didn’t tell him about the plums.”

    “I thought…” Will stopped, laughing to cover the near-utterance of what was unspoken between them. “That’ll teach us. Luckily, I’ve got an armored stomach.”

    “We should collect the shields,” said Garin, moving across the yard. “This is one meeting I don’t want to be late for.”

    The two boys headed for the armory, ignoring the curious glances of the younger sergeants as they broke their ranks.

    After collecting their masters’ shields they made their way to the inner courtyard, Will hefting Owein’s shield higher on his arm as the leather straps pinched his skin. The shields, which were stained white with quicklime and sectioned with a crimson cross, were almost as big as they were. Set in the center of the knights’ quarters, the courtyard lawn was ringed by cloisters where arched doorways led into the lower levels of the buildings. The grass, beaded with dew, glowed with a green phosphorescence. A large trestle and boards had been placed at the center and a host of servants were bustling around it in the complex, unfaltering dance of those bred for service, carrying benches, trays of food and wine from the kitchens. Will moved over to Owein, Garin following. The knight was talking intently with one of the Temple’s clerks. He looked up. Will opened his mouth to greet his master, but another voice called out before he could speak.

    “Brother Owein.”

    Will turned to see Jacques heading toward them.

    Jacques, ignoring Will and Garin completely, nodded to Owein. “The royal barge has arrived.”

    “Very well, brother. I believe we’re ready.” Owein motioned to Will. “To your place, sergeant, and remember, only speak if spoken to.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    They headed for the trestle and boards where two other sergeants were bearing the shields of their masters. Garin stood beside Will, holding the shield, one-handed, before him. Will’s gaze drifted to Jacques, who was standing with Owein on the edge of the lawn. Cyclops’s sour face and stiff, arrogant posture made Will bristle with dislike. A short time later, he heard the sound of voices and many footsteps approaching. The double doors on the far side of the courtyard swung open.

    At the head of the company that filed out onto the lawn was Humbert de Pairaud, the Master of England. The Templar Master was a lofty, broad-chested man with a mane of iron-dark hair, whose presence seemed to fill the courtyard. Walking at Humbert’s side was King Henry. His ashen hair was curled at the ends in the current fashion, his face pleated with age. At the king’s right hand was Prince Edward. The fair-haired youth was almost a head in height above the rest of the company and, at twenty-one, already had the poise of a monarch. A pale-faced man with hollow cheeks dressed in black, and a company of pages, clerks and royal guards followed them.

    Owein stepped forward and bowed, first to the Master, then to the king and prince. “My lords, it is an honor to welcome you to the Temple. Lord Chancellor,” he added, greeting the man in black with a nod.

    Henry smiled wanly. “Sir Owein. How good it is to see you and so soon after our last meeting.”

    Will looked at Owein, surprised. He didn’t know that his master had met with the king.

    “My lord,” Humbert intervened, his voice gruff with age and authority, “let us sit and discourse in comfort.”

    “Indeed,” conceded Henry, with a dubious glance at the seating. Two attendants draped the head chair with a square of scarlet silk. The Temple’s servants retreated to the cloisters as Henry sat, his pages fluttering around him like moths. He dismissed them with a wave. “How you can reside in such barren strongholds is a mystery to me, Master Templar. Surely the wealthiest men in