Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar by Robyn Young Page B
Authors: Robyn Young
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Christendom can afford a little luxury?”
“Our service is to God, my lord,” replied Humbert smoothly, taking the seat to the left of the king. “Not the comfort of our flesh.”
Will stepped back to allow Owein to sit beside the Master. Edward was at the king’s right and three knights, including Jacques, and five clerks, two from the palace and three from the Temple, took up the rest of the places around the trestle. There was one space left empty. Will guessed it was for the chancellor who had chosen to remain standing behind the king, like a raven perched on the back of his chair.
Henry looked at the trays of fruit and jars of wine. “Thankfully, you have been gracious enough to furnish us with more earthly pleasures.”
“Yes, Lord King.” Humbert beckoned a servant to pour the wine. “The Temple is glad to greet its guests in the custom and manner of their own halls.”
Henry stared at Humbert for a moment, then looked away as the servant poured wine into a goblet and passed it to him with a bow. His gaze swept the company and fell on Will.
“Your soldiers seem to get younger each year. Or perhaps it is I who grows older? How old are you, boy?”
“Thirteen and eight, my lord.” Out of the corner of his eye, Will noticed that Jacques was looking at him.
“Ah!” said Henry, unaware of Will’s discomfort. “A Scotsman unless my ears fail me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you are privileged to have been a subject of two of these islands’ most beautiful ladies. My wife and my daughter, Margaret.”
Will bowed in acquiescence, but said nothing. He had been only four when Henry had married his ten-year-old daughter to the King of Scotland. But he’d grown up with his father’s thoughts on the matter and understood that through Margaret, Henry had established a firmer hold over Scotland—a country that the English kings had coveted for centuries.
“It is in the young that old men must place their hopes for the future,” continued Henry, taking a sip of wine. “Last month I commissioned the best artist in England to re-create the fall of Jerusalem in my private quarters at the Tower. That was the golden age of chivalry, when brotherhoods were Orders of the highest renown and men like Godfrey de Bouillon walked in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ, sacrificing themselves for the glory of God and Christendom. Perhaps,” he added dryly, “those days may yet come again.”
Humbert raised his brow. “I was of the belief, my lord, that the monies we lent you were for your planned Crusade in Palestine, not those across the walls of your palace?”
“Do not fret about your gold, de Pairaud, it is well spent. You care too much for such things. The Temple trades in the supply of goods across the lands and sea, charges pilgrims for passage on its ships, takes donations from nobles and kings and, in the service of money lending, charges almost as much interest as the damn Jews!” The king met Humbert’s gaze. “I think the name Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ, by which I’ve heard you prefer to be known, is somewhat misleading.”
“The Temple must use all means available to generate funds on this side of the sea if we are to continue the fight beyond it. Indeed, we must utilize every facet of our Order to achieve what has been the dream of every man, woman and child in Christendom for the last two centuries: the reclaiming of Jerusalem from the Saracens and the establishment of a Christian Holy Land. As monks we pray for this, as warriors we build arms and send men to fortify our garrisons in Outremer to aid this and as men we produce and sell whatever is in our capacity to do so in order to accomplish this. And if we do not do this,” added Humbert, his eyes boring into Henry’s, “who will, my Lord King? The West may still long for this dream, but few are those who now rush to fulfil it.”
“You hide behind your piety, Master Templar,” snapped Henry,
“Our service is to God, my lord,” replied Humbert smoothly, taking the seat to the left of the king. “Not the comfort of our flesh.”
Will stepped back to allow Owein to sit beside the Master. Edward was at the king’s right and three knights, including Jacques, and five clerks, two from the palace and three from the Temple, took up the rest of the places around the trestle. There was one space left empty. Will guessed it was for the chancellor who had chosen to remain standing behind the king, like a raven perched on the back of his chair.
Henry looked at the trays of fruit and jars of wine. “Thankfully, you have been gracious enough to furnish us with more earthly pleasures.”
“Yes, Lord King.” Humbert beckoned a servant to pour the wine. “The Temple is glad to greet its guests in the custom and manner of their own halls.”
Henry stared at Humbert for a moment, then looked away as the servant poured wine into a goblet and passed it to him with a bow. His gaze swept the company and fell on Will.
“Your soldiers seem to get younger each year. Or perhaps it is I who grows older? How old are you, boy?”
“Thirteen and eight, my lord.” Out of the corner of his eye, Will noticed that Jacques was looking at him.
“Ah!” said Henry, unaware of Will’s discomfort. “A Scotsman unless my ears fail me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you are privileged to have been a subject of two of these islands’ most beautiful ladies. My wife and my daughter, Margaret.”
Will bowed in acquiescence, but said nothing. He had been only four when Henry had married his ten-year-old daughter to the King of Scotland. But he’d grown up with his father’s thoughts on the matter and understood that through Margaret, Henry had established a firmer hold over Scotland—a country that the English kings had coveted for centuries.
“It is in the young that old men must place their hopes for the future,” continued Henry, taking a sip of wine. “Last month I commissioned the best artist in England to re-create the fall of Jerusalem in my private quarters at the Tower. That was the golden age of chivalry, when brotherhoods were Orders of the highest renown and men like Godfrey de Bouillon walked in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ, sacrificing themselves for the glory of God and Christendom. Perhaps,” he added dryly, “those days may yet come again.”
Humbert raised his brow. “I was of the belief, my lord, that the monies we lent you were for your planned Crusade in Palestine, not those across the walls of your palace?”
“Do not fret about your gold, de Pairaud, it is well spent. You care too much for such things. The Temple trades in the supply of goods across the lands and sea, charges pilgrims for passage on its ships, takes donations from nobles and kings and, in the service of money lending, charges almost as much interest as the damn Jews!” The king met Humbert’s gaze. “I think the name Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ, by which I’ve heard you prefer to be known, is somewhat misleading.”
“The Temple must use all means available to generate funds on this side of the sea if we are to continue the fight beyond it. Indeed, we must utilize every facet of our Order to achieve what has been the dream of every man, woman and child in Christendom for the last two centuries: the reclaiming of Jerusalem from the Saracens and the establishment of a Christian Holy Land. As monks we pray for this, as warriors we build arms and send men to fortify our garrisons in Outremer to aid this and as men we produce and sell whatever is in our capacity to do so in order to accomplish this. And if we do not do this,” added Humbert, his eyes boring into Henry’s, “who will, my Lord King? The West may still long for this dream, but few are those who now rush to fulfil it.”
“You hide behind your piety, Master Templar,” snapped Henry,
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