Cross Council Page 2
~~~~~
James glanced at him with an unspoken question in his eyes.
"Girard's neck was cut to the bone, Brother," Louis lowered his voice. "I am sorry. I know he was your friend. Sir Ramsay released his soul and has gone in search of his apprentice."
"This way!" James took the lead again. He led them down an alley and stopped in front of door that had once been painted bright green. The wood was pitted and scarred. Very little paint remained. He rapped loudly on the door and it opened a few moments later just enough to allow one eye to be seen in the crack.
"Juliette," James actually smiled and Louis frowned, looking to Hugh for explanation, but the Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon only shrugged. "Let us in, mon cher."
The door opened wider and a rather busty young girl allowed them inside the shabby, but cozy room where a fire burned in a small fireplace and the smell of onions was thick in the air.
"We can stay here until dark, my friends," James told them and wrapped one arm around the young woman's shoulders. "This is my wife, Juliette."
"Wife?!!" Both Champlain and Champagne said in unison. Wives, girlfriends and unnecessary contact with women in general were strictly forbidden by the Primitive Rule of Order as laid down by Saint Bernard.
"A man needs sustenance and comfort," James told them as he turned to kiss the girl on her nose.
The three Templars lounged on hay and sacks of lamb’s wool by the hearth all night listening to the clattering armor of the king’s patrols coming and going in the streets outside. Julie sat at her spinning wheel, working silently in between supplying them with what little food and drink she could spare. She was afraid and the fear was evident in her large eyes. It was also evident that James treated her none too well and if the king’s men found them here, they would arrest her as well and a horrible fate would await her in the Inquisitor’s dungeons for harboring heretics. Their lives hung in the balance and the night before them promised to be long and bleak.
Across town in the cellar of an inn well known for its fine ale and hearty fare, four men sat staring at each other across the top of an upturned wine cask. A single candle stump flickered on the keg between them, casting the craggy lines of their faces into shadowy caricatures of fear and trepidation.
“I say we go now!” The German plopped one gloved fist on the cask. “If we tarry overlong, we’ll find our feet in the fire!”
“We cannot leave our Brother behind!” The oldest member of the group rasped and then finished off the ale in his tankard. He blinked his watery blue eyes in anger.
“He is NOT our Brother, Master,” the German said again. “He is but a foundling… a lay brother. He will be released as soon as his status is learned. He knows nothing.”
“What do you know of his status, Sir?!” The big, red-faced Frenchman rose up slightly and leaned toward the leaner fellow. “You would do well to mind your place!”
The darker Knight fell silent and leaned back in the ramshackle chair, stretching his long legs out in front of the in the soot-blackened hearth where a small fire flickered atop a burned out pile of coal.
“Please, Brothers,” the quieter personality of the four spoke up. Philip Cambrique, Knight of the Orient and Seneschal to the Grand Master did not like strife, especially amongst the Brothers of the Council. Calamity had befallen the Order of the poor Knights of the Temple and they were lucky to have escaped King Philipe’s soldiers. It was truly a miracle and a sign that assured him of God’s approval of them. “We must not fight among ourselves. We have much to consider.” He turned his large, liquid eyes on Konrad von Hetz, Knight of the Apocalypse who sees. “Brother Konrad, I ask you to restrain yourself. There is much you do not know… should not know for your own sake as well as the sakes of others. If Master d’Brouchart says we must bring Father Simon with us, then that is what we must do. I am sure that he has his reasons.”
The Master lowered himself onto the small stool on which he perched causing it to squeak ominously under his weight.
“I will make arrangements for his release,” the fourth man spoke up. He was dressed in black from head to toe as opposed to the white mantels and surcoats worn by his companions. “We must give them time to sort out the prisoners. I will make contact with my… associates and meet with the jailer. He has expensive tastes.” By his accent, he was clearly from the northern ranges of Britain, Scotland, no doubt. “The ships are safely away by now and they will think us escaped. I suggest you find more suitable rags. Beggars will not be suspect and Father Simon will most likely be beggarly when I bring him out.”
“Are you sure you can trust this… jailer, Brother Ramsay?” D’Brouchart turned his eyes on his only Scottish Knight.
Sir Ramsay, better known to them simply as du Morte, taken from his official title and office as the Chevalier du Morte or Knight of Death in the English, laughed and startled all three of them. He was not overly given to mirth and the situation hardly warranted laughter.
“He is as trustworthy as any corrupt official might be, Edgard,” Ramsay answered after a moment. The question was absurd. “The heavier the purse, the more trustworthy he becomes.” The Knight dropped a sizable leather purse into the light on the cask. The unmistakable sound of gold clinking together met their ears and the German smiled crookedly, nodding his head in approval. Ramsay was the alchemist as well. It was his God-given talent to provide the gold necessary to run their little Order within the Order.
“Let us hope you will not come too late,” the Master said quietly and held out his tankard to Philip for a refill.