The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One)

By R. L. Blackhurst

England, 1307 . . .

Templar Knight Galeren de Massard is sent to investigate an incident where a nun claims to have been attacked by "a man who became a wolf." When Galeren meets Catherine, he instinctively knows that her attacker was Esquin de Floyran, an old foe, and that his return is dangerous for the increasingly unpopular Templar Order.

Out for revenge, De Floyran has betrayed his brotherhood's secret to the French King who has long sought to discredit the Templars. When he discovers the truth of their nature, he vows to destroy the Order and have the Knights burned to the last.

When hundreds of Templars are arrested in France and Catherine is taken by De Floyran, Galeren resolves to rescue her and save as many of his brethren as he can. Alone, he journeys to France and into the heart of danger to face his enemy and risk everything to save his race from destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. L. Blackhurst
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465946362

R. L. Blackhurst

Rebecca Blackhurst was born in Essex in 1972 but grew up in Bahrain and southern Spain. Possessing an incurable wanderlust, she travelled the globe for years before settling back in the UK to complete a degree in Earth and Planetary Sciences and PhD in Astrobiology.Growing up on a diet of science fiction and fantasy, Rebecca scribbled down stories and ideas for years but only after moving to New Zealand, for a change of lifestyle, was she able to get her teeth into writing.Rebecca published her first book, "The Wolves of Solomon," in 2010, an historical fantasy novel based on the fall of the Knights Templar. The sequel "Wolf" followed in 2011. Driven by her characters, she is currently working on a prequel in the series, "Blood and Brethren."Having a passion for wolves, Rebecca has two German shepherds and can often be heard howling into the night with her pack.

Book preview

Prologue

Catherine once dreamt she was savaged by a wolf. She could not remember exactly when she had had the dream, but she knew it had been before her mother had died; so before she was five. Neither could she remember the details of the dream, only that she had awoken filled with a fear and exhilaration that had made her both long for the dream to recur and to think upon it in times of trouble. It was a dream she could sense, more than recall and from the moment she had woken, screaming into her mother’s soothing arms, she had known that it had some significant bearing on her life.

Her father had always told her to stay away from shadows, warning that wolves and demons lurked within them, but her mother had said that the wolves were their friends. They were the guardians of nature and their howl was not the blood lust cry of savagery and evil but a call of the wild, a reassurance to the world that they were watching over it. Catherine had always preferred her mother’s view of it.

Yet now, sitting on the edge of the hard pallet in her cell of solitude, thinking of events of several nights ago, she wished that she had heeded her father’s advice. Fear, coupled with an unshakable conviction that her life had changed irreparably, gripped her soul. The details of how or why, like those of the dream so long ago, evaded her so that she knew not whether she was even in her right mind.

Templar Knights were here to see her. Why? She could not imagine. She had heard nothing about what had occurred in the aftermath of the tanner’s murder and nobody had spoken to her since the night he had been brutally slain. The Abbess had naturally accused her of creating wild stories and that it was her wilful disobedience that had caused a good man’s death. If she had returned with the rest of the sisters as she was meant to, instead of delaying and looking for mischief, she would not have been vulnerable to the immoral intentions of a dangerous stranger.

She had, since then, been locked in a room within the cold confines of the convent and forced to do penance. This consisted of a diet of bread and water, prayer for forgiveness every waking hour and solitude, for a term deemed fit by the Abbess, which she imagined would be indefinite.

But Catherine hadn’t prayed for forgiveness, she had just listened to the rustle of her sisters’ habits as they scurried passed her door, to their harried whispers and to the inner voice that told her she was in unimaginable trouble. She stood, smoothed down her skirts and followed Sister Clemence out of the room and to her fate.

Chapter One

I’m bored, Raymond Caradas said, sniffing crudely and then spitting as if to emphasize the point. He grimaced as his gob landed just to the side of De Floyran’s foot.

Esquin de Floyran looked down and then shook his head, You are so uncouth, Raymond. He chuckled and then added more darkly. If that had hit my boot you’d be licking it off, that and the mess from your bloodied face.

I apologise, Esquin but you are unlikely to find him here. Caradas said, casting his eyes once more around the bustling Saturday market.

I know that. De Floyran replied.

Then forgive me for asking, but what are we doing here?

Looking. De Floyran said evasively.

Looking for what? Caradas pressed.

Just looking. De Floyran answered.

"Looking . . . right." Caradas nodded but bit his bottom lip irritably. There was no point continuing the conversation with De Floyran, best let him amuse himself. Caradas looked about to see if he could see the others.

There, De Floyran said, elbowing Caradas in the ribs.

What? Caradas frowned.

De Floyran smiled slowly as he watched the young girl weave her way through the crowded market square. In the white, the novice.

Caradas searched the crowd and soon spotted the one that had caught De Floyran’s eye. There were numerous nuns busying themselves at the village market today, including several novices, but they were never usually cause for any attention. So, that’s what De Floyran was looking for. Caradas ran his eyes over the girl and then shrugged.

Can’t see much of her in all that garb. He commented without much interest.

You can see enough. De Floyran said his tone becoming predatory. Look at her face, her expression. Besides, I can smell her….can’t you?

Caradas lifted his nose to the breeze as it rushed coolly over his face and searched for her scent.

Nice, but…

No buts. I like her.

Alright then. Caradas acquiesced. Shall I get the others?

No. De Floyran said firmly. She’s mine. He smiled as he watched her converse with an old hunchback in rags, her features kind and sympathetic; her manner innocent. She reached into the pocket of the apron she wore and produced a coin which she pressed into his hand. De Floyran felt his need stir.

Go find the others and amuse yourselves this evening. Let them suffer your belly aching Raymond. I’ll find you tomorrow.

As you wish, Esquin. Caradas said and bowed his head respectfully as he turned to leave.

Oh Raymond, De Floyran called after him. Have I ever had a novice?

Not that I recall. He answered and then after several moments of silence he took his leave.

De Floyran moved forward and lent up against a tree as he settled to watch her. His need to know his prey a little before he struck was an important part of the sport. He watched her for a while and then let his eyes leave her for a moment to look at the others in her group. While she walked through the market alone, the other nuns and novices moved in pairs. The others looked much as Esquin imagined they would. Old or unremarkable, weak or ridiculously pious and mostly plain, carrying with them an unpleasant musty smell that De Floyran had come to identify with nuns.

She that drew his gaze possessed none of these qualities. There was something about the upward slant of her big grey eyes and the crimson colour of her lips that made De Floyran forget, for the moment, that he could not find his enemy. He had sought him at Faxfleet but having no luck, had thought to find him here at Temple Bruer. But he was not to be found here either.

Caradas was right in that they were unlikely to come across him at the village market, but De Floyran, knowing this, had come here for a different reason. He had come looking for diversion and he had found it. Her sweet cries would subdue the disappointment he felt at another day lost and he would awaken refreshed on the morrow, ready to continue his search.

She moved more swiftly now, creating further distance between herself and her sisters. She looked about conspicuously as if she were conscious of being seen. What was she up to? De Floyran, increasingly intrigued, watched as she came across an old woman. They embraced briefly and once again she looked around to see if she had anyone’s notice. Only mine, De Floyran smiled from within the shadow of the trees. Satisfied that her sisters’ attentions were diverted elsewhere, she, and her companion, began to hasten away from the noise and activity of market day.

De Floyran waited until they were out of sight and away from the attention of others. Then tracking her scent, he slowly pursued his quarry. It did not take him long to find where she and her companion had gone; a small crooked cottage not far from the village square. Now all he had to do was be patient. All the better, he thought to himself as the afternoon sun gradually waned and twilight approached.

4th September 1307, Lincolnshire, England

The rain was hard and relentless and Galeren de Massard paused to pull the hood of his cloak further over his head, despite knowing that the action was pointless. Sighing, he resigned himself to a good soaking.

We’ll be sick with fever before we even gain sight of the preceptory. I’m wet through to the bone! his sergeant Parsifal echoed his thoughts irritably.

I plan to stop somewhere warm long before then. An early return is not worth the risk of a fever.

’Twas glorious in Paris, even in London. I wish we could have stayed in either. I am sick of the country. Parsifal grumbled. I pray for a return to the Holy Land, if only for the sun to warm my bones. He continued with his grumbling and then added with caution, would you be there, were it still ours?

It was never ours, Galeren corrected firmly and then felt a shiver run through his sodden body, but it was not from the cold. And no, I would not. He answered, unable to prevent his mind’s recollection of it. The incessant heat and unrelenting smell of blood and rotting flesh upon the air, even after all these years, would not leave his memory. Willing his mind to clear it, he drew a deep breath savouring the fresh scent of the wet grass and marvelled at the green of the countryside. Despite the bitter rain and grey sky, there was purity here, greater than any Holy Land, and he embraced it.

I love this country. He exclaimed, looking up to the sky suddenly relishing the pelt of rain upon his face. Parsifal shot him a bewildered look. Jesu sir, I appreciate the land of my birth but not its God-cursed weather!

’Tis part of its charm, Galeren smiled, releasing uncomfortable memories of the past. Parsifal shook his head bemused at his master’s enthusiasm for the dire drenching they were receiving.

I would go to the Holy Land tomorrow. I am happy to leave this behind. A new crusade, there is talk of it. Parsifal frowned when his master did not respond but then continued with burgeoning enthusiasm, hoping to draw him in on the topic. Even Master William has spoken of it. You could return sir, perhaps not as a warrior, but –

Enough! Galeren commanded looking fiercely at his young sergeant. He then lamented as he saw Parsifal’s face redden and his eyes cast downward. He was often quick to forget how he had been at the same age and perhaps too hard on those who still saw the Holy Land as a glorious prize.

Patience, he said more encouragingly, your time will come soon enough, sergeant. There is always war, it needn’t be in Palestine. When you have seen it up close, then you will be eager to return home.

I am eager to return home now! Parsifal complained at the rain.

Galeren shook his head, soldiers fight in worse for days and with no respite. You’ll have to harden up if you want war.

I’ll be ready, Parsifal said with the confidence of youth.

Mmmm, Galeren mumbled and reined his stallion onward. The lad had heart, he mused, but he was impatient and not used to hardship and discomfort, lest ready for it. But it was not his fault. The Temple’s war machine had been left to rust since the fall of Acre, and without the Holy Land as their backbone they were little more than farmers and landlords, and increasingly unpopular ones at that. A new crusade was needed, and though he was loath to admit it, they could not continue thus. Christ! That they needed war and a land to dominate in order to survive was infuriating. Galeren looked up at the grey sky that now reflected his mood and then over at his young companion and cleared his thoughts.

If the rains continue thus I’ll have you out training in it when we’re back at Faxfleet.

I look forward to it, sir, Parsifal grinned assuredly. Galeren gave him a nod and they continued their journey in thoughtful silence.

It was dusk when they reached Temple Bruer and the rain was harder than ever. Much to Parsifal’s irritation, his master had decided to pass by the potential warmth and hospitality of several inns they had encountered. Galeren could smell what they offered within; food, ale and women, each eager to please the weary and the restless in their own natural fashion. Food and ale would be welcome but the other would not. It was not his virtue that he sought to protect but that of his young companion. Though he may have felt as restless and unfulfilled as his charge, his lustful youth had long past. While uninterested himself in fleeting encounters, his consideration was for his sergeant. He had not forgotten the urges he once had and insatiable craving for a satisfaction that was never obtained.

Parsifal was all heart and it merely took a few jars of good ale before the intoxicating scent of dark corners and the sweat of unrestrained desire weakened a youth’s purpose. Their drive was strong and only wisdom and age could control it. It would be unwise to draw attention to themselves in these times and their attire was all too familiar. So, wisdom and age guided Galeren pass the inns and onward to the order and purity of the nearest preceptory on route to Faxfleet. It was Temple Bruer.

You don’t trust me, Parsifal said bitterly, as he shoved the reins of his horse toward the groom who’d run to greet them. Galeren raised a disapproving eyebrow at his sergeant as he dismounted and Parsifal checked his manners and smiling at the young lad said:

Thank you. He looked back at his master as their horses were led away across the sodden bailey. He removed his gloves crossly demonstrating that, all manners aside, he was still aggrieved. Galeren shrugged, unperturbed at the performance.

Your sulking only strengthens my decision, he remarked.

I am not sulking, sir! Parsifal threw back, his fists clenched as he spoke. Galeren noted it and sighed.

You want to get a handle on your emotions sergeant. It is control that will save you on the battlefield and control that will enable you to enter such places as we passed on the road, and emerge from them unscathed.

Parsifal looked down at his muddy boots and put his hands on his hips.

It is all part of our training, Galeren continued, of any knight’s training but especially ours. I don’t have to remind you of what we are; control makes us good and strong.

Parsifal nodded. You mistake emotion for lack of control.

Then quell your emotion so others won’t misjudge you. Galeren advised sternly.

But some emotion is good, we need it surely? You have called on emotion in times of battle, have you not? he ventured looking up at his master through cautious eyes, knowing that he spoke of only one battle. As always Galeren refused to be drawn on it but instead said:

I was an emotional youth and sometimes, he tilted his head in warning, sometimes it served me well. But I am a better Templar for my control of it. Throw too much emotion into the mix and we are driven by it. He gestured to his heart, our core is made of it, but this, he then tapped the side of his head, makes us masters of our savagery and hence our destiny. Lose that and we lose ourselves.

I understand, Parsifal conceded reluctantly, but in order for me to demonstrate control you must trust me.

Granted, Galeren nodded. There are plenty of inns on the way to Faxfleet, and the inns of Yorkshire are far worthier challenges for the likes of you than those of Lincoln. He smiled knowingly. Peace, sergeant?

Peace Master, Parsifal held out his hand and Galeren shook it. They both turned as they heard the squelch of mud and saw someone approaching from across the bailey. A knight strode toward them and then paused to squint in the dusk light. The heavy rain added to the obscurity of his vision but did not dampen his sense of smell.

"Brother Galeren? his deep voice queried. Is that you I smell?"

It is indeed. Galeren answered. How fare thee Brother Richard? I trust the weather is to your liking.

The knight laughed and continued towards them. Ha! It has been a long time since you graced Temple Bruer with your presence.

Galeren shook his head. Fear not, there is no grace here.

I beg to differ. The knight retorted as he reached them. Parsifal looked up at him. He was a mountain of a man, about the same height as his master but much thicker set and less wiry. He had a leathery face that could only have been weathered from time spent in the Holy Land. It made him look older than his years, which Parsifal guessed were the same as his master’s. His eyebrows, or rather eyebrow, met between his eyes as a thick black bush and his rubbery, dark lips were framed by a well maintained moustache.

Parsifal did not know the man but seeing that he was an old comrade of his master’s, he was likely to have been at Acre. Perhaps, it was not such a bad idea to come here after all, as there may be talk of the Holy Land. Even if his master would not debate on it, there may be brothers here that would.

What news Sir Richard? the men embraced and clapped each other’s backs briefly.

Ach, the usual muck from this bog, Richard replied fixing his gaze on Parsifal, and who might this be? A youth for you to corrupt?

Aye, but methinks he will corrupt me long before I corrupt him.

None could corrupt you, Master. Parsifal said proudly but then regretted it when he saw the dark knight’s eyes light up as he bellowed, Hero worship, eh? Parsifal’s face reddened instantly. Galeren shook his head in disagreement.

Bollocks! the large knight contested, every sergeant I’ve ever had the misfortune to train has hated me. The wretch I have now would murder me in my sleep given half the chance. He folded his arms and inflated his chest so that he became even more of a giant.

That is because you’re a bastard Richard. Galeren said with a smile and clapped his friend on the back.

Accepted, Richard said reflectively.

Parsifal Bondeville, please meet a very old friend of mine, Richard de Gosbeck.

Less of the old you swine, I have but two years on you. Richard shook Parsifal’s outstretched hand. Ahh of course, James Bondeville’s son.

Yes, well met Sir Richard. You knew my father? Parsifal asked, as his thoughts turned once again to Acre. Parsifal was fascinated with the battle, though it had been a great loss for the Knights Templar. His father had died at Acre, but he never knew him. His interest was more to do with the part his master had played in it. Galeren had been about his age back then and there was talk of great valour. It was an event, however, that his master refused to draw comment on and Acre was a sore point with most of the more seasoned knights. Perhaps Sir Richard would be more forthcoming with details on what so far was, for all the wrong reasons, the most important battle in the Templars’ history.

Come, let us not linger in this hell whore’s weather. I can’t remember when last I saw the sun or was dry for that matter. He led them across the bailey to the entrance of the preceptory.

You’ve come up from New Temple? he asked as they got inside.

Aye, Galeren answered.

And you weren’t tempted by any of the hospitable inns along the way? he said with a glint in his eye.

Galeren frowned. We’ve already been round that course. He said dourly and shot a glance at Parsifal who shrugged.

I see, Richard said. There are plenty of inns on the way to Faxfleet, he winked at Parsifal, but I think Master Bertrand may expect you to enjoy his hospitality for more than a night’s rest.

Galeren paused, How so? He handed his sodden cloak to the servant that greeted them. Parsifal, doing the same, kept his eyes fixed on his master.

There has been a bit of trouble, locally, Richard said, scratching his chin which was rough with several day’s worth of stubble, and you know how your former master reveres you.

What sort of trouble? Galeren asked, ignoring the latter comment.

Bertrand will speak of it. Richard tapped the side of his nose and motioned towards the young sergeant indicating it was not for his ears.

Come on, let’s have it. Galeren said impatiently, Are we brothers to have secrets between us? Secrecy without is necessary, but within is not acceptable.

It is not my decision, brother. Richard said immovably. Galeren sighed and shook his head.

Fine, but I warn you I intend to be back at Faxfleet within the week. I was delayed long enough in Paris; I have matters of my own to attend to.

Dallying in that damn sick house? Richard said his voice thick with sarcasm. Parsifal’s eyes widened in shock as he anticipated his master’s response. Galeren did not respond but instead turned and began to walk away from them.

Ah, come on you sainted bastard, I know what riles you is all. Richard laughed. Methinks you need company other than the infirmed and insane, or your humour will be as rusty as your armour!

Galeren ignored his comment. I know my way to Bertrand’s chambers. Show Parsifal to the sergeant’s quarters after you found him some food. He snapped instead.

Still barking orders at your equals, brother? Richard called after him, but Galeren had already disappeared into the blackness of the dim passage. Richard turned to Parsifal, who tried to look indifferent.

Come then lad, he bellowed and slapped him hard across the back. Let me show you how the sergeants of Temple Bruer fare!

****

An hour or so later, after some food and the exchange of news, Galeren pressed Bertrand for what purpose he thought he may serve.

Richard mentioned local trouble and I got the impression that he thought you would want me to…. he paused, resolve it?

Bertrand le Roux was in his late fifties and had a kind open face, the type that hid no secrets and more importantly the type you could trust. Galeren trusted him more than he did most others. He was also a good friend of his father’s and despite his keenness to return to his own estate he would find it difficult to deny a man who held so much of his respect. Bertrand groaned.

Damn Richard! He has the subtlety of a lance through the head! He shook his head and sighed wearily. However, it is complementary that he would think that I would require your service in a delicate matter and he is right.

You need only ask, Master.

I know, Bertrand smiled and drained his cup of its contents. Another flagon? he shook the empty vessel.

Why not? Galeren answered, knocking back his wine. I feel my bones warming with each sip. ’Twas a rough journey, I hate to admit it.

Rough? Bertrand rang a bell and a servant entered, he motioned to the flagon and it was immediately removed. You are the only warrior that I have met who can persevere through any God forsaken conditions, be them baking heat or freezing rain.

In my youth, perhaps. Galeren mused reflectively.

Ahhh and what a youth, Bertrand said with reflective admiration.

If you speak of Acre then it was a fleeting youth, I imagine my functional but inglorious medical pursuits disappoint you master? The servant returned with a fresh flagon. Bertrand was quick to dispense its contents between them.

Not I, he said with conviction.

My father perhaps, Galeren said, staring into the depths of his cup.

Nor him, Bertrand replied with equal certainty, You fulfil honourable aims of the Temple, but the fact that you are such a damn fine soldier, and natural leader for that matter, leads many to believe that that is where your true purpose lies.

Not that Bertrand, Galeren shook his head firmly, you know how I feel about the Temple’s current ideology. He took a sip of wine before continuing. But I am not here to argue the odds or press my views, it has never gotten me anywhere before. Let’s hear of this trouble on the estate.

Bertrand went to protest but then relented. He nodded his head and then sighed heavily before beginning.

One of our tenants, a tanner, was murdered several days ago. It has caused a quite a tumult.

Understandable, Galeren acknowledged, do we know of the perpetrator?

Le Roux shook his head. Galeren tilted his and said, A dispute settled without the law? You have no need of me if such is the case; Richard is more than capable of dealing with it.

Normally I would agree, but the fact that this man’s throat was ripped out by, what has been described as, a gigantic wolf means that our involvement is necessary.

Christ! Galeren said looking at Le Roux whose face was full of concern.

There’s more, the witness, a nun, perhaps the intended victim, has described the murderer as… Le Roux paused and then raising his eyebrows concluded, a man who became a wolf.

"What?" Galeren nearly choked.

Aye. And while it is a story open to disbelief, Le Roux shrugged, we must investigate.

Of course, Galeren agreed, what exactly has she said?

That is for you to find out.

’Tis a serious matter that must be handled delicately but I do not wish to put anyone’s nose out of joint at Temple Bruer by assuming charge.

If you mean Richard then don’t worry. He is good for a battle but less than interested in matters of diplomacy. He longs for the days of the sword and his only interest in this has been to put pay to the rogue responsible.

You have no reason to believe it is someone from within the Temple brethren?

No. No one within would bear this man ill. He was a good tenant, hard worker, went to church and neither drank nor wenched. This is a stranger’s doing and that in itself is dangerous. So this must be settled quickly and without fuss. We have enemies aplenty, someone may be out to do us harm. You know how these things can escalate, these are superstitious times, brother, I have heard mention of witchcraft already. I want neither witch nor wolf hunt. I want this rumour quashed and quickly, I want whoever responsible found and this nun silenced if necessary.

The first two requests I can execute but you ask the wrong man to commit murder of an innocent and if you ask another I will prevent it.

Bertrand laughed aloud, "Galeren, would I be so foolish to ask you to commit murder and that of a nun of all people!"

Galeren shrugged. Murder has been committed in the Temple’s name before.

But not by my request, Bertrand pointed out sharply, murder is not my aim, prevention of it is. I mean discredit her testimony, confuse her mind, re-locate her – whatever is necessary.

And under what guise are we heading this investigation?

Simply, we will not tolerate the murder of one of the Temple’s tenants upon our own estate. Plus, we have livestock to consider, and we merely wish to discover whether a ravenous wolf is on the loose or a man and his hound with a grudge against the tanner.

Galeren laughed, The latter is to my liking. But I thought you said that the nun may have been the intended victim.

That is more likely.

Why?

Well, it occurred at twilight and she was alone, coming from the village and heading back towards St Catherine’s. Nun’s are not wont to travel alone and at such a time.

Mmmm, sounds as if she has more than one story to tell. Galeren tilted his head, a pensive look in his eye.

Aye and that may serve our purpose well. If she has need of a secret to be kept then she may better be persuaded to alter her story.

Galeren nodded in agreement as he knocked back the dregs of his wine. Trust I will do what needs to be done.

I do, that is why I thank the Lord above that you rode through my gates this eventide. Le Roux said, smiling at his former sergeant.

Thank not him, but the rains. Galeren returned the smile to his old master and then said, It is good to see you Bertrand. He stood. I will leave for the convent at first light. Galeren bowed and then promptly left Le Roux’s chambers.

Later, as he stood deep in thought listening to the rain pelt the eaves under which he took shelter, he sensed Parsifal’s approach and turned to greet him.

I thought you were abed long ago. He said.

Curiosity has made me restless, sir. Parsifal answered honestly, noticing that his master was scantly dressed in only a linen shirt, braies and black cloak. The weather never seemed to bother his master, Parsifal thought, and it should bother him less he noted to his chagrin.

He looked at Galeren and considered him for a moment, the sharp look in his eye, his face furrowed in thought; it was a face full of mystery. Perhaps, there was some hero worship there and the fact that his master was neither boastful nor proud was the very reason for it. Yet, he didn’t understand why a man such as he was content to hide away in rooms filled with chaotic madness, tinkering with potions and experiments when all had said he could have been a good leader; their leader.

Galeren seemed to have shied from climbing the Templar ranks to leadership and was, instead, on a medical crusade. Parsifal fully accepted that the acquisition of knowledge was part of their doctrine and none would deny that Galeren de Massard was one of the finest physicians the Order had, but he knew that many believed that Galeren had turned his back on his true destiny for which he was bitterly criticised, even ridiculed; albeit behind his back.

Ahhh, what trouble’s afoot? Galeren asked Parsifal’s question for him, bringing the young sergeant back to his purpose. Parsifal nodded then said:

You said there were no secrets.

There are none here. There has been murder in the village and you will accompany me to the convent of St Catherine’s to question a witness.

A nunnery?

Aye. We leave early, ’tis only a short ride from here but I want to return to Faxfleet tomorrow, so get your rest now. He paused and then said, Unless you wish to come for a run with me?

"A run? In this weather?" he said in disbelief and then regretted it as he saw his master’s disenchanted expression.

’Tis good weather for a run. It would heighten your senses. Rain can confuse things; you should learn how it does and how not to let it.

Parsifal was about to concede hating to disappoint his master when a familiar voice bellowed out:

You need to harden the lad up or put him with the women. Mayhap he sews better than he battles.

Galeren noticed Parsifal’s face redden. Your form of encouragement is why all of your sergeants wish for your last breath. He said, but Richard laughed,

I care not for that; only that they last more than one swipe of a sabre on the battlefield.

In any case, Galeren said, smiling at Parsifal, if he sews as well as I, then he will make a fine physician.

You’ll need to make a warrior out of him if we go back to Palestine. Richard continued. Parsifal’s face lit up at talk of the Holy Land.

You may stitch and sew well but you also know where to thrust a sword and more importantly, prevent being opened up by one.

Let up Richard, Parsifal is as fine a swordsman as any sergeant of yours. Galeren said.

Want to put that to the test?

This sounds familiar, Galeren rolled his eyes.

Well then? Richard waited.

I don’t have time for this childishness. Galeren returned with a bored tone.

Afraid?

Parsifal looked at Galeren and saw a dark danger enter his eyes. It was exciting to glimpse the other, hidden, side of his master.

You know what happened last time you said that. Galeren reminded warningly.

Oh yes! Richard said elated, I do, in the days when you had more about you. I would welcome a whipping just to see the old Galeren return!

"Really? I rue the day. I was hot headed and arrogant, totally unpredictable – a fool!"

Parsifal barely moved lest he disturb the men’s banter, he had never heard his master speak of his past or himself before.

You are the same today, brother, more of a fool though.

Galeren folded his arms and narrowed his eyes, Richard merely smiled. "You cannot change who you are. You have just locked that other self in a deep chasm and beaten yourself numb with books and study and surrounded yourself with the near-dead. Your heart will beat once more. What to unlock it though, eh?"

My heart beats fine. ’Tis you that needs to awaken from the past. You will find nothing in that dust, methinks our warrior days are drawing to an end.

Really? Parsifal suddenly called out, forgetting that his silence had made him obscure. Galeren whipped his head round. Did I not tell you to get your rest sergeant? We ride at dawn.

Parsifal’s shoulders slumped. Damn! That he could not keep his big mouth shut. He wanted to go for that run now but his chance was taken; going now would seem for the benefit of Sir Richard and besides Galeren was now angered. He gave a shallow bow and left his master curtly, not wishing to press the matter further, save he receive a fierce tongue lashing.

The lad longs for the passion of war, mark me in that, Richard said as he watched Parsifal walk away.

What do you know of passion? Galeren said irritably.

More than you apparently. We are born warriors! Why do you revile something that you were born to do?

I would rather save than take life.

And the boy? Does he truly follow in your footsteps?

They are not my footsteps. I merely teach and he learns well. He wants to be a physician, so he has told me often enough.

On the battlefield perhaps, but not in a fetid infirmary. Why do you hide yourself away in such?

I do not hide, I work. How do you pass the long days, brother?

I prepare for the next crusade.

Then you will have time aplenty for that. There will be no new crusade though perhaps we need it if attitudes like yours are the norm.

"Do you really believe that the Knights Templar can slip into the roles of farmers, bankers and physicians with our pasts? We are hated now for it brother. Defence of the Holy Land is all we have!"

Had, Galeren corrected, we are upon the eve of a new era, he sighed heavily and then added, but I share your concerns brother, that I do. Don’t think me lax. He stared out into the rain.

What are we to do?

Run. Galeren said and looked at his friend. Richard shrugged; he knew he could take Galeren’s meaning whichever way he liked. Care if I join you? he asked.

You are always welcome, Galeren smiled, just try to keep up. He challenged and turning he strode toward the preceptory gates.

Chapter Two

Catherine had awoken that dawn certain that someone was coming to see her. She didn’t know how she could be so sure of the fact, but nevertheless had no doubt that today she would be visited. It would be about the murder of course, what else? And what part she had played. Her story was so wild that she herself had cause to doubt her conviction in it.

Perhaps she had finally lost her mind; it was what the Abbess had already concluded. But as she stared numbly at the rotting timbers in the roof, her mind was suddenly drawn back to that dark evening. She shivered as she remembered the killer’s green eyes and how they had gleamed at her from beneath the hood of his cloak. They had shone with such diabolical hunger that her soul had frozen and even now she began to tremble, as if she was once again locked in his malevolent grip. His features had been obscured by such blackness that even the moonlight could not expose them and so she had begged the faceless monster to let her go. But she knew he would not, and then she heard a voice call out, the tanner’s voice and then . . . Catherine jolted upright as the bolt of the lock slid back and the door creaked slowly open.

What news Sister Margaret? Catherine said before she saw who it was.

How did you know it was me? the portly nun enquired, as she appeared around the door frame holding a bowl of water and stale crust of bread.

I can smell your sweat. Catherine said, crinkling her nose and sitting up. It was true, Margaret smelled especially bad today. She didn’t care if she caused the girl offence. Margaret was only too pleased when Catherine was in trouble and seemed to take pleasure from her punishment.

Witch! Margaret retorted viciously. You should be burned a witch. We all know where you were the other night, up to no good. A man died because of you, you and your evil. Nobody wants you here. The Abbess will wash her hands of you this time.

Good! Now get out! Catherine screamed with such vehemence that Sister Margaret dropped the bowl and crust she was holding. She stumbled backwards, rapidly retreating from the room. She slammed the door forcefully as if she was containing a devil within, slid the bolt across and scurried away. Catherine lay back on the bed. Someone’s coming, she thought, for ill or good, someone comes. She closed her eyes and awaited their arrival.

****

Do you really believe that there’ll not be another crusade? Parsifal asked Galeren after an hour’s ride. Not many words had passed between them that morning as they journeyed to the convent. Galeren’s mood was even more pensive than usual and even when asked about his run the previous night his answer had been curt and distant. Parsifal hated long rides of silence and despite knowing his master was a man of few words, he still always pressed him for conversation on such journeys.

Not this again, was the terse reply, why are you so obsessed with talk of new crusades?

I am a Templar, Parsifal answered, ’tis our history.

Aye, history. You should concentrate your thoughts on the future.

You fear it? Parsifal asked warily.

Galeren looked at him solemnly. Fear was not in their vocabulary, they had built a reputation on that very fact. But there was no point in foolish bravado. He had always been an honest man, so he gave an honest answer.

I fear nothing but our future.

Parsifal looked down as if to ponder his master’s answer. They continued for awhile in silent contemplation and it was Parsifal who once again broke it.

May I ask, sir, why you never speak of Acre?

There is no cause to. He replied swiftly. Once again Parsifal was left wanting, usually he left it but after the conversation he had witnessed the night before he felt he wanted answers and so he persisted.

I am interested, sir, I want to know what happened, about the battle.

There is not that much to know. Acre fell, we came home. Galeren said, his face stony and fixed on the road ahead.

What about you, sir? Parsifal decided to direct his questioning to what he really desired to know.

What about me? Galeren asked, as if it had been a misdirected question. Parsifal could barely contain his frustration.

Much! You were my age were you not? Still a sergeant, and yet there is talk –

Talk of what? Galeren said irritably.

That you showed great valour at Acre, Parsifal started.

Enough! Galeren raised his hand. Damnation, where do you hear your tales?

"They are not tales, sir, and well you know it. And if you worry about tales then you should tell me yourself to save rumour."

Galeren pulled up his horse, turned in his saddle and pointed firmly at his young sergeant, his eyes darkened. Never be so comfortable in my good nature to question me like that again or I will knock you out of your saddle. There is nothing to tell therefore I wish not to speak of it. I do not want Acre mentioned again, it is in the past and there it will remain buried.

Parsifal bowed his head. Forgive my tongue, sir. Neither my questions nor manner were meant to insult you. It is my curious nature; it will not be mentioned again.

Good, Galeren said and reined his horse onward.

They made fast progress to the convent in an uncomfortable silence that neither had chosen to break. The only breach was a long sigh that came from Galeren as they came within sight of their destination. The convent was a grey stone building with a single spire, set in generous gardens surrounded by a high wall. The entrance within was an archway with a double gate and a bell hung to one side of it.

Galeren pinched his nose. Ring the bell if you will sergeant.

Of course, Parsifal said, quickly dismounting and peeling the bell. I’m sorry for before sir, I…

You have already apologised, I do not wish for you to grovel for the rest of the day. My sour mood is not because of you but rather the mission at hand.

Parsifal frowned. ’Tis simply a questioning, sir.

Aye, but I cannot stomach these places or their inhabitants.

Nuns? Parsifal said perplexed. On the surface we serve the same purpose, as brothers and sisters.

"But they are not our true sisters and well you know it. This is why, young sergeant, I despair at the Temple’s future. We have survived shrouded behind a holy façade for near two centuries but it is a falsity that needs addressing. I fear it will be addressed by others and to our detriment. We have been asleep since that diabolical battle you are so eager to talk about, and should instead have been preparing for a new phase instead of another pointless crusade but ahh . . ." he waved his hand absently.

Parsifal bit his tongue but then relented. His master infuriated him; at times he was so opinionated and yet would not act. What was wrong with him? He refused to talk about the past and fretted about the future, a future he seemed unwilling to get involved with. Parsifal had always been a risk taker and so he ventured into dangerous territory.

Men need to be led though, sir. He said innocently. Galeren snapped his head round to look at him.

What is that suppose to mean?

There was fire in his master’s voice but Parsifal accepted that a beating would be worth an answer from his reticent mentor.

Well, you always speak to counter the Temple’s aim for a new crusade and talk of a necessary change. However, though many have called for your guidance and leadership you have turned from it and instead channel your energy into the practice of medicine, a noble occupation. But, and forgive my insolence, you cannot condemn that which you are not willing to change yourself.

"Insolence?" Galeren snarled ready to explode, but to his chagrin he was not prepared to oppose his sergeant’s observation, no matter how unfounded it was. Unsure how to berate his accuser he was relieved to hear a timid voice say,

How can St Catherine’s be of service to you, Master Templar?

Galeren directed his attention to the pale young woman now present at the gate. How long had she been there he wondered? She stood in her black habit looking frailly up at him. Her face was pock marked and her eyes were watery. She looked withered and empty but probably had barely seen sixteen winters. His anger heightened. He knew not why he was so agitated. It wasn’t Parsifal’s doing or this young fool of a girl before him, but he could not shake it. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be here. He cleared his throat.

We wish to meet with the Abbess regarding the tanner’s death and the sister who bore witness to it.

Oh, the girl trembled, unsure of what to do, if you wait I –

No, Galeren cut her off coldly, we cannot wait. You must take us to see the Abbess now. His tone was harsh and his face serious. Parsifal looked at his master knowing he had crossed the line and that this nun’s presence was the only thing between him and a hard crack in the face. He knew he probably deserved such. Galeren had never beaten him but Parsifal had never before given him reason to and he did not doubt he was capable of it. The girl’s eyes darted nervously between the two knights and then were caught by Galeren’s icy gaze. He raised his left eyebrow at her and waited. She nodded rapidly and beckoned them to follow her.

"Templars, here?" the Abbess looked up from the parchment she wrote upon and narrowed her already small eyes. She had been distracted when Sister Clemence had first entered and spoken, but now her attention was redirected. She tilted her head and waited for the young nun to continue.

They wait without, Mother. It is with Catherine they wish to speak, she paused and then added, about the murder of the tanner.

Mmmm, the Abbess mused, a tenant of theirs, I suppose. She brings trouble to our door at every instance. She drummed her fingers upon the table. Still, we have no quarrel with the Temple. They are our brothers are they not?

Sister Clemence nodded quickly not sure whether it was a question to which the Abbess required an answer.

Show the knights in and then go and fetch our Catherine. But wait without my door until I summon you. I will speak with these knights first.

Sister Clemence bowed humbly and leaving the room she ushered Galeren and Parsifal within. Galeren strode purposely across the room toward the Abbess, who rose from her desk and smiled sweetly. Parsifal followed dutifully.

Brother Templars, it is an honour to receive you.

Galeren de Massard, Parsifal Bondeville. Galeren said curtly, introducing himself and motioning to Parsifal as way of dispelling pointless false pleasantries. ’Tis a serious errand we are on. He finished sternly. He was in an ill mood and now regretted not taking refuge in one of the several inviting inns they had passed the previous night. At least he could have drunken ale to his fill and then ridden through the thick head he would have suffered with the next day, in silence, as they journeyed on to Faxfleet. Instead, his sergeant had just misjudged and disrespected him and he was stood in a cold convent faced with an aging crone.

Aye ’tis true, the Abbess agreed soberly, linking her hands and resting them against her stomach, a foul murder and one of confusion. She nodded assuredly. I presume you have heard the tall tales perpetrated by, I regret, one of our own.

The witness you mean? The nun from this convent? Galeren asked.

She is still only a novice. The Abbess corrected. She has failed to convince me that she is worthy of the vocation as yet. And then she sighed deeply. By God’s good grace, I know we are told to love the sinner but I despair at this girl, so errant is she.

Really? Galeren said, his interest beginning to stir. He remembered that Bertrand had said that the girl had been wandering alone when the incident occurred, perhaps on her way back from some forbidden liaison. How so? he queried.

She carries the sin of Eve heavily. She seduced her own sister’s betrothed. The Abbess said with scathing sentiment.

Grave indeed, Galeren agreed, as was appropriate.

She is wanton and wicked. The Abbess continued with conviction.

Wicked? Galeren cocked his head to one side.

Well, the Abbess’s eyes narrowed and she looked around before she spoke, as if wary of spies hidden in the cracks and eaves of the room, I suspect that if not a witch, then she has, at the very least, heretical ideas.

What makes you suspect such? Galeren frowned.

She consorts with those in the village who are known to experiment with dark magic.

Dark magic? Galeren said, feigning ignorance. They were healers, no doubt, condemned as sorcerers and witches. Another reason he hated the cross that was emblazoned on his mantle and surcoat.

Witchcraft, the devil’s work! Spells and evil incantations, oh . . . she said putting her hands upon her chest, as if it pained her to speak of it.

Galeren watched her with a mixture of fascination and disgust. She had a cruel face that had been sculpted from years of heartless malice. Her mouth was thin and embittered and she had small eyes that were full of malevolence. He could smell the acrid tang of her skin and knew that year upon year, with her youth wasting away before her, her bitterness had only grown. She had, therefore, wielded her insignificant power over younger, weaker, naïve women, until they were as withered as she. The novice though, about whom they spoke, sounded like the exception; unbreakable, and hence detested for it.

It was why he reviled the devout. They were all too eager to condemn any who appeared a threat. They chose their punishment with wicked precision, all the while claiming to be saving souls and welcoming the misguided into the bosom of God. It was control at its most base and made Galeren sick with anger. He now found himself strangely eager to meet the wicked novice. He looked at the Abbess, his expression neutral and waited for her to continue.

I tell you brother, if her father did not temper the agony of her presence here with his generosity, I would have thrown her to the wolves long ago.

Galeren, seeing Parsifal look at him out of the corner of his eye, raised one eyebrow at the Abbess with curiosity.

A fitting turn of phrase, Galeren said amused, despite sensing Parsifal fidgeting beside him, and it brings us to our point. Was not the tanner’s throat ripped out by a large wolf?

It would seem, the Abbess said, but Catherine’s account is most harrowing, not least for its unbelievable aspects. But I would expect nothing less from her. She was up to no good, wandering home at that hour, consorting with her wicked brethren no doubt and –

Please, Galeren raised his hand, time presses us. I must ask you to avoid speculation. What did she tell you happened that night, Abbess?

The Abbess sighed and shook her head. That she was attacked by a large man who, when challenged by the tanner who had come to her aid, became a wolf! she laughed into her hand in disbelief at this but composed herself and continued.

He then ripped the tanner’s throat out. She shook her head some more. Galeren stood still as a statue and did not comment but instead looked at her with an expression that told her he wasn’t satisfied that she was finished.

The commotion alerted others and the wolf-man fled and Catherine was spared, saints preserve us! she concluded with sarcasm and crossed herself. Galeren nodded thoughtfully signifying that he had heard enough.

You see why I despair at the child. Such a tale told when a man was murdered can only come from a wicked imagination. And if there is any truth in such a wild tale, then her hand is in that as well. It could only be the work of Satan and his disciples.

Methinks your first supposition is the correct one. Galeren said curtly and then, I will speak with Catherine now if I may. I find fanciful tales can be shorn to the truth with a few well chosen questions.

Wisely spoken, the Abbess said then called out, enter sisters.

Galeren turned to the door and felt his chest tighten suddenly, as if in the grip of a vice. Two women entered, one before the other. The first he had already met at the gate; it was the one who followed her that drew his gaze. The Abbess’s account of her had been scathing but now upon seeing her, he understood why. Despite being shrouded from head to foot in a white habit, her beauty remained unmasked.

Galeren heard Parsifal draw breath beside him and knew that he too had noted it, but as always his sergeant’s youth meant his emotions remained unchecked. Galeren was drawn to her eyes first, as he was to most people’s; for much could be gathered from a single look. They were light grey but seemed to darken with a shade of defiance as she looked, first at the Abbess and then settled them upon him.

Galeren remained immovable, unreadable and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand instead of studying her features, however, he remained distracted. Her skin was pale, but not sickly like the other girl. There was a warmth to it, not yet extinguished by this place. Her hair was dark, probably black he gathered, like her eyebrows. As if sensing his silent deductions, she aptly arched both of them at him and brought him back to his purpose.

Galeren frowned and tore his attention