The Tale of the English Templar

Fateful Encounter

A Highway in the Kingdom of France,

March 1308

The sound of hooves chinking on the icy road dragged Percy back from the comfort of oblivion. His first thought was that the Bishop of Albi’s men had discovered his escape and were returning to arrest him. The thought made his heart race. Blood pumped to his almost numbed limbs, igniting intense pain in his broken legs, his scorched feet, the brandmark on his chest, and his mutilated jaw.

He wanted to flee or to die, but he was helpless. It had taken his last ounce of strength to roll off the back of the prisoner transport and crawl into the ditch by the side of the road. He was too weak to move. All he could do was open his eyes and stare fate in the face.

He levelled his gaze at the gap between the trees that marked the highway. It was easy to see because the blizzard had covered the road with snow. Large, thick snowflakes continued to fall lazily from the dark sky, and they melted cold and wet on his exposed face. Between the trees that flanked the road, two riders cloaked against the winter were approaching. Despite Percy’s semi-conscious state, he could tell that they were not men-at-arms. Their horses were too tall and willowy to easily carry a man in armour, and even in silhouette, it was clear that these riders wore no swords at their hips. Both were slight, hardly more than children. Percy could tell they were frightened because their nervousness had been transmitted to their horses, making them skittish.

Drawing rein abruptly, a young male voice cried out in high-pitched alarm: “Christ in heaven! Someone was murdered right here! Look! You can see blood on the snow and how they dragged the body off the road! Jesus! The corpse is still there!”

These words killed Percy’s fervent hope that he might go unnoticed. He closed his eyes in despair and tried to brace for the pain that would inevitably follow.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” The youth continued to wail in a high-pitched voice. “What if the cut-throats are still at hand? Jesus, what are we going to do?” With a grimace of distaste, Percy concluded that the young man was a cleric, probably a novice or student.

Then he heard a dull thud and opened his eyes again to see that the second rider had nimbly jumped down from his mount. The rider turned towards him, and Percy caught his breath in shock. The second rider was a girl. Clutching her skirts in one hand and leading her reluctant mare in the other, she advanced cautiously but calmly towards the ditch where Percy lay.

Behind her, her companion called out, “Felice! What are you doing? Are you mad?” But the girl ignored her companion and continued towards Percy.

Percy focused his entire consciousness on her, yet he saw neither her youth nor her beauty. He was oblivious to indications of wealth and station on her clothes and the trappings of her horse. He looked through and past all attributes of her mortal shell, seeking instead the immortal soul inside. His fate hung in her hands. If her soul was filled with hate or greed, she would turn him over to his tormentors. If, on the other hand, her soul were gentle, she might take pity on him and allow him to slide into oblivion.

Their eyes locked, and Percy felt a jolt go through his whole body. The soul that returned his gaze was neither evil nor weak. Filled with the Love of God, it possessed compassion, intelligence and courage. This soul wanted to help, and — more astonishingly — was brave enough to try. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Percy closed his eyes and surrendered to her.

The Knight

Five Months Earlier

Friday, 13 October 1307

St. Pierre du Temple

As the sun turned coppery and sank behind the clouds on the horizon, Sir Percy de Lacy found the turn off towards Saint Pierre du Temple. There was a chill wind blowing off the Massif Central, and the trees here were almost naked, leaving yellow and brown leaves collected deep in the ditches beside the road. They reminded him that it was late in the year to find a ship at Marseille bound for Cyprus.

For the hundredth time he shook his head mentally at the Grand Master’s curious indecision. Three times in the last month, he had summoned Sir Percy and given him sealed dispatches for the seneschal of the Temple, only to change his mind the next day, take the dispatches back and order him to wait again. He could have been to England and back twice over while he waited.

Sir Percy had been born and raised on the marches of Wales. He was the fourth son of a cadet branch of the powerful de Lacy family. He had joined the Templars at seventeen and had been sent to the Holy Land two years later. It was six years since he had been home. In that time, his father had died, and his eldest brother had assumed his inheritance and married. Percy would have liked to go home. Not to stay, but to visit, to meet his sister-in-law and nephew, to tell his brothers his adventures and hear all the news from family and friends. He would have liked to call in on his cousin, the Earl of Lincoln, and meet King Edward II so he could form his own judgement of the controversial monarch. He resented having to cool his heels in Poitiers for over three months, and the thought that he might be too late for the voyage to Cyprus this year was particularly frustrating.

He tightened his calves upon the flanks of the greying stallion he had been issued at the last commandery and urged it to a trot. The big-boned warhorse pretended not to feel anything, and Percy had to resort to his spurs. He was used to better horseflesh and disliked having to push and drive this stallion forwards. Maybe they would have better horses at Saint Pierre, he comforted himself.

Yet no sooner did the low walls of the Templar manor come into view in the last light of dusk than Percy knew he would be unlikely to find decent horseflesh here. The “commandery” distinguished itself from any other rundown fortified manor or priory only by the banner flying from the gatehouse. The walls themselves were in disrepair, he noted professionally, and the smell of dung hung oppressively on the air.

“What sort of a pigsty is this?” his squire enquired, screwing up his face. The youth, Ramon, was not a Templar but a waged squire. The eagerness with which the young man had volunteered to accompany Sir Percy to Cyprus led the knight to suspect that the young man was running away from something. He had not made any effort to discover Ramon’s past, however, suspecting that he wouldn’t like what he found. Besides, they would have ample time to get to know one another on the ship to Cyprus.

“Saint Pierre du Temple,” Percy answered, and drew up his stallion to pull the bell at the gate.

It seemed to take an inordinately long time before a peephole in the porter’s lodge was shoved open a crack, and an old voice asked, “Who goes?”

“Sir Percy de Lacy, knight from the Commandery at Limassol, travelling with dispatches from the Grand Master. I need accommodation for the night.”

He had not finished all that before he could make out muffled voices, screeching and creaking and then the gate started to slowly swing open. Through the gate, he could see a boy darting across the courtyard, his brown, lay brother’s habit held up so high that his bare calves and filthy bare feet were exposed. The old porter was bowing his bald head at Sir Percy, and welcoming him exuberantly, “We had no reason to expect such an exalted guest, sir.

“Indeed,” he continued talkatively, “we hardly see any guests at all. The last time a knight was here must have been back in... in... let me see.” He scratched his scabby head. “In ‘06, at Michaelmas, on account of our rents. But then it was Sir Denys from Saint Gilles who rode over. He always came at Michaelmas and Easter until he got the gout. Since then, the commander at Saint Gilles prefers Sergeant-Commander Brother Gautier to bring the rents himself.” As if he had just noticed that he was talking too much, he added, “Shall I take your horse, sir?”

Percy jumped down, glad to get out of the saddle even if this poor house was not likely to offer much luxury in the way of accommodation. “Ramon will see to our horses.” He indicated his squire. “If you will take me to your commander.”

“I sent Brother Gaston to fetch him — there they are now!” The porter pointed to a low, blunt-headed door with a weathered stone frame which gave access at ground level to the line of buildings along the west wall.

Percy scanned the little complex around him. The largest building was a towering tithe barn to which deep ruts in the muddy courtyard led. He supposed that the bulk of this year’s harvest was now stored there. A low, half­ timbered stable cowered beside the tithe barn and an external well with watering trough was located between the stables and the kitchens. Adjacent to the kitchens but at a right angle were the living quarters of the little community: a two-storey construction of whitewashed field stone. A humble chapel crouched just inside the gatehouse.

The commander in the black habit of a sergeant, followed by the boy Percy had seen scampering across the courtyard, hobbled across the courtyard. His face was weathered, the fringe of his tonsure grey. “Welcome to Saint Pierre, sir.” He bowed, and Percy, who towered a good eight inches over the sergeant, bent and gave him the kiss of peace on both cheeks.

“I hope we will be no inconvenience. I am on my way to Marseille.”

“It is our pleasure. You come from the Grand Master, Gaston tells me.” The sergeant indicated the boy, who stood beside him gazing up at the knight with awestruck eyes.

Gaston was twelve and he had never seen a Knight Templar before — not in real life. He had often imagined them in his daydreams: in spotlessly white mantles on great, fierce stallions, the Cross of God blazoned on their chests, their lances red with Saracen blood. Gaston had fought a thousand battles against the Turks and Egyptians. He had rescued endangered knights and earned his own spurs and helped free the captive cities of the Holy Land. Sir Percy did not disappoint him. For one thing, he was taller than any man Gaston — who had been born only sixteen miles away and never left the parish — had ever seen. For another, he wore steel knee guards, a bassinet with a gleaming crown and ominous chainmail neck guard. The two-handed longsword which hung from his heavy leather belt looked big enough to spit an ox.

“You will be tired and hungry,” Brother Gautier was insisting. Templar knights wore identical clothes and were issued with standard equipment making them look alike to outsiders, but Gautier had been a member of the Order for thirty years. Percy’s mission, bearing, tone of speaking and manner suggested to him that here was an energetic and committed knight. He was not one of those who sought a life of ease, yet he did not look like a religious fanatic either. “Come into the refectory,” Brother Gautier suggested. “We are in the midst of our evening meal.”

Percy had not thought it was so late and surprised, looked over his shoulder towards the western horizon.

“We eat at sundown,” the sergeant explained. “To save on oil and candles. These have been hard years for us. The drought destroyed most of our crops and when the spring floods came more than half the livestock was swept away and drowned. They were too weak to swim and save themselves.” He shook his head. “So many families were ruined and they all come here begging for alms. They never believe that we have nothing ourselves.”

Percy nodded gravely. He had been shocked by the poverty he had seen in France. It wasn’t just the contrast with Cyprus. One couldn’t compare France with the richest Mediterranean island, but Percy had been raised to think of France as infinitely richer than the rugged hills of the Welsh marches where he had been born. He had been shocked, therefore, by the number of beggars and squalor such as he had never seen in England. When he had remarked on this to fellow Templars, they too had referred to the drought of the previous year and the ensuing famine. For all he knew, he reminded himself, Herefordshire was now populated with beggars too.

Percy left his helm, bassinet and shield on his saddle, giving instructions to Ramon to bed down in the loft of the stables after the meal. The squire made some remark under his breath but led the horses away dutifully.

The refectory was a vaulted undercroft with very small, deep windows. It smelled heavily of smoke. By the light of a half-dozen torches and two candles on the high table, some two score brothers took their meal at trestle tables. As far as Percy could see, the brothers were all serving brothers. There was neither another sergeant nor a priest among the brown-robed men with bare or sandalled feet who followed him with curious eyes and open mouths as he accompanied the commander to the high table.

“Have you no priest?” he asked in a low voice, somewhat concerned.

“Father Roger is in the reading pulpit.” The sergeant indicated the niche set some six feet above the floor, reached by a wooden stair. There stood a very young man in the robes of the priesthood. He stared at Percy with no less wonder than the serving brothers.

At the head table, Sergeant Gautier turned to face the hall of astonished Templars and announced, “This is Brother Percy. He is on his way to Marseille and will spend the night with us. Father Roger, if you would be so kind as to continue.”

With this he sat down and indicated the place next to him for Percy. A serving brother, reeking of sweat, grease and garlic, was already laying a place for Percy: a trencher composed of thick-sliced stale bread, a chipped pottery mug with what smelled like sour wine and a rusty-looking spoon and knife. As discreetly as possible, Percy untied his eating utensils from their place on the right hip of his sword belt and speared a stiff-looking dried cod.

The droning of the priest made conversation impossible, and Percy registered that the Rule was apparently observed scrupulously in this backwater — even if the serving brothers shovelled the homely meal into their mouths without paying attention to the lesson being read. From the way they hunched over their trenchers and the eagerness with which they grabbed the food with their dirty hands, it was clear that they were the sons of serfs. Scanning their uniformly crude faces, low-set brows, wide, fleshy noses and big mouths, Percy suspected that half of them were related to each other and certainly they all came from the surrounding countryside. Percy suspected that even the priest, stumbling over his text and reading in a mumbling monotone, was a man of local and low birth. It was a sad commentary on the state of the once great Templar Order, he reflected, and a sharp contrast to the Holy Land, where serving brothers were usually freemen and skilled craftsmen.

At the end of the meal, the brothers filed out of the refectory to the chapel, and the nervous young priest hastened down from the reading pulpit to conduct the service of vespers.

“We always read vespers and compline one after the other,” Sergeant Brother Gautier explained somewhat apologetically. “Then we can retire for the night.”

Percy nodded. He already understood; they saved on firewood and wine by skipping the cosy interlude between vespers and compline in which the brothers normally sat together and chatted before the rule of silence came into effect for the night.

The chapel must have been nearly two hundred years old. It was squat and solid with only the narrowest of blunt headed windows and naked of adornment. A testament to the austerity of the Order at its founding, it humbled Percy, who had grown more accustomed to the grandeur with which the Grand Master and the other officers surrounded themselves nowadays. The Temple in London where he had been received and undergone his novitiate was a city within a city, and the Templar church, though humble compared with the abbeys and cathedrals of England, was still well lit by soaring triple windows along the nave and the clerestory windows in the circular choir.

Standing with Brother Gautier in the first pew, Percy could see that the priest looked hardly more than twenty and that his face was a welter of acne. He kept glancing nervously at Percy as he rattled through one service after the other as if he had learned them by rote. Once or twice, he skipped over whole passages without apparently noticing.

After compline the rule of silence applied. Brother Gautier signalled for Percy to follow him and then led him up a flight of external stairs to the dormitory above the refectory. The long, raftered room was lit in the day by narrow windows set high in the walls but now they were shuttered against the chill of night. Two thick candles, one at each end of the hall, were lit by the first brother to enter the hall.

Percy was touched that, despite the financial distress of the little house, the rule about Templars sleeping with a burning candle was still observed. This paragraph of the Rule, like that requiring knights to sleep in shirt and drawers, had been intended to ensure that knights would be in a position to arm rapidly and without confusion if an alarm were sounded in the middle of the night. Designed for knights living on the outposts of Christendom, it hardly had any relevance on this peaceful farm thousands of miles from the enemy and housing not a single fighting monk.

Brother Gautier led Percy to the upper end of the dormitory and took from an ageing cabinet a pallet and two blankets. These he carried to a spot somewhat separated from those of the serving brothers and directly beside that of the priest. Meanwhile, the serving brothers were emerging one after the other from the stair to the latrines on the floor below and starting to pull their habits off over their heads.

Brother Gautier started to unroll the pallet and prepare it for the knight. Seeing that the sergeant was handicapped by a stiff leg, however, Percy took over from him and made up his own bed. He would have liked to ask the sergeant if his bad leg were the product of a wound he had received in the Holy Land, but the rule of silence prohibited him.

The bed made up, Sergeant Gautier kissed him on each cheek and made the sign of the cross before hobbling to the other side of the room and kneeling at the foot of his own pallet. Percy made his way first to the stinking latrine behind the kitchen and then past the two rows of serving brothers to his waiting pallet. The priest now knelt in his shirt at the end of his straw bed, his scrawny, hairy legs sticking out on to the cold floor behind him. As Percy arrived, he made the sign of the cross and crawled in under his blankets.

Percy unbuckled his heavy sword belt and laid the great weapon on the beside his bed. As he started to remove his cloak, the boy, Gaston, emerged out of the darkness grinning. With eager if inept awe, Gaston began helping Percy remove his surcoat and hauberk. In his imagination, Gaston was now a squire rather than an illiterate serving brother.

When Percy sat on his pallet to unfasten the buckles of his spurs, Gaston addressed himself to the foot nearest him. Thereafter, he tried to help Percy undress by following the knight’s lead because he had never seen armour up close before and did not know how it was all kept in place. He learned now to unfasten the garter holding up the chainmail legging and to untie the points attaching the legging to the aketon. The leggings laid aside, Percy removed his aketon and, with a nod of thanks, he signalled for Gaston to return to his own pallet. Reluctantly, Gaston did as he was bid.

Still wearing hose, braies and shirt, Percy wrapped himself in the coarse blankets and shut his eyes. Around him, the deep breathing and light whistling snores of the other two score men in the dormitory made it difficult to sleep. Eventually, however, he drifted off dreamlessly.

The shouting and clatter that woke him made him start up from his bed in confusion. For a moment he could not remember where he was and then, as he recognised the long dormitory with the two rows of pallets lining the walls, he was even more confused. He could hear raw shouting and a dull, ominous pounding. Around him several of the other monks were starting to stir. Someone cursed under his breath and an elderly voice cried out in fear and then subdued itself.

The crash that came from the courtyard made Percy fling off his blankets and grab his aketon. Now he could hear more shouting, the imperative yelling of men giving orders, the thudding of numerous hooves on frozen ground, the pounding of boots on wooden stairs, the clunk of doors being flung open. He pulled the aketon over his head and tightened the laces at his throat.

Men were bursting into the dormitory. By the light of the two candles, Percy could see that they wore round “kettle” helmets over mail-coifs and that they had naked swords in their hands.

Percy dragged his hauberk and surcoat together over his head as the armed men started roughly kicking the serving brothers awake and herding the startled, bewildered men together.

Sergeant Gautier was on his feet and limping forwards in his underwear, calling out, “What is this? Who are you? What do you want?”

“You are all arrested in the name of His Grace King Philip IV of France!”

While some of the serving brothers broke into a jumble of confused exclamations of disbelief, Brother Gautier protested in a raised, somewhat hysterical voice, “Why? On what charge?”

The notion that these simple brothers could have done anything to offend the crown of France was so absurd that Percy instantly dismissed the claim as either a mistake or a ruse. Philip of France could hardly know that Saint Pierre du Temple existed. The Temple was, in any case, not subject to any king and owed Philip neither taxes nor obedience. Percy knew, however, that he no longer had time for his mail leggings and reached instead for his sword.