“Because you started it. Is it worse?”
“Of course it’s worse.”
“Because it’s unnatural.”
“Yes.”
“Aye. So the other way—with a woman—is that then natural? Don’t get angry, I’m only asking you because I wonder why it is that you never try to avoid men.”
“Avoid men? What are you talking about?”
“I thought I was being clear. If fornication between men is unnatural and worse than the other, natural kind, then why do you not avoid consorting with men? A man wi’ the will for things like that could corrupt you into sin.”
Will reared back in his chair. “That is ridiculous. Not one man in ten thousand would ever dream of thinking such a thing. The very idea is laughable.”
Tam nodded. “I agree. It is. But so is the thought of your lumping all women into one mass of sin, as though they threatened your chastity.”
“That’s different. It’s not at all the same thing. I have no attraction to men. But I might find a woman attractive. And that would confound my vow.”
“What vow? Oh, aye, your chastity. Right. But tell me, when did you ever swear to deny a woman the right to live—the right to seek freedom or to escape an enemy the likes of de Nogaret and his animals? When did you vow to shun them all as people?”
“I never did any of those things.”
Tam’s face was somber. “You must have, Will, somewhere deep inside yourself. And you’re doing it now. All this muttering and mumbling only started when you saw that woman with us today.”
“That’s not true. I never even saw her from near enough to be aware of her as a person.”
“And yet she has been in your mind ever since?”
A brief silence fell between them, and Tam moved to sit in the armchair next to Sir William’s. “Have you ever really known a woman, Will?”
“That’s an asinine question. Of course I have known women.”
“Who? Name me one.”
“My mother. Several aunts. My sisters, Joan and Mary and Peggy.”
Tam shook his head. “Those are all relatives, Will. I was asking about women, flesh-and-blood people who are not kinsfolk. Have you?”
Sir William faced his friend again. “No, I have not, and you know that. You have been with me constantly these thirty years.”
“Aye, I was afraid you would say that. The sad part is that I believe you. But I was hoping I’d be wrong. As you say, I’ve been with you these thirty years. But I’ve had women, now and then, and you knew nothing of it.”
Tam watched the younger man stiffen in horror. “What can I say, lad? I’m a sinner. I’m a Templar sergeant, but I’m a man, too, first and foremost. I’ve been tempted, and I’ve yielded to it—not often, mind you, I’m no goat—and I’ve enjoyed it most times. And then I’ve confessed and been shriven. Forgiven by an all-forgiving God. You remember Him, the All-Merciful?” He leaned forward anxiously. “Say something, man, and breathe, for you look as though you might choke.”
Will’s eyes were enormous, his lips moving soundlessly, and Tam Sinclair laughed. “What is it, man? Speak up, in God’s name.”
That was effective, for the knight’s mouth snapped shut, and then he found his voice, although it was a mere whisper. “In God’s name? You can invoke the name of God in this? You took a sacred vow, Tam.”
Tam’s mouth twisted. “Aye, I know that. And I broke it a few times. But as I said, I confessed and was shriven and did penance thereafter, as all men do. We are men, Will, not gods.”
“We are Templar monks.”
“Aye, but we’re men first and beyond all else. And we have Templar priests and bishops to match God’s other priests and bishops everywhere, and nary a one of them that I know of but has a whore hidden somewhere. What kind of world have you built for yourself, Will, in there behind your eyes? Are you deaf and blind to such things? You must be, for they’re plain to hear and see.”
The knuckles of William Sinclair’s hand were white with the pressure he was exerting on the hilt of his sword, and when he spoke again his voice was icy. “We…will…not…speak…of…this.”
Nor did they, for at that moment the doors behind them opened and they looked over to see Sir Charles de St. Valéry watching them from the threshold.
3
Sir William was on his feet instantly, crossing towards the older man, but the admiral held up a hand to signal that he required no help. As the others watched him, St. Valéry looked slowly around the room, his eyes coming to rest on the raw scar in the wall where the bolt that killed Godwinson’s fellow assassin had chipped out a large splinter.
“It stinks of lye in here.”
“Aye, Admiral, I was thinking the same thing myself. But it is getting better. An hour ago, you could hardly breathe in here without choking.”
St. Valéry nodded absently and made his way towards the fireplace, and Sir William stepped aside to let him pass, but instead of sitting, the admiral leaned against the high back of one of the armchairs fronting the fire. He looked as though he had aged greatly in the few hours since they had last met. His face was pallid, his eyes sunk deep into his head, and the skin beneath them appeared liverish purple. But he held himself erect, and his posture was defiant.
“I have seen Arnold,” he said in a calm, flat voice. “The surgeons tell me there was little blood and that his death was instantaneous, which means he felt no pain. In truth, it means he might not even have seen death approaching. I would like to think he died that way, without feeling himself betrayed, for if he saw his murderers, he must have thought them Brethren of the Order. Such a betrayal, even the semblance of one, would have pained Arnold greatly. I shall regret his passing. He and I were friends for many years…more years than most men are allowed to live. I will miss him.” He stiffened his shoulders and drew a great breath, then turned to face Sir William, every inch the Admiral of the Fleet whose personal concerns must always be subject to the dictates of his duty. “But I fear I may be forced to postpone my mourning until later. I have been told you come bearing urgent tidings, Sir William. Tidings from Master de Molay himself.”
“I do, Admiral.”
St. Valéry swept out an arm to indicate the room in which they stood. “Do they have any bearing on this obscenity that took place here?”
Sir William glanced at Tam Sinclair, who merely nodded, his lips pursed.
“Yes and no, Admiral. I believe there’s a very real connection between what happened here and the tidings I carry, but I cannot yet be sure. I have no proof—merely suspicions. Tam agrees with me.”
“Hmm.” St. Valéry grasped the back of his chair and pulled it away from the roaring fire. “Then we had best be seated where you can deliver your charges in comfort.”
The other two men took the armchairs flanking the admiral, although in normal circumstances Tam would never have thought of doing such a thing. As a mere sergeant, he seldom mixed directly with the knightly brethren, but he had known Charles de St. Valéry for so long that his own conduct had earned him the right to both sit and speak up in the admiral’s presence, at St. Valéry’s own insistence.
“There is little of comfort in what I have to say this night, my lord Admiral,” Will Sinclair said as he sat down.
“Aye, well, that’s appropriate, Sir William. There is little of comfort anywhere this night. Tell me what