THIRTEEN
Someone kicked him awake. Lazare groaned, dragging one eye open and peering into the half-light of dawn. The flaps of his tent were pulled back, and he could make out several shapes, obscured by recalcitrant shadows. As he stirred, a booted foot launched itself into his tent again and cracked him on the hip.
He shoved away from the aggressive boot, and as it—and the shadowy figures retreated—he clawed his way out of his tent to stand, shivering, in the pre-dawn. He wore only a long linen shirt that fell nearly to his knees. His legs and feet were cold. The night air was in stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the day.
Abbot Amairic stood nearby, his face obscured by his hood. Lazare recognized the heavy cross about the man’s neck. He was accompanied by a trio of mailled men who wore sheathed swords at their hips and ugly helmets jammed down low on their heads. They wore no surcoats, but Lazare knew they were Templars.
“What is it?” he snapped. His hip ached and his teeth chattered. He was in no mood for skullduggery.
“You laid your hands on the head of your abbey,” the abbot said, his voice pitched lower as if such subterfuge would be enough to disguise his identity.
Lazare clenched his fists and raised his right hand. “I can do it again,” he said. “Right now. If there is any doubt as to my previous actions.”
One of the Templars stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt. Lazare relaxed his hands, opening them and letting the Templar see his palms.
“You are not fit to be Cistercian,” the abbot said. “You have desecrated the order, you have violated your vows, and you have abandoned your covenant with God.”
“I have?” Lazare wondered. “Simply by touching you? Which part of our code—specifically—did I violate?”
The abbot shifted from foot to foot. “You act unbecoming of a Cistercian,” he snapped.
“As compared to you?” Lazare said. “As compared to the Templars who murdered innocent people in Toledo?” He shook his head. “I fear I am not the one whom God will punish.”
“God is going to punish all the unbelievers,” the abbot said. “We are the fire with which Iberia will be cleansed. Our inquisition will stamp out heresy and—”
“I know what it will do,” Lazare interrupted. He glanced at the Templars and sighed. “Would it be easier if I volunteered to abandon my vows?” he asked. He put up his hands again. “Okay, I forswear my brothers and the vows of the Cistercian order. I am vile. I am unclean. I am…I am…tired, and I would like to go back to sleep. Can I do that now?”
The hooded figure of the abbot nodded once, and the three Templars stepped forward. The one in the lead started to draw his sword.
“Brother Lazare!” Brother Crespin emerged from the gloom, stumbling into the tense tableau before Lazare’s tent. “Oh,” the round priest said, coming to a sudden halt as he spotted the Templars.
“Brother Crespin,” Lazare said happily. “Are you here to collect me for our morning prayers?”
“Our what?” Crespin asked. “Oh, oh! Yes, of course.” He beamed at the Templars as if he knew exactly what Lazare was talking about.
The Templar slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and with a curt nod to the other pair, he backed away from Lazare and Crespin. The abbot waited for a second; while his hood obscured his face, Lazare was fairly certain the abbot was glaring at Crespin’s beaming face. The abbot raised his hand and pointed at Lazare. “You are no longer one of us,” he intoned. “You are no longer my responsibility.”
“I can’t say I’m saddened by this turn of events,” Lazare said, nodding politely as the abbot withdrew as well.
As the quartet disappeared, Lazare clapped Crespin on the shoulder. “That was judicious timing,” he said.
“For what?” Crespin wanted to know. “Was that the abbot? Did he just throw you out of the order?”
“He did, Brother Crespin.”
“Can he do that?”
“He just did.” Lazare slapped Crespin lightly again. “Or maybe I quit. Maybe the weight of all these vows is too immense for me. I cannot bear the strain.”
“What are you talking about?” Crespin wanted to know.
“I’m not really a Cistercian,” Lazare said. “I have been carrying this lie for so long, and I am so glad to be rid of it.”
“What lie? Wait, what just happened?”
“Shall we go for that stroll now?” Lazare asked.
As they strode through the sprawling camp along the Guadiana, Crespin doggedly trying to extract an explanation from Lazare, they noticed an unexpected level of activity in the various camps. The men were not rushing to put on their maille and gather their weapons; instead, they were taking down their tents and packing their wagons and mules. By the time the pair reached the Castilian camp, Lazare had counted a half dozen companies that were readying to march, including the Templars.
The walls of King Alfonso’s tent were rolled down, and a quartet of stern-faced soldiers guarded the entrance. Light spilled out through the drawn flaps, and a crowd gathered just beyond the entrance, people pushing and shoving in an effort to peer inside the tent.
Lazare walked up to the entrance as if he were expected, and the two guards extended their arms so that their spears crossed over the lit entrance. One of the other two put a hand on Lazare’s chest and gently stopped his forward movement. “Not you,” the guard said gruffly.
“He’s with me,” a voice said, and Don Ruy walked past Lazare and pushed the guards’ spears aside. The guard holding Lazare back removed his hand, and Lazare and Crespin followed Don Ruy and his two companions into the tent.
A pair of torches were mounted on low poles in each of the four corners of the tent. The table and map were still in the center of the tent, and the king, his gray hair mussed from sleep, slumped in the wooden chair he had sat in the day prior. The rest of the tent was filled with the various commanders of the armies and other stewards, and they were all talking noisily. A pair of men in hooded robes flanked the king’s chair, hands in the folds of their sleeves.
The only man who was not engaged in the discussions was Helyssent de Verdelay, who was dressed as if he were about to ride out to battle. He stood off on the left, watching the crowd squabble, a satisfied smile on his lips.
The abbot, his hood now pushed down, caught sight of Lazare and Crespin and stormed over, pointing at Lazare. “This man is a criminal,” he yelled. “He is a disgrace to our order, and a dangerous insurrectionist.”
The abbot’s voice carried and his words cut through the other arguments like a sword through cloth. When Don Ruy replied to the abbot, he did not have to raise his voice for the room had fallen silent. “Is he not a Cistercian?” Don Ruy asked. “Is not his disgrace reflected upon the head of the order?”
“He is a Cistercian no more,” the abbot said, his face darkening. “He is a heretic.”
“I used to be a Cistercian,” Don Ruy said, glancing at Lazare. “But not anymore. Not since I took up the sword. Does that make me a heretic too?”
The abbot sneered at Don Ruy. “You think your order protects you.”
“My order is recognized by the king of Castile and the Pope in Rome,” Don Ruy said. “If that is protection, then yes, I am protected.” When he slid his sword out of his sheath, Helyssent and his Templar companions—the same three who, Lazare noticed, had accosted him earlier—half drew their swords as well. Don Ruy held up one hand, inverting his sword in his other hand so that he held it loosely by the pommel stone. He offered it to Lazare who, somewhat cautiously, accepted it.
“Now he has a sword,” Don Ruy said. “If he would swear to wield it in the service of the Order of Calatrava, then he would come under that same protection.” He glanced over at Helyssent. “Templar,” he called. “Is that not how it is done in your ranks?”
Helyssent bristled, but said nothing. He let go of his sword and indicated to his men that they should relent as well. “This foolishness is no concern of mine,” the Templar commander said. “You may play these games as much as you like after we have departed.”
His words sparked the arguments again, and the room was once again filled with agitated voices. The king leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.
Lazare handed Don Ruy’s sword back, ignoring the abbot’s heated gaze. Instead, he tried to make sense of the arguments billowing around him. There was talk of abandoning the crusade, of spoils of war, of fighting Miramamolin’s army, and a lack of leadership. He glanced at Helyssent out of the corner of his eye and realized why the Templar commander appeared in control of the room.
The Templars were leaving, and a not-insignificant portion of the northern armies were going with them.
Finally, the king lowered his head, looking no less weary than he had a few minutes before. He banged the flat of his hand against the arm of his chair until the hammering sound broke through the impassioned discussion. Once the room was quiet, he cleared his throat and addressed the Templar commander.
“Your mind is set?” King Alfonso asked. “You will return to France?”
“Aye, Your Majesty,” Helyssent said with false dignity. “Your command constrains us too greatly. We cannot hope to uphold our commandment to God and Rome under your leadership.”
“And for you to stay?”
“Your Majesty knows what must be done.”
The king shook his head. “I will not condone the murder of innocents. Nor will I allow you to wantonly pillage my kingdom or the lands of the caliph.”
Helyssent nodded curtly. “Then we have nothing else to discuss.” Without another word, he strode for the entrance of the tent, his men and a number of other commanders falling in behind him. Lazare, Crespin, and the men of the Order of Calatrava got out of the way. Those who remained stood silently, watching, as the strongest part of the assembled army abandoned the crusade. As the last man exited the tent, the abbot stirred and scuttled after them.
After the abbot’s departure, no one spoke, and the only sound was the crackling pop of the torches. Finally, a timorous voice rose up from the few remaining commanders. “What…what are we going to do?”
The king looked at the men standing beside his chair. The one on the left lowered his hood, drawing a collective gasp from the group as his face was revealed.
“We fight,” King Sancho the Strong of Navarre said. “We fight—not for Rome, but for our homes and families.”