The Brethren Trilogy Collection by Robyn Young

Author:Robyn Young
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Published: 2013-02-14T00:00:00+00:00

Guillaume took his time rolling up the map, smoothing out the creases in the parchment. Outside, evening was encroaching, filling the room with shadows. The Grand Master didn’t bother to light any fresh candles. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness and the flames in the hearth were bright enough to see by. Just before he folded up the last section of the map, his eyes caught the circle that was the city of Mecca. His gaze lingered on the black dot at its centre, his mind plagued with a sense of foreboding.

It was a feeling that started months ago. But he had been too preoccupied to acknowledge it fully and put his tiredness and unease down to the difficulties faced in the wake of King Hugh’s departure the previous summer: first the riots, then the news that Hugh had confiscated several Templar holdings on Cyprus in retaliation. But with Count Roger de San Severino now in place as bailli and Charles having made his claim on the throne, as yet unchallenged by Hugh’s supporters or the High Court, Guillaume thought his troubles would have eased. Instead they had grown worse and with nothing but the plan for the Stone to focus his attention on he had finally come to realise the cause.

It was the theft itself.

In the beginning, his convictions were cast-iron. He was adamant that he was doing what was best for Christendom, unlike the Vitturis and the other merchants who were doing it for the benefit of their own pockets. He still believed in the righteousness of his cause. But something had changed. Doubt, at first buried, had begun to rise in him, moving to the surface like a sunken ship pulled up by a storm tide. With every month that passed in which he received no word from the West it grew clearer, larger, until now it was before him, unmistakable and ugly. There was no message from King Edward with tidings of busy shipyards, or from the pope of legates sent to preach holy war in crowded market squares, or from Charles promising troops and arms, no word even from his own Order, reporting on the fleet being built in La Rochelle. There was only silence and his own nagging thoughts. Without a Crusade, they could not hope to beat back a united Muslim force. Without a Crusade, they were doomed.

Guillaume forced his eyes from the map, rolled it brusquely in his hands and twisted a piece of twine around it to hold it shut. He crossed to the window and gripped the frame, feeling the evening breeze wash over him, cool and calming. Four days ago, Angelo Vitturi had come, wanting to know if everything was set. Guillaume had hidden his doubts from the Venetian. Now, he had to hide them from himself, had to hold to his convictions. Had to trust to himself, to God. He had known this course of action to be a dangerous one, reckless even. But not to act would be just as dire.

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