Free Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar by Robyn Young

seemed much larger than it ever had before. After a few moments, Will began to run.

     

    Jacques rifled through the scrolls on the table, until he found what he was looking for. He read the report again slowly, his eye straining in the gloom. The candle had burned low and the solar was in shadow, apart from a slice of moonlight that slanted through the window, bleaching the flagstones. Outside, an owl shrieked. Jacques passed his hand across his brow as the words on the parchment blurred into meaningless black lines. Lifting the leather patch, he ran his finger in a slow circle around the deep indent where his eye used to be. The hollow was riddled with ridges of scar tissue. Even though he’d lost the eye sixteen years ago it still seemed to ache whenever he read for too long. He had been closeted in the solar for hours, missing both his meal and the last office. Owein had appeared earlier to suggest that he retire to his bed, saying that if they weren’t prepared for tomorrow’s meeting by now they never would be. Jacques had declined the advice, wanting to make absolutely certain that Henry wouldn’t be able to parley his way out of the situation. But he was tired. Placing the parchment down, he went to the window, welcoming the refreshing breeze. The moonlight turned his skin the color of ash and the contrasting shadows made knife-edge angles of his cheeks and nose. There was a flash of white as the owl flew out of the cloisters beneath him and disappeared beyond the rooftops. Jacques turned at a rapping on the solar’s door.

    “Enter,” he called, his voice rough with an evening’s disuse.

    A servant in a brown tunic appeared in the doorway, looking distressed. “I’m sorry, sir, I know it’s late, but there’s someone here wants to see you. He…well, sir, he insists it’s urgent.”

    Jacques frowned, partly at the interruption and partly because he wondered who would need directing by a servant. “Send him in.”

    The servant stepped obligingly to one side and a tall figure in a threadbare gray cloak entered the chamber. The servant shifted his body so that the man wouldn’t touch him on the way past. Jacques’ eye widened as the man drew back his low-pulled cowl and inclined his head in greeting. “Hasan,” murmured the knight.

    “Is there anything you would be wanting, sir?” came the servant’s voice, tentatively from the doorway. “Perhaps refreshment for your…” His gaze flicked dubiously to the man in gray. “Guest?”

    “No,” said Jacques, still staring at the figure, “leave us.”

    The servant bowed gratefully and shut the door. He hastened away down the passage, his hand passing over his chest in the sign of the cross.

    SCOTLAND, JUNE 9, 1257 AD

Will stood in the doorway, his hand clutching the frame. The fire in the hearth spat and crackled. On the trestle where the maid prepared the food the evening meal lay unmade, seven white fish, gutted and silvery in the candlelight. James Campbell was seated at the table, back turned, legs outstretched. Will could only see his father’s face in shadowed profile: the angular jaw; brow jutting sheer over a long straight nose. His hair was dusted silver at the sides, but his beard was as black as a crow’s wing. James’s gaze was on the open door through which filtered a warm breeze that smelled of mint and yarrow. In daylight, the view would be of fields and woods stretching from the small estate all the way to the city of Edinburgh, which, on a clear day, was just visible as a patch of gray on the horizon. Now, all was dark. Faint on the wind came the gurgling of the stream that flowed through a rocky gully, leading to a loch that lay several miles in the west.

    James had returned that evening from a week spent at Balantrodoch, the Temple’s Scottish preceptory, where he kept the accounts for the Master. Over the back of his seat was draped a black mantle. James was a donatus to the Temple and was forbidden from wearing the