King's Man
remember me by.
    The canso I had written for her was a rather sentimental one, based on an Arab tale I had heard in Outremer about an ordinary brown thrush and a gorgeous white rose. The knightly thrush is desperately in love with the rose but because of their differences in rank they can never be together. Furthermore, the white rose’s soft petals are jealously protected by many cruel thorns. But the thrush, mad with love and scorning all danger, throws himself on to the rose, seeking just one brief kiss, and willingly spears himself to death on the sharp thorns. And ever afterwards, all roses shall be red as blood, to commemorate the sacrifice of the thrush who died for love.
    You might think this mawkish, sentimental swill, but I maysay in all honesty that Isabel adored my canso , and by the looks she gave me afterwards I believe that I might well have been invited to enjoy the full sweetness of her petals had I remained. Instead, the next day Hanno and I rode away in the chill December dawn, and I never saw my white rose again. I think that, given the Marshal’s fearsome reputation as a fighting man, it was for the best: he was not a man who would take being cuckolded lightly.
    But I did have one encounter that night in Pembroke that was most significant to this tale. After I had performed my canso , and several other works, I was introduced to the Marshal’s honoured guest. His name was Sir Aymeric de St Maur and he was an emissary of William de Newham, the Master of the Temple in London, the head of the English branch of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – the renowned Knights Templar.
    This Sir Aymeric, then, was a Templar, part of an elite order of fighting monks, famed all over the world for their piety and prowess. The Templars were the sword arm of Holy Mother Church, the sacred warriors of Our Lord Jesus Christ, answerable only to their Grand Master and His Holiness the Pope himself. The Templars had been in the forefront of battle in Outremer and, along with the Knights Hospitaller, they had earned great distinction there for their ruthless ferocity in war and total devotion to the Christian cause. They gave no quarter to their enemies in the Holy Land, and asked none. As a testament to their supreme efficacy as warriors, if ever a Templar soldier was captured by Saladin, he was immediately put to death. And these fighting monks looked on this death as a blessed martyrdom.

    I had known several Templars in the past, in England and in the Holy Land, and I had always found them to be impressive men: Sir Aymeric de St Maur was no exception.
    He was a tall, broad man in his thirties, straight-backed, with close-cropped black hair, and dressed in the pure white robe of the Templars with its red cross on the breast. He was noble of bearing, every inch a soldier, but his mouth seemed to indicate a certain cold cruelty that I did not care for. And when, after the musical supper, I was introduced to him by William the Marshal he immediately took a step back, almost as if fearful of me, and made the sign of the Cross in the air between us.
    ‘You serve the Earl of Locksley?’ he said in a curious tone of voice, half-uncertain, half-accusatory. ‘The heretic? The demon-worshipper? It is hard to believe that one whose music is so clearly inspired by Heaven should serve one so steeped in foul practices.’
    Despite the compliment, I bridled. ‘I serve the Earl, and proudly, too. But he is no heretic. Perhaps he is not as attentive to his soul as he might be, and he perhaps should be more respectful of the Church, but he is certainly no Devil-worshipper.’
    ‘Is that so?’ asked this Templar, cocking an eyebrow. ‘I heard a curious tale recently about the Earl of Locksley, who you admit is so inattentive of his immortal soul and disrespectful of Holy Mother Church; though perhaps the story is false …’ He looked at me warily for a moment.
    ‘Yes?’ I snapped.
    ‘I

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