The Wolves of Solomon (Wolves of Solomon Book One)

The Wolves of Solomon

  R.L. Blackhurst

  Copyright 2008 by R.L. Blackhurst

  This novel is a work of fiction.

  All characters portrayed in it are fictitious or are historical figures whose personalities, words and actions are the work of the author’s imagination. Any other resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kirsty Bowden

  This book is also available in print at most online retailers

  Also by R.L. Blackhurst

  Wolf

  For my mate, Andy

  Prologue

  Catherine once dreamt she was savaged by a wolf. She could not remember exactly when she had had the dream, but she knew it had been before her mother had died; so before she was five. Neither could she remember the details of the dream, only that she had awoken filled with a fear and exhilaration that had made her both long for the dream to recur and to think upon it in times of trouble. It was a dream she could sense, more than recall and from the moment she had woken, screaming into her mother’s soothing arms, she had known that it had some significant bearing on her life.

  Her father had always told her to stay away from shadows, warning that wolves and demons lurked within them, but her mother had said that the wolves were their friends. They were the guardians of nature and their howl was not the blood lust cry of savagery and evil but a call of the wild, a reassurance to the world that they were watching over it. Catherine had always preferred her mother’s view of it.

  Yet now, sitting on the edge of the hard pallet in her cell of solitude, thinking of events of several nights ago, she wished that she had heeded her father’s advice. Fear, coupled with an unshakable conviction that her life had changed irreparably, gripped her soul. The details of how or why, like those of the dream so long ago, evaded her so that she knew not whether she was even in her right mind.

  Templar Knights were here to see her. Why? She could not imagine. She had heard nothing about what had occurred in the aftermath of the tanner’s murder and nobody had spoken to her since the night he had been brutally slain. The Abbess had naturally accused her of creating wild stories and that it was her wilful disobedience that had caused a good man’s death. If she had returned with the rest of the sisters as she was meant to, instead of delaying and looking for mischief, she would not have been vulnerable to the immoral intentions of a dangerous stranger.

  She had, since then, been locked in a room within the cold confines of the convent and forced to do penance. This consisted of a diet of bread and water, prayer for forgiveness every waking hour and solitude, for a term deemed fit by the Abbess, which she imagined would be indefinite.

  But Catherine hadn’t prayed for forgiveness, she had just listened to the rustle of her sisters’ habits as they scurried passed her door, to their harried whispers and to the inner voice that told her she was in unimaginable trouble. She stood, smoothed down her skirts and followed Sister Clemence out of the room and to her fate.

  Chapter One

  “I’m bored,” Raymond Caradas said, sniffing crudely and then spitting as if to emphasize the point. He grimaced as his gob landed just to the side of De Floyran’s foot.

  Esquin de Floyran looked down and then shook his head, “You are so uncouth, Raymond.” He chuckled and then added more darkly. “If that had hit my boot you’d be licking it off, that and the mess from your bloodied face.”

  “I apologise, Esquin but you are unlikely to find him here.” Caradas said, casting his eyes once more around the bustling Saturday market.

  “I know that.” De Floyran replied.

  “Then forgive me for asking, but what are we doing here?”

  “Looking.” De Floyran said evasively.

  “Looking for what?” Caradas pressed.

  “Just looking.” De Floyran answered.

  “Looking . . . right.” Caradas nodded but bit his bottom lip irritably. There was no point continuing the conversation with De Floyran, best let him amuse himself. Caradas looked about to see if he could see the others.

  “There,” De Floyran said, elbowing Caradas in the ribs.

  “What?” Caradas frowned.

  De Floyran smiled slowly as he watched the young girl weave her way through the crowded market square. “In the white, the novice.”

  Caradas searched the crowd and soon spotted the one that had caught De Floyran’s eye. There were numerous nuns busying themselves at the village market today, including several novices, but they were never usually cause for any attention. So, that’s what De Floyran was looking for. Caradas ran his eyes over the girl and then shrugged.

  “Can’t see much of her in all that garb.” He commented without much interest.

  “You can see enough.” De Floyran said his tone becoming predatory. “Look at her face, her expression. Besides, I can smell her….can’t you?”

  Caradas lifted his nose to the breeze as it rushed coolly over his face and searched for her scent.

  “Nice, but…”

  “No buts. I like her.”

  “Alright then.” Caradas acquiesced. “Shall I get the others?”

  “No.” De Floyran said firmly. “She’s mine.” He smiled as he watched her converse with an old hunchback in rags, her features kind and sympathetic; her manner innocent. She reached into the pocket of the apron she wore and produced a coin which she pressed into his hand. De Floyran felt his need stir.

  “Go find the others and amuse yourselves this evening. Let them suffer your belly aching Raymond. I’ll find you tomorrow.”

  “As you wish, Esquin.” Caradas said and bowed his head respectfully as he turned to leave.

  “Oh Raymond,” De Floyran called after him. “Have I ever had a novice?”

  “Not that I recall.” He answered and then after several moments of silence he took his leave.

  De Floyran moved forward and lent up against a tree as he settled to watch her. His need to know his prey a little before he struck was an important part of the sport. He watched her for a while and then let his eyes leave her for a moment to look at the others in her group. While she walked through the market alone, the other nuns and novices moved in pairs. The others looked much as Esquin imagined they would. Old or unremarkable, weak or ridiculously pious and mostly plain, carrying with them an unpleasant musty smell that De Floyran had come to identify with nuns.

  She that drew his gaze possessed none of these qualities. There was something about the upward slant of her big grey eyes and the crimson colour of her lips that made De Floyran forget, for the moment, that he could not find his enemy. He had sought him at Faxfleet but having no luck, had thought to find him here at Temple Bruer. But he was not to be found here either.

  Caradas was right in that they were unlikely to come across him at the village market, but De Floyran, knowing this, had come here for a different reason. He had come looking for diversion and he had found it. Her sweet cries would subdue the disappointment he felt at another day lost and he would awaken refreshed on the morrow, ready to continue his search.

  She moved more swiftly now, creating further distance between herself and her sisters. She looked about conspicuously as if she were conscious of being seen. What was she up to? De Floyran, increasingly intrigued, watched as she came across an old woman. They embraced briefly and once again she looked around to see if she had anyone’s notice. Only mine, De Floyran smiled from within the shadow of the trees. Satisfied that her sisters’ attentions were diverted elsewhere, she, and her companion, began to hasten away from the noise and activity of market day.

&nbs
p; De Floyran waited until they were out of sight and away from the attention of others. Then tracking her scent, he slowly pursued his quarry. It did not take him long to find where she and her companion had gone; a small crooked cottage not far from the village square. Now all he had to do was be patient. All the better, he thought to himself as the afternoon sun gradually waned and twilight approached.

  4th September 1307, Lincolnshire, England

  The rain was hard and relentless and Galeren de Massard paused to pull the hood of his cloak further over his head, despite knowing that the action was pointless. Sighing, he resigned himself to a good soaking.

  “We’ll be sick with fever before we even gain sight of the preceptory. I’m wet through to the bone!” his sergeant Parsifal echoed his thoughts irritably.

  “I plan to stop somewhere warm long before then. An early return is not worth the risk of a fever.”

  “’Twas glorious in Paris, even in London. I wish we could have stayed in either. I am sick of the country.” Parsifal grumbled. “I pray for a return to the Holy Land, if only for the sun to warm my bones.” He continued with his grumbling and then added with caution, “would you be there, were it still ours?”

  “It was never ours,” Galeren corrected firmly and then felt a shiver run through his sodden body, but it was not from the cold. “And no, I would not.” He answered, unable to prevent his mind’s recollection of it. The incessant heat and unrelenting smell of blood and rotting flesh upon the air, even after all these years, would not leave his memory. Willing his mind to clear it, he drew a deep breath savouring the fresh scent of the wet grass and marvelled at the green of the countryside. Despite the bitter rain and grey sky, there was purity here, greater than any Holy Land, and he embraced it.

  “I love this country.” He exclaimed, looking up to the sky suddenly relishing the pelt of rain upon his face. Parsifal shot him a bewildered look. “Jesu sir, I appreciate the land of my birth but not its God-cursed weather!”

  “’Tis part of its charm,” Galeren smiled, releasing uncomfortable memories of the past. Parsifal shook his head bemused at his master’s enthusiasm for the dire drenching they were receiving.

  “I would go to the Holy Land tomorrow. I am happy to leave this behind. A new crusade, there is talk of it.” Parsifal frowned when his master did not respond but then continued with burgeoning enthusiasm, hoping to draw him in on the topic. “Even Master William has spoken of it. You could return sir, perhaps not as a warrior, but –”

  “Enough!” Galeren commanded looking fiercely at his young sergeant. He then lamented as he saw Parsifal’s face redden and his eyes cast downward. He was often quick to forget how he had been at the same age and perhaps too hard on those who still saw the Holy Land as a glorious prize.

  “Patience,” he said more encouragingly, “your time will come soon enough, sergeant. There is always war, it needn’t be in Palestine. When you have seen it up close, then you will be eager to return home.”

  “I am eager to return home now!” Parsifal complained at the rain.

  Galeren shook his head, “soldiers fight in worse for days and with no respite. You’ll have to harden up if you want war.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Parsifal said with the confidence of youth.

  “Mmmm,” Galeren mumbled and reined his stallion onward. The lad had heart, he mused, but he was impatient and not used to hardship and discomfort, lest ready for it. But it was not his fault. The Temple’s war machine had been left to rust since the fall of Acre, and without the Holy Land as their backbone they were little more than farmers and landlords, and increasingly unpopular ones at that. A new crusade was needed, and though he was loath to admit it, they could not continue thus. Christ! That they needed war and a land to dominate in order to survive was infuriating. Galeren looked up at the grey sky that now reflected his mood and then over at his young companion and cleared his thoughts.

  “If the rains continue thus I’ll have you out training in it when we’re back at Faxfleet.”

  “I look forward to it, sir,” Parsifal grinned assuredly. Galeren gave him a nod and they continued their journey in thoughtful silence.

  It was dusk when they reached Temple Bruer and the rain was harder than ever. Much to Parsifal’s irritation, his master had decided to pass by the potential warmth and hospitality of several inns they had encountered. Galeren could smell what they offered within; food, ale and women, each eager to please the weary and the restless in their own natural fashion. Food and ale would be welcome but the other would not. It was not his virtue that he sought to protect but that of his young companion. Though he may have felt as restless and unfulfilled as his charge, his lustful youth had long past. While uninterested himself in fleeting encounters, his consideration was for his sergeant. He had not forgotten the urges he once had and insatiable craving for a satisfaction that was never obtained.

  Parsifal was all heart and it merely took a few jars of good ale before the intoxicating scent of dark corners and the sweat of unrestrained desire weakened a youth’s purpose. Their drive was strong and only wisdom and age could control it. It would be unwise to draw attention to themselves in these times and their attire was all too familiar. So, wisdom and age guided Galeren pass the inns and onward to the order and purity of the nearest preceptory on route to Faxfleet. It was Temple Bruer.

  “You don’t trust me,” Parsifal said bitterly, as he shoved the reins of his horse toward the groom who’d run to greet them. Galeren raised a disapproving eyebrow at his sergeant as he dismounted and Parsifal checked his manners and smiling at the young lad said:

  “Thank you.” He looked back at his master as their horses were led away across the sodden bailey. He removed his gloves crossly demonstrating that, all manners aside, he was still aggrieved. Galeren shrugged, unperturbed at the performance.

  “Your sulking only strengthens my decision,” he remarked.

  “I am not sulking, sir!” Parsifal threw back, his fists clenched as he spoke. Galeren noted it and sighed.

  “You want to get a handle on your emotions sergeant. It is control that will save you on the battlefield and control that will enable you to enter such places as we passed on the road, and emerge from them unscathed.”

  Parsifal looked down at his muddy boots and put his hands on his hips.

  “It is all part of our training,” Galeren continued, “of any knight’s training but especially ours. I don’t have to remind you of what we are; control makes us good and strong.”

  Parsifal nodded. “You mistake emotion for lack of control.”

  “Then quell your emotion so others won’t misjudge you.” Galeren advised sternly.

  “But some emotion is good, we need it surely? You have called on emotion in times of battle, have you not?” he ventured looking up at his master through cautious eyes, knowing that he spoke of only one battle. As always Galeren refused to be drawn on it but instead said:

  “I was an emotional youth and sometimes,” he tilted his head in warning, “sometimes it served me well. But I am a better Templar for my control of it. Throw too much emotion into the mix and we are driven by it.” He gestured to his heart, “our core is made of it, but this,” he then tapped the side of his head, “makes us masters of our savagery and hence our destiny. Lose that and we lose ourselves.”

  “I understand,” Parsifal conceded reluctantly, “but in order for me to demonstrate control you must trust me.”

  “Granted,” Galeren nodded. “There are plenty of inns on the way to Faxfleet, and the inns of Yorkshire are far worthier challenges for the likes of you than those of Lincoln.” He smiled knowingly. “Peace, sergeant?”

  “Peace Master,” Parsifal held out his hand and Galeren shook it. They both turned as they heard the squelch of mud and saw someone approaching from across the bailey. A knight strode toward them and then paused to squint in the dusk light. The heavy rain added to the obscurity of his vision but did not dampen his sense of smell.
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  “Brother Galeren?” his deep voice queried. “Is that you I smell?”

  “It is indeed.” Galeren answered. “How fare thee Brother Richard? I trust the weather is to your liking.”

  The knight laughed and continued towards them. “Ha! It has been a long time since you graced Temple Bruer with your presence.”

  Galeren shook his head. “Fear not, there is no grace here.”

  “I beg to differ.” The knight retorted as he reached them. Parsifal looked up at him. He was a mountain of a man, about the same height as his master but much thicker set and less wiry. He had a leathery face that could only have been weathered from time spent in the Holy Land. It made him look older than his years, which Parsifal guessed were the same as his master’s. His eyebrows, or rather eyebrow, met between his eyes as a thick black bush and his rubbery, dark lips were framed by a well maintained moustache.

  Parsifal did not know the man but seeing that he was an old comrade of his master’s, he was likely to have been at Acre. Perhaps, it was not such a bad idea to come here after all, as there may be talk of the Holy Land. Even if his master would not debate on it, there may be brothers here that would.

  “What news Sir Richard?” the men embraced and clapped each other’s backs briefly.

  “Ach, the usual muck from this bog,” Richard replied fixing his gaze on Parsifal, “and who might this be? A youth for you to corrupt?”

  “Aye, but methinks he will corrupt me long before I corrupt him.”

  “None could corrupt you, Master.” Parsifal said proudly but then regretted it when he saw the dark knight’s eyes light up as he bellowed, “Hero worship, eh?” Parsifal’s face reddened instantly. Galeren shook his head in disagreement.

  “Bollocks!” the large knight contested, “every sergeant I’ve ever had the misfortune to train has hated me. The wretch I have now would murder me in my sleep given half the chance.” He folded his arms and inflated his chest so that he became even more of a giant.

  “That is because you’re a bastard Richard.” Galeren said with a smile and clapped his friend on the back.

  “Accepted,” Richard said reflectively.

  “Parsifal Bondeville, please meet a very old friend of mine, Richard de Gosbeck.”

  “Less of the old you swine, I have but two years on you.” Richard shook Parsifal’s outstretched hand. “Ahh of course, James Bondeville’s son.”

  “Yes, well met Sir Richard. You knew my father?” Parsifal asked, as his thoughts turned once again to Acre. Parsifal was fascinated with the battle, though it had been a great loss for the Knights Templar. His father had died at Acre, but he never knew him. His interest was more to do with the part his master had played in it. Galeren had been about his age back then and there was talk of great valour. It was an event, however, that his master refused to draw comment on and Acre was a sore point with most of the more seasoned knights. Perhaps Sir Richard would be more forthcoming with details on what so far was, for all the wrong reasons, the most important battle in the Templars’ history.

  “Come, let us not linger in this hell whore’s weather. I can’t remember when last I saw the sun or was dry for that matter.” He led them across the bailey to the entrance of the preceptory.

  “You’ve come up from New Temple?” he asked as they got inside.

  “Aye,” Galeren answered.

  “And you weren’t tempted by any of the hospitable inns along the way?” he said with a glint in his eye.

  Galeren frowned. “We’ve already been round that course.” He said dourly and shot a glance at Parsifal who shrugged.

  “I see,” Richard said. “There are plenty of inns on the way to Faxfleet,” he winked at Parsifal, “but I think Master Bertrand may expect you to enjoy his hospitality for more than a night’s rest.”

  Galeren paused, “How so?” He handed his sodden cloak to the servant that greeted them. Parsifal, doing the same, kept his eyes fixed on his master.

  “There has been a bit of trouble, locally,” Richard said, scratching his chin which was rough with several day’s worth of stubble, “and you know how your former master reveres you.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Galeren asked, ignoring the latter comment.

  “Bertrand will speak of it.” Richard tapped the side of his nose and motioned towards the young sergeant indicating it was not for his ears.

  “Come on, let’s have it.” Galeren said impatiently, “Are we brothers to have secrets between us? Secrecy without is necessary, but within is not acceptable.”

  “It is not my decision, brother.” Richard said immovably. Galeren sighed and shook his head.

  “Fine, but I warn you I intend to be back at Faxfleet within the week. I was delayed long enough in Paris; I have matters of my own to attend to.”

  “Dallying in that damn sick house?” Richard said his voice thick with sarcasm. Parsifal’s eyes widened in shock as he anticipated his master’s response. Galeren did not respond but instead turned and began to walk away from them.

  “Ah, come on you sainted bastard, I know what riles you is all.” Richard laughed. “Methinks you need company other than the infirmed and insane, or your humour will be as rusty as your armour!”

  Galeren ignored his comment. “I know my way to Bertrand’s chambers. Show Parsifal to the sergeant’s quarters after you found him some food.” He snapped instead.

  “Still barking orders at your equals, brother?” Richard called after him, but Galeren had already disappeared into the blackness of the dim passage. Richard turned to Parsifal, who tried to look indifferent.

  “Come then lad,” he bellowed and slapped him hard across the back. “Let me show you how the sergeants of Temple Bruer fare!”