Crusade of Fire

by Katherine Kurtz

Genres: Science Fiction; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

The Knights Templar were the fabled order of mystic warrior-monks supposedly disabanded more than seven centuries ago by the pope. Legends persist of their presence, and this collection of stories muse on the Knights' arrival at history's turning points to guide destiny in Good's eternal war against Evil. Original.

Release date: September 9, 2009

Publisher: Aspect

Print pages: 307

Sample

Other than King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, perhaps no other chivalric body in the world has inspired more intense
or more long-lasting fascination than the Poor Fellow Soldiers of the Temple of Christ of Jerusalem, better known as the Knights
Templar. Since this is the third anthology in this series about the Knights, any detailed account of their real-world history
might rightly be regarded as unnecessary padding, but a brief summary is certainly in order for the benefit of readers as
yet unacquainted with the Order.


They arose in the early twelfth century, in the immediate aftermath of the First Crusade and the formation of the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem—warrior monks, melding the hitherto disparate concepts of chivalry and monasticism. Within less than twenty years,
they would become the most formidable and feared fighting machine in all of Christendom. While their initial purpose was to
protect the pilgrim roads of the Holy Land, now that travel was again possible in the land where Jesus once walked, they soon
began to function as a crack military force for protection of the Holy Land itself—in effect, a private army answerable only
to the pope—and a financial institution that would serve as banker for most of Europe and its crowned heads. In this latter
function, they developed fiscal practices still in use today.


The success of the Templars rightly earned them a reputation for ferocity in battle and solidity in finance, but they also
accrued an aura of mystery and even notoriety that has persisted to this day, underscored by the dramatic circumstances surrounding
the Order's eventual demise. Even those who have never heard of the Knights Templar will be aware of the popular superstition
that any Friday the Thirteenth is a probable occasion of bad luck—a combination long linked as ill-fated because of Christ's
crucifixion on a Friday, after being betrayed for thirty pieces of silver by Judas Iscariot, the thirteenth disciple. The
association was only reinforced when, on such a day in October of 1307, nearly all the Templars in France were simultaneously
arrested and thrown into imprisonment.


Many were tortured horribly to extract confessions of an incredible variety of offenses including blasphemy, heresy, idolatry,
and homosexuality. Apart from a few isolated instances of the latter, inevitable in any all-male organization, it is highly
unlikely that any of the charges were true. Nonetheless, more than a hundred of the Knights perished at the stake before the
Order was finally suppressed in 1312, and many had died as a result of their torture.


The manner of their ending, and persistent traditions of some kind of Templar survival, have fueled endless speculation about
their actual influence, the true extent of their wealth and activities, their ultimate fate, and a thriving cottage industry
that perpetuates even more speculation. Interested readers will find a bibliography of some of these titles at the back of
this volume, along with those of more conventional histories.


The stories in this collection, while mostly set within the historical timeframe of the Order's existence, explore these persistent
assertions that the Knights were far more than warriors and monks and bankers and counselors to royalty; that there was some
mysterious and even mystical aspect to their existence and function that sometimes enabled them to operate outside and beyond
the norm. And though their “official” status as a religious order spans less than two hundred years, put to an end by royal
betrayal and lurid accusations, with the Order suspended by papal decree and its grand master burned at the stake, rumors
of the Order's survival were rife even at the time. Though it seems likely that the Order's demise had more to do with jealousy
and royal greed than from any real failing—other than naïveté, that the pope would protect them from their detractors—the
fact remains that the Order kept its internal workings secret, and prospered with astonishing speed, and accrued enormous
wealth and influence for which it was not answerable to anyone save the pope.


Just how this came to pass, we probably will never know for certain. Historical records of the Order are sketchy and often
contradictory, but we can piece together many plausible speculations. Certain it is that in the first several decades following
the First Crusade, just at the beginning of the twelfth century, the very notion of an order of warrior-monks was only just
beginning to take shape in the mind of a French crusader knight called Hugues de Payens, a vassal of the Count of Champagne
and kin to the counts of Troyes.


We don't know a great deal about Hugues. He would have been a young man in his early twenties when he took the Cross and left
on crusade—probably a widower, certainly with a son left behind in France. He probably had come in the army of Geoffrey de
Bouillon in 1096 and, like many of his crusading partners, stayed on in the Holy Land when Jerusalem was taken by the crusader
army and Geoffrey was elected its king—though Geoffrey had declined to wear a crown in the Holy City, taking instead the more
pious title of Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre: king in all but name, if for barely a year. It was a nicety quickly set aside
by his successor, his brother Baldwin, who had no such scruples. Baldwin, in turn, was to reign in oriental splendor for nearly
twenty years, during which he attempted to consolidate and stabilize the four crusader states making up the Latin Kingdom
of Jerusalem.


To put this into perspective, we should consider the size of the Latin Kingdom, and the size of the Western population attempting
to make it their own, and the fact that most crusaders, if they survived battle and the desert heat, went home to Europe upon
finishing their campaigns. At its height, the area in question was roughly the size of the State of Maryland—perhaps 11,000
square miles, laid out roughly in a T-shape, with the stem stretched along the eastern end of the Mediterranean. Jerusalem
and its environs lay at the bottom of the stem, with the Principality of Antioch immediately above it and the Counties of
Tripoli and Edessa forming the cross-bar.


Muslim emirates surrounded each of these states on all landward sides, and the countryside was populated with bands of desert
marauders who preyed upon travelers. Outside the Christian-occupied cities, Muslim troops might move freely—often within
bowshot of the Western-held cities, whose inhabitants were able to do nothing about it. Had the emirates been able to unite
under a single leader, as even the great Saladin could not accomplish, it is unlikely that a Latin Kingdom could have been
formed at all, much less survived for as long as it did. At the height of the Latin Kingdom's power, the resident European
population of the area probably never exceeded 20,000, with each state possessed of no more than 1,000 secular knights and
barons, perhaps 5,000 serjeants, who were the fully armed infantry, and perhaps 1,000 clergymen. Over the next two centuries,
Europe would continue to send periodic crusader armies to the defense of the Holy Land, until it became all too clear that
the Latin Kingdom could not be held.


This, then, was the environment in which Hugues de Payens found himself, though history tells us nothing specific about his
activities during this period. Some accounts suggest that he made several trips back and forth to France, but most agree in
stating that, at the time he founded the Order, he had been in the Levant for twenty-two years. Knowing that he had left behind
a son in France, we can speculate that at least a part of his original motivation in taking the Cross may have been the seductive
possibility of winning lands and even a title in the Holy Land, if the crusade was successful. If so, however, that was an
ambition that would come to have no meaning, once his son grew to manhood and took holy orders, thereby binding himself to
the Church rather than carrying on the de Payens name and lineage. By 1128, when Hugues achieved papal recognition for the
Order, the heir of his body had become Abbot of Saint Columb's at Sens, and was beyond the need of any secular inheritance.


Meanwhile, during those years between arriving in the Holy Land and conceiving of the institution that would leave an indelible
mark on history, Hugues' life probably would have been little different from any other knight who had chosen to stay on after
the end of the First Crusade. Despite the hardships of desert warfare, there would have been a certain satisfaction and even
a heady excitement to being part of a victorious army, especially as a member of the knightly class. As the colonization of
the new Latin Kingdom got underway, the very nature of the land to be governed would have required constant military activity
to retain the precarious toe-hold the Westerners had established in the midst of their Muslim enemies.


It is more than likely that this would have been the principal occupation of Hugues and his crusading partners, some of whom
undoubtedly became co-founders of the Order with him. In the beginning, as their function shifted from active warfare to peacekeeping,
perhaps they even enjoyed the opportunity to be a law unto themselves—young men searching for adventure—despite the hardships
of life in the desert.


Only vaguely and as a matter of passing note would Hugues and his companions have become aware of the Hospital of St. John
of Jerusalem, established in the previous century and perhaps officially founded in 1113, when the Hospital received a charter
as a religious order dedicated to nursing sick and injured pilgrims. As yet, however, the Order of St. John had not taken
on any military function to reduce the numbers of pilgrims who needed such assistance. That was still to come, following the
example to be set by a military order still to be born.


The hard fact was that outside the cities that marked the hearts of the four crusader states—Jerusalem, Antioch, Edessa, and
Tripoli—the Holy Land still was not safe for pilgrims, though that had been the ostensible reason for the First Crusade. The
two-day journey between the port of Joppa and the Holy City was particularly dangerous, for bandits and brigands made their
camps in the caves along the way, whence they sallied forth to prey on pilgrims bound for the holy places.


The danger had been underscored just before Easter of 1119, when travelers on a Lenten pilgrimage to the River Jordan were
set upon by Muslim raiders from Ascalon and Tyre. Unarmed and weakened from fasting, three hundred had been slain outright,
and another sixty taken prisoner. This incident or one like it may be have been what finally focused the energies of Hugues
de Payens and the companions who founded the Order of the Temple. Perhaps it happened something like this.


_________________

Katherine Kurtz

The shadows were lengthening on that late spring afternoon, not long after Easter, when a French knight called Hugues de Payens
and a handful of brother knights en route to Jaffa paused to water their horses at one of the springs near Lydda, a frequent
destination for pilgrims wishing to visit the tomb of Saint George. Their journey from Jerusalem had already led them past
the bones of many an unlucky victim of Muslim raiders, in varying states of decay. Hence, when another pilgrim band came limping
into sight, just at dusk, Payen de Montdidier was quick to spot the furtive riders shadowing them to the south, where robber
caves overshadowed the road from Ramleh.


“How many?” Hugues asked, when Godfrey de Saint-Omer had pointed out the danger.

“Perhaps a dozen,” said Archambaud de Saint-Aignan. Like the others, he was well aware of the slaughter of pilgrims near the
Jordan a few weeks before. “But they've come from the opposite direction. They won't have spotted us already here. If we can
retain the element of surprise, we can take them.”


“Rossal, you and Gondemere move the horses away from the water,” Hugues said decisively, beckoning for two more knights to
join them. “The rest of you—hide yourselves among the rocks, and make ready.”


Quickly dispersing to follow his instructions, the others found vantage points as he had directed. Hugues waited with young
André de Montbard behind the shelter of a clump of date palms until the first of the pilgrims came abreast of his location,
then snaked out a hand to grab the lead-man by the sleeve and yank him aside, at the same time clapping a hand over his mouth
while André stepped into sight and counselled urgent silence by means of a finger laid vertically across his lips.


“Don't cry out,” André whispered. “We mean you no harm, but you are being followed—stalked, in fact. There are bandits in
this area. Proceed to the oasis, but be ready for trouble.”


Fortunately, the pilgrim had his wits about him, and made no sign of alarm as Hugues released him to continue on his way.
The others stumbled past without apparent notice, either not seeing them or too weary and thirst-driven to pay them mind.


The surprise of the pursuing Muslims was complete, as was the victory of the defending knights. When it was over, and all
the attackers were slain or fled, Hugues and his men carefully cleaned their weapons as the pilgrims began the gingerly task
of clearing away the enemy slain and making camp.


“Will they come again?” one frightened pilgrim asked, glancing back nervously toward the rocky heights where the remaining
attackers had disappeared.


“Not tonight,” Hugues replied. “But we'll post guards, to be certain they don't.”

Later that night, having stood his watch, he lay dozing beneath the desert stars, head propped against his saddle, vaguely
aware of the small, uneasy night sounds of their camp. Earlier, he and the others had shared meager rations with the pilgrim
band: succulent dates, pungent goat cheese, the flat, unleavened bread of the Levant, and sour red wine from vineyards outside
the walls of Jericho. Out at the edge of the firelight, three of Hugues' comrades-in-arms kept quiet watch, far more aware
than the pilgrims of the dangers presented by the desert.


He never quite slept that night, but he did dip in and out of a drifting, dreamlike state in which he seemed to sense someone
standing at his feet, silently gazing down at him. He was not exactly frightened—he sensed no menace there—but nonetheless
he found himself trembling as he opened his eyes to the stars overhead, beginning to dim in the haze of pre-dawn. The image
that solidified in memory, as he swept his anxious gaze over the sleeping men around him, was of a tall, handsome figure clad
all in white: he was overcome by a shiver of incredible awe, and beauty so profound that he felt tears well in his eyes.


Then the moment was past, put to flight by someone coughing nearby and someone else loudly breaking wind. The sound jarred
him to full consciousness, and he elbowed himself upright amid the folds of his cloak, a little light-headed with emotion.


Around him he could hear the soft shuffle of the horses stirring along their picket line, the whisper of booted feet crunching
in the sand—the sentries stretching their legs in the pre-dawn greyness—and, closer, the varied snores of the sleeping pilgrims
and the men not on watch. Beside him, André shifted and moaned softly on his bedroll, one arm flinging across his eyes, then
settled.


After a few more seconds, as Hugues' racing heart calmed, he made himself exhale softly and lie down again, wondering what
the vision might have meant, finally dozing. Not until several days later, as he and the others sat nursing their wine in
a shabby tavern in Jaffa, did he really think about it again—and then, only when André de Montbard broached a very startling
notion.


“That skirmish we had at Lydda,” André said, not looking up as he ran a callused fingertip along the rim of his wooden cup.
“I can't get it out of my mind.”


Hugues glanced at him sharply, the white-robed image momentarily flashing before his inner sight.

“Why not?” Payen said lightly. “We trounced them. It's past.”

“Aye, and it was well done,” Bissor agreed. “A bit of a pay-back for what they did at the Jordan. It was time someone did it.”


“True enough,” André replied. “And not only for the Jordan. It has occurred to me that maybe we're to be that ‘someone.’ All
of us,” he added, looking up at the bearded faces turned to him in query and consternation.


Payen looked astonished, Archambaud quite taken aback. Robert de Craon was gazing at him very intently, Gondemere and Rossal
nodding in agreement. Hugues found himself glancing to Godfrey for some sign that his second-in-command was as appalled at
the notion as he was; but the Fleming was staring at André with a look of rapt attention.


“André, that's crazy,” Archambaud said. “We can't take on the entire Levant.”

“We don't have to take on the entire Levant. Only the enemies of Christ.”

“Only the enemies of Christ?” Payen echoed, with an ironic laugh that was almost a bark.

“With nine men…” Robert added, also bemused by the thought.

“It's a start,” André replied. “My nephew started with less than thirty.”

Several of the others stirred uneasily, for André's nephew was the remarkable Bernard of Clairvaux, abbot of the now flourishing
Cistercian Order. What gave the statement particular significance was that, when the twenty-one-year-old Bernard had determined
to take monastic vows at Citeaux, he had persuaded nearly thirty others to join him, including four of his five brothers,
his father, and another uncle.


So infectious had Bernard's enthusiasm been that the previously moribund community at Citeaux had grown sufficiently in the
next three years to hive off three daughter houses. The one at Clairvaux, established on lands given by the Count of Champagne,
had elected Father Bernard as their abbot, at the age of twenty-five. Now, still not yet thirty, the charismatic little priest
was regarded increasingly as the conscience of Christendom, counsellor and sometimes chastiser of kings, bishops, and even
popes.


“André, your nephew and his companions all became monks,” Bissor pointed out.

“Maybe knights could be monks as well,” André replied.

Bissor snorted. “Even if we wanted to, the Church would never allow it. You know that clergy are forbidden to shed blood—and
that's what we do best.”


“Well, we do practically live like monks already,” Robert noted. “And didn't we come here to do God's work?”

“Well, some of us also hoped we might win lands and titles,” Rossal said lightly.


“And have any of us done that? No,” André retorted. “On the other hand, we took a vow to recover the Christian holy places—which,
to a certain extent, we have done. Except that pilgrims still die trying to reach those places. We could do something about
that. We did do something about that at Lydda—and we shed Saracen blood to do it. Maybe that's what we're meant to be doing now. Isn't
that the reason we all came?”


* * *

The more immediate reason they had come, at least to Jaffa, was to deliver letters from the king to his factor at the port
and to provide escort for the supplies going back to Jerusalem. This they did, though their departure was delayed for a day
while drovers organized the caravan to carry the goods.


On the long ride back, while his eyes restlessly scanned the rocky escarpments and caves above the road, Hugues thought about
what André had proposed that night in the tavern. So far, no one had brought it up again, but as they went about their business
in the next few days, Hugues had found himself unable to forget for long. He wondered whether it was on the minds of the others,
as well.


To his surprise, he found himself actually considering how knights might somehow be monks as well, devoting part of their
time to prayer and penance as well as fighting, perhaps reciting the daily Office as monks did, all in the service of God.
Though a part of him argued that they had fought the crusade in the name of God, another part was well aware that the idea
of warrior-monks was absurd.


Perhaps it came of living too long in the Levant. The heat preyed on a man's mind, and the constant proximity to the Christian
holy places—and the Jewish ones, and those of the Muslims—insinuated pious pretense into unguarded moments of contemplation
that, otherwise, might be focused on the interests that usually occupied a man of knightly station.


Or would have occupied him, had he stayed in France, in the milieu into which he had been born. There, Hugues had always assumed
that his religious observances owed as much to social convention as any reflection of true religious fervor—though he had
been as vulnerable as any other man to the siren-call of Peter the Hermit, preaching the First Crusade.


But even then, when he had taken the Cross and ridden out on Holy Crusade with Geoffrey de Bouillon—had it really been more
than twenty years ago?—Hugues had told himself that he did it as much for the very practical possibility of earthly gain as
for any thought of heavenly merit to be won. In this, he was little different from most who answered the call to crusade:
faithful enough to their holy mission, especially in the beginning, but also well focused on the realities of their way of
life. Of a certainty, Hugues had never regarded himself as particularly pious—other than just before battle when, like those
around him, he found himself whispering fervent prayers to Our Lady and St. Michael for protection. At heart he was a soldier—and
had been, for most of his life.


Why, then, could he not put the notion of warrior monks out of his mind?

That night, as those not on watch huddled around the campfire, Hugues glanced into the darkness around them, then leaned closer
to Payen, Archambaud, and Gondemere, motioning them closer. Young André, the uncle of Bernard of Clairvaux, was on watch with
Godfrey and Rossal. Bissor and Robert were checking on the horses. Farther beyond their immediate campsite, the men and beasts
of the caravan slept obliviously.


“I've been thinking about what André said about knights being monks,” he murmured.

Archambaud gave a dubious snort. “You don't think he was serious, do you?”

“He sounded serious to me,” Gondemere said. “And his nephew is Bernard of Clairvaux. Maybe missionary zeal runs in the family. For a moment, he half had me ready to take vows. What about you, Payen?”


Payen de Montdidier scratched distractedly at his beard and considered. Though beards were out of fashion back in France,
the more savvy among the Crusader forces had soon discovered that facial hair elicited at least a modicum of grudging respect
among their Muslim foes, who regarded a beard as a sign of manliness, esteemed by their Prophet. Conversely, the long hair
affected by many Europeans was seen as effeminate—which was not the primary reason that many crusaders soon hacked their hair
off short, but it was certainly more comfortable and practical in the desert heat, under arming cap, mail coif, and steel
helmet. All of them in their little band now wore their hair cropped short, and beards even the Prophet would approve.


“The idea does have a certain appeal,” Payen said. “A band of warrior monks, vowed to serve God by protecting His holy places.”

Archambaud nodded gravely. “It is why we came: to serve God.”

Gondemere drank deep of the sour local wine, unconvinced.

“How would we survive? It is one thing to fight for a western prince, who would give us our maintenance. Who will maintain
us if we fight for God?”


“God Himself?” Archambaud said, with a raised eyebrow.

“Perhaps,” Hugues replied.

Somehow, as he said it in the firelight rather than the harsher light of day, it sounded almost possible.

That night, after he had stood his watch, he dreamed again—t. . .