Read Online Tales of the Knights Templar by Katherine Kurtz - Free Book Online

somewhat less rapidly than had the previous portions. When Robert had mopped up the final drop of juice, he looked up and found the clear blue eye regarding him intently. From the glint in the scar, he suspected the other was, as well.
    “Well, young Robert,” the pilgrim said. “And what do you make of me?”
    “Of you, sire?” Robert said warily. “That you are a brave and generous man. I am greatly in your debt.”
    The pilgrim leaned closer. “And nothing else?”
    “Ah … no, sire.” Surely discretion was called for. Robert swallowed hard, regretting the last cup of wine, for it had fogged his wits.
    “I have a request of you.”
    Had he been entertained by a sodomite? Robert wondered if he could reach the door before he found himself compromised.
    “Sire?”
    “Do you know the convent of the Preaching Friars?”
    “The Dominicans? Yes, sire. Saint-Jacques is on this very street. Just—”
    “Be still!” the Saxon giant hissed, glancing around. “Listen to me.” A gold coin appeared between his thumb and forefinger. “You are to go to the Jacobins and ask for one of the masters. His name is Eckhart. Can you remember that?”
    “Yes, sire. Eckhart.”
    “You are to tell him that a penitent pilgrim from Hochheim seeks to make confession. Tell him I will be at the church tomorrow one hour after terce.”
    “Yes, sire. Hochheim. An hour after terce.”
    “Do not fail me, Robert.” The pilgrim placed his hand palm down on the table. When he lifted it, a grosso gleamed up at the youth.
    “By the Virgin’s veil, sire. I will tell him.”
    “Go.”
    As Robert de Troyes splashed down the Rue de Saint-Jacques, the thought crossed his mind that he might as easily disappear into his lodgings, hide for a day, and be no worse off. On the other hand, there was something about the pilgrim that made him reconsider. And he had sworn. His mother had warned him about swearing.…
    His reverie was broken by the tramp of mailed feet. Robert dodged into an alley, clutching the bowl through his tunic and sodden cape. But he had been seen.
    “You, boy!” shouted the sergeant leading the guards. “Stop! Come here!”
    Meekly, Robert approached the squad. Students enjoyed great latitude in the Latin Quarter. Still, it was not wise to antagonize the royal police.
    “Surely the bell has not rung?” he asked as amiably as he could. His heart drummed audibly.
    “Quiet, brat. Did you see a man on the street clad as a pilgrim? A big fellow, half blind, speaks with a bad accent.”
    “No, sire, I have seen no one. I have been at vespers myself—”
    “Liar,” the sergeant snarled, shoving him briskly aside.
    Purposefully, Robert slipped and fell backward into a puddle of filthy water. He cried out as if in pain. The guards laughed, especially when he convincingly slipped again as he tried to rise and muddied himself further.
    “Come,” the sergeant said to his fellows. “The Templar can’t have gotten far.”
    As the squad moved on, Robert scrambled to his feet, pleased with himself. A Templar? Surely not.
    Then he noticed someone shadowing the troopers several yards behind. Although now wrapped in a dark mantle, there was no mistaking the bully of earlier in the evening, or the look of scorn and malice as he passed.
    2
    As it was a festive occasion, the prior had announced a
gaudium
after solemnly reading out the
mandamus,
the letter assigning Master Eckhart to the convent of Saint-Jacques for a second regency. The only other tenant twice to hold the chair for foreigners had died thirty-five years before—the Neapolitan genius and (not to be denied) troublemaker Thomas of Aquino.
    Eckhart von Hochheim was no Aquinas. But, as the prior had droned on over the prone, white-robed figure making his
venia
on the floor of the great refectory, built a half century before by the Preachers’ sainted patron, King Louis IX, the assembled friars had had cause to reflect that at fifty-one, Eckhart’s career in teaching,