Galloglass Book One the Templar Read online

  Somewhat embarrassed, I answered, "No, lord. I have a gambeson and a leather cuirass. I do have a helm."

  He shook his head. "That won't do. However, we shall rectify that when we return to England."

  I was shocked. "You...will give me armor?"

  Himbert laughed at my ignorance. "The Temple will supply all your needs, both physical and spiritual. For a time, you will be my squire. As such, you will be provided clothing, arms, and a horse by our Marshal."

  I was stunned. To be given so much was hard for me to believe. In the north, one acquired weapons, armor, horses, even clothing from stripping the dead, and then only after a successful raid or battle. I was also smart enough to know that such "gifts" rarely came without cost.

  I walked over to the Templar's gear and picked up a sealskin bag that was empty. When I peered inside, Himbert laughed at me. "That is what we use to store our mail when we travel unarmored. It is waterproof. So the mail will not rust."

  Himbert took off his mantle and then said, "Come here and unbuckle this hauberk."

  I did as I was told. I unbuckled the leather straps in the back of the mail that adjusted its fit. Himbert bent over at the waist and allowed the hauberk to slide forward over his head. The weight of the coat pulled it further forward and down until it pooled at the warrior's feet. Himbert toed the mail coat and said, "Take that to your smith. He will have a barrel of sand and vinegar. Have it cleaned and ready for me when we leave tomorrow. Can you do this without getting into another brawl?"

  I smiled then. It appeared that my mentor had a sense of humor. "Yes, lord."

  Himbert then peeled off his gambeson, the padded, quilted coat warriors wear underneath their mail to protect them from the metal of the hauberk. "Hang this to dry. When you have finished, find us something to eat. We will begin your lessons when you return."

  I was puzzled. "Lessons, lord?"

  Himbert crossed to the table and picked up a ewer of ale and a cup. As he poured himself a drink, he asked, "Can you speak English?"

  I shook my head, my eyes round with wonder.

  "Can you read or speak French or Occitan?"

  "No, brother, just Gaelic and Latin."

  "Latin, is that so?"

  "Truly, lord."

  "Why, there is hope for you, Ronan. You have a mind and you are not totally ignorant. It is important to know the language of the Church. Many of our brethren only have a rudimentary knowledge of it. However, I will need you to be both fluent and literate in French and Occitan as most of our daily business is conducted in those languages. We have plenty of brothers who are not literate. You, my young friend, will not be one of them."

  I bowed my head, picked up Himbert's mail, and left. Within the hour, I returned with the freshly polished hauberk along with food I had liberated from the kitchens. Himbert inspected my work and then showed me how to roll the hauberk and store it in the sealskin bag. We ate roast pork and onions along with freshly baked, dark bread and washed it down with good ale from a fresh cask that had been broached that morning. That evening I began the first of many lessons. In time, I learned to speak French and Occitan, English, a smattering of Italian, and some Arabic. I found that I had a talent for words. I collected them as if they were weapons, and in some ways, they were. Whoever said knowledge was power had the right of it. I never regretted the education I received in the Temple.

  The next morning, while I packed our belongings, Himbert met with my grandfather. Angus had both the trade agreements and my terms of service with the Temple ready for Himbert's approval. After reading them over twice, Himbert signed both copies and affixed the Templar seal in wax beside the signatures. Taking his set of the documents, he placed them in a stiffened leather tube for transport. I was told later that Angus was pleased with the deal. He had solved a difficult problem and bettered his trading position. My grandfather spoke to Himbert for some time and then sent for me.

  When I arrived, the hall had been cleared, even the guards had been dismissed. Himbert passed me on my way in but did not speak. I was wary. In all my years on Eilean Mor, I had rarely been alone with my grandfather. He sat in his chair on the dais, ale cup in hand, a deerhound at his feet. Sun light lanced through the hall's gloom from an open window. I remember seeing the dust motes dancing in the light.

  His face was unreadable. I steeled myself for another tongue lashing. "My lord, you wished to see me?"

  He motioned me forward and indicated I should climb the dais. The thumping of the hound's tail on the boards was all that could be heard. He studied me then. It was probably the first time he had ever looked at me so closely. "You have your mother's eyes."

  I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. He sighed and sipped his ale. After a moment he began. "There are some things that need to be said before you leave. I would have you listen."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "You may be Alasdair's bastard, but there is much to be admired in you, boy. Your mother was no common whore. She was the daughter of a lord. You are also a MacDonald, and bastard though you be, you are the product of my seed. You have nothing to be ashamed of and no one would question your claim to our name. Your father has not done right by you. All know it. That cannot be changed. You must move past that. If you can temper the wildness that boils through your veins, you could be one of the greatest warriors ever to come from these isles. You have not finished growing and yet you are already larger than most of my men. Though they won't admit it, there are few who will face you now in the practice yard for fear of being bested by a boy. How many of my men had made their first kill at fourteen? I can tell you, none. You are dangerous, Ronan, lethal in fact. Because of that, I have already heard the muttering that wafts through this hall about you. They say it is not normal. Devil's spawn. A boy should not be able to do what you can do or have done. Seamus of the Long Arm was a noted warrior. He had a reputation as a killer. The fight between you two was hardly fair. My guards saw it. Saw you take him apart piece by piece with ease. Your father saw it, too, and saw his potential doom in it as well. For your own safety, you must leave. I know my son. He now sees you as a threat. I wish it could be otherwise. Your term of service with the Temple is ten years. Ten years to learn the ways of the world, to become a warrior the equal of Conn of the Hundred Battles or Cuchulain himself. When you are ready, when you have finished your service, come home. I will welcome you with open arms, and your father, well, we will deal with him then."

  I don't think in all my sixteen years, had Angus spoken so many words to me at once. "Alasdair will not have me back."

  "That will be between him and me. They say time has a way of healing most wounds."

  I said nothing, but I knew the anger that lay between my father and me would only be settled by blood. I bowed my head in acceptance and made to leave.

  "Wait. There is something else."

  Angus patted the top of his hound's head, idly scratching behind the big animal's ear. "In the morning, when you leave, I would have you ride to Kilchoman. It is not that far out of your way. On the hill overlooking the bay, you will find the smithy of Ian MacKechnie. Do you know the place?"

  "Of course. Why?"

  Angus smiled for the first time. "I have a gift for you. Tell Ian who you are, though he already knows. He will understand."

  I hugged Angus then, and he returned my affection without another word. It was the last time I ever saw him, and I remember it well to this day. Himbert and I left the following morning after first saying the daily office. It was a routine that would come to dominate much of my life. There was no one to see me off nor did I expect there would be. We rode southwest from Finlaggan. It was mid-day when we arrived at Kilchoman. Most of the men were in the surrounding fields. An old crone who stood in the doorway of one of the huts pointed to the nearby hill when I asked after MacKechnie. A rugged track wound its way to the top.

  MacKechnie was a massive, broad shouldered, brute of a man with a head bald as an egg, sporting an over large,
drooping red moustache. Grey eyes like the bay his forge overlooked watched as Himbert and I approached. He stopped and rested his hammer upon his shoulder. When he judged us close enough, he asked, "Are ye lost?"

  I knew by his tone he was not joking. "I am not," I replied. "Do ye know me, Ian MacKechnie?"

  "Aye, I know ye, Ronan MacAlasdair. What I am wondering is why ye are here? What is it that ye want?"

  "Not exactly friendly, is he?" whispered Himbert.

  "Angus sent me. He said ye would understand."

  MacKechnie scowled at us but lay down his hammer. "Wait here," he said while disappearing into the back of the forge. In time, he returned with what was obviously a sword wrapped in linen. As he watched the smith unwrap the blade, Himbert's eyes widen in surprise. I knew at once what it was. I had seen one before, on a trip to Eire, in the hands of the King of Ulster's champion. From pommel to cross-guard, the grip was almost a foot long, wrapped in silver wire. The cross-guards were unusual in that they swept downward from the grip at a slight angle. The blade itself was close to three feet in length. It was a style of weapon just coming into use in the Outer Isles and the Highlands along with certain areas of mainland Europe. In the right hands, it could easily cleave through flesh and bone.

  "My God," muttered Himbert. "What is it?"

  I laughed. "It's a claidheamh mor, a great sword."

  "That's right," nodded the smith to Himbert. "On the continent, in Germany and in Italy they call it a longsword."

  The light from the mid-day sun reflected off the polished surface of the blade and made it look as though MacKechnie held a sword of fire. He handed me the blade, hilt first. "Angus came to me two years ago, right after yer first kill. He told me this would likely be the only inheritance ye would ever receive. Everything else in this life ye would have to earn through blood and sweat. If he sent ye for it, ye must be leaving Islay."

  I took the sword in my hands as though I were receiving the cup from the Last Supper. I watched the sunlight play upon the wavy patterns that ran the length of the blade. I tested its weight and balance, slicing the air with a whirring hum. "It's perfect."

  "Aye, so it is, and no doubt wasted on the likes of ye, but it's what Angus wanted."

  "Does it have a sheath?" asked Himbert.

  MacKechnie scowled, nodded, and slipped back inside the smithy. When he returned, he produced a scabbard made of wood, the ends tipped and riveted in bronze. Also attached, were two bronze rings with a leather strap so that the blade could be worn across the back because of its great length. "The inside is lined with wool. It will keep the blade free from rust."

  Himbert was impressed. The smith's workmanship was remarkable, even the scabbard was a fine piece of equipment. "That sword is fit for a prince."

  As I took the scabbard, MacKechnie said to Himbert, "Aye, so it is. But, Ronan will never rule here in the Isles. I don't have to say why. He already knows." He turned to me then, "What ye don't know, Ronan, is that I have watched ye since ye were old enough to brawl with your cousins over the scraps from a feast. Yer a killer, sure as I made that blade yer holdin'. Lord knows, there's plenty of need for warriors like ye in Eire, or Alba for that matter. They're both full of hard men and treacherous women. If Angus sent ye to collect this, ye'll be leaving the isles, though I am sure he expects ye'll come back. When ye do, there will be blood on yer hands, and men will flock to ye like sheep in a fold. I have seen it before. Some will come to follow ye, others to test their skill. I see blood and hard times ahead of ye, lad. I also see something else."

  "And what would that be, Ian MacKechnie?" I asked.

  "Glory," he said."Glory!"

  What does a sixteen year old boy say to that? Some I am sure would have swelled with pride. Instead, I was filled with uncertainty. "My thanks, Ian MacKechnie. I will remember yer words."

  "Thank yer grandfather, lad. Making swords is what I do. I would make one just as well for anyone who paid me as much as Angus did."

  "Perhaps, but I'll be thanking ye just the same." I left him. There was nothing more to say. Himbert and I walked down the hill and fetched our mounts, the great sword strapped to my back. It rests beside me even now, as I lie here telling my tale. When I die, I will go to my maker with sword in hand and guard the gates of heaven or hell for all time with it, for it is an extension of my soul. Even now I see the brothers scowling at my pagan blasphemy. Truth to tell, I enjoy angering them. They were never warriors, and they can never understand.

  As we mounted, Himbert said to me in Latin, "De vana hominum consilium, judicia Dei possumus intelligere. The plans of men are meaningless. We cannot understand the judgments of God. What I am telling you is that your destiny is in God's hands. Your return to these isles will be based upon God's will and done in his own good time. His plan for you has yet to be revealed."

  I thought on that and said nothing. Talk of destiny and God's plan was too much for my young mind to wrap itself around. We rode from Kilchoman to the head of Loch Indaal where we booked passage on the same galley that brought Himbert to Islay. We crossed the sea to Dubh-Lynn and stayed briefly at the Templar chapterhouse at Clontarf before leaving once again by ship to Gloucester in An Bhreatain Bheag, what the Sasanach call Wales. From there we took the old Roman road from the port called the Ermin Way and pushed on to Cirencester. The town lay along the banks of the River Churn. Like many Sasanach towns, it had once been the site of an old Roman fort. Now, it was the center for the local wool trade. We took passage on a barge carrying sheep down the Churn to the Thames and then on to London. Ten days after leaving Islay, I arrived before the gates of the London Temple and there began my new life.

  One

  Acre

  Summer/Fall 1287

  The French call it Outrémer, "overseas." It is a rich land of exotic beauty, religious fervor, and wealth beyond imagining. It is a place of incomprehensible cruelty and uncommon compassion for one's fellow man. It is an atrocity, an enigma shrouded in faith, a symbol of hope and despair for millions. I know because I became a man there, a professional soldier and an aesthetic, a killer created by the Order of the Poor-Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. Guided by my mentor, Brother Himbert Blank, the Temple trained me physically, mentally, and spiritually, indoctrinating me into the mysteries of our faith. Everything that I was, everything that I came to be, I owe to them. They gave me the ability to speak with kings and the wisdom to listen to peasants. I learned French, Occitan, and Italian along with enough Arabic to make myself understood in the souks and bazaars of half a dozen cities throughout the land. I became useful as a spy. The Temple taught me the art of war. I learned to fight as a mounted knight, on a destrier with lance and shield. Sword, axe, mace, and hammer became my stock and trade. I became skilled in the art of dagger and garrote. Unarmed combat became a specialty. All the while, the Temple filled me with the promises of God and the gift of salvation. In time I became their implacable engine of destruction. I was a weapon to be used by the Temple, to sow fear amongst her enemies. I was an extension of the Order's will. To the Arabs and Syrian Christians of the Kingdom of Acre, I became known as Malik al-Mwat, the Angel of Death.

  Considering all that was in my future, my arrival in Outremer was particularly unspectacular. It had taken Himbert and me a year to travel from the London Temple to Acre. Once there, like so many others before me, I suffered through a long period of adjustment. I said the daily office, I continued with my language lessons, I trained, I went to mass, and I slept. No more, no less. Like so many before me, I tried to forget my past. I took on the duties of a squire in the employ of the Temple. Somehow, like a palm in the desert that finds a sure source of water, I thrived and I grew hard. At the same time, I locked the Kingdom of the Isles away inside myself. It became a scar that never quite healed, slowly festering beneath the surface—always there, always painful, yet never visible. Years would pass before I would come to terms with it.

  My rise to infamy began the summer of my se
cond year in the Holy Land. As part of my training, Himbert had me patrol with our Turcopoles. These were Greek and Syrian Christians whom the Temple employed as scouts and mercenaries for their armies in Outremer. Many were the by blow of Greek and European knights and men-at-arms who had settled the land after the first two Crusades. My time with them as often as not was incredibly boring, yet there were moments of extreme danger, particularly when facing Mamluk cavalry patrols out of Gaza.

  On this particular day, we were part of an escort that accompanied Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu from the Templar castle at Atlit north to the fortress city of Acre. We had been following the coastal track that meandered its way beneath the scarp of Mount Carmel when Brother Himbert rode up next to me and said, "Ronan, we will soon be near the Kishon River. It is no more than a half a mile farther up this trail. Call in our Turcopoles and scout the village on the far side of the ford. There is a well there. Master de Beaujeu would like to stop and refresh our horses. We will push on to Acre after our rest."

  I nodded and pulled my mount out of line. This was not an unusual request. For the last few months Himbert had been giving me tasks that were increasingly more difficult and complex. I trotted to the front of the column, which by then had halted, and rode up the track until I spied the Turcopoles riding a couple of hundred yards ahead of us on our flanks. I signaled to them and waited.

  I crossed my arms and rested them on the cantle of my saddle while passing time as the two men to our front rode in. When they arrived, I pointed north and said, "Himbert says there is a village on the other side of the Kishon, just past the ford. He intends to rest the column there and wants us to check it first."

  Both men nodded. The Turcopole to my right, a warrior named Michael, backed his horse until it was even with mine and then spat dirt from his dust covered face. His mount shied and hopped twice before he settled it with a word and a strong hand. "Just as well. I know this place. When we ride in, if you see only old men, beware."