Knights of the Black and White Book One. Jack Whyte

slaughtering women and children wantonly, some of them dragging cloths stuffed with booty they could not have carried. I killed one man myself, a knight from Chartres, whom I found ravishing a girl who could not have been older than seven. He glared at me, demented, and screamed that he was doing God’s work, driving the devil out of her. I took his head off with one stroke and left him sprawled over her, because she was already dead. He had killed her before violating her. Because God willed it, Goff … Because God willed it, through his priests and followers. Don’t ever talk to me of God again.”

      “I will not. You may rely on that.”

      Something in St. Omer’s tone penetrated the other man’s awareness and he cocked his head suddenly, curious again. “Why were you angry at me that day? I don’t believe you told me.”

      “Yes, I did. You disappeared. That’s what we’ve been talking about. And now you will doubtless be surprised to hear that I am even angrier than I was then.”

      He twisted in his seat to stare stonily at Hugh. “How can you say you were the only one who felt the way you did that day? How can you even think such a thing? How can you … can you have that much … what’s the word old Anselm used to use for pride, the dangerous kind? Hubris, that’s it. How can you have that much hubris, Hugh? That is insulting. Insulting to the point of inviting a slap in the face. It’s insulting to me, and to Crusty, and to your father the Baron, and the Count himself, and to every other member of our Order who was in the city that day. None of us could avoid being there, if you’ll but throw your mind back. We had marched halfway across the world to be there that day, seeing it as a bounden duty, and so we all went in there willingly.

      “But not all of us enjoyed what happened there, and what we saw being done sickened more good men than you near to death. You were not the only man to be repelled by what went on that day in that place. I can name you a hundred men I know in person, all of whom are sick at heart over what happened here, but what can they do to change any of it? The treasures that were captured are all gone, into the coffers of the bishops and the nobility. The people who owned those treasures are all dead. The city is uninhabitable, a stinking charnel house, and I would wager no one will live there for the next ten years or more. Titus destroyed Jerusalem twelve hundred years ago, and now the Church of Jesus Christ, a Jew who lived here at that time, has destroyed it again, and somehow you have convinced yourself that you alone can see that? That truly is hubris, my friend, and it is too much so for me. I’ll bid you a good night.”

      St. Omer stood up abruptly and turned to walk away.

      “Wait, Goff, wait, wait. Turn around, if you will, and look at me.” Godfrey did so, and Hugh immediately looked away, gazing into the fire for a spell, aware of Godfrey’s eyes on him, and then looked up at his friend, and shook his head as if clearing it. “Forgive me, in the spirit of our ancient Order. You are correct in every word. I have been steeped in hubris—pickled in it—and unable to see beyond the end of my own stubborn, self-pitying nose. Please, my friend, sit down.”

      Half an hour later, having talked in depth about their innermost feelings and the experiences of others of like mind, Hugh said, “Thank you for this, Goff. You have made me feel much better, knowing that so many others share my anger and my grief. But there are still those others who do not …”

      “And what do you intend to do about them, Hugh?”

      “Nothing at all. Providing they leave me to my own affairs, I intend to ignore them.”

      “Ignore them?” St. Omer seemed on the verge of smiling. “All of them?”

      “Every one of them. Why does that make you smile?”

      “Simply because of the way you said it. But what if they refuse to leave you to your own affairs, what then?”

      Hugh de Payens’s face was utterly without humor or compassion when he said, flatly, “Then I will kill a few of them, as they killed in Jerusalem. That will convince them quickly to leave me alone, and I will do it without hesitation if I must. In my eyes, they have lost any vestige of humanity they might have had before coming here, and I wish nothing to do with them. My liege lord, while I am here in Palestine, is Count Raymond, and to him I will dedicate my life and duty as I did before. Beginning once again tomorrow, I will go where he sends me, do what he bids me do, and if it should transpire that I must share duties or fight alongside these others, then I shall do so. But I will have nothing to do with any of them otherwise.”

      “But—”

      “But what, Goff?” Now Hugh smiled, his old nature showing through for the first time. “Think about it, lad—about me, and about what you are saying. I have never willingly had anything to do with any of them ere now anyway. I spend my spare time only with my friends, and all my friends are within the Order.” He paused, then said, “What about you and Crusty, what will you do, now that you have seen how wondrously the Holy City was saved for all good Christian souls?”

      St. Omer shrugged. “The same as you. We will address ourselves to our sworn duty, in obedience to our lord the Count. Which reminds me, I am summoned to attend him at daybreak, so I had best be on my way. I have a feeling he intends to send me somewhere. Not Crusty, just me. But if he does not, then I’ll be back tomorrow night, with Crusty.”

      “So be it, and may Fortuna ride with you if he sends you out. Be careful and come back safely.”

      St. Omer nodded and turned to leave, then swung back yet again. “We will be going home soon, you know, now that the campaign is complete. The army is breaking up, did you know that?”

      “Breaking up?” Hugh sat blinking for the space of several heartbeats. “What does that mean, breaking up? That would be utter folly, Goff. The army can’t break up. The moment that happens, the Turks will sweep back in here like avenging devils, with no one to stop them, and we will have achieved nothing. Where did you hear that nonsense?”

      St. Omer stood frowning for a moment. “I don’t know where I first heard it, really, but now everyone’s talking about it—about going home, I mean. We need to go home, Hugh, particularly those of us who have wives and children. We have been gone for four years already, and even if we were to leave tonight, it would be nigh on six years by the time we win home.” He hesitated. “Besides, it’s not as if everyone is leaving. There is too much at stake for that. Kingdoms and duchies and counties are being created even as we speak, and they will have to be defended.”

      De Payens frowned. “Kingdoms? What are you talking about, Goff? Kingdoms, here in God’s homeland? Where are these kingdoms?”

      St. Omer threw his hands in the air. “They are nowhere, Hugh, not yet. It is all talk at this stage. But there is talk of establishing a Kingdom of Jerusalem, for the protection of the Holy Places. The barons and nobles wanted de Bouillon to be king, and named him such ten days ago, while you were absent, but he refused, saying no mere man should wear a crown of gold where Jesus wore a crown of thorns. He has accepted the lesser title, however, of Advocate of the Holy Sepulcher.”

      “Hmm. What does that mean?” Hugh knew and admired Geoffroi de Bouillon, the Duke of Lower Louraine, who had been the undisputed leader of the Christian armies on the march to Jerusalem, and he thought it typical of the man that he would have the moral strength to refuse a kingdom because of his beliefs. De Bouillon was modest, and even self-effacing, and his undoubted honesty and integrity were the true reasons underlying his popularity and the high regard in which he was held. Now, as he thought about it, it became plain to Hugh that de Bouillon’s refusal would provide an opportunity for someone else, for the kingship, once dreamed up, would not go long unclaimed, but as soon as Hugh mentioned this, Godfrey shook his head.

      “Not an issue,” he said. “De Bouillon’s new title, Advocate of the Holy Sepulcher, usurps all the powers of kingship without using the name. It is a pretty piece of politicking, but it may serve all our needs.”

      “Aye, for as long as Geoffroi lives. Who else is involved?”

      St. Omer shrugged. “The usual crowd, I should think. Geoffroi’s brother Baldwin won’t be far away from the