Knights of the Black and White Book One

“I felt the same way.” Godfrey was shaking his head, gazing into nowhere and frowning. “I didn’t think about anything else once I had recognized what Louise was saying … and I don’t really remember now exactly what she did say.”

“Then let’s approach this from another side. What did you tell them in the first place?”

“Tell them? Have you not heard a word we said? We didn’t tell them anything, Hugh. I certainly didn’t, and I believe Payn when he says he didn’t. But that’s not important—even although it is. What we need to know is what we should do now.”

His head still reeling, Hugh looked from one to the other of them, his lips pursed. “Well, at least that’s easy to answer. We go to my father and ask him what’s to be done. He will know, and he’ll know what to do about the two of you, too. But we had better go now … Did it occur to either one of you to warn your wives to say no more of this, to anyone?”

“Of course it did,” Godfrey snapped. “We were appalled, but we were not rendered completely witless. They won’t talk of it to anyone else, because we commanded them to say no more and they know how angry we are.”

“Very well then, now let’s make my father angry, too. Fortunately he is here. I saw him less than an hour ago, just about the time your wives were questioning you. Come on, then, let’s go and find him.”

Baron Hugo was in the smithy when they found him, supervising the shoeing of his favorite saddle horse. The beast was in its prime, but it had fallen on a treacherous slope the previous month, injuring its front right fetlock, and had been under the farriers’ care ever since. It had been judged able only that morning to return to its full roster of duties, and when Hugh and his friends arrived they saw immediately that the Baron’s attention was all for the horse and its new set of shoes, and he could barely conceal his impatience at their interruption, so that when he stumped off to a corner where they could speak with him in private, they followed him with unconcealed apprehension.

He listened to the first part of what his son had to say and then held up a hand, demanding silence. He looked at each of the three young knights in turn, then beckoned them to follow as he led them across the cobbled courtyard to his own chambers, where he dismissed the majordomo and his cleaning staff, then closed the doors securely behind them before waving to the three younger men to be seated. When they were all sitting, looking distinctly uncomfortable, the Baron cleared his throat and hooked a stool with his foot, dragging it closer to where he could sit on it, looking down at them.

“So,” he said, after a silence that seemed endless to the three, “if I am correct in my understanding of what you have told me, your wives asked you about what you do at the Gatherings, but you do not recollect exactly what it was that they asked you?” The Baron’s demeanor was remarkably calm, Hugh thought, for a man who had just discovered betrayal among his own family, and he admired his father’s control even as he tried to gauge the fury that must be simmering and bubbling beneath that calm exterior. From the corner of his eye he saw his two friends nodding their heads.

“And you are both convinced that they are aware of, or that they at least suspect, the existence of our Order. You also believe absolutely that neither one of you said anything to either of them, at any time, that might have been intemperate, or ill considered, careless, or indiscreet?” Again both men shook their heads. “Well then,” Hugo continued, “if neither one of you said anything you should not have said—and I believe you when you say you did not—how, then, could your wives have come by whatever information they have? Can you tell me?” He swung to look at his son. “Can you?”

“No, Father.”

The Baron grunted. “Then I will tell you,” he growled. “Because I know where their information probably sprang from. Your mother probably told them.”

Hugh was aware that his jaw had dropped and he was sitting gaping, and he closed his mouth as his father said, “Think about it now, all of you, and think with your minds this time, not with your guts. Think about it logically and reasonably, and then accept what your intelligence tells you it means. The truth is there, right under your noses, and you are going to have to accept it and learn to live with it. I had to come to terms with it when I was your age. All of us have to, at one time or another, and for some men it is very difficult.” He looked from face to face, but none of his listeners stirred. They sat stunned, and he spoke into the silence, aware that they would hear him now as never before.

“Our way of life teaches us to believe that women are less than we are in most things. They exist to bear our sons and to make our lives more comfortable and more pleasant. Is that not true? Of course it is, if you are a man. Women, however, tend to see things differently, through eyes and from strange viewpoints that men can never know. They believe they are more clever and more humane than men are, and from their point of view, they may have reason on their side to a great extent. They are certainly clever, in their own obscure ways, and they have little patience with our ways. They think of us, without exaggeration, as children who never grow up and never mature, despite the grayness in our beards and the wrinkles on our faces.

“Here is the truth, gentlemen, and whether you like it or not, you cannot change it: very few of our confraternity are wed to stupid women, and fewer yet are married to women who do not spring from the Friendly Families. And the Friendly Families, according to the Lore of our ancient Order of Rebirth, have been holding regular Gatherings for more than fifty generations. Fifty generations, my young friends, not merely fifty years. Can any of you truly believe that, in all that time, our women, our wives and mothers, sisters and cousins, have been unaware that their men are involved in something to which they are not privy? They know all about the secrecy surrounding what we do, and about the dedication and effort brought into being around the time of the Gatherings. They see, even if they do not acknowledge, the changes being wrought in their sons’ lives and activities as they approach the age of eighteen. Any man who believes that a son’s activities can be completely hidden from his mother is a fool. The most important knowledge they possess, however, is that whatever is involved, it is a thing for men, ancient beyond antiquity, in which women have no place and no involvement. They know that, and they accept it. Some accept it more easily and readily than others, and there are always the occasional few who, in their youth, seek to discover more than they are permitted to know. Those, fortunately, are very few, and eventually they are all discouraged by our total silence. Then they resign themselves to the realities of life.

“But never be tempted to believe they know nothing. That would be the worst kind of folly. They know. And we know they know, even if we never mention it among ourselves. But their knowledge is as close held as is our own. They never speak of it among themselves, to any great extent. They know, somehow, that it concerns an ancient trust of some description, and they are content, and even proud, that their men, their families, are strong enough and true enough to have earned that trust and to be worthy of it. And thus, in their silent knowledge, our strength grows the greater. Your young wives will learn that truth now, just as you are learning it, and you will see, no more will be said of any of it.”

The Baron looked around at his three young listeners, and then smiled. “I would ask if you have any questions, but I know that it is still too soon for questions. What you all require now is time to think about what you have been told. Go then, and think.”

“I HAVE A QUESTION.” Godfrey sat up straight as he made his announcement. It was the same day, and the sinking sun was throwing elongated shadows across the grass in the meadow where the three of them had been lounging under a tree, their backs propped against a sloping, mossy bank for the previous hour and more, thinking deeply and saying little.

Hugh tilted his head and looked up at Godfrey from beneath an arched eyebrow. “For my father? I have no idea where he might be by now.”

“No, not for your father, for you, because you’re the one who has been studying all the lore.” Godfrey was frowning, no trace of his usual levity present in his gaze.

“Ask away, then. I’m still a tyro but I’ll answer if I can.”

“What do you really think about all we’ve learned?”

Hugh remained motionless for several moments, his eyes closed, and then he pushed himself up and around so he could see Godfrey clearly. “What kind of a question is that? Are you asking me for my opinion of all we have learned since we were born? If that’s what you mean, then let’s fetch our practice swords and go to it right here. Better a healthy sweat than wasting an afternoon wondering about nonsense.”

“No, that’s not what I meant at all … I’m not sure what I meant, Hugh, but it’s important. What …” Godfrey’s face twisted in a frustrated grimace. “I know what I want to ask you, but I don’t know how to put it into words properly. Let me think about it for a moment.”

“Think for as long as you wish. I’ll wait.” Hugh lay back and closed his eyes again. Payn had not stirred.

Some time later, Godfrey tried again, “I wonder about what you believe.”

Hugh did not even open his eyes. “How could that interest you in any way? Why should it? What I believe is in my own mind.”

“Oh, come on, Hugh, don’t be tiresome. I’m asking for your advice because I don’t know what I believe.”

That opened Hugh’s eyes. “How can you not know that? That may be the silliest thing I have ever heard you say, Goff.”

“It’s not silly at all. You know me, Hugh. I am obedient to my elders and superiors in all things. And I believe whatever I’m told to believe—always have, since our first days in Brother Anselm’s classroom, when we were all tads. After all, there was no option, was there? The Church tells us we have to believe what we are told. The priests tell us we’re not clever enough to understand anything about God and His teachings without their help. They are God’s interpreters, and only they are qualified to explain His mysteries, His words, and His wishes to us. It was always that way, and I always believed them. Until very recently …”

He sat staring into the distance for a while before he continued. “Now I don’t know what to believe … and I don’t know why I don’t know. When I joined the brotherhood and was Raised and learned about the Order’s origins, and about our ancestors being Jews and our Friendly Families springing from the priesthood of the Essenes, I had no difficulty with what I was learning, new and different as it was. Somehow, I managed to keep the two information sources separate. One was ancient history and the other was life today. I am amazed now, I admit, by how long I was able to keep doing that. But in the past few months I have lost my way. Everything is confusing now—the Church’s teachings and the Order’s, and how they fit and how they don’t—and it has all been swarming in my mind so that now I don’t know what I should believe. I have two sources of information, each appearing to be equally credible, each claiming supremacy, and each asserting itself as the One, True Way. And yet neither one of them makes complete sense.”

He fell silent for a moment, and then added, in a strangely flat, emotionless voice, “Help me, Hugh.”

Hugh opened his eyes and shifted his head slightly, looking up at his friend, but before he could say anything, Payn, whose eyes were still closed against the sun’s brightness, added, “Yes, help him, Hugh, for the love of God, because then you’ll help me, too. If Godfrey is as confused as he claims, I can but think him fortunate, since I myself am not confused by it at all … I am utterly blind and deathly ignorant on exactly the same matters.”

Hugh looked in amazement at Payn, who opened his eyes and spread his hands in a silent shrug.

“What should surprise you about that?” Payn said. “You know me well, my friend, better than any other. I am a knight, and that is all I wish to be. I am a warrior by birth, a fighter—a brawling, ignorant lout—and happy to be one. I have no time, and no wish, to fill my life with the kind of mystic, smoke-shrouded things that excite you … all this mummery about the secrets and mysteries within the Order. To us it’s all babble and bluster and we don’t understand a word of it.”

“Crusty’s right, Hugh.” Godfrey was nodding solemnly. “We don’t know what to believe, but we both believe that you know what’s right, and if you tell us what that is, we’ll believe you.”

Hugh had abandoned any pretense of laziness soon after Godfrey launched into this astonishing plea, and now he sat straight-backed and pale-faced, gazing at his two friends from wide, unblinking eyes. He made to speak, but although his mouth opened and his lips moved, nothing emerged. He pushed himself to his feet. Godfrey glanced worriedly at Payn and then spoke up again.

“Hugh, we’re not asking you to sin, or to betray anything. This is very straightforward. Among the three of us, you are the one who knows most about this kind of matter. All we’re asking you to do is tell us what you think, what you believe, based upon what you’ve learned since you joined the Order. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Hugh’s voice sounded different to his own ears, husky and throaty. “That’s all? You’re asking me to be your priest, your spiritual guide, to direct you towards salvation. I can’t do that, Goff. I don’t know where salvation lies, even for myself.”

“That’s not true, Hugh.” Payn’s voice was urgent. “All we are asking you to do is talk to us, about what you think might be true. We believe the people we know within the Order, and we believe what they tell us. But we cannot understand any of it, once we move outside the ritual rooms. The Order is a secret world, Hugh. Out here, in the real world, among people who are not of the Order, we don’t know who to trust … who to believe.”

Hugh de Payens stood there in the meadow, his back to the sinking sun, and looked at his two friends through new eyes, seeing the doubt, confusion, and misery in their faces.

“I have to walk,” he said. “I can’t think, standing here. Walk with me, and we’ll see what comes into my mind.”

Some time later, on the edge of a fast-flowing brook, he stopped and stood, his friends beside him, gazing down into the still waters by the bankside, searching for trout. “You asked me what I believe, but what I heard you asking me to do was to tell you the truth. That’s why I was angry at first … because I don’t know what the truth is. Everything I believe might be completely wrong.”

He turned away from the water then, and looked at each of his friends in turn. “So,” he continued, “I am going to tell you what I believe. But I absolutely do not want either one of you to think, under any circumstances, that I’m convinced that what I tell you is the truth. Do you understand that? I am not telling you the truth, because as God is my witness, I do not know what the truth is, or even where it resides.”

He waited until each of his friends had nodded in agreement, and then he walked away from them without looking back, allowing his next words to trail back over his shoulder.

“I believe in Jesus,” he began. “I believe he lived and was crucified. But I do not believe he was the physical son of God, not now. I believe he was crucified for his political activities against the Romans and their allies—Herod and his clan. I believe he was a fighter in the cause of a free and unified Jewish nation, free of foreign occupation, and free to worship their own God in their own way. I also believe, because our Order has convinced me by showing me evidence—and not simply telling me about it and ordering me to believe—that Jesus was a member of the priestly sect known as the Essenes, whom some called Nazoreans, and that they formed a community that they called the Jerusalem Community, a brotherhood of what we would call monks today—a community of dedicated souls living in isolation and in voluntary poverty, practicing chastity and self-denial and striving to make themselves worthy in the eyes of their God, who was a stern and vengeful God with whom they held a covenant, an understanding that they would live their lives in strict commitment to His expectations … Do you want to ask me any questions about any of that?”

He walked on in silence, waiting, and when nothing came from behind him, he began again. “I believe that Jesus was crucified and died. And after his death, his brother James, whom men called James the Just, continued to head their commune until his death. James was murdered on the steps of the Temple, and his death—far more so than the death of his brother Jesus—caused insurrection and rebellion, leading directly to the last Jewish war against Rome, when Titus destroyed the Jewish nation and those few who survived the destruction were scattered to the ends of the earth.”

He stopped suddenly and turned on his heel to look back at them. “That is what I believe, and none of it should surprise you, for you have heard it all before, from your sponsors and tutors in the Order. We have evidence, within our Order, for all of it, but it might not all be true. Or it might be totally false, its interpretation lost over the centuries since our families first came here, after their flight from Jerusalem. In my own heart and mind, however, I believe it. But now comes the hard part. And it’s the part, I know, that causes all the grief you feel over this.”

He started walking again, more slowly this time, and his companions walked on either side of him, their heads bent.

“All our families, all of them who do not belong to the Brotherhood of the Order, are Christians, and that is what makes this all so difficult, because I also believe that the Christian Church, as it exists today, is built upon a myth created by the man called Paul. Paul was a gentile, we all know that, but nobody really knows today what a gentile was. Do you know, Goff?” Godfrey wrinkled his nose and shook his head, and Hugh smiled. “Well, a gentile was anyone who was not a Jew, and to the Jews, that was all that mattered. I believe that Paul was a friend of Rome, which is a spy, in the pay of the Empire, and I believe that he was an opportunist of the first magnitude. He never knew Jesus—although he knew the brother, James, and James knew Paul, and disliked and distrusted him.