Brotherhood of Wolves

BROTHERHOOD OF WOLVES Knights Templar Medieval Thrillers Book One Daniel Colter For Patsy and Larry Mullins; I wish you were here, and I wouldn’t be here without you. And to Melissa, the love of my life. Table of Contents PART 1 CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 PART 2 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 PART 3 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 A NOTE TO THE READER HISTORICAL NOTES ALSO BY DANIEL COLTER GLOSSARY ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS PART 1 CHAPTER 1 God unleashed his killers on Saint Catherine’s Day, 25 November 1177. Now they rode a land battered by war and reeling in its wake. Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn An-Nasir Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb, Sultan of Egypt, known as Saladin, was striking for Jerusalem and wasting Outremer as he went. Saladin’s demons were turned loose to ply their trades — murder, torture, robbery. The Christian army trailed Saladin through the smouldering ruins of Ramla, Lydda, and Arsuf. Past other nameless places where vultures, too gorged to fly, waddled with grotesque ambling gaits. Where survivors stared with vacant eyes. Where mothers raised their hands to heaven, their wailing forewarning the tragedies ahead. Finn of Struan rode through the misery. Cries of the children echoed in his ears and it was the saddest song he had heard in many a day. It was proving a hard chase. Days in the saddle. Nights on the ground. Awake before dawn to do it again. His courser clomped a weary hoof and kicked up a plume of flour-like dirt. A shemagh wrapped Finn’s angular jaw and he tugged the scarf over mouth and nose to fend off the dust. Keen black eyes stared over houndstooth cotton; hair like spikes of obsidian topped his head; a fierce beard jutted below. Finn studied the horizon a while. “There rides the Devil,” he muttered. Smoke stained the sky — some of it faded smears, much of it thick and dark. As he stared, something big caught fire and a plume flowed up in a black stream, as if his world had been turned upside down. The land between there and here was flat, dry as a bone, cut by wadis that had not carried water in years. Landmarks were scarce here and this made judging distance a chore. Ten, maybe fifteen miles to the smoke, he guessed. He longed to be there, in the ashes, having a go at Saladin. Obedience was beaten into a Templar. Patience too. But Finn’s supply of both was wearing dangerously thin. Why had they put him here, at the arse-end of the chase? No glory in playing cat-and-mouse with raiders — horsemen who swoop out of the desert, kill and rob, then melt away laughing. Bastards. Finn plucked at the shemagh again. We chase ashes and ghosts… Rough ground lay at his horse’s hooves, the ruin of a ridge long since eroded into a jumble of broken rock and drifted sand. Native-born Turcopoles, called Turcs, scouted the other side while Templars stewed in the heat. Rollo of Caen, large and dark, simmered at Finn’s right; Jean of Provence, lean and fair, sat at his left. “God’s bones.” Rollo squinted at the rising sun. His jaw was working, moving a livid scar that carved from cheek, through lips, and over his chin. “Hot day in the cactus patch.” Jean shot Finn a look that said, Again with the cursing, again with the griping. “There was a madman in Caen,” Rollo said to no one in particular, “who spent his days chasing birds. He’d leap and grasp at the sky while we’d wager on how long it’d take until he collapsed from fatigue. But the birds flew only in his fevered head.” He tapped a hairy brow and fluttered fingers imitating a bird. “I’m that madman, chasing imagined birds yet catching none.” “Your charming story reminds me of Saint Fillan.” Jean swatted a fly on his arm and flicked it away. “Fillan was Irish, and I find it fitting an Irishman is patron saint of madmen.” Rollo nodded. “Irishmen have a reputation for madness.” “Fillan ministered in Alba, near my home. His arm glowed and he used it to read the holy book at night.” Finn gave a soft whistle. “The wondrous things I could do with a glowing arm.” “Useful thing to have,” Jean agreed, “though I ask myself if madmen, and those fond of spending their days with them, have enough wits to pray to a saint?” “Ah. Jean made a jest. Nearly cacked my breeches laughing.” Rollo scowled and muttered, “I meant what I said — we chase birds in circles. We should be in the vanguard chasing Saladin.” “You grumble like an old woman,” Jean said. “You’re feeble as —” “Find, flush, kill.” Finn spoke quick to cut off the rising squabble. Leadership was no easy task and he massaged weary eyeballs. “We’re the hammer. Robert the anvil.” A second group, led by Robert of Saint Albans, shadowed their flank. The groups were separate but shared a mind — one herding prey, the other killing it. Specific prey was lacking; opportunity abounded but one had to seek, trap, and kill it. Turcs rode between the groups coordinating the hunt. So far, the cactus patch had yielded only dust plumes and hoof prints. Rollo made a snorting sound. “Anvil… Robert is as useless as a wooden frying pan.” The same doubt had recently settled into Finn’s mind, though he kept it caged. “He’s a pompous half-wit.” Rollo was in fine form and ploughed on. “Arse-licking windbag.” “Enough.” Finn gave a small headshake, for this was not the time to plod the well-trod path of Robert’s many faults. “Chase Saladin’s dogs. Set ambushes. Report at end of day. Master Odo’s orders were simple, even