THE MISSION

“Lift up a stone and you will find me,
split a piece of wood, and I am there.”

(The Gospel of Thomas, Verse 77)

 

CHAPTER 1
Gregorian Chanting

Wednesday, October 11, 1307
Bar-sur-Aube, France

On this gloriously sunny October afternoon in the year of our Lord 1307, only the refreshing breeze and the first falling leaves gave any hint that autumn had arrived.

A thick cloud of dust rolled down the hill onto the pale limestone road that led from Thors. From the watchtower of the Templar commandery of Bar-sur-Aube, the Brother on duty spotted the black-and-white banner of his Brethren in the distance.

Gradually, the hazy sight became clear: six mighty steeds and their stately riders, Templars, clad in fluttering white cloaks emblazoned with a bright red cross pattée on the shoulder, breast, and back. Their hair and beards were closely shorn, as tradition demanded. The proud bearing of the young men and their open display of weaponry – sword, shield, and knife belt – only reinforced the picture of steely discipline and militant determination.

A group of small boys stood by the side of the road, momentarily awestruck as the cavalcade trotted past them, but the last rider had barely passed them before they began hooting and gesticulating wildly behind the troop.

Gerard of Breydenbach, a knight of German descent from the Trier archdiocese, led the group of riders in white. Gero, as he was known, straightened his back a little more than usual. Alongside his exhaustion, a bothersome pain had plagued him since midday, and only the thought that he could soon exchange his hard saddle for a soft mattress gave him any relief.

Even before early mass, Gero and his companions had set out to deliver a secret message to Thors, which lay two miles away. They had intended to be back around midday, but their return had been unexpectedly delayed. The commander-in-chief of the Bailiwick of Thors, the headquarters of the surrounding Templar settlements, had summoned the Brothers of Bar-sur-Aube to deliver, without delay, additional sealed parchments to each of the five neighboring commanderies.

A ringing laugh jolted Gero out of his thoughts. Not far from the road, three washerwomen were gathering the white, linen sheets they had laid out to dry on the grassy banks of the Dhuys. A gust of wind fluttered both the blonde hair of the women and their thin dresses.

As the warrior monks rode by, the women tried to attract their attention. With a subtle smirk, Gero let his discipline slip as he recognized the women’s intentions. The Spanish flag bearer who rode beside him grinned broadly, briefly flashing his snow-white teeth. One of the Brothers behind them let out an appreciative whistle, earning him a ravishing smile from the young women.

“He looked at me!” exclaimed one of the women as she pressed her hands to her breast in utter bliss.

“I told you,” announced a second with an enchanted expression, “the troop leader has eyes as blue as the sky.”

“I prefer the one with the brown locks …,” the riders heard from behind them. Laughter broke out. It came not from the women, however, but from the Brethren following behind.

Maybe Father Augustinus was right after all, thought Gero. The careworn chaplain’s face appeared in his mind, appealing, as he did every Sunday, to the knights’ morals:

“We deem it dangerous,” recited the perpetually sour-faced Father, “for any man of the order to gaze too closely at the face of a woman. Accordingly, no Brother should presume to kiss a widow, a virgin, his mother, sister, aunt, or any other woman. The knighthood of Christ should therefore flee from the kisses of women, through which men often endanger themselves, so that they remain, at all times, in God’s sight, pure of conscience, and sure of life.”

The mockery that erupted from some of his companions as soon as Augustinus left resounded in Gero’s mind. Who ever said that a man must kiss a woman before he enjoys himself with her … and he need not necessarily look her in the face either. Roaring laughter followed these comments, and Gero could only guess how much of it came from personal experience.

Francesco de Salazar, riding to the side of Gero, clicked his tongue and grinned at him as if he’d guessed his thoughts.

Gero closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps to shield them from the afternoon sun’s low-lying light or perhaps just to clear his conscience. As he opened them again, the guard on duty in the tower blew his horn – one short blast and one long – the signal for the sergeants in the courtyard below to open the heavy oak gates immediately.

Swiftly, the troop descended into the long, cool shadows of the high fortress walls. The iron horseshoes of the heavy war-horses thundered over the square cobblestones before the noise finally subsided as the riders came to a standstill in front of the stables.

“Dismount!” Gero commanded. Almost simultaneously, the large, broad-shouldered men swung down from their saddles.

The courtyard was bustling with activity. Into the midst of the servants and maids who were scurrying about, flocked a band of young admirers. Boys aged between eleven and eighteen stood ready to take over from their cavaliers the duty of unharnessing and feeding the horses.

With a beaming smile, Matthäus of Bruch, a lanky twelve-year-old with a curly mop of hair, relieved Gero of his gray Percheron’s reins. Gero rid himself of his iron-fitted plate gloves, and carelessly tousled his squire’s disheveled blonde hair.

“All right there, Mattes?”

Matthäus nodded contentedly and led the enormous horse to a water trough.

Gero headed towards the men’s quarters at the other end of the courtyard with his fellow knights. Before they reached the lodgings, he stepped out of line and, despite the need to hurry, indulged himself in two scoops of water from one of the half-full wooden pails by the well. He then hastened up the steep outer staircase of a three-story sandstone building, the sealed parchment in his left hand. He stopped at the first landing and pushed a heavy oak door that creaked softly as it opened. As he headed down the long, dim passageway, he checked the fit of his chlamys to neaten it. These legendary cloaks were constructed from light, unbleached worsted wool and worn exclusively by knights who had sworn their lives to the Templar Order.

At the end of the hall, Brother Claudius was waiting for him. The young, brown-robed administrator noted each visitor calling on his superior with the eye of an eagle lying in wait for an unwary rabbit. No one was allowed entry into the commander’s chambers without a prior appointment.

“You can’t enter now,” warned Claudius, seeing that Gero was heading towards his commander’s study. “He is in council with Father Augustinus and doesn’t want to be disturbed.” The man reached out his scrawny arm and motioned to take the message from Gero.

“I’ll wait,” said Gero curtly. Claudius nodded briefly and turned sullenly to face his desk, deliberately ignoring his Brother in white.

A short while later, the door to the commander’s chamber opened, and, without paying Gero any heed, the chaplain of the commandery darted out toward the exit. Claudius glanced up briefly, and Gero received, with the slightest of nods, permission to enter his superior’s study.

Commander Henri d’Our was a wiry figure with the shimmering gray eyes of a wolf and a hooked nose like the beak of a falcon. His height of nearly seven feet ensured that he had the undivided attention of all who crossed his path. His thick, white hair was closely shorn and full of cowlicks, lending him a sympathetically imperfect appearance. D’Our, a descendant of the Duchy of Lorraine, possessed a steely nerve and sharp wit. His heart was full of an inimitable sense of justice, and – when the situation allowed – an odd sense of humor.

For a man who ruled over the hundreds of residents in the commandery, d’Our’s study was not particularly large. The two small windows facing the courtyard were unglazed. Instead, when necessary, they were covered with oiled goatskins. They let in almost no light, but at least kept the cold out. Like the rest of the commandery, the furnishings were sparse: a bed, a table with four stools, and a bare dresser.

Gero took a step back, squared his shoulders, and, raising his head slightly, looked his superior firmly in the eye.

“God be with you, Sire!” he saluted d’Our and presented him with the carefully guarded message.

“And with you, Brother Gerard,” d’Our replied genially, accepting the sealed parchment. “Shut the door! I have something to discuss with you.”

Gero sensed something amiss on his superior’s tense face. And he was speaking German – something Gero had only experienced once in his three years at the commandery, on the occasion of his father’s visit. Richard of Breydenbach had fought with d’Our in the Holy Land in 1291.

Henri d’Our broke the seal and quickly scanned the parchment’s contents.

“Seat yourself,” he said, not looking up once as he read. “Our discussion will require some time.”

After Gero had settled himself on a stool at the table, he let his eyes roam about the room. A jewel-encrusted Saracen dagger had been mounted and sat on a shelf by the wall, allowing the emir’s gift to be marveled at from all angles. Above it, a hand-painted, goat leather map of the Eastern Mediterranean Sea hung on a wooden board. Along with two Oriental rugs that covered the stone floor, they were the only luxury goods the Commander of Bar-sur-Aube had kept from his service in the Outremer, the lost Templar possession in the Holy Land.

D’Our finished reading, went to the fireplace and placed the parchment carefully in the flames.

What is he doing? Gero was bewildered. Paper and parchment were expensive, and in the commandery, a great emphasis was placed on keeping continuous and diligent records that were archived for years to come. As far as he could remember, nothing from these archives had ever been destroyed.

Ignoring his subordinate’s look of surprise, d’Our set a carafe of red wine and two cups on the table before he too sat down.

“Would you like a drink?” Without waiting for an answer, d’Our poured the rich, red liquid into two ornately painted stoneware cups and set the carafe aside. “I had this marvelous wine delivered to me from Provence just two days ago. We should savor it,” he said, raising his cup, oddly casual.

Gero mirrored the gesture, catching the tantalizing scent of cherries and blackberries and a heady dose of alcohol as he raised his glass.

“How long have we known each other?” d’Our asked, looking at Gero inquiringly.

Gero shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve belonged to the Order for about six years, but I was in Cyprus for a long time.”

“The fact is, we’ve known each other far longer than that. You were a child when I first saw you.”

Gero suppressed his rising impatience. It was hardly likely that the commander had sat him down just to regale him with tales from his turbulent but otherwise unremarkable youth.

“I value and trust you, not least because of your father. He is a brave man who has always stood loyally by the Order’s side, even though he was never one of us.” D’Our drank and set his cup down thoughtfully. He stared at Gero with his stone gray eyes, as if reaching into his soul. “You have sworn an oath of secrecy, but still, I would like your reassurance that what I’m about to say will remain in this room – forever.” He searched Gero’s face for an answer.

“You have my word, Sire,” Gero whispered hoarsely.

“Very well,” d’Our began, “our sources at court in Paris have learned that King Philipp is planning an attack on all our settlements in France tomorrow night. The orders have supposedly been at Guillaume de Nogaret’s headquarters since September. We believe his unexpected appointment to the Keeper of the Seals is not without reason. According to everything we currently know, the orders to attack have been sealed and delivered to all the royal army’s command offices throughout the country. Anyone who opens them before tomorrow evening faces the death penalty. That leaves us little time to take the necessary precautions.”

Gero stared at his commander in disbelief. “How is that possible?”

“Our official supposition of the king’s intentions,” d’Our continued with a wry smile, “is that he needs money urgently. And since we won’t give it to him freely, he’s looking for a reason to seize it in a surprise coup. If he’d announced an investigation, he would have come up against not just locked doors, but locked vaults as well. Due to this unfortunate development, we’ve received strict orders to immediately take all assets stored in the commanderies to a secure place. Do you understand?”

It took a while for Gero to process the momentousness of d’Our’s plainly stated words. Fire flooded through his veins.

“I want you,” d’Our continued, “to assemble five of your most capable men and take our funds and the local merchants’ promissory notes to our depot in the Forest of the Orient tomorrow afternoon. You will meet with Theobald of Thors in Beaulieu beforehand. He’s leading the combined march of all our commanderies in the area.”

“Do the Pope and the Grand Master know about this?” Gero had completely forgotten that he was not allowed to question an order. “No one except the Pope can meddle in our financial affairs, not even the King – it’s a documented right.”

“The orders come directly from the Grand Master,” d’Our replied tersely. “Besides that, Jacques de Molay has ordered us not to do anything that could tip off the King.” The commander looked doubtful.

“In spite of everything, he doesn’t believe Philipp would really dare stage such a treacherous attack. Just this morning, our honorable Grand Master and his representative Raymbaud de Charon attended the burial of Philipp’s sister-in-law at the invitation of the King himself. As a matter of fact, Molay and our esteemed preceptor from Cyprus are to carry Catherine de Courtenay’s burial shroud.” D’Our’s expression revealed that he found this circumstance just as strange as Gero did.

“I imagine this is a well-calculated move by both sides,” he added. “How does the saying go? Don’t tell me you hate me, and I won’t tell you that I know you do. But I, for one, don’t believe the King would give up his attempts to seize the Order, least of all for such a witless gesture.

“As for the Pope … what he thinks has long been meaningless. Financially, he stands with his back to the wall – something he shares with our fine Philipp – nothing forges such easy bonds as a common sorrow. And he’s frightened. After his predecessors Boniface VIII and Benedict XI died so suddenly and mysteriously, he will duly consider every step he takes to ensure he doesn’t meet the same fate.” D’Our smiled dryly.

“But that’s not all,” he continued conspiratorially. “There exists a prophecy of a kind,” he explained, “about the impending downfall of the Order in the autumn of 1307, and the capture of all Knights Templar in France by King Philipp IV on a Friday the thirteenth.”

Gero looked up in shock.

D’Our waved his hand reassuringly. “Which doesn’t necessarily mean that our fate is sealed. Molay knows about this, but he believes in the salvation of the Order through the Almighty, even if at the eleventh hour. Therefore, I am neither authorized to undertake anything that would put the members of the Order on alert, nor am I allowed to give the order to flee.”

“What does this all mean?” Gero felt his knees go weak.

“Have you ever heard of the High Council?”

“Of course.” Gero was beginning to question what other outrageous secrets the simple Commander of Bar-sur-Aube knew. Among the ordinary knights hardly anyone knew anything about the High Council of the Templars. Some joked that it was so secret it probably didn’t even exist.

“As far as I know, the council is made up of the most trustworthy of all our Brothers.” Gero hesitated when d’Our didn’t react immediately. “Chosen by a special codex. No one knows if these faceless figures really exist. They say they advise the Grand Master in all critical affairs of the Order, and they supposedly have visionary powers, although I don’t know anyone who has ever met any of them.”

“One of them stands before you,” d’Our said plainly.

“You?” Gero looked at his commander, and then quickly corrected himself. “Not that I don’t think you’re worthy enough … ”

D’Our smiled faintly. “The selection isn’t based on rank. One is chosen for his abilities, and appointed to an unassuming post as a cover.”

Gero nodded absently as he pondered who else could belong to the inner circle without anyone having even the faintest idea.

“Are you acquainted with the term Head of Wisdom?”
“Head of Wisdom? Do you mean the infamous Head of Baphomet?” Gero asked hesitantly.

“Baphomet originated from the desire for dangerous half-truths. Higher members of the Order couldn’t keep their oaths of secrecy, and boasted about something they themselves had never set sight on.” D’Our’s expression darkened abruptly and he snorted scornfully. “Unfortunately, it was precisely one of these false replicas of Baphomet that set King Philipp on our path.”

“What do you mean?”

“Philipp IV has long believed that all our wisdom springs from a secret magic.”

“Is this head holy?” Gero asked haltingly, nursing the vague fear that d’Our would scoff at his ignorance.

Of course, Gero was familiar with all religious teachings of the Orient and Occident. He had read the secret Bible of the Cathari, who were almost completely destroyed in two merciless Crusades for their belief that the Old Testament described the maker of an evil world. And he knew of the Sefer Yetzirah, a collection of ancient Hebrew texts in which the secret of how the world is ordered was set forth in numbers and letters. Under strict secrecy he had translated the text into Latin for the commandery’s scriptorium – a dangerous undertaking, as the Christian leadership frowned upon anyone who concerned himself with the secret knowledge of the Jews. But until now, he had not seen any evidence to support these fascinating insights.

“No,” d’Our chuckled. “Like everything else, it exists within the knowledge of the Almighty. But when it comes to its power, you might suspect it to be an invention of the Antichrist, although it has always served us well.”

“What do you mean?” Gero eyed his commander warily.

“Let’s not get lost in details. Besides, I’m not allowed to tell you anything beyond what is necessary. Make no mistake, the head has prophesized the destruction of our Order, but it can also help save us. But before we make use of it, we must be sure that the prophecy holds true.”

“What do we do now?” Gero felt his composure slipping. He was incensed and searching desperately for an answer that would repair his ruined view of the world.

“Against the will of the Grand Master, the High Council has decided that, without informing their current inhabitants, we should evacuate all commanderies except the fortresses in Paris and Troyes, where the Grand Master currently resides.”

Gero looked up, astonished. “How would that happen?”

“As much as possible, the knights of the surrounding commanderies will be called on to perform duties that will allow them to return home only after midnight. Should an attack from Philipp’s soldiers occur before then, they still stand a chance to escape on their way back. We will take the squires to Clairvaux, with the exception of Matthäus who will ride with you. The servants will remain here so we don’t arouse any unnecessary suspicions. We can only hope that Philipp has only the immediate members of the Order in his sight. And now, we come to your actual task.”

D’Our took a deep breath and looked at Gero solemnly. “In the event of the High Council’s fears holding true, you will proceed promptly to the German lands. Brothers Johan van Elk and Struan MacDhughaill will accompany you, along with the rest of your chosen men. You will deliver Matthäus to safety with the Cistercians in Hemmenrode. I am his only living relative, and it would be too costly a bargain if King Philipp were to capture my nephew.”

Before d’Our continued, he drank another hasty gulp of wine, then set the cup aside and reached for a map that lay on a stool beside him. Deftly, he unrolled the stunningly detailed map.

“Along with the two Brothers, you will cross the Rhine and head to the Cistercian Abbey of Heisterbach. I know from your father that you are familiar with the area. Johannes of Heisterbach is Abbot there. After you give him the password – computatrum quantum – he will lead you to a middle man who is stationed at the Abbey and who is also a secret brother of the High Council of the Templars,” d’Our explained. “Like myself he has been initiated. Afterwards, you will lead only this brother to a hidden chamber under the refectory. Across the adjoining vaulted cellar, you will arrive at an iron door that leads to the sewer. Open it and take twelve steps east. There, the path makes a slight bend facing northeast. Take twelve more steps, and you will find yourselves directly under the cloister graveyard. Turn right, and between the bricks in the wall, you will find a small depression plastered with clay. Break it open and seize the lever that lies under it. With this, you can open a secret door. Behind it is the chamber in which the Head of Wisdom lies hidden.”

“I know the path,” Gero said softly. “It serves the Brothers as an escape route. When the monks commit a transgression, they have to scrub the drain as punishment. Eight latrine holes lead the excrement directly into it.” His face revealed how unlikely he found it that a holy treasure, of all things, would be hidden in that stinking drain.

“When you arrive there,” d’Our continued unfazed, “give this middleman another password. Chant the first verse of the second antiphon of ‘God’s Greatness and Goodness’ – Laudabo Deum meum in vita mea … am I going too fast for you?”

Too stunned to speak, Gero merely shook his head.

“You will tell Brother Struan and Brother Johan only as much as seems necessary to you. It suffices for them to know they must accompany you to the German lands. They – like you – will learn everything else from a member of the High Council when you are there.”

“What happens if the attack on the Order doesn’t happen at all?” Gero was visibly confused.

“Then our Grand Master would have been proven right, and the storm will pass right by us,” d’Our remarked with a fatalistic undertone in his voice. “Naturally, everything will remain as it is now. You will not flee, and our conversation today never took place. You may not tell anyone the details before we know which path we will have to take. As you know, spies are swarming throughout the kingdom. We cannot allow Philipp to discover the source of our knowledge.”

“If we really are attacked, would we be followed out of France?”

“That won’t happen,” d’Our responded confidently. “They will leave our settlements in the German lands alone for now. You won’t be caught in France, I’m sure, but still, you must be on guard.”

Gero nodded stiffly. Although he could not grasp the entirety of it, he ultimately had to accept orders whether or not he understood their significance.

“One more thing,” d’Our said. “From now on, I would like all knights to take their proofs of origin with them whenever they leave the commandery. Relay that to your Brothers.”

The commander rose. “The Holy Virgin shall watch over you, Brother Gerard.”

“And over you, Sire.” Gero’s voice was barely a whisper as he stood up. He felt dizzy, and had to swallow as he looked into his commander’s sharp eyes. “What will become of you, Sire?”

“Don’t worry about me,” replied d’Our, clapping him on the shoulder. “You are my guarantor that I have done all I can to save the Order. I know I can count on you.

“Remember, if the fair Philipp gets what he wants, not just the Order will be in danger. Humanity is at stake. The downfall of our Order would cost the lives of millions, and bring war, hunger, and damnation to the Christian world for hundreds of years to come.”

CHAPTER 2
Fin Amor

Wednesday, October 11, 1307, evening

Feeling as if hell itself had spat him straight out onto the stair landing, Gero once again found himself outside in front of the building.

His commander’s words had shaken him to his core, but he knew he had to keep a cool head. He steadied himself against the walls for a moment before descending the precisely carved steps.

Gero went straight to the dormitory. Situated opposite the main building, it was a long communal structure that housed the knights’ sleeping and living quarters. Once he arrived, he stripped off his cloak, sword, knife-belt and chain mail before collapsing on one of the twelve beech wood beds. The other young men had already dispersed to their respective bunks. Boots and chain mail lay scattered on the polished wooden planks.

Another group of men in white cloaks entered the dormitory.

“Open the window,” one of the new arrivals called out.

Stephano de Sapin, a tall, lanky man with an elegant gait, wrinkled his nose. He threw a disapproving glare at the mess of damp, unwashed felt socks laid out to dry on a wooden partition.

As Gero sat up to remove his boots, his eyes fell on Johan van Elk, swearing under his breath as he stumbled over someone’s stray chain mail at the door. Like Gero, the red-haired Brother was from the German lands, and was the youngest offspring of a family of counts from the Lower Rhine. Horrific burns distorted his once handsome face. Otherwise, the Brother was tall and athletic as the rest, and only his clumsy movements revealed his true age of barely twenty.

“Jo!” Gero called to him in German. “There you are! Finally!”

The redhead turned his attention to Gero, walking towards him before grinning and clapping him on the shoulder companionably.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked. “You look pale.”

Gero didn’t answer immediately. Whenever he looked at Johan, he was reminded of how swiftly the course of one’s destiny could be altered.

Shortly after his acceptance into the Order, the young Brother had stumbled under a machicolation in the forest of Clairvaux. Gero would never forget the bloodcurdling screams of his Brother as the sudden cascade of hot tar entered the eye slits of his helmet and spread over his cheeks and ears. Without hesitation, Gero had grabbed Johan and yanked the helmet along with the hood from his head, dragged the wounded knight to a nearby stream, and plunged him headfirst into the cold water. Only Gero’s quick response had allowed the deep burns to cool and saved Johan’s life.

“If only I had it as easy as you, and could spend half the day in the scriptorium,” Gero replied with a half-hearted smile, “maybe I would be feeling better.”

Before Johan could reply, Francesco de Salazar, the dark-haired flag bearer, jumped in.

“How about you repeat whatever you just said in French, Brother Gerard? In case you’ve forgotten, that’s the official language here,” the handsome, bronzed Spaniard chided.

“Francesco de Salazar, why don’t you lose your Spanish farmer’s accent first,” Johan retorted in fluent Catalan, making sure to roll his r’s with particular relish, “before you dictate how other people should speak to each other?”

The knights within earshot who had understood Johan’s riposte laughed in amusement.

Francesco, whose forefathers were counts from the Kingdom of Navarra, drew himself to his full height. “Johan van Elk, do you think I will excuse your insolence just because your mother is a Catalan?”

He circled round Gero’s bed and tapped Brother Johan’s head sturdily. In a flash, a playful skirmish between the two young knights was underway.

Gero felt a sudden stab in his gut. None of his Brothers had the faintest clue what grisly fate awaited them.

The Brothers were beginning to prepare themselves for the remaining hours of the evening, leaving the dormitory equipped with brushes and linen cloths to wash away the day’s grime in the washhouse. Gero looked around.

“Has anyone seen Stru?” he yelled above the din.

“Have any of you seen the lousy Scot?” repeated a pale, blond lad spitefully.

It was Guy de Gislingham, an English Brother who was new to the commandery. And, as far as Gero knew, he was not planning to stay there for much longer either. He was the son of an influential English nobleman, and was in Bar-sur-Aube to further his studies in French and expand his knowledge of the Templars’ martial arts in their country of origin. Thereafter, he would head back to his homeland.

According to his own declarations, though, he still intended to take on a high post in the English branch of the Order. His family obviously had enough money, and, because of this, he could rise effortlessly to heights that poorer knights from the lower nobility could only dream of.

Despite his brief stay in the commandery, Gero was not the only knight to question why the arrogant youth hadn’t remained in the Order’s headquarters in Paris, where his self-importance would have been better received.

“Considering that you want to become a Templar, you have a remarkable lack of discipline, Brother Guy,” Gero said with an irritated undertone in his voice.

Struan MacDhughaill nan t-Eilean Ileach was not just Gero’s Brother in the Order, but also his best friend. Stru had saved his life five years previously on the island fortress of Antarados in the Syrian sea, shielding him from the lethal blows of the attacking Mamluks. Under a rain of arrows from their assailants, he had carried an unconscious and badly wounded Gero onto a fishing vessel. When Gero finally awoke on the swaying planks of the ship on its the way to Cyprus, the few survivors told him whom he had to thank for his life. Struan had stopped the bleeding from Gero’s lacerated shoulder blade with a bandage, and, throughout the journey, shared his meager water rations with him to bring down his fever.

Four months after their arrival in Cyprus, Gero had recovered so well that he and his savior were ordered to join a substitute battalion in France in the spring of 1303. Both knew they were lucky to be assigned to the local commandery together.

Guy de Gislingham knew this story, but it failed to impress him. To him, all Scots were loathsome, and a Scottish hero was unimaginable.

“Everyone in my homeland knows the Scots think washing is unnecessary,” he drawled. “They dwell in their damp, windowless stone barracks like savages, always burning peat fires in their hovels until they’re as smoked as eels …”

Gislingham’