A Painted Shield of Honour

[edyzmedieval]

It might surprise you a bit, fellow reader, to see such a title.

After all, shields, honour, maybe an artist, that would not necessarily go hand in hand. Except it does - since the novel focuses on the infamous Templar Knights, the knights who guarded Jerusalem and who became one of the most infamous organisations in the medieval world. This is a project about them, focusing on the last days in 1313 and their war against King Philip of France.

A new project, but not necessarily a new novel, as the entire work had already been written more than 10 years ago. The book is undergoing an extensive editing - or restoration if you will - to keep the story but to make sure that all of the sights, sounds, smells and impressions are evocating that very very turbulent period in 1313.

A Painted Shield of Honour.

May you have a very pleasant read.


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Chapter I – The Shadow
13th of October 1313
Early Evening
Paris
The Kingdom of France

Raymond heard them.

A faint rumble echoed from down the street, a coarse clatter of hardened steel ringing off the cobblestones, reaching his ears in crisper overtones as they drew nearer and nearer. For a brief moment, he relaxed his muscles and waited in silence, releasing the silvered clasp of his heavy cloak. His finger slid down to the pommel, his hand closing over the gilded handle of his longsword. Raymond turned his head left, then right, glancing one last time for any unfortunate bystanders or drunkards in the darkness that engulfed the rest of the street. With the street empty, he jolted away from the dark wall and glided gently towards the crossroad to his left.

Eerie silence it was just minutes ago, Raymond remembered, but the cobblestones rang deeper with the clangour of boots as they approached him. They broke into a patch of moonlight and stepped forwards with confidence, dressed in their brown tunics and their shaved heads, bared and barely visible in the dim light. They might have passed as two poor friars at any other moment of the day, even with the armoured boots, but Raymond knew they were not the friars they seemed to be. They came towards Raymond in their glacial pace, eyes darted downwards, gaze averted from any onlookers, slipping past him without a sidelong glance. Their footsteps echoed behind him for a couple of more moments but just as he turned his head to catch a glimpse, they were gone.

Raymond frowned. Dark as it was around him, the alley caving an opening between the houses on the left side of the street was visible in the moonlight. Four thatched houses with one floor stood adjacent to each other, the alley right in their midst. The alley had a particular reputation, most of it due to a dubious inn hidden in its depths, but try as he might, Raymond could not remember one inch of it. Anxious, Raymond slowly unsheathed his sword. He slid sideways, hugging the wall of the squalid house to his left, gently padding over the cobblestones. Irregular patches of moonlight formed a trickle of light that guided his steps to the opening of the alley. Raymond stopped at the edge of the alley, swallowing with unease. He took a glance. Darkness. Jittery, Raymond gripped his sword and jumped into the alley.

A long, narrow passageway bordered by faint outlines of thatched houses opened before him, a lone torch encased in the opposite wall meters from his spot the only light that blazed through the darkness. A broken door stood ajar underneath the torch, giving enough indication about the state of the infamous inn behind it. No sounds echoed from the door, nor the end of the alley. Nor for that matter were any sounds behind him. Uneasy, Raymond hugged the wall and glided forwards, the heavy sword clutched tight in his hand. His boots clicked, clanged and echoed in the darkness, or so his mind registered. Faint, but crisp enough to distinguish, the clatter of other boots trickled to his ear. He heard them again, and again, and again as the friars fumbled in the darkness.

And yet the false friars had no idea he was there. Shards of broken pottery, splintered planks and bits of wooden barrels covered the end of the alley, faintly illuminated by the small torch they carried. The light was only good enough to show them the immediate steps ahead, too dim to illuminate Raymond behind them. They were sure Raymond went into this alley, maybe in that creepy and deserted inn where the other torch lay. But neither of them dared to enter it. One of them fumbled in the dark and tripped over a broken barrel, sprawling headfirst onto the pavement. He stood up, glancing around, but there was nothing to be seen. He backed off, kicking the barrel again, crunching the planks with loud sounds.

The friar froze on his spot. A ghostly clatter of boots loomed towards them and steel scraped the near walls, sending a wave of butterflies inside his stomach. But in his desperation to track back and avoid the menace, he tripped over another broken barrel.

It came out of nowhere and neither man had time to react. Raymond lunged forwards, the heavy sword slicing through the air with a vicious rotating movement. The steel edge ripped the man's neck apart, slashing his jugular into a red torrent that gushed on the pavement. The other man instinctively glanced behind him but it was too late. Raymond sliced his sword upwards and rotated on his heels, bringing the Damascus steel down in a blindingly fast blow that severed the man's head. There was no sound, no shriek, no wail, not even the slightest reaction.

“Bastards,” muttered Raymond under his breath.

Bells chimed and rang in the distance as Raymond sheathed his sword. Hurried, he scoured through the men's garments and found a small cloth bag filled with golden florins and two small scrolls. Satisfied with the discovery, even with the scrolls rather useless to him right now, he glanced one last time behind him and slid back into the dark Parisian streets. It was right, left, left, right, right again and maybe a couple of more turns he forgot about until he broke into one of the main boulevards leading up to the city gates. Caravans at this time of the night would be rare but they were still leaving the city, or at the very least camping in a safe spot, away from prying eyes.

“Somewhere,” muttered Raymond to himself.

To his satisfaction, the main streets were mostly empty and desolate. The bitter October cold made short work of anyone meddling through the streets at this hour. Steel boots echoed in the distance, a dim shout breaking through the evening. Raymond ignored the sounds. He swaggered forwards, cloak drawn over his head, his eyes focused on every flickering shadow around him. It went on for a couple of streets until he reached the end of the boulevard. Pacing rightwards, he hugged the walls and their shadows, down the long empty street, a tingle of fear creeping up his spine.

He reached the neighbourhood moments later. The Templar commandery was guarded by a cast-iron gate, housed within an expansive complex. Raymond pushed the gate aside but much to his annoyance, the only reaction he received was the scraping of the rusted lock. Raymond sighed. He knew he should have expected it.

Constructed as a faithful copy of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the commandery of the Templar Knights in Paris was not impressive from the outside. To an outsider, it looked like a simple stone outpost with numerous buildings clustered around an oddly-shaped church. Stamped on the iron bars of the gate was a round symbol with two knights on a single horse. Apart from these particular details, there was nothing else to show that it was anything but another church.

Raymond glanced around. With no one to disturb him, he jumped on the gate and hopped over the sharp spikes at the top. He landed on a soft patch of grass, rolling over to one side and into the shadow offered by the nearest chapter house. By now moonlight shone directly on the darkened complex, a mere ghost devoid of any soul locked with iron chains by King Philip's soldiers.

Seeing no one, Raymond broke into the moonlight and rushed to the massive oak door a couple of feet ahead of him. Fearful, he entered the small cathedral, the imposing place of worship embossed with architraves and stained glass shining in the moonlight. There were no benches or furniture of any sort inside, spare for a large wooden counter near the altar and covered by black sheets. The wooden benches that were used by people to stand and pray were no longer there, wrecked to bits or taken away, along with the pulpits. Raymond stepped lightly inside the cathedral, the leather soles of his boots quiet on the marble floor.

It was empty, devoid of any souls, silence the only company he had. Raymond had escaped the capture by King Philip's men, out to get any Templar they could get their hands on, the commandery in Paris locked, sealed and not even guarded. Sweat drops trickled down from his temple, exhausted, his throat as dry as he had ever imagined it. He heard that most of the Templar brothers were kept in the Saint-Denis prison. That was the extent of the information he had.

"Not much to work with," Raymond muttered to himself.

Raymond nodded at the darkness and was about to turn to the door when a crashing noise rang throughout the cathedral, other strange throbbing sounds following suit. The far counter collapsed to the floor, ripping the white sheets guarding the pulpits to shreds. Bits of masonry crashed along, echoing in the eerie silence of the small cathedral. Shards of broken metal collapsed on top of the counter, Raymond guessing from the hidden organ behind the sheets. Philip's men had destroyed the interiors but they held up, only collapsing when the wind current blew through what was left of it. Shaken, Raymond rushed back to the gate and into the Parisian streets.

Jarring cold was the only thing he met once outside. As he slithered away from the commandery and back into the main boulevards, throngs of people started to appear, most of them souls of the night, the streets now lined up by drunkards, prostitutes and troubadours as if it was market day. Militia battalions patrolled in full combat gear, halberds clutched tightly in their hands, their eyes onto every shadow that seemed out of place. Raymond avoided them, switching from cover to cover, but the time lost could not be made up. Dawn approached with every minute and he could not afford to linger another day in Paris. Panting, he sped up his pace, closing in on the southern gate of the city towards Marseille.

Cloudless, the moonlit sky cleared his path and shone directly above the boulevard plaza around the southern entrance, forming a three-way crossroad with the fortified city gate. Amidst the crossroad, a massive stone statue of Charlemagne on his horse stood guard. But just as Raymond was about to discard his idea of fleeing Paris, a long shadow crept around the statue, the shadow flickering slightly on the stone edges as it moved at snail pace towards the gate.

“Caravans,” muttered Raymond.

Raymond wasted no time. He jolted from his concealed position in the shadow and crouched in the shadow of the statue, advancing slowly towards the moving caravan. Using his legs as springing points, Raymond lunged forwards and trailed behind the last caravan guard, hoping to blend in with the group that approached the gate militias. He closed in with small steps, just as the caravan reached the control point.

In their unmistakable clatter of chain mail and endless chatter, the French militias approached the caravan and inspected the carts laden with goods. They gave glances and quick nods, saluting the caravan master who came down to salute one of the militiamen. In the back of the caravan, Raymond watched the spectacle aghast, jittery under his armour, his hand shaking on his hidden sword, but his hopes soon turned to a subtle frown. Something seemed amiss. The militiamen did not notice him, no glance given, their eyes fixed solely on the caravan master.

Before Raymond had any chance to react, a searing pain shot in his back as he collapsed on one knee.

“My suggestion is to you is to lay down the weapon, Seigneur.”

The officer's smile waned, his eyes narrow as Raymond grinned back in return.

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