Orphan of Destiny tyt-3 Read online

  I looked up at the tapestries lining the chapel walls, each of them showing moments of our history as Templar Knights. Studying them, I felt a part of something in a way I never had before. We were not a perfect order, but perfection was not a human trait. Yet men like Sir Thomas and Sir Charles understood that honor, duty and sacrifice were more than just words. Now I would join them in spirit and make a commitment to live my life as they lived theirs, bound by a promise of service to those less fortunate, to defend the weak and the defenseless. The thought of it humbled me beyond all measure.

  “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I dub thee Sir Tristan, Brother Knight of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and King Solomon’s Temple, with all the rights and privileges such rank accords.”

  The other brothers in attendance cheered, and when I stood, Sir Charles handed me Sir Thomas’ sword, which I sheathed at my belt. Someday, I would send word to Little John that I needed a new short sword for when I selected a squire. Carrying the big sword felt right now.

  “You’re a Brother Knight, Tristan. How does it feel?” Sir Charles asked me.

  “It feels wonderful, sire,” I said, looking down at my bright white tunic with the red cross emblazoned across my chest.

  “Have you thought about where you would like to be posted?” he asked.

  “Yes, sire. I have. With your permission, I wish to be assigned to a commandery in the south of France.”

  “Really? So far from England?” he asked, his eyebrows arching up. I thought of that day in France, when Celia and I had stood high atop the walls of Montsegur. I saw the wind whip her hair around her face and the impossibly blue color of her eyes. Thinking of her again made me smile.

  “Yes, sire. I have business there,” I said. “Unfinished business.”

  GODSTOW NUNNERY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND ONE WEEK LATER JANUARY 1192

  EPILOGUE

  The nunnery appeared deserted as I rode through the main gate, but there was no doubt I had already been watched for some time. It was a beautiful winter morning, spring would be here soon, and it would be welcome. Last evening I had spent a great deal of time polishing my chain mail and sword, and they glinted in the warm sunlight. In Dover, I had been newly outfitted with boots and mail, and my white tunic had remained relatively mud-free on my morning ride.

  I dismounted and tied Charlemagne to a nearby hitching post. The old plow horse stamped his foot at the grass beneath the light dusting of snow as I waited patiently in the courtyard.

  Finally the main door opened and an elderly nun made her way down the steps, approaching me cautiously.

  “Greetings to you, traveler,” she said meekly.

  “Thank you, Sister. My name is Tris. . Sir Tristan”-I still was getting used to the sound of it-“of the Knights Templar and I wonder if you could help me.” When I told her what I wanted, she smiled and, pulling her cloak up tightly around her, led me behind the nunnery to a small gated cemetery. She pointed out a small stone inside the graveyard and left me there alone.

  I knelt before her marker, the final resting place of my mother, Rosamund Clifford.

  Looking up at the sky, I closed my eyes, letting the warm sun strike my face, and for a moment I imagined the sunlight was her touch embracing me. I prayed silently, asking God to grant her peace had he not already done so. I crossed myself and stood. Then I removed Sir Thomas’ Templar ring from my cloak and placed it upon the stone marker. I did not think the nuns would accept it from me if I offered it to them directly. But they would find it when I left, and such a ring when sold would feed the nunnery for many months. I thought it would make Sir Thomas happy. Besides, I now had my own Templar ring to wear.

  Looking down at the marker one last time, I said good-bye to my mother. I left the cemetery, closing the gate behind me, and returned to the courtyard where Charlemagne waited patiently for me. Jumping into the saddle, I gave a small salute to the nuns I knew were watching from the windows.

  Then I turned the gentle plow horse toward the gate, and together we rode off into the cool, fine morning.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-c2a91b-9b2e-cb42-b194-a46c-5483-be5f5c

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 21.01.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.13, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software

  Document authors :

  Michael Spradlin

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/