Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar Read Online Free PDF Page A

He frowned, trying to think of a good example. “Not even the pope has witnessed a knight’s initiation. This is your chance to know the Order’s most secret ceremony, Simon.”

    “Yes, secret.” Simon cocked his head. “There’s a reason it’s secret. It means no one’s supposed to see. Only knights and priests are allowed and you’re neither.” He stamped his foot on the ground. “And my leg’s gone to sleep.”

    Will rolled his eyes. “Go then, I’ll see you later.”

    “Through the bars of a prison cell maybe. Listen to your elder for once.”

    “Elder?” scoffed Will. “By one year.”

    “One year in age maybe.” Simon tapped his head. “But at least twenty years in sense.” He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. “No, I’ll stay. Who else is fool enough to watch your back?”

    Will returned his eye to the cleft. The priest was stepping down from the dais holding a sword. The bare-chested sergeant rose to his feet, keeping his head bowed.

    Will had seen in his mind’s eye the priest descending to him a thousand times with the sword and had seen himself sheath the blade in the scabbard at his side. But most of all, he had imagined the hand of his father, firm on his shoulder, as he was accepted as a Templar Knight; clothed in the white mantle that signified the cleansing of all past sins.

    “I’ve heard they station archers on the rooftops of some preceptories when the ceremony takes place,” continued Simon, prodding a bulge in the sack that was pressing into him. “If we’re caught they’ll probably shoot us.”

    Will didn’t answer.

    Simon sat back. “Or expel us.” He groaned and prodded the sack again, viciously. “Or send us to Merlan.” He gave an exaggerated shudder at the thought. When he had first arrived at the preceptory a year ago, one of the older sergeants had told him about Merlan. The Templar prison in France had acquired an ominous reputation over the years and the sergeant’s description of it had deeply affected Simon.

    “Merlan,” murmured Will, not taking his gaze from the priest, “is for traitors and murderers.”

    “And spies.”

    The kitchen doors opened with a bang. The shafts of light filtering into the storeroom intensified in their brightness as sunlight filled the chamber beyond. Will ducked down, his back to the wall. Simon scrabbled between the sacks and wedged himself in beside Will as the sound of heavy footsteps drew nearer. There was a clatter and a muttered curse, followed by a scraping sound. The footsteps stopped. Ignoring Simon who was shaking his head, Will inched forward easing himself out from between the sacks. Padding to the door, he peered through one of the cracks.

    The kitchen was a large, rectangular room divided by two long rows of benches where the food was prepared. At one end, near the doors, was a cavernous hearth in which a fire smoked and spat. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with bowls, pots and jars. Stacked on the floor were barrels of ale and baskets filled with vegetables, and suspended on hooks hanging from the rafters were pairs of rabbits, joints of salted pork and dried fish. Standing at one of the benches was a brawny man, clad in the brown tunic of a servant. Will groaned inwardly. It was Peter, the kitchen supervisor. Peter hefted a basket of vegetables onto the bench, then took up a knife. Will glanced around as Simon sat up, his scruffy thatch of brown hair appearing over the sacks.

    “Who is it?” Simon mouthed.

    Will moved back to him and crouched down. “Peter,” he whispered. “It looks like he’ll be here for a while.”

    Simon pulled a face.

    Will nodded toward the door. “We’ll have to go.”

    “Go?”

    “We can’t stay in here all day. I’m supposed to be polishing Sir Owein’s armor.”

    “But with him out there?”

    Without giving Simon a chance to refuse, Will went to the door and opened it.

    Peter started, his knife poised in midair. “God in Heaven!”