Sir Guy LaRoque waited while the little priest read through the document. They stood in a shaded courtyard of the Jerusalem hospital that was the local headquarters of the Knights Hospitaller. No other of the knights were around. Their only company was a sun-drowsy wasp that drifted through the shadows under the fig trees.

Finally the priest smiled as he sharpened his gaze on Sir Guy.

“Have you considered the consequences of what you are asking of me?”

Sir Guy half bowed. “I have. But weighed against what we stand to gain, now and in future years, I—”

The priest held up a hand to halt a repeat of the argument.

“You come here, to a sanctified and sacred hospital dedicated to the treatment of those wounded in God’s own Crusade, and ask me, a priest, to willingly break the seal of the confessional.”

“No, Father, that is not what I ask. To break the seal would be to share with another person that which was said to God through you, the confessor. I do not want to know the secrets of my brother crusaders. I would not ask such a thing. I ask only that you consider what you have heard, and to balance it against what needs to be done to protect our holy church. I ask that these insights guide you in the selection of men—righteous Christian men—who will join with us in this new crusade.”

“You propose a crusade of secrets and lies.”

“They are only lies if you disagree with our viewpoint. We have discussed this many times, Father, and each time you did agree with me. Do you say now that you lied before? Or has fear stolen away your faith in your own opinion?”

The priest turned, not quickly, not in anger, but slowly and with a calculated deliberation that was far more threatening. As he did so, his eyes seemed to change and Sir Guy nearly took a backward step. The color seemed to shift from gray to a swirl of greens and browns. It was certainly a result of the priest’s movement through the sunlight and shadow, but it was momentarily unnerving.

“Softly now,” said the priest, “for there are snares and nettles in the grass around your feet. Do not let ill-chosen words lead you to take a painful misstep.”

Sir Guy placed a hand over his heart and bowed again. A deeper bow this time, held longer, the demonstration of apology and humility. “Have I offended, Father, then I am truly sorry. Before God and your holiness, I beg forgiveness for rude and rash words, poorly chosen and hastily spoken.”

He felt a touch on his head. The priest’s thin fingers caressed the brown curls that twisted out from under the silk cap.

“Peace, my son,” murmured the priest. “Look at me.”