MORGAN
PROLOGUE
Rouen, France
The Year of Our Lord, 1297
A brisk breeze sifted through the trees, as Morgan Le Aguillon ran through the meadow, chasing his best friend for as long as he could remember, his silver Pyr Shep. Swift and sure, they sprinted amid the tall grasses, which swayed in a delicate dance with the wind. Sunlight faded, as on the horizon, dark clouds loomed, and he took the path through the east field, in search of home and shelter.
“Hurry, Louis, else I shall catch you.” Louis answered with a playful bark, as Morgan climbed the verge and gave chase. The first raindrop fell, and he laughed. “Go, Louis. Go.”
At the border of the vineyard, he leaped over the fence, while Louis crawled beneath the lowest rung. Following the dirt road, Morgan pulled his tunic over his head, as the storm built. When he charged the courtyard, he slid to a halt, and Louis sounded a stern warning.
Six huge destriers occupied the enclosure, and their riders wore the legendary white surcoat and mantle, upon which the red cross had been affixed. The Templars. In the rear sat a large black coach, and three young boys peered from behind the windows.
“Ah, there he is, now.” Father turned and flicked his fingers, and Morgan obeyed the summons. “Come, mon fils, as we have been waiting for you.”
Lightning flashed, and dust swirled.
“Hither am I, mon père.” Curious, he admired the polished saddles and strong horses, unlike any he had ever seen.
“Do you remember the talk we had about what it means to be a man?” His father knelt and pulled Morgan close, and he suspected he was in trouble. “How you are expected to honor our family and continue our good name?”
Of course, he recalled the discussion. How could he forget, when his father could not look at Morgan, and that frightened him, as they sat by the hearth. In his mind, he supposed his father referred to his youngest son’s habit of sneaking into the neighboring farm, to steal a couple of sweet apples, which he vowed to stop, yet he paid a visit only yestereve.
“Oui, mon père.” Struck by his father’s sad expression, Morgan smiled and bounced on his heels. “Is something wrong?”
It was then he noticed his mother, standing in the entry with his brother, and both were crying. That was his first clue that all was not well. To his left, one of the strangers dismounted, opened the door of the coach, and stood as sentry, as Louis growled and bared his teeth.
“It is time for you to grow up, mon fils. It is time to make me proud.” His father bowed his head and hugged Morgan tight. “You are blessed with an incredible opportunity, which I know you will not waste.” Father tucked a stray tendril of Morgan’s unruly hair behind his ear. “Today, you journey to La Rochelle, whither you will live at Vauclair Castle and train as a Templar, and it is a very great privilege afforded a fortunate few, of which you are one.”
“You are sending me away?” Terror gripped him in the throes of panic, and swallowed hard. The dog snarled, and Morgan snapped his fingers, and Louis quieted and sat. “Wherefore, mon père? What have I done?”
“The fault is not yours.” Father wiped a stray tear and kissed Morgan’s forehead. “But there is naught for you, hither. By law, everything goes to your brother, and whither would that leave you when I am gone? Thus I surrender you into the safekeeping of those who would protect you. They would grant you a distinguished occupation, and you would never be alone.”
“But I can take care of him.” Stomping a foot, Guarin fought with their mother, yet she did not relent. “I promise, I will give him a home, if you let him stay. Prithee, mon père.”
“Nay.” Father closed his eyes and rested his palms to Morgan’s shoulders. “I have given my word, paid for your commission, and pledged your loyalty to the Order, and you will do your duty, else you will disappoint me, and you would not do that, would you, mon fils?”
The heavens opened up, as if to join in the tragic farewell, and a deluge drenched him.
“I understand, mon père.” In that moment, a chill settled in his chest, as Morgan dropped to a knee and slapped his thighs. “Come hither, Louis.”
Wagging his tail, Louis whined and licked Morgan’s chin for the last time, as he scratched the dog behind the ears.
“I wish to say a fond adieu.” Mother whispered something to Guarin, and then they approached. With arms splayed she welcomed Morgan, and he suspected he would never again know the comfort of her embrace. “Be brave, mon fils. And while I know it hurts, because my heart breaks even now, your father is right, and this is a chance for you to persist beyond our modest estate, when we can no longer protect you.” Then she framed his face and kissed his cheeks. “At least, that is what I will tell myself, once you are gone, and you may do the same, because we all tell lies to ourselves, sometimes, if only to survive the consequences of our actions. Know that whenever I think of you, and you will never be far from my thoughts, I will tell myself this is for the best, but never forget that I love you.” She patted his bottom. “Go, now. Be brave, and do as you were taught, as anything less will reflect poorly on tes parents.”
“Aye, ma mere. I love you.” Morgan gave her a final hug, stretched tall, and glanced at his brother. “Let Louis sleep at your feet, and give him a piece of your brewet once it cools.”
“I will.” Guarin wept openly. “And I will keep your memory alive, mon frère. If you ever find your way home again, there will always be a place for you at the table.”
Guarin extended a hand, as would a man, and Morgan accepted the gesture in the same spirit.
With grim resolution, and raw fear gnawing at his gut, he clenched his jaw, walked to the coach, climbed inside, and took a vacant spot on the bench.
“Hello.” He wiped his nose. “My name is Morgan.”
“I am Arucard,” the largest boy replied. “And this is Demetrius and Aristide. Welcome, brother.”
Just then, the coach lurched forward, and Morgan abandoned the calm demeanor he fought so hard to muster, as he cried without restraint. Staring out the window, he shouted, “Mon père. Ma mere!”