Chapter 1

The bells on the church tower of the town of Kortrijk in Flanders rang. Their sound boomed over the battlefield. They proclaimed the Flanders' glorious victory over the French. Jan van Koninck, the twenty-two-year-old young man with the curly red hair, the blue eyes and the strong, well-trained figure under the now blood-spattered leather doublet, stood slightly bent, leaning on his bloody sword, at the edge of an ash wood. A throwing axe, Franziska, already known from Norman times, was stuck in his belt. He looked at the scene in front of him in the lowlands. Tightly crowded in front of a brook that meandered through the swampy valley, hundreds of dead knights lay in their once shining, but now after the battle dull, bloody armour and as many dead or severely injured horses.

Jan hummed a soft song. It was the Song of the Dead for the Knights of the French King Philip the Fair, who himself had not participated in the massacre. The victory was planned anyway. A defeat was not even remotely thought of. Therefore he had sent his one-eyed chancellor Pierre Flote as general and had sent Jaques de Chatillon as future governor at the same time. The restless Flanders were to be brought under French control for raison d'être and the lucrative cloth trade with England and the Hanseatic League.

But things had changed. Almost all the knights of northern France had had to give their lives for the king on the battlefield, only a few had escaped.

About the battlefield with the innumerable dead and severely injured countless young and old ragged people and citizens from Kortrijk were scurrying, who took their valuables from the dead and dying. Van Koninck nestelte on his doublet. With a little effort he pulled out the golden pendant and looked at it. He was, like the necklace, made of pure gold. Slowly he stroked his fingers over the coat of arms. A French coat of arms, a king's coat of arms, which the three lilies betrayed. He had received it a few months earlier from a French knight who had not survived the revolt of the Flemish citizens in Bruges against the French occupation. In fact, he had wanted to kill the wounded Frenchman out of rage, because he had made the escape of Governor Jacques de Chatillon possible by his resistance. Hateful, Jaques de Chatillon had recalled that he would come back just to cut off his head. The injured knight had taken off the chain with the coat of arms with difficulty and gave it to the young Flanders. Maybe at some point it will bring you luck, the Frenchman had mumbled, then he was different. Jan had taken the medallion, but otherwise the Frenchman, who was obviously aristocratic in his clothes, had not interested him any more. He had left him lying in his blood and had run after the other fleeing Frenchmen.

His father Pieter, his brother Wim and he, the youngest son of the weaver Pieter van Koninck, had shortly thereafter been knighted by Robert von Bethune, Count of Flanders, for their courage and daring in the liberation of Flanders.

This time de Chatillon had not escaped him. He had fallen into the trap of complacency and got stuck in the swampy bank of the small river off Kortrijk. His armour was too heavy for him to have been able to sit down and fight with his sword. That was his death sentence. The Flemish infantry was clearly superior to the clumsy knight on foot and Jan van Koninck had paid close attention to where Jaques de Chatillon had ridden. So their paths crossed again on the battlefield. De Chatillon immediately recognized who had stood in his way and tried to kill the youngest of the Koninck clan with powerful sword blows. But the nimble young Fleming skilfully avoided all blows, fended off the blows with his throwing axe and sword and let the Frenchman beat himself tiredly. Whereby Jan had to pay hellish attention. The fencing art of de Chatillon was legendary. But of course it also meant that the knight could move fast and tricky. But that was exactly what was missing here. Only a few steps were needed for the heavily armed knight in the swamp. He sank deeper and deeper and could only defend himself standing on a spot, while Jan staggered around him in his light clothes. When he stood in his back, he had trouble recognizing his opponent through the slits.

"In my breast pocket," he moaned quietly, trying to point the injured hand at his chest, "take it and show it to the Templars."

As if the last words had cost him the rest of his life force, Gerald van Nieuwland breathed deeply once more, then he died in the arms of his young friend. Jan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. Then he grabbed the dead man in his breast pocket and pulled out a small seal. On one side there was the well-known Templar cross, on the other two riders sat one behind the other on a horse. A text formed the edge. Sigillum Militum Christium - seal of the soldiers of Christ - read Jan, shook his head in amazement and put the seal in his pocket. Then he slowly left the battlefield to look for shelter in Kortrijk.

He wandered through the city. The joy of victory was extensive. Everywhere footmen and craftsmen danced and sang and poured beer and wine - and everything else that could be drunk - into themselves. Jan searched for his father and his brother, but did not find them. Maybe it was just as well. They probably wouldn't have understood it if he had opened the door for them to want to go to Paris now of all times. He dug out some coins and bought a French hat from a heavily drunk footman, which he had captured in the enemy's camp. Under it he wanted to hide his fiery red hair, which might have betrayed him on the way to the French royal city. So well dressed, his brother still ran into him.

"Hey, brother, what do you look like? Father and I missed you at the Weavers' Festival. We celebrate our great victory".

Jan nodded.

"I thought to myself that you were celebrating. And what about the many dead?

"Oh, let them rot on the battlefield. What do the dead French take care of us?

"Brother, I don't care about them either. What about the many Flanders who gave their lives for the freedom of our country? They don't deserve to rot out there."

"It cannot be our job to bury the dead," grumbled Wim van Koninck. This ignorance excited Jan.

"You know brother, we have been knighted and that means that we must also show mercy. What you and father show is the opposite of that. I found Gerald van Nieuwland and it was sad how our friend died on the battlefield. No one cares about his corpse. That's not okay."

Wim looked at his brother in astonishment, then he began to grin.

"I don't believe it. What has got into you? Do you want to quit your weaving profession and become a priest? I have to tell father that. What do you think he will tell you?" Laughing loudly, Wim disappeared into the crowd, only to reappear for a few minutes with Pieter van Koninck. He had grabbed his father by the shoulder strap and pulled him through the crowd. You could see at first glance that Pieter van Koninck was no longer sober.

"Ah, there you are, my son," the guild master of weavers yelled at his youngest from a distance, "what did I hear? You want to become a priest? That is out of the question at all. I do not permit that. You were not knighted to sing pious songs in church. I order you to come with us immediately."

As soon as Father van Koninck had yelled his last words, he had long struck. Right in the middle of the deep street dirt. He had apparently fallen over his sword, which had fallen between his legs. Over and over he was covered with mud. With effort Wim pulled his father out of the street excrement. To thank him, the old man punched him in the face with his fist. Because Wim had quickly turned aside, the fist didn't hit him full.

"Where's Jan?" the old man yelled again, "I want to talk to him."

Jan had looked at the scene with aversion. He had never experienced his father like that before. So far he had always been a loving and considerate man. But the victory seemed to have gone to his head just like the beer. Jan pushed two lansquenets aside and stood in front of him.

"Shouldn't we wait to talk until you are sober again," Jan tried to elude the conversation.

"What do you allow yourself? To tell me when and how I want to talk to you, my son? Come to me immediately and kneel before your father or you will be beaten by me, so that hearing and seeing will pass you by.

Several people on the street had stopped. Partly out of respect for the master weaver, partly out of curiosity as to what might come next.

"You have my respect, father," Jan van Koninck replied coolly to his father's roar, "I won't give you a knee. From now on I will go my own way. As a weaver you will do without me

I have nothing to expect anyway, because the weaving mill will inherit Wim. What remains for me? To be your servant? No, that is not the life I dreamed of. I did not fight for the freedom of our people and put my life at risk. I am going to Paris".

"Where are you going? To Paris? To the enemy? I won't allow that."

"Father, you have nothing more to allow me. I am not going to the enemy and I will not join King Philip either. But I will not stay here either.

Pieter van Koninck staggered towards his youngest son with undermined eyes. Shortly before he reached him, he pulled his sword out of its sheath and lifted it over his head.

"Before you go to Paris, I will strike your head off myself," cried van Koninck angrily, while his son Wim tried to snatch the sword from him, and some other people who witnessed the fight also stood in van Koninck's way.

"Leave it alone, master," one of the butchers tried to reassure the weaver. As the butcher continued to invade his son, he wrestled the sword from his hand and gave it to Wim.

"Boy, see to it that you bring your father to his quarters so that he doesn't do any harm," said the bear-strong butcher, helping to drag the sinking weaver aside.

With horror Jan had followed the scene motionless. His father almost killed him. Sure he was drunk, but he shouldn't have gone that far. Now it was clear to him that Gerald van Nieuwland had been right. Here in Flanders there was no future for him. So he took his hat, turned around and left Kortrijk without saying goodbye to father and brother. He set off for Paris.

Jan knew the route to Lille, from where he had picked up the knights around Jaques de Chatillon about a year ago and led them to Wynendael Castle. Voluntarily he had not done that at that time and the one or other detour with inserted. De Chatillon had scratched himself sometime in a narrow hollow way at a blackberry bush slightly, his right sleeve backed and had seen that a thorn had hurt his skin. Although it wasn't a big deal and the small injury had been caused by himself, de Chatillon had scolded in Flanders.

"I believe the boy deliberately leads us through such dreadful paths. I think I'll tie him up on the next tree. Come closer once, you rascal," he had called and waved Jan to himself. But he had retreated and it looked as if he wanted to escape. De Chatillon had become even more angry and had asked his squires to catch the boy and hang him from the next tree. Only then had a second knight intervened and stopped the action.

"Stop now with this theatre, de Chatillon. Pull yourselves together. We have to go to Wynendael today. So ride and let the Flanders live."

The knight who called de Chatillon to order was a handsome man with a white coat and a red cross under his left shoulder. The Frenchman still had a few objections to resolve the matter without losing face, but then gave in growling, not without shouting another threat.

"If we meet again, you won't survive."

"We'll see,' Jan had replied and had disappeared into the dense forest, while the knights had to continue swearing without a guide.

Now that he had gone back that way alone, with a new goal in mind and without saying goodbye to father and brother, he naturally went directly and without detour. He could not say goodbye to his mother. She had been dead for a long time. She had died at his birth. And although she had given him life, he felt nothing for her. She was not there for him. The maid Marie, who had raised him and also his brother, had also died in the meantime.

The sun had just risen in the east, shining red and surrounded by clouds promising rain. But it was still dry and so he stepped out vigorously. He evaded various cavalry troops, whom he recognized early on, into the woods to the left and right of the path. That's why he didn't know whether they were French, English or Flanders. Towards evening he had reached the area around Lille. He stopped at a stone inn and, after the innkeeper had convinced himself that the young man in the leather doublet and the big sword on his side was not a highwayman, robber or thief and could also pay for accommodation, he wiped away the leftovers at a table outside in the courtyard and put a jug of beer and a piece of bread on the table. Then he trolled back into his taproom. While Jan stared into the evening sky and thought about whether it would rain or stay dry, a small cavalry came into the yard. According to the clothing e

Jan absorbed the new knowledge like a sponge. Certainly, Templars were a monastic order, but their way was far from the bigoted behavior of the priests he had known so far, and far from the fearful behavior and superstition of the people when it came to questions of faith. Here with the Templars no one was superstitious. Here he met people who had a very accurate and realistic picture of Christian life and political developments. The knightly behaviour and the pompousness of the noble knights were foreign to them and remained so. The knightly virtues, on the other hand, were cultivated. Now Jan knew why Gerald van Nieuwland had gone to the Order after his knighthood and why he had guided him to the Order.

In the small village Saint Jean de Greve, just a few hundred steps northeast of Paris, the weaver from Flanders was amazed at the size of the order. It was a little more than two thousand times two thousand steps in size. And surrounded by a wall. A big keep and several stone buildings greeted over the wall. On a small hill stood four windmills and opposite the big gate Jan could see the Seine glittering in the distance. Directly behind the wall there were fields and gardens along the entire length where vegetables and grain of all kinds were grown. To get to the keep, one had to go through the church and the house of the order. Next to the gate were the stables for horses and next to them the half-timbered houses covered with straw, in which the sergeants and servants were housed. Since the area was free of guilds and church asylum was granted, the most diverse strata of the population lived there.

In addition to the monks, there were merchants who did their business, the most diverse tradesmen and there lived nobles and citizens who had sought protection from whomever. In short, a colorful crowd floated around the temple. They were allowed to go anywhere on the grounds, only the keep was forbidden and strictly guarded by the knights and servants.

Johann had confided to him that the French king Philip the Fair had allegedly housed his national treasure there, when he had to deal with the grumbling population after the lost war against the English. At that time, the king had no longer felt safe in Paris and had fled to the Templars with his wife Johanna of Navarre. All in all, the temple was a city in its own right, home to well over a thousand people.

In the beginning Jan had to find his way around the spacious building and grounds. Johann had offered himself to show him everything after the work was done and to initiate him into the customs. So they had befriended each other. Knight Guido had assigned him a small cell right at the beginning in the order house, where all knights lived. It was a little off the beaten track and was not easy to reach. A simple straw bed, covered with two sheepskins, was in the small room, a medium-sized wooden box for the few belongings he was allowed to keep, a bench on which he could kneel and pray and over which hung a wooden cross. A stool to sit on and a narrow table completed the inventory. Next to the kneeler was a narrow window that allowed a glimpse into the spacious courtyard where servants fed the horses, stacked the goods, and performed the daily weapon exercises. Jan had been baptized, but neither his father nor he had visited the church intensively and taken the clergy seriously.

It took some time, but then he felt at home with the knights. At some point, Knight Guido had him called and told him that the Grand Master of the Order, Knight Jacques Molay, was expecting another train with some of the Order's assets. The Grand Master himself would soon accept him into the Order and demand his vows from him. If he had thought about it and did not want to stay, then he could now go without difficulties. No one would put obstacles in his way.

Jan had explained to Seneschall that he would try to become a Knight Templar, and Knight Guido had replied that he would communicate this decision to the Grand Master.

Jan de Koninck had long since learned what it meant to be a Knight Templar: Obedience, severity, little sleep and diligence. Every day he was instructed with some other knights and sergeants by Brother Antonius in the high art of swordfighting, the duel on foot and on horseback and in shooting with the English longbow. After one lesson each of them wore at least bruises, if not small wounds, which were immediately removed by his brother Medicus.

He quickly found pleasure in shooting with a longbow and was soon on a par with his teacher. Brother Antonius was visibly impressed by the speed with which he managed to bring 10 arrows in a row to the finish, and the English knight from Aquitaine, who had introduced archery to the Templars, also watched the efforts very attentively. Actually archery was something for servants and not for knights who preferred to fight with helmet and sword, but the possibilities of the bow convinced one or the other.

In the meantime a long caravan had arrived. She had several knights and more than twice as many servants and sergeants in her retinue for her protection. They all had to be cared for and given shelter, so there was unrest for days in the order's house. In the garden behind the grandmaster's house several tents had been erected in which knights slept. And in the houses of the wider surroundings knights had also been accommodated.

From the balustrade of his living rooms, Jaques de Molay, as so often, watched the hustle and bustle of the inner courtyard thoughtfully. He stroked his long white beard while watching the young knights and sergeants. He paid particular attention to two of the new members of the Order, Flanders Jan and Aachener Johann. The Flanders was able to handle the throwing axe and the English longbow brilliantly and the Aachener was just as good with the sword and also to use as Medicus. He obviously had excellent knowledge and was in no way inferior to the real Medicus of the temple. His Seneschall had already explained this to him and he had been able to convince himself of it.

Jaques de Molay fulfilled triple duties. The office of Grand Master of the Templars required political and economic foresight as well as care for his religious and obedience to the Pope. The experienced fighter at the head of the most powerful order of the Occident was very well aware that it could not succeed to master the three tasks equally well. But he tried again and again. He perceived his fatherly care for his knights with hard but just severity. Too strict, the knights, sergeants and servants often grumbled.

Jan had completed his training lesson at the court of the Order's castle, handed over his weapons to Brother Antonius and said goodbye to Johann, who went to the sergeant's houses. When the Flanders friar turned around, he collided violently with another knight candidate.

"Hey, not so impetuous, Flanders. Or do you want to challenge me in this way? An angry young man of about the same age stood in front of him. According to his clothes, it was a French nobleman who had also asked to be admitted to the Order.

"Why should I demand of you," Jan asked in wonder and continued, "we are Templars and they do not demand of each other and you have done nothing to me and neither have I done to you. The fact that we have now collided is an oversight for which I apologise".

"Not like that', the Frenchman replied, 'repeat your apology loudly so that everyone on the farm can hear it, otherwise I will beat you up. After all, you are a simple Flemish upstart, actually a freeman, a ministerial, and you have no pedigree. My uncle is a Grand Commander and one of the Grand Master's representatives."

Jan's face darkened. He looked around at Brother Antonius and John, but there was no trace of either. But some other knights had remained curious.

"I don't care about your ancestry. I don't know why you make such a fuss out of a little carelessness among brothers. I have apologized and with that I let it be good." Jan tried to push past his opposite to get into his chamber. But that wasn't as easy as he had thought. The Frenchman blocked his way again.

"So that you know who you are dealing with: I am Geoffroy de Charny, son of Count Richard de Charny of Champagne, and who are you?

"I am Jan de Koninck, son of a weaver from Flanders, and if I remember correctly, your father escaped from the battlefield in Kortrijk and abandoned the king's knights to save his life. Or am I mistaken," the Flanders man replied so loudly that the bystanders could hear it. The face of the Frenchman took on the colour of a ripe tomato.

"You will atone for this insult to me," gasped the champagne, "I will not let a runaway weaver blame me for something like this. He pulled a long knife out of his belt and penetrated Jan de Koninck. He skilfully avoided it and let the careless man run into emptiness.

"Here I am, brother Geoffroy," Jan teased from the back of the attacker. He turned around at lightning speed and stabbed in the direction from which he had heard the voice coming. But nobody stood there anymore. Jan had no weapon of his own, so he elegantly danced out his attacker. But he wasn't quite that clumsy either. His foaming rage had cooled down a little during the fight. All the more thoughtful he continued the fight. The man from Champagne was a good fighter, the Flanders man noticed that very fast. More and more knights and sergeants had stopped and rallied around them. The knights all around could be heard grumbling.

"Throw away your knife, Knight Geoffroy," one could hear from the audience shouting, "that's not chivalrous. Your opponent has no weapon to defend himself".

Nevertheless, it still took a while until Geoffroy decided to throw the knife away in a high arc and continue fighting alone with his fists. The champagne also tried a trick. He avoided an attack by Jan by throwing himself on the ground, rolling off and picking up a handful of sand. On the first contact with Jan, who had waited until Geoffroy had got up, he threw the fine sand in the face of Flanders. Jan was irritated, couldn't see and took a few heavy blows to his head and stomach. He saw only shadows. By rather accidental skilful body turns he escaped the final blow, it almost looked as if he was dancing in front of his opponent, which made him even more angry. The sand hurt his eyes and yet he tried to recognize his opponent. He was already sure of his victory. A terrible blow should bring the end. But Jan had another feint ready. He turned a pirouette, stretched out his arm, clenched his hand to his fist and with the swing of the turn he hit his opponent's temple. He had not counted on the blow and had no cover through his hands and arms. From one moment to the next blood flowed out of his mouth and he was completely stunned because the blow had shaken his brain. Slowly he sank forwards to his knees and fell lengthwise into the dirt.

The surrounding spectators mumbled admiringly and gradually withdrew. Jan wiped the dirt out of his eyes with a corner of his shirt. Then he recognized Johann, who took care of his opponent. When Jan wanted to help him, Johann pushed him back.

"Leave it alone, Jan, I can do it alone and I don't think Knight Geoffroy would be pleased if you would help him. I think you have not found a friend for life in him. Go to your quarters."

Without looking around, Jan went to the house of the order. Knight Guido awaited him in front of the entrance. He did not look pleased.

"What was that, Jan de Koninck?" he wanted to know, "there was neither a tournament, nor was there a duel scheduled in which you could have measured your strength. And a guesthouse brawl is not something that Templars should be concerned with. We are not the common people. We are an order. You should have internalized that in the meantime. I expect that such behaviour will not be repeated. I had expected more from you than such rude, landscaped behaviour."

When Jan started to explain the matter, Knight Guido waved off and drove over his mouth.

"You will repent and spend the next two days in your cell thinking about what went wrong. Kneel on the bench and pray." Then he winked at the young man.

"If you had lost, you could have thought about it for a week. And now go," the Seneschall explained, turned around and walked across the courtyard to Geoffroy de Charny. Jan swallowed once and then immediately went into his cell. From the corner of his eye he could still see Seneschall talking a few words to Johann, who sent him away and then turned to Knight Geoffroy. Arriving in his chamber, he pondered for a moment if he really should kneel down and pray, but then he dropped onto his sheepskins, lay down for a long time, crossed his arms behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. After a short time he pulled the amulet out of his bag, which he had hidden between the sheepskins and the straw sacks. He knew that, as a member of the Order, he was not allowed to possess any personal belongings unless the Grand Master allowed him to do so. So he decided to seek an audience with the Grand Master in order to obtain permission. He should get the appointment faster than he had thought.