“And that last part is why you are doing this, is it not? For your waif?”

Bascot’s one remaining eye, the pale blue of a cold winter sky, grew hard and seemed to turn to ice. “He is no longer a waif. He is my servant and I am responsible for his welfare. Without my protection he will return to what he once was, a homeless beggar.”

D’Arderon heaved a sigh and went back to his seat at the table. The boy they had been speaking of was Gianni, a mute urchin that Bascot had picked up two years before as he had journeyed back to England after his escape from the Saracens. Bascot had, over time, become as fond of the boy as if he had been his own true son, and he was now concerned that, if he rejoined the ranks of the Order, not only would the boy be rendered destitute but also that the affection between them would be lost forever.

“Forgive me, Bascot, for my harsh words,” d’Arderon said in a placatory tone. “I do not mean to denigrate the boy, but forswearing the vows you took when you joined the Order is no light matter. I do not wish you to embark on a course you will later regret.”

Bascot’s manner softened. He had a great liking for d’Arderon and knew his sentiments were genuine. “I know, Preceptor, and I appreciate your concern.”

D’Arderon reached out and took a small leather bag from a pile of similar pouches stacked in a corner of the room. They contained al-Kandiq, boiled sweets made from canes that grew in the Holy Land and were imported to England by the Templars. The anglicised version of their name was candi. The preceptor knew that Bascot was fond of them, as he was himself, and he opened the sack and tossed one to his companion.

“When do you intend to let Thomas Berard know of your decision?” d’Arderon asked.