The Christian positions soon proved indefensible. It was not a question of even setting up any siege engines; it was a matter of fleeing for their lives.

   When the Christian army broke camp and began their retreat to the south, they were attacked by the light Arab cavalry which, always out of reach, rained arrows down on the fleeing troops. The losses were unimaginable, and the stench of death lay heavy over large parts of the Holy Land for several months.

   And so the Second Crusade ended.

   King Konrad of Germany, as usual in extreme disagreement with King Louis, took the land route home, proceeding cautiously along the safer Mediterranean coast of Asia Minor.

   King Louis no longer had a large army, so he chose to take the sea route from Antioch toward Sicily. On the way his fleet was plundered by the Byzantine navy. After that both King Louis and King Konrad remained forever uninterested in new crusades.

   King Louis quite rightly received derision from his wife when he returned home. The Second Crusade was a calamitous fiasco. Nur ed-Din would soon take Damascus without raising a sword or firing a single arrow.

   Logically, the Christian empire should have been doomed. There was nothing more to hope for from Europe. None of Europe's big countries would send a new expedition after the disaster they had just witnessed, no matter how eloquently Bernard de Clairvaux and others spoke of salvation and the forgiveness of all sins for anyone who joined the Holy War. And yet it would be a long time before Jerusalem was liberated by the faithful. And it would not be granted to Nur ed-Din to cleanse the holy city of the barbaric and bloodthirsty European occupiers.

   That would depend on an order of monks. The Knights Templar shared the same religious origin with the Cistercian order; it was Bernard de Clairvaux himself who had written the cloister rules for the Templar knights. From the beginning this order was conceived primarily as a sort of religious police force to protect Christian pilgrims, above all on the roads between Jerusalem and the River Jordan. Arabic robber bands had found this constant stream of pilgrims on the way to bathe in the Jordan both easy and profitable to rob. But the idea of warrior monks, at first something that must have seemed like a paradox, quickly spread far beyond the Holy Land, and many of the best knights in Europe heeded the call. But few were chosen. Only the best of the best, and the most serious in their faith, had a chance of being accepted as brothers in the order. The Knights Templar created the best force of knights that ever rode with lance and sword in the Holy Land. Or, for that matter, in any land.

   The Arabs in general had no great respect for Western warriors. Often they were too heavily armored, rode poorly, and had a hard time coping with the heat and staying sober. But there was one kind of European knight they avoided, unless they had a superiority of ten to one. Sometimes even then, because victory could be very costly. The Knights Templar never surrendered. And unlike other knights, weaker in their faith, they did not fear death. They were unshakably convinced that their war was holy and that the instant they died in battle they would enter into Paradise.

   These knights wearing the white mantle with a red cross and carrying the white shields with the same red cross were now the only hope of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

On the day when Arn's voice had changed so much that he could no longer sing, and everyone noticed, he was convinced that God was punishing him severely and yet the cause was incomprehensible. He had obviously committed a great sin deserving of such harsh punishment. But how could he commit a great sin without knowing what it was? He had obeyed, he had loved all the brothers, he hadn't lied, he had tried hard to be truthful in his confessions with Father Henri, even about the things he was most ashamed of. Without grumbling or cheating in any way he had performed the penance that Father Henri had imposed on him for self-defilement. But each time Arn had received forgiveness for his sins. Why would God punish him so sternly?

   He prayed to God for forgiveness for even asking such a question, which might be interpreted as suspecting that God's punishment was unjust. Then he added that he would like to know what his sin had been so that he might improve his ways. But God did not answer.

   Yet the music master at Vitae Schola, Brother Ludwig de Bêtecourt, took a surprisingly sanguine view of the matter. He consoled Arn by explaining that what had happened was part of God's natural order, that all boys sooner or later lost their soprano voice and for a time croaked like a raven. It was no more strange than the fact that boys grew up to be men, or that Arn was growing taller and stronger. But when Brother Ludwig could not guarantee that Arn's voice after this metamorphosis would ever be good for singing again, even at a lower register, the boy refused to be consoled.

   Singing had been his most important task at Vitae Schola, to such an extent that it was through his singing during mass that he felt he was doing the most good, and that his efforts had some meaning. Naturally he had been useful when the church tower was being built, but it was through singing that he accomplished something that others could not. In everything else he was only a little boy who had to learn from all the others. His other work was such that it provided sheer joy for either body or soul, like the horse or the books or Brother Guilbert's exercises, but he felt it was of more use to himself than to the brothers. And since he loved the brothers as the rules prescribed, he longed to be able to reciprocate by making himself deserving of the brothers' love. Singing had been the most effective way of accomplishing that, or so he thought.

   Now he could no longer sing, even though the song was still inside his head and he could imagine each note correctly voiced before his lips released it so falsely. It was like suddenly losing his sense of balance and being unable to walk or run or ride. Brother Ludwig had explained that he was no longer needed at mass, and Arn deemed this harsh punishment for his failure.

   Father Henri felt a certain impatience that something so natural should be so difficult to explain to the boy. It obviously wasn't enough, as he first believed, simply to explain that his voice breaking was something that happened to all men. It surprised him that not even the simple and, as he thought, easily observable fact that men sounded different from boys seemed to have any effect on Arn's reason. What troubled Father Henri was that Arn's apparently unwarranted worries might actually be expressing something else, a great loneliness. If he had been able to grow up with other boys, either inside or outside the cloister walls, he might have had an easier time seeing himself as what he was: a boy and perhaps a future brother, but not yet a brother.

   The fact that Arn could not accept the fact that a breaking voice existed somewhere between birth and death, and with the same inevitability, was a warning sign of his immaturity. On the one hand, the boy was more educated than any grown man, at least up here in the barbaric North. Presumably he could also handle weapons better than anyone outside the walls.