William rolled his eyes. “Not you as well! It is not for you to question. Keep your head down and mind your duties. Understood?”
“Yes, sire.” Eustace dropped his gaze, surreptitiously crossing himself in the shadows, but William noted the gesture with irritation born of suppressing the desire to do the same himself.
Harry emerged from the lodging, donning a small felt cap. Unlike his knights, whom he had bidden wear their mail, he was robed in his court finery: an embroidered tunic, a cloak edged with gold braid, and a fine red belt punched with silver studs—items held back when other personal embellishments had been sold to feed horses and men.
He gave William a fixed smile as he set his foot in the stirrup. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let us ride to Rocamadour and secure ourselves a loan.”
As the troop lined up to depart, Ancel emerged from the lodging, his mouth narrow and grim. Without looking at anyone, he tossed the satchel over his chestnut’s withers and mounted up.
William gave him a hard look but let the moment pass. At least he had not had to drag him out by the scruff, and for now, he had more pressing matters to worry about.
* * *
The shrine of Saint Amadour embraced sheer cliffs towering four hundred feet above the silver gleam of the River Alzou. Gilded in early-morning light, the chapels built into the rock face of the gorge seemed to shine like holy beacons against the new sky. William clenched his jaw and strove to ignore his misgiving and his fear of God. He dared not let a single chink of doubt show because it would take just one glimmer for the men to notice and react. Several were already on the verge of bolting like frightened horses.
Harry had resolved his own dilemma of conscience by declaring that the treasure was only a loan and that as the son of a king and a future benefactor of the shrine, he was entitled to borrow its contents. Even a fool could see he was justified. His father had had him crowned heir to England when he was just fifteen years old, and he had armored himself in his royalty, using the dazzle of his easy charm as a shield.
A handful of soldiers guarded the entrance to the walled town leading up to the shrine, but Harry and William had planned for that and had divided the troop. The dozen mercenaries they had brought with them from Martel were hidden well back out of sight. Riding up to the gate, Harry only brought his personal guard as an escort.
Smiling to light up the world, Harry announced that he had come to worship at the shrine, promising that he intended no harm, only reverence and esteem. “I have been sorely troubled.” He placed his hand over his heart, his expression contrite and his eyes enormous with innocence. “A dream told me to seek guidance and comfort here from Saint Amadour and the Blessed Virgin.”
The guards conferred and became two more victims of Harry’s devastating charm as they took the decision to open the gate and admit him. From there, it was easy. In a few practiced moves, William and the other knights disarmed the soldiers and tied them firmly to a hitching post. Three swift blasts on the hunting horn summoned the mercenaries. “Remember, no bloodshed,” Harry warned. “I want no stain of death upon this enterprise.”
Leaving the mercenaries and the squires to defend the gate, Harry and his knights made their way swiftly along the narrow street to the steep staircase leading to the shrine with its candlesticks and plate, its gold and gems and relics including the famed sword Durendal that had once belonged to the hero Roland.
Pilgrims fled in terror before the glint of mail and the threat of swords. Tense and alert, William expected to meet resistance where the stairs led to the terrace of the Virgin’s chapel, but no alarm sounded. A solitary, gray-bearded guard was present to keep the pilgrims in order, but he had been taking a piss in a corner and was still rearranging his garments as the raiders arrived.
“Stand aside, and no harm will come to you,” William said.
The guard spread his hands in surrender and was immediately disarmed and tied up. Two monks who had been inside the chapel rushed to secure the wrought-iron grille in front of the shrine, but William was faster, striding forward to thrust his mail-encased shoulder through the gap and force the brothers aside.
“Fetch your abbot,” Harry ordered. “Tell him that King Henry desires to speak with him urgently.”
The monks bolted, robes flapping around their sandals. Half a dozen pilgrims huddled before the altar, and William ordered them out and watched them flee because it was easier than facing the mother of God and wondering what his own mother would say if she could see him now.
Harry approached the altar with affected nonchalance. “Leave these.” He indicated the statue of the Virgin with the Christ child sitting on her lap and, beside it, a jewel-encrusted reliquary that housed a scrap of her robe. “Take everything else.” He picked up a silver-gilt candlestick and admired the filigree decoration around the base. “We’ll definitely have this—my father presented this to them the year I was crowned. That chalice too.” He indicated a golden cup studded with gemstones.
Tight-lipped, William slammed back the lid of a chest standing against the wall, venting his pent-up fear and revulsion on the furniture. Priceless silk vestments encrusted with gems and embroidery shone in deliquescent folds of emerald and sapphire, together with smocked linens as white as sea foam—garments intended for use on feast days and at times of high religious significance but misappropriated now as bundles for bearing away plunder.
William issued curt orders, and the men began stuffing the rich contents of the shrine into the vestments as if their haste would conceal their actions from the eyes of God. William directed operations and kept watch, detaching himself from the terrible desecration, knowing if he thought about the enormity of the sin they were committing, he would be overwhelmed.
Ancel worked in the background, scooping jewels and plate into the satchel while casting dagger glances at William, who eventually faced him out with a glare so steely that his brother dropped his gaze and turned away.
Their damnable work done, the shrine of Our Lady of Rocamadour stood bare of all adornment save for the ancient, blackened carving of the Virgin herself, her expression inscrutable in the light from the shrine lamp burning upon her stripped altar. Rape—it was rape. His belly crawling with nausea, William brusquely ordered the men back to the gate.
Alone, he finally faced the statue and, in the faint red glow, fell to his knees and bowed his head. “Holy Mother, everything will be restored, I promise,” he vowed. “My lord has great need… I beseech you to have mercy and to forgive us our trespasses.”
The shrine was silent. The flicker of ruby light deepened the shadows and edged his mind with visions of hell, as far removed from redemption as the sky was from the bowels of the earth. Rising to his feet, he turned abruptly and followed the knights, forcing himself not to run.
The monks had gathered in a huddle of hand-wringing reproach to bear witness to the plundering of their shrine. Their abbot, Gerard D’Escorailles, was an old man but still strong enough to be forthright and do battle by condemnation.
“It is a great and mortal sin you commit in desecrating this holy place, and God sees all and rewards accordingly!” his voice rang out, filled with fire. “Take warning for your soul; your kingship will not protect you from God’s wrath. The weight of your sin will drag you down to hell!”
“But you can afford to give generously to poor pilgrims,” Harry replied, smiling. “I am under oath to visit the tomb of Christ in Jerusalem; surely you would not deny me your donation?”
Abbot Gerard’s white beard quivered. “You commit blasphemy! Are you intending to rob the sepulchre too and claim you do it in the name of Christ?”
Harry’s smile remained, albeit fixed and brittle. He held out to Abbot Gerard a sealed parchment, written by his scribe before he set out. “Here is my solemn promise that I will make good on our borrowing.”
The abbot struck it aside. “Such a doc
ument is worthless when you thieve the belongings of God to pay for war and wreak misery upon righteous folk with your hell-bound men!” His gaze flicked with contempt over the gathered knights. “What you steal can never be replaced like for like, for it will be scattered far and wide.”
“You have my oath that you will be recompensed.” Harry’s expression was stiff with irritation. “I would say fivefold but that smacks of usury and we all know how much the Church abhors that sin, don’t we?”
“God is not mocked,” the abbot warned, his tone flat and hard. “When you weigh that gold, you weigh it against your mortal soul. I shall pray for you, but in vain, I fear. You are marked for hell.”
Harry flushed. Leaning forward, he tucked the scroll under the old man’s rope belt. “Until my return,” he said and, pivoting on his heel, swept out.
Following on the tail of his young lord’s cloak, William felt the hostility of the monks and pilgrims boring into his spine, and beyond that, he sensed the heavy hand of God and the condemnation of the Virgin shaming his soul for eternity.
* * *
That evening, at their lodging, Harry gave William the task of dividing the spoils among the mercenaries. William did so efficiently, his blank expression concealing just how sullied he felt. Like Judas selling Christ.
Now that Harry was solvent, the wine flowed freely, washing down chicken simmered in cumin and coneys cooked in almond milk. A suckling pig once destined for Abbot Gerard’s dinner table was served up with forcemeat and preserved apples, and everyone dined until their bellies were as tight as drums. They all drank far too much, trying to smother with merriment and overindulgence the memory of what they had done at Rocamadour.
William’s reward for his part in the robbery was a pouch of jewels—sapphires, rubies, and rock crystals gouged with a knifepoint from the altar panels of the shrine. Tied against his hip, the little leather bag felt like a heavy sack of sins as he went about his duties. Yet he had to eat, to feed his horses and support the knights who depended on him for sustenance; as their leader, he could not be seen as weak or squeamish.
Amid the heaps of plunder was the sword Durendal that had once belonged to the great hero Roland who had died defending the Pass of Roncesvalles against the Saracens. Everyone knew the story. An intricate pattern of gold interlace decorated the hilt, and the grip was fashioned from overlapping bands of rose-colored leather. The sword had been thrust into a crevice in the wall and then chained to a ring hammered into the rock, but that had not prevented it from being appropriated.
“Blade’s as blunt as a peasant’s wits,” Harry said, examining it with a critical eye. “Not been sharpened in years. The monks do not know how to care for such things. It probably isn’t the real sword of Roland anyway. If it really belonged to him, it was meant to be wielded by a warrior, not left to rust on an altar.”
“Indeed, sire, but it is perhaps not the best way to obtain weaponry.”
Harry cocked his brow at William. “Do I sense you are about to deliver me another lecture, Marshal?”
“Only that we should trim our expenditure,” William replied. “Shrines such as Rocamadour are few and far between and do not replenish as swiftly as the men require payment.”
“Yes, yes.” Harry waved the sword and light flashed on the hilt. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
“Sire.”
In desperate need of fresh air, William went outside to check that those who had drawn the short straws for guard duty were in their places and that the horses were properly bedded down for the night. Once he was certain all was in order, he paused by the trough in the stable yard to splash his face before uttering a soft groan and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. The enormity of what they had done was like a black tree growing up through his body and stretching its branches into every part of his soul. This was with him for eternity, this dishonor with God. Lowering his hands, he braced them on the stone sides of the trough and gazed at the moon’s distorted reflection shimmering in the water, while in his mind’s eye, he saw the flames of hell reflected back at him through his own darkly transparent image. Eventually, he stood upright, drew himself together, and returned inside.
Harry was playing dice, wagering with coins from the plunder, the sword resting across his lap.
William skirted the game and climbed the stairs to his chamber. The room was in darkness save for a sliver of moonlight piercing the shutters. From Ancel’s pallet came the saw of ragged, distressed breathing. William fetched the lantern from the wall niche outside the room and, lifting it above the bed, saw his brother on his knees, his body shuddering with dry sobs and his fists clenched at his breast.
“Ancel?”
Ancel turned, his face contorted with fear bordering on terror. “I dreamed I was being roasted alive by demons,” he said, weeping. “They drove their pitchforks through my guts and twisted them on their tines, and the Virgin of Rocamadour looked on and cursed me for what she had seen me do.”
Ice crawled up William’s spine. “It was no more than a nightmare,” he said curtly. “Harry will make amends—it will all be returned.”
“You expect me to believe that when it has all been apportioned out? We’ll never be forgiven for this and you know it! I should never have left home to follow you to the tourneys.” Ancel turned his back on William and lay down, curling into a fetal position.
“Ancel…” William opened his hands, then let them fall to his sides. His brother did not understand what it was like to have a position of command and make decisions for the good of all. Ancel loved to wear the glory and parade in finery but had no grasp of the underlying realities. Others had to make those hard choices and then be damned.
William sighed, heeled about, and returned to the dice game. Harry’s place on the bench was empty.
“Latrine,” said Robert of London, nodding in the direction of a low doorway. “Too much feast after famine.” A woman leaned over to refill his cup, and he ran his hand over her hip and snatched a kiss.
Harry returned a moment later, rubbing his stomach and grimacing, but resumed his place at the table. “Sit, Marshal, and play hazard,” he said. “Have some wine.” He handed William an ornate rock crystal flagon from the spoils of their raid.
William took his place at Harry’s side, poured the drink, and knew as Harry shook the dice and cast them that every man sitting at this board tonight was damned.
* * *
William paused on the threshold of Harry’s chamber and braced himself. He did not need to ask the frightened servants how his lord had spent the night because he had heard the disturbance and the stifled cries of pain. Harry had been sick for several days and his condition was steadily worsening. Any food he ate was either vomited back up, or voided from his bowels faster than he could reach the latrine. William had seen the bloody flux often enough to know its consequences. Some survived; many did not.
He had told the men that Harry was recovering well but had seen the doubt and disbelief in their eyes, and although he maintained an optimistic demeanor in their presence, beneath the facade, he was sick with fear.
Entering the chamber, he inhaled the stench of vomit and feces and fought valiantly not to retch as he came face-to-face with a servant holding a bowl of bloody brown liquid.
“Get rid of that,” William ordered in a constricted voice, “and see to it that the king has clean linen.”
The servant covered the bowl with a cloth. “We have changed the sheets twice already, messire—”
“Then change them again.”
“The laundress has gone to fetch clean ones.”
The man departed, and William advanced to the bed and sat down at Harry’s side. “How are you today, sire? Better, I trust?” He noticed with dismay how sunken Harry’s features were, the moisture sucked out of him, cleaving skin to bone. His lips were dry and drawn back from his teeth, and th
ere was no saliva in his mouth. William glanced over his shoulder at Harry’s fearful attendants and shot them a warning look.
The laundress arrived with bed linen fresh from the drying ground and smelling of sunlight. Harry had to be eased out of bed while his sheets were changed. Pale and gasping, gritting his teeth, he hunched on a stool, clinging to William for support. “If demons exist,” he panted, “then they have set their talons into my entrails and are ripping them to shreds. I am shitting my lifeblood into a slop bowl.” He sent William a desperate look. “It is because of Rocamadour and the other shrines; that is what they are saying, isn’t it? That this is punishment for my sin?”
“Sire, no one says anything.”
“Yes, they do, and they think it…and they are right.” Harry swallowed, the sound a dry click. “I am bound for hell.”
William’s own mouth was parched. “No, sire… I do not believe that.”
Harry’s face twisted. “You do, and so do I. Do not sell me false comfort, Marshal, and betray me now.” He gripped William’s sleeve, digging in as a spasm tore through him. “You have been at my back since I was a youth and steadfast in your loyalty.”
“Always, sire.” William’s eyes stung with remorse and pity. Harry’s royal parents had entrusted him with the position of protector and mentor to their eldest son, and he had failed on all counts. “And I shall not leave you now.” Others were already doing so—the vermin who always hung around on the peripheries of armies to pick up the crumbs and had a survival instinct to move on before the cupboard was bare.
“I do intend to return all I took from the shrines of Saint Martial and Rocamadour.” Harry’s grip was like a vise on William’s sleeve. “You know that.”
“Yes, sire,” William answered. In a way, it was true, but intent and deed were not always the same thing with Harry.
The young man’s face contorted as another spasm seized his gut. “I need you to help me make amends, because I cannot make them myself.”
Templar Silks Page 2
