When William roused, the children had gone, the sun had moved to another quadrant of his pillow, and Will was talking quietly to one of his attendants. The children had left small gifts at his bedside. A toy wooden knight on a horse with an iron jousting lance, a soft doll wearing a blue gown, a silver harness bell on a worn leather strap, and a square of exquisite embroidery upon which perched a rosewater sweetmeat.
Noticing that he was awake, Will ceased his conversation and joined him. “They tired you out,” he said.
William smiled. “It takes nothing to tire me these days. Even keeping my eyes open exhausts me. I enjoyed their company, and I am glad you brought them. What are these gifts?”
“Ah.” Will chuckled. “The bell is because they thought you might want to ring it if you needed something and could not speak and also a bell is a prayerful thing. The knight is to remember your prowess. Isabel left you one of her dolls for comfort and company.” He gave his father an amused, sidelong look. “She sleeps with hers at night and thinks you should have the same succor.”
William grunted with amusement.
“The sweetmeat is from all of them that you might taste it and have pleasure.”
A sudden tearful sharpness stung William’s eyes, all the more powerful for how unexpected it was. He had first tasted these rosewater confections in Jerusalem, fed to him under a jeweled dome by a laughing woman, her lustrous black hair sweeping his naked shoulders as she leaned over him, teasing him, snatching small bites and sweet kisses as she moved upon him and he moved within her. Long ago, long before Isabelle, long before any of his children had been born. His love for Isabelle was a powerful, enduring thing, strong and deep as the ocean, but Jerusalem had been a walk through fire to a new forging, and he had not emerged unscathed. “I am supposed to be detaching from worldly things,” he said ruefully, “but it would be good to taste it one last time.”
Will knelt to him like a squire in formality at the high table and presented the confection on its embroidered cloth. William was touched by the gesture. He fumbled the piece into his fingers, raised it to his lips, and as he bit down, the delicate flavor of rose mingled with the pure sweetness of sugar burst delightfully on his tongue and in his memory. But even as he chewed, his appetite waned. He craved the taste, but it was so difficult to swallow, and his body was unable to deal with the physical process of assuaging hunger even while his mind yearned for the experience.
“Enough,” he said, having managed a third of the square. “I shall save the rest for another time. It was well thought of.”
“I am glad to hear there will be another time,” Will said as he gently wrapped the cloth around the remains and put it on a shelf in the wall cupboard at the side of the bed.
“Indeed. I want you to share more of these at my funeral feast.”
“It shall be done.” Will’s face clouded. “I shall miss you,” he said quietly.
William lifted one eyebrow. “I am not gone quite yet.”
“But you will go, and I shall miss you. For all my life, you have been a solid rock in my awareness.” Will swallowed. “I love you for that steadfastness, even though a solid rock can be infuriating and will not move from your path no matter how much you push against it. With familiarity, you come to love it, and it is part of you.”
William smiled ruefully. He and Will had often not seen eye to eye. At times, they had been on opposing sides during the turmoil that had riven the country in the reign of King John not of blessed memory. That they had not drawn swords against each other during that time was close to a miracle. “I loved you always, and that love is unchanging and it is with you always—even when I am gone. I remember your hand curled around my finger when you were a newborn, and it was all that mattered in the world. You will never know how much.”
A muscle flickered in Will’s jaw and he would have looked away, but William locked his own stare upon his son’s in firmness and truth. For just a little longer, he could be that rock.
Will’s throat worked. “I cannot bear for you not to be there.”
“You have no choice but to bear it as you must,” William replied. “I can do nothing about it and neither can you, and that makes it very simple indeed.”
7
Rouen, late July 1183
The perfume of honeysuckle drifted across the lodging house garden, intermingling with gauzy layers of smoke from the fire pit, around which the men had gathered to drink wine, eat bread, and toast cubes of meat glazed in honey and spices. The light was pinkish tawny in the west with the final tints of sunset. It was their last evening before setting out for Jerusalem, and the long days were still upon them. For the first few weeks of their expected four-month journey, they would be able to take advantage of those hours and, if the weather was fair, travel long distances.
Gazing around the small band of men who would be his fellow pilgrims and traveling companions, William wondered how this pilgrimage would change them and if they would survive to bring home tales to one day tell to sons and daughters.
This morning, they had attended a prayer service in the cathedral and, to the chant of “Kyrie Eleison” and the reciting of the Pater Noster, had taken up their satchels and staffs and received the Pilgrim’s Blessing from the archbishop, together with the presentation to each man of a small wooden cross. And then they had honored the tomb of their dear, dead, young lord and made their solemn vow to fulfill his final wish.
Robert of London was one of the Young King’s knights with whom William had tourneyed in his carefree days. A family neighbor from Wiltshire, he was a strong fighter, quiet and steady, although better at following orders than using his initiative. Tall, broad-shouldered Guyon de Culturo had a cheerful nature and was always ready with a jest or a practical joke. Guillaume Waleran was fair-haired, slender as a whip, and unbelievably fast with a dagger. Geoffrey FitzRobert, a curly-haired, freckle-faced knight, possessed excellent practical skills when it came to improvisation and repair. His quick hands could mend anything, and he was adept at bandaging wounds and dealing with the horses.
The two Templar knights, Augustine de Labaro and Onri de Civray, had mostly kept their own counsel but were not unfriendly, and William hoped to become better acquainted as they traveled. A handful of squires and servants brought the company up to twelve in all, including his own squire Eustace, who was serving both himself and Ancel.
William’s gaze lingered on his brother, who was sizzling a chunk of lamb in the coals at the side of the fire pit. He could clearly remember the day Ancel was born—himself a small boy, tiptoeing into his mother’s chamber to be shown the tiny, swaddled baby snuffling in her arms amid relief and thanksgiving in the family that both mother and child were safe. He had loved Ancel from that moment, even if exasperation and annoyance frequently overlaid the fixed emotion. They were very different beings, even if Ancel had striven to close that gap from the moment he could walk and talk, following William around, emulating him, wanting to be him despite the gulf separating their skills and personalities.
That bawling baby, that child who had dogged his footsteps, was now a full adult, not overly tall, but stocky and strong. He had their mother’s wavy, brunette hair and dark hazel eyes filled with a wide innocence that was usually true but occasionally feigned.
Ancel met his gaze across the fire, and for a moment the brothers were as one, like a mirror and shimmering reflection, before they disengaged. Nothing was said; the atmosphere was full between them without words and the talking was over. Tomorrow, the journey would begin and test their mettle to the full measure.
* * *
In the predawn twilight, the pilgrim party walked through the dewy coolness from their lodging to the great cathedral of Notre Dame, there to pay their respects at the Young King’s tomb and offer up final prayers asking for the strength to achieve their goal. The church was dedicated to Our Lady, and each man devoted special pray
ers to her, prostrating themselves and begging her mercy and forgiveness for their sins.
Filled with determination, William knelt at Harry’s tomb. The effigy had yet to be carved, and the place was marked by a plain stone slab covered by a pall of purple silk. A sheathed sword lay upon it, the hilt pointing toward the head of the tomb and the tip to Harry’s feet, although Durendal had been returned to Rocamadour. A gilded sword belt spiraled around the scabbard, and a pair of golden spurs glinted at the side. There was a crown too, encrusted with rubies, pearls, and sapphires. William had been present on the day the Bishop of London had set the diadem upon his young lord’s brow and made him a shadow king in his own father’s lifetime. Now, it decorated his tomb, but all the worldly trappings of kingship were worthless frippery when it came to the soul.
Lighted candles haloed the tomb as though it were the shrine of a saint, which was ironic after Rocamadour. Claims had been made that Harry, in death, had effected miraculous cures upon the sick. William wanted to believe such stories were true and his young lord safe in heaven, but the heat from those candles might also be a portent of the fires of hell.
Producing Harry’s cloak, William laid it over the riches covering the slab. The candles fluttered and then steadied as the garment settled. “Sire,” William said. “Today I leave for Jerusalem with my companions to lay your cloak at Christ’s tomb as you charged me and as I have so sworn. My prayers for your soul shall mark every step I take, and I shall do my utmost to pay your debt to God and atone for my own sins. Amen.” He crossed himself, rose to his feet, and lit another candle to join the hundreds shining around the tomb. The others emulated his gesture, all making the sign of the cross and bowing their heads. When the final respect had been paid, William lifted the cloak from the tomb, folded it in its wrappings, and placed it in its satchel.
The predawn twilight had yielded to the dewy green of a summer sunrise. As he left the cathedral, William felt as he had sometimes done when stepping onto the tourney field, when powerful opponents were ranged against him and he knew the fight would be a tough challenge, but he intended to acquit himself with honor.
Gathering his companions around him, he cleared his throat and looked at their mingled expressions of anxiety, eagerness, and anticipation. “It is strange to think that this is an ordinary morning, one we could see at any point in our lives at this time of year. But it is momentous too, because we will be changed from the instant we take the first step of however many we must travel to bring our young lord’s cloak and our sinning selves to atonement in Jerusalem. We will face dangers, challenges, and trials, but our faith and courage will carry us through. I am confident in all of you as my friends and my companions, and I trust in God’s mercy to penitent sinners that he will be with us on our journey and permit us to reach our destination. Amen.”
The “amen” was repeated around the companions. And then Robert of London broke away to mount one of the two horses pulling the cart carrying their equipment. Later, they would sell the cart and change to pack beasts, but this served for now. William turned to one of the two palfreys he was bringing on the journey, intending to ride them on alternate days. Both were sturdy, steady beasts with good wind and a comfortable stride.
A small crowd of well-wishers had gathered to bid the pilgrim party Godspeed, although few from the court, William noted. King Henry was absent, governing his far-flung realm, and Queen Alienor was a prisoner in England. To William, it was like the final mark ending an era. His youth was gone. If Harry had been here, there would have been toasts and laughter, minstrels and largesse, and an array of clergy in glittering robes. But without him, the farewell was subdued.
A few men from the Young King’s household had turned up to bid farewell, among them William’s good friend Baldwin de Bethune. “We shall hold a feast of celebration and remembrance for our Young King when you return,” he promised, embracing William. With a flourish, he produced an embossed leather box of the kind that would normally have been used to transport a crown but today held a dozen small meat pies wrapped in a cloth and still warm from the oven.
“Godspeed, Gaste-viande,” said Baldwin with a grinning reference to William’s youthful nickname. “Do not eat them all at once.”
William laughed and shook his head, for Baldwin always knew how to lighten a situation. “I shall try my best, but I make no promises.”
He swung into the saddle, and the company turned, in a jingle of harness and rumble of wheels, to face the open road. Children dashed alongside the group, crying out for alms, and William threw a fistful of silver that he had reserved for that purpose, flashing and spinning, reminding him of the coin Harry had tossed at Martel before issuing the order to raid Rocamadour. The children dived on the money, shouting, jostling, and William picked up the pace. The cries of the youngsters followed the men like the tail end of a banner.
The town dogs pursued them for a while too, but gradually that ceased except for a single scrawny, tan mongrel that trotted along at William’s side, nose twitching at the scent of the pies. Taking pity, Ancel tossed the dog some dried sausage from his own pouch.
“You should not feed it,” William admonished. “You will attract all manner of waifs and strays.”
Ancel shrugged. “Then we are alike, you and I,” he said with a twisted smile and glanced at Eustace, whom William had plucked from obscurity into his service between one tourney and the next. Ancel too owed his position to William’s influence and largesse. “You never know how useful they might be—they could save your life one day!”
William found a smile from somewhere and his heart lightened a little. “Well then, I sincerely hope to find out before this journey ends, and he is your responsibility.”
Ancel acknowledged William’s words with a sarcastic flourish.
* * *
During the four weeks of steady traveling it took to reach Rome, the company gradually became more closely knit as they adjusted to the daily routine of the journey and grew to know each other. Passing through towns and villages, folk waved them on their way when they saw the crosses on their cloaks and often donated gifts of food and drink and offered lodging. Sometimes the men spent the night in pilgrim hostels, sometimes in castles, abbeys, and preceptories, where they were made honored guests in return for news. If caught between such havens, they would pitch tents, build a fire, and camp under the stars. The weather was fine, the grazing was good, and their progress swift.
Ancel’s stray dog acted as a unifying presence among them. He slept curled up against Ancel’s neck at night and by day either trotted alongside his horse, rode on the prow of Ancel’s saddle, ears pricked, or dozed in the cart. Robert of London had wanted to call him Fleabag, but Ancel declared that since he had chosen to walk the same path as them, he was God’s creature and should be called Pilgrim. The name had stuck, and the dog had swiftly learned to respond to it, especially when lured by a chunk of dried sausage.
Ancel fashioned a collar from an old piece of rein and groomed him every evening, so that gradually he became less of a fleabag. Geoffrey FitzRobert made him a leather ball stuffed with wool, and the dog quickly learned to play fetch.
One evening, Pilgrim lay down on his back beside William, forepaws folded over, ears cocked.
“He wants you to scratch his belly,” Ancel said.
William rolled his eyes. “I know perfectly well what he wants.”
“Well then?”
Despite himself, William obliged, and the dog wriggled, changing angle, pedaling his legs in bliss. William relaxed and, however reluctantly, had to laugh and felt healed to do so.
Another day, they stopped by a waterfall cascading into a pool, to take refuge until the burning summer heat lost some of its ferocity. The water was crystal clear and icy from mountain streams, and the halt provided a fine opportunity for a spot of laundry. Amid much splashing and bawdy jests about washerwomen, the men bashed the
ir shirts and braies on the boulders at the side of the pool and then spread the linen to dry. Pilgrim swam for sticks and, in between, climbed out onto the rocks and shook himself over the nearest person.
Several small caves dimpled the sides of the waterfall, draped with ferny overhangs. The echoes they produced were stupendous, and the men sat in the cool, green hollows sheltering from the heat, legs dangling over the edge as they sang and shouted to each other, using the resonances as an instrument. For the first time since before Rocamadour, William felt happiness glimmer within reach and raised his voice, full, rich, and powerful, in a psalm to the glory of God. The Templars, who had never heard him sing, gazed in wondering astonishment.
“You have a fine voice, messire,” Augustine said. “I wish I were so gifted.”
“It has always been my joy to sing,” William replied. “But I was not sure God wanted to hear my voice anymore.”
“God always wants to hear the voice of his child,” Onri said with quiet gravity.
The Templar’s bare chest revealed a curved purple welt along his ribs. William had noticed it earlier and said nothing, but Ancel was less circumspect. “How did you come by that injury, sire?” he asked.
Onri touched the scar. “Turkish blade. We were attacked north of Nablus. A band of them came at us while we were escorting a pilgrim caravan. We drove them off in the end, but not before they had killed two of our number and injured many more. I was saved by the skill of a Saracen chirurgeon working in the great hospital in Jerusalem.”
Ancel’s gaze widened. “A Saracen chirurgeon? Did you trust him?”
“He was the most skilled man there,” Onri replied. “The wound was putrid, and my life hung in the balance. The Hospitallers trusted him enough to employ him, and that was sufficient recommendation for me.” He gave Ancel a penetrating stare. “All is not as it seems in Outremer. Look once, and then look again. It is like a wheel. More than one spoke leads to the truth at the center, and what is true at one turn will be upside down within a moment.”
Templar Silks Page 5
