Ancel chewed his lip. “But the Saracens are our enemies.”
Onri shrugged. “Some are, some are not, but you must decide for yourself who to trust. You will discover many who call themselves Christians have different ways about them and may be hostile, especially to newcomers. It is not only a different place, but a different world, and you must learn their ways if you are to survive.”
“Then I shall trust no one,” Ancel said and put his arms around the dog, receiving a series of enthusiastic licks in response.
William assimilated Onri’s words and then said, “Perhaps you will teach us how best to fight to counter these kinds of blades.”
“Indeed, it will be my pleasure,” Onri replied, “although not all Saracen swords are curved. Many are straight like our own, and the best of Damascus have edges so sharp they can cut a silk veil in two and shave a man’s beard to bare skin.”
Leaving the pool, he went to his baggage, returning with a curved sword sheathed in a plain leather scabbard. The hilt was decorated with an intricate geometric design, and the pommel was set with a dull red stone. “This is the weapon that wounded me. I keep it as a reminder of what it is capable of.” He handed it around for everyone to examine. “You are all experienced warriors, well practiced. You know that half the battle lies in outthinking and outmaneuvering your opponent. In taking a superior tactical position. It is not how swiftly you move; it is how quickly you think.” He tapped his temple.
There were nods all round. William noted the gleam in Onri’s eyes and felt an answering spark. “Will you show us?”
Onri dipped his head and William sent Eustace to fetch his sword from his pack. He had fought sword against the Saracen shamshir before, but as a novelty at a tourney. He and Harry had sparred with one out of curiosity, taking turns, but it had not been a discipline either of them had pursued.
Eustace returned from the cart with William’s sword and shield, while Onri had a small round Saracen buckler brought from his own baggage.
William studied the way Onri positioned his feet, for the terrain always had to be taken into account.
“Come at me,” Onri said. “Remember that on the ground, even if you think you are light and swift, your enemy will be lighter and swifter still, and you will not see the cut coming.”
William attacked, and Onri parried and hooked the Saracen shamshir under William’s shield. “It is like the beak of a vulture,” Onri said, moving back, “and it will tear out your entrails and stop your heart in the time it takes you to step forward into the blow. Again.”
Onri proceeded to show William the ways of the Saracen blade, although it was but a short demonstration of the basic technique—how to be aware of the devices and tricks that differed from a straight sword and how to react and counterattack.
Onri practiced with the others too; as usual, Ancel was the slowest learner, clearly signaling his responses when he attacked and defended and constantly being caught out by the probes and feints of the curved blade. William watched impassively and was not overly dismayed. Ancel was a thoroughly competent and trustworthy swordsman who could hold his place in any line and fight his corner well, but it took him a long time to learn. Once he had absorbed a technique by constant drilling and repetition, it stayed with him forever, never losing its edge, but what William could grasp in a day took Ancel a week.
Red-faced and dogged but increasingly flustered and ashamed, Ancel wanted to continue the fight, but it was time to cool off in the pool again before donning their now clean, dry clothes and riding on.
“It will come with practice,” William told Ancel as they dressed. He nudged his shoulder supportively. “We both know that.”
Ancel shrugged moodily, but William let it go, knowing that he would come around if left to his own devices.
* * *
That night, under the white ball of the moon, the pilgrim group camped on the outskirts of a small village. Eustace cooked a stew with two fowl purchased from a farm along the way, seasoned with onions, herbs, and garlic. They had bread too—the remnants of loaves doled out at yesterday’s pilgrim hostel, hard but edible once soaked in the stew.
“What will we do after we reach Jerusalem?” Ancel asked, scraping his bowl so clean that it only required a quick polish on his cuff. Pilgrim lay at his feet, crunching a chicken bone held upright between his forepaws. “After we have laid the cloak and fulfilled our duty, are we to turn around and come straight home?” As usual, he had recovered from his sulk as they rode along and was back to his customary self.
William shook his head. “We can decide that later. We do not know what we will find, and there are places other than Jerusalem in Outremer to visit and worship. If we arrive in time to celebrate the Nativity, then we should stay until Easter to mark Christ’s rising from the dead. There will be many opportunities for employment given the skills we possess, and we have our introductions to the court.”
Ancel nodded but still looked pensive.
William was conscious of his brother’s need to know what was around every corner but could not give him that assurance when he did not know himself. Each new day along their route brought fresh challenges; indeed, he was very aware that they might not reach their destination at all.
“And our souls will be cleansed, and we will find forgiveness.”
“Yes.”
“I need to know that,” Ancel said almost forlornly.
Roughly pulling him close, William kissed his forehead. “In Jerusalem, all sins are forgiven, and in the meantime, all we can do is travel in hope.” As he spoke, he realized he had found that glimmer of hope during their weeks on the road, even if it was a delicate light that could easily be extinguished. He had to believe because the alternative glow brought him straight to the flames of hell.
* * *
Under a gray wash of moonlight, William took the cloak satchel and, quietly leaving the camp, walked down the track to the simple village church, dedicated to the Virgin—one of the reasons he had stopped here for tonight. The wooden door creaked open, and, stooping under the arch, William bowed and crossed himself before entering the nave. The only light came from moonbeams slanting through the windows, which were plain, unlike those of the great cathedrals and wealthy churches of towns and abbeys with their stained-glass jewels. Yet the corbels on the pillars were exquisitely chiseled with foliate designs, and over the altar was painted a vivid portrayal of the crucifixion on the left and Mary’s ascent to heaven on the right. On the altar itself stood a cross of silver gilt, a garnet at its center like a perfect drop of blood, and, beside it, a statue of the Virgin with the Christ child in her lap, lovingly carved, the paint softened into richness by the dim light of the hanging lamp.
William took the cloak from the satchel and spread it before the statue and, prostrating himself, prayed. He and his men had paused at many churches and shrines along their road, marking each place as a sacred point on their journey like jewels on a robe—Chartres, Tours, Vézelay. William had been careful never to make a parade of the cloak in public because it was his sacred charge and he knew some folk viewed it as a relic itself and might not be above appropriating it for their own purposes. However, in moments alone like this, he could tap into a deeper well of spirituality and open the cloak, which to him had almost become the disembodied representation of his young lord.
The hours passed, and the moon climbed the sky, shining down as clear as winter daylight upon William’s spread-eagled form as he prayed, asking forgiveness and mercy for the sins he and his young lord had committed. Even in the midst of his devotion, a thin strand of awareness held him to his surroundings and alerted him to the faint squeak of the door hinges and a soft footfall. In haste but without panic, William eased to his knees, crossed himself to honor the Virgin, and began carefully folding the cloak.
Onri quietly joined him, going down on one knee in the moonlight, crossin
g himself and venerating the altar. “I saw you leave the camp.” He glanced at the folded cloak.
“And you deemed it necessary to follow me?”
“You were gone a long time,” Onri said. “You might say it is none of my business, but I am a monk as well as a warrior and Aimery bade me look to your well-being.”
William fastened the cover around the cloak. “I know Aimery has my best interests at heart, but I am not in need.”
Onri inclined his head. “Then forgive me for intruding on your prayers, and I hope you found what you sought.”
William crossed himself, reverenced the Virgin once more, and turned to leave. “Enough that I can sleep.”
Onri followed him. “Brother Aimery thinks very highly of you,” he said as they stepped outside into the blue-gray half-light.
William shrugged. “I do not understand why, save that he has a good heart and we have known each other since we were children.”
Onri clasped his hands behind his back. “Brother Aimery recognizes the potential in men—it is his particular skill. As you say, he has a good heart, and when he focuses on someone and goes out of his way to help him, then I pay attention.”
William said nothing. He was not at all certain that Aimery’s judgment was sound in his case and perhaps owed too much to childhood loyalties.
“Have you ever considered becoming a Templar?” Onri asked as they returned along the track.
William shook his head. “I am not deserving of the white mantle.”
“But if you were to become worthy in time, through prayer and deed?”
Frowning, William wondered what lay behind Onri’s question. Recruitment into the order? The Templars were always seeking knights with competent fighting or administrative abilities to join them. His family had had connections with the Templars since he was a boy. His father had granted his manor at Rockley to them, and William himself had received his own religious instruction from his father’s almoner who had been one of their order. He admired the military organization, the discipline and devotion of the men who took the vows, but he had never thought beyond that to his own future. “Perhaps,” he said, hedging his reply. “I do not know my road beyond the one to Jerusalem. Until that is accomplished, all else must bide.”
Onri accepted the response with composure. “If ever you should consider taking vows, I know Aimery would speak for you, as would I—but I understand that for now you have other duties and responsibilities to discharge.” Onri lightly touched William’s arm before moving off to his bedroll.
William lay down and gazed at the sky, thinking about what Onri had said. He truly did not know his road beyond Jerusalem, although he had vowed to many people that he would return if he was able. But what then? King Henry had said he would give him a position at court, but Henry’s promises were fickle, and Queen Alienor could only give him limited assistance because she was her husband’s prisoner. However, to commit himself to the Templars would be an irrevocable step, cutting him off from ordinary life—from his family, his siblings, nieces, and nephews. He would never have heirs. One day, he might walk away from all those worldly concerns and desires, but for now, it was too great a step, and he was not worthy in his own eyes to fulfill such a calling.
Of course, a man might join the Templars in a temporary way and dedicate himself to their service for a set amount of time without taking vows—as many did in fulfillment of penance. He acknowledged that Onri probably knew exactly what he was doing in planting an idea following a moment of deep spiritual contemplation, when the soil was at its most fertile.
Placing the cloak against his pillow, William turned his shoulder to the sky and closed his eyes. Fertile perhaps, but not ready to be sown.
8
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
William studied his vassal and knight Henry FitzGerold whose turn it was to sit in vigil at his bedside. It was night, and all the shutters were closed, and the lamps in the room gave off a soft golden light. Henry had just given William a drink of water and was frowning pensively.
“Is there something wrong?” William asked as he took small sips from the cup, striving to hold it steady from a stubborn sense of independence.
“No, sire, save that I am grieved to see you so unwell.”
William gave a humorless smile. “Well, only my death will change that, and then I shall not be sick anymore.”
“Sire, you should not say that,” Henry replied, looking uncomfortable.
“Why?” William asked forthrightly. “There is always hope, Henry, but in me now, it is the hope of release from earthly bonds.”
Henry lowered his gaze. “We do not want to lose you, sire. In truth, I am a little troubled, but I do not wish to burden you.”
Henry’s words emphasized to William how often his men had brought their difficulties to him and sought his advice. Soon he would not be there for them save as a memory, and he experienced a pang of guilt. “Come, what is your trouble?” he asked. “I will not be able to counsel you for much longer, but for now I shall do my best.”
Henry looked troubled. “A priest said to me in church that no man will find salvation on any account unless he returns all that he has taken in his lifetime.” He screwed up his face. “I would not bother you, but I am worried for your soul.”
William had not thought he had the energy to feel irritation and anger anymore, but the emotions surged through his body like wine from the dregs of the barrel, red and silty. Although Henry had not said which priest, he knew full well it would be one of the household clerks or chaplains, probably Philip, who, despite pleading poverty, was overly bothered about ways of making money and gaining approval from his peers.
“Churchmen always give us to believe that no man will find salvation on any account unless he goes from the world naked,” William said. “They shave us too closely while not shaving themselves. If the door of heaven is closed in my face because I have taken the ransoms of five hundred knights in tourneys and kept their arms, their horses, and all their equipment, there is nothing I can do about it. What matters more is penitence in the heart and a wish to atone for one’s sins. Men of the Church might push me, but I have reached my sticking point on this score. Either their argument is false, which I believe, or else no man may find salvation.”
Henry reddened. “Without a doubt, you are right. I should not have listened, and I should not have let him go unchallenged.”
“I can tell you from a lifetime’s experience that the interests of the Church are closely connected to Saint Silver and Saint Gold. If I cannot enter through the gates of heaven, then that leaves the pope without a chance.” He gave a rusty chuckle. “If I do not let it trouble me, then you must not let it trouble you. Only listen to those men of the Church whom you trust to have your best interests at heart—and God’s—and that is not the same as their interests and the interests of the Church.” He fixed Henry with a firm stare. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Entirely, sire.”
“Then all is well,” William said, and closed his eyes.
9
Rome, August 1183
William and his men arrived in Rome at the end of August after a month on the road. The octogenarian Pope Lucius was not in residence, but had retired to Verona, incapable of dealing with the sharp knives of politics in the city.
William and his company found lodgings in a hostel not far from the Lateran Palace, although Onri and Augustine made their own accommodation at the Templar preceptory on the Aventine Hill. Although the papal court had mostly moved to Verona, a nucleus remained in Rome, to whom William delivered Henry’s letters. Indeed, although the pope had absented himself, a new Vatican palace was under construction, and churches and palaces were springing up within the city faster than mushrooms in humid autumn weather. A hundred years ago, Rome had been sacked by the Norman adventurer Robert Guiscard, but since then
, the rebuilding and embellishment had continued apace.
William and his company stayed in the city for three days, resting themselves and their mounts, replenishing supplies, obtaining money and safe conducts using the documentation from the Temple Church in London, and securing the all-important indulgences, forgiving sins, for which Rome was renowned for being especially generous.
The men visited the churches, wondering at the apse mosaics of Saint Clemente and the marble fittings of the quire and the frescoes of Santa Maria Antiqua. Everywhere, work of striking beauty—executed in gold and gilt, with glass and marble tesserae—dazzled William’s eyes. The great cathedrals of England and France had nothing to match the splendor of Rome.
He drank in the magnificence, not just for himself but for Harry too, using his own eyes to see for Harry and include him in the experience by proxy. He laid the cloak before the altars in the churches where he prayed, seeking atonement for their sins—Saint Peter’s and Saint Paul’s, Saint Lorenzo, Saint Giovanni in Laterano, Saint Mary of the Crib, Saint Mary Cosmedin.
On the last day, William took the opportunity to view the older, pagan edifices of the city because he knew Harry would have been fascinated. With Ancel in tow, William visited the Colosseum and the Forum, the temples and unknown walled structures, walking around the tumbled, weed-choked stones of a past mighty civilization, eyes wide to absorb as much as he could but knowing he could never do more than garner a general impression in the time allotted.
Pausing in a shady courtyard to take a respite from the baking heat, the brothers came upon the statue of a woman with hands raised to her tumbling hair, a wisp of stone cloth flowing diagonally over her body, leaving little to the imagination. Vestiges of flesh color lingered in the elbow crevices and along her jawline. The cloth wisp had once been bright blue.
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