“Do you remember the statue we had in the courtyard at Hamstead?” Ancel asked. “A naked man with his right arm raised?”
William chuckled. “Yes, he’d lost his hand, so we had to guess what he had been holding. Mama thought a bunch of grapes.” He folded his arms. “During the war, our father raided a merchant train bound for Winchester, and it was among the spoils. The bishop was a keen collector of pagan statuary. Do you know what happened to it?”
Ancel shrugged. “Our father sold it while you were away training in Normandy. He said the silver it fetched could be put to better use than having it hang around gathering pigeon shit. The last straw for him was when our sisters dressed it up in tunic and hose and put a garland on its head—although I think he was secretly amused.”
William grinned at the image Ancel had conjured. Their father had been a pragmatic man who had never suffered fools gladly, but he had possessed a biting, sarcastic wit.
“I wonder what he would have thought of Rome,” Ancel mused.
“He would have had no time for the bureaucracy or the statues, but he’d have been interested in the defenses—and he’d have appreciated the brothels.”
“Yes,” Ancel said. “That’s what I thought—especially the brothels.”
* * *
On their last night in Rome, William and his men, except for the Templars and their sergeant, who were at the preceptory, dined together at an eating house near their lodging. They raised toasts to the Young King, remembering the times when life was sweet and unburdened by bitter grief, when they had followed the tourney circuit, jousting by day and carousing by night, carefree and unfettered.
The women of the establishment offered services beyond the provision of food and wine. William was reminded of the cook shops and bath houses in Southwark, across the Thames from London, where such comforts could be procured; indeed, the Bishop of Winchester was the landlord of several of those establishments, and one of his statues had graced the garden of the most exclusive one.
A woman with honey-brown plaits and hazel eyes sat down beside William and, taking his hand in hers, traced her forefinger over the lines on his palm. “They say you can read a person’s road in life by the maps written here,” she said in passable French.
William eyed her with amusement. “Do they now? And what does mine tell you?”
She smiled, revealing crooked front teeth. “I could not say, because such reading is not Christian, but your hand is strong, and you are a man with fine tastes.” She lazily wandered her finger up and down his palm, sending a surge to other parts of his body. It was a long way to Jerusalem, and only the Templars were under a vow of chastity. Fornication was a minor sin compared to the reason for their pilgrimage. If a bishop could endorse a brothel, then a knight could be entertained in one.
He let the woman take his hand and lead him to a curtained-off chamber, dimly lit by a hanging lamp. The bedcover was clean; he had seen far worse in military camps, on the tourney circuit, and sometimes at court. The woman was pleasing and professional—enough that he gave her an extra coin when their business was concluded. She told him her name was Magdalena. “A fitting name for my profession, no?”
“Perhaps, but it has its own grace,” he replied, and bowed to her as if she were a lady of high estate.
“Pray for me in Jerusalem,” she said.
Going outside, he leaned against the wall. The night was clear, and stars sparkled to eternity across a moonless sky. His body felt heavy and earthbound but calm.
The door opened, and Ancel emerged, buckling his belt, sleeking his hair. “Eustace will be a while,” he said. “He’s going for second helpings.”
William shook his head and grinned. “He always does say extra prayers at the shrines of such ladies when he gets the opportunity.”
“What was yours like?”
“She asked me to pray for her, and I said I would.” He did not reciprocate the question because he did not want to know. “Are you ready for the morrow?”
Ancel nodded pensively.
“We should reach Brindisi in just over a week if the roads are good.”
“And then into unknown territory.”
William shared Ancel’s tension but concealed it. “With God’s help, we will get there. If there is danger, we are united, and that makes us strong.”
One by one, the others emerged, laughing, joking, looking a little sheepish, but smug too. Eustace was the last to leave, still tucking himself inside his braies, his smile as wide as a half-moon.
“I trust everything was to your satisfaction?” William asked with amusement.
“Oh yes, sire,” Eustace replied with a beatific grin. “It’s almost as good as the Swan in Southwark.” He tugged his tunic straight.
The others rounded on him, slapping his back, calling him a randy young dog, and Eustace puffed out his chest and played to their joshing. William let them have their moment; it would stand them in good stead for their journey. A good leader knew when to have discipline and when to slacken the reins.
10
The Adriatic Sea, September 1183
Eight days of brisk traveling brought them to the port of Brindisi on the shores of the Adriatic Sea, there to procure a vessel to transport them across to Durazz in order to pick up the old Roman road, the Via Egnatia, which would take them to Constantinople.
William loathed sea crossings, but they had been an unfortunate necessity for much of his life as he traversed the Narrow Sea between England and Normandy in all seasons and weathers at the whim of royalty. The voyage was less than thirty miles at its narrowest point, but the winds, like the king, were unpredictable and could whip up a storm out of nowhere.
The crossing from Brindisi to Durazzo took a little under a day’s sail using two galleys to ship the men and horses across the blue Adriatic. They departed with the afternoon’s high tide, gulls wheeling and screaming over the red sails of their ships, and the breeze sufficiently brisk that the crew did not have to break out the oars. William gripped the mast and clenched his jaw as the coastline receded. Already his gut was rolling with each forward surge of their vessel. It did not matter that the weather was fair and the waves gentle folds under the keel. Indeed, he would rather have had a strong wind behind them to make his purgatory shorter, even if one of the virtues of pilgrimage was supposed to be suffering.
Ancel, capable of tripping over his own shadow on land, was totally at home on the sea, graceful almost. He adapted to the roll of the ship, emulating the sailors, and was as nimble on deck as they were. He sang cheerful snatches of song and delighted in the strong breeze through his hair as Brindisi vanished from sight. Passing William, he patted him on the shoulder with sympathetic encouragement in which there lurked a hint of smug superiority.
The wind dropped as the sun set and the crew broke out the oars. Night fell and a fine sea mist crept over the water, enveloping the galleys in veils of gray cobwebs. The galleys blew horns to each other to stay in contact and lit bright lanterns on prow and stern. As the lights glimmered intermittently through the cloud, Ancel took his turn at the horn blowing, for he had a fine pair of lungs and was eager to the task.
To William, it was like sailing off the edge of the world. They really were leaving all they had known behind. When they made landfall at dawn, presuming that the crew had navigated well, they would be stepping ashore on new territory and all the old certainties would either be gone or worthless. In many ways, it would be like starting afresh, which was a reason for optimism, but he was apprehensive. The next leg of their journey was almost seven hundred miles to Constantinople, and who knew if they would reach it and what they would find there.
The mist was still thick at first light but dissipated in time for William and his men to see the port of Durazzo rising on their flank, the buildings gilded in morning sunlight. The breeze had strengthened with the dawn, and the
crew had shipped oars and were relying on the sail to weave them into port.
Ancel came to stand at William’s side and gazed out over the water at the approaching harbor. “I told you all would be well.” He leaned against William, arms folded. “I hope there is somewhere we can break our fast on more than just stale bread. I’m starving.”
William merely grimaced. He would be much happier thinking about food once he had solid ground underfoot.
* * *
The Via Egnatia stretched out before William’s party in a rough track of worn cobbles woven with grass and moss. Built by the Romans as one of the great arteries of their empire, their influence could still be seen along the way in ruined temples open to the sky, in markers erected as inscribed pillars, and even in the occasional tombstone that had been reused to slab the road.
Despite occasional rough patches and moments of bad weather, William and his men often covered distances of more than thirty miles a day, and William hoped to reach Constantinople by early October. They slept in shelters and hostels built close to the road, and their safe conducts and letters of pilgrimage still held good in the towns and monasteries where they sought accommodation and where they were generally welcomed and asked for news.
Sometimes they encountered other travelers—merchants, fellow pilgrims, messengers on the road—and they journeyed with them for a while, enjoying the increased safety in numbers. News and stories were exchanged and useful information traded. William learned of a good smithy where they had the horses reshod and spent the night sheltered in good, sweet straw.
They paused to pray and give alms at the shrines and churches along the way, especially those dedicated to the Virgin, but as they drew nearer to Constantinople, the welcomes and the hospitality grew noticeably less enthusiastic. Folk watched them pass in silence and no longer ran out to offer them small parcels of food or direct them onto the best paths. When they entered villages, people let their dogs run loose to snap at their heels. Ancel had to keep Pilgrim on his saddle and leash him, from which vantage point the little dog bristled and growled his own threats at his canine adversaries.
In some of the larger places, the notes of recommendation were still proving their worth, and their pilgrim garb was respected, as were the swords, but William was becoming increasingly uneasy. They were too far along their road to retrace their steps to Brindisi, and it was unwise to chance a sea voyage from one of the Marmara ports at this time of year. Besides, he had sworn to visit Constantinople on Harry’s behalf and to venerate the Virgin at the great church of Hagia Sophia, third only in the world to the Holy Sepulchre, and Saint Peter’s in Rome.
One day at noon, they stopped at a wayside spring where the water spouted from a carved head with an open mouth. “We should camp here for the night,” Ancel said as they ate the last of yesterday’s dates and bread. “The horses need to rest.”
William knew Ancel meant that he needed to rest. He had been querulous and difficult all day. “That would be a waste,” he replied. “We still have several hours of traveling left, and we need to keep up the pace.”
“One day will not make much difference,” Ancel objected.
“But one day becomes two and then three and then a week. This good weather will not hold forever, and we should make the most of it.”
A muscle flexed in Ancel’s cheek. “I have the belly gripes.”
“We are not going to stop because you have gut ache,” William snapped.
They set out again, but after less than a mile, Ancel leaned over his horse’s withers and vomited. William glanced at him in irritation laced with concern. After what had happened to Harry, he was on edge, and his anxiety increased when Ancel had to dismount from his horse to void his bowels, groaning loudly and making a parade of his ailment, ensuring that everyone knew what straits he was in.
Ancel had to stop several more times as they rode on to either vomit or squat at the roadside, and William watched him, feeling grim and a little afraid. He had hoped to push on to the safety of their next official shelter, but Ancel’s condition and the constant stops had slowed them so much that he knew they would not reach that security by nightfall.
In the end, William called a halt and made camp, deciding to ride on in the morning. Ancel had stopped puking and voiding, much to everyone’s relief, but he was weak and fractious. He lay down under a blanket while the men set up the camp around him, putting up tents and picketing the horses, lighting the fire and rummaging out their meager food supplies. No one had much of anything because they had expected to eat at their next stop and replenish supplies.
William was walking past Ancel’s hunched form when Ancel deliberately stuck out his foot to trip him. William stumbled, righted himself, and then stooped to his brother. “Do not try my patience further,” he said with quiet but forceful scorn. “You may be ill, but that is no excuse. Be a man.”
Ancel shrugged over onto his other side. Suppressing the urge to kick him, William walked away.
Eustace got the fire going with his usual brisk efficiency and saw to the horses, including Ancel’s. After prayers led by the Templars, the men sat down to more stale bread and cheese and the last of the dates. A single flask of sour wine did the rounds, and after that they made do with water.
Augustine and Onri played a board game with counters, wagering tent pegs on the outcome. William set about mending a piece of harness, and the others busied themselves with similar tasks, exchanging desultory conversation.
William thought about the road they had traveled and the road yet to come. By his reckoning, they were about halfway to Jerusalem. They had done well thus far, but the new territory was a constant challenge, and the farther they rode, the more difficult it became. But then the greater the trial, the more valuable the penance.
After a while, Ancel shambled over to the fire, a blanket around his shoulders. “I should not have done that,” he said by way of apology as he sat down.
“No, you should not.” William offered him his cup. “Are you feeling better?”
“A little.” Ancel took a tentative sip. “When it began, I thought…” He shrugged. “You know…” He gestured.
William nodded. They all feared the bloody flux, not just because it was a terrible way to die, but also because, if it happened, it would be evidence of God’s wrath. “Yes, but since it isn’t, we can press on tomorrow at first light. Here, make yourself useful. Your hand is more dextrous than mine.” He handed Ancel the harness he had been repairing. Ancel might have been clumsy in his larger movements, but his deftness with fine things was that of a craftsman. No one could sharpen a sword like Ancel either—a surprising talent and one for which he was cherished.
Ancel took the piece and set about the repair with efficiency. Watching him, William was filled with a mingling of love and exasperation for his awkward brother with all his flaws and gifts. From an uneasy beginning, the silence settled into companionship and William curled his arm around Ancel and gave him an impromptu embrace. “You try me sorely at times,” he said, “but I love you—never doubt it.”
Ancel pushed him off but gave him a crooked smile. “You try me also,” he said, “but I forgive you.” And he ducked under William’s playful cuff.
* * *
The next day, they came to the castle where William had intended to spend the previous night. Studying its walls, looming over the road, he was partly relieved but also apprehensive because he was uncertain of their welcome. They needed supplies and decent sleep, and the horses had to be fed and rested, but who knew if they were friend or foe? Riding between the dwellings clustered below the castle, he was acutely aware of the stares from the locals, wary at best and occasionally hostile.
Once at the gates, William gathered himself. He would not show his unease to the men, although he knew they must have felt it too.
The porter on duty, grizzled and elderly but not infirm,
regarded the visitors through a grille in the door. William presented him with the parchment of safe conduct and their map, and Augustine, who spoke a little of the language as well as fluent Latin, told him that they were pilgrims seeking shelter on their way to Jerusalem. The old man grunted and shuffled away, leaving them standing in the drizzle.
Eventually he returned, unbarred the door, and beckoned them to enter, then further directed them by means of gestures to a stable area to tether their horses and provide them with fodder. A cleric arrived as they were at this task and addressed the Templars in Latin with several flourishes and gestures.
“He says we are welcome to stay and claim hospitality,” Onri said, “and he requests that we attend his master, who desires to speak with us and seeks news of our journey.”
Leaving the company’s squires and servants to see to the horses and guard their goods, William and his knights followed the cleric into a tower and up some stairs to a spacious chamber on the upper floor, where the master of the castle had recently sat down to dine. He was perhaps forty years old, his beard still dark at the sides, with a stripe of silver between lower lip and chin. He was holding William’s notes of safe conduct and proof of pilgrimage in his hands and now studied his guests with intelligent, dark eyes.
“Pilgrims,” he said in accented but passable French, “you are welcome to my hospitality for the night.” He gestured to his board, where a servant was setting out more cups and dishes. “My name is Barnabas o Sofos, and I trod the pilgrim road to Jerusalem myself many years ago. Please, sit.”
Thanking him, they took their places, and he continued to study them shrewdly.
“Of late, fewer people pass through here, both pilgrims and merchants,” he said as wine and bread arrived together with a large dish of fragrant mutton stew. “It is to be expected after the trouble. Those whose allegiance is to Rome are right to be cautious. For me, such things matter little except where they affect my trade and prosperity. I would advise you to be very careful. In Constantinople, the emperor is building a new Latin church to make restitution for last year’s happenings, but many still harbor grudges, and as you well know, thieves and criminals abound in all great cities.”
Templar Silks Page 7
