Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “Our sole intention is to worship Christ and find swift, safe passage to the next stage of our journey,” William said. “Be assured, we shall take your advice to heart.”

  “I have friends in the city,” Barnabas said. “I shall write you a note of introduction.”

  “Thank you, sire.” William inclined his head, and their host gravely responded. No more was said about the recent massacre in Constantinople, although it remained like a block of rough stone in everyone’s awareness.

  As pilgrims, their duty in return for hospitality was to relay the news they had garnered along the way and to speak of their own world and lives. William was circumspect about the cloak but gladly told tales of the Angevin court and the tourney field, and as he spoke, the atmosphere warmed and grew convivial. He recounted the occasion when he had got his head stuck inside his helmet and had had to lay his head down on an anvil and let a blacksmith prise off the armor with his tools.

  “And when I finally drew a breath of fresh air, it wasn’t so fresh after all because it was laden with the smell of fish,” he said with a chuckle. “I had won the prize of the day, and it was a huge pike on a platter. They had been looking for me all over, and by the time they arrived at the smithy, the fish was not looking quite as fresh as when they hooked it from the pond!”

  The tales continued, spilling over each other, entertaining reminiscences from each man. Home was far away, and they derived pleasure and comfort from the recounting. Their host greatly enjoyed the tales too and added several of his own as the wine sank in the flagons and more was brought.

  After a while, Ancel rose and went outside. Noticing him leave, William thought at first he had gone to relieve himself, but the moment stretched out and he did not return. It was time to retire anyway, and after a last round of stories, William thanked their host, gathered his men, and took his leave.

  He found Ancel in the stables, tending to his horse while Pilgrim snuffled about in the straw, hunting for rats.

  “Why did you leave?” William asked.

  Ancel ran his hand down his horse’s shoulder. “It was all the talk of what we did before…and knowing that it’s only memories now, that it can never be again…”

  “That is true, but it is still part of who we are, and better to take joy in the good memories than be sad that they exist. Besides, tales serve a practical purpose—to entertain one’s host. That is what guests do to earn their bed and board.”

  Ancel nodded but continued to frown. “And what of memories that are not so joyful? What purpose do they serve?”

  “Learning, I suppose,” William said eventually. “And the wisdom to see a way through, so that mistakes are not repeated.”

  Ancel made a wry face. “Amen to that.”

  “All memories should be cherished. Will you shun the ones made on this journey? They will be a part of you, whether you will it or not.”

  Ancel screwed up his face. “Now you terrify me, Brother.”

  William had almost terrified himself with that last statement. Grasping Ancel’s shoulder, he gave it a gentle shake. “Come, enough of that. We should get some proper sleep. We have a long road tomorrow.”

  11

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  “Sire?”

  William struggled to drag air into his congested lungs. He was suffocating, being drawn into the abyss, but he fought with all his will, refusing to relinquish his grip on mortal life because he was not yet ready for it to be the end.

  “Sire!” The voice came again, urgent but without panic, and he latched on to it like a drowning man to a rope. A warm, dry hand clasped his own. “Sire, you are dreaming.”

  William surfaced with a jerk and a dry inhalation to find Henry FitzGerold standing over him. Breathing was like trying to draw air through a thick cloth, and his chest shuddered with the effort. A fit of coughing wracked his body, and wordlessly, he gestured for Henry to prop him up against the pillows and bolsters while he battled to breathe. The pain was deep, like knives unmaking him.

  “Shall I send for a physician, sire?”

  William waved a negation. The coughing fit gradually eased, and he was able to draw air into his lungs, although it was still not enough. Henry offered him a drink, and he took a few small sips from the cup and felt half of it trickle down his chin.

  “Bad dream,” he croaked.

  Henry dabbed him with a napkin. “Would you like the comfort of a priest, sire?”

  William shook his head. “I shall be all right.” It was no more than dealing with a pile of excrement blocking his path.

  He gazed down at his forearm, lying outside the covers—crepey skin and wasted muscle. The faintest white scar ran up the underside of his wrist, almost to his elbow, and was crossed by three others, two near his wrist and one farther up. A mark, barely visible, and more so to him than others, but he could still recall the shock, the pain—and the humiliation.

  It had been many years since he had endured that particular nightmare, but it had been one of the testing moments of his life. Men returned from the East, their pouches and saddlebags stuffed with mementos. He had done so himself—ampoules of water from the River Jordan, an olive wood cross from the Garden of Gethsemane, and his own silk burial shrouds. This particular souvenir, scored into his flesh, he would wish on no man and was one of several souvenirs he would rather not own, but the only way to deal with it was to lay it to rest.

  “Sire, what is it?” Henry asked. “Are you in pain?”

  William gave him a bleak smile. “I have been in better comfort, Henry, but it is nothing a physician or priest can heal. I shall be all right by and by. Bring more light, if you will.”

  Henry hastened to light more candles and hung an extra lamp above William’s bed, forcing the shadows to retreat, although they lingered in the corners, dark and deep. William glanced at them and then focused on the little wooden knight that his grandson had left at his bedside. The knight’s lance bore an embroidered copy of William’s lion banner, and the candle flame turned the wood to gold.

  “What was your dream about, sire? If it is not presumptuous to ask.”

  William dropped his gaze to his arm again and sighed. “It is not presumptuous, Henry, but I do not know if I can tell you. I have had this ever since my pilgrimage to Outremer—ever since Constantinople.” He hesitated. Only those who were with him and had shared the experience would understand—perhaps. Most of them were grave dust now, and he would soon join them. “I said it was a dream, Henry, but that is not true. It was and is a memory.”

  12

  The Via Egnatia near Constantinople, October 1183

  Augustine folded his arms and shook his head. “I cannot do this.” He faced William with mutiny in his dark eyes. “When I took my vows, I undertook to wear the apparel of my order whatever the consequences.”

  “Consequences for whom?” William retorted, standing his ground. “You are endangering everyone here. You and Onri cannot ride into Constantinople garbed as Templars. You have seen the increasing hostility, and we cannot fight off everyone.”

  For the last two days, Onri and Augustine had been concealing their Templar garb under borrowed cloaks, but it could not continue. Glimpses of their robes still showed through. Augustine in particular would throw his off when they were alone on the path, but sometimes they would round a corner and come upon other travelers, and it would be too late for concealment.

  Augustine shook his head, a stubborn set to his lips. “It is against my vows.”

  “You have a choice.” William refused to soften. “Either change your garb or ride alone.”

  Onri patted Augustine on the shoulder. “We are doing God’s will in seeing this party safely to Jerusalem,” he said gruffly. “We have been so entrusted, you know this. We can make it right later. It is only for a few days. If you are to go into a temple of money changers,
then you must look like a money changer too, even if you are not one.”

  Augustine looked even more disgusted but eventually yielded under duress and then went aside to pray.

  “He is proud, and the order is his family and his belonging,” Onri said to William. “You are asking a great deal of him—of us.”

  “I understand that,” William replied. “I would not ask it were it not necessary.”

  Onri gave him an assessing look and then, with a brusque nod, went to talk to Augustine. William raided his clothing pack and found a tunic for Augustine, who matched him in height and build. Guyon provided similar for Onri, and the Templars changed garments, Onri stoical and Augustine grim. Their telltale Templar robes were turned inside out and folded at the bottom of the baggage sacks, and the party set off again.

  * * *

  Approaching the great walled city of Constantinople, the road widened, but William and his party advanced no more swiftly than before because it was now a busy thoroughfare, and they had become part of a huge shoal swimming upstream. For a while, they traveled behind a flock of sheep, their noses assaulted by the ammoniac stink of the animals and their vision one of dung-clagged rear ends. The sound of baaing and clonking bells made it impossible to hold a conversation. Once past the sheep and the wary but at least not hostile herders, they had to negotiate a cart piled with cages full of squawking poultry, and then another one pungent with ripe cheeses. There were travelers on foot, baskets strapped to their backs, pack ponies bearing sacks of onions, donkeys laden to the ground with bushes of kindling. All the world, it seemed, was coming to Constantinople, the great consumer, in order to trade. Augustine muttered something under his breath about the whore of Babylon, and Onri silenced him with a look.

  Two miles before they reached the city, William paused at a roadside stream and instructed everyone to spruce themselves up. “We should look like men of quality when we arrive,” he said as he wrapped clean bindings of dark green linen around his legs and secured the ends neatly with ornate silver tags. “If we are to have respect, then we must seem worthy of respect.” He washed his face and hands, combed his hair, and attended to his harness and baggage, making sure all was clean, neatly latched, and secure. From his saddlebag, he took their pilgrim documents and a map that the lord Barnabas had given to him with details of a house of shelter in Constantinople where they would find fodder for the horses and lodging for themselves.

  They approached a trinket stall on the dusty road leading up to the great gate of golden stone that terminated the 670 miles of the Via Egnatia. The proprietor wore a tunic of green silk with blue sleeve linings. Every finger was adorned by a gold ring, and a white turban covered his head, the end draping forward over his left shoulder. A boy sat on a stool at the back of the stall, carefully threading blue beads of lapis lazuli onto a length of string.

  The trader had been paring his nails with a small knife and watching people pass by, but his glance sharpened as William’s troop approached and his dark eyes flicked over them, assessing.

  Eustace pointed to a string of gold coins on the stall, linked by rows of delicate chain. “Do you think they are real?”

  “Probably common brass,” Guillaume Waleran said scornfully.

  The seller sheathed his little knife with a forceful motion. “Come!” he called out in heavily accented French, and beckoned. “Come and see! My goods are genuine and valuable! Fine rings and brooches and pendants!” He flashed a smile and indicated his wares with a theatrical gesture. “All the riches of the Frankincense Road!”

  William gestured for the men to draw rein and, dismounting, approached the stallholder because at least he spoke French and could direct him to where they needed to go—and was prepared to be friendly, in the interests of trade if nothing else. If his information cost William a purchase, it was a small price to pay.

  He looked at the strings of beads, the gold coins that were probably not gold at all as his men had already speculated, the dangling earrings that women wore in this region that would be considered scandalous in England. Heavy bracelets, wide and cuffed. Queen Alienor had a pair of them, but hers were studded with gems, while these, he suspected, were glass and paste.

  “Perhaps you would like to try one of these fine and valuable rings?” The trader plucked one from a wooden dowel and thrust it under William’s nose. It was a sort of seal ring, marked with the three-barred cross of the Orthodox Christian Church, unlike the Latin single cross.

  “Your rings are fine indeed,” William said diplomatically, “but I was thinking of something more like this.” He indicated a small icon of the Virgin and child painted in deep blue and gold.

  “Ah,” said the man. “You are discerning.” His tone became more conversational. He directed the boy to leave his beads and deal with another customer. “Where have you come from to our city?”

  “From England,” William replied, thinking that it was the most diplomatic thing to say. He remembered his father telling him that the Emperor of Constantinople had once employed English huscarls in his guard. “We are making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem but wish to pay our respects at your shrines on our way.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded and fingered his scarf. “I have met people from your country before many times.” He swept his gaze over William’s waiting entourage. “Do you have somewhere to lodge?”

  William unfolded the piece of parchment Barnabas had given him and showed it to the man, together with the map made for him in England. “We have been bidden to find the house of Andreas the scribe near the Western Gate.”

  The trader took the parchment from him and scratched the side of his nose. “That is a long way into the city and you will need a guide to show you, for you will never find it otherwise.” He studied the documents a moment longer before returning them to William, flicking his gaze around the men as he did so. “I can arrange a guide for you if you wish.”

  William eyed him with wary interest.

  The trader shrugged and gave a rueful half smile. “There have been many difficulties since last year, and business has suffered. Fewer people come to the city now, especially from the lands of the Farangi, and we desire to restore goodwill between us.” He signed to the boy who had finished dealing with the other customer. “My brother’s house is not far. Mikael will send word to him to offer you hospitality, and he will have someone take you where you wish to go.”

  “How do we know we can trust him?” Ancel demanded, scowling when William turned to consult with the men.

  “We don’t,” William replied, “but we have to decide whether to take our chance with him or with the city and its denizens.” He glanced at the sky. “We are losing the light, and we have to make a choice.”

  Ancel shook his head, which was no less than William expected, given his brother’s distrust of every situation. “He will fleece us.”

  “I will make sure he does not,” William replied. “Of course, he will seek payment, but we are accomplished bargainers ourselves.”

  Eventually, despite Ancel’s misgiving, they agreed by a majority to accept the stallholder’s offer, and with a smile, the man addressed the boy in rapid Greek, tweaked his ear for good measure, and sent him off at a run.

  * * *

  William and his men stared around with wondering eyes as the boy, who had returned swiftly from delivering his message, led them through the fabled streets of Constantinople—the golden city, land of fabulous wealth, where it was said that even the poor wore silk. Where the buildings were of polished marble, and the air was scented with spices. A most holy city of gold and mosaic, yet also a city that had a reputation for possessing a foul underbelly beneath its glittering scales—a place of dark deeds, murder, and corruption.

  The boy led them past houses and buildings, some in good repair and others neglected and in ruination with weeds growing through the cracks. There were areas that spoke of recent fir
e and destruction. Empty dwellings with broken doors and smoke-blackened walls told their unsettling tale of the previous year’s unrest.

  The boy’s gaze was alert, indifferent, and inured as he guided them through numerous thoroughfares and alleyways that grew progressively darker and narrower. Pungent cooking smells alternated with those of sewage and rot. William’s nape started to prickle, and he considered drawing his sword, but even as the thought occurred to him, the boy stopped before a set of heavy wooden gates that were open to reveal a decent-sized courtyard and a dwelling house beyond it with a green door and arched windows. Chickens pecked about in the yard. A tawny mastiff that had been lying near the wall lunged to its feet and strained at its chain, baring its teeth and uttering deep warning growls. From his perch on Ancel’s saddle, Pilgrim retaliated, stiff legged, while Ancel kept a tight grip on his collar. “I do not like it here,” he said.

  Two women were setting out a meal on a trestle table in the yard. One seemed to be a maid, and the other was a young woman of higher rank with her hair bound up in a kerchief. She wore a close-fitting, red gown that showed a gentle roll of flesh at her belly. Large gold earrings swung from her earlobes.

  A man came hurrying from around the back of the house and hastened to greet them with a wide smile, teeth bared. “Welcome to the home of Theo!” he declared, spreading his hands in a benevolent gesture. He was gray bearded and small but looked taller because he was plump. His French was thicker than his brother’s but passable. “I promise you will be well looked after until your guide arrives. This is my son-in-law, Cimon, and my daughter, Irene.” He indicated the woman and a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows and protruding teeth who had emerged from the house to place a jug of wine on the board. The latter gave a stiff nod and retreated, his sandals flapping against the hard skin of his heels.