Ancel clenched his jaw.
Through his exasperation, William felt a thread of compassion and even love for Ancel. He knew it wasn’t about the crossing, because Ancel was not afraid of water. It was because of what had happened earlier, and now they were facing another transition from something bad toward something potentially worse. It was the child crying for his mother and his home. But their mother was in her grave, and the only way home lay across this stretch of water and by way of a leap of faith.
Ancel strode off for a dozen paces and then stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. William left him to it and turned back to organizing their crossing. No one spoke, for all were accustomed to Ancel’s ways. However, Geoffrey FitzRobert, ever the peacemaker, followed him and clapped his shoulder on his way to load his own baggage.
They had to make two journeys. William clambered aboard the boat with Geoffrey, Robert, and Eustace and called to Ancel.
“No,” Ancel said. “No, William.”
“Does your courage balk? If I can do this, then so can you.” William leaned closer to him, in his turn bringing a parent to bear: “What would our father say?”
“Christ, he would call you a mad bastard!”
“But he would take his chance—he always did, and he always knew the odds and that, when the advantage outweighs the disadvantage, you seize it.”
“He also lost an eye and nearly got you hanged.”
“But he survived to beget you, and I am here now, so he defeated the odds.” William beckoned again.
Ancel cursed through his teeth and thrust out his arm like a blow, but at the last moment, he seized William’s hand. “May you be damned if we sink.”
William gave him a brusque nod. “Accepted.”
They had to take it in turns to bail water from between the leaking planks with buckets, two men either side, sluicing for all they were worth. Standing with the soles of his feet in seawater, Ancel gripping him fiercely, William fought his fear and fixed his gaze on the buildings lining the other side of the Arm of Saint George. By the time they reached mid-channel, he had acquired some sort of equilibrium. They had not sunk yet; the water level in the craft had stayed the same, and nothing could be worse than being bound in that cellar with a knife at his throat. Nothing.
The sun had moved an hour in the sky as they disembarked on the far shore. William’s gut had barely had time to churn, and as he stepped onto dry land, he was euphoric not only at having survived but having triumphed. He gave Ancel a brief, hard hug.
“There now,” he said, “what do you say?”
Ancel shrugged, still grumpy. “You took a risk and got away with it,” he replied. “Fortune was with you. I still think you were wrong.” He stalked off to see to the unloading of their baggage, releasing his tension with sweeping gestures and loud commands. Had there been someone to fight, he would have swung his fists.
The boat owner returned to ferry the second part of their contingent across, and by the time he returned, Ancel had recovered some of his equilibrium, and although he had not apologized, he was making himself useful and had stopped flinging himself about.
* * *
It was nearing dusk, so they pitched camp with other travelers and traders journeying to or from Constantinople. A troop of performers returning from a wedding invited them to a meal of stewed lentils and bread. Sitting among them, experiencing the goodwill of strangers, joining in the laughter, and making exchanges using gestures and different broken languages, William began to feel better, although his injured arm was still throbbing like a brand.
A woman rose to dance around her fire to the music of drum and flute, her thin leather slippers turning in the dust, bells tinkling at her ankles, skirts flaring. William had encountered such entertainments before at tourneys. Sometimes the women would dance in the tents, collecting coins and offering services that went beyond the turn of a nimble ankle around the fire.
William withdrew a little from the light, although there was still enough to see by, and unbandaged his arm to examine his wound. The cuts were red and sore, a little puffy at the edges, but did not appear to be festering. Glancing up, he realized that Onri was watching him with a taut expression on his face.
“That is a very pretty cross you have there,” the Templar said, his tone cool, almost hostile.
William covered the marks and drew down his shirt sleeve. “I was not glad to receive it, I can assure you,” he replied curtly because he was ashamed and Onri clearly suspected him of some kind of dishonorable dealing or thought him not up to the mark. William recognized the Templar’s anger because he was angry too and knew that the emotion could either act as a strengthening glue between himself and Onri, or bring them to ruin.
Standing up, he left the fire and went to check on the horses, which were being guarded by Eustace and the Templar’s squire. And then, exhausted, he said his prayers, rolled himself in his cloak, and lay down.
The woman was still dancing, and the laughter and music spoke of a world that had once been familiar and friendly but now was alien and hostile. Ancel was playing dice with Geoffrey, Guillaume, and Guyon. Onri had joined Augustine and was talking quietly to him, one hand on his shoulder, and Robert was darning his hose.
William closed his eyes, and the music and laughter faded away. He awoke suddenly to the sight of the errand boy from the trinket stall standing in front of him, pointing to him, and calling out over his shoulder. He was seized and tied up, his wrists bound with cords, and when he looked around the camp, all of his men had been grabbed too and trussed like hogs ready for the slaughterer’s knife. Theo stood watching in his silk robe and turban, licking his lips. The trinket seller was there, as were Theo’s tall son-in-law and the henchmen with their clubs. The woman too, her doe eyes sorrowful, but a knife bare in her hand. “I am sorry,” she said. “So sorry.” And turned to cut Ancel’s throat.
“No!” William roared, and fought his bonds, striving to win freedom before it was too late. He could see Ancel’s eyes, huge with terror.
“Gwim, no!”
He managed to loosen an arm from the ties and punched upward, striking flesh, and the surge of pain from his cut arm jerked him awake and bolted him upright.
Ancel was struggling up from the ground, touching a bloody lip. “It’s all right, Gwim,” he panted, looking at the red smudge on the back of his hand. “You were dreaming—a nightmare.”
William bowed his head, dry sobs shuddering from the center of his chest.
Ancel regained his balance. “I know what it’s like,” he said, and briefly squeezed William’s shoulder before disappearing into the darkness, returning a moment later with a cup of wine. “Here.”
William took a few swallows, although he felt sick and the wine tasted of tar and grease. Ancel was watching him with the same wide eyes as in his dream but without the terror in them.
“What did you see?” Ancel asked.
“Nothing I want to repeat.” William shuddered. “It is like having bad guts after a suspect meal, that is all.”
“You never share things,” Ancel said reproachfully.
“You would not want to have the sharing of this, I promise you.”
Ancel touched his bruised lip. “I already have, and I do not suppose it will be the last time you’ll punch me in the face.”
William could not tell if it was a weak jest or a pessimistic expectation. “I am glad you are here with me.”
“How much would you miss me?”
“Like a tooth—and take that as a compliment.”
A single voice rose in song on the cool night breeze, clear and holy. The dancers and revelers had gone to their beds, and this psalm, an alleluia, came from their own fire, from Augustine. Its strength was like the blade of a clean, pure sword, and it brought a lump to William’s throat.
Ancel pinched the inner corners of his eyes betw
een finger and thumb. “He could make angels weep. If it helps you to pray, I will kneel with you.”
William nodded, recognizing the rare fragility of a moment when they were at one with each other. He was grateful to Ancel—for being there, for waking him up, and for staying at his side.
Together, the brothers knelt in prayer, and William asked God to look on them with mercy and guide their road from now on. He would trust to the map of his instinct, not man. Twelve days’ journey would bring them to Smyrna, a passage to Antioch, and the relative safety of Latin Christian lands.
13
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
“So they believed you were a spy, sire?” Henry FitzGerold leaned forward on his stool like a rapt child in thrall to a storyteller.
William looked down at his arm. It was a miracle that they had survived Constantinople and the road through Anatolia, so in that way, God had answered his prayers. “They thought we were carrying messages from Rome to their allies, and that our letters of safe conduct and lists of hostels would lead them to people they could arrest and question. We were flies trapped in a spider’s web.” He raised his gaze to Henry’s. “I learned a great deal from that part of the journey, and I never trusted the same after that. We had been on our guard, but it wasn’t enough. The courts of England and Aquitaine were nurseries for small children compared with the scorpion nests we found in Outremer.” He grimaced at the dark residue of the memory. “It was the terror of my life, even though men think I have never been afraid.”
Henry raised his brows. “I do not think I have ever seen you afraid, sire.”
“Because I never show it to my men. What would it do to their morale to see fear in their leader’s eyes as he sends them into battle? Some things are only between me and my savior.” He turned his arm so that the scar was no longer uppermost. “Besides, what is the worst that can happen? To lose a life? What is that?”
Henry mulled William’s words, his expression contemplative. “You said they followed you?”
“Yes.” Even now, William shivered at the memory. “It took us two weeks to reach the coast, and we were in danger every step of the way, whatever choice we made. We could shelter in the fortresses controlled by the Greeks and risk arrest, or we could take our chances in the open and become the victims of robbers. Indeed, those fortresses often guarded the road so closely that we had no choice but to pay the dues demanded and roll the dice.” He gave a grim smile. “But bonds were forged on that road that would never have been tied in gentler lands. We learned about ourselves and how hard we could stand at need.”
14
Anatolia, October 1183
William and his men had come to the dour fortress walls at dusk under the charcoal sky of an autumn storm. They were in desperate need of shelter and rest but knew they might not emerge from the maw of that place alive and end up as corpses thrown into the rocky gloom of the ditch beneath the entrance bridge.
Granted entry, they had their weapons confiscated, and they had been given sleeping room in a shelter built against the castle wall. They had been able to buy fodder for the horses and hot onion stew for themselves, but once again, William was taken aside and questioned, this time by the castle commander. William answered him squarely that they were pilgrims, passing through to the port of Smyrna to take ship for Jerusalem. The commander was an experienced, pragmatic soldier and of the opinion that extra fighting men within the keep added to its security, and he sent William back to his men with the promise of provisions for their journey and a note of safe conduct to take on down the line. William was dubious about that but reasoned that even if they had been followed from Constantinople, this recommendation was not connected and was probably as safe as matters could be along this route.
Nevertheless, the men set a watch and kept their weapons close to hand.
William took the second watch with Onri, deliberately pairing himself with the Templar. The two knights of Christ had continued to disguise their calling, although Augustine was becoming increasingly disgruntled about the matter, and Onri had been dour and suspicious ever since Constantinople. Just now, he was eyeing William narrowly following his return from speaking with the commander.
William’s leg binding had come loose, and he stooped to rewind it. The silence drew out. Onri stirred their fire to life with a long branch and put on some water to heat to make a tisane. William wrapped the linen firmly over his hose and then paused to look at Onri. “I know you are angry with me. In God’s name, I am angry with myself for our scrape in Constantinople. It was my fault, I admit it, but I have done my best to set it right. I try to learn from my mistakes.”
Onri said nothing, his expression tense.
“It is over now, and we must continue as best we can. Your business and Augustine’s is to protect this party on its journey, and I shall expect it in future, as God is my witness.”
Onri looked almost startled at William’s direct confrontation. He rose and fetched two cups from his baggage. “And I vow we shall do so. I too am angry with myself that we were not more vigilant after we had sworn to keep you safe.”
“Then let no more be said about this business and let it not fester. It is finished.”
To mark the point, William secured the clasp on his leg binding. Onri filled the cups from the cauldron, and they toasted each other and held their peace.
* * *
They departed the next day as soon as the gates opened, determined to push on. The safe conduct stood them in good stead for their second night on the road. The third one, they camped with a family of shepherds who were wary but willing to exchange dried meat, bread, and cheese for a handful of coins and to provide blankets of pungent sheepskins for extra warmth, since the weather had taken a cold turn.
On the fourth day, they came to another fortress, ruinous and uninhabited, with tumbled walls, holes in the roof, and weeds sprouting from the mortar. Pigeons were nesting in various recesses and droppings and feathers smothered the floor. The sound of their wings echoed like handclaps. A pile of ashes, smudged and cold, darkened the floor in the middle of the courtyard. Old chicken bones, dry and porous, littered the gray flakes. Even Pilgrim turned up his nose at them after a sniff and cocked his leg.
William gave orders to make camp and set about delegating tasks to the men. Ancel and Eustace went to reconnoiter and find firewood, while the Templar’s squire saw to the horses.
“Who do you think dwelt here?” Augustine asked, looking around, hands on hips. “And why did they leave?”
William shrugged. “We have seen many ancient remains on our road. Things have their time, and then that time passes.” Although he spoke philosophically, he noted that the ruins were not ancient, but of buildings more recent.
“Sire…”
He turned at the soft warning in Guyon de Culturo’s voice.
Ambush, Guyon mouthed, his sword drawn. “Three men creeping up using the rocks as cover—probably more.”
William’s heart began to pound. Drawing his own sword, he issued swift commands to the men in the courtyard. Three would not attack a dozen; there must be more. His thoughts flew to Ancel and Eustace, who had gone to gather firewood and were only armed with their knives.
Leaving the courtyard, he followed Guyon outside. The knight pointed to the rocks where he had seen the men, but there was no sign of them now. William sidestepped softly toward a ruined building that had once been a storage shed or stable.
He heard voices, low pitched and guttural, in a language he did not know, and signaled Guyon to stay in the shadow of the wall. Pressing his spine against the stone, he reached the edge of the wall, peered around, and saw Ancel and Eustace being menaced by men with drawn knives.
“I don’t understand what you want!” Ancel was saying, his voice sharp with fear.
The man hissed the question at him again in a foreign tongue and pressed the
point of his knife against Ancel’s ribs.
William whirled around the corner and attacked from the side, taking one of the robbers off guard and bringing him down with a swift killing chop of his sword. Another sprang at him from a different direction, a long knife poised to strike, but Ancel stepped sideways across his path and punched him in the face. As his head snapped back, Ancel seized his wrist, grappled the knife from him and slashed him down; Eustace finished him.
William tossed Ancel the first man’s sword, and the brothers fought side by side and back to back, defending each other against the next surge of attack that proved there were definitely more than three. Steel flashed and darted. William had been wearing his padded tunic for warmth, and he was glad of it. A savage rip from a knife disgorged layers of woolen stuffing. He rammed the hilt of his sword into the cheek of his attacker and then pivoted to hack at another man, side striking him and thrusting him off balance.
Yelling, Onri and Augustine burst into the knot of men around the outbuilding, unraveling it on the instant and tipping the balance. The last two raiders took to their heels in the gathering dusk, scrambling over rocks and bushes to make their escape, and William sharply called back those of his men who would have given chase in the fire of battle.
“Leave them,” he commanded. “You would become their prey—as you probably still are.” He stooped to wipe his sword on the tunic of one of the dead men. “There may be more, who knows how many.” He looked around. “Is anyone injured?”
The wounds were mostly minor cuts and bruises. Robert of London had a rapidly swelling black eye and the Templar squire had lost a tooth and one side of his mouth more resembled trodden grapes than lips, but he would survive.
“We should not stay here,” William said. “They may return with reinforcements, and we cannot be found here. There’s a moon tonight. We shall ride by that and sleep when we are safe.”
Templar Silks Page 11
