Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

Returning to their horses, sweat cooling on their bodies, making them shiver, they saddled up and rode out, using the last of the light to push on for another couple of miles. Between sunset and moonrise, William halted the group by a stream to take a brief respite and eat the rest of the cheese, meat, and hard bread provided by the shepherds, but as soon as the moon was high enough to cast weak blue light over the terrain, they set out again, picking their way but still moving forward, every man wearing his armor.

  They had not been traveling long when they heard sounds behind them. The scrape of a hoof on rock, the jingle of a bit. The moon was brighter now, but it only served to darken the shadows, and who knew what might emerge from them? Yet they dared not increase their pace and risk foundering their horses in this gray half-light.

  They came to a rock formation rising above the track, and William considered dismounting and concealing themselves among the boulders to create an ambush of their own, but that too had its drawbacks when they did not know how many were following, and he decided against it, reasoning that their pursuers would be cautious here for that very reason and their party might gain a little time.

  Behind them a war cry was ululated, echoing off the rock formation, and William realized with dismay how close their enemy was. Trying to discern original cries from ricochets, he estimated those on their tail were probably twice their own number. It would be a bloody fight, perhaps the last of their lives.

  William reined his horse about, to face the way they had come. Let God decide as he willed. Either they would survive, or they would die, as so many others had died on the pilgrim road. His only regret was not fulfilling his duty and going to his maker with a stained, unshriven soul.

  The cries swept over them like an advancing wind before a thunderstorm, and William roared the battle cry that had carried all before it on the tourney field, the rallying call that had once belonged to his young lord: “Dex aie le Roi Henri, Dex aie le Mareschal!” The others caught up the cry and shouted with him, calling on God and the strength of their arms to help them in their moment of need.

  Shadows moved in the moonlight—horses, men with swords drawn, ring mail glinting.

  A sudden ripple shuddered the ground, as though an animal had shaken itself. Small boulders bounced off the rock formation and struck the narrow path. The horses plunged and skittered, and William pulled his reins in tight. The shaking increased in intensity and a chunk of rock split from the top of the outcrop and crashed onto the path, bringing more stone and debris with it, bouncing, smashing, burying the first of their pursuers under a pile of rubble and striking down the man behind. Powdered stone rose like smoke in the moonlight as the earth growled.

  “Ride on!” William commanded, and offered up his thanks to God, who had indeed sent his aid, if not in the way William had been expecting. He urged his horse onward down the track. The earth gave another weak shudder and was still. Glancing back over his shoulder, William saw that the path behind had been obliterated. Their enemy might find a way around, but with at least two of their number dead under the rock fall and a detour to be made, pursuit was much less likely.

  For the rest of the night, they rode on, twice having to make short detours themselves where the quake had blocked the path. As dawn streaked the sky, they happened upon a wayside shrine dedicated to the Virgin, and here they dismounted to pray and give thanks for their deliverance.

  Everyone was exhausted but too full of wonder and tension to sleep. The horses had carried them all night and needed to rest, but they rode on a short distance from the shrine and arrived at a village where freshly baked bread was being sold from a communal oven. William and his men bought loaves to break their fast and negotiated with the head man for fodder and an open barn in which they and the horses could rest for a few hours. The villagers were wary but not hostile and brought them bowls of lentil and chickpea stew. One of the village men, Agnos, had worked on a Genoese trading ship and had a smattering of several languages so was able to translate between William and the villagers. He sat down to talk while they ate, and William asked if the earth tremor had caused much damage in the village.

  Agnos shook his head and made a tilting motion with the palm of his hand. “We are used to it. A few years ago, a great one brought down the castle and killed many people.” He pointed to the road by which they had come. “No one lives there now.”

  William nodded, the puzzle solved as to why the place was ruined. “But it is still used?”

  Agnos twisted his lips. “By robbers and brigands. We chase them off when they venture down here, but always they cause destruction first.”

  William told him about their own fight and the rock fall during the tremor. “I do not think they will bother you again for a while.”

  Agnos flashed a grin and repeated William’s story to the other villagers, which prompted more gifts of food for their journey and praise that they had fought the brigands off and killed some of their number.

  William questioned Agnos about the road ahead, and he offered to act as a guide the rest of the way in return for a fee. “It now will be good to see the sea again and escape for a few days.”

  “Was there a reason you came back to the village, instead of working on the sea?” William asked.

  The spark left the young man’s eyes, and his expression grew somber. “I was in Constantinople when my ship’s master died in the slaughter,” he said. “I escaped but only because God was with me and I managed to hide and make my way to safety at night. They would have taken me and either killed me for a spy, or carved my arm with a cross and sold me into slavery, although I am one of their own.”

  William drew a swift breath and involuntarily touched his arm, where his shirtsleeve and a light bandage now covered his own wound. “We had a narrow escape ourselves. There is still turmoil in the city and great hostility to foreigners.”

  Agnos gave a cynical shrug. “They will make a treaty with Venice though. My master told me that the day before he died. He said they would bring one trading city down in favor of the other and make their profit. I earned good money on the ships, but I would never return to that occupation now.”

  The next morning, William and his men saddled their horses and packed their supplies, rearranging the burdens so that Agnos could ride one of the sumpters. And then they were on their way again, bound for the port of Smyrna, there to take ship for the port of Jaffa, and from there to Jerusalem, the center of the world and city of redemption.

  15

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  It had been raining earlier. English rain, cold and soft. The rain that grew the sweetness of grass and opened the petals on the dog rose blossoms. Now it had stopped, and the window was open, wafting in the fresh scent of drenched grass, and he could hear the blackbird’s evening warbles. This was the last time he would ever see this season, and he felt a pang of wistful regret.

  “I have said Compline prayers in the chapel for your well-being and your soul,” said his chaplain Nicholas, placing his warm, firm hand over William’s. He was a kindly man, with twinkling brown eyes and graying hair winging his temples and curling around his ears. “I came to see how you are faring.”

  “Well enough for a dying man,” William said wryly, “and I am glad for your visit. I have been thinking on my pilgrimage to Outremer.”

  “Then I hope you are finding comfort in your memories, sire.”

  William smiled a little. “Not all are comfortable, but they are instructive and enlightening. When I returned, I stowed them away and did not look at them again, but now it is time to make my peace with those that are still difficult and to draw sustenance from the uplifting ones.”

  “I shall never see the Holy City,” Nicholas said sadly, “but I bless all those who have done so in my stead.”

  William looked toward the window. The sky was clear teal in the summer dusk. “It was a place that took my hear
t when I arrived, and when I left, a part of it stayed behind.” He fell silent for a long time. “Eventually, I found other meaning to patch the tear, but I must make my peace with that too before I die.”

  16

  The Vicinity of Jerusalem, November 1183

  A few stars still hung in the clear predawn sky, but there was enough light to see by. William donned the shirt he had washed the previous night and spread across the thorn bushes to dry, wondering if Christ’s crown had been made from those same thorns. The linen smelled clean, if a little dusty. Having attended to his undergarments, he put on his tunic and brushed it down with his palm. The creases from the saddlebag would drop out as they rode. Eustace fussed around him, tugging and tweaking like a chambermaid until everything was level and in order. Yesterday evening, he had trimmed William’s hair and beard to make him respectable when he entered the city of God.

  Augustine was polishing his sword fittings. The Templar robes he had donned the moment they embarked from Smyrna were spotless. The same for Onri, who was adjusting the fastening on his white mantle.

  Everyone was travel worn, thin and hardened from the arduous journey, but buoyed up by the knowledge that today, at last, they would set eyes on Jerusalem. Two days ago, they had sailed into the harbor at Jaffa. Only forty miles had then lain between them and Jerusalem, and they had covered almost thirty of them yesterday.

  Other pilgrims on the same road had gathered to camp for the night and prepare themselves for entering the city, but William and his men had climbed farther away from the road in order to have solitude for contemplation. For the last time, they had erected their shelters and lit a fire to sit around while they ate bread and olives—their final night as comrades who had been through so much to come this far. No words were spoken beyond prayers. No dice were produced, and no one jested or indulged in horseplay. A sense of united companionship bonded the group in an atmosphere of reverence tinged with awe. They had almost reached the heart of Christendom. They had set their feet in the very dust that Jesus Christ himself had trodden, and every footstep was wondrous.

  The sun rose in the east, lighting the direction they must take for their first glimpse of Jerusalem. Eustace set out bread and cheese to break their fast, and a flask of wine they had bought in Jaffa. No one was hungry, but they forced down a few mouthfuls to sustain themselves while they exchanged glances that said far more than words. This was an ending and a beginning. Many times, they had despaired of reaching their goal, and it was unsettling that it was so close now. There was an unreasoning fear that it would be snatched away from them before they could taste it.

  William went to the horse he had purchased in Jaffa, for they had sold their other mounts in Smyrna. Eustace had groomed Chazur until his liver-chestnut hide shone like dark bronze. He was a handsome horse, with a distinctive white blaze and a flash of speed. William had bought him from a homeward-bound pilgrim. He rubbed the horse’s nose and offered him a dried date on the palm of his hand, then checked the harness again to make sure all was in order, no loose straps or ties. He had no intention of riding into Jerusalem because that would show overweening pride, but he did desire his accoutrements to be of the highest standard.

  He gathered his men together, bade them kneel, and asked Onri to say a prayer. Following the final amen, they rose as one, crossed themselves, and set out to join the well-worn path crowded with other pilgrims. William held his head high, feeling holy but humble, as if he were walking down the long nave of a church with Jerusalem at its heart, the altar and the treasure.

  The path wound through the dusty Judaean hills to the summit of the hill known as Montjoye because it granted travelers their first glimpse of the outskirts and approach to the city. A Premonstratensian monastery stood on the site, and here too was the tomb of the prophet Samuel. William’s heart was alight, and a tender, tight sensation filled his chest. He had envisioned this many times, both from his imagination and from pictures conjured for him by others who had been here. Now those dreams and images were blending with the reality of seeing with his own eyes. He had to raise his hand and smudge away tears.

  Dismounting, falling to his knees, he gave thanks to God for letting him come this far and prayed to be allowed to live long enough to reach the final sanctuary of the Holy Sepulchre. Everyone else was kneeling too—weeping and praying, overcome at the first sight of the Holy City, center of the world, source of their striving. Ancel threw his arms around William’s neck and cried, and William embraced him in a tight bear hug.

  “I never thought…” Ancel swallowed. “What I mean is that I never dared to think we would come this far. I couldn’t let myself believe, lest it didn’t happen.”

  “If we had not succeeded, then it would have been God’s will, and who knows what he has in store for us?” William hugged Ancel again and then laid his arm along his shoulder so that they stood side by side, fixing Jerusalem in their vision.

  * * *

  Four miles from Montjoye, approaching ever closer to the city walls, a sudden flurry disturbed the road behind them and loud cries rang out. “Make way, make way for the Princess of Jerusalem and the Count of Jaffa!”

  Looking over his shoulder, William saw soldiers, bright silk surcoats covering their mail, pushing their horses through the dusty stream of pilgrims, forging a path for a covered litter borne by four powerful attendants wearing livery of blue and gold. Everyone was forced to the side of the road to let the procession through, and as the litter passed William, a small hand parted the curtains. A little boy peered out at the pilgrims. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and the milk-white skin of a child protected from the sun and accustomed to an indoor life. Jewels and rich embroidery encrusted his crimson silk tunic, and even the tight sleeve of his undergown sparkled with gold thread. A woman’s voice, low pitched, came from within the litter, and another hand appeared, elegant and long fingered, to draw the child back inside. Before she tugged the curtain closed, William caught the glint of a long earring. Women in Normandy did not wear such jewelry, but no well-born lady of Outremer considered her toilette complete without them.

  The litter moved on. Behind and to the left, a nobleman rode a white Arabian stallion, the harness decorated with tassels and gold sunburst pendants. A blue cap banded with gems sat at a rakish angle on his head, and his hair flowed from beneath it in long, fair waves. A wiry beard of darker gold emphasized his firm jawline.

  A jolt shot through William as he recognized Guy de Lusignan, once a rebellious vassal of Queen Alienor’s and, in another lifetime, responsible for the ambush and murder of William’s uncle, Patrick of Salisbury. Now, through his marriage to Sybilla, sister of King Baldwin, he was close to the throne and acting regent for his ailing royal brother-in-law. William had always expected Guy to go to perdition in Outremer, but instead, he had climbed Fortune’s wheel in a most spectacular manner. He had known he would encounter the man at some point but had not expected it to be quite so soon.

  Guy barely glanced at the pilgrims as he rode past on his high-stepping horse, and William hoped he would go unnoticed, but then Guy saw the Templars Onri and Augustine, and his interest in them brought his gaze to William at their side. A brief look of astonishment flicked across his face before he schooled his expression to neutrality. Reining around, he rode over to William, uncaring of the pilgrims his mount shouldered out of the way.

  “Marshal, I never thought to see you here,” he said.

  “My thoughts the same,” William replied, and inclined his head. Guy’s tight hose were patterned with tawny lions, drawing attention to his well-muscled legs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making a pilgrimage—sire.” It stuck in William’s throat to address Guy by that title, but it was potentially dangerous not to do so.

  Guy nodded curtly. “Yes, we had heard your master was dead.” His voice curled around the words.

  “I am here to lay my lord�
��s cloak at the sepulchre.”

  “Then God speed your quest.” His light blue eyes were as sharp as glass. “How long are you intending to stay?”

  “I do not know,” William answered warily. “It depends on many things, but long enough to recover from our journey.”

  Guy flicked an imaginary speck from his cloak. “Then I wish you a swift recuperation.” He turned his mount and rode on to join the litter, light twinkling on his gilded spurs. The curtain parted again, and Guy leaned down to speak to the occupants before glancing back at William.

  “You should have a care when you visit court,” Onri warned. “The Count of Jaffa has many influential connections.”

  William grimaced. He could have done without this encounter, for now he had been marked by a man who was in a position to make his life difficult. “I shall trust in God,” he said. “He has brought me this far.”

  De Lusignan’s entourage had raised a cloud of dust that stung the eyes and put grit between the teeth of those left in their wake. William made a determined effort to cast Guy from his mind. This was about the climax of his pilgrimage, about the Young King’s cloak and fulfilling a vow. Sacrosanct. He was not about to let such a man rob the moment of its holiness.

  Within a mile, the walls of Jerusalem rose in full view, as did the Gate of the Tower of David, the heavy stones gilded in sunlight. Trinket sellers lined the road, touting their wares, and William noted them with a flicker of anxiety and kept on walking. A blind beggar, his legs twisted and deformed, held out a cracked bowl and begged alms in the name of Jesus Christ. William sought into the pouch beneath his tunic, found a coin, and tossed it in the bowl.

  Guards stood on duty at the gates, observing all who came and went through the gap, and kept the throng moving like a vast herd of cattle. A prod here, a poke there. Merchants and traders entering the city had to draw aside to a trestle and pay their dues in order to sell their wares. The air was pungent, dusty, and filled with so much noise that William could barely hear himself think. Jerusalem might be the holiest city on earth, and it was daunting and wonderful to know he was walking in Christ’s very footsteps, but in a practical way, it was still like any other city, and he had to concentrate on not bumping into people around him, many gaping in wonder and exultation, like him and his entourage, eager to reach their goal after so long on the road but uncertain of which way to go.