Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “My lady, I cannot stay any longer. I must go.” Gently disengaging, he rose to his feet. “You are distraught, and you should not be alone, but better with your ladies or the patriarch. I shall send someone to you.”

  “Don’t go.” She held out her hand. “Please.”

  “My lady, I am sorry for your loss, but I cannot stay.” Her grief was like a fierce tide washing away the cliff, revealing the unstable, underlying strata and exposing his own susceptibility. He bowed deeply to her and walked away, his mind turning swiftly and his heart pounding. Ever since squirehood, he had engaged in flirtation and witty byplay with the ladies of the court, and he excelled at it, but he knew the hazards. He had once been falsely accused by rivals of having an affair with Harry’s young wife, and although exonerated, the incident had scarred his reputation. The court of Jerusalem was more intense than the Angevin one, and the dangers on all sides were far greater.

  Reaching the palace, he went in search of her women but encountered Heraclius first, who was hurrying along the walkway, a grim set to his mouth.

  “Your eminence, Madam de Riveri is sitting in the gardens by the fountain in much distress,” he said. “I am searching for her ladies to succor her.”

  Heraclius pressed William’s arm. “Thank you. I will go to her myself.”

  “I am sorry—she told me the news about Ptolemy.”

  “Indeed, it is a terrible business,” Heraclius said sorrowfully. “I know he was troubled, but I had no idea that he would hang himself.”

  William raised his brows. “Is that what he did?”

  Heraclius grimaced. “He smashed his instrument to pieces on his chamber floor and then he hanged himself from the lamp hook above his bed. God have mercy on his soul.”

  William crossed himself. “I would not have thought that of him either.”

  Heraclius shook his head. “If only he had come to me. But who knows the darkness that possesses men’s souls at such times?” He raised his hand in warning to William. “My lady must not know that this was his end. She has personally promoted his cause at my court, and she has known him since girlhood. It would distress her beyond the grief she suffers now to know the true manner of his death. Let her know only that he was found dead in his chamber and let no one speak of how it happened. Men are carried off in this land by sudden fevers so often that it will suffice as good reason.”

  William nodded brusquely. “You have my word, sire.”

  “Good. I know I can count on you.” Heraclius pressed William’s shoulder and looked relieved. “I shall find Madam de Riveri a new musician as soon as I may, although I fear it will be difficult to replace Ptolemy.”

  Heraclius hastened toward the garden, and William returned to his men in a distracted mood.

  Ancel, newly returned from a visit to Asmaria, looked up from sharpening his sword. “Have you heard about Ptolemy?”

  William poured himself a cup of wine and drank it down. “The patriarch has just told me.” He made no mention of the moment in the garden but went to sit on a stool and leaned his back against the wall with a sigh.

  “I saw him the day before we rode out on patrol and he was well enough then,” Ancel said. “He played too recklessly at dice and almost lost his shirt, and he drank too much, but that was usual for him, and there was no indication he would do this—that is if he did hang himself, of course.”

  William eyed him sharply, for Ancel’s words were precisely what he had been trying not to think. “You have reason to believe he did not?”

  Ancel sheathed the sword. “Only that troubadours often carry information, and he was always hinting at things he knew—what he could tell us all if he chose. Perhaps someone decided to silence him.”

  William rubbed the back of his neck. He thought about what the lady Paschia had said—that she could not tell him, that he would not understand.

  “Do you remember when we were with him in that hostel not long after we had arrived, and there was some business between him and the patriarch’s men?” Ancel asked.

  “Yes,” William said. “And before we went to the Jordan, I overheard Zaccariah of Nablus discussing business with Mahzun of Tire that involved silencing someone. It might have been Ptolemy.” He shook his head, grimacing. “I cannot believe Heraclius would be involved. He seemed genuinely shocked when he told me, although he also strikes me as a man who sees only what he wants to see.” Perhaps that was the best way to be. If a man went digging, he was bound to find corpses. He suspected that Ptolemy’s threats to tell what he knew had been his undoing. How that undoing had come about and who had given the order were two other reasons to tread very carefully in this land.

  23

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  Someone was playing an instrument in his chamber, a gittern like the one that Ptolemy had owned, but the notes fell more gently, like soft rain rather than Middle Eastern sun, and the voice was different, with a higher pitch, clean and light. The person was singing a hymn in praise of the Virgin, and the notes went straight from William’s ears to his heart and filled him with a sweet, poignant longing.

  Poor Ptolemy. The words formed on his lips, but he did not use his voice because he did not want the musician to stop playing. Heraclius had given Ptolemy a Christian burial and the truth about his demise, whatever it was, had been kept silent and hidden away in the places where all such secrets were concealed. Prayers had been said for the young musician at the sepulchre, and candles lit. So many darknesses in the palaces of light. So many heavy secrets taken to the grave.

  William drifted on a sea of exquisite sound. A new musician had taken Ptolemy’s place—another young lad, fair haired and freckled, but with a very different air about him, and it was plain from the outset that he was never going to win the lady’s favor and patronage. That brightness had been quenched.

  24

  Royal Palace of the King of Jerusalem, May 1184

  “So,” said King Baldwin, “I understand you have moved your quarters to the patriarch’s palace and are acting as marshal in charge of his stables.” His voice was hoarse and a trifle slurred, a result of his advancing leprosy. He was sitting on his cushioned chair, his customary light veil draped over his face. Long tables had been set out in the hall with food for all, and people were mingling and talking, mostly about the forthcoming expedition to England and France. William had been summoned to give his own progress report to the king.

  “Yes, sire.”

  Baldwin signaled, and a servant assisted him to drink from a cup of watered wine. “But you have not sworn your allegiance to him?” The question was sharp.

  “No, sire,” William replied. “He has not asked it, but he deems it more convenient for discussions if I am under his roof.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “Yes, sire. My allegiance is to my lord King Henry, but I said I would do all I could to assist the patriarch in preparing his deputation.”

  Baldwin nodded. “We all pray that it comes to a good outcome.”

  “Indeed, sire.”

  William hoped Baldwin would not ask him if he believed it would, although a certain nuance in the ailing king’s voice told him that he was holding to his course while being grimly aware of the rocks beneath. One of those rocks was present now in the form of Guy de Lusignan. Since the matter of annulling his marriage to the Princess Sybilla had been deferred until at least the return of the envoys, he had gradually returned to court, and an uneasy truce lay between the men. They were civil to each other, with wary caution on both sides, and Baldwin had made it clear that while he would tolerate Guy if he must, he was to have no say in the rule of the kingdom. Even so, Guy was making his presence felt, exerting his charm, wearing magnificent tactile fabrics, showing how whole and manly he was, and being especially solicitous of Sybilla and his little stepson.

  “You strike me as someone who is not
easily influenced or duped,” Baldwin said.

  “I hope I am not, sire,” William replied, avoiding the thought of what had happened in Constantinople.

  “I do not see well, and you know the limitations of my limbs. I cover my face to disguise my ravaged appearance. My body is weary, and this disease devours a little more of me day by day.” He thumped his breast with his bandaged hand. “But inside, in here, I am strong. In here, I am steel. But do they know it?” He extended a knuckled stump outward to his courtiers. “Or would they rather follow that which is fair but in the end has nothing to sustain them? You are still on the outskirts, tell me what you think.”

  William cleared his throat. “Sire, there are those who will always be drawn in by appearances and golden words, but many are not so easily swayed. You must use your own judgment and not be distracted from your path by how others choose to walk theirs.”

  “I am not dead yet,” Baldwin said softly, “and he shall acknowledge that.”

  He spoke more to himself than William, who murmured assent and then bowed from the king’s presence as Raymond of Tripoli arrived to speak with him.

  Heading toward the banquet table, avoiding Guy but intent on finding something to eat, William paused at a touch on his arm and, turning, found himself face-to-face with the lady Paschia. He was immediately wary because of what had happened in the patriarch’s garden ten days ago. Since then, he had only seen her from a distance because she had either kept to her own chambers or had been attending on Countess Sybilla. And in truth, he had been avoiding her too.

  “Messire Marshal,” she said, “you have been most elusive.”

  “I have been about my duties, madam,” he replied, bowing. “I did not know you had been seeking me.”

  “I wanted to thank you for your care when I was shocked and grieving. I am in your debt, for there is much ambition and very little kindness at court these days.”

  Once more, William felt the frisson of crossing the line from safety onto perilous ground. Her earrings were set with rubies tonight, and they caught the candlelight like red sparks.

  “I was glad to be of service, madam, and very sorry to learn of the death of your musician.”

  “Indeed, a terrible thing. I have had many masses said for his soul. It may have seemed nothing to you, but you were a great comfort. I am grateful, and I do not forget.”

  William bowed and said nothing, and silence hung between them until she raised her chin and changed both the subject and her manner, putting on the smile of a courtly hostess donning a mask. “So, tell me, messire,” she said brightly, “what do you think of the court now you have had time to settle in and observe us about our business?”

  “I think it surpasses many a court in England and France,” he replied tactfully.

  “In what way?”

  “In its sophistication, in the wealth and knowledge of those who frequent it, in its taste and fine manners and richness of apparel.”

  She considered him shrewdly. “And what advantage do other courts have above ours? There must be some.”

  “Perhaps there is more plain speaking,” he said, “or at least men come more swiftly to it. Sometimes less embellishment helps one to see more clearly. A magnificent sword scabbard does not always house the best sword for war.” He deliberately avoided looking at Guy de Lusignan. “In many ways, the courts are similar. Each person plays to his or her advantage and makes allies of those who support that advantage.”

  “And what do you see as your advantage, sire?”

  They had reached the banqueting board, and William offered her a platter of almond and sugar sweetmeats. “That I am an outsider,” he said. “That is not always a good thing, but it enables me to observe, as you have said. My skills with lance and sword and my knowledge of horsemanship are sought by many, so I have plenty of opportunities.” He nodded toward a man who was deep in conversation with Heraclius. “That baron was at the stables earlier today. He desires two horses from the patriarch because he says his own are growing long in the tooth and he cannot patrol his domain without better animals. So I will find two such horses, and my lord Heraclius will bestow them as gifts and I will advise on their value.”

  “Indeed, then you do have many advantages, as you say.” She bit into an almond sweetmeat and nibbled it daintily. William ate one himself, followed by a small delicious tart stuffed with minced dates. She wanted to know his impressions of this man and that in the room, and he obliged her with short assessments. “And the Count of Jaffa?” she asked. “What is your opinion of him?”

  William wondered if she was trying to catch him out or genuinely seeking his opinion. Since she was a close companion of de Lusignan’s wife and he had often seen her in Guy’s company too, he needed to be careful. “I think he is a man of prowess,” he said neutrally.

  “And a worthy contender?”

  “As many are, madam.”

  “But they are not kin to the heirs of Jerusalem.”

  “Indeed not.”

  She gave him a thoughtful look. “Many men become great by marriage in Outremer. Do you have a wife at home, messire Marshal?”

  William shook his head. “No, madam; I am unwed.”

  “I thought so.” Her tone became lightly teasing. “Well then, that might make for many an interesting conversation, do you not think?”

  She was clearly speaking of rewarding him, perhaps with an arranged marriage to an heiress of rank, but William wondered at her motive, suspecting that she wanted to weld him to her own allegiance, which was to the Lusignan cause. He fixed her with a direct, firm gaze, devoid of the courtly game of flirtation. “Mayhap not, for I will find my own bride when the time is right and of my own intent.”

  She smiled, but with an edge now. “I can tell that you are a man of decision, and I like that, but you should think on the benefits that might come to you should you choose one path over another.”

  William bowed. “Indeed, I shall think on it, my lady, but please do not feel you have to pay my future any special attention—I can manage for myself.”

  She raised her brows. “I daresay you can, messire, but without my help, how far do you think you would have come by now?” She laid her hand on his wrist so her nails lightly dug into his skin. “A word of timely warning: Do not be hasty to dismiss friendship when it is offered, for a man isolated is a man easily picked off or ignored.” She released him and walked away to join the group of courtiers standing around Guy de Lusignan. Her patterned silk gown emphasized the sway of her hips. The red earrings twinkled. He realized that she was not a younger version of Queen Alienor at all but a beautiful, ambitious seductress, politically adept, intriguing, and highly dangerous, not least because she had unbalanced his certainty in himself. She was right about how isolated he was.

  When he took his leave, she neither looked at him nor bade him farewell, but he could feel the intensity of her focus like an invisible cord between them. He looked over his shoulder, and she met his eyes with a single challenging glance before deliberately turning her back and continuing with her conversation.

  * * *

  A few days later, Heraclius was in the stable yard, inspecting a new saddle William was making for him in preparation for the leaving parade eight weeks hence. Of sumptuous green leather, padded, and carved, it was comfortable too. Heraclius expressed his pleasure at how swiftly and competently the work had been done and prepared to go on his way but then touched his forehead. “I almost forgot. Madam de Riveri wishes to see you and I said I would tell you to call upon her.”

  William’s chest tightened. “Certainly, sire,” he replied. “Do you know why my lady wishes to see me—so that I may be prepared?” Ever since the meeting at the palace, he had avoided her, although he had been acutely aware of her presence when eating in the hall with his men or attending mass in the sepulchre. If not with Heraclius, she was usually in the c
ompany of the Count and Countess of Jaffa.

  Heraclius waved his hand. “Her husband was a draper and her family retain connections with that trade. Mostly they deal in silk, but she desires me to bring some English cloth for her when I return.”

  William was puzzled. “Sire, I do not understand how I may be of service then. If my lady was asking me about swords or harness, then I could help, but I know nothing of fabric.”

  Heraclius looked amused. “But you have been close to the court and you know the suppliers—the names of the men who provide the cloths. Whether you are able to help or not remains to be seen, but I counsel you never to deny a woman’s will—although I am sure you are wise enough to know that yourself. She expects you as soon as you may, so do not keep her waiting. Ah, Guy!” Heraclius turned as de Lusignan strolled up. “I was just coming to see you.”

  Guy smiled lazily. “Yes, I was wondering where you had got to.” His sharp blue eyes flicked over William.

  “Just finishing arrangements for my new saddle.” Heraclius gestured to the item. “See how fine it is.”

  “Indeed,” Guy said. “Perhaps you could make one for me, Marshal?”

  “Perhaps, sire,” William replied in a noncommittal tone, knowing that hell would freeze over first.

  “Well, we shall see. Who knows what the future will bring?”

  Guy and the patriarch went on their way together, and William slowly unclenched his fists.

  Ancel left the horse he had been attending to, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What did de Lusignan want?”

  William grimaced. “To harness us to his cause,” he said.

  Ancel snorted. “That will never happen.”

  “No. I have to go and see Madam de Riveri.”

  “She wants to harness us to his cause too?” Ancel asked with innocent eyes.

  “I do not doubt it; however, she says she wants advice on where to obtain goods from England.” William cuffed him playfully. “I will see you later.”