Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  She had been washing her own hands and briefly paused. “Oh?” she said with forced indifference.

  William gestured for her to come back to bed. She did so but eyed him warily.

  “Saladin had sacked the town,” he said as he curled his arm around her. “The people escaped into the citadel with such goods as they could carry, and they resisted attack, but the rest has been looted and burned. That is why your uncle has not returned—he is still there, setting matters to rights. Your relatives are all safe, and for the most part, so are their livelihoods.”

  She said nothing. He squinted down at her, but it was difficult to read her expression, for her face was partly covered by her hair.

  “Have I upset you? What is wrong?”

  She pushed out of his arms and sat up, hugging herself. “No.” She turned her face away. “I care not. I am glad it has burned to the ground—I hope it is all gone. I would never go back there.” She refilled her goblet and drank swiftly. “You look at me askance. You look at me and you do not know what to say. How could you?”

  He watched the expressions flit across her face. Anger and grief, desolation and bitterness. She was right; he did not understand, and he knew little of her past, save what she had told him on the day she brought him to the dome.

  “Nablus was where I was bought and sold to sweeten my family’s dealings,” she said with a shudder. “It was where I realized my true worth. I learned that money and power counted for everything and love for nothing. They would make a deal and expect me to open my legs or my mouth to seal it. If the home where I grew up has gone, then I am glad.” The cup trembled, and she put it down and pressed her hands over her face.

  William took her in his arms. “I love you, let that count for all.”

  “You fool!” she replied in a breaking voice, and clenched her fists against his bare chest. “Did you not hear what I have just said?”

  “Yes, and I answered you with truth. What is all the money and power in the world worth without love?” Tilting up her chin, he stroked his thumb over her tears.

  “Compensation,” she said bitterly. “And I have made sure that I have been well compensated.” She ran her hand down his body, over his hip and thigh, and then inward. “See how very skilled I am?”

  William caught her wrist and brought it up to his lips. “But it is not enough, is it? It will never be enough.”

  Her eyes were wide and dark and lost. “No,” she said, “but it is sufficient to survive.”

  She kissed him with passionate desperation and he took her back to bed. They had already made love twice and this time they did so with a slow, lingering gentleness that drew to a tender, exquisite climax. William buried his face in her neck, in her luxuriant, silky black hair. He had said that love counted for all but knew he was ignoring the cost.

  * * *

  “I see that Zaccariah of Nablus is back,” Onri remarked as the men paused between bouts of sparring with each other on the grounds to the west of the Temple Mount. “I saw him ride in yesterday evening with his baggage train.”

  The burning summer heat had yielded in early October to temperatures slightly less fierce, although William’s shirt and quilted aketon were still soaked with sweat. He drank down two cups of spring water that barely quenched his thirst. He and Onri were well matched, and it had been a constant dance of swift feints and strong blows, testing for weakness, perfecting technique.

  William wiped a cloth over his face and then cleaned his damp hands and sword grip. “I am afraid so. If I have missed him, it is only because he has not been constantly goading me and trying to extort money.”

  Onri raised his brows. “Extort money?”

  “He says we owe rent for dwelling in the patriarch’s quarters and for the stabling of our horses.”

  “Why should he think that?” Onri sent him a keen look as he cleaned his own sword.

  “I made an agreement with the patriarch for board and lodging in return for services, and indeed, the patriarch had little interest in the terms.” William sat down on a bench and rested his cup on his thigh. “It was mutually useful, and having extra men to guard the place was an increased incentive for him. I have paid my dues over and above, especially since my brother often lodges elsewhere. Zaccariah has an inflated sense of his own importance. He insists he is responsible for collecting rents, but he is lining his own coffers, not the patriarch’s. I had hoped he would stay longer in Nablus. Now I suppose he will be pestering us all again like a louse in the braies and doing his best to suck our blood.”

  Onri snorted at the analogy with sour amusement. “He is odious, I agree. The patriarch overlooks his behavior because he is useful at times and also because he is kin to Madame la Patriarchess.”

  “Yes.” William looked away. He did not want the conversation to veer anywhere near Paschia, and this talk of her uncle was skimming a little too close. William had been dismayed when Zaccariah returned and wished with his whole being that he had remained in Nablus.

  “You could always move back into one of our houses,” Onri offered.

  “Indeed, and I will think on it,” William said but knew he would not—could not, because of Paschia. Onri believed far better of him than he deserved. “I—”

  He ceased speaking as Geoffrey FitzRobert arrived, out of breath. He had been at the patriarch’s palace checking a horse with a leg injury, and William’s first thought was that Saladin had ridden back over the border again.

  “Sire, a messenger came to the stables looking to hire a fresh horse.” Geoffrey clapped his hand to his side and fought to recover his breath. “He told me that Guy de Lusignan has destroyed the Bedouin camp at Dofar, killed or taken for ransom the nomads and their flocks and camels.”

  William stared at Geoffrey, stunned.

  Onri asked him to repeat what he had said, and as he listened, his expression grew hard and grim. “This is too dangerous.” He looked around to see who else had heard, but for the moment, the news was confined to their corner of the training ground.

  William sheathed his sword, realizing that real warfare might end up on their doorstep and from their own faction. Baldwin was going to be incandescent.

  “That man has to be the greatest idiot in Christendom,” Onri muttered, and then pressed his lips together as though he had already said too much.

  “I am not surprised,” William said. “It accords with his behavior before he came to Outremer. When the blood lust is upon him, he is wild and cares nothing for the consequences. I must go.” He clapped Onri’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later.”

  * * *

  Ancel sat at Asmaria’s table, Pilgrim standing on his lap. Ever the opportunist, the dog was leaning over to lick the meaty sauce from Ancel’s finished meal, polishing the platter with his tongue. Asmaria was busy putting the children to bed. Ancel raised his cup and looked at William over the rim. “Why did he do it?” he asked.

  William shrugged. “Is it not obvious?”

  “Because of what happened at Nablus and Petit Garin?”

  “I am sure that is part of it, but it is also a challenge to the king. He is kicking him and the Saracens at the same time—punishing one for the damage wrought on Nablus and the other for not doing anything about it.” William refreshed his drink. “He is flouting the law of the land. The Bedouin have the right to pasture their flocks where they choose by right of the king’s writ, and they are valuable allies. They watch and report. In raiding their camp, Guy has destroyed that relationship and broken the rules. Moreover, he has clearly demonstrated he lacks the judgment, common sense, and intelligence to be a king, even while challenging for that kingship.”

  Asmaria walked past to fetch a blanket. Ancel squeezed her hand as she passed and she reciprocated by placing a kiss on the top of his head.

  “What will happen now?”

  “That depends on what t
he king decides to do.”

  Ancel stroked the dog. “What would you do if you were Baldwin?”

  Privately, William thought it would be a good idea to send the assassins out after Guy and put an end to him but held back from saying so aloud. “I would isolate Guy from power, and I would harness his wife to control him. The Countess of Jaffa is the one with the true authority, not Guy, and if anyone can rein him in, it will be her. She is the mother of the heir to the throne and a princess in her own right. People will support her bloodline even if they do not support Guy. She will not want to see a civil war between her brother and her husband, so I suspect she will do all she can to keep the peace. What Baldwin must not do is take an army to Guy’s doorstep, because that is exactly what Guy wants him to do. He will claim Baldwin is incompetent and will do his utmost to make it a fait accompli. If Baldwin ignores him and the Countess of Jaffa plays peacemaker, there may yet be a chance. Unlike de Lusignan, the king is not a fool, and he uses due consideration and reason rather than acting on the spur of the moment.”

  He finished his wine and rose to go. “Whatever happens, I think it best that we be prepared, and that means having our horses and baggage ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Don’t lend out any of the mounts we might need, and be on your guard.”

  Ancel’s eyes widened. “You mean that?”

  William nodded grimly. “If war does break out between the factions, we will be caught up in it, and since we are caring for the patriarch’s yard and the patriarch’s support is for de Lusignan, we shall immediately be suspected of treason by King Baldwin’s supporters.”

  Ancel chewed his lip as the implications sank in. He glanced over his shoulder to the curtain behind which Asmaria was settling the children. “What about them?”

  “You must talk to her and decide what to do.”

  “What if she wants to come with us?”

  William knew what Asmaria had come to mean to Ancel, but how practical that relationship would be in another time and place was uncertain—perhaps about as practical as that between himself and Paschia. “If we left in haste, it would be in a military capacity, but you could send for her.”

  “And if I decided to stay?” Ancel asked on a note of challenge.

  “I would not force you to come with me, but you would have to think carefully on the consequences. How would you cope without your companions? Who would be your lord and provide for you—de Lusignan? The patriarch? Bohemond, if you went to Antioch?”

  Asmaria returned and they fell silent, although the looks they cast at each other were tense and worried.

  “Think about it,” William said, and took his leave. He thanked Asmaria for the food. She smiled but looked anxiously between him and Ancel, and he wondered how much she had overheard.

  * * *

  “What is this I hear about you leaving?” Paschia demanded. William was ostensibly reporting to her on the progress of her mare and foal, and they were standing in the stable yard in full view of the grooms and servants. Paschia’s gaze was dark with anxiety and anger. “Is it true? You would desert your post?”

  It was astonishing how swiftly rumors spread. In Outremer, even thoughts were unsafe. “Madam, I do not know where you have heard such a thing.”

  “That does not matter.” She gestured brusquely. “However, that I have heard it is my concern.”

  “Then you should know I have merely taken precautions. The news of the attack on the Bedouin camp at Dofar has caused great unrest.”

  She arched her brows. “That is as may be, but it is no reason for you to leave. The king has always been too lenient on the nomads, and after what happened to Nablus and those villages, who can blame a strong warrior for retaliating? The king should have pursued Saladin with more vigor.”

  “But King Baldwin had a pact with the nomads,” William pointed out. “Moreover, the Count of Jaffa has committed an act of defiance. If everyone broke the pacts and laws of the land, where would we be?”

  She tossed her head. “You are making a mountain out of a grain of sand. It will all pass over, you will see.” She regarded him with exasperated affection. “Now is not the time to talk, but I shall see you later, and perhaps we can discuss the matter in more detail.”

  William bowed and put his hand on his heart. “As you wish, madam,” he said, looking forward to the one and not the other.

  * * *

  “Why do you dislike Guy de Lusignan so much?” Sitting up in bed, Paschia tucked her hair behind her ears. “Whenever his name is mentioned, you get that look on your face, but you will never say.”

  “Why do you like him so much?” William countered, pillowing his hands behind his head. “Why do you think he will make a good king?”

  “Because he is decisive, because he is in his prime and strong and has links with the Christian lands beyond the kingdom and will bring in fresh blood. And because he is Sybilla’s husband and stepfather to our young king Baldwin. It is his right to be the hand behind the throne. Sybilla is no weakling. She knows what needs to be done and Guy will see to her mandate.”

  William snorted. “If Sybilla endorsed the attack on the Bedouin, then she is politically naive. If she did not, then who says that Guy will obey her mandate or that she can control him, because clearly she cannot.”

  Her eyes flashed with irritation. “You speak of things you do not understand. Sybilla will smooth everything over with King Baldwin. It will not come to open war, I promise you.”

  “But even so, Guy’s action was imprudent.” Stung by the scorn in her voice, he added, “I had to assess men when I served my king, and I know the game of politics. I understand how matters work.”

  “Do you indeed?” She tossed her head, but then rolled over into his arms. “You still have not told me why you do not like Guy de Lusignan.”

  “But I have! Is it not obvious to you that the man has no judgment? It matters not if his wife does, because he clearly cannot govern his own actions and the best she can do is set them to right.”

  “But you barely know him,” she objected. “How can you decide on him from the few times you have been in his company?”

  “Because I knew him before, in Poitou. He and his family tried to ambush my lady Queen Alienor. Guy murdered my uncle before my eyes—speared him in the back, which was either the act of a coward or a man without control. I was taken for ransom and treated no better than a dog until the queen secured my release by paying a ransom to the Lusignans. During my time as their hostage, I came to know Guy very well indeed, and I have no wish to become reacquainted.”

  She arched over him and bit his lower lip, gently. “People change as they grow older. Guy must have been no more than a youth at that ambush. You cannot hold it against him all your life, surely, or blame a boy for the way he acted in the heat of battle.”

  “Since it was my uncle he murdered, you can understand why I might not forgive him easily,” William retorted. “His attack on the Bedouin tells me he has neither learned nor changed. There are far better men in the world than Guy de Lusignan.” He suspected she found de Lusignan attractive. He was tall and golden and had a charismatic way with women, even if the barons of the kingdom were impervious.

  She sat up, straddling him. “You are as stubborn as an ox,” she said with exasperation. “And pigheaded with it.”

  William laughed, and she struck him, not altogether in play. They tussled and fought, tangling the bedclothes, until she suddenly yielded to him, parting her legs, wrapping them around his waist, and making soft cries of need and surrender that ultimately vanquished him; yet as she clung in her crisis and he surged to his own, he knew that it all came to the same thing in the end: she had taken him, but he had taken her, and it was not a truce but a standoff.

  She slept after that, and William drowsed, his mind pondering their relationship. She was like no woman he had ever known. The closes
t he could come was Queen Alienor, but Alienor was steadier than Paschia, older and wiser, less likely to change on a whim, and of course, they had never indulged in a physical relationship. It had always been queen and royal servant.

  He had hoped that when he came to make a match, it would be with a woman who would be a gentle, tender helpmate, one who would not fight him at every turn, sometimes for the sheer excitement of the fight. This was a woman he should not want and with whom he should never have crossed that line. One moment, she was a feral thing, biting and clawing, and the next, she was as soft as a kitten in his arms, kissing the scratches she had inflicted and snuggling up to him. He did not know where he was with her and that in itself was addictive, because he could lose himself and not know where he was either, save that it was like falling into a feather bed and experiencing that moment of high sweetness before oblivion. He could almost thank God for it, except that it was very wrong, yet he could not regret the sublime wonder of the experience.

  He looked at her hands, folded over, vulnerable, imagined his ring on her finger, and knew that had to make their union honorable. To have her lie beside him as his wife, sanctioned by a priest, and not to have to come to this place in secrecy, always watching for spies, always knowing that it could be no more than a few snatched and guilty moments. To have her as his alone, to protect her and keep her safe for the rest of their lives—and decently, without shame.

  He turned her around to face him, all sleepy and warm. “What would you say if I asked you to come away with me? To Normandy or England. What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

  All the looseness left her body. She buried her head against him so that all he could see was her heavy dark hair.

  “I would keep you safe and cherished. You would never be bought and sold again.”

  She raised her head, her expression one of stunned surprise with an undercurrent of wariness. “You ask a great deal—of yourself, I mean. I do not think you realize the consequences.”