“Ah yes. Was that the reason you left my employ and went to the Templars?”
“Yes, sire—and to purge my soul. I came to Jerusalem to be cleansed of sin but realized I was traveling in the opposite direction.”
Heraclius leaned back, still stroking the cat, his expression thoughtful. “From what I have heard thus far, it might be best for you to return to your king.”
William was taken aback, if relieved that his affair with Paschia remained unknown—or at least unspoken. “Sire, I have not completed my penance and I am sworn to serve the Templars.”
“Yes, indeed, and that means obedience to their rule. If their grand master ordered you to go, you would have to obey.”
William tightened his lips. “Yes, sire, but my brother cannot be moved yet.”
Heraclius stopped stroking the cat and it leaped from his lap. “Let me put this bluntly, so that we may both understand. While Madam de Riveri remains in my household, I am bound to keep her relatives provided for and employed. Whatever Zaccariah of Nablus has done or may do in future, he is valuable to me and has served me well. One does not have to like a guard dog in order to find it useful. I can tell him to drop his grudge against you, but it would have as much effect as standing on the shore and ordering the tide to retreat, because he would smile to my face and still find a way to do you damage. I cannot guarantee your safety, and so it is better that you leave. Penances for the health of your soul can be arranged, and I think you will find my lord Gerard amenable to your departure.”
“Have you spoken to him on the matter?”
“No, but I shall do so tonight—he has letters to send to the Templars in Normandy and requires a trustworthy envoy, and you are ideally suited to the task. However, if you do decide to stay, then he and I will both expect you to acknowledge Guy de Lusignan as your liege lord. I am sure he will find suitable lands where you can settle as his vassal.”
William managed not to recoil, but his body stiffened. He knew Heraclius would never seriously expect him to swear to de Lusignan, and if he stayed, he would still be a target for Paschia’s uncle, and so would Ancel. Heraclius was plainly not prepared to do anything about Zaccariah of Nablus. Indeed, William harbored an uneasy suspicion that Heraclius knew a great deal more than he was saying.
“Make your choice,” Heraclius said, “and choose wisely.”
* * *
“Ah,” said Guy de Lusignan, smiling as William bowed to him. “I see that the patriarch has finally managed to get you here. Do not worry, you are among friends.”
“I am not worried, sire,” William replied. Just sick at heart and humiliated. He could see others watching him and de Lusignan together. The latter’s smile was a smirk. It was like being a fish caught in a net—a fine silver fish that had long been hunted. He was the one who had always been aloof and above the morass, but now he had been landed in the same boat and he was no different to the rest, indeed worse off, for had he chosen to join de Lusignan earlier, he could have held an elevated position. Now he was one of the many. He was accustomed to people taking him as a serious opponent, not a powerless victim.
Making his excuses as soon as he could, William left the chamber and climbed to the crenellated walkway at the top of the building. Drawing deep breaths of untainted air, he looked out over the city as the last red streak of the sun dipped below the horizon and night closed over Jerusalem. Lights from fire and lamp glimmered here and there like stars.
It was time to leave, too dangerous to stay. Staying meant becoming an ally of a regime for which he had no respect. Guy was the kind of man to get everyone killed; he suspected the same of de Ridefort. However, something about the urgency with which he was being asked to make his decision aroused his suspicions.
Returning to the festivities, his mood was pensive, and his feeling was of instinctive unease now, rather than social discomfort. He took his place among the men and was smiling and affable for their benefit and his own, and when it was time to go, he sought Heraclius.
“My choice is to leave,” he said.
Heraclius adjusted his cloak. “You have made the right decision, my boy,” he said. “I shall make arrangements, and you had best make yours.”
William bade farewell to Guy de Lusignan, who remained under the impression that he had finally fished William into his net. Thanking him for his hospitality, William did not disabuse him of the notion. Guy would find out how matters stood soon enough and that his catch had slipped through his hands.
* * *
In the underground cavern on the Temple Mount, clad only in shirt and braies, William prostrated himself in the center of the star mosaic on the floor, surrounded by the Templar brethren of Jerusalem, including Onri, Augustine, and Grand Master de Ridefort. Outside, the sun was setting over the city, but the underground chapel was entirely dependent on candlelight. The smell of incense was heavy, and layers of gauzy, aromatic smoke wove across the cavern.
“Do you request the company of this house?” de Ridefort asked.
“I do,” William replied in a firm, strong voice, as he made a sacred commitment to God and the Virgin Mary to serve the Templar order as a secular knight for the rest of his life, however long or short that might be.
“Will you take on the role of serf and servant to this house and abdicate your will?”
“I will.”
“And will you ever do as you are bidden and serve the Templars as they deem fit?”
“I will.”
His voice rang around the chapel. Onri stepped forward holding two lengths of folded silk cloth. Other brethren including Augustine helped Onri open out the silks, each man taking a corner and wafting the fabric through the incense smoke again and again like billowing sails while de Ridefort blessed the cloths and spoke of what it was to die and be reborn in service to God and the Virgin through the Templars.
The silks were floated over William’s prone body, light as air, bearing the fragrance of sanctity. He heard the voices chanting and felt the vibration of the sound become a power that coursed through him, connecting him to all things as he lay with his arms outspread. The silks settled upon him lighter than a sigh, and the brethren departed on soft feet, still chanting, extinguishing the candles as they went, leaving him in the darkness and silence of the tomb.
At first, it felt like flying, and time ceased to exist. If the bubble of the dome with Paschia had been a physical, sensual time out of mind, this was the opposite moment. Seeing nothing, feeling nothing, covered in diaphanous silk, but as a mantle of silence for eons, instead of the whisper of a transient lust.
And eventually, he felt the lightest touch through the shrouds as the silks were lifted from him, filling each breath he took with the holy scent of incense. He was being raised up and the light was too sharp for his eyes, even though it was only of candles. He was gently escorted, a Templar on either side, to take communion, and his hair was shorn at the nape with silver shears in token of his sacrifice, his penitence and rebirth cleansed of sin.
Exhausted, swallowing tears, he was helped up the stairs and brought to another room where the daylight dazzled him. A simple meal had been prepared of bread, honey, and wine, and it was eaten in silence by the brethren while Onri read from the Gospel of Saint John. At the end of the meal, Gerard de Ridefort presented William with the shrouds, now folded and wrapped in a bundle of plain cloth.
“Keep these safely with you in preparation for your dying day,” he said. “Let them be draped over your body as surety for your resurrection and you shall be safe. You have been shown what it is to die. They are the symbol of the commitment you have made to the order. Now go and prepare yourself for your journey, but first you must sleep.”
Still in a daze, William stumbled back to his lodging on the far side of the compound. Carefully, he put the shrouds on a shelf above a small, carved statue of the Virgin before falling on his bed and
sinking into slumber. Unlike his experience in the cave, covered by the shrouds, it was not a dark sleep of nothingness, but one filled with images that came swiftly, one after another. A beautiful young woman with thick golden hair to her hips and blue eyes that held all the colors of the ocean. For a moment, he thought she was an angel, but then he saw that she was with child and there were other children with her too. Boys and girls, dark and fair, that looked like her and looked like him. And then another bed in a well-appointed chamber with three window spaces open to the sky where an old man lay asleep, his hands clasped on his breast, and he knew the man was waiting, and he knew who he was.
* * *
William found Ancel in a communal area for the hospital patients, playing dice. His broken leg was still held straight by two boards and supported on a long bench, but he was able to hop around on a crutch and was limitedly mobile.
He was in a good mood, and a modest pile of winnings was stacked at his side. “See,” he said to William, “I can still earn my keep.”
“Indeed, you have great skill,” William said with a preoccupied smile.
He watched Ancel game, and when they had finished, he helped him back to his bed. Ancel busied himself, putting his winnings in his pouch. “I shall give half to Asmaria when she comes tomorrow.” He glanced curiously at the bundle William had in his hands. “What’s that?”
William sat down at his side and unfolded the wrappings, exposing the lengths of silk. “It’s a gift. This is what I want to be wrapped in when I die, just so that you know.”
Ancel gave him a wide look and touched the silk with its pattern of peacocks and foliage gleaming in the weave, its chevroned border and embroidered cross on the larger piece. His eye caught the smaller Templar crosses embroidered in the corners. “Very rare and costly.” His expression became wary. “What did you do to warrant such a ‘gift’?”
William replied quietly, “I have sworn myself to the service of the Templars without taking the full vows, and this is the covenant of that oath. But you are my only kin should I die before we arrive home, and what you say and do at my wake speaks for me to all men.”
Ancel eyed him sharply. “Very well, I shall see to it as best I can, should it come to that, but what makes you think it will?”
“I don’t. It is a precaution.” Which was not entirely true. William drew a deep breath. “We have to leave within the week. I am working on a padded cart for you, so you will be able to travel in comfort, and we’ll go by sea where we can, so you can rest your leg.”
Ancel’s eyes rounded with shock. “Why?” he demanded. “I thought we would stay until after the Christmas feast. It is too soon!”
“I have important letters to bear for the patriarch and for the Templars, and their need is immediate. I cannot leave you here in Jerusalem because it would not be safe.”
“And you think traveling like this will be any safer?”
“I cannot leave you here with Zaccariah of Nablus at large to do his worst and you with no means of income.”
Ancel was silent for a while. “I do want to go home,” he said eventually. “I have always wanted to go home, but not like this.” His mouth twisted. “It doesn’t seem as though I have a choice, does it? What of Asmaria?”
William shook his head. “The traveling will not be easy and we have documents to carry, but send for her once you are home, and she can come to you on the pilgrim ships in the spring.”
“Yes,” Ancel said, but not as though he believed it.
“I mean it, truly.”
“I am sure she can find better bargains than a cripple she has to cross oceans to be with.”
“You are wrong,” William said vehemently. “She sees you as you are and you see her the same. She might be asking herself why a man of your rank should ask someone like her to cross oceans and come to him. Think on that.”
Ancel grimaced. “I will…if I survive. You should find some shrouds for me also, Gwim.”
“We are going to win through, I promise you.”
Ancel raised his brows and looked skeptical.
37
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
William watched the sunlight move slowly across his bedclothes, bringing gold to the plain brown coverlet. It had rained last night, but the dawn had been clear, and the air was fresh and green. The last couple of days, he had been unwell and in great pain, but this morning he felt better. It was as though the morning sun had warmed him through to his bones and given him a life-enhancing surge of energy. He had made his confession earlier and arranged for his almoner Geoffrey to distribute alms to the poor. He had even eaten some bread and broth from a spoon without feeling sick and had felt regret for the hope he had seen in Isabelle’s eyes as she tended to him. He was not coming back from this; he was just sustaining himself for a little longer, for the time it took to complete what he had to do.
“I dreamed of you last night,” he murmured to her where she sat holding his hand. “And our children.”
“Did you? What did you dream?”
“Of the years we have had. Of seeing you lying on our marriage bed with your golden hair unbound and thinking that I had wed an angel. I was not wrong.”
A small sound escaped her throat and her fingers entwined with his.
“I never quite believed I deserved you, Isabelle.”
“You were the answer to my prayers too.” She looked down at their joined hands. “I saw you walking across the courtyard toward me at the Tower of London, so straight and purposeful, and I thought, Here is a man who knows what he is about, and that if you were kind, it might be all right…but you were so much more than that, and I could not believe that God had been so generous. Although he is not being generous now.” Her chin trembled. “I would not trade one moment with you, except for these past few months.” She leaned over and kissed his brow and then his lips and, after saying something about her household duties, made a swift exit.
He knew she had taken leave before she cried in front of him, and he was deeply saddened, but it did not detract from his own sense of accepting what must be.
She was only gone a short while, however, before she returned, her eyes pink rimmed but her expression sternly composed. “Jean is back,” she said.
He strove to sit up. “That is excellent news. Make sure he takes the time to eat and recover and then send him to me. Another hour will not matter, and I know that unless strictly ordered, he will not bother. Tell him to bring Will and Henry with him when he comes.” William’s heart quickened with anticipation and even a little fear. Waiting for the shrouds had been a burden, even though he had been certain that Jean would bring them in time.
“I have already seen to it.” She managed a smile. “He would have come to you immediately as you say, but he was mired from his journey and in need of a drink at least.”
As she left, William listened to the sound of his grandchildren playing on the sward outside his window, and his mind drifted for a little while, imagining what the spring day was like outside. The lush grass that would make the cows fat and sleek. The fine grazing in the water meadows by the Thames had been the first thing he had noticed when he came to Caversham, and the swans, white wings curved as they sailed upon their reflections in sky-mirrored water. It was his lot to be buried with the Templars, but a part of him, some small spark of soul, would linger here.
The door opened and Jean entered. He walked straight to the bedside and knelt and, taking William’s hand, kissed it. “I came as swiftly as I could, sire.” His brown eyes filled with chagrin. “My horse cast a shoe on the road yesterday and that lost me a few miles of daylight.”
“No matter,” William said with warm affection. “I told you I would be here and so I am, and you have still made good time and done well. I trust you have refreshed yourself as ordered.”
Jean nodded ruefully. “Your lady was in
sistent. She said you were still strong enough to refuse to see me if I did not.”
“And so I am.”
“I am pleased to hear it, sire.”
William knew very well from the worry in Jean’s eyes what he was seeing when he looked at him, but they played the game of diplomatic tact.
“I have brought your lengths of silk, sire,” Jean said, and placed a large leather satchel on the bed, which he unfastened and from it removed a package wrapped in linen and tied with silk cords.
Beyond Jean, William saw Will, Isabelle, and Henry FitzGerold enter the room, and he beckoned them to his bedside. “Come,” he said to Jean, “bring out the cloths and let us see what we have.”
Jean fumbled with the cords and William’s body leaped with impatience. It was like the excitement of waiting to see old friends, and it had been so long…
The ties finally unfastened, Jean unfolded the protective linen outer packaging and drew out two pieces of folded white silk, very fine and light in his hands. A scent of incense rose on the air in an invisible smoky thread.
“Open them out,” William commanded.
A joyful, tender pain flashed in his solar plexus as Jean handed a corner of one length of the silks to Henry and they unfolded and draped it over the bed, softly gleaming. And then the second one. The larger piece bore a pattern of peacocks woven into the fabric that showed up in subtle intricacy as the light shone upon the silk. A thin border of interlacing ran around the edges between lines of purple and gold, and a cross made up of smaller crosses shimmered gold and purple on the white.
Setting his eyes on these magnificent pieces took William back thirty years and filled him with an emotion that almost stopped his breath. He imagined them being wrapped with sacred care around his body to take him forth from the world even as they had brought him back into it after the maelstrom that had been Paschia. Setting his hand on the cloth, he experienced a qualm—not of the unknown, but of the finality. Once he was dead, unlike the first time of lying under these shrouds, he could never come back. Never know again the loving physical touch of those around him or take part in the life he had been so privileged to live.
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