Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  In the quiet aftermath, the leader of the leper knights limped among the dead. God bless St Lazarus and all his works. Carefully, painfully, he picked at the flap of the document-pouch carried within the saddlebag of the chamberlain and extracted the letter. It would be from Saphadin to John of Brienne, a personal plea for negotiation and understanding. Henceforth, and by order of the Lord of Arsur, it was surplus to requirement.

  His face provoked a memory, distant or recent she could not say. Isolda scanned the crowd. It had been the briefest of glimpses, a beggar man with a wide hat, just another adult in a press of humans that thronged and swamped the senses. Yet that single glance disturbed her. The eyes were too intense to mean well, the mouth too tight to ever want to smile. Surely there was explanation. But Kurt was busy conversing with Otto, Brother Luke was carving passage through the Roman streets. She would put it down to fatigue. Besides, her young brother would only laugh and tell her not to worry.

  ‘We are arrived.’

  The friar motioned them to his side as he stood before the strong oaken door of a preceptory set behind an iron grille. It was a modest affair, a dormitory building with narrow windows and few stylistic features of any note. Its occupants preferred such anonymity.

  Kurt squinted at it, puzzled. ‘What kind of house is this, Brother Luke?’

  ‘The kind that is closed to the outside, which wields clandestine power and holds all manner of privilege.’

  ‘Does a family live here?’

  ‘Of a sort.’

  Otto joined in. ‘Why do we visit?’

  ‘A question I should ask myself.’ Brother Luke reached for a bell-rope and tugged. ‘Observe.’

  It took several minutes and a number of peals before activity stirred within. Eventually, a hatch swung aside and a pair of suspicious eyes surveyed them through the opening. A male voice followed, its tone as unwelcoming as the glower.

  ‘We have no alms to give.’

  ‘I seek neither food nor sanctuary, brother.’

  ‘Then if it is confession and absolution you demand, go instead and find a church.’

  ‘Is this the way to treat one you have known through previous visit, one with whom you have in the past broken bread?’

  ‘I know you not.’

  ‘Come, Brother Mario. I am old, but my memory does not fail.’

  Slowly, with a pace that suggested both reluctance and calculation, the bolts were thrown and the door pulled wide. Confronting the Franciscan and the three youngsters was the stark red cross of the Temple.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Brother Mario.’

  ‘And on you also, Brother Luke.’ The Templar made no effort to unlock the metal gate. ‘What brings you to our door?’

  ‘The spirit of friendship and chance journey through these parts.’

  ‘You bring attendants.’

  ‘They are the waifs and lambs I take with me to Palestine. What better way to imbue them with the fervour of pilgrimage and sacrifice than to acquaint them with your Order of Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ?’

  It provoked a sneer from the Templar. ‘I do not recall we have ever served as example to you, Brother Luke. The Knights Templar embrace holy war, the purity of violence, while you eschew it. The Knights Templar ride out to do battle with Lucifer and his heathen Saracens, and you roam with bare feet and preach repentance and kind acts.’

  ‘We are all of us Christian.’

  ‘Not all of us garbed in the sackcloth of a vagabond.’

  The friar smiled. ‘Did you not as I make sacred charism of poverty? Did you not as I undertake to comfort the weak and helpless?’

  ‘Each interprets that as he must.’ Distrust was solidifying to hostility. ‘Your sermon is done. You should depart.’

  ‘And miss occasion to greet old friends? What of Knight Brother Julius? Sergeant Brother James?’

  ‘Away on holy retreat.’

  He lied. It was in the nuance, the tilt of the eyes, the unscripted language of the body. Everyone had their secrets, Brother Luke decided. After all, he would not be telling the children of his conversation with the Pope, would not be confiding in Innocent tales of his travels and of how he had made discovery in other places and far-flung parts. Templar commanderies had been emptied, Templar estates denuded of their workforce. Hidden exodus and concealed reason were in play. You will work diligently to find cause and fact. He always did, with or without the authority of the pontiff. Arrogance was the fault-line of the Templars. It was time to utilize and follow it, to pick out further strands of his investigation. The Franciscan was sure they would lead to Outremer, that he walked in a true direction.

  ‘You dream, Isolda. We must keep pace.’

  She turned at his call, seeing the excitement in his face, the cheer this city brought to the soul of any boy. If only she shared the confidence of her brother.

  ‘I thought I remembered something, a man behind us, Kurt.’

  ‘Among this horde? You imagine.’

  ‘I have seen him before, I know it.’

  ‘Every merchant is the same; every drover and storeman wears similar dress.’

  ‘It was the face, Kurt.’

  ‘Do not fuss. We have our nobleman and friar near.’ The twelve-year-old wrapped an arm across her shoulders and skipped her on.

  She was right: Kurt had laughed and told her not to worry.

  Chapter 10

  Candle smoke and incense fumes filled the interior of the basilica of St John Lateran, and the prayers of Brother Luke rolled strong and reassuring in the dimness. Kurt squeezed shut his eyes and repeated the incantations. Alongside, Isolda and Otto knelt in veneration before the cross, their heads bowed and lips moving. After so long on the road, there was something comforting in the ancient solidity of these walls, something disquieting in making preparation to leave.

  The friar faced them. ‘Our prayers are done, my lambs. If we are to catch ship, now we must away.’

  ‘Can we not stay in Rome a while longer?’ It was Isolda who asked.

  ‘We may wait, yet neither weather nor any mariner shall. The sea grows fierce, the risk of shipwreck with it. So let us gird ourselves and march before we come to founder.’

  Kurt clambered to his feet. ‘Will you teach us new conjury and song, Brother Luke?’

  ‘It will be my delight.’

  They proceeded outside, Otto buckling on his sword, the Franciscan pointing to the cityscape and telling tales of previous emperors and popes. Each account encouraged a stream of questions.

  ‘Did Caligula truly make his horse a senator?’

  ‘How could Nero wish to burn this city?’

  ‘And you say Commodus struck off the heads of senators who refused to laugh at a prank?’

  Brother Luke nodded. ‘History is laden with such incident. All point to the corruption of man, the need for vigilance against evil, the harm done by rulers who know neither compassion nor humility.’

  ‘It is as well we live in better times.’ Otto fixed the beret on his head.

  They walked across the square towards the horse-posts where Gerta and Max were tethered. The animals had been well cared for, fed and groomed by a band of industrious and scurrying hands who provided to the passing traffic. In Rome, pilgrims were a treasured commodity. Kurt was busy recounting to his sister a story of gladiators pitted against wild beasts in the great Colosseum. She listened dutifully, her gaze wandering ahead to Otto.

  The face once more. It could not be coincidence, another chance encounter. She stopped. Oddly, the man was no longer dressed as a rootless vagrant, but wore the smart clothing of a private servant. All the better to blend in. Perhaps he waited for his master. Yet his eyes were turned elsewhere, bore in upon the friar and young noble.

  ‘Isolda?’

  She did not hear the query of her brother. Her attention was on the stranger, tracking him through the fluid scene of colour and movement. He did not belong. It was as though he tensed for a fight, coiled himself to pounce, a loner sur
rounded by people and horses but operating to a different beat. Briefly, his face was framed then obscured by a rearing steed. And in that moment she remembered, was borne to the track where Hans had died, where four horsemen had converged to hack her friend to pieces.

  Horror and realization dawned with a scream. She was yelling her warning as the man moved, as his dagger rose and plunged straight for Otto. It seemed the only action in a world that had stilled. She watched, her sound cut short by dread, her brother reflexively twisting to see. He was already springing forward in futile gesture of defence. But it was too late. The point of the knife travelled fast, was accompanied by the high-pitched cries that had once propelled the young goatherd to his grave. The beggar was revealed as the fourth man, the Mohammedan who had fled the last clash to try again. He could not fail. Allah! Allah! Allah! Allah! Isolda covered her ears and clenched tight her eyes. She would not be witness to the inevitable.

  But others saw. In a steel curve of light, a sword emerged from its scabbard into Otto’s hand, descending in bisecting line as he pivoted to greet the threat. It did more than intercept. The Assassin stumbled, his effort cut short, a heavier blade than his own implanted deep between his eyes. Those eyes registered nothing. Then he fell away, and Otto stood alive and bloodied at the epicentre of shocked silence.

  Brother Luke was the first to move, enveloping Kurt and Isolda to his side. ‘Take comfort, my lambs. Young Otto proved the most quick and sure between them.’

  ‘It is my fault.’ Isolda sobbed and buried her face against his sleeve. ‘I wished to warn you, wanted to tell you I recalled this evil stranger from past meeting.’

  ‘I already had noted him.’

  ‘You had?’

  ‘Why yes. He was garbed as a beggar when first we entered Rome, followed us like an obedient ass.’

  Kurt sounded reproachful. ‘Otto might have died, Brother Luke.’

  ‘He was never in danger. We had to draw this knave from the shadows, lull him with confidence to bring matters to conclusion.’

  ‘How could you know his purpose? How could you suspect him from any beggar in the street?’

  ‘When you wander as much as I, every soul reveals itself, every man walks with a step as particular as a noble and his signet seal.’

  Isolda clung to the friar. ‘Are we not Christians, Brother Luke? Could you not counter this villain with your staff, parry him as you did the Cathars?’

  ‘In Rome I am become again a mild and reflective priest.’

  ‘We might have captured him, placed him before proper court of judgement.’

  ‘A cornered beast is more frenzied than a roaming one. And, until this moment, we had no proof of his treacherous intent.’ The friar stooped and kissed her head. ‘May God forgive me. I am sorry you have beheld more woe and slaughter than was ever meant for a child.’

  Before them, Otto crouched beside the corpse; around them, spectators gathered to observe and comment. The sixteen-year-old had opened the belt-purse of the dead Assassin and was examining its contents. He held up a piece between his thumb and finger, a silver German cross inlaid with garnets.

  ‘What is it, Otto? What is its meaning?’ Brother Luke had stepped forward.

  ‘Meaning?’ The boy gazed up at the friar, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘These murderous hounds who trail me have paid earlier visit to Alzey, have invaded my home, put those I love to the sword, butchered my old tutor Felix to whom I gave this token.’

  He did not weep. It was too great a blow for mere tears. But his face was ashen pale, his grimace set with total anguish. In silence, he pulled further objects from the canvas bag, each of which he laid on the ground, some of which drew a sigh, a nod, a clenched fist. They were confirmation of his fears.

  The Franciscan lowered himself to his haunches. ‘Your deceased prize here is Assassin, a hashshash. They come from the mountains of Syria, are hired and sent by those unhappy to see you venture east.’

  ‘Why, Brother Luke?’

  ‘That is uncertain. Yet we may suppose it will be for neither kind nor generous reason, and you are viewed as danger to persons in the Holy Land.’

  ‘I menace none.’

  ‘Others have more jaundiced eye. Of course you seek your father. But you will ask questions, peer through doorways, offend interests.’

  ‘My name and honour compel me to find truth.’

  ‘However unsightly?’

  ‘Wherever it leads and whatever the cost.’

  The friar nodded. He had expected such answer. ‘You have chance to turn back for the Rhineland, Otto.’

  ‘There will be little but corpses left for me in Alzey. Someone wishes me dead, commits these killers to ensure it. You have my word I will discover the secret.’

  ‘Forgiveness and love are more noble than vengeance, Otto.’

  ‘Only in the robes and bare feet of a Franciscan.’

  New commotion entered the surrounding hubbub. The crowd parted and Cardinal Savelli appeared in company with a squad of Lateran guards. Men bowed; women curtsied. He ignored them, his demeanour as unchangingly severe as it was when first he met the children.

  ‘I should have foreseen the most recent visitors to our see would also prove the most troublesome.’

  Brother Luke faced him. ‘Such trouble is not of our making, your eminence.’

  ‘Yet blood flows and a corpse lies prone.’

  ‘Not the blood of an innocent; not the corpse of a guiltless traveller.’

  ‘Who is ever guiltless, friar?’ Savelli let his withering gaze move to the bloodied youth. ‘You are quick with your sword, Otto of Alzey.’

  ‘It is why I am alive to address you, your eminence.’

  ‘Then you are fortunate that witnesses speak of heathen curses uttered by this wretch.’

  ‘He came at me without warning, had deadly intent in his eye.’

  ‘Our duty is to kill the Saracen, and you perform it well. No stain will mark your soul, no condemnation affix to your family name.’

  ‘I am not to face tribunal, your eminence?’

  ‘There is no crime committed here. You have blessing from Innocent, our Reverend Lord. Be glad and be wise, and be gone from Rome within this hour.’

  ‘We head anyway for Nettuno.’

  ‘That is to the good, for I hear two ships remain in harbour preparing to set sail.’

  ‘They will be the last this side of winter.’

  ‘Still greater reason for your urgency and speed.’ The cardinal spread his hands and the pike-bearers fanned out to bar the press of citizenry. ‘Incident is done and we need no more. Now leave us.’

  Life had regained its daily rhythm; signs of death were being sluiced away. How readily a populace could shrug off act of violence, for there was always the next to take its place. Cencio Savelli stood on the cobbles and observed the work of his underlings. It would soon be time to retrace his path to the Lateran, to ascend its marbled stairs to the Sancta Sanctorum, the private chapel of the pontiff, and there report on happenings in the square. Yet he could afford to linger awhile and think.

  He had pondered much of late: on the nature of power and abuse of influence; on the bending of will to a higher design. Maybe he was old, but ambition still burned. Undoubtedly he was cardinal, but one day he would climb higher. It was why he had agreed to serve not God but the shadow master the Lord of Arsur. There could be no withdrawal from their compact. Too much was at stake, too much already done. A month past, five thousand French children, wretched survivors of their original movement, had reached Marseilles for embarkation and crusade. They had been overjoyed to find boats, overwhelmed by the warmth with which they were received. Only now would they recognize their terrible folly and desperate fate, as they stood caged and captive in the slave-markets of Alexandria, as they were sold into deeper bondage in Egypt. Whether catamite or handmaiden, fair skins carried rich premium. Their tragedy was his gain.

  Five thousand drops in an ocean, Savelli mused. There would b
e more: the Rhinelanders who had not died and were stupid enough to proceed. They too would suffer, would earn money for the secret coffers intended to fund the ships and pay the soldiers for the real crusade. It would come. When the Lord of Arsur raised his standard above the citadel in Jerusalem, when he revealed his discovery of the True Cross, every king and prince, lord and knight, would scramble to attend. The heathen Mohammedans might try resistance, but it was likely to be token. Saphadin and his emirs would be dead, the Viceroy of Egypt constrained in sending relief by false rumour spread from Venice that Christian armies headed for the Nile. Shock and fear would keep them in their place. And so the Lord of Arsur would rule over all, a natural leader and sole successor. John of Brienne deceased, the barons extinguished, the infant queen Yolanda terminally deposed. A happy coincidence that the new overlord of Jerusalem and Palestine, sovereign of Outremer, would enjoy the support of Cencio Savelli, future-appointed pope. It was right to back a victor.

  As though the strength and reach of the Lord of Arsur needed to be proved. The final bloodstains were sprinkled with sawdust and ash, the ground spotted with holy oil to rid it of polluting Saracen trace. One could never be too careful. Assassins might return with modified agenda and a different target, could lurk disguised as prelate or pauper. Even this failed attempt carried message that none was immune, anyone could be struck. Cardinal Savelli would ensure he remained among the vigilant and the living.

  A priest hurried over. ‘Such occurrence is a terrible thing, your eminence.’

  ‘I agree.’ He would be sending word to the Lord of Arsur that Otto of Alzey had survived.

  ‘Oh, fair princess sitting in your tower . . .’

  The nurse bounced the baby queen in her arms and crooned a little ditty. She returned the smile of the infant, but it was done with calculation instead of love, performed with the lukewarm ritual of one who knew already how the story would end. A long and fruitful life was not part of the intended narrative for this child. Below, the cultivated land stretched away from the walls of Acre. It was wrong to have taken Yolanda from her nursery, forbidden to bring her to the tower roof. But it was a fine day and no harm was done. Not yet.