The Lion and the Leopard

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  * * *

  A damp washing cloth rested cool upon her forehead. Maria tried to open her eyes but the effort was too great. How long had she been lying here? She had lost all track of time and had only a vague recollection of what had occurred around her. Far in the distance she heard church bells. Deerhurst's bells had rung to aid her through Tom and Blanche's birthing, but she knew they were not now ringing for that reason.

  "Here, sweetheart," said a gentle voice. "Drink this." Hands eased her up. She looked into Lady Jean Rendell's face. Aye, now she remembered. Phillip had sent to Winchcomb for his sister-in-law as well as a midwife, and then disappeared.

  "Thank you for staying. I did not want to be alone." Maria's voice sounded so weak she could scarce believe it was her own.

  Lady Jean's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she managed a smile. "You have been asleep for hours. Rest is always a good thing."

  Maria did not want to ask the question, but she knew she must. To complete her loss. "My babe did not live, of course?"

  Jean's face crumpled. She shook her head and turned away.

  Wearily Maria closed her eyes. A part of her wanted to ask after her child, whether it had been boy or girl, large or small. But it was none of those things. It was simply dead.

  * * *

  Maria awakened from a dreamless sleep, momentarily disoriented. The room was familiar but it was not Fordwich. She'd lain in this bed with her children, hadn't she? But Tom was serving his apprenticeship and Blanche was at Fordwich and beyond that she would not ponder...

  The door opened and Lady Jean entered, bearing a tray of gruel and oatcakes. "You look much improved this morning."

  "I do not feel improved. I feel... empty."

  Jean reached out and patted her hand. "Every woman loses at least one child. 'Tis the natural order of things."

  Tears slipped from Maria's eyes. "Nay, 'tis retribution. And there will be more. I have lost my husband and Mortimer said he would send me my Lord Sussex's head."

  Jean groped for the proper words. Her quiet conventional life seemed so far removed from her sister-in-law's she was not certain what might soothe her. "Your son is here, you know. Would you like to see him?"

  "Tom?" The first joyous leap of emotion was quickly extinguished. "He must hate me also, does he not? Has my lord husband told him everything?"

  Jean's cheeks turned to a mottled pink. "Lord Rendell is not a monster. He would not turn a son against his mother."

  Maria swiveled her head against the pillow. "I would not blame him if he did."

  At that moment the door opened, and Phillip strode into the solar. He was wearing his hauberk, and a black jupon without identification of any sort. When he pushed back his coif Maria saw that his face was drawn and streaked with dirt.

  Jean leapt to her feet. "I was just leaving." After throwing Phillip an anxious smile, she hurried from the room.

  Phillip crossed to Maria's bed, and looked down at her. "Sussex has escaped."

  "What?" Maria struggled to sit up. "How do you know?"

  "I have made inquiries. It seems a pack of knights descended on Mortimer when his troops left Brackley Castle this morning. His men were careless. They did not take proper precautions. Rebel knights attacked and in the press Sussex escaped."

  "I do not understand. Men still loyal to King Edward? But I thought all of England was against him."

  Phillip turned toward the chamber window. His profile appeared worked in stone. "I am just relaying what I was told."

  Maria tried to assimilate this stunning news. Phillip would not again risk his life for Richard, would he? Had he left her, not because he scorned her, but because he'd ridden to save their lord? Why would he? Why should he?

  "My lord is free then, and safe?" At least Maria would have one thing to be thankful for. At least God was not extracting his full measure of vengeance at one time.

  "I did not say he was safe. I heard he was wounded, though I know not how badly. Mortimer is scouring the hills for him. But 'tis treacherous terrain there, where a man is better served on foot than horseback."

  Maria sank back against the pillows. "But not a wounded man," she said tonelessly. "He will be all alone with no one to care for him." She plucked at the edge of the woolen coverlet. "He will die alone."

  "We all must die sometime. And I would prefer dying peacefully with the sun upon me and a blue sky hovering overhead rather than an executioner's axe." He paused. "Michael Hallam was killed in the escape."

  "Not Michael!" Maria could sooner imagine Richard's death than that of his squire, who seemed indestructible. She felt fresh tears well up inside, forced them back. If she was going to cry over every tragedy she would weep the rest of her days. "How did he die?"

  "When the knights attacked, Mortimer meant to kill Sussex right then. Hallam took the sword instead. Or so I was told."

  "Poor Eleanora." Maria raised her eyes to Phillip. Death was all around her now. "You know I lost the babe."

  Phillip looked away. "Aye."

  "'Tis what I deserved. But it will be... hard."

  "Much of life is hard," Phillip whispered. "Much of life is not what we expected."

  Maria remembered their first meeting, near ten years past. She had thought him so wonderful, a figure from a romance. She could still find him so. But perhaps her perception had accounted for their problem. She had fallen in love with her idea of what a man should be, not who he truly was. She'd cheated Phillip, but more, she'd cheated herself.

  "Thank you for Richard."

  Phillip turned away so that she could not see his face.

  Chapter 33

  Chiltern Hills, Gloucester 1327

  Remnants of the outlawed order of the Knights Templar found a delirious Richard of Sussex and carried him to their secluded monastery where they diligently tended to his stomach wound and nursed him back to health.

  Once recovered, Richard willingly participated in the monks' daily work. He found even such menial tasks as shoveling manure surprisingly enjoyable. 'Twas comforting to know that the fate of an entire country did not rest on his expertise at baking bread or cleaning the Templars' dormitory.

  Richard often thought of Michael Hallam, but though he missed his dead squire, he sometimes wondered whether Michael did not have the better end of it. No more worrying over political events and disasters, no more scheming or heartache or tragedy. Surely now Michael, at least, had found peace.

  Alone in his cell Richard often studied from the available religious works until vespers and the even meal. Though such a bland routine would once have left him yearning for a stag hunt or hawking expedition, he relished those quiet hours far away from the cares and troubles of a world swiftly receding into a dreamy, little-missed past. Still, Richard sought outside news, which the Templars reluctantly provided via Boltolph the Hermit, who sometimes begged along the main road to Gloucester, and returned with the latest gossip.

  In January, Boltolph said, Edward II had been officially deposed by a Parliament that declared him "an insufficient ruler, a destroyer of the church and the peers of the realm, a violator of his Coronation Oath, and a follower of evil counsel." In February of the year, his oldest son, Edward of Windsor, had been crowned Edward III.

  Concerning Maria, the hermit had heard only that she'd returned to Fordwich.

  'Tis enough to know she's safe, Richard told himself. I need nothing more.

  But with the blossoming sweet violets, the soft scents from the orchard's budding apple, pear and plum trees, passions that had lain winter dormant now sprang forth with disturbing vigor. The golden sun spread its warmth; bees droned in the apiaries while gentle breezes caressed his skin as lovingly as Maria once had.

  Do you remain at Fordwich, or are you at Deerhurst with Phillip? Have you reconciled?

  Richard told himself 'twas safer not to know too much, and when past demons hovered he sought to keep them at bay with the hard physical labor of planting and hoeing in the monastery's gard
en.

  I will not think of the past; I will not think of her.

  His heart, however, remained unconvinced. This placid valley, disturbed only by the occasional call of a cuckoo or a monk's singing, should be an oasis from the world's cares.

  If here I cannot find peace, what will I do?

  Daily confessions to Father Francis provided only temporary solace. Maria followed him everywhere. At night she came warm and willing in his dreams. Such times Richard would fling open his window shutters, gaze at the powdered heaven, the elusive moon, and torment himself with unanswerable questions.

  When he discussed his unhappiness with Father Francis, the priest nodded sympathetically. "We all have ghosts we must someday confront. Simply pray for the right time to face those ghosts. And believe it or no, sire, we have all fallen short of God's grace. And that includes weaknesses of the flesh."

  Gazing into the priest's furrowed face, Richard could not believe so. "You are Knights Templar, Father, and closer to God than ordinary men."

  "We are flesh and blood like any other."

  "Nay, you've always been something more, since the first crusades. When I was a page in my father's house I used to sneak from Westminster to Fleet Street to watch you there. I thought then there was nothing so fine as your long beards and crosses of red and white, and wanted to be like you—a knight devoted to God and the protection of man. I knew Templars were the most worthy of all."

  "Your brother felt otherwise," said Father Francis. "He packed many of us off to the Tower."

  Richard dropped his gaze. "He never believed those absurd stories of demon worship and human sacrifice."

  "Nor does it matter—for it was all God's will."

  "God's will," Richard repeated. "If only I knew what that was. Certain enough I have followed no will but my own. No wonder I cannot find the peace I read on your faces."

  Father Francis looked down at his calloused hands. When he raised his gaze to Richard, his expression was oddly guarded.

  "We are old men, sire, with old men's dimming passions. 'Tis far easier at our age not to hear the world's siren song."

  * * *

  The Feast of the Holy Face occurred on July 1. For the preceding week a palpable excitement had charged the monastery's usually placid atmosphere. While 'twas not a usual fast day, none of the knights came to table, but rather all went to confession and spent the rest of the day in prayerful contemplation. Even Father Francis appeared distracted, offering Richard little more than perfunctory advice during confession, and later, when he returned to the chapel, the door was barred. Feeling vaguely apprehensive, Richard spent the rest of the day in the garden and roaming about the woods.

  What is happening?

  * * *

  The night was hot and humid. Hungry from fasting, disturbed by visions of Maria, Richard could not sleep. Naked, he lay on his cot watching the moonlight stream through a crack in the shutters, thinking about other such nights...

  Finally, he stood, stepped to the window and opened the shutters. From the position of the moon he judged it to be past midnight. Not a breath of air stirred; not a sound came from the adjoining room where the brothers slept. He felt sticky and unclean—and unnerved by the silence.

  Surveying the shadowed courtyard Richard noticed light filtering from the chapel windows. Odd. It should be dark at this hour.

  At that moment he heard a faint chanting. The hair on the back of his neck prickled for 'twas no ordinary thing to celebrate a feast day in the dead of night.

  Recalling the peculiar activities of the day, the taut, expectant faces, listening to the eerie voices, Richard's mind suddenly ran to childhood stories about the Templars. What had people said? That during their time in the Holy Land they had turned away from Christian worship to Satanism. That they knelt before an idol in the form of a black cat, Baphomet. That human sacrifice numbered among their practices.

  Quickly, Richard crossed himself. "Such a thing cannot be," he whispered. "These men are not capable of such abominations!"

  The chanting intensified and from its body a distinct word emerged—one that caused his stomach to constrict in fear.

  "Yallah!" cried the Templars.

  The Saracen war cry! Were those long ago tales then true? Did the Templars indeed conduct secret midnight ceremonies during which they prostrated themselves before a fearsome bearded head? Did they toss newborns in a circle? Did they then murder them and burn their bodies in order to smear the rendered fat upon their idols?

  After slipping on his chausses, Richard left the small cell. Shadows hung from the rafters in the unlit cloisters and lurked in invisible corners. A breeze sprang up, rustling the nearby arbor leaves. Restless horses neighed from the stables.

  And, overall, like a heartbeat, sounded the Templar's chant, "Yallah! Yallah!"

  Light leaked beneath the chapel door. Walking on tiptoe, Richard reached it. Tentatively, he eased his shoulder against the wood.

  He expected the door to be locked.

  Instead it opened.

  * * *

  The chapel was brightly lit with rows of candelabra illuminating a stained glass window above the altar depicting Christ at the resurrection. Vivid in their crosses of red and white, the Templars grouped near the front.

  At the altar Father Francis celebrated mass. Richard judged it was near the consecration, but a consecration unlike any he had witnessed. The host was not elevated; the usual responses had been replaced.

  The Templars instead chanted a biblical psalm.

  "...Selah.

  God be merciful to us

  And bless us.

  And cause his face

  To shine upon us. Selah!"

  "Selah!" He whispered. Not Yallah but Selah. They weren't praying to a heathen deity at all.

  Richard peered beyond Father Francis. To the side of the rood he spotted a long ivory cloth of some sort, hanging suspended from a rod attached by two chains to the ceiling. The cloth appeared to be either stained or dirty, but perhaps it was just the flickering play of light.

  At communion time the brothers came forward, but they did not receive the customary host. Instead, each approached the shimmering cloth, prostrated himself and raised its hem to his lips.

  Watching the hesitant, even fearful movements, Richard felt a chill that had naught to do with the breeze.

  What is this relic? Why does it inspire such reverence?

  Too quickly, the service ended. When the knights rose to depart, Richard slipped inside a hidden alcove. With folded hands and downcast eyes, the brothers passed. After the last one had disappeared, Richard again approached the door and inched it open.

  All candles, save for those on the altar, had been extinguished.

  Cautiously, he moved forward. The mysterious cloth danced in the uncertain light. As he neared, the straw colored stains assumed a blurred, indistinct shape. Once Richard thought he glimpsed the full length figure of a long-haired, bearded man, hands crossed over naked loins in an attitude of death. When he blinked the image disappeared.

  Father Francis appeared from the vestiary. "My lord Sussex!"

  "What is it?" Richard whispered, nodding to the cloth.

  "I am not sure you should have come. I am not sure 'tis the proper time."

  "Tell me, Father, what it is."

  Father Francis studied Richard intently. Then he decided.

  Gesturing to the altar steps beneath the cloth, he said, "Sit."

  Richard obeyed.

  The Templar eased down beside him. "There is a story, my lord Sussex, that I would tell."

  It began after the fall of Constantinople. Long known as the Queen of Cities because of its art and cultures and fine palaces, the city had been ransacked by Christian knights, knights who hacked and plundered and destroyed all they came across.

  "In Blachernae, there was a certain church, the Church of the Virgin Mary, which was known to contain the world's most sacred relic. After the crusaders went mad, several of m
y Order entered the church and spirited the relic away to Castle Pilgrim near Acre. There it stayed for near a hundred years."

  Castle Pilgrim had been a grand place, Father Francis said, with gardens and orchards, a cool running stream, and fields of grain tucked behind its walls.

  "Who would have thought such a fortress would ever fall?" The old priest closed his eyes. "The rest of the story you well know. Soon afterward France's Phillip the Unfair, craving the Templars' riches for himself, rounded up our knights, tortured them, and burned many at the stake."

  To keep the relic from falling into greedy hands, several Templars had smuggled it to England. While Edward II also jailed members of the sect, he declined to indulge in the rest of the barbarities. And after the hysteria passed, granted them their freedom.

  "We searched and searched until we found the most secluded spot to guard our relic. And here we settled."

  Father Francis eased to his feet and turned to face the cloth. "Before you is the secret of the Templars, the truth to all the rumors, the ultimate cause of many deaths—for what man would not gladly give his life for even one glimpse of this most sacred miracle?"

  Richard felt suddenly lightheaded. "But what exactly is it?"

  "Do you not yet know, my lord?"

  He shook his head, unable to speak.

  "You asked once why we have such peace. Before you hangs the answer. Behold, sire, the burial shroud of Jesus Christ!"

  The words exploded in Richard's brain. His mind, his very body went numb.

  Father Francis approached the shroud. "Come here, my lord. Come and touch it."

  Richard recoiled. "I cannot! I am a bastard and an adulterer. I have killed men and betrayed friends. I am unworthy."

  The priest's lined face softened with compassion. "Our Savior would not have come had we already achieved perfection. You are no less worthy than any man."

  Father Francis took Richard's hand and led him forward. Like a criminal condemned to his inevitable fate, he acquiesced.

  "Touch it."

  Richard reached out. His fingertips strained toward the shroud; his breath rasped in the silence. The figure suddenly sprang into focus; the indistinct facial features leapt out at him. Clearly now Richard saw the staring eyes, strong nose, forked beard framing a sensitive mouth, the center-parted hair that appeared to be topped by an indistinct caplet.