by Robyn Young
Will turned to Elwen and spoke gently, but determinedly, not wanting to hurt her, but needing her to listen. “Our being married will not change anything, not really.”
“It’s a pledge, Will,” Elwen answered, feeling herself close to tears. “It’s proof that you love me as much as that mantle you wear.” She looked away. “And maybe I wouldn’t feel so empty each time you leave my bed, like I’m just any woman you might lay with, just any common ...” She didn’t continue, her words tumbling into silence.
“You’re not just any woman,” Will said, his voice gruff with emotion. “You know that. You have to know that. I’ve never been with anyone but you.”
Placing her palms on the grass, Elwen pushed herself up and stood. “Well, that isn’t exactly true, is it?”
Will rose too, anger turning his voice to flint. “What happened in Paris wasn’t my fault.” He sighed roughly as she turned away. “Elwen, I love you. But there are things I need to do in the Temple, important things. Everard turns a blind eye to our relationship because he knows I can still do my work, but I cannot commit any more to you than I do already. Not now, not yet.”
“Maybe if you explained what these important things are I would understand, Will. But you never do. Don’t you trust me?”
“It isn’t that.”
“I know you do work for Everard that is beyond your duties in the Temple.”
Elwen raised an eyebrow as a look of concern spread across his face. “You forget that I was the one who stole the Book of the Grail for Everard. I don’t know why he wanted it; he never did explain it. But it was clear it was something unusual. Why else would a Templar priest ask a woman to steal a heretical book from under the noses of the inquisitors? You’re always off on some errand that you never tell me about.” Her voice was strained. “You don’t know what it’s like to not know where the person closest to you is for weeks at a time, not knowing if they’re in trouble, or hurt.”
“I can’t tell you what I do.”
“I can keep a secret.”
Will stared into the sky. “It isn’t my secret to tell.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke, both fighting against their emotions, struggling to hold back a flood of love, anger, frustration and fear.
Finally, Elwen nodded, as if some question had been answered. “I have to go,” she said wearily.
“I’ll walk you back.”
“There’s no need.”
Will caught her arm as she moved off. “I want to.”
Elwen searched his eyes. “All right.”
Together, they walked away across the gardens, the fallen blossom scattering in the breeze, carpeting the grass with wilted petals.
When they returned to Andreas’s home, they found Simon looking agitatedly up at the house. His face was blotchy, his hair plastered to his forehead. He had a fistful of what looked like gritty road dust in his hand, and as they approached, he drew back his arm as if to launch it, his gaze fixed on the upper-floor windows.
“Simon?” called Will sharply.
“Thank the Lord,” said the groom, flinging the grit away and going to them.
“Why are you here?” demanded Will. “I told you never to come unless it was urgent.”
“And it is,” responded Simon. “You have to come to the preceptory. Now.”
“What is it?” asked Elwen, looking at Simon questioningly. He gave her a faint nod, which she replied to with an equally faint smile, their acknowledgment of each other concealing a far deeper well of shared empathy and rivalry than Will, standing between them, could know.
“It’s Everard,” said Simon to Will.
“What about him?”
Simon took a breath. “He’s dying.”
“Go,” said Elwen, as Will turned to her.
He needed no more encouragement. With Simon panting behind him, struggling to keep up, Will sprinted down the street. He shrugged off his cloak as he reentered the marketplace, to show the people who he was so they would move out of his way. But even so, it was slow going through the crush. Using his hands and arms to funnel his way through the press, ignoring the murmured grumbles of those he barged past, Will had almost reached the other side, when a golden-haired man stepped out in front of him.
“William Campbell?” said the man, with an astonished laugh.
Will’s eyes focused on him, the recognition a shock. “Garin?”
Garin reached out and grasped Will’s hand in a firm grip as Simon came puffing up behind. “How in God’s name are you?”
“I’m . . .” Will shook his head. “What are you doing in Acre? Did you get my letter?”
“What letter?”
“De Lyons.”
Garin looked past Will at the gruff voice, to see Simon standing there, glaring at him. “Ah, Simon Tanner,” he said, with a small smile. “How good it is to see you again.”
“The feeling isn’t shared.”
Garin’s smile wavered, then he switched his attention back to Will. “I received no letter. When did you send it?”
“A few months ago now. Listen, I ...”
“Well, that explains it. I had already left London. What did it say?”
“I need to talk to you. I want to,” Will added, forcing a brief smile. “But right now I have to get to the preceptory.”
“I need to speak with you also. It is one of the reasons I came.”
“You can speak with Commander Campbell, when he has finished with more important business,” growled Simon, stepping up to Garin.
“Commander?” murmured Garin, his blue eyes on Will. For a split second, there hung a look of bitter envy on his handsome features. But it vanished so quickly that Will, who had turned to give Simon a warning look, didn’t notice it.
“Where are you staying?” Will asked him.
“The royal palace. I’m there on business for King Edward.”
“Then I will send word to you as soon as I am able.”
Garin clasped Will’s shoulder. “It is good to see you again, Campbell.”
Will nodded after a pause. “And you.”
As Will and Simon hastened away through the crowd, Garin stood and watched them. The first meeting hadn’t exactly gone as planned, but at least now he had established contact with Will.
After discovering, through one of the Temple’s servants, that the knight was away on business for the new grand master, Garin had been kicking his heels for almost a month. Hugh and his troublesome advisor had become increasingly impatient, with Hugh refusing to agree to Edward’s request, protesting that the donation was more than he could afford, but yet allowing Garin to remain in the palace, seemingly unwilling to dismiss his one hope of securing his throne. The Temple’s servant, true to his word, came to the palace late the evening before to tell Garin that Will had returned. Having spent all morning in a tavern across from the Temple’s gates, Garin was rewarded, shortly after the office of Nones, when he saw Will head out. He was pleased, having thought he would have to wait longer for the knight to leave the preceptory. But the reason Will had been drawn from the fortress so soon after his travels quickly became clear when he arrived at a house in the Venetian quarter and the door was opened by Elwen.
Garin had followed the couple at a discreet distance as they moved through the market into the gardens. Spying on them as they sat and talked gave him a certain perverse satisfaction, as if the fact that he knew something they didn’t made him greater than them. But watching the old affection between them, his smugness soon turned into a sense of detachment from the world, from anyone.
So Will was a commander? Well, that would just make it easier for the knight to get him inside the Temple, from which he had been banished. Then, Garin only needed to get to Everard and squeeze some money out of the old man and his duty here would be done. Acre was starting to lose its appeal.
THE TEMPLE, ACRE, 14 MAY A.D. 1276
Will rushed into the dim chamber, not bothering to knock. His lungs burned and
he could scarcely talk. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw Everard, hunched over his worktable. Will was surprised to see no one else in the room: he had expected physicians, perhaps another priest. He crossed to Everard. “What’s wrong?”
Everard’s face was pallid, puckered with deep lines. His skin had sagged on his cheeks, drawing them down into gaunt hollows, making the twisted scar that carved its way up the side of his face even more prominent. He looked frail, certainly, but not much more so than usual. He was holding a quill in his good hand, which hovered over the pages of a large, well-worn book, which Will recognized as the chronicle the priest had started to keep the year before. “I feel I must record evidence of my life,” he had told Will, “before I pass into anonymity. Other people have children. I have words.” Will stared at him. “What is it?”
“What is what?” responded Everard in his papery voice.
Will paused to let his breath catch up with him. “Simon told me you were dying.”
“We are all dying,” responded Everard tartly, setting down his quill and rising stiffly. “Little by little each day.”
Will watched as the priest hobbled to an armoire, into which he carefully pressed the tome. “You lied to Simon,” he murmured. “You tricked me.”
Everard glanced at him as he returned to the table. “At least you came quickly.” He sat with a wince. “Now I know I can still command your attention, perhaps even your concern.”
“How could you do that?” Will demanded. “Why would you do that?”
“I will die soon, William,” responded Everard brusquely. “And will you be ready then? I have to say, for some months now I have not been sure. The legacy of Robert de Sablé must be passed on. It is the duty of all the Brethren to ensure that. And, at the last count, you were one of them.”
“And I will. If the seneschal will let me.”
Everard’s pale eyes narrowed. “The question of my successor hasn’t yet been decided. Do not be so quick to presume.”
“What do you want, Everard? I don’t have time for this.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Everard. “And so it would seem! You have little time for anything these days. You’re either out on business for the grand master,” Everard’s voice hardened, “or with her.”
Will avoided his accusatory stare. “I might have sworn oaths to the Anima Templi, Everard, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still beholden to the Temple’s Rule. If the grand master orders me to do something, I cannot well refuse.”
“Obeying orders is different to reveling in them. Now you are de Beaujeu’s commander, it seems that you have little care for your other commitments. Even when you have been here, you have been avoiding the Brethren. The seneschal believes you are becoming disloyal and untrustworthy again. Some of the others agree.”
“You’ve been talking about me behind my back?”
“You cannot blame them for their mistrust. You betrayed us once before.”
Will stared at the priest, then looked away. “I’m never going to finish paying for that mistake, am I? How many times must I tell you I am sorry? I tried to have Baybars killed, yes. But there were reasons for it.” He turned on Everard. “As well you know, since it was you who sent my father here to his death in the first place!”
Everard rose, jabbing a finger at Will. “Your father died in loyal service to the Anima Templi. If you want to continue his work, as you’re always telling me you do, you should take a leaf out of his book.”
“You want my life, Everard? My blood? How many more sacrifices must you make for your peace? Were Hasan and my father not enough?” Will’s words rang into silence.
“My peace?” questioned Everard finally.
“That isn’t what I meant,” murmured Will. He looked around for a stool and sat opposite the priest. “I am loyal to you, Everard. I know I could have made more time to see you and I’m sorry I haven’t, but I don’t think you are aware of just how busy Grand Master de Beaujeu has been keeping me.”
“And Elwen? Just because I allow you a certain measure of freedom, beyond that which the Temple itself allows you, it doesn’t mean you can take my lenience for granted. You should have come to me immediately when you returned from Arabia. That you saw the grand master first, I can accept, but that you went to Elwen before you even had the decency to announce your return to me is simply unacceptable.”
“She was at Kabul,” said Will quietly.
Everard was silent for a pause. “I didn’t know that. She is unharmed?”
Will nodded, grateful, and a little surprised that Everard had asked. “Are the Brethren going to intervene? From what she said it sounds as if the High Court are after retribution.”
“The Brethren have been debating what the best intervention will be,” answered Everard. He drew in a breath. “But before I discuss any of that with you, I must know that you are with me, William, with us, that your heart is still in this. Because, if it isn’t ...” Everard didn’t finish.
“I am. It is.” Will saw in the priest’s ancient, wizened face a desire to believe, but the mistrust hadn’t left his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, then reached into the leather pouch that hung from his belt beside his falchion and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here.”
Everard took it. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure.” Will had copied the scroll Kaysan had given him, having opened it in the desert only to discover that he couldn’t read it. Yesterday, on his return, he had handed the original to de Beaujeu. He had kept the copied text in his pouch when he had left to see Elwen, planning on taking it to the rabbi, Elias, to see if the old man might know what language it was in.
Everard opened the folded paper and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose to read it.
“Do you know what it says?” asked Will, leaning over.
“What is this about?”
“It’s a mystery I have been trying to solve, without success. Do you think you can decipher it?”
Everard turned his attention back to the paper. “Perhaps. But ...”
“Do you trust me?” Will cut across him. “Truthfully?”
Everard exhaled slowly. “You wear me down, William, and you aggravate me on an almost daily basis.” He shook his head. “Yes, I do trust you. But sometimes I question your judgment.”
“Then help me decipher this and perhaps both of us will find answers to our questions.”
16
The Citadel, Cairo 25 MAY A.D. 1276
Aisha sank back into the water, feeling it glide over her scalp. Her fingertips had turned wrinkled and spongy, like the skin of overripe fruit. The bathhouse, which had been golden in the late afternoon light pouring in through the high windows, had grown shaded and chilly. Most of the women had gone; just a few were left at the sides of the pool, drying themselves off with scented linen towels.
“You’ll miss salat if you stay in there much longer,” warned one woman, looking down at Aisha.
Aisha smiled nonchalantly. “There’s an hour left till prayers. I’ve plenty of time.”
A few minutes later, the rest of the women moved off, leaving Aisha alone in the bathhouse with her two slaves.
“Leave me,” Aisha told them.
She watched them go, then climbed out and picked up a towel. She needed to hurry or she would miss him.
The bathhouse was eerily quiet, the water in the pool, dark blue in the fading light, occasionally rippling as moisture dripped from the painted ceiling to disturb its surface. The air was stale with smoke and perfume, old gossip, leftover fruit. After drying herself off, Aisha pulled on her gown, dragged an ivory comb perfunctorily through her hair and draped her pale gold hijab over her head. Moving swiftly, she hauled a low couch to the window. It was made of wood and heavy, the legs screeching on the tiles. She paused to catch her breath, silence falling densely back around her, then stepped nimbly onto the back of the couch, grabbing hold of the window ledge to steady herself.
The iron grille was suppos
ed to be fixed in place, but Aisha, climbing up to let her monkey peer through it, had discovered that the nails were rusty and loose. She wondered if any of the other women knew of it; whether any of them left the harem compound in secret to explore the outside world like she did.
Almost two months ago, she had been sitting hunched on the window ledge, just before evening prayers, when she saw Baraka passing through the gardens at the back of the harem compound. He was moving quickly, keeping close to the hibiscus bushes and palm trees that bordered the walkways, where narrow water channels led to a dark pool at the garden’s heart. She was startled to see him. As a young boy, Baraka had lived in the compound with his mother. But now that he was a man, he was forbidden from entering unannounced: that privilege belonged to Baybars and the eunuchs alone. If he wanted to see her or his mother, Baraka would have to come to the main entrance of the palace and summon them. Aisha had watched him until he passed out of sight, disappearing beyond the fruit trees that led to the kitchen garden.
Baraka had been in her mind more than usual since she had seen him in the passage. Her father’s reaction, when she revealed that he, Mahmud and Khadir had been in the deserted part of the palace together, intrigued her. He had been concerned: more so than perhaps was normal for such an ambiguous incident, and that was without the obvious fear Baraka had shown on finding her there. She had sent several messages to her husband, telling him she needed to talk. Nizam was initially pleased at the effort she was making, but the lack of any reply from Baraka simply drew more venom from the woman, as if his unresponsiveness was Aisha’s fault.
The next few weeks in the harem had been truly miserable. Then, almost a month later, she had spied Baraka again. Intrigued by his presence in the forbidden place, she wanted to know what he was doing, especially when she realized he had returned on the same day at the same time, just before prayers. During the next week she kept watch from the bathhouse, and sure enough, seven days later as the sun was slipping beyond the Citadel’s walls, Baraka had come slinking through the gardens.
Now she was ready for him.
