The city of Rouen lies a fair way upriver, and as there was considerable movement to and fro on along the coast we had no difficulty finding the right channel to take us inland. Indeed, we followed a large Flemish trading vessel and arrived two days later. While Sarn tended the boat, Padraig and I talked to the masters and pilots of other vessels to learn who might be heading south. Padraig’s Latin was good, and I was pleased to find that mine sharpened quickly as I regained the rhythms of the speech I’d been taught since boyhood.
It seemed that I had arrived at the right place, for the wharf was very busy. As it happened, I was offered passage on no fewer than three ships in exchange for work. After discussing the matter with Padraig, I decided to accept a place aboard a Danish ship sailing for Genoa—one of the places marked on Sarn’s map. Indeed, we were walking along the wharf to inform the ship’s master of my decision when two men appeared on the quay. Their arrival caused such a commotion of excitement that Padraig and I turned aside to see what they were about.
Tall and lean, they walked with the confident authority of kings, their dark-bearded faces haughty and lordly as they scanned the waterfront before them. The long swords at their belts were freshly burnished and gleamed; their high boots were new. They wore simple tunics—one brown, the other white. The one in white, I noticed, also had a broad cross of red cloth sewn upon his chest.
A group of sailors sitting on the wharf stood abruptly. I heard one of them murmur a name. I turned to the man, and asked what he had said. He pointed to the red cross on the man’s tunic, and said, “Templars.”
Turning to Padraig, I repeated the word, and added, “Have you ever heard the name?” He confessed his ignorance, and suggested we join the crowd which was quickly gathering around the two men and see what they had to say.
“Friends!” shouted the man in the white tunic. “Come closer!” He motioned the people nearer, and when the throng had formed around him, he proclaimed, “In the name of our Blessed Savior, I greet you and beg your kind indulgence. My name is Renaud de Bracineaux, and you can see by the cross on my surcoat that I am a knight of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.”
A flutter of excitement coursed through the crowd. Whatever this Order of Poor Fellow-Soldiers might be, it aroused great interest and enthusiasm among the people, more of whom were running to join the throng.
“I will not detain you from your errands,” the knight continued. “I merely wish it to be known that our illustrious Grand Master Hugh de Payens has lately arrived from Jerusalem for the purpose of inducing men of noble lineage to join our order, which is dedicated to the aid of Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land and the protection of the True Cross.”
These last words caused my ears to burn. I determined to speak to this knight in private, and was even then calculating how this might be accomplished, when he said, “I thank you for your courtesy. My sergeant and I will remain in Rouen until dawn tomorrow, if anyone should wish to speak with us farther.”
The knight dismissed the crowd with a blessing, and the knot of people slowly dispersed. Several young men wanted to hear more, and followed the two knights as they walked from the quayside. Padraig and I fell in behind, and soon found ourselves before a low wooden house fronted by a wickerwork stall from which a man was selling bread and ale and roast fowl. The sawn stumps of trees topped with planks formed benches on which his patrons might sit to enjoy their meals.
“Friends,” said Renaud, “it would be a very blessing if you would consent to join Gislebert and myself in our midday repast.”
Of course, we all agreed right readily, whereupon the Templar called to the keeper of the inn to supply us liberally with an assortment of his wares. The merchant and his wife busied themselves at once, producing bowls of frothy brown ale, baskets of bread, and platters of roast fowl. Padraig and I found places on one of the benches. The young men talked excitedly and asked many questions, which the knight answered patiently, explaining what would be required to enter their order—as well as the rich rewards awaiting all who donned the white surcoat.
We drank and ate our fill, and listened carefully to all that was said. I quickly discovered that this Order of the Knights of the Temple was in fact a monastic order made up of noblemen sworn to Christ’s service for an agreed period during which they were required to forsake family and possessions, and swear a vow of poverty, chastity, and unswerving loyalty to their brother knights.
In exchange for their vow, the newly accepted brothers would receive a horse, a fine hauberk of ringed mail, a sword, shield, battle helm, and a fine white surcoat with the distinctive red cross.
“Hear, Padraig?” I whispered. “They are monks—monks with swords. This is wonderful.”
He nodded, gazing on the knights in amazement. Indeed, who had ever heard of such a thing?
When the young men departed, pledging themselves to return later with the permission of their families to undertake initiation into the order, the Templar turned to me. “What say you, my friend?” he asked amiably. “Is there any way I can be of service to you?”
“I thank you most heartily for your generosity,” I replied in my best Latin. “As I myself am a pilgrim even now bound for the Holy Land, much of what you have said interests me greatly.”
“This is most fortuitous, is it not, Gislebert?” he cried to his companion. “My friend,” he said to me, “I ween by your speech that you are a nobleman. Rest assured that should you undertake holy orders, you would be admitted to the highest rank of our brotherhood. Our Lord Christ requires the services of such men to protect his people in the Holy Land from the savage predations of the infidel.”
I granted that, attractive as the opportunity to join the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ undoubtedly was, I had undertaken a separate vow which I could not lightly put off.
“I understand,” Renaud replied sympathetically. “Still, I would be remiss in my sworn duty if I did not point out that a rare opportunity exists which may be of value to you.”
“What is that?”
“Our illustrious Grand Master has sought and received the commendation of Pope Honorius II to grant full ordination of limited duration to any brother who wishes it.”
“How long would be required?” I asked, intrigued by the notion.
“Whatever God in his wisdom has laid on your heart, my friend,” answered Renaud. “Speaking strictly for myself, I would think two years to be a sufficient duration to aid the Brotherhood—although, I have known many men to pledge five years, or seven. A few have promised service for only a year, as the spirit leads.”
“I see.”
“I mention this, because,” he said, smiling, his teeth a white flash of lightning against the dark cloud of his beard, “you seem a most thoughtful and capable man, and one who takes his vows in solemn earnest. Also, since you travel in the company of a monk, I am persuaded that you understand the sanctity of our duty better than most. Tell me, have I misjudged you?”
“In no way, my lord,” I replied.
“Then permit me to suggest that you need not put off your vow at all, merely suspend it for a season.”
I stood and said, “Be assured I will consider your offer carefully.” I thanked him for his generosity, and wished him farewell.
Rising, the Templar nodded to his sergeant, Gislebert, who went to settle with the proprietor for the ale and food, while he walked a little way with me. “Tomorrow we must continue on our way,” he said, and went on to explain that his brother knights were likewise searching the towns and cities for men to undertake service in the Holy Land. “We will come together in Marseilles at summer’s end,” he said, “and sail from there to Otranto, where we will join Bohemond and travel to the Holy Land.”
While he was speaking, a quarrel flared up between the owner of the stall and the Templar sergeant. As my attention was given wholly to Renaud, I did not hear how the altercation began. But suddenly, the owner of the stall was shouting,
“But this is not enough! Sir, you asked for the best and I gave you the best!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the innkeeper holding out his hands in dismay at the few small coins he had been given. “It is more than enough,” Gislebert told him flatly. “Be quiet, it is all you get.”
He made to turn away, but the innkeeper put out a hand to stop him. The Templar reacted as if he had been struck a blow from a sword. He spun around, hand upraised, ready to strike. “Be quiet, you!” he hissed. “Do you want the whole city to know you are a thief?”
“Is there some trouble, sergeant?” called Renaud, taking an interest at last.
“I asked for ten deniers,” cried the aggrieved merchant. “It is a fair sum—ask anyone, it is an honest sum.” He thrust out his hand to show the small coins. “He gives me but seven! Seven only! That is not fair.”
The Templar raised his hand to silence the man. “Give him what he asks, Gislebert,” he said, adding, “Let us be more careful where we trade next time.”
“It is a fair price,” the proprietor insisted, accepting the additional coins from the grudging sergeant’s hand. “Ask anyone in the city, they will tell you.”
He appealed to no one; the Templar had already turned back to me and was saying, “We must be on our way, my friend. But remember, if you should change your mind, you will be most welcome to join us. Only,” he added, “you must decide very soon. It is a long way to Marseilles.”
Again, I promised to think about all he had said, thanked him for the food and drink, and bade him farewell. “Pax vobiscum,” called the knight, raising his hand in benediction after us. “God go with you.”
“Pax vobiscum,” replied Padraig. We walked on in silence, retracing our steps to the quayside where we joined the traders and porters passing to and fro along the wharf with their baskets, kegs, bundles, and chests of goods. Unable to rein in his curiosity any longer, Padraig said, “Are you truly thinking of joining them?”
“It is tempting,” I confessed. “But no, my thoughts are otherwise.”
“Then what are you thinking, my lord?”
“I am thinking,” I replied, “that if a pilgrim were bound for the Holy Land, he could not do better than to travel in the company of God’s own knights.”
NINE
WE SPENT THE rest of the day, and most of the next, trying to discover more about this Marseilles. For although Padraig professed to know of the place, he had no idea how far it might be, nor by which route it could be found. We showed Sarn’s map to the pilots of no fewer than six of the larger ships and asked them if they could show us where it might be. Two of them had never heard of the place; one knew the name and told us it was on the south coast, but had never been there; and three pilots tried to buy Sarn’s chart for themselves.
Then, as the sun was going down, a slender young man approached the place where our boat was tied. Sarn and I were sitting on the wharf discussing the problem, and Padraig was stirring among the supplies in preparation of our evening meal. The stranger came to where we stood and bowed low before us. “Pax vobiscum,” he said, “I would be most grateful if you could tell me if I am speaking to the men who have been inquiring about Marseilles.”
His speech, although flawless, lacked warmth—as if he were uttering words he was being forced against his will to speak. I regarded him closely. His eyes were large and dark against his sallow skin; his hair was black and thick, and cut close so that the curls were tight to his scalp like a knitted cap. His limbs were thin; the clothing that hung on his bony frame, however, was of the finest cut and cloth, and well made. On his thumb was a huge ring of gold, and a fat purse hung at the wide belt which gathered his long tunic around his too-narrow waist; a large knife with a bone handle protruded from the folds.
“We have been asking about Marseilles,” I replied, and explained that it was our wish to join the Templar fleet traveling to the Holy Land.
His large dark eyes, which had appeared somewhat cloudy or hazy, suddenly brightened at my affirmation. “This is your boat,” he said, pointing to the sturdy craft behind us.
“It is, yes,” I replied.
“And you are its master, yes?” he asked, almost quivering with excitement.
“The boat belongs to my father,” I told him. “But I have the use of it.”
“Splendid!” he cried, and I thought he would swoon. When he had calmed himself, he said, “Please, do not think me brazen, but I would like to hire your boat.”
“I admire your boldness,” I told him, “but I must disappoint you. My boat is not for hire. You see, we—”
“I have money,” he said quickly. “I will pay whatever you ask. It is very important that I return to my home in Anazarbus as soon as possible.”
“Again, I fear I must disappoint you,” I replied, and explained that so far as we could understand, it was a very long voyage to our destination, and that we possessed, as anyone could see, only a small vessel. With four passengers it would not only be uncomfortable, but dangerous as well. “I am very sorry,” I told him. “Still, this is a busy port. No doubt you will soon find someone else who can take you.”
He frowned as sorrow overtook him, and I thought he would cry. His head dropped forward and he looked at his feet. Then he drew a deep, steadying breath, and said, “I have no wish to appear impertinent, but the extremity of my plight makes me persist where others would graciously relent. If I offend you, I beg your forgiveness. It seems to me, however, that you contemplate sailing to Marseilles by sea.”
Sarn smiled. His Latin was good enough to understand most of what the young man was saying. “Sailing is best done at sea,” he replied dryly.
“Of course,” allowed the stranger, “a man of your obvious skill would find it so. I merely wish to point out a fact that might have escaped your notice. You see, there is another way.”
“You know this other way?” I asked.
“Indeed, yes.”
“And you would show us?”
“Of course, yes. If I were a passenger in your boat,” he said, “it would be in my best interest to reach our destination by the fastest way possible.” He smiled, his face suddenly glowing with triumph. “What do you say, my friend? I will most happily be your guide.”
Now it was Sarn’s turn to frown. He leaned near, putting his head close to mine. “I do not like this fellow,” he said. “How can we be certain he knows what he is talking about?”
“We will find out more,” I told him. To the thin young man, I said, “What you say intrigues me, I do confess. Perhaps you would care to have supper with us, and we will sit together and discuss the matter.”
Glancing at Padraig, who was beginning to assemble the various items for our meal, the young man said, “You are most gracious, lord. I will sup with you, but I must beg you to allow me to contribute something to the meal.”
Despite my assurances that this was not in any way necessary, he hastened away—only to reappear a short while later accompanied by a man carrying a large bundle in one hand, and two good-sized jars in the other. At the young man’s direction, the man placed the jars and bundle on the ground and, with a low nod of his head, hurried away.
“Please,” said the young stranger, indicating that we should open the bundle. Sarn obliged, pulling the knot in the cloth, which opened to reveal a veritable feast. There were spit-roasted fowl and fish of several kinds; fresh-baked bread, dried fruit, and sweet-meats; there was a stew of beans and pork in a sauce of savory herbs; and little cakes made with honey and almonds, and covered in tiny white seeds. There was enough for all of us, and more besides.
Pointing to the two jars, he said, “I did not know if you preferred ale, or wine—so I brought both.”
Sarn was delighted with the banquet, and grinned happily. “Perhaps we might listen to what he has to say,” he whispered, and began laying out the food.
I called Padraig to come join us, and bade the young man to sit down. “I am Duncan Murdosson of Banvar in Ca
ithness,” I said. “And this is Sarn Short-Finger my pilot, and Padraig ap Carradoc, my friend and advisor.”
The young man professed himself delighted to make our acquaintance and, bowing low, declared, “I am Lord Roupen, son of Prince Leo of Armenia.” He sat down on the wharf, removing his shoes and crossing his legs.
Padraig blessed the meal, then handed the bowls and cups around, and we began to eat. The food was excellent, and we were soon licking our fingers and smacking our lips. Our young friend, however, picked at his food as if he found it distasteful or unpalatable. He smiled wanly from time to time as Sarn, unable to help himself, exclaimed over the various dishes.
“Your generosity has won the favor of our pilot, it would seem,” I observed, pouring wine into the young lord’s cup. “But I cannot help noticing that you do not share his enthusiasm for our meal.”
“Alas, it is so,” he sighed. “Exquisite as it surely is, I cannot eat this fare.”
Sarn heard this, and asked, “Is it because you are a Jew?”
Roupen smiled sadly. “I am neither a Jew, nor a Muhammedan—despite what many believe. The Princes of Armenia have been Christians for a thousand years.” He glanced with pensive sadness at the food. “Alas, my lack of appetite is due to an unknown malady with which I have been inflicted since coming to this country.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“You are most kind. Still, I have been far more fortunate than my bodyguard and advisor—they took ill and died of it.” He went on to tell how he had come to Paris as part of a royal delegation hoping to establish formal relations with the Frankish king. There were fifteen men and women altogether, and all had succumbed to the mysterious illness, dying within a few days of one another. “I, too, was taken seriously ill, and was many weeks under the shadow of death. By God’s decree, I alone have survived.”
“That is unfortunate,” I replied, pouring wine into his cup. “I can well understand your desire to return home as swiftly as possible.” I handed him the cup, which he accepted, bowing his head in gratitude.
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