The Black Rood
Page 19
I could feel my very soul shrinking from the terrible responsibility his words had placed upon my unsuspecting shoulders.
The Templar gazed at me, his eyes watchful in the soft glow of the torches. “You spoke of plots and intrigues just now. Let me give you a word of advice: sooner trust an enemy than a friend.”
“Strange advice.”
“Yes,” the Templar allowed, “and the difficulty, you will find, is learning to tell the difference between them.”
NINETEEN
THUS, FROM THE very first day aboard ship I was plunged into the labyrinthine schemes of the intrigue-breeding East—and I had not yet set foot in the Holy Land. Over the next many days, I stewed and fretted over every word spoken to me that night. The knowledge festered in me, poisoning my days and nights with dread and the dull apprehension that whatever I did would damn me. For, to save one realm would be to ruin another.
Why had the Templar confided in me? Was it to claim me as an ally, and thus remove me from the young lord’s side? Or, did he wish to use my friendship with Roupen in some way? He had hinted as much, but I was at a loss to know what I might do. Try as I might, I could think of no way in which I might serve the common good.
What purpose would it achieve anyway? There was nothing the young lord could do about the planned attack just now, and the knowledge would only bring him misery and pain. Moreover, he might consider himself to be among enemies, and do something precipitous. By holding my tongue, I spared him that at least—although it was at considerable cost to myself.
It was not until we reached Cyprus that I had the opportunity to speak in complete freedom with Padraig about the delicate information the Templar commander had confided. “What are we to do, Padraig?” I demanded, all the woe rising in a blackflood of dread. “What are we to do?”
We had availed ourselves of the opportunity to walk through the pleasant port and market town of Limasol while the ships took on fresh water and supplies. “You know as well as I that we cannot just stand by and do nothing.”
“Have I said we should do nothing?”
“What then?” Before he could answer, I said, “Just remember that hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives are at risk whatever we do. Not to mention—”
Padraig held up his hands. “Peace, brother! Leave off your pissing and moaning a moment, and let me speak.”
“Speak then!”
“As it happens,” he began, “you are not the only one to have struggled with this problem. I also have bethought myself what can be done.”
“Yes, yes, get on with it, man!”
“Very well. It comes to this: we must seek out Prince Bohemond at first opportunity and demand that he repent of his decision to attack the Armenians.”
I stared at the priest with envy at his sublime innocence. “You are a wonder,” I told him. “Even knowing what you know of princes and their insatiable appetites for wealth and power, you still suggest this? Tell me, what do you think will happen?”
“I expect God will move in Bohemond’s heart and the young prince will recognize his error and turn aside before it is too late.”
“Your faith is remarkable, priest,” I told him, “if you believe the prince will even listen to a single word you say, let alone heed your counsel.”
“That will be his decision,” Padraig replied. “Our way remains clear: we must do what God would have us do.”
I glared at the monk and knew he meant just what he said; we would have to go before this Prince Bohemond and deliver the judgment: turn aside from your wicked ways, O Mighty Ruler! Repent and seek forgiveness, or suffer divine retribution for your sins.
Yes, and I could just about imagine the reception our call to repentance would receive.
“He will have us flayed alive for our impertinence, and our heads adorning pikes above the city gates,” I grumbled. “That is what will happen.”
“Perhaps,” granted Padraig with a shrug. “We cannot refuse what is right and just merely because it may prove painful to us.”
“It will be more than painful,” I countered, “be assured of that. But supposing—merely for the sake of our discussion—that we escape with our skins intact. What then?”
“Then, if he will not embrace the peace of God, we are free to take a warning to Roupen’s people.”
I stared at him. “And how did you come to that?”
“By reason of the fact that once we have declared our concerns before the prince, his actions will be open for all men to judge. He will repent, or he will not. If Bohemond proceeds with his nefarious plan, he does so in spite of our call to honor God’s peace. Thus, there will no longer remain any obstacle to a full and forthright profession of the prince’s intentions to any and all concerned.”
I turned this over in my mind for a time. It did seem the only way out of the dilemma Renaud had forced upon us. “Then it is agreed,” I decided, “we will make entreaty to the prince the moment we enter the city. But allow me to put the case to Bohemond. I will appeal to his honor, not his sin. If de Bracineaux is of the same mind in this matter—and I believe he is, for all his reasons may be his own—then he will support us in our attempt. If the three of us speak with one voice, we may have some chance of escaping the full force of the prince’s displeasure.”
“Well said,” concluded Padraig. “However it falls out with the prince, we must observe the utmost caution. For if Bohemond was to learn the son of his enemy was within his grasp, he would seize the boy and hold him to ransom, or worse. Roupen will have to be told what we intend. His life will be at risk the moment we set foot in Antioch. We cannot keep him in ignorance any longer.”
The next day, when the ships departed on the last leg of the journey to Outremer, we summoned the young lord onto the top deck where we strolled along the rail and watched the rugged brown hills of Cyprus dwindle into the wide, blue distance. When I was certain we would not be overheard by others going about their chores on deck, I informed Roupen of Prince Bohemond’s plans to attack the Armenian stronghold at Anazarbus.
“I thank you for telling me,” he said, sinking into himself. “I know now that you are my true friends. I will impose on you only so far as to see me safely off the ship. Once we make landfall at Saint Symeon, I will leave the company and continue home on my own.”
Although he spoke with a firm resolve, I could tell he was more than a little daunted by the prospect before him. He looked to Padraig as he finished, as if to plead the priest’s blessing on his plan.
“Your determination is understandable,” I suggested, “but there is another way. Come with us to Antioch.”
“Antioch!” he gasped. “Go among my enemies? I never will.”
“Calm yourself, and listen to me. Padraig and I plan to confront Bohemond and demand that he turn away from his foolish—” I caught Padraig’s glance, “foolish and sinful plan to attack your people. I have every confidence that Commander de Bracineaux will support us in this.
“Now then, if Bohemond listens to reason, you will have no need to fear him, and you can carry a good report home to your people.”
“And if he does not?” grumbled Roupen dubiously.
“Then you will hasten home with a warning, and we will help you. I cannot speak for the Templars, but I believe we can count on their aid as well.”
“Can we trust them?” he wondered.
“We can,” I told him. “Renaud knows who you are, and has known since you first came on board this ship. If he had intended ill for you, we would certainly have seen evidence of it by now. He is constrained by his priestly vows, yet I believe he is trying to help you in the only way he can.”
“So we proceed to Antioch—and hide beneath Prince Bohemond’s very nose,” Roupen said, little warming to the notion. “What then?”
“Once we have spoken to Bohemond, we will know how things stand,” Padraig said. “But understand, whatever comes of this, we will see you safely home.”
Needless to say, our ent
rance into Antioch a few days later was fraught and uncomfortable with the dread of discovery hanging over us as we passed through the enormous gates and along the palm-lined streets of the great city. How I wish it had been otherwise, for truly, Antioch is a very marvel of a city.
Rising from its rocky roots on the slow Orontes River, the splendid white walls soar upward to a height unequaled by any fortress I have ever seen. Magnificent in the golden sunrise, the city glows like amber. From the water gate at the river’s edge to the high citadel nested in the cradling rocks of the stronghold mound, it is a sight to stir the heart with awe.
With our escort of Templars—two hundred strong, on horseback, their red emblems ablaze on white surcoats, spears and helmets gleaming—we descended the low hills and crossed the Orontes valley to join the road leading to the city. We passed over the bridge and in through the central gate, entering the long wide, tree-lined road which formed the city’s main thoroughfare. Great houses of wealthy families lined the street, along with ancient basilicas, markets, and churches large and small.
I knew the Iron Lance had been discovered in one of these selfsame churches, and as we rode slowly along I kept turning my head this way and that in the forlorn hope that I might somehow see and recognize the place. If I found it, however, I never learned. For, although I saw several churches, none of them seemed in any way remarkable, and I felt slightly disappointed.
Nor did I have a chance to ask anyone about it, for no sooner had we arrived at the garrison in the lower city, but Prince Bohemond demanded audience of Commander Renaud. The higher-ranking Templars had been given quarters in the citadel itself, and Renaud, having arrived in the city, was evidently expected to go at once to join the prince.
I had confided to the commander my decision to bring a petition before the young prince at the soonest opportunity, and he assented—although he stopped short of assuring me of his complete agreement to the plan. When the Templar commander turned from the prince’s messenger, he said, “You are in luck, my friend. Bohemond deigns to receive me. I will take you and the priest along and we will have this out at once.”
“Now?” I said. “And with the dust of the road clinging to us?” To avoid the sticky, all-embracing heat of the day we had risen just after midnight and crossed the rough hills before sunrise. The dry days of summer had come, when the sun’s rays strike the earth like the blast of an oven, and the slightest footfall on the well-used roads raises a very pall of dust and clouds of biting flies. The farther inland we traveled, the hotter and dustier it became. With two hundred mounted Templars, the resulting clouds of gray grit made us appear as if we had spent days at the millstone grinding dry clods into powder.
“The prince arrived in the city four days ago, and is eager to begin planning his campaign,” the commander replied. “If we hope to dissuade him, this will be our best chance.” He summoned his sergeant. “Go now, take a moment to wash and refresh yourselves,” he said. “Gislebert will bring you to the palace when you are ready. I will await you there.”
The sergeant led us through a low door and out into a small courtyard surrounded by long ranks of old Roman-style barracks which were the Templars’ quarters. The yard was filled with soldiers welcoming their comrades and seeing them settled in their new surroundings. Gislebert brought us to a fresh-running fountain in the center of the yard. Roupen, grim and uneasy, stood stiff-legged, glumly watching Padraig and me as we splashed water on our faces from the stone basin.
“I will go with you,” he said.
“No,” I said, “that would not be prudent.”
“I cannot wait here alone. What if someone tells Bohemond I am here?”
“Commander Renaud has given his word,” I replied patiently. “You are safe in Antioch so long as you remain in the garrison. But you dare not show your face in the palace.”
“I am not afraid,” he announced carelessly. “I will go and speak to Bohemond myself.”
“You may have opportunity to speak to the prince,” I told him. “But before we abandon our plan, let us at least determine what manner of man this Prince Bohemond might be.”
“What am I to do while you are away?” he said unhappily, kicking at the base of the fountain.
“Wait patiently,” Padraig said, “and pray our appeal meets with sincere contrition and repentance.”
“And if it does not?” he snapped angrily. He could not help himself, nor could I blame him. Had I been in his place, I would have behaved in much the same way.
“We can cross but one bridge at a time,” I replied.
“Have faith,” Padraig offered gently. “Bind courage to your heart, and seek the Good Lord’s guiding hand. Trust him, and he will meet you in your need.”
Roupen accepted this with gloomy forbearance and said no more. When we had finished washing and made ourselves as presentable as possible, I turned to the young lord. “Remain calm, and do not stir from this place. We will return as soon as possible,” I promised, placing my hand on his shoulder. “God willing, we shall bring you a good report.”
With that, we were led from the courtyard and, following Gislebert, conducted along a dizzying array of narrow streets and stairways up into the heart of the old city to the high citadel and the palace where the Count of Antioch held court.
TWENTY
BOHEMOND’S PALACE PUT me in mind of a noble lady fallen into beggary. Undoubtedly, the royal residence had once been a very treasure, but years of indifference and neglect had marred its best features. Costly wooden panels were gouged and scratched; expensive silk rugs were worn threadbare, their fine colors faded and dulled by dirt and indifferent use; once-dazzling painted walls were dingy with the grime of smoke and oily food; polished floors were rutted and dull from too many rough feet, and too few washings. Several of the outer corridors contained filth from discarded slops and excrement which raised a nasty stink in the nose.
In all, the place breathed an atmosphere of forlorn decline and dilapidation. It made me sorry to see it sliding into decay, and I felt myself resenting the thoughtless lord who could allow this to happen. There are far worse things in this world, as well I know, but I glimpsed in the shabby surroundings a malignant disregard which I could not abide. How much of this rot should be laid at the feet of the current inhabitant, I could not tell. But that the prince inhabited these once-splendid halls and did nothing to relieve the distress so evident around him told me something of the man.
His appearance, however, all but dispelled the regrettable impression created by his surroundings. For Prince Bohemond II was a full-blooded, handsome man: broad-shouldered, long-limbed and tall, with a firm jaw and open, pleasant features. His hair was long and fair, and his beard short, cut into the distinctive forked shape favored by certain Frankish noblemen; his hands were big and strong, and always moving—as if restless when they did not clutch a sword.
Together with Commander Renaud, Padraig and I were conducted into the prince’s private chamber by one of his advisors, an old retainer from Antioch who regarded us with the world-weary air of one who has seen too much. The prince was standing over a long table on which a meal of roast fowl and plums had been spread. He had a knife in one hand, poised to strike, and a gold cup in the other.
Glancing up as the door opened to admit us, he exclaimed, “De Bracineaux! You are here! God be praised, man, it is good to see you. They told me you had arrived, and I could not believe my good fortune. I did not expect you for another week.”
Forgetting his rank and place, he leapt forward to meet us, stepping around the table in quick bounds. He seized the Templar by the arms, and embraced him like a brother. Then, seeing two strangers idling in Renaud’s wake, he cried, “And who is this with you? Come in, sirs! I give you good greeting. Join me, all of you. Food has been prepared, and I was just about to eat.”
“We would be delighted,” replied the Templar. Turning to us, he said, “May I present: Lord Duncan of Caithness, and Padraig, his chaplain.”
“We have only just arrived,” I answered.
“Good voyage?”
“Very good indeed, my lord,” I said. “The Mediterranean is smooth as a highway compared to the rough northern seas around Scotland.”
“I have heard of this Scotland, you know,” Prince Bohemond said. He turned away, indicating that we should follow him to the table. “They say the men and women there are painted blue.” Smiling, he glanced at Padraig and then at me. “But you are not painted blue, are you?”
“No, lord, although the Picti are known to daub themselves with woad when they do battle. It is an old custom, but still occasionally to be seen.”
He smiled again, showing neat white teeth. “I should like to see that.” He speared a roast fowl with his knife. “Come, my friends, eat!” To his manservant, he said, “Hemar! Pour some wine for these thirsty fellows. They have come all the way from Scotland.”
Following the prince’s invitation, we helped ourselves to the meat and fruit before us. Bohemond and Renaud fell to talking about the voyage and the settling of the troops, and I was glad to have the chance to observe the prince for a while. He was, I decided, somewhat younger than he first appeared. Although his bearing and speech were that of an older, more confident man, I believe he adopted this manner to disguise the fact of his green immaturity. He was little more than a child playing at a game for men, and I felt strangely sorry for him.
As our hosts talked, I considered how best to broach the subject of the prince’s plan to attack the Armenians. It would, I considered, be best for all of us if Bohemond would raise the issue himself, giving me a natural opportunity to speak. But he seemed more than content to talk idly of travel and the weather, and it occurred to me that perhaps the prince did not wish to say anything about his plans in front of Padraig and me. So, it was left to us, and if no one else touched on the matter soon, I decided I would raise the issue myself.