Ancel scowled but did not argue, and William left, entering the crowded maze of buildings. As a boy, he had occasionally visited the Templar complex when his father was working at the Exchequer. He had even attended services here, but the church had vastly outgrown its original foundation, and its buildings were now cramped together as though squeezed by a giant hand. A new church was being built on land near the river just over half a mile away but was not yet ready for consecration.
William paused beside a small pink marble fountain and dipped the chained cup to take a drink. A horse was being shod at the smithy, and a hammer rang out in solid, rhythmic strokes that beat inside his skull. Making horseshoes was one of the first adult skills he had learned, although he had been a child at the time. His muscles still held the memory of the effort it had taken, and he could recall the pride in his father’s eyes when he struck true and the stinging red of the sparks on his arms.
With an abrupt motion, he replaced the cup and approached a doorway where two Templar knights stood guard.
“I am William the Marshal, formerly in the service of the Young King, God rest his soul. I have urgent business with Aimery de Saint Maur.”
“Brother Aimery is at his devotions,” one replied, eyeing him with speculation. “Wait for him in the warming room, and we will send a squire to tell him you are here.”
William nodded his thanks and, swallowing his desperation, went where they directed. He could not bear to wait, yet he must. Sitting down on a bench, he clasped his hands and bent his head, feeling shivery and sick. These last few weeks had been like trying to keep everything together in a threadbare sack where holes kept appearing, and he knew it was just a matter of time until his whole life fell out, ruined, on the floor, leaving him holding an insubstantial rag that had once been his honor.
“Gwim?”
He looked up into the twinkling blue eyes of Aimery de Saint Maur, and the holes in the sack increased in size as he heard that name from his childhood. No one ever called him Gwim except for Ancel and Aimery. The Templar’s ruddy complexion glowed with cheerful good nature, and although his brown hair was cropped and tidy, it still had that irrepressible boyhood curl. He wore the white robe of the order, a red cross stitched over his heart, and gripped a decorated staff in his right hand.
“What are you doing here? Although you are very welcome and it is good to see you!” The smile of greeting died on Aimery’s lips and his gaze filled with compassion and concern. “We heard the terrible news about the king’s son. What a tragedy. That poor young man and his parents. We have prayed daily for his soul—it must be a terrible grief to you. Were you with him?”
“Yes…” William swallowed. “Yes, I was.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “Aimery…I have come to…” He paused to steady himself. “I need your counsel. You have been my best and truest friend since we were young.”
“Of course.” Aimery immediately leaned his staff against the wall and sat down. “You know I will help if I can.”
“Well then…” William squeezed his eyes shut. “It is all my fault.” He forced his words through the constriction in his chest. “I should have found a way to stop him from robbing the shrine at Rocamadour. I broke my sacred oath to keep him safe, and now Harry is dead and damned, as am I and those I led into damnation through my orders. How will God ever forgive us for what we did?”
Full of consternation, Aimery set his arm around William’s shoulders. “Come now, God always forgives the penitent sinner. Many have committed far worse than you and found salvation. There is always hope.”
“I am not sure there is,” William said wretchedly. “I might as well die in battle and let God do with me as he wills.” The holes in the sack merged into one and all the things he had been holding back—the vile, murky layers like the mud and detritus at the bottom of a river—came pouring out in an overwhelming deluge of grief, remorse, and shame.
Aimery held him fast, gripping him tightly, rocking him a little as he wept. “Hush now, Gwim,” he said after a while. “It is fitting to grieve, but it is done. God created you for a purpose and you should look up and follow it with vigor. You are my friend and an honorable soul, whatever has happened. Do not think less of yourself.” He shook William, and his voice grew firm with authority. “You have too much to accomplish on your path to wallow in self-recrimination. Do you hear me?”
William drew a shuddering breath and cuffed his face. “I want you to hear my confession, Aimery. That is why I am here, so that you will know everything—and then perhaps you will not feel the same as you do now.”
Aimery was quiet for a moment, patting William’s shoulder, and then he said tenderly, “Nothing will change, because I know your heart and I am not that easily driven away. I shall most certainly hear your confession if that is what you wish, although it is for God to receive. But I am glad you have come to me for succor.” He rose and extended his hand. “Come, we will go and pray together.”
William rose unsteadily to his feet. He still felt ashamed and unworthy, but they enabled him to move forward rather than remain stuck in a terrible limbo.
* * *
Later, Aimery joined William and his men to eat in the visitors’ guest house on the edge of the crowded Templar precincts.
He clapped Ancel heartily between the shoulder blades as they took their seats around a scrubbed trestle table. “William’s little brother, but not so little now,” he said with a grin. “A fully fledged knight and your own man. When last we met, you were barely a squire.”
Ancel puffed out his chest and smiled, although the expression did not reach his eyes. “I have learned a great deal.” He shot a glance at William. “More than I ever imagined before I left England. Now here I am, bound for Jerusalem.”
The food was simple but plentiful—fresh loaves, a large pot of fish stew, and wine of Bordeaux to wash it down. Aimery blessed and broke the bread, and everyone set to with a will. William had had no appetite for weeks but was now ravenous with a need to fill the tender hollow inside him that had been scoured by his recent outpouring and confession.
“You were gone a long time,” Ancel remarked to William as they ate. He gazed curiously between him and Aimery. “We wondered where you were.”
“We had much to discuss,” Aimery replied smoothly, sparing a grateful William the need to reply. “A pilgrimage is a serious undertaking, and you have a sacred mission to fulfill. Whichever route you take involves peril. You must gather as much knowledge as you can before setting out. You will need funds, places to stay, and guidance on your road.” Dipping his bread in his stew, Aimery turned to William. “I assume you are not going by sea?”
William grimaced. He harbored a deep aversion to sea crossings. Apart from always being sick, the awareness that a flimsy layer of wood, the skill of the crew, and God’s grace were all that lay between him and fathoms of dark water terrified him. Even crossing from Normandy to England on a calm summer’s day was an ordeal. “Only where we must. We shall go by way of Rome. I have letters for the papal court. We shall cross to Durazzo at Brindisi and then take the road to Constantinople.”
Aimery looked sharply at William. “That is a most difficult and dangerous route.”
“Perhaps, but the hardship will nourish our souls,” William said stubbornly. “My young lord often spoke of the wonders of Constantinople, and he desired to see it just as his mother did on her own pilgrimage when she was queen of France. I shall honor his wish and pray to the Virgin in the great church there.”
Aimery frowned at first but eventually nodded, although he was clearly concerned. “Ever since Emperor Manuel died, there has been great hostility to Christians who are not of the Greek Church. Last year the Pisan and Genoan merchants in the city were massacred, as well as many others not of the Greek religion. I have heard that attempts are now being made to conciliate, and it may be that you c
an foster peace and test the lie of the land, but you should be on your guard.”
“I intend to be,” William said and folded his arms across his chest. Nothing would change his mind, for it was a dead man’s wish, and the more difficult the path, the better for his soul.
Aimery rubbed his chin. “I shall arrange letters of commendation to present at the Templar preceptories along the way and other refuges where pilgrims are sheltered and made welcome.” He drew a considering breath. “We have two worthy brothers here who are traveling to Jerusalem and who would gladly accompany you and offer protection. I can vouch for their abilities; indeed, if they were with you, I would worry a great deal less about your survival.” He gave William a meaningful look. “It is a Templar’s foremost duty to protect pilgrims, and it will reassure me to know you are traveling in their company. I would see you return from your mission so that we may share company on many more occasions.”
“I would hope for that too,” William said.
“Then I shall send for them when we have finished our meal,” Aimery replied, and touched the red cross over his heart.
* * *
Augustine de Labaro was a personable young knight, tall and lithe, with flashing, dark eyes and a white grin. He was familiar with the roads between England and Rome, for he often conducted business between the Templars and the papal court.
“Augustine will organize the hostels and supplies for you as far as Rome,” Aimery said, “and deal with all fiscal matters arising.”
Augustine inclined his head. “It is safer to travel in a group, and I shall be glad to accompany yours. Messire Marshal, your reputation in the tourneys and on the battlefield is legendary.”
William did not want to think about his reputation. What good was glory if it was corrupted? “That part of my life is over,” he replied, although he bowed a courteous acknowledgment. “My duty is to seek absolution for my young lord and lay his cloak on our redeemer’s tomb.”
“Amen,” Aimery said, “but your skills will still stand you in good stead on the road and in Outremer itself.”
The second Templar was an older man, wide in the body, powerful, with thick, silver hair cut short and bristling like a terrier’s. Onri de Civray knew Jerusalem well and was returning there after a mission to England. His attitude was solid, pragmatic, and composed. “I shall gladly do what I can to help.” He fixed each man in turn with a shrewd stare. “Brother Augustine is your man for the letters of safe conduct and such, but you will find me competent in dealing with practicalities on the road. We are both well traveled and know our business.”
William received the impression that Onri de Civray was assessing them and deciding whether they too knew their business or were going to be a liability.
The older Templar stretched out his legs and accepted a cup of wine. “It is two years since I was last in Outremer, but I will tell you what I know, although the situation changes from day to day.”
William’s eyes were heavy; he was tired but no longer sick and desperate. Tonight, he would sleep well but was still able to absorb what Onri was telling them. He already knew that Baldwin the young King of Jerusalem was suffering from leprosy, although it had not prevented him from ruling effectively, and he had won several victories against the Saracens. However, the news emerging from Jerusalem was that his health was failing and he could no longer pursue with vigor the course required of a king in a beset territory.
“King Baldwin must name his successor,” Onri said, “although for now he still holds the reins of power—more by iron will than anything else.”
“Who might he choose?” William asked as Ancel refilled their cups.
“Well, that is the difficulty,” Onri said. “Many factions are quarrelling over the succession, and there is no one with sufficient strength to unite the kingdom. I tell you this so you will know what you face when you get there. If you arrive bearing letters from King Henry, then all factions will put their attention on you, and it is well to be prepared before you walk into a lions’ den.”
Onri paused to drink from his refreshed cup and then settled once again into his stride. “Raymond of Tripoli is a strong and steady pair of hands—he acted as regent during King Baldwin’s minority, but he has many enemies. The d’Ibelin brothers, Baudouin and Balian, are his staunch allies, as is Bohemond, Prince of Antioch. They are the best hope for stability in the kingdom, but they face many obstacles. King Baldwin’s heir is his sister Sybilla’s son, but he is still a small child and his father died before he was born. His mother has married again, to a Poitevan newcomer, Guy de Lusignan. As the child’s stepfather, he is potentially the consort and guardian of the future ruler of Jerusalem, but there is no love lost between him and Raymond of Tripoli.”
At the mention of Guy de Lusignan, William stiffened. “I knew de Lusignan had gone to Outremer, but I had not realized he had done so well for himself.”
“You know him?” Onri sent a keen look in William’s direction and also glanced at Ancel, who was sitting upright.
“De Lusignan and his accursed family murdered my uncle Patrick in front of my eyes when I was a young knight,” William said, with remembered anger and pain. “Guy speared him in the back while he was unarmed. The Lusignans took me prisoner at that battle and treated me worse than a dog. If Queen Alienor had not intervened and paid my ransom, they would have killed me. Guy went to Outremer after he was banished by King Henry, but from what you tell me, he seems to have landed on his feet.”
“Indeed he has,” Onri said, “and you had best be careful, because in the kingdom of Jerusalem, he is a powerful man on the road to the throne and has even more powerful allies in Reynald of Châtillon, Lord of Kerak, and Heraclius, the patriarch of Jerusalem.”
William was dismayed. He had expected never to see Guy de Lusignan again, and now it appeared that their paths were likely to cross in Jerusalem, where Guy was in a position to do him great harm should he choose.
“The power lies with his wife, Sybilla,” Onri continued. “She is the player on the chessboard. De Lusignan is both her pawn and her knight; he does her bidding, and that does not sit well with many.” Onri looked around the gathering. “In Outremer, the male lines often fail in the heat, and it is the girl babies and the women who survive and spin their policies behind closed doors.” A note of disapproval entered his voice. “Even the patriarch has a concubine of such influence that she is known as ‘Madame la Patriarchess.’”
William was not surprised. Great churchmen often had mistresses, and he knew how the politics of the bedchamber played their part in ruling countries. “And the Templars and Hospitallers? Who do they support?”
Onri withdrew a little. “They stand on neutral ground. There is a widespread hope that a king of Christendom will journey to rule the throne of Jerusalem in due course.”
William raised his brows. King Henry was closely related to the royal house of Jerusalem; his grandsire had once sat on the throne and the young leper king was his kin. But he could not envisage Henry abandoning his many political concerns at home to travel there, even if he had sworn to take the cross. He did not speak. Onri had been here for two years and must know the lie of the land.
William realized he had much to think about and a great deal more to learn as they prepared for their journey.
6
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
William woke from his doze to a bright, sun-flooded morning. He had made his confession to his chaplain, Roger, earlier and been shriven, lest this day should be his last, although he felt in his heart that it was not time for God to take him yet. The pain came and went, and for the moment, it was bearable. They gave him poppy in syrup to dull the sharpest pangs, but he insisted on small amounts, for he wanted to balance his critical faculties against his discomfort. How long since he sent Jean for the shrouds? He was not sure; his sense of time had detached from its anchor and swe
pt him far out on an undulating sea where night and day, sea and shore and horizon blended as one.
The door opened, and his eldest son entered, ushering five children before him. The look he sent his father held question and concern but also a sparkle of amusement. “How are you today, my father?” Will inquired. “Well enough to receive visitors?”
William found a smile. He had no stamina and knew he would tire soon, but he was comfortable enough and ready for a little diversion. “Come.” He beckoned to the group of wide-eyed youngsters. “Let me see you.”
The children came to kneel at his bedside. His own two youngest, Ancel, aged twelve, and Joanna, ten, and with them his three grandchildren belonging to his eldest daughter, Mahelt: Roger was twelve, like Ancel, Hugh was nine, and their little sister, Isabel, was six. The future of his dynasty was spreading its branches like a great oak tree, and he was sad that he would not live to see these fine acorns become adults.
Will gestured for them to stand up. “They have some entertainment for your chamber since you cannot join us in the hall,” he said.
“I would welcome that.” William’s heart warmed. Amid all the concern for his spiritual well-being, he was still ready to take pleasure in brief snatches of the world.
The children linked hands and performed a carole dance, Hugh singing the words in a pure, clear voice that brought a lump to William’s throat.
Each child then performed a small turn. Roger and Ancel put on a wrestling display, not all of which William could see from the bed as they rolled around on the floor but which they greatly enjoyed, emerging red and sweating from their endeavors. Hugh, more studious, read a psalm from the book he had brought with him, and the girls performed another dance that involved much waving about of silk ribbons. By the time they had finished, William had dozed off again. Through his sleep, he was aware of whispered conversations, a soft tinkle, a fairy touch on his hand, and the rumble of Will’s voice telling the children that their father and grandfather was tired but would speak to them later and had enjoyed their entertainments greatly.
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