Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Languages darted at him in a wild melange. He saw men with crimped black hair and faces as dark as ebony wood. A water seller, the bulging skins of his trade hanging over the pack saddle of a tiny donkey. Native Christians with tawny complexions; fair-haired men from northern climes with ruddy faces; silk merchants from the land of Zin; and everyone clumped in their own groups yet mixing and mingling as they made their way through the streets and went about their business. Everywhere was color and light and life. Even the dull tones of the newcomers’ garments stood out because they were such a contrast to the bolder hues worn by the residents.

  Onri, familiar with the city, took the lead to guide them through the narrow streets. From the Gate of David, they had to turn eastward, skirting the palace complex and the great tower, bustling with soldiers and officials. They walked up a street bordered by a large rectangular reservoir and then past a massive building of many arches that Onri told them was the great hospital belonging to the Knights of Saint John. Shortly beyond that, another turn brought them onto a thoroughfare lined with stallholders doing a brisk business selling palms and small wooden crosses, rushwork prayer mats, and bundle upon bundle of candles, lamps, and oil. William had his own candles, brought from England and blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, but some of his men hurried to make purchases. William waited, although his jaws were tight with strain and he was trembling with the effort of containing the emotions churning inside him. Onri noticed and put his hand firmly on William’s shoulder. “Not long now,” he said. “Have courage.”

  Candles obtained, another fifty paces brought them to the paved area in front of the church of the Holy Sepulchre itself, with its embellished arches and its great double doorway. Even here, there was a market with yet more candle sellers. Swallowing, William handed Chazur’s reins to Eustace and took Harry’s cloak from its protective wrapping, his fingers clumsy. He was here, at the heart of Christendom, where Jesus had been crucified for their sins and had risen again in triumph to give man, unworthy as he was, eternal life and redemption. He was awed, unworthy, and overwhelmed. And although his burning goal had been to arrive at this place, he hesitated to enter the church and fulfill his undertaking, afraid that, even now, God would strike him down within sight of his goal, and he would deserve the blow.

  “All is well,” Onri said, his voice filled with quiet command. “Go and fulfill your duty.”

  William exhaled, walked forward to the hallowed portals, and entered the dark, incense-permeated church with its numerous chapels and altars. The next breath he drew was filled with the sanctity of God’s shrine.

  The rotunda was ablaze with the light of lamps and candles reflecting from jeweled and burnished surfaces. Checkered mosaic pavements gleamed in the lamplight like the inside of a seashell, and smoke rose in ethereal veils from burning chips of incense, unfolding the scent of heaven. Ripple upon ripple of heat shimmer from a thousand small flames blurred his vision to a sea of silver and gold, brimming with gems. He could hear voices chanting, and he was lost in the glorious susurration. Trembling, he tightened his fingers on the fabric of the cloak. “Sire,” he whispered. “Sire, I have done as you asked and fulfilled your vow.”

  At the center of the rotunda stood the sepulchre itself, housing the tomb where Christ had lain between his death and resurrection. The walls of the edicule were clad in panels of beaten silver, as was the cupola rising about the central part of the tomb. The roof of the cupola shone with segmented sheets of polished bronze, and upon its pinnacle stood a jeweled and gilded cross surmounted by a golden dove. William’s eyes stretched wide to take in these marvels, but the task surpassed him, and all he absorbed was an impression of glory beyond mortal comprehension and a wonder too great for his heart.

  The line of pilgrims in front of him shuffled forward, waiting their turn to enter the most sacred place in Christendom, accessed through a small chapel and then a dark archway into a chamber beyond that was a concentration of the outer chamber. The walls gleamed with mosaic, and the tomb itself where Christ’s linen-wrapped body had lain was overlaid by a slab of polished marble.

  Dropping to his knees, William laid the cloak upon it, entreating God and Jesus Christ to have mercy on Harry’s soul. “He transgressed against you but deeply regretted it, and he desires to atone for his sins, as I do for mine. He was a good man and would have proven himself had he lived. I implore you to forgive his sins and accept him into your presence and have mercy on his soul, and on mine, if it pleases you.” William swallowed against the tight, hard knot in his throat and focused his attention on the head of the slab where Jesus’s own head had lain. Tears streamed down his face, and the knot unraveled, and he sobbed for the loss of his lord and the ending of his own young manhood. All the remorse, all the guilt and sorrow, all the stored-up bitterness flowed from him as he relinquished his burden. Part of the deluge was gratitude and awe that he should be in this place and in a position to beg God’s mercy for Harry and for himself, although he had no expectation of the latter.

  At last, the storm passed through him. Exhausted, wrung out, he staggered from the tomb and took the cloak to the Stone of Unction, where Jesus had been prepared for his burial. William spread the cloak upon the stone to absorb the spiritual essence of Christ’s precious blood and bowed his head in further, quieter prayer.

  One by one, his men joined him after they had taken their turn to visit the sepulchre, say their prayers, and make their peace. A dark-clad Augustinian monk arrived to speak with them, and William told him who they were and why they were here.

  “This is the cloak of an earthly king,” William said, “the eldest son of King Henry of England, and one who, in dying, asked nothing but God’s mercy on his soul. Had he not passed from this earth, then he would have come in person to beg mercy for his soul. He was not spared to do so, and I have continued the task, undeserving though I am.”

  The monk listened carefully before going to fetch a more senior associate, who questioned William closely about the Young King and then, with solemn respect, took the cloak and folded it carefully.

  “It is yours to do with as you will,” William said, “but I ask you to treat it with proper reverence and ceremony. I was entrusted with its keeping on my young lord’s deathbed, and it has been soaked in prayers and blessings from the churches throughout the long miles of our journey. All I ask is that you give me the cross from the breast and a small piece from the hem, so that I may return it as proof to his father.”

  “It shall be done, I promise you,” the monk said gravely. “And we shall accord the cloak a place of reverence.” He bowed to William and his men and departed into another part of the church. William suppressed the urge to follow him and snatch the cloak back into his own keeping. Having been its custodian through so many dangers and experiences, it was like giving up a part of himself, and it was his final physical connection to Harry.

  Another monk guided William and his men to the great pilgrim hospital adjoining the sepulchre, which they had seen on their way to the church. Administered by the brothers of the Knights Hospitaller, it was not only an infirmary for the sick but provided temporary refuge and shelter for weary pilgrims. Augustine and Onri parted company with the group, for they had to report to their own quarters on the Temple Mount; however, they promised to return to make an accounting of the moneys William had lodged with the order and settle the costs of the journey. The Templars had also agreed to house the party’s horses in their extensive stable complex and to find William and his companions a house to rent for the duration of their stay in Jerusalem.

  While arranging his pallet in the pilgrims’ hostel and tidying his baggage, William was still reeling—poured out to the dregs, like an empty pitcher waiting to be replenished. The others were similarly affected. No one spoke of their experience, but each man went away to be silent, to pray, and to reflect on his own. William felt as though a layer had been stripped from his skin so th
at everything was sensitive and keen—or perhaps new. The morning’s dawn had been a moment of anticipation before a fresh start. Now, in the late afternoon, with the sun setting and the candles gleaming in the niches of the hostel walls, he and his companions had completed their walk through fire and were forever changed.

  * * *

  William and his men spent the next several days sleeping, eating, recuperating, and visiting the holy places of Jerusalem. They returned to the sepulchre and spent time in prayer and contemplation at the numerous altars within the church until they were familiar with all of them. The Chapel of Adam, the Prison of Christ. Calvary, the Altar of the Holy Blood, where Christ’s blood had flowed through a rift in the rock and which was now commemorated by a hollow in the rock over which a lamp was kept perpetually alight. The chapel of Mary of the Sorrow and the place where Jesus ascended to heaven. William prayed for hours at all of them and presented all the small gifts and items he had been asked to bring to the sepulchre by friends, family, and well-wishers.

  Exploring the various streets and markets that made up the quarters of the Holy City, they bought food in Malquisnet Street, where all the pilgrims congregated to eat. Vulgarly known as the Street of Bad Cookery, some of the dishes on offer deserved that reputation, but others excelled. William found a stall that sold bread as thick as the palm of his hand, fragrant and hot, piled with a spicy mutton and raisin stew. Another boasted fresh fish, seared on a hot griddle, scattered with herbs and drizzled with lemon juice. The knights bought lengths of chopped sugarcane and chewed them to extract the sweetness as they walked and marveled at all manner of exotic fruits and spices, including the elongated, yellow fruits of paradise with their creamy, sweet centers. Fare from home was available too, cooked by settlers catering to the pilgrim palate, and Ancel and Eustace often ate at a stall where the Norman proprietors cooked proper pottages and hearty pork and bacon stews.

  Everyone visited a bathhouse on the second day in order to thoroughly cleanse and prepare themselves for entering noble society. Any dreams harbored of accommodating lady bath attendants such as those in Southwark and Rome were swiftly dissipated by the muscular men, towels knotted at their waists, who scrubbed and pummelled William and his knights until their flesh was scoured and glowing. The clothes they had worn for travel were picked over, and those worth keeping were laundered and repaired; the worst were turned into rags, and the men bought new garments more suited to their environment. Onri was their guide, showing them the best stalls to purchase goods and pointing out those that were better avoided.

  Walking with Onri, William passed a group of thin-legged, dark-haired children playing a ball game and yelling to each other, and he smiled. That at least was a familiar sight in every place he had ever been. A beggar was curled against the wall of a street corner, his eyes sunken and cheekbones sharp. His left leg ended at the knee, and his hose were tied around the stump, crusted with blood and stains. Suppressing a shudder, William dropped a coin into his cracked wooden bowl. Beggars too were a ubiquitous sight in cities. The man thanked him in the German tongue. William had quickly discovered that, while the court spoke French, the language of the settlers ranged far and wide.

  Two women accompanied by their maids passed the men near the bathhouse. The former, clad in numerous layers of gossamer silk, shot the knights bold glances, whispering behind their hands. William heard an exchange of suggestive laughter, and his senses were assaulted by a waft of exotic perfume.

  Onri quickened his pace, his complexion flushing. “The Holy City is not always holy,” he muttered. “You will find many temptations here.”

  William thought that he might just be interested in those temptations. He had already discovered the sinful joy of the sticky, rose-flavored sweetmeats that melted on the tongue and could be bought from a little stall on Malquisnet Street and was pondering how to bring a supply back with him to England. He would not mind unwrapping those women too. However, glancing at Onri’s set expression, he maintained a grave countenance, since he knew he was supposed to be serious and prayerful. And, indeed, it was miraculous that he was walking where Christ had once walked, that he was at the center of the Bible stories he had learned sitting at the priest’s feet as a child.

  “Have you decided how long you intend to stay?” Onri asked on the fifth morning, when William was checking up on Chazur and the other horses in the stables beneath the Temple Mount. He had been astonished at the sheer size of the underground complex—it was said that it could hold three thousand horses when full, and the stalls stretched forever under the vaulted roof. There were nowhere near that many stabled here, even given the fact that each Templar knight was supposed to have three mounts; the place was three-quarters empty. There were dwellings here for the grooms and alcoves that were used for storing fodder and tack.

  “I am not certain,” William replied, “but at least until we have celebrated Easter at the sepulchre. We need to replenish our resources, and I have to seek audience with King Baldwin and deliver the letters from King Henry.”

  “I have spoken to my superiors, and there is a dwelling they are willing to rent to you and your men for the duration of your stay—or until you find other accommodation to suit. We can arrange a price that will not beggar you and that you can repay in part in training and horse management while you are here.”

  William raised his brows, and Onri gave a half smile. “Your reputation goes before you. I expect your services will be greatly in demand. I can show you the house now if you wish.”

  “Yes, indeed,” William said with alacrity.

  Giving Chazur a final pat, he left with Onri to walk a short distance from the Templar gate to some dwelling houses on the western edge of the Mount. At the second door along, Onri produced a key. Etched into the stonework at the side of the door was a shield carved with a large letter T.

  “This is our mark,” Onri said. “Elsewhere, you will see others that belong to the Hospitallers and the Convent of Saint Anne. These are used by Templar associates and secular knights in need of lodging at the grand master’s discretion.” He admitted William to a room smelling of dusty stone, with a ribbed, barrel-vaulted ceiling. A small fire pit occupied the center of the room—enough for cooking and keeping warm if the night turned cold. There were hooks in the wall for making partitions between living and sleeping quarters. Several niches and shelves cut into the rock afforded space for belongings and lamps. In the corner, a trapdoor opened on steps down to an underground storage room, with two more sleeping spaces rather like tomb shelves at the side of the walls. William declined to inspect it beyond a cursory glance. He was wary of cellars after Constantinople. “It is small for all of you,” Onri said, “but it is somewhere to sleep and shelter. Do you think this will suit your needs?”

  William considered the room, hands on hips. After the perils of their journey, this small, cavern-like building in the holiest city on earth was almost a palace. “It will indeed, and I thank you for the offer.”

  “There is no need, since it is to our mutual benefit.” Onri went to a bench carved into a side wall and sat down, folding his arms. Someone had left a brass lamp on the shelf, and the hanging chain twinkled in the light from the half-open door. “I have learned much since last I saw you. There are things you should know before you attend the king.”

  William eyed him sharply.

  “King Baldwin’s condition continues to deteriorate, and no one knows how much longer he can continue to rule,” Onri explained. “His will is strong, but his body is failing. He is much worse than when I went to England, and I am shocked to see the change in him. He can barely use his hands and feet at all now.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” William knew that King Baldwin suffered from leprosy but was uncertain what he would find when he did enter his presence.

  “The succession must be decided, and the High Court has been convened to discuss the matter.” Onri looked sidelo
ng at William. “That was why Guy de Lusignan and his entourage were on the road. The crown of Jerusalem is chosen, not inherited, although it tends to stay within the ruling family, and de Lusignan has been the acting regent until now.”

  William remembered the small boy he had seen peeping out from the curtains of the litter. That was indeed a precarious future for the kingdom of Jerusalem. Even more so with Guy steering the ship. “Until now?” he repeated.

  “The court is to discuss whether he should continue as regent,” Onri said. “Many oppose him, and of late, the king has bent his ear to their complaints.”

  William was not surprised. His only astonishment was that anyone would think de Lusignan capable of ruling in the first place. Although perhaps, as an unknown, his charm had initially masked his shortcomings.

  “The king wished to retire to the coast for the sake of his health and asked de Lusignan to exchange his lands in Tire for estates in Jerusalem,” Onri said. “But as well as having fresh sea breezes, Tire is also extremely wealthy. De Lusignan would rather keep his lands than please the king. Many think him arrogant and foolish. The barons complain that de Lusignan is untrustworthy, that he has poor judgment politically and in battle. There have been incidents that do not instill confidence.”

  “He is a strong fighter,” William replied. “Some would say he is courageous. I would say he has the blood lust of a lion and his judgment is flawed. He does not think of the consequences of his actions, or if he does, then he only sees the ground in front of him, not the horizon. And the mistakes are never his own fault.”