Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “And what of the king?”

  “You have seen the state of the king,” Onri said somberly. “Without a miracle, his days are numbered, and who then will step up to the throne?”

  Two men approached down the walkway between the stalls, deep in conversation, and Onri immediately knelt and bowed his head. William swiftly and prudently followed his example.

  The leading Templar bade them rise and signed the cross over them.

  “Grand Master, my lord seneschal, this is the knight I mentioned to you,” Onri said. “This is William the Marshal from England, who served King Henry’s son.”

  The knight who had signed the cross and whom Onri had addressed as grand master was gray bearded and elderly but still tall and upright. He had intelligent, dark eyes, fierce and haughty, and a long, thin nose with a patrician bump in the middle. Arnold de Torroja was a Spanish Templar who had worn the mantle of grand master of the order for a little over two years. His companion, the seneschal, Gerard de Ridefort, was younger, with gray-salted brown hair and heavy brows shadowing narrow, gray eyes.

  “Your reputation goes before you, messire Marshal,” Grand Master de Torroja said in a firm, resonant voice without a quiver of age.

  William inclined his head. “So I understand, my lords, although I hope to prove myself as I stand and not through the tales of others.”

  De Torroja’s lips curved without warmth. “I am sure you will do so. Brother Onri and Brother Augustine speak well of you, but as you say, you are here to prove yourself in person, not by reputations bestowed by others. We shall talk again.” The two senior Templars moved on to look at some new horses that had just arrived.

  William exchanged glances with Onri. “I appear to be on trial,” he said ruefully.

  “Because no one knows your mettle yet, and they have only heard tales about you from those who are not your friends. If the grand master wishes to speak further with you, it can only be to the good. With all this talk of a deputation to France and England, you might prove very useful.”

  William gave a humorless smile. “I suppose I can count that as Fortune’s favor.”

  Onri scratched his mount’s neck. “Men of your caliber are always welcome in our order…if they have the inclination to take vows.”

  William wiped his hands on a linen rag. “I know you would not say such words unless you considered me worthy, but I am not ready for such an undertaking. I have too many sins to atone for and I have a promise to keep to the king and queen of England before I am free to consider my future.”

  “But you will keep it for later perhaps?” Onri gave him a keen look. “Do not dismiss it out of hand.”

  * * *

  The court assembly at Compline was informal. Although the king had bidden him attend, William, as a newcomer, was of no great consequence, and thus, he sat with lesser men away from the dais. However, it was a chance to meet and talk with others, and William made the most of the opportunity by being amenable and gregarious.

  Later, once the meal had finished and men gathered to talk in groups, William made his way into the presence of Bohemond, Lord of Antioch, who stood talking to the barons Raymond of Tripoli and Badouin, Lord of Ramlah, all of whom had been part of the peacock fan surrounding Baldwin that afternoon.

  King Baldwin himself sat over a chessboard in a window embrasure with his sister Sybilla, but the moves were being played out in vigorous, low-voiced conversation rather than with the gaming pieces, the countess making her point with rapid gestures of her elegant fingers.

  Bohemond regarded William with a shrewd eye and curiosity, as if contemplating some new type of creature that had washed up on his personal beach. “I was sorry to hear of the loss of my cousin—truly sorry. Even though I did not know him personally, we still heard of him in Outremer. News reaches us slowly here and through many more filters, but it always arrives eventually—even if it is sometimes changed.” He spoke with a slight speech impediment. It had earned him the name of Bohemond the Stutterer in certain circles, although never to his face. He was Queen Alienor’s cousin, and there was a look of Harry about his eyes and his jawline, edged by a dark blond beard.

  “It was a great loss, sire.”

  “And you come on pilgrimage on his behalf?”

  “And my own, sire, to atone for our sins.”

  Bohemond stroked his chin. “We saw you speaking with the king today. You acquitted yourself well in a difficult situation.”

  “I merely gave an honest accounting, sire.”

  “Well, that is more than most men do,” said Raymond of Tripoli darkly.

  “How fares King Henry himself?” Bohemond inquired. “We know he is sworn to take the cross. Do you think he will find his way to Jerusalem? For certain we could use his skills.”

  William was rescued from answering by a sudden flurry at the end of the room as Guy de Lusignan entered, attended by several of Sybilla’s knights. The atmosphere changed immediately, and men drew into themselves.

  “Ah,” said Bohemond lightly, “our illustrious consort and regent of the kingdom. Is he not magnificent?” He looked at William with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “A veritable lion, no?”

  William said nothing. He was not going to voice an opinion until he better knew these men and the dynamics of the court.

  Guy made an elaborate, almost sarcastic flourish to Bohemond and his group, who returned the acknowledgment with pointed courtesy. Guy’s gaze fixed on William and noted the company he was keeping, and then he sauntered over to his wife in the embrasure and stood behind her, placing his hands possessively on her shoulders before leaning around to kiss her cheek, his gesture both proprietorial and affectionate, sending a message to all present of their union, their marital harmony, and his masculine ownership.

  She raised her hand to take his in reciprocation and smiled up at him before focusing again on her game.

  William observed the interplay with interest.

  “It would seem that the Count of Jaffa and his wife are keen to demonstrate their affection for each other this evening,” Bohemond said.

  Raymond of Tripoli snorted in contempt. “Given the circumstances, what do you expect?”

  William looked between the men. Although standing with them, he was an outsider of lesser rank, and asking what circumstances would be inappropriate.

  “How well did you know Guy de Lusignan when you were in Poitou?” Bohemond inquired.

  “I was his family’s hostage for a few weeks after they murdered my uncle and took me prisoner,” William replied. “I had to share his company, but it was not from choice.”

  Bohemond looked thoughtful. “We should talk more. We mean you well, but I can see you are a prudent man, and that is all to the good in Outremer.” Removing a gold ring from his little finger, he presented it to William. “Come to my dwelling before I return to Antioch. I may have a project for you or patronage I can send your way.”

  William bowed and accepted the ring with gratitude, taking it as a mark of approval, if not yet patronage. It was always useful to have several irons in the forge, as he had learned from his time at the Angevin court. Raymond of Tripoli gave him a meaningful nod too, although clearly reserving his judgment.

  The Countess of Jaffa rose from the chessboard and Guy took her place. William noted the move with interest. In giving up her place, Sybilla was demonstrating that she and her husband were a true partnership and that she trusted him, even if no one else did. Standing at his back, she looked around at the courtiers, much as Guy had done, her expression defiant and imperious. William well recognized the language of power and that this woman possessed it. She was no cipher, and he suspected that Guy was the one who must do her bidding, not the other way around.

  A sudden commotion at the hall door heralded the arrival of a messenger, who was brought directly to the king. He stank of hot horse, and his
garments were smothered in dust.

  “Sire!” The man fell to his knees. “Saladin has come with his host and laid siege to Kerak. The lord Reynald bids you come to his aid as swiftly as you may.” He presented Baldwin with a sealed letter.

  A ripple of consternation spread through the room as the news carried outward from the embrasure.

  Baldwin gestured for the messenger to stand up. “When did you set out?”

  “A day and a half since, sire. I have changed horses and not stopped to sleep.”

  “Go and refresh yourself and be ready to ride again as soon as you have rested.”

  Dismissing the messenger, Baldwin stood up and used the higher level of the embrasure as a platform from which to address the stunned court. “Saladin has dared to launch an attack on Kerak in the middle of the nuptial celebrations of my dear sister Isabella to the Lord of Toron!” His voice rang out firm and strong despite his ailing body. “If he prevails, he will capture both a vital fortress and many important members of our court. We must go to Kerak’s aid as soon as we can muster, and we must strike hard. Light the beacons; tell them we are coming.”

  Amid a babble of approbation and concern, Baldwin sent men running to give the order.

  “I need a list of every fighting man who has the wherewithal to ride to Kerak,” he continued. “Let the injured or sick give up their armor and horses to sound men who can take their place and let it be done without delay.”

  The news about Kerak was alarming, but William’s anticipation surged at an opportunity to prove himself.

  “Who is to lead the army, sire?” demanded Badouin of Ramlah, stepping forward from their group, challenge ringing in his voice.

  “I think that is already decided, my lord.” Guy de Lusignan spoke up before Baldwin could answer. “As the king’s acknowledged regent, it is my prerogative.”

  “But the very reason so many of us are gathered at court now is to discuss your competency as regent and your ability as a battle leader,” Badouin retorted, his voice oozing contempt. “It is not decided at all, my lord. How many here will follow you into an encounter with Saladin?”

  Guy jutted his jaw. “I think you will find that it is treason, my lord, to refuse.”

  Baldwin raised his hand for silence as a groundswell of noise followed Guy’s remark, mingling support and rejection in one tangle. “You asked who is to lead the army, my Lord of Ramlah. Then I shall tell you. I shall lead the army personally, and I shall see succor brought to those in Kerak. And if you choose to give me the same answer you have just bestowed on my brother by marriage, I shall indeed consider you guilty of treason. We must all be one in this if we are not to see disaster come down upon us. Do I make myself clear?”

  Bohemond muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Dear Christ.”

  Badouin did not flinch. “Sire, I swear I will follow you behind the True Cross. This is our chance to deal with Saladin once and for all if we can take him by surprise and destroy him. We can wipe out the depredation of our enemy for a generation—but only if we are led by someone we trust to accomplish the deed. We all know you have defeated Saladin before.” He dropped to his knees and bowed his head and was swiftly followed by every man in the chamber.

  Baldwin stood tall before the swathe of kneeling men. “God has granted me this opportunity to take Saladin, and I am glad. For now, let all other business be deferred. Once we have secured Kerak, then we shall deal with all matters pertaining. It would be foolish to further embroil ourselves in argument when we must deal with the enemy at our gates. The Count of Jaffa shall accompany me and assist me in any way I deem fit. That is my command. And let my nephew Baldwin, son of my sister, be anointed and crowned heir to the throne of Jerusalem before we depart. This is a dangerous undertaking, and I wish the succession to be clearly signaled. The debate concerning who shall act as regent for my nephew in times to come shall continue once we have relieved Kerak and with the full court assembled in Jerusalem.”

  “Well,” said Bohemond as the gathering broke up and men started to leave to begin mobilizing their soldiers and vassals, “the lion has roared, but in whose favor? I did not think he still had it in him.”

  “You underestimate him,” Raymond said.

  Bohemond lifted his brows. “Do I?”

  William said quietly, “Perhaps he hopes not to return.”

  Raymond gave him a sharp look. “Your meaning, messire?”

  “Sire, the king is bearing his affliction with fortitude and dignity, but his time is borrowed. I have heard the tale of how, once, when he was less incapacitated, he rode against Saladin and won a great victory that scattered his forces. Perhaps he hopes to do so again. If he succeeds, he will buy time for the kingdom, and if he dies in the attempt, then it will be glorious. That is why he wants the succession settled.”

  Raymond gave him a weighty look. “I think you may be right, messire, but God preserve our king’s life for a little longer yet.”

  “Amen to that,” said Bohemond, and turned to William. “I would welcome you and your men to ride under my banner to Kerak.”

  William inclined his head. “Sire, that is generous of you, but I should offer the king my services first, and he should decide before I go elsewhere.”

  Bohemond looked amused and also a little irritated. “Then you must do as your conscience dictates, but if you do, remember you will be riding in the company of the Count of Jaffa, and I am not sure it is a good bargain for what you will receive in return, but as you will. My door is open, and I am always willing to lend a listening ear.”

  “Thank you, sire.” William understood perfectly what was being laid out before him and was thoroughly prepared to keep that door from closing.

  Bohemond went off to make his arrangements, and William approached Baldwin as the king prepared to leave the hall with Guy and Sybilla at his side.

  “Sire,” William said, bending one knee. “I offer to put myself and my men at your full disposal.”

  “Your offer is gratefully accepted,” Baldwin replied brusquely. “I need every fighting man we have, and now is your opportunity to display your mettle.” His ruined gaze was fierce, and he had a gleam about him, as if a guttering stub had been replaced by a fresh new candle. Perhaps the last one in the cupboard, but it burned with the clear, strong light of the king’s will.

  “Sire.” William bowed again and stood back. Guy gave him a sour look but held his peace.

  The king’s attendants helped him into his cushioned litter and bore him away. Just before the litter curtain swished across, William saw Baldwin slump against the cushions, his head thrown back in utter exhaustion, and he realized how sick the king really was.

  Guy turned to follow the litter with Sybilla and shot a warning glance at William. “The company you keep is noted,” he said.

  “Then I am glad it is illustrious,” William replied calmly. He stood for a moment to watch the king and his attendants leave, then departed to his own lodging.

  17

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  William became aware of a faint scent curling on the edge of his awareness, like the residue of incense smoke that had already risen in prayer, but as he strove to draw the fragrance deeper, it vanished. It had been more than thirty years since that perfume had haunted him, although it would never leave his memory and had played its part in defining who he became.

  A movement at his side caused him to look up, half expecting to see a swirl of flame-gold silk and heavy, dark braids shining through a veil as fine as mist. Instead, his gaze lit on two of his daughters, Eve and Mahelt, who were sitting with their sewing as they kept vigil.

  “Papa, are you comfortable?” Mahelt asked. She was his eldest daughter, mother of his four grandchildren, forthright, honest, strong.

  “Yes,” he said, although it was not true. He fiddled with a plain, scratc
hed gold ring on the little finger of his right hand. “Where is your mother?”

  “At prayer,” Eve said. “Shall I fetch her?”

  William shook his head. “Do not disturb her. She will come to me in her own time, and I am glad of your company.”

  “You were talking in your sleep earlier, Papa.” Eve rose to smooth the coverlet and adjust his pillows. She smelled sweet, of summer meadows, totally unlike the perfume of a moment since. Mahelt helped him to drink from the cup at his bedside, and he tasted the bitterness of whatever his physician was using to dull the pain.

  “Was I? What did I say?”

  “You said something about Lot’s wife and a pillar of salt.”

  “Ah…” He was relieved that it was nothing of consequence. He had always been so careful. “Mahelt, bring me that box.” He indicated a small decorated coffer standing on a shelf.

  She lifted it down and gave it to him, her dark eyes filled with curiosity. With shaking hands, he opened it and rummaged among the contents, moving aside various objects—small pieces of harness, a couple of tent pegs, a pair of dice, a crude nail wrapped in a piece of cloth—until his fingers lighted on a small red silk bag. Tugging open the drawstrings, he tipped a pile of milky white beads onto the coverlet. “These are strewn all over the shoreline of the Sea of Salt,” he said. “Some folk will tell you they are the jewels that Lot’s wife was wearing around her neck when she was turned into a pillar of salt. Go on, taste one.”

  Mahelt put one of the stones to her lips, gave a small lick, and then screwed up her face. “Papa!” she admonished, and swiftly took a drink from his cup.