Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Baldwin made an exasperated sound. “We reached Kerak in time and sent Saladin on his way with his tail between his legs. I have dismissed Guy from the regency, and I need my sister here in Jerusalem.”

  Agnes shook her head. “It is too late, my son; they will be halfway to Ascalon by now and they have taken the children.”

  Baldwin went very still. “You should have stopped them.”

  “How was I supposed to do that?” Agnes retorted. “Sybilla is their mother and Guy was still acting regent when you left for Kerak. I had no reason to prevent them.” She clasped her hands beneath her breasts and drew a sharp breath.

  Seeing how livid her complexion was, William offered her his arm and assisted her to sit down upon the bed, where she leaned over, breathing shallowly.

  Baldwin limped several paces across the room and turned around. “I am sorry to hear that, Mama. You should go and rest,” he said brusquely. “I have ordered the patriarch to summon Guy and Sybilla to his court in order that their marriage be dissolved. If they do not appear, I am within my right to bring an army to Ascalon and demand a reply. And I shall take my nephew back into my personal custody.”

  Agnes looked up, her face contorted with pain. “Is that what you truly intend? To annul the marriage?”

  “Yes, it is, Mama. Guy is not fit to rule. Sybilla must have a new husband, and in the meantime, we shall find someone else to act as my regent.”

  Agnes leaned over again. “Your sister will never agree to such a thing.”

  “Then she shall be made to do so,” Baldwin said grimly. “I intend to have this marriage dissolved before it breaks my kingdom apart. I should never have agreed to it in the first place, but I was persuaded against my better judgment.”

  “You say that now, but at the time, you believed it would solve your difficulties—you were even pleased that your sister had found a consort to her liking,” Agnes said wearily. “Be very careful, my son. Sybilla is your sister and the mother of your heir.”

  “I do not need that reminder, Mama,” Baldwin snapped.

  “I think perhaps you do.” She gave a tired sigh. “I shall order the room to be tidied now, but I wanted you to see it and know the value your sister sets upon her union with Guy. It will be no easy task to put their marriage asunder.”

  William noted a hardness in Agnes’s expression beyond the exhaustion. Challenge, perhaps, and anger. A trapped animal seeing the inevitable but still determined to bite, even as the killing blow descended. Her son was a leper on the inexorable road to death, and her daughter was wed to a man who was unfit to succeed.

  Baldwin drew himself up. “Then it is the same as every other task I have faced, but it will not stop me from striving.”

  19

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  William knelt in prayer with his men and a multitude of others, including King Baldwin, in the church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, his emotions a juxtaposition of deep unworthiness and exaltation as the patriarch celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ, born of the Virgin Mary, the conduit between the pure Almighty and sinful man. God made flesh and the redeemer of all by his birth and his suffering. Such was the miracle, and his heart welled with emotion that he was here now, in that very place, celebrating.

  Eyes closed, breathing in the scent of incense, he heard a woman speaking his name, her tone low and gentle but insistent. His vision filled with an image of the great star shining above the stable of Christ’s birth, and he could feel himself being absorbed into that light.

  He was suddenly inside another church, in Normandy this time, and a choir was singing. Light streamed in through high, arched windows, and Isabelle was there, prostrated before the altar in a pale silk gown. A nurse held a small baby in her arms, wrapped in swaddling and draped in a blue blanket. My son, he thought, and love filled his body with luminous joy. The voice came again, comforting, gentle, but insistent, and he felt a hand take his in a warm clasp.

  “William?”

  He opened his eyes, and this time, he was in his chamber at Caversham and his bed was bathed in morning light. Isabelle was leaning over him with a smile on her lips but concern in her eyes, which were shadowed and tired. “You were restless, my love.” She lightly touched his face. “Tears?”

  William swallowed. “I was dreaming,” he said, “and I was remembering.”

  “What were you remembering to make you weep?” She fluffed up his pillows and helped him to drink a cup of spring water laced with honey.

  “The Nativity in Jerusalem, the first year I was there, and what a great and holy thing it was. And then I remembered the day of your churching after you had borne Will, and how I was so proud that I almost burst. I was so thankful to God that he had granted me bounty beyond all that I deserved.” He squeezed her hand. “If there are tears on my face, they are of remembered joy, and in remembering, they give me joy again, even now.”

  Isabelle bit her lip and her chin dimpled.

  “I would not have you weep for sorrow,” he said gently.

  Her face started to crumple. “Then do not die.” She stood up and moved away, wiping her eyes on the heel of her hand and sniffing. But then she drew a deep breath, composed herself, and, picking up her weaving frame, brought it to the bedside.

  “That is not within my power but God’s,” he said softly. “We must all take that road. I never thought to be worthy of so much wealth and grace, and I am grateful for all that I have been granted.”

  She began to check the tension on the strands, and he gazed at the pattern, which was worked in restful shades of blue, green, and soft gold that reminded him of the seashore near Pembroke under a kind morning sun. Her fingers wove like fish through fronds, sure and quick, even though he knew she was upset and trying not to show him. Always practical, always strong. His Isabelle. His angel and saving grace.

  “I never had any love for Guy de Lusignan,” he said, “but for all his folly, arrogance, and stupidity, he loved his wife, and that at least was something steadfast in the man.”

  She sent him a questioning look, her eyes shimmering with tears, but still that summer-ocean blue that had captivated him thirty years ago.

  He had always drawn a veil across his time in Outremer, save for a few diverting tales about a favorite horse, or the food he had eaten, or the clothes the ladies wore. He had been so careful, but now that veil was gossamer thin.

  “At the outset, I saw him as a man using his wife as a pawn to aggrandize himself, that she was just a rung on his climb up Fortune’s ladder, but I came to realize that he truly loved her, and she him. They had a marriage like ours—through thick and thin, even when times were threadbare indeed. His power came from her. Without her, he was nothing, and they allowed no one to come between them—not kings, or prelates, or the knife of politics.” Only death, he thought. Their steadfast need for each other had brought down the kingdom of Jerusalem to ruination and destroyed so many lives. In that way, he and Isabelle were very different.

  20

  Jerusalem, Late January 1183

  William watched the groom walk the horse around the stable yard and assessed its conformation and temperament with an expert eye. The palfrey was tall and strong, with an elastic step and well-sprung hocks. The predominant color was white with shadow rings of dapple on rump and forequarters, and the muscles rippled under the tight, firm hide as it followed the groom, its manner docile but its ears pricked.

  “You will find no better horse in the kingdom of Jerusalem,” the trader said. He was a shrewd, hard-eyed Norman settler from Jericho.

  William nodded to show he had heard but gave nothing away. Bohemond of Antioch stood beside the trader, his chin cupped in his hand. He had asked for William’s opinion on the stallion since William’s reputation for expertise in that area had gone before him.

  William gestured for the groom to stop, so he could conduct
a thorough examination of the horse, picking up its hooves, checking the articulation of the hips, the movement of the shoulders, the size of the rump. He lifted the silver waterfall tail to check beneath. Then around to the head to examine the teeth. The stallion stamped a little but calmed when William spoke gently and soothed it with his hands. He mounted up and trotted around the yard. The horse responded to the lightest touch on the bridle, his ears continuing to flicker, revealing that he was attuned to the rider without being afraid.

  William dismounted and returned the reins to the groom.

  Bohemond nodded to the seller. “I will send word within a day to let you know.”

  “Sire.” The man bowed and retained his aplomb. “I have had other inquiries, but I shall hold him for you until tomorrow.”

  “What did you think?” Bohemond asked William as they walked back toward the royal palace.

  “A fine animal,” William replied. “Intelligent, well proportioned, and of a biddable disposition while still being spirited. And a good size. Any man who rides him will be taller than those around him in a crowd.”

  “I thought so too,” Bohemond said. “So, tell me, Marshal, why is the price so good? I would expect to pay a third as much again for a horse of this quality. That is why I asked you to look at him—I will not be duped.”

  “I heard a rumor that might explain the reason for the price,” William said.

  “Indeed?”

  “My brother was told that the horse was intended as a gift to the Count of Jaffa from his wife, but the count and his lady have been in Ascalon for six weeks now, and your trader cannot keep the animal indefinitely.” Six weeks in which the king had summoned Guy and Sybilla back to Jerusalem on numerous occasions to answer in the patriarch’s court and been met first by the claim that Guy was too sick to attend, then by silence. Soon, King Baldwin was setting out to Ascalon to confront the couple in person and demand their obedience.

  “I see.” Bohemond looked amused.

  “Perhaps too,” William added, “you are known as a man swift to settle his debts, and it is better to have the payment now, rather than feeding and stabling the horse for another month and not receiving the due fee for even longer.”

  Bohemond’s eyes lit with a sardonic gleam. “It is good to know I am trusted to pay my debts while others are not. I shall send word tomorrow and buy him. It will give me great pleasure to ride him in certain parades.”

  William responded with a dry smile, knowing that the Prince of Antioch would deliberately ride the stallion in Guy’s presence whenever the opportunity arose.

  Bohemond paid William a generous fee for his help and, to further show his appreciation, took him to eat at an exotic establishment not far from the palace. As he entered the brazier-warmed room and had his cloak taken by a smiling, dark-eyed woman, William thought wryly that Onri would have had him down on his knees in a trice doing penance.

  Colorful rugs covered the floor, and large cushions were arranged around the room upon which guests could recline. Platters of small spicy delicacies and sweetmeats flavored with rosewater were set out on low tables, and incense burned in shallow silver bowls, spiraling thin white smoke toward the vaulted ceiling.

  Two women were dancing to the pat-pat of a drum, bodies weaving with supple suggestion. Silver bells tinkled on their ankles and wrists, and multiple flimsy layers of silk garments enveloped them like colored flames as they moved. William was accustomed to the prostitutes who frequented the Angevin court and the tourney circuits, but these women were more exotic and striking. They probably cost a lot more too.

  “Choose whichever one you want,” Bohemond said affably. “I will pay. The dark one is a Bedouin and knows all the arts of the Perfumed Garden, and the fair-haired one comes from the lands of the Rus—both are good. Or the one over there with the red ribbons.”

  “Thank you, sire,” William said, thinking that a night of indulgence was perhaps unwise because he had to prepare for the morrow’s ride to Ascalon. But there was no harm in looking, and folly might still get the better of him.

  The door opened as the patriarch’s musician Ptolemy arrived with a cluster of friends, Ancel among them. They had already been drinking elsewhere to judge by the flushed faces and glittering eyes. Ancel detached himself to come and greet William, stumbling a little upon the cushions. Righting himself, his complexion scarlet, he apologized profusely. “Do not worry, Gwim. I will not interrupt you.” He bowed clumsily to Bohemond.

  “I am not worried,” William replied. “Just have a care with your own company, and watch your drink.”

  Ancel made an ironic salute and stumbled off to rejoin his companions. The patriarch’s musician had ostentatiously dropped a hefty pouch of coins on the low table around which his group had gathered. Wine was commanded, and the dice came out. William noted with relief that Ancel sobered up very quickly indeed.

  “Your brother has become friendly with the patriarch’s musician,” Bohemond said, a note of censure in his voice.

  William shrugged. “Ancel can take care of himself. It is useful to have contacts at court. Ptolemy fishes for information from Ancel, and Ancel baits his own line.”

  “Ah.” Bohemond stroked his beard. “And just what does each hope to gain from the other?”

  “For Ancel, it is the lure of the dice and places such as this, and he delights in music. It gives him a taste of what he had when we followed the tourneys. The musician, I do not know. I would say that, like all of his kind, he can slip like a fish through all streams of society. His music gives him access to bowers and bedchambers, and information is a valuable coin.”

  Bohemond nodded and looked thoughtful.

  “He will glean nothing worthwhile from my brother though. Ancel has perfected the art of saying a great deal without saying anything at all.”

  “Rather like yourself then.”

  William chuckled and raised his cup. “Perhaps, but in a different kind of way.”

  Bohemond studied the musician. “He is much favored at court and a protégé of the patriarchess, as you may have noticed.”

  William gave Bohemond a sharp look. The latter’s voice held no particular nuance, although its very neutrality was an indicator. “Yes,” he said.

  “Of course, he is the patriarch’s musician too.” Bohemond leaned back against the silk cushions. “Madam de Riveri’s relatives and favorites receive Heraclius’s patronage and serve in his court—and they are a nest of scorpions. Whether you are stung or not will depend on whether you are perceived as friend or foe. I prefer to keep my distance.”

  “Is the musician a relative?”

  Bohemond shook his head. “No, but he is from a family who has dealings with hers and is part of her network.”

  Ptolemy beckoned to the woman with the red ribbons, and a moment later, they disappeared behind a heavy curtain. Ancel remained at the dice table but smiled over at William as if expecting him to follow suit with one of the other ladies. William returned the smile but stayed where he was. He had been of two minds but now had no intention of following the musician through those curtains and having his deeds reported upon to the patriarch and Madam de Riveri.

  A short while later, Ptolemy returned, adjusting his crotch. When a companion made a quip about what he had been doing, he laughed and cupped himself through his braies. “No woman can resist my charms, be she lady or whore—there’s no difference between any of them when you lay them on their backs, believe me.”

  “What about the money?”

  “Hah, one pays for the other?” The musician flashed a grin. “They both beg for it nonetheless.”

  William and Bohemond exchanged glances.

  Three more men arrived, and on seeing Bohemond, they immediately made their salutations. The older man was in his forties, his black hair beginning to silver at his temples and his eyes hard as obsidian. They fixed on
Ptolemy as soon as they walked in. His companion was a broad-shouldered knight of about William’s age, olive skinned, with a knife scar marking his left cheek beneath his eye and hawkish features. The third was a slender, dark-haired squire.

  “Your brother should be wary of those men if he keeps the musician’s company,” Bohemond said quietly. “I was speaking of scorpions, and here are three. The one on the left is Zaccariah of Nablus, the patriarch’s gatekeeper and uncle to Madame la Patriarchess. The other is Mahzun of Tire, a mercenary whose services they purchase from time to time. The youth is one of Zaccariah’s squires and kin of some sort.”

  William lifted his brows.

  “If they look at you, do not look back unless you expressly wish to garner their attention or put business their way. They serve a purpose in that they keep the other vermin under control, but they are dangerous men.”

  William drank his wine and observed circumspectly. Zaccariah was watching Ptolemy with narrow intensity, and the young musician was on edge, flicking wary glances, perhaps even a little fearful in contrast to his earlier bold stance.

  The newcomers crossed the room to join the dice game, and Zaccariah tossed a pouch of coins on the table as his credentials to play.

  “And their intent at the moment?”

  Bohemund shrugged. “Zaccariah is always hunting. The lady’s gittern player is one of his information gatherers.”

  The company settled down to their game, and Ptolemy lost several throws. Seeing his pile diminish, he rose to leave, but Mahzun of Tire put his hand on his sleeve and flashed a dangerous smile. “Come now, no cause to run home just yet. Your luck might turn.”

  Reluctantly, the musician settled back down, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Ancel cast William a mute entreaty for help. William gave a slight nod in reply but made no immediate move, although he spoke to Bohemond in a quiet murmur. He allowed the group to play another couple of rounds, during which Ancel and the musician both lost again, and then, having thanked Bohemond for his hospitality, he rose to his feet and sauntered across to the table. “Time to retire.” He squeezed Ancel’s shoulder. “We have a long journey in the morning and preparations to make.” He bowed courteously to Zaccariah of Nablus and Mahzun of Tire.