As he hesitated, Heraclius continued: “I am led to wonder what will happen to the money if he chooses not to come.”
“My lord, I do not know.”
Heraclius took a sweetmeat and held it delicately between forefinger and thumb. “You were eager enough to give us personal information that showed how close to the king you were, and now you have no inkling about the matter of his finances, which is surely a highly public one. What are we to believe? How far are you to be trusted? That is what I ask myself.”
It was plain that Heraclius intended to push hard.
“Sire, I can vouch for the fact that King Henry will keep his promise, but I cannot speak for him on when and how. That is for you to discuss with him in England.” William spoke politely but firmly, holding his ground.
“And how may we obtain this money from him?” Heraclius asked. “Are we to remain empty-handed? We have many needs at the present time. We must protect our cities and defend them against Saladin.”
William took a drink of wine and allowed the moment to draw out while he decided on his answer. Heraclius was clearly seeking information to open the coffer lids, some chink in Henry’s armor that he could exploit. “I have seen many buildings rising to the glory of God in Jerusalem and elsewhere, and many magnificent castles too. Indeed, the money would pay for another weight of mortar to cement the kingdom, but you press me into ground that is not my own. I cannot speak for my king on this matter, and he has given me no brief to do so. You must ask him yourself, as I have said, when you visit him with the grand masters. You may tell him you have spoken to me and that I have said that I have neither the authority nor the information to tell you more.”
Heraclius narrowed his eyes, but not in hostility. Exasperation, perhaps, but also in acknowledgment of a worthy opponent and one with loyalty and judgment. “Well then,” he said a little ruefully, “it seems that you have told me as much as you are able, and it would be fruitless for both of us to push the matter further. I shall speak to your king—and I shall commend you to him as a man of strength and loyalty.”
“Thank you, sire,” William replied, relieved that Heraclius had taken the matter in good part. He rose to leave soon after that and Heraclius saw him out.
“We shall still speak again,” Heraclius said, “but we know where we stand. I recognize your faithfulness to your king, and I applaud you for it.”
William bowed and departed. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the lady Paschia had joined Heraclius and he was leaning down to listen to her as she spoke softly in his ear. Her eyes met William’s across the room and held his for a long moment before she looked away.
* * *
The following day, William was invited to a gathering at the court as the nobility of Jerusalem took shelter from the burgeoning, late-spring heat within the cool walls of the palace, and he found himself sitting with a group of ladies who were desirous of knowing all about the fashions at court in England, what tales were being told, and what songs being sung. William obliged them, enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he had had an opportunity to relax in the company of women, and the conversation was a pleasurable respite from the serious military and political discussions of late.
The lady Paschia was present among the women and had directed the subject by asking him about his life at court, its etiquette and manners, and she especially wanted to know about Queen Alienor.
“She is a great and gracious lady,” William replied. “I served her when I was a young hearth knight—and I still do.”
“But we hear that she is estranged from the king of England.”
“That is so, madam,” William said guardedly.
“And are you not torn yourself? Surely it must be difficult to serve your queen and yet remain loyal to your king?”
“Their estrangement is a source of grief to me, I freely admit. I served their son, and he rebelled against his sire, but I pray that all will come to unity in future.” He kept his tone neutral and diplomatic.
“Prayer is always of benefit, but I have found that sometimes prayer needs all the assistance that men and women can provide,” she said, to the point. “Do you believe they will reconcile?”
“The king has been a little gentler to the queen since my young lord’s death,” he replied, “but if it will continue, I do not know.”
Her look told him she thought he was holding back, but her smile was tolerantly amused. “So where does your loyalty truly lie, messire? With the king, or with the queen?”
William inclined his head to her. “With my honor, my lady.”
She laughed softly and crossed one leg over the other in a rustle of bloodred silk, exposing the tip of a gold-embroidered shoe, which she pointed in his direction. “A diplomatic if evasive answer, messire.”
William returned her smile and bowed his head. “Not at all, madam. I answered you with the honest truth.”
She arched her brows. “That is a refreshing change in court circles, although I must judge for myself how honest your truth is.”
“Indeed, madam, but I esteem you a shrewd judge of character.”
Her lips twitched, and she gently swung her foot, allowing a glimpse of a slender ankle clad in pale silk hose.
Ptolemy, her musician, sat down at her side and began playing a beguiling tune on his gittern while at the same time casting languishing glances in her direction that she ignored by turning her head away and frowning. The line of her neck was gracefully enhanced by her earring, from which dangled three pearl droplets on fine gold wires.
William recognized the moves. Young men of the court played the game of longing after unattainable women and directing their creative talents to winning a corner of a heart while constantly being shunned. Ptolemy was a past master of the art, although today, his lady was clearly disposed to be indifferent to his persuasion and turning her attention elsewhere. William was well aware of the dangers as well as the delights of the game. Queen Alienor had played it with him to a degree but always within the boundaries. But here in Outremer, the holiest place on earth, those boundaries were more fluid than at home, and the temptations more intense.
“Perhaps you would tell us a little about your tournament days in France,” Madam de Riveri said, keeping her head turned away from her musician and leaning toward William. “You must have won many prizes.”
“A few,” he said warily.
“One of your men was saying that you have taken the ransoms of five hundred knights all told. That is a great amount.”
“It may be that many, my lady, but I cannot say for certain, and I would not boast of such a thing, since deeds always speak louder than words.” He would have to warn his men to be careful in their conversation because all was clearly being noted.
“Indeed they do,” she agreed, her smile sparking with challenge.
He hastily told the women a self-deprecating story about losing a man he had captured for ransom when the knight had leaped from his saddle and shinned up a passing house gutter.
His tale was interrupted by a sudden flurry at the end of the room as more people arrived, and William was surprised and a little dismayed to see Guy de Lusignan escorting his wife, the Countess of Jaffa. Obviously, he had now deemed it sufficiently safe to emerge from Ascalon and rejoin the court. Immediately, the social circle broke up and people hastened to greet the newcomers. Heraclius was effusive, guiding them to a settle.
William had no choice but to make his obeisance to Guy, who accepted his bow graciously.
“I hear you are working for the patriarch now,” he remarked.
“I have some duties for him concerned with his forthcoming journey, sire,” William replied diffidently.
Guy nodded. “Well, I suppose it is useful to have you to hand.” He spoke as though addressing a servant, but his smile was magnanimous. He turned to greet someone else, and Will
iam was able to distance himself.
He would have left then, but he was accosted by a baron who wanted to talk about horses, and that led to further conversation about harness, by which time a formal meal had been set out and William had to stay and dine and socialize. He was nowhere near Guy at the board, but it was still too close for comfort, and he was aware of the Lord of Jaffa glancing at him every now and again with a speculative eye. He noticed that Guy often touched his wife’s hand, and their shoulders brushed as they conversed. The lady Paschia attended on Sybilla, and the women clearly enjoyed each other’s company. From the swift whispers and smiles, he judged that they were sharing confidences and suspected at one point that he was the subject of their discussion, for Sybilla’s gaze ranged over him in speculation as Paschia spoke in her ear.
Ptolemy was called upon to play his gittern and sing for the company, which he did both in French and Lengua Romana of Aquitaine, his voice soaring and liquid. For his final piece, he performed the tale of a spurned lover mourning his lady’s coldness toward him because she would no longer grant him her favors. He sang with a wobble in his voice, his eyes fixed tearfully on his mistress. As the song ended, Ptolemy bowed over his instrument for a moment, then rose and saluted his audience.
Giving him a brittle smile, the lady Paschia presented him with a mirror in a small ivory case. “So you may reflect on your life, Ptolemy. Those were beautiful songs, and now you have my leave to go.”
He hesitated and then made an exaggerated flourish before departing with set lips and tears on his cheeks. William thought the reaction a little untoward. Glancing at Madam de Riveri, he saw that her own lips were pressed together with irritation, but when Heraclius spoke to her, she was immediately smiling and attentive.
William was eventually able to make his obeisance and, with relief, leave the gathering. Walking toward his own chamber, he became aware of two men standing against a pillar in the near darkness by the stairs, talking in subdued voices.
“It has gone far enough,” one said. “It is not the first time this has happened with her, and I doubt it will be the last, but it must be managed. He is becoming too much of a liability.”
“I shall see to it,” the other said. “Leave it with me. I know a reliable man.”
“The usual fee.”
They looked up as William walked toward them, and he recognized the lady Paschia’s uncle Zaccariah of Nablus and the mercenary soldier Mahzun of Tire. He nodded briefly as he passed and experienced an involuntary tingle between his shoulder blades. He resisted the urge to look back but harbored an image of them circling him like wolves contemplating a lone deer. He knew such men well. King Henry employed them as doorkeepers and messengers, often with dubious remits on the outskirts of their duties. What he had just heard did not bode well for someone at court, although he could do nothing, and if he became embroiled, he would endanger himself and his men. He only had to glance at the fading scars on his wrist to know it was not worth it.
* * *
William and his knights spent the next three days escorting parties to the banks of the River Jordan. Onri was commanding the detail, leading the pilgrims through what was dangerous terrain unless one had armed protectors.
At Jericho, a rest camp with abundant date palms and sweet water awaited the weary travelers, with space to pitch their tents for the night. Beyond lay the verdant River Jordan itself and the very place where John the Baptist had baptized Jesus. Here, the pilgrims attended ceremonies, prayed, were christened anew in the waters of the river, and filled their flasks to bring the precious waters home. William had been on the detail several times now, and the duty had become almost mundane. No brigands were going to attack a pilgrim party guarded by a dozen knights on warhorses. The assaults happened when folk chose to travel alone without armed escort.
“They are like sheep,” Onri said, “and we are both shepherd and sheepdog, but it is also our duty to serve them. You would think they would realize what happens to strays, but there are always the foolish ones who strike out on their own and pay the price.”
The late-spring heat was increasing daily, and the men wore surcoats over their mail to protect them from the sun’s strength and carried full flasks, which they replenished at Jericho. Since fully fledged Templars were not permitted to speak to women, and there were women among the party, it fell to William and his men to give instructions and interact with the pilgrims, a duty that William rather enjoyed. Many people had come via ship and so had fairly recent news of home, where, for the moment, all appeared to be quiet, which made William wonder if perhaps Henry would indeed decide to visit Outremer.
They returned to Jerusalem in the late afternoon of the third day. The sun was uncomfortably hot and the pilgrims with their blistered feet, dusty clothes, and red, sore skin were relieved to stagger back into the city, waving their palm branches and raising hoarse voices in hosanna to God.
“Most of them will seek out the nearest tavern to quench their thirsts,” Onri said wryly, “but still we serve them as knights of Christ, and when their heads have cleared in the morning, a few will come to church and do penance.” He turned his horse toward the Temple Mount. “I must go and report to my commander, and in truth, I shall be glad to be rid of this armor.” He gave William a dubious look, albeit edged by a smile. “And I suppose you are returning to your den of iniquity?”
William laughed at his gentle barb. “The patriarch would be dismayed to hear you describe his palace thus.”
“I am sure he would, but perhaps not surprised.” Onri saluted laconically and rode on, the pied Templar banner waving on its stave.
William returned to the palace and saw the horses settled before going to scrub away the heat and dust of the road in the patriarch’s bathhouse. Cooled and refreshed, his hair damp and sleeked back, he was making his way toward his chamber when the lady Paschia came running around the corner, sobbing, half stumbling on the hem of her gown.
“My lady.” He caught her sleeve to steady her. “Is there something wrong? Can I help?”
“It is too late for that, much too late!” Her tears had made running dark smudges of her eye cosmetics.
William was bemused. Removing a stone from the hoof of the patriarch’s horse was one thing; comforting his weeping concubine was quite another, and there was no etiquette for such a situation. “Madam, come, I will escort you to your ladies and they will help you.”
She shook her head vigorously, and an expression that was almost panic contorted her face. “No! I have just come from there. I do not want them. I need to breathe clean air. Take me to the garden if you will and let me sit awhile.”
Concerned but alert and on edge, William took her to the patriarch’s garden—a walled-off area on the east side of the palace, shaded by fig trees, with flagged paths leading to a three-tiered fountain at its center. He helped her to sit on a stone bench facing the silvery loops of water, where she knotted her hands in her lap and bent her head, her whole body trembling.
“Shall I bring you a drink?” He started to move away.
Her head jerked up. “Oh, don’t go! Please! Just stay with me for a moment.”
Tentatively, William sat on the edge of the bench and glanced around. No one else was in sight, not even a gardener.
Three doves landed near the fountain and began pecking around for kernels of grain that someone had cast down earlier. A warm breeze rustled the leaves on the fig trees. Somewhere, a workman was chiseling stone, and the metallic clink of his hammer rang out, marking beats of time.
“May I ask what has upset you?”
She shook her head and dabbed her face on the sleeve of her gown, leaving dark smears. And then she drew a shuddering breath. “It is my musician, Ptolemy,” she said. “He is dead.”
William stared at her in shock. “That is terrible news, my lady. What happened to him?”
“I do not know.
” She swallowed. “The patriarch just said he had been found dead in his chamber. I think he wanted to spare me the details. In truth, I do not wish to know, although I think he believes he killed himself, and that is a mortal sin.” Tears rolled down her face. “I am sorry. You must think me a poor, weak creature.”
“No, madam, indeed not. You are understandably distraught.” In his other encounters with her, she had always been composed and in control of her environment, a woman of shrewd political acumen and a gracious hostess. Now, beneath the painted face of a courtesan, he saw a vulnerable young woman playing the best game she could to survive, and it moved something inside him.
“I knew him from when he was born,” she said, her voice catching. “I was like a big sister to him when we were little. I looked after him sometimes for his mother—and then when he came to court seeking a position, I helped him because I could, and why should I not?” She jutted her chin. “I know what it is to hunger. He wanted to rise high, and he was handsome and talented. I wanted everyone to know how skilled he was.” She bit her lip. “He was a beautiful, thoughtless boy, and it should never have come to this. I blame myself.” Suddenly, she pressed against William’s shoulder and sobbed, heartbroken, into his sleeve.
William was decidedly uncomfortable, wondering what would happen if someone came in search of the patriarch’s lady and misconstrued the scene. The exotic scent of her, the feel of her in his arms, kindled both his protective instincts and more shameful ones, which he tried to ignore because they were not right in the face of her grief and distress. “Madam, it is not your fault,” he said in a constricted voice.
“It is,” she wept. “You do not understand. How could you? I could not explain even if I wished, nor would it be wise, for this place is filled with darkness—and he was an innocent fool!” Shuddering, she withdrew and looked up at him with her eyes full of desolation, her lips slightly parted as if inviting a kiss.
Templar Silks Page 24