William returned her look blandly.
“I am not giving away any secrets,” she said with a glint of impatience. “You must already have guessed as much.”
“Yes, my lady,” William said, wondering if he was being further tested for his prudence and what the implications were.
“Mostly it comes to naught, but they travel far and wide, and they trade with everyone. They take word to Saladin about our movements, but in the same wise, they will feed Saladin’s intent back to us, so it behooves us to keep them as our allies. Everyone has his use…and his price. The trick is to know what that price is.” She gave him a loaded look.
William maintained a neutral expression. “That is true to an extent, but some prices are too high to be paid, and there are some who would rather die than be bought.”
Paschia’s uncle interrupted from behind, his tone grating and harsh. “Then you persuade the first to lower his price, and you arrange for the second to have his wish. That is the way business is conducted in this land.”
William looked around to meet Zaccariah’s cold, dark eyes and experienced a fresh surge of antipathy for the man. “So I have observed, sire, and I would fill my own entourage with honorable men of the second persuasion and discard the rest.”
“You have high ideals, messire.” Paschia’s gaze was speculative. “But perhaps they have never been put to the test?”
“As far as I have been tested, I have striven to remain true,” he replied. “And I maintain that is so for my men also.”
She nodded, as if accepting a challenge, and urged her new mount along the path until they came to dusty, open ground not far from the Stable Postern on the Temple Mount.
A group of soldiers was training on the sun-burned field, practicing charging in formation and executing skilled lance work. “See, messire Marshal,” she said with humor and asperity, “you and your knights are not the only accomplished warriors in the kingdom of Jerusalem.”
“I am glad that is so, my lady, for where would the kingdom be without its skilled warriors?” Watching the men, he recognized one of the foremost fighters, confidently arrogant in the saddle, and compressed his lips, knowing that she had deliberately ridden this way in order to bring him to Guy de Lusignan and his household knights at their training.
“Where indeed?” She drew rein to watch, making no attempt to ride on. After a hard-fought skirmish, which de Lusignan won with panache and brutality, the knights paused to regroup and Guy removed his helm, turned his horse, and trotted over to the observers.
His red face and sweat-streaked exertion made his eyes dazzle like chips of blue ice. Sweat hung like rain drops in his tangled hair. Once greetings had been exchanged, he admired Rakkas, although he did not dismount to look at him, and on hearing about William’s part in his selection, he gave a supercilious smile. “You always were a good horse trader, Marshal. Perhaps we could discuss your talents at some point. And I’m still waiting for that saddle.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Paschia, the angle of his shoulder dismissing William as a hireling of no consequence. “I would invite your men to join us, but I can see they have escort duties, and we are finishing soon before the heat becomes too great. Another time, I would value their company and expertise.”
“By all means, sire,” she replied. “Indeed, they would welcome such an opportunity to practice and learn from you.”
Guy spun his stallion, making it caracole, and then galloped back to his troop. Striving not to grind his teeth, William acknowledged that Guy knew how to make a good display. In looks, in outward trappings, he had always been a king, but it was a hollow construct.
“I hope you were impressed by what you saw.” Her voice held challenge as they made to ride on.
“It will keep the wolf from the door,” William replied, stiff lipped and struggling with his courtesy.
She arched one eyebrow. “You would do it better, messire?”
William made a back-and-forth motion with his hand, suggesting possibly.
“But even so, you would need someone as an overall commander to follow, someone to give you order and direction.”
William looked down at his reins and said nothing, doing his best to be diplomatic, but it was not enough and she saw through him.
“Why would you not?” she demanded. “Admit it. The Count of Jaffa is competent and he shows a good display.”
William wanted to say But what happens when he is tested? but he bit his tongue and raised his head to her. “I have nothing against him if you desire my opinion, but I would not follow in his train because he is not a man for whom I would give my life.”
Two frown lines appeared between her brows. “You do set your mark very high—or perhaps lower than I had thought.”
“That is for you to decide, madam. I can only give you my honest opinion.”
They rode in silence for a while but within a charged atmosphere, like two opponents who were not enemies, though each intent on mastery.
“Perhaps you would consider attending a meal tomorrow with the patriarch. The Count of Jaffa will be there, and you can engage at closer quarters and gain a different insight.”
Her persistence was backing him into a corner. “I do not think so, my lady,” he said firmly.
She sat up straighter, a glint in her eyes. “Do you not indeed?”
He sighed, concluding that being straightforward would serve him better than this tortured diplomacy. “Madam, I have been at close quarters with this man in the past and we were not allies then. I have no wish to be any nearer to him than I am now. I will never follow such a man, and, therefore, courteous avoidance is my best choice.”
She stared at him, wide eyed now and clearly taken aback. Heraclius had warned him that she was seldom denied anything she desired.
“He is not the man to lead Jerusalem,” William continued. “You need someone stronger for the task. I would lay down my life for every one of my own knights, but I would not do so for the Count of Jaffa because I do not hold him in the same esteem.”
“You are mistaken,” she said, her eyes narrow with anger. “He is the one man who could unite Jerusalem with the right kind of support. I hoped you might be one of those who would have the vision to give it.”
William stood his ground. “Madam, Jerusalem is united behind King Baldwin, and very soon, the patriarch and the grand masters will leave for Spain and France and England to seek aid from the kings there. Let the Count of Jaffa support such men as well as he is able, and that will be my undertaking too—and as such, we shall be allies, if not bosom companions.”
She tossed her head and looked away, and they rode the rest of the way in silence until they reached the palace and he helped her to dismount. Mahzun of Tire departed to other business. Her uncle lingered, scowling, until she dismissed him with a peremptory wave. “I will be but a moment,” she said. “I want to see Rakkas settled.”
He raised one eyebrow, gave William a pointed look, and left. She fussed the horse, feeding him more dates, kissing his muzzle.
“I have never met anyone like you,” she said after a moment. “So principled, so stubborn, some might even say pigheaded—to your own detriment.” She scratched the whorled-star marking between the horse’s eyes.
“What they say is up to them,” William replied. “I can only follow my own truth.” He brought a rope halter to replace the gelding’s ornate bridle.
“You could make your life here, you know. You could be a great lord with a fief of your own and lands and status to your name. You could give wealth to your followers—to that brother of yours. We are short of fighting men of your caliber.”
“Madam, I am sworn to return to England and Normandy,” he said doggedly.
She gave a short laugh. “For what? A life as a hearth knight? Here you would be vouchsafed a greater future, perhaps even a magnificent one.�
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William shook his head. “I do not understand why it should matter to you.”
“Do you not?”
He was caught in a full and candid stare that left nothing in doubt. Her hand grazed his as he started to remove the bridle and replace it with the halter.
“Perhaps you are blind as well as pigheaded.”
Pivoting on her dainty leather shoe, she stalked off in the direction her uncle had taken. William watched the sway of her body and fought the urge to go after her, spin her around, and show her exactly what she was playing with. But then, lips compressed, he turned away to deal with the horse.
He knew that the sensible thing to do was to leave Heraclius’s employ forthwith and swear himself to the Templars as a secular knight for the duration of his stay, perhaps even request that they send him to Acre or Caesarea. Yet, to walk away now would be like walking off a chessboard in midgame. Besides, her patronage would cease, and if she chose, she could do him and his men untold damage in the same way that she had favored him. Whichever way he moved, he was challenged.
Ancel returned from stabling his own horse, Pilgrim trotting at his heels. “What’s wrong, Gwim?” he asked, slapping him on the back.
William shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Did Madame la Patriarchess like her new horse? She was smiling when I saw her a moment ago.”
Ancel’s question was innocent, but for William, it bore a double meaning. He had no intention of being saddled and controlled by her. “Yes,” he said. “She did.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I told you. I have no love for Guy de Lusignan, and riding out to watch him parade around like a king might not be my notion of time well spent.”
“I suppose not,” Ancel said with a shrug. He ran his hand through his hair, rumpling it. “I am going to visit Asmaria. Come with me and have a drink.”
William started to refuse and then changed his mind. “Why not?” he said.
Leaving the yard, he accompanied Ancel to the small house at the end of Malquisnet Street. Asmaria greeted Ancel warmly with a kiss on the cheek and curtseyed clumsily to William, her face red from her toil over the fire. However, she swiftly overcame her embarrassment and set about pouring the men wine and putting oil, bread, and salt on the board for them. The children came forward and were introduced to William—a boy of six and a girl of four. The latter clambered confidently onto Ancel’s lap and hugged him while her brother brought his new small bow and set of six arrows to show to Ancel.
The atmosphere of relaxed warmth enfolded William. Asmaria’s dwelling was humble, with one room and a ladder up to the roof, but it was swept and cared for with pride and just now it was more welcoming than any palace. The wine was plain but excellent, as were the bread and olives. He understood why Ancel preferred to spend his off-duty time here, rather than in the patriarch’s guardroom. Here was comfort and acceptance, the sense that he could stretch his legs, unfasten his belt and belong. He was pleased for Ancel—and perhaps a little envious.
Having finished his wine, he took his leave and bowed to Asmaria with the same respect he afforded the ladies of the court. “Thank you for your hospitality, and thank you for looking after my brother.”
She beamed at him. “No, sire,” she said. “He looks after me.”
“We look after each other.” Ancel squeezed her hand.
Refreshed, William strolled back to the palace. The time he had just spent with Ancel and his woman was far superior to banqueting with the likes of Guy de Lusignan, and nothing would ever change his mind on that score.
25
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
William woke to talons of pain stabbing his chest and belly, and he clenched his teeth to endure the agony and not cry out. For his pride. So as not to burden and alarm those who cared for him.
“Hush.” The voice was a whisper, tender and soft. Gentle fingers smoothed his brow. “Hush now. All will be well.” A soft kiss at his temple. “I always loved you…”
He twisted on the edge of pure agony, and somewhere deep within him, deep as the talons, caught on the hooked tips, he knew that love came in many guises, some of them cruel and terrible.
“Papa? Here, drink this.”
The rim of a cup touched his lips, and he tasted the bitter poppy tincture that brought the vivid dreams and took away the talons, even though he knew they were still embedded in him. He saw the sweep of long fair hair twined with red ribbons. “Ysabel?” he whispered. He had almost expected the hair to be as black and thick as a starless night, not his daughter’s soft wheat gold.
“I should fetch the physician.” Her eyes were concerned as she withdrew the cup and set it on the bedside coffer.
William shook his head and took her hand. “You do me more good than any physician. Stay awhile and comfort me.”
She acquiesced, and as he forced a smile, he saw her do the same. She had her mother’s beauty, and like all of their offspring, she was courageous and true.
She fussed with the bedclothes, smoothing and patting. “The time was when you used to tuck me up in bed and protect me from all harm. I always knew I was safe and loved and that nothing could hurt me.”
“And now you are doing the same for me.”
“But you are in pain, Papa; I wish I could take it away.”
“You ease it with your comfort and presence. Come, no tears.” He lifted his knuckles and gently brushed her cheek. “I would not have you weep.”
She sniffed and smiled again for him, and the light from the window shone on her fair twists of hair, making a nimbus around the crown of her head.
“There,” he said. “Sunshine through rain.” The talons were relinquishing their grip as the poppy syrup took effect. His eyelids began to droop.
“Before you spoke my name, you said another.”
“Did I?”
She picked up her sewing. “Who is Paschia?”
He forced open his heavy lids as the name caused a sluggish jolt through his body. “It was long ago in Outremer. Many years ago. I thought I had made my peace, but strands still remain to be woven and cut off.” He gave her a weary smile. “Now I have you, I have your mother and your sisters and brothers. I never believed I would be so blessed and fulfilled. You hold my heart and it overflows. That is all you need to know.”
He closed his eyes and heard her gasp as she stifled a sob but was unable to reach out to her, because the drugged wine was taking him down, and the soft voice was saying again that all she had ever wanted was love, that she had never intended what had happened…
26
Jerusalem, July 1184
On a hot morning in mid-July, the patriarch and the grand masters of the Templars and Hospitallers departed on their great mission to the kings of France and England. The previous day, Heraclius had performed the ritual procession around the outside of the city to mark the triumphant taking of Jerusalem by Christian armies more than eighty years since and preached an eloquent sermon before a wooden cross marking the place where the troops had breached the city walls. Everyone in Jerusalem had taken part amid prayers and rejoicing. A great banquet had been held in the patriarchal palace, spilling out into gardens and courtyards in order to accommodate the numerous guests. William had been on duty, his marshal’s experience being invaluable for organizing so many people, including those who would have preferred not to keep each other’s company.
Today, William rode among the soldiers of the patriarch’s household. Garbed in white robes glittering with silver and gold embroidery, escorted by the staff of the True Cross, Heraclius and the grand masters of the Templars and Hospitallers rode to the Gate of David to take their leave. As with yesterday’s procession, almost the entire city was present, including the king, borne on his painted litter—although suffering, he was determined to play his full role.
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sp; Once more, Heraclius addressed the crowd, taking into his hand from a silk cushion the keys of Jerusalem and the sepulchre and holding them aloft. “I bear these keys of our most sacred city and church to offer up to King Henry of England and to King Philippe of France and entreat them to come to our aid and succor!” he cried. “I hope to return as soon as God wills with joyful tidings and all the succor and support our beleaguered land requires. I entreat you all to be of good cheer until our return and keep your hearts and courage stalwart. Support your king in every endeavor to keep the kingdom safe and serve God faithfully.”
Following more prayers and speeches, the cavalcade finally set out on its way with rippling banners and bright garments, glossy horses, and carts piled with gifts. It would take the proud array four days to reach Acre, and from there, they would embark for Brindisi and then to Rome, for an audience with the pope.
William and his knights returned to the city, now escorting the king, who was deep in conversation with Raymond of Tripoli. In another litter, the Countess of Jaffa rode with her son, the little king. And behind them came Guy de Lusignan, talking to the Templar Gerard de Ridefort, who was to take over as acting head of the order while Grand Master Arnold de Torroja was absent on his mission. William had yet to make up his mind about de Ridefort. He was proud and autocratic but seemed honorable enough. William had not had time to talk to Onri about him but intended to on their next patrol.
The lady Paschia rode on Rakkas not far from the Count of Jaffa’s entourage with her uncle Zaccariah and his dark-haired squire, Alessandro, acting as her chaperones. Her head was bowed and her attitude modest and discreet. She had bidden farewell to Heraclius in the palace earlier with fervent kisses and tearful entreaties that he return safely to her, and Heraclius had tipped her chin with his finger and promised he would do so if ever he could.
“Make sure that you do,” she had said, swallowing tearfully, “because if you do not, I shall be lost.”
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