Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “I know that.”

  She stood on tiptoe to give him a long, last, passionate kiss, then turned and opened the door a crack, peeped out, and made a swift, silent exit. William closed the door behind her and leaned against it, feeling as though he had been hit by a poleax. Slowly, he made his way back up the stairs and reentered the chamber, trying to recapture that first memory of seeing it. The jeweled mosaic walls and the light pouring down through the aperture.

  Going to the bed, he picked up one of the pillows and inhaled her scent on it. She had taken a place inside him and made it hers, and now he was hungry and hollow and had nothing by which to measure this feeling. There had been women in France and England, and even a mistress during his time on the tourney circuit, but nothing that had prepared him for the storm that was Paschia de Riveri. He did not know if it was love, but it was fierceness and fire; it was lust tempered by a desire to protect and an exquisite, tender pain that nevertheless made him smile.

  He knew he had crossed a line and, that if he delved too deeply, he would find guilt and shame. It was one thing to say that this domed room was a place out of time, another to embrace the temptation. It was wrong, yet it felt holy too, a sacred thing to be held in wonder and grace. And surely somewhere between the two, there must be a point of balance.

  When he considered that a long enough time had passed, he descended the stairs, going down from light into shadow, although there was still enough illumination to see the door. He took the key from around his neck and his smile was a grimace, for it was as though, by giving him this, she had set a halter upon him. If he was honest with himself, this was not a truce at all. Had this been a joust, he would have been bowled from the saddle and tumbled in the dust.

  As he turned the key and locked the door, his heart turned and moved within him too. He drew the curtain across, tucked the key back down inside his shirt, and left the chapel. Paschia was kneeling before a small altar with lit candles, her head bowed in prayer. Knowing he was being tested, he acknowledged her with a slight bow of deference, his face the bland mask of a courtier, and continued on his way as if everything was ordinary and normal. Although desperately tempted to look over his shoulder to see if she was watching him, he resisted and walked straight ahead and out into the blinding sunlight.

  * * *

  Throughout the rest of July and August, as the Outremer sun burned to white heat, William and Paschia continued to meet in the dome above the patriarch’s chapel when time and chance permitted. William’s patrols often took him away for several days at a time, and he had other matters to occupy him. Customers came to him for help and advice with their horses and their harness. He developed a reputation for being able to turn his hand to practical matters both military and equine, and his advice was sought. Since the king of England might be the next ruler of Jerusalem, people were eager to cultivate him. The lady Paschia, although she did not have Heraclius to care for, spent much of her time in the Countess of Jaffa’s household. It was not always easy to make an assignation under the ever-watchful eyes of the numerous spies working for Paschia’s uncle.

  They made the arrangement that Paschia would touch a single plain gold ring on her middle finger when usually she wore many. She would come down to the stable yard with her servants in order to ride Rakkas, and she would touch the ring as she spoke to him. He would respond by putting his hand to his heart, over the key, in a gesture that seemed no more than a courtly salute, although whenever William responded to the summons, his stomach would churn with anticipation, and the heavy feeling of need became almost unbearable.

  His men were accustomed to his coming and going. They knew he had business to conduct with all manner of folk and saw nothing untoward in his absences. As often as not, those absences occurred in the middle of the day, when everyone was taking shelter from the heat. Ancel would be visiting his woman, and the others would be dozing or playing chess or working indoors on their equipment.

  For a few stolen moments, William and Paschia immersed themselves in each other. William would make his way to the domed chamber, his body tense with anticipation. The undercurrent of knowing he was committing a terrible sin was subsumed by the euphoria of the moment. He would gaze upon the jeweled light pouring on to the bed and wonder how on earth this could be a sin when it felt so holy.

  He knew Paschia must come here alone, or Zoraya her maid, for clean bedsheets would appear or a fresh dish of sweetmeats. Sometimes he would arrive and find incense burning in a latticed brass bowl. He did not ask about the appearance of these things, sensing it would break the mood she wanted to create, and he would wait for her to come to him, listening for her soft footfalls on the stairs. As she rounded the last twist and faced him, their eyes would meet with mutual hunger.

  Their lovemaking was often a passionate flurry because they had so little time, and the days between meetings built desire to an incandescent pitch. But there were treasured moments when they had more leisure and would lie entwined, hands stroking, feeding each other sweetmeats and grapes. Once, she brought a yellow fruit of paradise, its shape extremely suggestive of the male member, and ate it lasciviously while riding upon him until his body arched like a bow with the pure pain-pleasure of the sensations. Another occasion, he came to the chamber straight from patrol, still in his armor, and they had taken each other in the heat of the moment, with blistering, erotic savagery.

  Each time they came to the dome, they agreed a new truce until the next occasion, and William found himself living for those moments, tense, on edge, sick with desire, knowing that the more deeply he became involved, the harder it would be to extricate himself, and the further he fell, the more uneasy his buried conscience became.

  “How long do you think Heraclius will be away?” he asked one day as they lay entwined in a haze of sated desire.

  She painted his chest with the soft golden tassel of her belt. “Who knows? We should just make the most of the moment…I told you.”

  William gazed up at the glittering mosaics on the walls of the dome. He could lie here forever, but his time in this place with this woman was finite, even if the world beyond did disappear inside this jeweled bubble. “Yes, you did, but I don’t want it to end.”

  She was quiet, and for a moment, a cloud shadowed their refuge. She ran her hand over his forearm and touched the pink scar of the wound he had received in Constantinople. “How did you come by this?”

  William grimaced. In seeking to distract him, she had driven his mind into darker corners still. “It is naught. We encountered trouble on our road to Jerusalem, and I received it during a fight.”

  “But it disturbs you.”

  He shook his head. “It is not that.”

  “Then what? You can tell me, my English warrior lord.” She spoke the last words with a teasing smile and whisked the tassel over his flat stomach.

  “I let someone down and myself into the bargain.”

  She said nothing, encouraging him with silence.

  “My king and liege lord,” he said after a long pause. “I was sworn to keep him safe, but he died under my protection and I could not save him. Had I been firmer or wiser or had the wits to find a way out of our dilemma, he might not have come to such an end. I have offered my own life up to God over and over in atonement, but he has not taken it, so I assume I am meant to live. I vowed to come to Jerusalem to pray for Harry and purge my soul. It is a year to the day since I set out with my men bearing his cloak to lay at the sepulchre.”

  She leaned over and kissed him gently. “I am sure all will be well and you will make everything right. Anything is possible in Jerusalem.”

  William returned her kiss and said ruefully, “A year ago, I never imagined any of this was possible…and now I am wondering how long it will last, and I know it is a sin.”

  “Hush.” She pulled back to look at him. “No more brooding. I have told you, this is a place separate
from the world. Let there be no talk of sin. I am to blame for many things that only God will ever know, but if I brooded upon them…” She broke off with a small shiver. “My family… You have seen how my uncle is, how he conducts business?”

  “Indeed so,” William replied darkly.

  “He is valuable to Heraclius, and his web extends everywhere. There is no place where he does not spin his thread. He is not a man to cross. Those who tangle with him are either silenced or ruined—or they die.”

  “Like your musician?”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever the reason, your uncle was having him watched and intimidated. Perhaps Ptolemy knew too much and had a loose tongue. Perchance he was helped from this world, who can say?”

  She bit her lip and looked away. “I do not know; indeed, I do not think about it.”

  “Perhaps you should.” He felt a dull heaviness that she had dismissed his suggestion rather than repudiated it.

  “No!” She turned to him, eyes full of fear and denial. “I refuse to let them intrude in this place, and you should too. It is the only way—that is what I am trying to tell you.” She kissed him passionately, and they made love again with fierce intensity.

  Afterward, as they cuddled together, William stroked her smooth, flat belly. “What if you get with child?” he asked. “I know that the women of the court have ways of protecting themselves but…”

  She gently traced her forefinger around the whorls of his ear. “Do not let it bother you. I have the matter in hand. The Church says that to couple without procreating is a sin, and I obey that teaching, but if I desire to keep myself clean with sponges and preparations, then it is no sin.”

  William was relieved because the matter had been much on his mind. With Heraclius away and time passing, a pregnancy would begin to look suspicious.

  As they dressed, he imagined how it would be if she were his woman, his wife. It was not as though she was married to Heraclius; she was a widow and free to wed. He had money lodged with the Templars from his tourney winnings and the rents from two houses in Saint Omer on which they could live, and then it would not matter if she got with child. Indeed, he would welcome it. But such ideas were like this room: a moment out of time, the wonderings of a foolish dreamer who did not want to wake up and face a different reality.

  “You are still quiet,” she said.

  “I was thinking that I must go and pray for my young lord, since it is a year since we set out.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I admire your loyalty.”

  He almost told her what he had been thinking but held back. He did not want to break the moment, and he knew how mercurial she was—one moment, an imperious lady of the court, politically astute and powerful, then an experienced concubine, knowing every ruse and trick to bring a man to ecstasy, the next a loving, vivacious young woman with an impish sense of humor. If he told her what was in his mind, she could either melt in his arms or scorn him out of hand, and he was not ready to be that vulnerable before her.

  She left then, slipping quietly down the stairs and letting herself out. William waited a brief while, straightening the bed, continuing to imagine the idyll, a smile on his lips and an unconscious frown between his eyes. Eventually, he went downstairs and let himself into the chapel, glancing around to make sure all was clear. Then he made his way swiftly outside, the key tucked safely inside his shirt.

  As he stepped into the hot midafternoon sunlight, Paschia’s uncle came walking toward him. William affected an air of relaxed nonchalance.

  “You have business in the palace?” Zaccariah asked with suspicious belligerence.

  “No business that concerns you, sire,” William replied. “Since you ask, I was seeking a scribe to ask him to write a note for me.” He bowed and moved on but was strongly aware of the other man’s scrutiny and knew he and Paschia would have to be especially careful.

  * * *

  As the afternoon shadows lengthened, William gathered his small entourage and went to attend evening mass at the sepulchre, the service conducted by the Bishop of Lydda in Heraclius’s absence. Afterward, William and his men remained in further prayer and lit candles for their young lord’s soul. William took the small square of fabric that had been cut from the hem of Harry’s cloak, together with his cross, and passed the items along the row for each man to kiss and honor.

  Later, they shared a remembrance meal and composed speeches and toasts to honor the Young King—the ghost in the empty seat at their table. William had had one of Heraclius’s scribes write out the tale of their lord’s life, glossing over the difficult moments and making much of the deeds he had performed, recalling with affection the liveliness of his court and Harry’s vibrant, mischievous wit.

  “He once held a feast where only men named William were allowed to attend,” William said with a chuckle. “He told those who were resentful at being excluded that they should be glad not to be among so many commoners.”

  “I was one of them,” Ancel said. He fed a sliver of chicken to Pilgrim, waiting expectantly at his feet.

  “I brought you out a cloth full of food and a jug of wine,” William said. “As I recall, you’d had a good night at the dice, so it was worth your while.”

  Ancel shrugged. “I still wasn’t part of the golden circle.”

  The smile dropped from William’s face. “It wasn’t always golden.”

  “He loved you though. Why else would he have chosen your name?”

  There was a taut silence. “Yes,” William said eventually. “And for that love, we are here now.”

  They raised toasts again and told stories long into the night before retiring to their pallets, full of gratitude to be alive and sadness that Harry wasn’t. For a while, William stood alone in the starry darkness and reflected. He was at a crossroads and he did not know which path to take, for none of them was straight to the horizon, and he did not know what lay around the corners.

  Ancel joined him, Pilgrim nudging his heels. “I am going to visit Asmaria. I know it’s late, but she won’t mind.”

  William clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Then you had best make haste and I shall see you in the morning. Give her my greeting and tell her to send a pie.”

  Ancel grinned. “I’ll do that.” He hesitated and gave William a hard look. “Is all well with you?”

  “Yes.” William rubbed the back of his neck. “It is a day for remembering and evaluating—we are changed men from the ones who set out from Rouen, that is certain. Whether we are redeemed or not…” He shrugged, because for him, the matter was currently in doubt.

  “Gwim?”

  William sighed. “I love you, I want you to know that. Never doubt it.”

  Ancel eyed him almost suspiciously. “And I love you, Brother, and have never been in doubt of it, even if I have doubted you.” It was a complex statement for Ancel to make and perhaps more than anything showed William how much his clumsy, naive brother had grown in the year since they had set out. Perhaps more than he had.

  “Go on,” he said. “Do not keep Asmaria waiting.”

  The brothers shared a fond bear hug until Pilgrim joined in with a spot of ankle nipping and they broke apart, cursing and laughing. Ancel picked up the growling dog and tucked him under his arm. William playfully tousled Ancel’s curls and watched him walk away into the dark.

  For himself, he could not sleep, and he went to the stables to check on the horses, and from there to the small chapel set up for the patriarch’s servants, there to spend the rest of the night in vigil for Harry.

  * * *

  On a burning morning at the end of August, William had just finished shoeing Chazur, a task he always performed himself because the act built trust and bonding between him and the horse. Besides, he enjoyed the forging and hammering, the smell of hot metal and horn, the closeness to his
horse as he worked. Some other knights eyed him askance for undertaking tasks that could be left to an underling, but William had been taught by his father, who had been taught by his, and it was a matter of pride and practicality, although with the sun nearing its zenith, it was time to retire to the shade.

  He was running his hand down Chazur’s leg when Eustace, who had been delivering a mended bridle to one of the king’s hearth knights, came running into the patriarch’s yard. “Sire! Sire!” he gasped, his face flushed and sweat-streaked. “Saladin has returned to Kerak and is laying siege! They have just heard news at the palace!”

  William set down Chazur’s hoof and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. The other men left their tasks and gathered around anxiously.

  “They say he is filling in the ditches and has brought up his siege machines,” Eustace continued.

  “So it was all for nothing last time,” muttered Robert of London.

  “He was always bound to return.” William removed his leather apron. “A fly doesn’t leave your plate alone just because you brush it away. And he will have learned from his first attempt. I said he would fill in the ditches, and he’s clearly better prepared than before. It will be a harder fight, and we dare not let Kerak fall because his next target will be Jerusalem.”

  The men exchanged glances, all knowing the danger in which they stood. The king’s illness had worsened recently and he had been resting a great deal. Whether he was capable of leading an army to Kerak was debatable, and the leaders of the two military orders were absent on the mission to Europe, all of which Saladin would know from his spies.

  “Better make sure every horse is well shod, and check the weapons,” William said. “No doubt a call to muster will go out in short order. We cannot afford to delay.”

  “I heard someone say the king has already ordered the beacons to be lit on the watch towers,” Eustace said.

  As he was speaking, Paschia’s uncle Zaccariah entered the yard with the soldier Mahzun of Tire, several of the latter’s mercenaries, and the handful of household sergeants that Heraclius had left behind.