Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “There’s been news,” Zaccariah announced, marching over to William. “We’ll need every horse in the stables and every fighting man. See to it.”

  William raised his brows at the man’s peremptory tone. In England, Zaccariah of Nablus, as a doorkeeper, would have been subordinate to William in both rank and role, but in Jerusalem, it was a different matter.

  “Indeed,” William replied smoothly, “it is in hand. My squire has already informed me of the details.”

  Zaccariah scowled, clearly disgruntled at being preempted. “If you have heard, then you will understand the need for haste. Every man capable of riding a horse and bearing weapons must go to Kerak’s aid. There will be no shirkers.” He stamped off, treading heavily like a bull. Mahzun of Tire gave William and his men a superior glance and followed Zaccariah.

  Robert of London muttered under his breath, and William said sharply, “Best keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  “But he implied—”

  “I know what he implied. He was baiting us because we received the news first, and he hates to be bested. He is dangerous, and whatever you think in private, treat him with caution. He will be riding with us, and we shall have enough ado with Saladin without troubles on our own side. Come, we must sort out weapons and arrange provisions. Eustace, fetch the water flasks.”

  * * *

  William sat on the edge of the bed and slowly donned his tunic. Outside, the sun was melting into the west and the domed room was cast in shadow save for a jeweled segment where light that was deeper than gold enhanced the mosaic with a richer gleam.

  The look in Paschia’s eyes was close to grief. Her dark hair was still loose and hung in a lustrous tumble to her waist, over the ruby silk of her gown. “What if I never see you again?” she said. “I cannot bear it.”

  Her anguish surprised him because he had thought her inured to such realities, and he had no experience by which to measure it. Whenever his father had ridden off to war, his mother had always made her farewells with a smile and a promise that she would be waiting with open arms to welcome him home. She might have wept in private but never in front of her lord. “I will return to you if I can, I promise. And if not, then you have God to thank for my life. Light a candle for me.”

  “Do you think that comforts me?” she demanded. “Shall I sit here and gaze at a stick of wax in your stead and have solace from my grief? I think not!” Tears filled her eyes and she began to weep.

  He pulled her into his arms, his own throat suddenly tight with emotion, and tipped up her chin. “Trust me, and trust in God. I will come back to you, I promise.”

  She drew away and wiped her face with the palm of her hand. “I have not told you, but I had a brother,” she said. “He rode off to war when I was twelve years old and never returned. We do not know what happened to him save that his bones lie bleaching somewhere in the Judaean Desert.” Her face contorted. “People go out and they do not come back. I do not want that to happen to you—I could not bear it.”

  Feeling a surge of protective tenderness, he kissed her salty cheeks and lips. He understood now why she had bidden Heraclius farewell and then turned immediately, almost desperately, to him as her succor and security. It was as much need as lust. “I am not your brother, and his fate is not mine. I must go. I have no choice, as you yourself once spoke of choices. God willing, I shall return.” He certainly hoped God was willing, because if he died now, he would not be in a state of grace, but he was not going to say that to Paschia. Instead, he kissed her passionately, then again, gently, on the forehead. “Pray for me and watch for me, and I will come.”

  Leaving her standing in the last of the westering light, he followed the thin, almost bloodred shadow of the sun down the stairs to the doorway.

  * * *

  In the cool, gray dawn before the sun broke over the horizon, William knelt within the round of the sepulchre and gave his personal oath to King Baldwin, to the Bishop of Lydda, and to Gerard de Ridefort, acting grand master of the Templars, bestowing his body, his life, and his worldly goods to this campaign to deliver Kerak from Saladin in the name of Jesus Christ. Alongside him, each recruited knight took the same oath on his bended knees, and de Ridefort sprinkled each man with holy water. “Now let any man who has not done so make his farewells, for you may not see each other again.” The Templar’s lined face was tight and keen. “I want no man in my service who is not prepared to go into this with full commitment.”

  William was still undecided about de Ridefort. Rumor said he had joined the Templars after the woman he had sought in marriage had been given elsewhere by her overlord, Raymond of Tripoli, and thus, he harbored a grudge against the Lord of Tiberius. Whether or not that was true, he was certainly a driven individual full of grim purpose.

  In a pensive mood, William went to the patriarchal palace to collect his horses and equipment and Ancel’s too, for his brother had gone to take his leave of Asmaria and the children.

  Zaccariah of Nablus was in the stable yard with his own mount, and Paschia was bidding him a dutiful public farewell. Noticing William, she gave him a courteous nod. “Godspeed, messire. I shall pray for you and your men and hope you return safely.” Her tone was that of an encouraging but detached patron.

  Her acting was flawless, and he strove to match it. “Madam, we shall do our best, and thank you for your prayers.”

  For a fleeting instant, their eyes met, and then she lowered hers and walked swiftly in the direction of her dwelling. Her uncle gazed after her suspiciously, and William turned to his own business, his shoulder blades prickling at the danger.

  * * *

  The army of Jerusalem set out on its second journey to Kerak in less than a year, a force united in gritty determination to deal with Saladin and drive him off once and for all, this time without the complication of wedding guests to consider. For King Baldwin, it was probably the final time he would lead the army behind the True Cross. For Gerard de Ridefort, it was his first command as leader of the Templars and the additional knights of Jerusalem. For Guy de Lusignan, it was an opportunity to prove himself to possible allies and skeptical enemies alike, with the full backing of the Templars.

  They rode around the north tip of the Sea of Salt and once again camped near its shores, ready to ride on to Kerak at dawn. Scouts were sent out to reconnoiter and numerous guards posted, lest the Saracens should have skirmishers out seeking opportunities to raid.

  William and Ancel were returning to their camp after seeing to their horses when they noticed a circle of men had gathered to make an impromptu arena around the mercenary knight Mahzun of Tire and another warrior. The men were sparring with swords and shields; Mahzun was methodical and hefty with his blows and the other man swift and light. Puffs of gritty dust rose from the ground as they shifted and stepped.

  Zaccariah of Nablus was watching the exchange with folded arms and his customary scowl and glanced over his shoulder as William and Ancel joined the circle.

  “What’s happening?” William asked.

  Zaccariah shrugged. “Nothing. A test of skill and weapons for a wager. Mahzun will win. The other’s like a fart without the shit. I wouldn’t employ him. Too many of his kind among our knights these days—untried soft swords.”

  William arched his brows but otherwise ignored the remark, taking it as a cheap barb.

  The men circled each other, launching blows, parrying and feinting. Mahzun almost cornered his opponent, but the other knight managed to dodge the blow and weave back to the middle. Mahzun came after him again, arm rising and falling, speed increasing. His opponent blocked every attack, all but stumbled on his back foot, and with a roar, Mahzun crashed a shattering blow onto his shield. His sword sheared off close to the grip, leaving him with a hilt in his hand attached to a jagged stump of blade. Mahzun stepped back with a shout of rage and hurled the broken hilt to the ground. He turned to the circle o
f watchers, hands outspread, the hem of his mail shirt flicking out. “A sword!” he bellowed. “Someone give me a decent sword!”

  No one moved. Swords were too precious to give up to someone as brutal in his approach as Mahzun of Tire. Ancel reached to the short sheath at his waist. “Here, you can have my knife!” he cried, pitching his voice high, so that it sounded more like a young squire’s than a grown man’s, and he ran out into the middle of the circle waggling the weapon. The audience hooted with laughter and nudged each other. Mahzun’s opponent grinned as he clambered to his feet.

  Enraged, Mahzun snatched the dagger from Ancel and, seizing him in a stranglehold, laid the blade against his throat. “You will not make a fool of me before all these men, you halfwit cur!”

  “It was a jest!” Ancel wheezed.

  William started forward, his hand to his sword hilt. “Let him go.”

  Mahzun eyed William speculatively and his corded forearm continued to grip Ancel in a choke hold. The audience stirred restlessly, men unfolding their arms, tensing. Mahzun’s gaze flicked around the gathering. “No one makes a fool of me and lives,” he spat. “Try that again and I will cut your throat!” He hurled Ancel to the ground, tossed the knife across the circle—not caring if he struck anyone—and, shouldering aside the gathering, stalked off toward his tent.

  Zaccariah, who had been brokering the wager, was furious because he now had to return people’s money. He cast a murderous gaze in Ancel’s direction. Mahzun’s opponent took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat. Rubbing his bruised throat, Ancel staggered to his feet.

  “You fool!” William remonstrated. “What in God’s name possessed you to do such a thing?”

  Ancel coughed. “How was I to know he would take it that way? Everyone else laughed. It was obvious no one was going to give him a sword.”

  William rolled his eyes. “So you just ran in on the spur of the moment and made yourself an enemy for life? You should have considered how he would react, rather than performing for the audience. I thought you’d learned some common sense since we’ve been here, but plainly, you haven’t.”

  Ancel flushed. “I made a mistake,” he said defensively. “You make them too.”

  William swallowed and gritted his teeth. He had been about to say Not like this, but considering his own follies in Jerusalem, he had no right to take Ancel to task. His mistakes were sins, and potentially much worse. He retrieved the knife Mahzun had thrown on the ground and gave it to Ancel. “Enough,” he said. “We should eat and check the weapons.” And then he pulled Ancel close and knuckled the top of his head. “You fool,” he said gruffly.

  “I was taught by the best,” Ancel retorted, pushing him off.

  * * *

  Later, Onri joined William at his campfire. The punishing heat of the day had softened and diminished as the sun sank below the Judaean hills, and the air now bore enough of a chill that William had draped a blanket around his shoulders. The nuggets of camel dung fuel gave off a strong heat and twirled pungent smoke into the darkness, lit here and there by oil lamps and lanterns. The horses snorted and stamped, and the soldiers hunched around their fires, playing dice, singing songs, and praying. Distantly, during lulls in the conversation, William could hear the sea lapping against the shoreline.

  “You should be wary of Mahzun of Tire,” Onri warned, prodding the fire with a poker, releasing a new wave of heat.

  William grimaced. “I am. When he comes to the patriarch’s palace, I avoid him. He works for Zaccariah of Nablus, and their dealings are often of the night. They put business each other’s way.” He gave Onri a meaningful look.

  “That is what I know of him also,” Onri said. “But men hire him because he is a good fighter and always carries his task through to the end, no matter what. That part is his honor, even if he lacks it elsewhere. You should keep Ancel out of his way.”

  “I intend to,” William said, “but thank you for the warning.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a little while. Onri brought out his dagger and set about sharpening it with a small whetstone.

  “What do you think of de Ridefort?” William asked.

  Onri’s expression closed in. “He has his own methods of rule. When he gives an order, he expects it to be carried out, and he is not a man to be crossed. Once he has committed himself, nothing will turn him back, and he is forceful in his decisions. More than that I cannot say.”

  Or would not, William thought. Onri was a loyal Templar knight and orders were orders.

  “Saladin will not stay to fight,” Onri continued. “It is too great a risk to face a pitched battle before the walls of Kerak when we have a strong advantage. But he will have probed at our responses to see how we answer when our grand masters are absent, and our king’s illness is progressing. That is the reason the king has forced himself to come to Kerak, rather than send out the army and remain in Jerusalem. He defeated Saladin once and drove him off last winter. His name is a talisman to us and a fear to the Turks. What it will be like when we do not have him, I do not wish to think—unless perhaps the patriarch is successful and brings a new king on his return.”

  William said nothing. Onri had dwelt in England, and they were both realists and knew the likely outcome.

  Onri put the knife away and looked at William across the fire. “What do you long for the most?” he asked. “Settlement with a wife and lands to call your own, or continuing along this path you have made for yourself?”

  “Now you ask a deep question.” William rubbed his neck. He could not tell Onri that his ideal would be to bring Paschia back to Normandy with him and make a new life with her, yet Onri had posed a pertinent query that was one of the routes leading from William’s present crossroads. “All I can answer is that I do not know.”

  “I still see you joining our order at some point,” Onri said. “You have that quality within you. Perhaps you will stay in the kingdom of Jerusalem?”

  William shook his head. “I said before, I am not worthy, and that still pertains. There are things you do not know about me.” He lifted his cup and finished the sour watered wine. “I have much to think about, and my path is not straight and winds beyond my vision.”

  Onri’s gaze remained unperturbed. “Even so, that does not change what I see.” He rose to his feet. “But I will bid you good night and go to my prayers. Think on it.” He gripped William’s shoulder and walked away toward the Templar campfires.

  William watched him and felt unsettled. Onri was a good man, a spiritual man, and a close friend, and William did not want to let him down. He tried to envisage himself wearing the cloak of a Templar, a celibate warrior monk, but the image refused to fix in his mind and faded into one of himself and Paschia embracing within the domed chamber. He knew which he wanted more, sin though it was.

  27

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  It was dark, only a single light burning at his bedside, but William did not need the light. He could see perfectly well. In his mind, he left his bed and walked silently across the room, past his eldest son, nodding on his stool, past Henry FitzGerold, who was keeping Will company in light slumber, and the silver gazehound lying at their feet, nose tucked against tail, until he came to the wardrobe chamber. A coffer holding cloaks and robes stood against the wall, and he saw himself push back the lid, remove the first winter cloak on top of the contents, then take out a white woolen robe with a red cross stitched over the heart and then a cloak of the same cloth, almost as heavy as a hauberk. He had no strength in his arms—he could not even hold his own cup—but in his vision, he was a man in his prime, and it was no difficulty to hold the garments up and look at them.

  “See?” he heard Onri say. “You did know your path after all.”

  28

  The Road to Kerak, Outremer, September 1184

  As they rode toward Kerak the next day at speed, Mahzun
took the opportunity to intimidate Ancel. Under the guise of riding with the patriarch’s party in order to speak with Zaccariah, Mahzun rode up close to Ancel’s horse and hemmed him in, making it clear that he had not forgotten or forgiven the previous evening’s occurrence with the knife. When William trotted up to intercept, Mahzun reined back and made a false apology, but his eyes remained hard with threat.

  As on their previous journey to Kerak, skirmishers from Saladin’s army harried and threatened them. Archers swooped in like flocks of birds, shot their arrows into the midst of the advancing Franks, and then raced away uttering high, ululating cries. Some of the young bloods rode close enough to hurl spears before whirling around and galloping off, making high sport of the Frankish army. Several knights had to remove quilled Turkish arrows from their shields and mail. Some horses were struck too, although none wounded beyond piercings that made them buck and kick.

  “Hold!” William commanded his own small contingent as he heard the oaths and anger behind him. “They are trying to goad us into making a charge.”

  Uttering a growl, Mahzun reined his horse out of the line and, seizing a spear, galloped toward one particularly persistent group who had been teasing them. They held until he was almost upon them and then broke away, whooping and taunting, but Mahzun was wise to their ruse and not tempted too far from the main army and reined back. Instead, he made his stallion caracole and, with a mighty effort, cast his spear down before the enemy, so it landed in the dust, point down and quivering. Then he returned to the Frankish troops at a prancing canter, to cheers and accolades. As he settled back into line, he cast a glittering look at William that was almost contempt.

  Eustace was beside himself. “Sire, we should do something!”

  William shook his head at his squire. “All he has done is to give a spear to the enemy and encourage young hotheads like yourself to follow his example and perhaps be killed by misjudgment. But still,” he added, because he too was goaded by Mahzun’s deed, “there is nothing to stop us from a little tourney training as we ride along.” He gestured to Eustace. “The standing saddle perhaps?” Eustace’s crestfallen expression changed instantly and he kicked his horse to a canter, then slid off its back to the ground behind before leaping over its rump and back into the saddle. He reversed to face backward, then scissored around to the front once more, and stood up, dropped down, leaped on, leaped off.