Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “I do, and I am willing. When I set myself to a task or a vow, I never go back on my word.”

  She sat up and the setting sun illuminated her body in red-gold light. “You offer me yourself, and I know you would honor me because you set your honor highest of all.” She looked at him, her eyes quenched in shadow. “You ask me what would I say? Perhaps you should not ask.”

  “Is that a refusal?”

  She shook her head and reached out to tenderly brush his hair from his eyes. “No, my fine English warrior lord. But it is a warning.”

  “So, if it is not a refusal, then you consent?”

  “You said ‘if’ you asked,” she replied. “And I am warning you not to ask. You know whatever I answer now is like the spin of a gambler’s coin. Whichever way it lands is the answer for now, but it is not the answer for another day and another spin of the coin. I do love you. I care deeply if unwisely, but what you ask—”

  “If I do leave, will you at least consider coming with me?”

  She frowned. “I will consider it, and that is all I can say for now, save that you have offered me a truly priceless jewel.” She kissed him gently and then, turning away from him, sought her clothes. “I do not think it will be necessary for you to leave. Sybilla will sort this out. Truly a mountain has been made from a grain of sand and you have only seen the mountain because it is so much bigger, even though it is an illusion.” She braided her hair and efficiently tidied it away under her veil. “I counsel you to think again about Guy de Lusignan, because he is fit and strong, and the king is not.”

  William opened his mouth to answer and changed his mind. In this matter, they were not as one; she did not understand the nuances nor the loathing he had for de Lusignan—perhaps never would.

  “You will see.” She kissed him a final time and, tapping the end of his nose with her fingertip, left the chamber.

  As he dressed, William felt as if he was in limbo with a hollow longing inside him that could never be assuaged.

  29

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  William thought he was awake but was not sure that he could be, because Paschia was sitting at the bedside holding a jewel casket with blue-and-gold enameling and riffling through the contents. Gold ribbons adorned her lustrous, black hair, and she was wearing the dress of flame-colored silk that had been his favorite. Her skin was taut and young, and her eyes were like dark gems.

  Becoming aware of his scrutiny, she looked up and, meeting his gaze, held up an oval of clear, polished rock crystal set in gold. “Your offer to me was like this jewel,” she said, “priceless and pure, and I cherished it with all my heart.” She tilted the box toward him so he could see inside, see it was full of numerous other jewels and gemstones in multiple colors: a chain of rubies, ropes of pearls, cuffs of gold and amethyst, sapphires as blue as a moonlit sky. “You see,” she said, “I could not have given up all of these in order just to have one. It was impossible.” She held the rubies to the light. “Who can find a virtuous woman? She is more precious than rubies.” She shot him one of the smiles he remembered, and her eyes sparkled with tears. “Heraclius gave these to me.”

  He stretched his hand toward her and a plain gold ring glinted on his little finger.

  “Ah, William,” she said. “My English lion.”

  “I have always kept it.” He tried to smile. “You often called me a fool.”

  Closing the casket, she rose to her feet, her gown shimmering. “Your only folly was me.”

  “Yes, I still have the scars.”

  “And the truce?”

  He paused to think, to draw breath and sustenance. “I stopped fighting many years ago, because I no longer had that need.” He looked to the door as a young woman entered, her hair falling to her waist in a skein of rippling gold. She was holding a small boy and she was heavy with child. “I have my own box of jewels,” he said, “and they have rendered me full compensation.”

  The vision of Paschia faded and so did the one of his wife as a young woman. He watched an older Isabelle cross the room to the bedside. Her waist was thickened from the bearing of ten children, her belly softly rounded. She was carrying their youngest grandson, Ralph, in her arms, just six months old. The baby, free of his swaddling and clad in a linen smock, was joyously waving his little arms and legs about.

  “You were talking?” Isabelle said as she sat down at the bedside.

  “Was I?”

  “You said something about jewels.”

  “I was thinking of you and our children and grandchildren and how I have a treasure chest full beyond any reckoning known to man.”

  She forced a smile. “Mahelt has gone riding with her brothers, and I thought if you were awake, you might like to see this little one for a moment.” Very gently, she placed the baby in his arms.

  Grandfather and grandson regarded each other solemnly. “Blue eyes,” William said. “Like yours, like the sea.”

  Ralph laughed at him, showing two small teeth, and when William gently tickled him, he gurgled with delight. The sound filled William with painful joy and made him chuckle. He was not going to see this one begin to crawl, let alone walk, but his blood ran in the baby’s veins, and who knew what he would make of his life, which was all gloriously before him? William derived great comfort from knowing that life continued, and he had been given the privilege of seeing his grandchildren, as many had not. “I have much for which to be thankful,” he said softly. “And I am well reminded.”

  After a while, she took Ralph from him and jogged him on her knee, and William saw the worry lines etched into her face, but she was radiant too, as she played with their grandson and forgot her cares for a moment. He remembered watching her as a young mother, playing similarly with Will at Longueville and flashing him a glance so full of joy and pride that his emotions had magnified until he thought he would burst.

  He thought about love and how it could be like a sheet of fire or the silky shine on a blade or the tinkle of bracelets as a woman clasped her ankles around your waist, her nails as sharp as daggers. Or it could be the wide, deep ocean, more fathomless than a man could understand, or the harbor that brought the ship home to safe anchorage. And now he had to leave that ship and even that ocean for something more profound and deeper still.

  30

  Toward Tiberius, February 1185

  William rode into the nomad camp swathed in dark robes and mounted on Ancel’s donkey, Lucky. He was certain he had developed saddle sores. His feet almost trailed on the ground and he had to constantly tap the animal’s rump with a stick to make him move forward. But at least, even if one paced, Lucky was tireless and more economical in terms of fodder and water.

  Onri had chuckled at the sight of him thus mounted, his light armor swathed in robes such as the Arabs wore. “No one would believe such a sight if they saw you in Rouen or London!”

  William had rolled his eyes at Onri. “I am not sure I believe such a sight myself.”

  “You are doing us a great service,” Onri said. “We won’t forget.”

  “I am not sure how to take that remark,” William had retorted and, with a click of his tongue and a tap on the donkey’s rump, had set out on his mission.

  He was to visit the Bedouin camp where he had sometimes bought horses, and he was to ask their leaders to graze their flocks near an area that was constantly being raided by the Saracens. They would then report on what they saw and the Templars would utilize the information. Since William was on unofficial business and not riding with his men, lest the nomads in their turn were being watched, he had disguised himself as a common traveler with his shabby donkey. Following Guy de Lusignan’s raid on the Bedouin of Dofar, the tribesmen were wary, and a single man entering their camp in native garb was likely to have more success than a troop armed to the teeth in Frankish war gear.

  Finding the group was the firs
t issue; it took him several days and a couple of false trails before he discovered them grazing their flocks in a sparsely wooded valley to the north between Jerusalem and Acre. News of his approach had already flown through the camp and the men were waiting for him, prepared either to welcome or repulse depending on the impression he made. A crouching woman ceased scooping nuggets of camel dung into a basket and watched him suspiciously. Another grabbed her playing child off the ground and hastened into a tent.

  Dismounting from Lucky, William wondered if his backside would ever feel the same again.

  He was greeted by the head man, Abdul, and invited to take refreshment in his tent. Lucky was led away to join the rest of the tribe’s animals, and William handed his knife and sword to an attendant.

  William removed his turban, his voluminous outer swathings, and divested himself of his light mail shirt and short gambeson. A male attendant brought water to wash William’s feet and another provided a platter of sweetmeats and a syrup drink made from lemons and sugar, served in a cup of exquisite Tyrian glass.

  William played out the game of social etiquette. Nothing could be hurried and all must be done with due reverence and purpose. Quietly, the other senior men of the tribe arrived at Abdul’s tent and took their places, and William greeted each one with a salaam and a bowed head.

  Once the formalities had been observed, William presented Abdul with a silk pouch dimpled with jewels, gemstones, pearls, and gold. William had not seen its contents until now, and he was astonished, although his expression remained neutral. He and Paschia could have lived on the value of that pouch for the rest of their lives.

  The Bedouin were clearly impressed by the gift, but their faces grew serious when William told them about the border area that the Templars wanted them to watch and drew a diagram in the dirt with a stick.

  “It will not be easy, but it shall be done,” Abdul eventually said with dignity. Against his sun-darkened skin, his irises were almost tawny yellow. “Tell your lords that all shall be arranged; we shall keep watch and report.”

  More of the lemon drink was passed around, and a young man produced an oud and began to play.

  “We hear that the Templars have a new grand master,” Abdul said.

  “That is so,” William replied, “but he has been in that position ever since Grand Master Torroja departed with the other envoys, so there is little change for the moment.” He marveled again at how effective the Bedouin were in trapping information, as if they had great fishing nets sweeping in news from miles around. Arnold de Torroja had died in Verona, and the news had returned via a Templar galley that had braved the winter seas to bring the tidings. The patriarch and Roger de Moulins were continuing on their mission as best they could.

  “We also hear that the king has appointed a regent while he recovers from his illness—may he do so inshallah.” Abdul bowed his head and sent William a probing look.

  “God willing,” William responded, touching his heart. “But the kingdom is in good hands while the Lord of Tiberius holds the reins.”

  On hearing of the raid upon the Bedouin, King Baldwin had returned to Jerusalem from Acre. He had done his utmost to smooth the situation, sending reparations of camels, food, and money to the survivors and castigating Guy de Lusignan in scathing terms. He had considered going to war against Guy, but following exhortations from Sybilla, backed up by de Ridefort, he had agreed to drop the matter, especially since he and Sybilla were in mourning for their mother, who had died of her own long illness while he was at Acre.

  Frail and sick, Baldwin had convened the High Court of Jerusalem and appointed Raymond of Tripoli as his regent, making it clear to all, including Sybilla, that he considered Guy de Lusignan unfit to rule. She had not responded, but William did not believe that it signaled acceptance, rather that she was biding her time and treating Guy’s behavior as the tantrum of a frustrated small child.

  “Indeed, the Lord of Tiberius is deeply respected,” Abdul said. “He is a man who has the wisdom to listen beyond that which he hears, and that is a good thing.”

  William spent the night with the Bedouin, sitting round their fire, listening to their tales and in his turn recounting stories of his own life in lands that these people would never see. They were keen to hear about the abundant rainfall where, for most of the year, the grass was as green as the emeralds in the pouch of jewels he had given them. He was not sure that they believed him.

  Later, lying on his rug near the tent entrance, he gazed at the stars, listened to the huff of camels, and thought of home. He wondered what Paschia would make of England and Normandy. How would she respond to a green country of mists and rainfall and golden-leaved autumn forests? The tart taste of an apple and the blaze of a proper log fire? He closed his eyes to better imagine the scene, but it faded and all he could feel was cold northern rain falling on his face like tears.

  In the morning, William straddled Lucky and left the camp, provisioned with camel’s milk and dried dates for his journey. The Bedouin were already preparing to move their flocks to keep watch and report. He could not remember his dreams beyond a sensation of wistful longing and the steady, soft patter of rain.

  * * *

  After returning to Jerusalem, William took Lucky to Asmaria’s house, where Ancel kept him stabled. Asmaria used him to carry her wares, and Ancel paid for his upkeep.

  “You have just missed your brother,” she said cheerfully, giving William a drink while he made a fuss of Pilgrim. “He has gone to the bathhouse.” She eyed him askance. He had unwound his turban and now wore it as a scarf wrapped several times around his neck over his old quilted tunic. His hose were threadbare and his beard needed a good trim. The pungent aroma of donkey clung to him. “Perhaps you might see him there,” she added with an impish smile.

  “I think you are right,” William said with a grin.

  She was clearly curious as to what he had been doing but asked no questions. He finished the watered wine, thanked her, and departed for the bathhouse, having paid her eldest boy to run to the patriarchal palace with a message for Eustace to bring him fresh clothes. He could have gone himself, but he did not want Paschia to see him and start asking questions, for she would have none of Asmaria’s restraint. He did not want to think that perhaps he did not quite trust her and banished the thought because it was too painful to explore.

  William found Ancel in the patriarch’s bathhouse near the hospital. He was lying on a table being simultaneously washed and pummelled by Salim, one of the bath attendants.

  “I have returned Lucky to his stable and fed and watered him,” William said. “Asmaria told me you were here.”

  Ancel turned his head on his folded hands and cocked one eye at his brother. “I trust your journey was successful?” He did not ask what William had been doing.

  “Yes,” William said without elaborating, and began to remove his clothes.

  “Have you been to the palace yet?”

  William shook his head. “I’ll make my report as soon as I’m presentable. I’ve sent Asmaria’s lad to tell Eustace to bring me clothes.”

  Ancel hissed through his teeth as the bath attendant began to rub him powerfully with his soapy cloth. “There is news,” he said in a choked voice. “The king’s condition has worsened while you’ve been gone. The Countess of Jaffa arrived from Ascalon yesterday.”

  William looked sharply at Ancel. “What is wrong with him?”

  “A persistent fever—it abates and then returns and each time he grows weaker. I do not know any more than that, but Zaccariah has been stamping around with ants in his braies.”

  * * *

  Freshly bathed, wearing clean raiment, William left Ancel at the bathhouse and walked the short distance to the royal palace. The late-winter day was cold and clear, the afternoon sky a pale, insipid blue without a shred of cloud. There had been very little winter rain so far—a few fla
kes of snow just after Christmas, and one day’s solid downpour in late January, but nothing to speak of since early December. People were muttering that if it did not rain soon, there would be a famine in the autumn.

  He was passed through to the king’s day chamber by the ushers who knew him well, and as he entered the room, he was assailed by the scent of lemons and incense that did not quite mask an underlying fetid aroma of sickness. Baldwin was in bed, propped up with pillows and cushions. He wore a white headcloth and a loose linen chemise over his heavily bandaged arms. His face was gaunt and sunken beneath the ruins of leprosy, and it was like looking upon a living corpse. He was all that held the kingdom of Jerusalem together. A single indomitable will, a rotting body, and a stuttering heart.

  A multitude of barons and magnates were gathered in the main part of the room and around the bed while a physician helped the king to drink a tisane. Some women sat to one side, and William saw the Countess of Jaffa among them. Little King Baldwin was playing at his mother’s knee with a pair of toy knights. Sitting at Sybilla’s side, comforting her, was Paschia. William’s heart leaped as he took in her lithe figure, clad in a blue gown and demure white wimple, but knowing the danger, he rationed himself to a single swift glance. She was busy with Sybilla and had not seen him, and he did not want to draw her gaze.

  He returned his attention to the bed where Raymond of Tripoli was watching the physician spoon the tisane into Baldwin’s mouth. Baldwin choked a little but managed to swallow some of the medicine. An attendant gently patted his face with a cloth, and Baldwin gestured with one of his bandaged hands to another attendant who helped him to sit further upright on the bed.

  “I am not dead yet,” he announced in a slurred, gravelly voice. “My body may be failing, but my will is still strong. If I am to die in my bed, not on the battlefield, then I must ensure that I leave this kingdom strong in its resistance to our enemies and not divided against itself.”