Paschia donned her cloak, fastened it across her breast, and went out with Zoraya following a pace behind and William bringing up the rear. As they were walking toward the gate, Zaccariah emerged from the palace and observed them with his hands on his hips and his eyes narrowed. Paschia ignored him, save to put her head in the air and sweep majestically through the gate.
William walked at her side, keeping a proper distance and ensuring that her path was unimpeded, his hand on his sword hilt as he inhabited the role of the stern knightly guard.
The soldiers on duty at the royal complex passed them through the doors. William would have turned back then, but Paschia gave him an imperious look. “You will not leave me until I have reached the chamber,” she said. “You told me that you understood, and I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”
“As my lady wishes,” William replied, tight lipped, and accompanied her to Sybilla’s chambers.
He had been there once before, on the day that Baldwin had discovered his sister had absconded to Ascalon rather than see her marriage annulled. Then, the room had been in disarray, the furniture overturned and filled with the evidence of a hasty retreat. Now Sybilla was pacing up and down, hands pressed together at her lips. A trestle of food and drink had been set up along one wall and various nobles were present, none of them belonging to Raymond of Tripoli’s faction.
Paschia went straight up to Sybilla and curtseyed. Sybilla raised Paschia to her feet, kissed her on the cheek, and led her away, speaking in a low voice.
Guy de Lusignan bore down on him, goblet in hand.
“Sire,” William said stiffly.
De Lusignan’s expression filled with amused curiosity and a little contempt. “Yours is not a face I would have expected to see here, but then I suppose if you are detailed to escort duties, you have small choice. Or perhaps you are information gathering?”
“As you say, sire, I have my duties,” William answered blandly.
De Lusignan smiled, his eyes a vivid, sea-shallow blue. “Of course, but since you are here, you are welcome to my table.” He extended his arm toward the board. “Please, be my guest.”
William considered refusing, but it was a long time since he had eaten and he was ravenous. As Guy had observed, he could use the opportunity to garner information. He had once said he would rather starve than dine at Guy de Lusignan’s board, but since he was trapped, he might as well make the most of the food and watch and listen—and try not to remember that extended right hand of Guy’s thrusting a spear into his uncle Patrick’s unguarded spine.
He heaped a platter with meat-filled spicy wafers and small salty strips of fish wrapped in vine leaves. There was plentiful bread and good wine. Once equipped with sustenance, William sat down on a bench facing the room and set to with a will; since he did not have to speak when his mouth was full, he could watch instead.
He noted the hangers-on and fixed them clearly in his mind. He was not necessarily going to go running to Raymond of Tripoli with tittle-tattle—Raymond had his own informers—but he was making himself aware for his own sake. Paschia might be scheming how to bring him further into the fold, but he was determined to stay out of it.
As William ate his way steadily through his meal, he watched Guy pile a different sort of platter to the rafters by telling expansive, bold stories to his friends and sycophants—the parody of a king. And his companions laughed or agreed with him, outdoing each other to praise him and gain approval. William was reminded of occasions at Harry’s court when everyone had been jostling for position, smiles on their faces and knives behind their backs. Guy encouraged them, his gestures becoming ever more expansive.
Sybilla, attracted by the noise level, approached Guy and took his arm. “Sire, there are matters that I must discuss with you urgently.”
William noted that she pinched him. The face she made to Guy and his cronies was that of a wife in need of succor, but to William it was plain that her husband was in danger of making a fool of himself and she was reining him in. His admiration for Sybilla increased, and his opinion of Guy was reinforced.
Having finished eating, he rose to take his leave.
“You must visit again,” Guy said as Sybilla prepared to lead him away. “I could use your talent in my household, rather than letting it go to waste. Your men too. You will find me generous.”
“Sire, I hope that whatever I do, I shall not waste my talent,” William replied, with a bow.
Sybilla steered Guy away, her hand on his arm like a mother guiding a recalcitrant child. William met Paschia’s gaze and inclined his head to her, one eyebrow raised in irony. She ignored him.
He had much to think upon, but unless the envoys returned from their mission with King Henry or one of his sons in tow, he knew he would not be remaining. Paschia desired his compliance—he suspected she had told Guy and Sybilla that she could win him over to their cause. But he could not do that, even for love.
And then there were the Templars. Onri kept dropping strong hints that he should become a Templar knight, and William sometimes thought it would be a way out of his various dilemmas, but he considered himself unworthy of taking the vows that Onri, Augustine, and Aimery in England kept with such pure faith and sincerity. Nor did he approve of the new grand master, whose position was supposed to be neutral but who had a clear bias toward the Lusignan faction. While the country where Jesus Christ had been born, had walked and performed miracles, was the holiest on earth, it was ruled by men of dust.
When he returned to the patriarch’s palace, he went to the stables because it always settled him to spend time with his horses. Eustace was already there, sitting on an upturned bucket, cleaning harness. The sun had bleached the squire’s brown hair to bronze gold, and he was lithe and muscular—a man now, not the boy who had cowered in God’s shadow in the days following Rocamadour.
“Zaccariah of Nablus was asking if you were back from escorting Madame la Patriarchess,” Eustace said.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
Eustace shook his head. “No, but he was asking questions about how many horses we had bought and sold and what we were being paid for escort duties and poking his nose into our business.”
William grunted. Zaccariah was a great one for turning over every stone he came across in the hopes of finding something underneath he could devour or use for his own ends. “What did you tell him?”
Eustace looked up from the tack and adopted the expression of a slow-witted oaf. “I said I didn’t know anything about my lord’s business. My lord never tells me because I am only here to groom and polish and see to my lord’s comfort.” Eustace touched his forelock for emphasis and rolled his eyes.
William grinned. “Did he believe you?”
Eustace shrugged. “He was not pleased, but he went away. I said I did not know how long you would be and that you might have other business for all I knew.”
William nodded and dismissed the matter from his mind. He sent Eustace on an errand to fetch his working tunic from his chamber and walked along the stalls, talking to the horses and petting them until he came to Rakkas. The gelding whickered to William and stretched out his nose, seeking a titbit. William produced some dates that he had appropriated from de Lusignan’s dining board and Rakkas whiffled them up, delicately spitting the stones out of the side of his mouth.
Hearing footsteps, he thought it was Eustace returning, but instead it was Paschia’s uncle. A bunch of keys swung from his belt, and he was glowering as usual.
“I spoke to your squire earlier,” Zaccariah said. “He played the fool, although I know he has his wits about him.”
“I spoke to my squire also,” William replied in a level voice, concealing his revulsion for this odious man. “He told me you had been asking questions, and I am as perplexed as he was, because I do not see that my business is your business.”
Zaccariah gave him
a hard look. “From what I have seen of late, you are doing very well for yourself.” He gestured around the stable yard. “I think it is time you paid some rent.”
William shrugged. “I think you will find that my arrangement on this matter is with the patriarch.”
Zaccariah’s own smile was a baring of teeth, and he seized William roughly by the arm. “And I think you will have to listen to me if you value your livelihood and your life. You dabble too deeply in the patriarch’s affairs—I think you know what I mean, and if you do not pay me a commission, I will let it be known where it will do you the most harm.”
Shock surged through William, for Zaccariah’s words and insinuations made it plain that he knew about him and Paschia. This man was no more than a common pimp trying to extort money. “I do not know what you are talking about,” he said.
In an instant, Zaccariah had slammed William around, pinned him by the throat, and had a dagger at his ribs. Rakkas whinnied and plunged, tail swishing. “By God you will know what I am talking about when the patriarch returns and I tell him you have been interfering with my niece. Then you will know very well indeed. You might think it’s worth paying me then.” Zaccariah seized William’s purse and used the dagger to cut the strings. “This will do as a down payment.”
“My lord, here is—” Eustace stopped in the doorway and then dropped the bundle of clothes, hands flashing to his own knife.
“Step aside, oaf,” Zaccariah spat, “or I will gut you like a fish before you draw your next and last breath.”
“Do as he says, Eustace,” William said.
Wide-eyed, breathing hard, Eustace moved to let Zaccariah shoulder past. The latter gave William a triumphant glare over his shoulder as he stalked off.
“He just robbed you, sire,” Eustace said in shock, eyes wide that William was not going after Zaccariah and doing something about it.
William sat down on a stool in the corner of the stall and dug his hands through his hair. His heart was thundering and he felt sick, the large meal he had eaten earlier lying like lead in his stomach. “It was my own fault. I am always telling you to be on your guard and never to underestimate your opponent, and I did not practice what I preached. Let it be. Let him have the money. He will not get any more.” He recovered enough to give Eustace a rueful smile. “If my purse seemed full, it was because I had some tokens in there for a breast band I was making for Madam’s horse. When he tips out the contents, he is going to be sorely vexed to find harness decorations.” His smile faded. It was no laughing matter that Zaccariah of Nablus knew about him and Paschia. At the least, he would continue to demand money with menaces, and at the worst, he would lay the evidence before Heraclius and bring William down. However, since such a course of action also had the potential to bring Paschia down and threaten Zaccariah’s livelihood, he suspected he was bluffing on that score. The main danger was to himself.
“Why was he demanding money?”
“Because he wants part of the proceeds from our earnings and claims we owe him rent.”
“But we’re saving that to see us on the road home and pay our way!” Eustace said indignantly.
“That does not matter to him. He only cares about lining his own coffers and keeping us intimidated and under his control.” William shrugged. “I store the bulk of our money with the Templars, but I will warn the men to hide their purses and only carry as much as they need for a day.”
“I thought when we came to Outremer, to the places where Jesus walked, that it would be a place of great holiness and light,” Eustace said with disgust. “Indeed, when I entered the sepulchre and knelt at Christ’s tomb, I felt that way; but when I saw the court and the lords and knights who dwelt there, I realized that it’s not a holy land at all.”
William nodded grimly. “You are right there, lad.” He patted Eustace’s shoulder. “Time that we made a decision about going home.”
“What about the patriarch?” Eustace looked at him askance. “Are we not to wait for his return?”
“I have some decisions to make about that too,” William said. “But whether we go or stay, we should make preparations.”
31
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
William listened to the downpour pattering on the new leaves of the oak tree beyond his chamber window. He could smell the fresh spring air on the rain that was blowing into the room and spattering the window-seat cushions. Isabelle would mind, but he did not. Indeed, he wished he could leave his bed and go and sit there and feel the cool drops on his hands and face one last time.
He hoped that the roads on the Welsh borders were not too wet and muddy, for Jean should be on his way back by now if all was well.
His gaze wandered across the room to the garderobe chamber where all the clothes were stored and cared for—the dirt brushed from the fabric, and the moths kept at bay. Last year while in London, before he had begun to be unwell but with a premonition that he might need it soon, he had commissioned his tailor to make him a Templar mantle. The oath he had sworn to the order in the Holy Land had been a weight on his mind for a while. Just a little longer, he had told himself. Enough time to see his youngest children grow sturdy and strong and to ensure his family was protected when he was no longer there to shelter them.
He had been circumspect, and no one save his tailor and almoner knew the cloak was in his wardrobe—especially not Isabelle or his children. They would know when the time was right. It was close now, but not quite yet. A few more days, while Jean traveled from the rough roads of Netherwent to the green fields of the Thames Valley with his precious package.
Eustace entered the room and looked askance at the open windows. “The rain is coming in, sire!” He reached to close the shutters.
“No,” William commanded, “leave them. If the women complain, I take full responsibility. The cushions can be dried.”
“Don’t you mean ‘when’ the women complain, sire?”
William found a weak chuckle. “Tell them that I am fully in my wits and I wanted to see and smell the rain. They will understand.”
“I will take your word for it, sire,” Eustace said dubiously. He was still slim and upright, although his rich brown hair was well frosted with gray now and his face seamed with the lines of middle age. “I came to tell you that the gray mare has foaled—a chestnut colt with a white star—a fine little stallion.” He grinned. “On his feet and suckling straightaway. He’s a beauty.”
William brightened. “That is good to hear.” One of the benefits of being so ill was that no one brought him bad news for fear of weakening his constitution, and in the little time remaining, there were still moments of poignant delight.
“The lady Mahelt says to tell you he should be given the same nickname as your grandson—Turbeillon.”
William chuckled. “Why not?” Little Roger was a whirlwind, and by the time he was old enough to sit a warhorse, this foal would be in his powerful maturity. “Tell her I approve and mark the foal for his use.”
“Sire, I shall.”
“Before you arrived, I was remembering the horses and the stables we had in Jerusalem.”
Eustace’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “There were some truly fine animals there. If only we could have brought a herd of them back with us—they would have been a sight to behold!” He sobered and flicked William a questioning glance. “Do you wish we had never gone there, sire?”
William shrugged. “Sometimes, but I tell myself everything happens for a reason. Even if I am not proud of happenings there in which I had a part, I am glad I fulfilled my oath to lay my young lord’s cloak on the tomb of the sepulchre and atone for what we did at Rocamadour. I have great and humble gratitude for that opportunity. To have walked the same paths as our Savior has been a great comfort and blessing.” He gazed at the curtain dragging in the breeze. “But some paths I trod there were not as positive and have la
in on my heart and my conscience. I have made confession and been absolved many times. I have done penance and atoned and dwelt in God’s favor, but I still know that those things took place. A sin may be expunged by confession, but it does not expunge the memory of that sin.”
Eustace frowned. “I know there are matters from that time which have disturbed you, and it is not my place to ask, but I wish you to have peace.”
“You have a good heart. Do not let it be troubled on my account.” He patted the coverlet. “Sit with me awhile. If we are to speak of memories, do you recall how I came to employ you?”
Eustace immediately brightened again. “I was at my father’s forge when you came through on your way to a tourney. You had a piece of harness that needed repair, and when I saw you, and your armor and horses—the way you walked as though you owned the world—I knew I had one chance and I seized it.”
William pictured the slight, brown-haired lad working the bellows. Eustace had been the fourth son and little required but drafted into work while the third brother was elsewhere. He had begged and pleaded to join William’s entourage—to work for nothing but food and bedstraw. “I had no squire at the time, and I was headed to a tourney where an extra pair of hands was essential.” William smiled. “To be honest, I was not sure I had done the right thing. It was like throwing a crust to a stray dog that then follows you around for the rest of its days. You don’t know if you will be able to feed it, but it repays you with the utmost loyalty and devotion. And in truth, you were quick to learn and knew exactly which piece of equipment I needed right at the moment, and you always had the remount saddled and the lance ready.”
Eustace shrugged, feigning nonchalance, although his gaze sparkled with pleasure. “I knew I had to make myself invaluable to you—that if I had been given a chance, I must not squander it.”
“And you didn’t,” William said. “We have been through thick and thin together. You’re a grown man, but it is a privilege of my heart to still call you ‘lad,’ because in spite of all, you have kept your innocence.”
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