Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  * * *

  William returned from patrol three days later. They had seen no sign of the brigands, but the band was experienced at evading armed patrols and only materialized to take on weaker targets. Having made his report, William went to eat with his men at the patriarch’s palace and begin a discussion about plans for their return to Normandy, although made no mention of Paschia because he needed to think about how to broach the subject and now was not the time. No one raised objections to the general notion of leaving, which was thought to be a good decision since King Henry had declined to take up the mantle of kingship in Jerusalem. The country was riven by drought, just as the leadership was riven by factions, and by the time they returned home, they would have been gone for more than two years.

  Paschia was absent from the palace. Her red door was closed and none of her servants to be seen. William was not unduly concerned. She was probably attending on Sybilla and doubtless they were still discussing how to persuade him to join Guy’s faction. Zaccariah was absent too, and although William was relieved, he did not relax his vigilance, for his gatekeepers were still present and watchful.

  Over the next week, William continued to make preparations to leave and assemble items to go into his saddlebags and onto the packhorse. Paschia remained elusive, and by the seventh day, he began to feel anxious, for she should have sent a message by now. Forcing himself to focus on the task in hand, he opened a small wooden chest to check its contents. There were several phials of water from the River Jordan, the pouch of salt stones from the Dead Sea that he had privately named Lot’s Wife’s Necklace, a scraping of mortar from the walls of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, a cross of olive wood from a tree in the Garden of Gethsemane, and the small, square patch of brown wool and the pilgrim cross taken from Harry’s cloak. The sight pierced him with grief and he began to shake. “Christ help me, Harry,” he whispered, swallowing tears.

  He was not in a state of grace; should he die now, he was going straight to hell—the very thing he had come to Jerusalem to avoid. Before he left, he had to make things right in the sight of God.

  Folding the small square of cloth, he replaced it in the box, wiped his eyes, and, leaving his chamber, set out with renewed determination to Paschia’s dwelling house.

  It was still locked up, and his answer was a hollow echo when he pounded on the red door with his fist.

  “Madame la Patriarchess is not here,” said a voice behind him.

  William turned to face a groom from the stable, one of the unskilled men employed to sweep and barrow the dung. William had always suspected that he was one of Zaccariah’s spies but had made a point of being amenable to him and paying him tips, because one side could always be played off the other. Just now, the man was shifting tensely from foot to foot.

  “Do you know where she is, or when she will return?”

  The groom shook his head and brushed away a fly. “No, sire, but she left the day after you rode out, with her maid—borne in a litter, she was.”

  William clenched his fists and felt as if he was on the edge of dissolution. There were many reasons she might have gone on a journey. “What of her uncle? Where is he?” He paid the groom a coin from his purse.

  The man tucked the money away and shrugged. “Gone to Nablus on business.”

  “And did Madame la Patriarchess accompany him?”

  “I do not know, sire—couldn’t say where she was going. She didn’t tell anyone.”

  William paid him another coin. “If you hear anything more, come and tell me.”

  The man took the money, saying he would do so, leaving William to stand in the courtyard, as baffled and anxious as before.

  * * *

  Three more days passed without word. William snapped at the men and he had no appetite, nor could he settle to any task. On the afternoon of the third day, having just finished some lance training with Eustace, he was dismounting in the stable yard when he saw Zoraya coming toward him, her air her customary one of quiet composure. “Thank God!” He strode to meet her, his heart pounding. “Where is your mistress?”

  Eustace stared and then looked away. Zoraya did not answer. Her dark eyes were inscrutable as she put her hand on her heart to indicate that William should go to the domed chamber.

  William handed Flambur’s reins to Eustace. “Stable him,” he commanded. “I have urgent business.”

  Eustace said nothing, his expression taut and closed.

  His heart thundering, William took off at a near run toward the palace. Paschia’s uncle was still absent, and few servants were around in the heat of the day, but he checked himself as he reached the cool darkness of the patriarch’s chapel, with its dappled puddles of light from lamps and candles. Taking a deep breath, forcing control on himself, he crossed the room, slipped through the door, and climbed the stairs.

  Paschia was already in the domed chamber, sitting on the bed waiting for him, her head down and her hands folded. She had no smile for him, no fire to light her eyes. Indeed, she avoided his gaze altogether.

  “Thank God,” he said. “I have been worried about you. What has happened?” Sitting down beside her, he tilted her chin toward him.

  Her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and a faint sheen of sweat dewed her forehead. “I cannot come with you, William,” she said in a choked voice. “While you were away I…” Her voice faltered. “While you were away, I miscarried the child, so you may trust you have done your duty by me.”

  Her words came at him as if from a distance. “I don’t… What do you mean? You were in full good spirits when I left to my duty.”

  She turned her face away. “I began to bleed and I lost the child. Zoraya has been tending to me at the Convent of Saint Anne. God saw fit to punish us. I will never lie with you again because the sin is too great. That cup is empty.”

  “No,” William said. “No.” A huge chasm opened under his feet.

  “You were planning to go and you still should.” She clasped her hands, knuckles whitening. “I love you; my heart is not my own anymore,” she said almost bitterly. “I never thought to fall so hard or so far, and now I am counting the cost of my foolishness—and my lust. Do not lead me into further talk or ask questions, for I shall not answer. Just accept it is over between us.” Taking his hand, she placed in it a single iron nail, the metal glinting with dull light. “I want you to have this and keep it safely, for it will always protect you. It represents the holy blood of Jesus, and you will never have another such because it comes from a mold taken from a nail of the True Cross.”

  William stared numbly at the metal spike lying across his hot palm with a total lack of comprehension.

  She stood up and moved away from him. “I cannot come with you. Do not ask it of me, but know that I wish your life to be fruitful and joyous and good.” Her voice cracked. Two tears rolled down her face and she wiped them away on the side of her hand like a child.

  William gazed at her in numb shock and clenched his fist around the nail. “Is it because I refused to agree to swear fealty to Guy de Lusignan? Is that your price?” He stood up and tried to pull her into his arms, but she wrenched away with fire in her eyes.

  “No, it is not because of your attitude to Guy de Lusignan, even though I think you the world’s greatest idiot for turning down such an offer.”

  “Then why? Your uncle?”

  She swallowed, then shook her head. “It is over, William. I have no reason now to go with you. My place is here in Jerusalem with Heraclius, and I must prepare for his return. I would not thrive anywhere else.”

  “‘No reason now,’” William repeated, feeling sick. “Oh, indeed, my lady. You show me my true value to you whatever pretty words you use.”

  Her voice caught and cracked, and tears ran down her face. “They are not pretty, William, and this is not a pretty situation. It was always a dream, and now we must return to
reality.”

  “For me, our future is the reality. It is what we can make it, yet you are not prepared to take that step.”

  She wiped her eyes, looked down. “I cannot.”

  “You mean you will not.” William drew himself up to his full height and looked at her standing in front of him, so haunted, so delicate, so vulnerable but filled with the terrible strength to bring him to this. He could not think clearly; he had to escape, but to leave was to accede to her dictate of finality.

  “The key.” She held out her hand. “Give me the key and then go.”

  In silence, he removed the cord from around his neck and handed it to her. She took it, looping it around her hand, tightening her fist, and still she did not look at him.

  Somehow, he forced himself to walk out of the room and down the stairs, his spine straight, his head carried high. Crossing the chapel, he was no longer furtive but strode out, not caring who saw him. He passed people and did not speak, seeking only the sanctuary of his chamber, and once within, he sat on his bed with his head in his hands, still unable to believe it had come to this. He had offered her everything, and it was not enough, and if it was not enough to change her mind, it meant that he was not enough, and it was a desolate feeling. His heart had been wide open to her and she had hit the target. On the battlefield, he would have been dead. He lay down on the bed and curled up, a raw ache in the pit of his stomach.

  Eustace put his head around the door and looked at William, his eyes widening in consternation. “Sire, what is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” William said dully. “I will be all right by and by. I will call if I have need. Tell the others I am not to be disturbed, and close the door.”

  Eustace went out again, and William lay folded on his bed as the day dimmed to darkness. Everything in his life for the past year had revolved around Paschia, and now there was nothing. How did he go on from here? Tell himself it had never happened? Had she truly played him for a fool and just used him as a comfort and diversion during Heraclius’s absence? Her mutable nature was part of her allure because he had never known where he truly stood with her and it had been a challenge.

  Perhaps it had all been a ruse to try to bring him into de Lusignan’s camp, with the added benefit to her of sexual gratification—until she got with child and had to face the consequences. Possibly she had indeed fallen for him against her intention. Clearly she did not think he could keep her in the manner she desired. He was not some great prelate with jewels and prestige at his command but a knight of modest means by comparison. The reality that killed the dream.

  Some hours later, Eustace returned and looked at him with troubled eyes. “Sire, you are not well; you are shivering.” He came to lay his hand on William’s forehead. “You have a fever and you are sweating.”

  William brushed him off with irritation. “It is nothing,” he growled. “Go away.”

  Eustace unfolded the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it over William. “Sire, if you are not any better by Compline, I shall send for a physician.”

  William dragged the blanket up around his ears. “I said go away,” he snapped. “I do not want to see you or anyone else, and I do not need a physician!”

  Eustace gave him a wounded look. “I will be outside the door. You can shout if you need me, sire, and I shall keep guard.” Head high, very much on his dignity, he went out.

  William groaned into the blanket. Rolling over, he faced the wall and made a concerted effort to draw himself together. He did feel shivery and hot at the same time, and a dull headache beat through his skull like a fist on a drum. He was still gripping the nail and a red welt striped his palm. Sitting up, he threw off the blanket and, falling to his knees at the side of his bed, prayed to God to sustain him and help him through this morass. Surely if something was worth fighting for, it should not be yielded at the first battle. If he gave up now, he would always wonder and always think less of himself.

  Several hours later, he staggered to his feet. He was light-headed and nauseated but determined. He washed his face and hands at the laver and changed his stale garments for a clean shirt and rumple-free tunic.

  Opening the door, he almost tripped over Eustace, who had been sitting on a stool, leaning his spine against the wall, but who immediately sprang to his feet.

  “Are you feeling better, sire?”

  “I am not ill,” William snapped. He stared at the spoon Eustace had been carving. “Have you nothing better to do? Go and polish the harness instead of wasting your time.”

  Eustace gave him an aggrieved look but compressed his lips and went to do William’s bidding. William followed him to the stable yard and looked around, hands on hips, picking fault with everything—the way some stray wisps of bedding had not been swept up, the untidiness of the dung heap, even the manner in which a horse’s mane had been braided. The surprised and resentful looks from the men made him feel worse because he knew he was being unfair. Flinging on his heel, he stalked from the yard and headed to the palace.

  Paschia was in the patriarch’s chamber, sitting in Heraclius’s chair, surrounded by her household and dictating letters to a scribe. Her face was powdered and made up with cosmetics—red cheeks, ruby lips, dark-lined eyes. She dripped like an icon with pearls, jewels, and silks, and her glorious hair was concealed by an ornate gold turban wound around her head and fastened with a huge ruby.

  William clenched his fists and strode forward as though he had business of great weight. Reaching the dais, he turned around to the gathered messengers and servants. “I have important news for Madame la Patriarchess for her ears alone. Please, if you would all leave.”

  Paschia’s head jerked up and she shot him a look of furious indignation. The servants had all frozen, aghast. “Leave us,” she commanded with an imperious gesture of dismissal, “but remain within call and do not close the door. Zoraya, stay.”

  Her people departed, several looking over their shoulders, and the scribe was clearly annoyed at having to abandon his parchment half-written.

  When all had gone but the maid, whom Paschia sent to stand by the partially open door, Paschia narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not ever do that to me again,” she hissed. “You compromise me and set tongues wagging by such arrogant and foolish behavior.” Her hands clenched on the arms of the chair. “Who do you think you are to walk into my chamber and make such demands? I will not tolerate it. You are fortunate that my uncle is not here.”

  Dismayed at her fury, William nevertheless held his ground. “I have come to reason with you. I have come to find the woman who told me I owned her heart and took me for her soul mate. I want you to reconsider and come with me, whether there is a child or no child. It is still not too late.”

  She drew herself up, her features set in harsh lines. “If I ever agreed to come with you, it was because you pressured me and because it was a dream to while away an afternoon and bring a different piquancy to our meetings. I told you at the outset that what happened in that chamber was a moment out of time, but you have chosen to ignore my warning.” Her lip curled. “I could never go with you.”

  “My offer was true and open,” William said grimly. “Do you tell me that all this time you were trifling with me?”

  She made a throwing gesture with her hand as though casting something away. “It is not my doing but your own in being so naive as to think we could just ride away together and make a new life. It was a dream, William, a dream! Do you not understand? What do I have to do to make you see?” Her voice had been rising, but she recalled herself and lowered it. But although the volume decreased, the vitriol did not. “Now you have put us in a situation that could throw us both into public disgrace and exposure. How dare you!”

  William stared at her. Although they had often argued, he had never been on the receiving end of her political rage, a ruthless, excoriating fire—a fight for control and survival.

>   She rose and faced him. “You are never again to come to me unless I specifically command your presence,” she said icily. “If you do, I shall set the guards on you, and I shall have you hunted down like a sewer rat. I can do it. You know I can, and I will, I swear it. Now do you understand?” She pointed at the open door. “Get out, get out now!”

  William was shocked into silence. It was as if she had taken his being, burned it to ash, and then blown it away with a single puff. There was nothing left. He was dust. He gave her a blank look, turned on his heel, and walked out, his steps steady and his shoulders back. Her servants and supplicants were clustered outside the chamber, and he passed them as though they did not exist, and he did not feel their stares because everything was blank.

  33

  Manor of Caversham, April 1219

  William was dreaming. His slumber was too deep for him to awaken, but he was close enough to the surface to feel the excruciating pain in his body, and it was like being unmade from the inside by an assassin’s dagger. He could see Paschia rolling on the floor, clutching her belly, in a chamber lit by a single lamp that yielded a grainy, unwholesome light in otherwise pitch-darkness.

  Her uncle stood over her, his lips curled back in disgust. “You slut, you whore!” he spat. “I am sick of clearing up your messes. You shall not leave, and you shall not bring this disgrace on your family and ruin all our work by your rutting with every brazen knight and troubadour who takes your fancy.” He drew back his foot and kicked her in the belly. “You shall bear no bastards while I am keeping guard.” The candle extinguished in a sudden puff of air as though blown out, and the darkness was complete, but he could hear Paschia screaming and the pain continued to surge, until it was so great that there was no room for breath.

  And then he was fighting to the surface and someone was putting a cup to his lips. Too weak to struggle, he tasted the bitter brew on his tongue and choked. He could hear prayers being chanted, and there were whispered, agitated voices around his bed. Someone gripped his hand. Behind his eyes, the darkness was suddenly dazzled with brilliant light, and he was certain that this must be the end, but how could it be when Jean had not yet returned with his shrouds? The pain stabbed him like knives, but he forced himself to accept and embrace it because it was the only way through.