Ancel watched him eat for a moment to make sure he was truly on the mend and then said, “I have something to tell you: the lady Paschia’s uncle returned to your room yesterday morning.”
William almost choked and had to take a swift swallow of wine. “How do you know?”
“I went to collect your clothes and was on my way out when I saw him coming and I hid behind a pillar. He went up to your chamber and I heard him force the door.” Ancel took the cup from William’s hand and drank. “He was shouting and swearing to find you gone and vowing he would find you and deal with you as you deserved. Then the lady Paschia arrived…”
“Go on,” William said hoarsely.
“He wanted to know where you were, called her a slut and a whore, and said he was sick of clearing up the mess every time she ran after men like a bitch in season.”
William compressed his lips.
“She said she did not know where you were and she would not tell him even if she knew. And then he called her a traitor to her own kin and said she must be here when Heraclius returned. He swore that if a single word of your affair with her got out, he would kill both of you.”
William’s heart lurched. Even now, he found himself thinking of the danger to Paschia—and to his men. The danger to himself did not matter.
“She called him a fool and said that his own behavior had already compromised her, that people would be asking why he was searching for you with such rage.” Ancel flicked William a worried look. “He said he would tell them it was because you had been thieving the patriarch’s most precious possessions. She warned him that if anything happened to you, she would kill him with her own hands. ‘You have done enough already. You will not harm him,’ she said.”
William’s throat constricted.
“He told her that he would see about that, and then he left.”
“And Paschia?” William could hardly say her name.
“She was crying, but then she saw me. She did not ask what I had heard—she must have known it was most of it—but she said to tell you she was sorry, she would do what she could, and for the rest, you must save yourself.”
William was silent, digesting the details.
“What if Zaccariah of Nablus reports you to the patriarch?”
“He won’t. His own position depends on hers. Heraclius will turn a blind eye, providing it is kept from full sight. He will only see what he wishes to see—like all of us.” How many men had there been before, he wondered, and how many of them dead? Ptolemy for certain, and Zaccariah spoke as if there had been many others.
“Now I know why you wanted to leave before the patriarch returned,” Ancel said. “Are we still going to do that?”
William stared bleakly at the wall and eventually shook his head. “No, or at least I cannot, for I must atone for my sins. You may leave as you wish. I do not hold it on you or any of the men to remain against your will.”
Two deep vertical furrows appeared between Ancel’s brows. “We will not leave without you. How could we? If we are all one body, it would be like cutting off our head. If you stay, then I stay, and the others will say the same, even without knowing the reason.” His voice grew fierce. “If you command us to leave, you will be defied.”
“I am not worthy of such loyalty,” William said wretchedly.
Ancel shrugged. “But you have it, and so you must be worthy, or why else would we still be at your side? Does that mean you think us all fools for staying? It is what you taught us.”
Ancel’s comment made William feel worse but, at the same time, uplifted. It gave him a reason to go on, a reason to strive and to put things right.
* * *
William found Onri busy in the armory, sorting through a new consignment of spears and examining them for flaws. “I need to speak with you,” he said.
Onri set aside the spear he had been studying, dusted off his hands, and looked William up and down with a critical and concerned eye. “I knew you had been unwell with a fever, but I had not realized how seriously—your brother was a regular guard dog and would not let anyone near. You’re as gaunt as a cadaver!”
“I am recovering well enough,” William replied with a shrug, “although I am grateful for Ancel’s care, and I hope, with the help of the Templars, to make a better recovery still.”
Onri raised his brows. “That is an ambiguous statement. Do I take it that you intend to join the order?”
William sent him a pained look. “I am unworthy to do so, but I desire to serve and atone for my sins.” He took a deep breath. “I want to serve not just for my term in Outremer, but for all my days, as a secular knight if the order will accept me.”
Onri’s brows remained raised. “Is this connected with your hasty departure from the patriarch’s palace?”
“It was not appropriate to remain there for various reasons,” William said flatly.
Onri pursed his lips. “I cannot grant you acceptance, as you must know. Only the grand master has that right.”
“I understand, but I am asking you to speak for me.”
Onri gave him the same concentrated look that had been fixed on the spears he had been examining for signs of weakness. “Certainly, but I suspect that some grave circumstance has led you to make this request—I wish you had come to us before it happened.”
“I wish it too, but hindsight always makes us wise,” William replied, wondering how much Onri knew or suspected.
Onri grunted. “Help me finish these spears, and I will see what I can do.”
* * *
Onri brought William to a chamber on the west side of the church and bade him wait. William gazed at a mural depicting Templar knights fighting the infidel on horseback with lances. A statue of the Virgin holding the Christ child stood in a niche, surrounded by candles, and although the image was fair to look upon, he was taken back to his sin at Rocamadour and felt smaller than nothing.
Glass lamps suspended on chains hung from the ceiling. Rolled-up parchments were piled on a table beside a chess set and a locked ivory casket. A white cloak hung on a wall peg with an ebony staff propped beneath it against a solid weapon chest. There was little to indicate the personality of Gerard de Ridefort beyond that of being a conventional man. William did not know him well, save for his dislike of Raymond of Tripoli and his leanings toward de Lusignan. It was not the politics that brought him here now and de Ridefort was but the gatekeeper, the man he had to go through in order to make his atonement.
The shaft of sunlight gilding the floor had illuminated several more squares before Onri returned with Grand Master de Ridefort. William immediately knelt on the sun-warmed flags and lowered his gaze.
“Look up,” de Ridefort commanded, and William raised his head to meet a pair of flint-gray eyes set under bushy, silver brows. “Brother Onri tells me you ask to join us as a secular knight of the House of God.”
“Yes, sire,” William said. “I wish to give my service to God and his Holy Mother in order to atone for my sins, and I desire to perform that service for the term of my life.”
Gerard’s thin lips disappeared as he pressed them together. Then he said, “Brother Onri commends you to me, and indeed, you have served us on the pilgrim roads and at Kerak with valour, but I would know what sins you have on your conscience before we go further in this.”
William strove not to break contact with that piercing gaze. “Sins of the flesh, sire,” he said. “Fornication.”
A look of distaste twisted de Ridefort’s lips and he made a sound in his throat that might have been contempt. “A common failing of many. I say to you what I say to all—that flesh must in that case pay recompense.”
“Sire, I am willing to render whatever recompense is required,” William replied with determination. “Even unto my life.”
De Ridefort grunted again, as if William’s reply fell short of the
mark. “Do not say that lightly, messire, for you may indeed be called to render that sacrifice.”
William set his jaw. “I am ready, sire.”
“So be it.” De Ridefort gestured for him to rise. “Brother Onri will explain your entitlements. You shall remain here at the temple unless you have permission to be elsewhere or you are praying at the sepulchre. And you will be as subject to the rule as any of the men under oath, even if you have not given yours in full and even if you are not entitled to wear the white mantle of the order.”
“Sire,” William said in acknowledgment and relief. He experienced a sensation of letting go, of having a broom sweep across the floor, sending all the dirt, detritus, and broken dreams into the gutter.
“Go now,” de Ridefort said. “Make your preparations and return at Compline.”
William bowed and left. He was light-headed, empty, staggering. One burden had been lifted from him, but now he must prepare himself to shoulder another for the rest of his life, however long or short that might be.
35
Manor of Caversham, April 1219
William shifted restlessly, close to consciousness but not awake. He could hear people around him talking softly as they kept watch, but the past still had him in its grip, and the sound of their voices mingled with the chanting of the Templar brethren. The sharp pangs of his current mortal illness were superimposed upon his dream, where the blows of a knotted triple scourge thudded like stones upon his naked back.
He knew if he opened his eyes, he would see his room at Caversham and his loved ones gathered around his bed to comfort and sustain him, but in his vision, he was prostrate before an altar in a cavern beneath the Dome of the Rock. He had confessed to the sins of lust and fornication, and now he was being purged. This was his penance, and he knew with bleak resolution that, after this, there were no more chances for him.
Candlelight danced around the rock walls of the cavern, creating jagged shadows, and around him, the Templar brethren stood witness to the blows thudding across his back, a dozen in all. It was not enough; he wanted more, but he had to be in a condition to work and fight. Onri administered the punishment, grim faced, and he was not gentle, but neither did he strike to incapacitate, and after the twelfth blow, he stood back, breathing hard.
De Ridefort gestured for William to stand up. “Now you owe your life to God. Even if you have not taken vows in full, even though you may serve other masters when you leave this land, you are still bound in the service of the Templars while you live.”
William bowed his head in acceptance and did not think it an onerous commitment. As he donned his shirt and the cool linen settled against the bruises and abrasions, he already felt cleansed and lighter, although he knew it would be a long road to consolidate his redemption.
He joined the knights in prayer and was eventually ushered out into the courtyard, where he stood blinking in the bright light and felt that he was gazing upon the world with new eyes and a fresh sense of purpose. Looking back on his affair with Paschia and all that had led up to it, he realized how much he had gone against his own principles. Standing on the open ground before the Templar church of the Holy of Holies, he vowed that from this day forth, he would hold to his honor whatever the cost. He would go on from here and make peace with himself and keep his own truth.
* * *
He woke up fully to his chamber in Caversham to find his son Gilbert holding his hand. Obviously, it was his turn to keep vigil. The youth wore a tunic of soft, green wool clasped by a round gold brooch. His hair was like Isabelle’s, thick and fair, the color of sun-ripened barley streaked with gold, and his eyes were a deep slate blue. He was intended for the Church and was a studious youth but still being trained in military matters because being versatile was never a disadvantage.
Although very tired, William was comforted by his presence.
“You are awake, sire,” Gilbert said. “Do you wish to drink?”
William shook his head.
“I was remembering the time when I was a child and we were ducking for apples in the autumn.”
William strove to concentrate. It was difficult to come back from something as profound as that moment on the Temple Mount. “Tell me.”
Gilbert looked at their joined hands. “You were always teaching us lessons, even when we were playing. You pushed my head under the water with my hands tied behind my back, and I was supposed to retrieve an apple with my mouth, but I breathed in and choked. Once I had recovered, you made me do it again and concentrate on the task, and when I came up with an apple, you said I must always have my wits about me, whatever the distraction, and never lose sight of the main goal. I want you to know that I never have—and I have always loved you for that lesson.”
Warm affection glowed through William. “And I love you for taking in that lesson and reminding me of that day. It will stand you in good stead throughout your life.”
Gilbert kissed William’s hand. “I will always honor you, Papa.”
“And I will always be proud of you,” William reciprocated, knowing that this was Gilbert’s personal farewell, even if there would be other official times before the end. “I am glad to have this moment with you and to see the promise of the man you will become. I have a task for you—just a small one. Bring Father Geoffrey to me if you will.”
“Of course.” Gilbert stood up. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”
William smiled and shook his head. “Nothing beyond your prayers—and eat an apple for me when they ripen in October, and remember me.”
“I shall plant an entire orchard in your honor,” Gilbert replied, his throat working.
William drifted back into dreams for a short while and, behind his closed lids, saw himself and his men riding out, passing messages to various Templar fortresses along their route. He could smell the dry, stony scent of Outremer and feel a scarf blowing across his nose and mouth as they rode into a grit-laden wind. The surge of the horse under him and the oven-like heat of the sun on armor. The dust of a burning summer where the rains had failed and the crops were sparse.
That first mission had taken them several weeks to accomplish, bearing messages between strongholds. Although a truce had been made with Saladin, the roads were still plagued by brigands and raiders, and there were sporadic but constant outbreaks of fighting. No one attacked William’s group, but they came across burned-out, small settlements and often passed robbed corpses at the wayside and knew they themselves were being watched from a distance.
“You wished to see me, sire?”
William opened his eyes and regarded his almoner Brother Geoffrey, a Templar monk who sometimes acted as his scribe. He had pleasant cherubic features and a halo of fluffy white hair. William directed him to the chair at his bedside. “I have been dreaming of Outremer of late and how I came to give my promise to the Templars,” William said to him with a tired smile.
Geoffrey clasped his hands and gave him a questioning look.
“Few people know of my time there,” William said. “I have kept it to myself for more than thirty years. Men say I performed great deeds, but in truth, they know nothing. Some things that I did there do not tell a worthy tale. It no longer matters, save for one thing.” He hesitated, then said, “I told you many years ago that I gave my oath to the Templars that I would serve them all my life and become one of them when I died, so that my soul would serve in the next world.”
Brother Geoffrey dipped his head. “It is a great thing that you have so sworn, sire.”
“No, it is a just due, and the time is now close when I must render payment. I want you to send for Grand Master Aimery in London and ask him to come to me.”
Brother Geoffrey bowed and rose to his feet. “It shall be done, sire. Will you be wanting your cloak?”
“Not until Jean returns with the shrouds,” William said. “Let all progress in its righ
tful course.”
36
Jerusalem, August 1185
William was grooming Flambur in the underground stalls of the Temple Mount when Onri came to find him. “The patriarch has returned,” he told him. “He will be back in Jerusalem by noon. The grand master wants us to form a guard of honor at the Gate of David as soon as we may.” He gave William a long look in which much was said without words, then moved farther into the stable to find his mount.
Once Onri had gone, Ancel, who had been rubbing down Byrnie, joined William. “What will you do?”
William resumed his task. “I shall do as commanded. I can hardly skulk in the stables, can I? Heraclius will want to talk to me about King Henry and will want to know why I have moved out of his palace.”
“But what about…”
William worked on the stallion’s hide in grim silence, then paused the curry comb and sighed. “All that is behind me. I have confessed and been purged. There is no reason to tell Heraclius and every reason to keep silent.” He swallowed bitterness. “We have been courtiers for a long time. If we cannot come through this, then we have learned nothing. If I feel guilt, it is because I have failed myself and God by not living up to higher standards. But guilt about Heraclius? No. I would have made her my wife, not kept her as my concubine.”
* * *
Clad in full armor, William rode through the streets of Jerusalem with the knights of the temple and hospital forming a guard and escort of honor for Heraclius as he processed toward his palace. People lined the streets and cheered, glad to have their patriarch back, and he had staged his return as a triumphal entry. His silk robes were encrusted with silver and gems, and there was not a part of him that did not shine, for, beneath his miter, his face was bright red and glistening with sweat in the summer heat.
Raymond of Tripoli rode at his side with young King Baldwin, and behind them processed a gilded train of courtiers, all robed in finery. All the knights of the military orders too, Templars and Hospitallers, were resplendent and austere in the red-crossed black and white of their holy orders. William rode at the rear with the other secular knights, and his manner was subdued. Heraclius was home, and he must live with the fact that Paschia had made her choice to stay with him. This aging, sweating, worldly prelate with the power of the cross at his fingertips was her compass, and it turned his own desire from gold to dross.
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