Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  In the courtyard of the patriarchal palace, Paschia was waiting for Heraclius with the household, including Zaccariah of Nablus. She wore a loose, flowing robe in the Greek style, embroidered down the center line, and her hair was concealed by a spotless white wimple.

  She approached Heraclius as he dismounted and, kneeling to him in the dust, bowed her head, concealing her face by pulling one of the ends of the wimple across her nose and mouth, so that she appeared shy and almost virginal.

  Even from the rear of the escort, William saw the joy on Heraclius’s face and felt his heart tear and bleed again and knew with bitter clarity that Paschia had been right. It was a dream. She would never have given this up to go with him; he had not stood a chance.

  * * *

  Later, William attended prayers in the Templar chapel and was scourged once more in penitence for his sins, again administered by Onri. Emerging from the service stiff and sore but in a relieved and calmer frame of mind, he found Augustine waiting for him, his expression carefully neutral. “The patriarch wants to see you.”

  “I have been expecting the summons,” William replied. Dreading them too—but he was prepared.

  “Make a good accounting of yourself.” Onri set his hand to William’s shoulder in a gesture of support that, at the same time, pressed on the tenderness left by the scourging and made William wince at the reminder of his sin and the penance.

  “I will walk with you,” Augustine said and fell into step beside him.

  They left the Templar precinct and walked toward the patriarch’s palace. The sun beat down from a bleached sky and the streets were mostly empty as the citizens hid from the heat and waited for the shadows to lengthen. Approaching the palace, William remembered the afternoons he had spent with Paschia in the domed room while others rested. They had embraced the fire, and the burn had been glorious. Now there were only ashes.

  Augustine did not speak on their walk, but as they approached the palace, he turned to William. “I hope you have found your path,” he said quietly. “And I am sorry for what has happened. I want you to know, that is all.”

  William’s chest tightened. “I am sorry too. I do not know if I have found my path, but I know now that which is not my path, and I am forever in the debt of the Templars for reaching down a ladder to let me climb out of the pit.”

  Augustine nodded gravely. “I would clap you on the back, but I have more compassion than Onri.”

  Arriving at the patriarch’s palace, William was ushered through into Heraclius’s chamber, which, from being almost devoid of people for a year, now bustled with activity. Scribes and secretaries were already toiling over their lecterns, and servants were dealing with the patriarchal baggage. Paschia was absent, and William was mightily relieved.

  “Ah,” said Heraclius as William was announced, “come in, my boy.” Gesturing expansively, he smiled at William, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “I hear you have taken a secular oath to the Templars and moved to the Dome of the Rock.”

  William swiftly assessed the patriarch’s expression but detected nothing beyond ordinary curiosity. However, clearly someone had told him of the decision.

  “Yes, sire. When I heard that King Henry would not be coming to Jerusalem, I wanted to make a commitment for the sake of my soul before I returned to his court.”

  Heraclius gave a short nod. He was grayer and thinner, more honed and sinewy after his journey, with a harder polish about him. The heat flush had diminished, leaving a slight mottling on his throat. “That is between you and God, and I would not stand between a man and his commitment.” He stretched his spine, placing his hands in the small of his back with a grimace. “That king of yours. I am afraid you fell woefully short in preparing us to meet him.”

  “I am sorry, sire, I gave of my best.” If Heraclius and his advisers had listened harder to the clues in his narratives, rather than hearing what they wanted to hear, they might have had more success.

  “He is like a hard beam of wood, and hammer as we tried, we made no impression at all.” Heraclius shot William a look filled with exasperation, almost as if he believed that William had been colluding with Henry.

  “Indeed, that is so, sire,” William said neutrally. “I tried to tell you that he has a strong will, and I am sorry if I failed and you misunderstood me. I would also say that the last high churchman who disputed with King Henry became a martyr, for he is fierce when challenged. There is nothing more you could have done.”

  Heraclius sighed and threw up his arms. “Indeed. I told him that more than money and promises we needed a ruler, but that was another part of hammering in vain. He was most hospitable, and we lacked for nothing save his support. He played with us and vacillated.” Heraclius’s voice warmed with anger. “He told us he had to consult his barons before he could agree, but that only meant consulting them to provide him with a way out. They very conveniently reminded him of the ‘sacred’ oath he had taken on his coronation to defend his realm. And then he said he must regretfully decline. His youngest son offered to come, but he would not let any of his offspring take up the mantle.”

  “I am sorry for that, sire,” William said diplomatically, “but knights will come to swell the ranks, and surely you have raised the awareness of the difficulties here.”

  “Yes,” Heraclius said curtly, “and in the meantime, we walk a slippery rope across a chasm of crocodiles.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Enough. You may go.”

  With relief, William bowed and took his leave. Walking down the corridor, he was tense, hoping not to meet Paschia and at the same time vividly remembering how he had once collided with her in this very place. He could still see her looking up at him, her cat in her arms, her eyes dark pools of admiring innocence. If only he had heeded the danger and resisted temptation.

  He heard sudden footsteps behind him and, as he turned, was shoved hard and slammed up against the wall. A dagger pricked his throat.

  “Just one word from you about the lady Paschia,” hissed Zaccariah of Nablus. “Just one word or look out of place to the patriarch, and I will spill your blood. Do you understand?”

  William felt the hot trickle on his flesh, but this time he was ready. “Yes, perfectly.” As he spoke he made a lunge and a twist just as sudden as Zaccariah’s pounce. And now the dagger was in his hand, and he set it under the other man’s ribs and in his turn drew blood. “And I say to you that if you dare to pursue me or lay a finger on Paschia, you will die. Do you think you are the only one with access to nets and spies?” He shoved Zaccariah hard, making him stagger, and kept hold of the knife. “Stay away—do you understand?” Then he stalked off, the weapon gripped at the ready, thinking he should have made a killing blow, even if it would have caused grave complications.

  * * *

  Two days later, William was summoned from weapons practice on the Templar tilt ground and commanded to attend Raymond of Tripoli at the palace.

  “The regent needs experienced knights to hunt out a persistent group of brigands and the grand master suggested you,” Onri said as he delivered the message.

  Eagerness surged through William, for here was a chance to use his skills that would consolidate his atonement and take him out of Jerusalem. The grand master and regent heartily disliked each other as men, but this was business upon which they both agreed.

  Arriving at the palace, he was ushered into Raymond’s chamber. Guy de Lusignan was present, as were Heraclius and the Lords of Ibelin and Ramlah. The child king sat among the gathering with his mother, wearing a gold circlet over his fine blond hair. He appeared pale and delicate beside the gruff, bearded men, but William went first to him and knelt in obeisance. The boy looked to Raymond of Tripoli, who gestured for William to rise with the palm of his hand. Baldwin copied it.

  “Sire,” William said, and bowed, before turning to acknowledge the regent. “You sent for me, my lord?”r />
  Raymond leaned forward on his great chair. “There has been another raid on a sugar caravan bound for Jerusalem from Tiberius. A particular group of thieves are making the attacks and then escaping into lands controlled by Saladin.” He looked around the gathering, resting his gaze pointedly on Guy de Lusignan. “I do not want to damage the truce—it would be inadvisable at this time. I need a deputation to go north, seek them out, and deal with them. It would not matter if it were a few stinging flies, but this is a whole wasps’ nest and must be destroyed before the danger escalates. I need more patrols, and I am recruiting knights who have the experience to deal with the matter.”

  “Sire, it would be my honor and that of my men to assist in this mission,” William said eagerly.

  “So be it.” Raymond of Tripoli nodded. “Let it be done as soon as you may.”

  * * *

  Pink rags of cloud tattered the eastern skyline as dawn broke over Jerusalem. For now, it was pleasantly cool, but once the sun began its climb, the day would develop its usual punishing burn. William wore a linen tunic over his mail as he waited outside the Templar stables for everyone to assemble for the mission to deal with the raiders. As the rising sun spread fingers of warm gold across the Dome of the Rock, he was serious and composed and mostly at peace with himself.

  A contingent of twelve Templar knights formed part of the group, including Onri and Augustine. There were four Hospitallers and a party of mercenaries and Turcopole warriors. Ancel appeared, leading Byrnie with one hand and taking devouring bites from a piece of folded flatbread with the other, melted cheese oozing out of the sides. Digging in his saddle pack, he produced a bulging linen cloth and handed it to William. “From Asmaria,” he said.

  The delicious aroma rising from the cloth made William’s mouth water as he unfolded it. As he continued to recover from his affair with Paschia and set his feet on a different path, his appetite had returned full measure. “That woman is a marvel,” he declared once he had swallowed the first mouthful. “No banquet food could equal this.”

  Ancel looked smugly pleased. “She sends her prayers and hopes for a safe return.” He wiped his hands on his own cloth as he finished and placed it in his saddle pack. “I have been talking to her about when we do leave. I asked her if she would come back with me to Normandy.”

  The raw place inside William twinged as he thought of his own failed future with Paschia, but he quickly put it aside and pretended it wasn’t there. “What did she say?”

  “That she would think about it and tell me when I return.” Ancel grimaced. “She says she has a secure place in Jerusalem, and she must think of her children too. I said I would provide for all of them, but she still said she wanted to think.”

  “At least she was honest with you.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe she will agree, but she is like me. She needs to know the ground in front of her is solid before she will take the next step.”

  William smiled a little because Ancel had clearly come to understand himself on this journey. Paschia had needed to know too. She had chosen to stay rather than face the unknown. He realized now that Paschia might be politically astute and a player who moved across the board like a queen with a scythe, but it was an illusion. She was just a vulnerable girl wearing the gown of a greater being. If Asmaria decided to come, then Ancel would have something far more solid and true in the end—the satisfying meal rather than a gilded subtlety that melted away to nothing and left the stomach hollow. “You have a good woman,” he said, returning his cloth to Ancel.

  Ancel gave a broad smile. “I know.”

  The grin faded, and Ancel cursed under his breath. Turning to look, William saw Mahzun of Tire arriving at the rendezvous with half a dozen men. He was riding his raw-boned chestnut and sat tall in the saddle, his black hair bound in two oily plaits under the Turkish helmet he wore by preference. His dark gaze skimmed flatly over William and his contingent without acknowledgment except a slight curl of his lip, as though he were looking at flies on meat in the marketplace.

  William shrugged. “It was always a likelihood. We shall make our camp away from his and not bother him unless he bothers us.” He gave Ancel a warning look.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere near him.” Ancel looked sidelong at Mahzun. “I saw him speaking with Zaccariah of Nablus yesterday when I was passing the patriarch’s palace. He was either being hired or paid, because he was tucking a pouch of money inside his shirt.”

  William absorbed the news with unease. “Let us just be wary and keep our distance,” he said. “It won’t be for much longer.”

  * * *

  The party rode northeast for three days beneath a scorching, late-summer sun. There was no breeze; banners hung limp on staves and sweat dripped relentlessly from men and horses. Scouts went out and returned with nothing to report, and the news from the watchtowers where they paused to replenish their supplies was as empty as the landscape.

  On the third evening, they camped by a small oasis of good water surrounded by date palms and sat around their fires cooking flatbread and eating dried meat and fruit plumped up in a little wine. The horses were hobbled and guarded.

  Two Bedouin informers slipped into the camp, swift, dark shadows, and whispered their report in return for gold bezants: the enemy they sought planned to raid a Frankish village three miles to the north, close to the border with the Saracens. The Bedouin scouts indicated that the group was large and well organized and that perhaps several separate groups had joined forces to carry out the raids.

  Ancel looked at William across their fire. “We’ll be fighting tomorrow then.”

  “More than likely,” William agreed.

  Ancel looked away into the night. “All the time we have dwelt here, I have been preparing for battle and expecting to fight. We have faced many dangers and skirmishes, but mostly it has been like a cloudy sky that does not rain. Now it feels as though a storm is coming.”

  “Yes, it does.” William drew his sword and set about polishing it with an oiled rag. “Does it trouble you, Brother?”

  “A little,” Ancel said. “We are so close to going home. To have weathered everything and then not to make it through this stage would seem like the cruelest trick ever played.”

  Ancel’s remark made William uncomfortable because his own mood was what did it matter if he died here in the service of God? But then, if he died, so too did his men and his brother, and he could not take them down with him. He had a responsibility to see them safely through. “It will be all right.” He touched Ancel’s shoulder. “Whatever happens.”

  “Yes.” Ancel shrugged and smiled. “I am glad to have had you for a brother should it come to death.”

  William’s affectionate touch on the shoulder became a thump. “None of that,” he said gruffly. “Come. We will protect each other and pray to God to keep us safe.”

  * * *

  Even before first light, the men were awake and about their final preparations—filling water flasks and helping one another don gambesons and mail. The horses were harnessed for battle with leather barding and padded chamfrons over the neck area. The destriers stamped and pawed, knowing what the activity presaged.

  William went to pray with his men and was confessed and shriven by a Templar chaplain. And then he in his turn addressed his men as they returned from their prayers to mount their restless horses. “You have trained for this all your lives. You are experienced and battle hardened. I trust you with my life, and I hope you trust me with yours. This task must be done; the settlers are depending on us to protect their homes, their lives, and livelihoods. It is why you took your knightly oaths. You know your duty. God will watch over us and protect us. We have his blessing.”

  The men crossed themselves and embraced each other, and William did his best to ensure that the atmosphere was one of brotherhood and unity and that any hint of farewe
ll was pragmatic. They knew their business and what was at stake and were ready for whatever happened.

  William saw Mahzun of Tire patting his horse and feeding it dates, and despite his dislike of the man, he experienced a brief moment of empathy for a fellow warrior. Mahzun glanced across, caught William’s eye, and sent him a strange look—a mingling of speculation and challenge, woven with grudging respect—before turning away.

  The last stars had barely faded from the sky as they departed the oasis. By the time they approached the village, flat roofed save for the crenellated church tower and surrounded by olive groves, the gold had stretched across the eastern horizon like yolk spilling from a broken eggshell. The dogs were already barking frantically at the far end of the village, and as the knights arrived, dark smoke was rising from that direction. The raiders had wasted no time.

  Onri swiftly organized the men, although everyone knew his part and was eager to join battle and accomplish what they had set out to do. William signaled to his own group, and while the Templars and Hospitallers rode through the front gate, he swept his troop around to the back, to cut off escape from that direction.

  He was fierce and exultant but calm too. His armor and that of his men was more than just the protection of mail and good horses. It was the skill and training of decades; it was determination and belief.

  The raiders were lightly armed and riding their smaller, swift-turning horses, but they had nowhere to flee when hit before and behind by the solid force of the Frankish knights. Those who tried to take refuge in the dwellings were turned upon by the villagers, made bold by the arrival of heavy support, and even if they did not engage, they cried out, alerting their saviors to the whereabouts of the enemy.