William compressed his lips. It was easier to say than do; however, his men were depending on him, and he had to be strong and focused to get them out of this bind.
He spent the rest of the night in prayer and vigil at Ancel’s side. Ancel had to be woken in order to drink, and he was kept drugged by carefully measured doses of poppy syrup—enough to keep the edge from his pain. Too much and he would fall asleep and not wake up.
“I will not let you die, do you hear me?” William said, holding his hand. “I will get you to Jerusalem and you will be healed. I promise.”
A couple of times, Ancel responded by squeezing William’s hand, and once, he opened his eyes and smiled and said, “Gwim.” William took it as a hopeful sign, but the very mention of his name filled his eyes with tears, although he did not weep in full until somewhere near dawn, when Ancel finally pissed dark urine into a wadded-up cloth.
* * *
Each day, the chirurgeon came to check Ancel’s wound—sniffing it, cleaning it out with salt water, and smearing it with unguent, and each day the news remained cautiously optimistic. The flesh stayed clean, without sign of darkening, and the rest of Ancel’s leg remained a healthy color. William fed his brother nourishing meat broth, and gradually he improved and grew stronger.
Onri rode off to Jerusalem, returning ten days later accompanied by a contingent of well-armed Templars and Hospitallers. The wounded were loaded onto carts and brought to Jerusalem by slow stages. Ancel, heavily dosed with poppy syrup, was carried out to one of the carts in a litter, his leg kept as straight as possible by splints of board. He was insensible for much of the journey and clearly in great pain when he was awake, but he bore it with stoicism.
“We sent out patrols in search of the raiders,” Onri told William, who was concerned about being attacked again on the road despite their strong escort. “We found some deserted camps with shallow graves at one of them, but there was no sign of Mahzun of Tire, and the remnants have scattered like dust in the wind. They will be hunted down eventually, but they are not in any condition to challenge us a second time.”
William was reassured, but some anxiety remained. He would have felt less uneasy had Mahzun been among the casualties.
* * *
William saw Ancel settled in the great hospital in Jerusalem, where they had lodged when they first arrived in the city. Capable of housing over a thousand patients in its vaulted precincts, it was divided into aisles and courts with eleven wards, each served by nine sergeant brethren day and night. Ancel was given a bed in a quiet area and was visited by Brother Jakob, a native Christian chirurgeon, although the treatment was largely more of the same. He was to remain lying flat to give the break a chance to knit and for the wound to continue to heal.
One of William’s first errands was to visit Asmaria. She welcomed him with a pensive look but bade him with quiet dignity sit at her table, where she poured him wine and set a dish of bread and olive oil before him.
William stared at the food. He did not feel like eating, but it would be an insult if he did not, so he forced himself to take a bite of bread and wash it down with the wine.
“I have some difficult news for you about Ancel,” he said.
Her expression sharpened with fear. “I knew when I saw you without him. What has happened? Do not tell me he is dead!”
William shook his head. “No, not that. He has been injured in battle though—a wound to the thigh that has broken the bone. The Hospitallers are caring for him.”
Asmaria slumped down at the table and put her face in her hands for a moment, then looked up at him with tears in her eyes and determination in the set of her lips. “Oh, the poor man. What can I do to help him?”
“Pray for him,” William said.
She looked at William unflinchingly. “How badly is he wounded?”
William grimaced. “The wound will mend, but he will no longer be a fighting man, and it remains to be seen how well he will walk.”
She rose jerkily and busied herself around her room, folding and unfolding a cloth but plainly without purpose. Pilgrim danced around her legs, wagging his tail, and she picked him up and hugged him to her ample bosom. He squirmed, straining to lick her face. “I will care for his dog and donkey for as long as he has need,” she said, and then buried her face in the dog’s fur.
Riddled by guilt, William put a pouch of coins on the table. “This is for you from Ancel, and I will bring more. I know my brother paid his keep, and I promised him I would support you while he cannot.”
She gave a distracted nod. “Thank him for his generosity, but I am able to support myself. I will send him one of my pies if you will take it to him when I have baked.”
“Certainly,” William said. “That will lift his spirits. And keep the coin. He desires to think he is providing for you.”
She nodded understanding. “I would visit him, but I know the monks forbid women in the men’s part of the hospital. But give him all my love and tell him to recover swiftly because I am waiting for him. Promise you will tell him that.”
“Indeed I shall, and that too will increase his determination.” William rose to his feet to take his leave and kissed her cheek, inhaling a faint scent of cooking spices and smoke. He experienced a rush of affection for this homely, honest woman. Ancel had chosen well—better than him.
* * *
Ancel’s expression was guilty, almost furtive, on William’s return, and as William drew a breath he detected a familiar perfume that sent a surge through his body. He recognized too the intricate glass phial of rosewater on the shelf at Ancel’s bedside because last time he had seen it had been in the dome. There was also some fresh bread in a cloth and a bowl of dates that had not been there earlier.
“I see you have had a visitor,” William said, short of breath.
Ancel cleared his throat. “She has only just left.”
A pang twisted William’s heart. Had he not lingered at Asmaria’s, he might have arrived to find Paschia at the bedside or leaving the hospital. Her scent was utterly disconcerting. Plainly, while ordinary street women were discouraged, no one was going to refuse the patriarch’s concubine.
Ancel looked at him warily. “She said she had heard of my injury and wanted to know how I was faring.”
William raised his brows.
“She said she knew I must have fought well and that God would not let me die.” Ancel screwed up his face. “I told her I was unsure if that was a mercy, and she answered that you needed me and I must live. And then she held my hand and told me about her brother who had died…”
William wondered if she felt as guilty as he did about Ancel. Had she known about the treachery of Mahzun of Tire? Was she involved in it?
“She told me if I needed anything, I had but to name it and she would see that it was provided, and she promised to return and make sure I was receiving the best of care.” Ancel looked at William sidelong. “And then she kissed my brow.”
William sat down at Ancel’s side, feeling slightly sick.
“What else could I do?” Ancel demanded indignantly. “I could hardly spurn her or refuse to speak. I did not ask for her to come, and she was kind.”
William forced himself to be pragmatic. “At least, if she is visiting you, then you have the goodwill of the patriarch.”
“I think she deliberately came when you were not here.”
“And no surprise. Doubtless my every move is being watched.” He would not think about that. “As it happens, I too have received a kiss, but from your woman.”
“Indeed?”
Ancel’s face revealed he was not entirely sure about that, and William was wryly amused. “You need not worry about her taking a fancy to me. Her concern was all for you. She says she will send you a fresh pie as soon as she has baked.”
A spark kindled in Ancel’s eyes. “Is she still buxom
and rosy cheeked?”
William nodded. “Although not as flushed as she is when she has you to make her red in the face.”
Ancel smiled but then looked down. “But will she still want me when she sees how I am?”
“Of course she will. Asmaria is a determined woman. You are her man and nothing else matters to her. Besides,” he said heartily, “you are not going to be lying there forever.”
“It feels like forever.”
William looked at Ancel. “You have greater strength than anyone I know to come this far,” he said. “It’s just a little further.”
A little of Ancel’s brightness returned. “I wish I had a pie now,” he said.
* * *
Over the next two weeks, William continued to tend to Ancel, although he had to undertake another pilgrim patrol with the men. It was strange not to have his brother riding at his side; there was a cold space where Ancel’s presence should have been. He tried to focus on his duty, but it was mundane, and he kept going back over the attack in his mind and trying to make it end differently. He kept seeing the moment when Mahzun of Tire’s sword had bitten into Ancel’s leg, and each time he relived it, his own body reacted with a jolt, for the blow had been meant for him.
As William returned to Jerusalem from his latest patrol, the storm clouds that had been gathering throughout the day broke over the hills, and for the first time in months, it rained. Lifting his face to the sky, he embraced the droplets dappling his face and thought of England with longing.
By the time he had stabled his horse, washed, and prayed, the rain had stopped, but the streets were still damply steaming as he made his way from the temple to the hospital.
Ancel was in a buoyant mood. The leg was healing well, and although he was weak from bed rest, he had a good appetite and he was alert. William was telling him about the patrol when a little brown-and-white dog dashed up to them, his tail wagging so fast that it was a blur, his mouth wide open, tongue lolling as he panted with joy. Launching himself upon Ancel, he commenced licking him with vigorous enthusiasm. Ancel laughed and spluttered and put his arms around the dog, exclaiming. And then he looked up and saw Asmaria advancing toward him with her familiar round-hipped sway, her basket over her arm. As their eyes met, she cried his name and ran the last few steps, then stooped to him, kissing his face, making almost as much fuss as the dog.
William grinned. Clearly Asmaria had found a sympathetic ear and been given permission to visit. He made to leave and give them a moment alone but had barely taken a step before he saw Paschia walking toward Ancel’s bed, and everything inside him stopped. She was utterly poised and beautiful, clad in fluid, gray-blue silk, a white wimple framing her face. Since only Ancel knew the full story of their relationship, he had to bow and look pleased and meet her gaze, but it was almost more than he could bear, as all the memories and emotions struck against the wall he had built and battered to break through.
“It is good of you to bring my brother what he needs,” he said stiffly.
“It was the least I could do,” she murmured, eyes downcast.
“The least?” William swallowed the bitter words that she had done more than enough, and she flashed him a hard, swift look that dared him to say anything else.
Asmaria looked around, over her shoulder, her face flushed and tear streaked. “Thank you, my lady, thank you for what you have done!”
“I am glad to bring comfort,” Paschia replied warmly. “Everyone shall know that you are here with the patriarch’s express sanction and goodwill.” She turned again to William, and he thought about what could have been and how this was its ghosted shadow. “My own brother was on my mind,” she said. “I like to think someone would have cared for him the same…and because he is your brother too.”
“And it does you no harm to be beneficent in public.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes,” she said bitterly, “Madame la Patriarchess and her good works.”
“Do you know who gave my brother his wound?”
Her face was blank, her stance rigid. She too had her wall, he thought.
“Mahzun of Tire,” he said when she did not answer. “He has affiliations with the bands raiding the pilgrim roads, and since he also has connections with your uncle…” He let the words hang and gather weight.
She lifted her chin. “What concern is that of mine?”
“You told me you would have me hunted down like a sewer rat. What am I to think, my lady?”
Her composure slipped and a look of complete shock crossed her face before she rallied. “This is none of my doing. I swear to you I have no knowledge of it.”
“Did you also have no knowledge of what happened to Ptolemy? Do you put your fingers in your ears and look the other way and say you do not go to those places where such things lurk?”
Her voice shook. “Believe what you will, but it is the truth. I would not be here otherwise.”
William was not in a merciful mood. “You might in order to salve a bleeding conscience,” he said with contempt. “But if I take what you say at face value—and I have no reason to do that—it still leaves your uncle connected to a man who has turned traitor to his fellow soldiers and almost crippled my brother. I have no doubt that the blow Ancel took was intended for me. Is that how you wish to live?”
She stared him out. “You use what dice you have at your command. This is none of my work, and whether you believe that or not is your choice.” Going to Ancel again, she stooped to him. “I must leave, but I will keep watch on your progress and pray for you, and so will the patriarch.” She squeezed his hand, touched Asmaria’s shoulder, and without looking at William, walked swiftly away.
He gazed after her with a mixture of longing and bereavement, exacerbated by the perfume lingering in her wake, and could not decide whether he trusted her or not.
Leaving Ancel and Asmaria to each other’s company, he returned to the temple and, as he entered the precincts, saw Heraclius standing in the forecourt talking to Gerard de Ridefort. William started to avoid them, but he had been seen, and the patriarch beckoned him over.
“How is your brother faring?” Heraclius inquired. “He has been much in my thoughts and prayers.”
“He is slowly mending, sire. The wound is healing well but will take some time.”
“Indeed,” Heraclius said with mendacious sympathy, and changed the subject. “The Count of Jaffa is hosting a banquet in honor of his wife in a week’s time. I shall expect your presence there, and bring your men. The grand master shall be attending too.”
The words alarmed William, because at worst, there could be talk and plotting against the regent, and at best, he had no intention of spending time in the company of Guy de Lusignan. However, he could not refuse the orders of the patriarch and a grand master he was sworn to serve. Since Guy and Sybilla wanted him in their household and under their control, de Ridefort might well send him there.
Heraclius bade farewell to de Ridefort and drew William to one side. “I know you are troubled by this, but you are highly valued, I want you to know that. It would be better for all concerned if you were to find common ground with the Count of Jaffa. The banquet will provide you with that opportunity—one that will reap great reward.”
“Will the regent be there?” William asked pointedly.
Heraclius gave him a hard look. “That is not your concern. We shall expect your presence. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, my lord,” William replied stiffly, knowing he would have to go and somehow find a way around pledging any kind of allegiance.
“Excellent,” Heraclius said, and the steely glint in his eyes was replaced by a kindly smile. “It is for your own good, my boy.” He patted William’s arm and went on his way.
William did not believe that for a moment.
* * *
The day of the gathering, Heracliu
s summoned William to his private chamber at his palace. As William was ushered into the room by a guard, he caught a trace of Paschia’s scent and hesitated, for it was like striking a physical barrier. Thankfully, she was not present in the chamber, but he would not put it past her to be listening behind a curtain. Her cat was purring in Heraclius’s lap, and the patriarch was stroking it with a gentle hand.
“Sit.” Heraclius indicated the chair opposite him.
Warily, William did so.
“I have been talking to Grand Master de Ridefort,” Heraclius said, his words as slow as the motion of his hand upon the cat’s fur.
William raised his brows and waited. The silence extended while Heraclius studied him, as though making his mind up about something. Then he said, “Is there anything you want to tell me about your time here while I was away on my mission?”
Shock struck William like a bolt of lightning. Had Paschia rendered the ultimate betrayal and spoken to Heraclius? Or perhaps her uncle or a servant? “My lord?” He managed to keep his voice neutral. “Is there something wrong? All my accounts were in order, and I did not spend all the money you left for my use.”
“I have no complaints on that score,” Heraclius said, “but I was wondering if you had had some dealings with my gatekeeper. My lady seems to think that you and her uncle had some serious differences of opinion.”
William hesitated, trying to decide what to answer that would reveal nothing, even while he did not know what had been said. “We had some disagreements of opinion over rent,” he said at length. “And on where duties ended and began, and how to deal with certain situations.”
“Did you do anything to earn his enmity?”
William felt his face start to burn. “The rent issue was enough, your eminence. I stood up to him and he saw me as a threat to his business. I also observed dealings he had with men I considered disreputable—such as Mahzun of Tire, who betrayed us and wounded my brother.”
Templar Silks Page 43