Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  “What is this, Papa?” Will said, gazing at the silks with questioning eyes.

  Behind him, William saw Isabelle put her hand across her mouth, her eyes filling with grief that was almost horror. He could understand what a shock it was, especially to see them draped over his bed as if already covering his corpse. He wanted to comfort her, to say that it was all right, that it was all part of life even though it was about death, but knew it would not be her experience.

  “I have had these two pieces of silk for thirty years,” he told those gathered around his bed, having from somewhere found the strength to raise his voice. “I brought them back with me from Outremer, and since that time, it has always been my intention to have them draped over my body when I am laid in the earth.”

  Will shook his head in wonder. “I have never seen these before. You never told us.” His tone was gentle but raw with sadness, not quite reproach.

  “No, I did not,” William replied. “It was a private matter between me and God. I have always known where they were but never needed them until now.”

  Isabelle made a tiny sound and then stifled it against the back of her hand.

  Will cleared his throat and said gruffly, “They are truly beautiful, my father. It is strange that you would think so far ahead when you were in Outremer.”

  “Death was very close there. Indeed, I did not know if I would survive, but I did, and there was no holier place on earth.” He looked at his son and those gathered around his shrouded bed. “When I was in Jerusalem, at the time that I obtained these silks, I made an oath to the Templars to serve them as a secular brother all my life and to give them my oath and my body when it came my time to die. These cloths are part of the covenant I made. I shall be laid to rest at the Temple Church in London—all that was decided long ago.” He turned his head to Jean D’Earley. “Jean, of your love for me, when I am dead, I want you to cover me with them and surround the bier in which I am carried to the temple. If there is bad weather, then buy cloth to shield them, so they will not become damp or dirtied. Once I am buried, give that cloth to the brothers and tell them they may do with it as they will.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Jean swallowed hard.

  Seeing the grief and tears around him, William was brought close to the edge himself, but he was vastly relieved to have the silk shrouds, his deep comfort and symbol of life beyond the tomb.

  “What shall I do with them for now, sire?” Jean asked hoarsely.

  “Take them to my chapel and have Father Nicholas bless them and wash them in incense. Then return them to me and put them under the bed, so that I have the comfort of knowing they are close to hand. Jean, my thanks. You have done well.”

  Jean bowed and touched his heart. “My duty and my honor, sire.” With great reverence and care, he folded up the silks and returned them to their protective covering.

  William looked at Isabelle. “Now,” he said, “I would like a little time alone with my wife. There are things I have to say to her, and she to me.”

  Slowly, everyone trooped from the room, stunned, wiping their eyes. Will was the last to leave, closing the door behind him.

  Isabelle moved to his bedside. “In all our years of marriage, you never told me,” she said with tears in her eyes, her voice grieving and hurt.

  “I told no one. They were part of a personal vow and no one else’s concern. When I was in Outremer, I had much on my conscience. I was burdened with sins I had committed and bad decisions I had made. Those silks were a covenant of a life that started afresh—my final chance. You have always known of my links with the Templars.”

  “Yes, but not this. It is one thing to conceal yourself from others, but not from me… You have had all of me, my wholeness, but I have not had all of you.”

  It was difficult to find breath to speak, but he strove nevertheless because it was important. “I have shared more with you, Isabelle, than anyone in my life. When we were wed, I told you some parts were mine alone to me and you accepted it then, so why can you not accept it now?”

  “I do accept it, but I still wish I had known or that you had trusted me enough to tell me.”

  “I trust you most of all—and to understand.”

  “Then you ask a great deal.”

  “Yes,” he said simply. “But not too much.”

  She bit her lip, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I wish I could be wrapped up with you too. I will find it so hard to go on without you. We have always been each other’s strength.”

  “Indeed, while we have had that privilege,” he replied, “but you must go forward on your own account without me, and I am relying on you to find that strength and courage, as I have relied on you throughout our marriage. I know you fully capable.” He had to pause again to gather his breath and compose his own emotion for what he needed to say. “I love you for what you are, who you are, and what you have been to me. Many times, circumstances have parted us and this will be just another of those times. We are one, whether separated or not.”

  “I have no words,” Isabelle said in a choked voice. “You have said them all for me. Whatever I add would be grief as well as comfort.”

  “We have always known without words, but while it is time for truths, let us have it all out. If I am to die a Templar, I must take the full vows.”

  She nodded tremulously.

  “I want you to go into the clothing store and bring out the cloak you will find in the third coffer along.”

  She left the bedside and went to the garderobe chamber beyond, but before entering, she hesitated, and he saw her brace her shoulders and raise her head as if to face and withstand a blow. And then she moved forward. He heard the chest lid being thrown back, and then a long, long silence filled with a tension that no word or sound could convey.

  She returned with her arms full of a white woolen Templar cloak, so thick and heavy that it was an effort for her to carry. She laid it on the bed, her expression a smooth mask, but now and then, her face gave a betraying twitch.

  “When did you have this done?” she asked.

  He tried to draw a deep breath but could not; his lungs were empty. “Last May, before we set out to tour our lands. It was part of setting matters in order. Once it was done, I did not have to think on it again. I had been letting it pass me by, but I wanted to be prepared.”

  She sat down on the bed and put her hand on the cloak. “When we went to Paris, three years ago, I wore my court shoes to attend the king of France—do you remember? I walked and danced until the soles were worn through. I did not tell you then, but I intended them to be for my own burial, but I changed my mind and wore them out instead. And now you show me shrouds you have kept for thirty years and this cloak. I cannot…” She stopped speaking and sat down, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “I knew if I told you, you would not take it well. You have always known I would take Templar vows at my death. It gave me peace of mind to have this cloak made while I was still in good health. Like those shrouds, it is part of my own preparation, private to me. I wish I could make you understand.”

  “I do understand, but it still hurts.”

  He touched the cloak, remembering when he had ordered it to be made—the feeling of relief that he had set the thing in motion, and once it was done, it would be ready for a time of his choosing and would no longer disturb his mind. But he had always known it would be difficult for Isabelle. “I have been trying to find the right moment to tell you, but I have never found it. But time has forced my hand because it has run out, and very soon I shall be making this formal and public.”

  She stared at him in dismay.

  “Once I take the full vows of a Templar, I may no longer embrace you, nor you me. It is forbidden by the rule.”

  “This is what you want?” More tears brimmed over and spilled down her cheeks.

  “I made my vow to the Templ
ars more than thirty years ago, and the time has come to fulfill that promise. For my honor, for my soul, this is the way it must be.”

  She sat very still for a long time, gathering her composure, and then she gave him a direct look. “It is your choice, and I must abide by it,” she said. “I have loved you ever since our marriage, and for that love, I will let you go.” She rose to her feet, removed her wimple, and took down her hair. Her once-lustrous golden-blond locks were almost all silver now but still thick and rippled with waves from being plaited. She stepped out of her shoes, took off her belt, and climbed onto the bed beside him. “I know you are in pain, and that all things carnal and of the body have had their time, but I want to lie beside you just once more, as your wife. If I have this, then I can face the rest.”

  He moved to one side to allow her to lie down and set his arm around her shoulders even though it hurt. “What I would give to reverse the wheel of time and have this a different spring season with you a young wife in my arms and myself whole and strong.”

  She touched his cheek with her fingertips. “I wish it too.”

  “This bed,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Do you remember I had it made by a carpenter in London?”

  “Yes, I remember…from an oak felled at Hamstead. Its pieces have traveled wherever we have dwelt.”

  Their marriage bed, the heart of their home, William thought. Where they had slept, made love, talked, and quarrelled and mended such quarrels in the time-honored fashion. Their ten children had been begotten and born within its hangings. Draped with different covers, it had served as a day couch and witnessed the daily traffic of the chamber: the scratching of the scribes’ quills, the robust discussions of knights and vassals, the gossip and laughter of informal assemblies, the closeted intimacy of private discussion. Now it waited to render the final service.

  “The tales it could tell,” William remarked.

  “Then perhaps for decency’s sake, it is a good thing that beds do not have voices.”

  He laughed, but the laughter brought on a coughing fit and pain like knives. Isabelle hastily left the bed and fetched him a cup of the syrup of poppy mixture. He was in too much discomfort to refuse it.

  “I never thought to say this, but I am ready for the end of my path,” he said as she took the cup back from him. “I grieve to leave you behind, but each mile is a burden, and I would have done.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “And I would not have you carry it farther than your will takes you, but bidding you farewell is the most difficult thing.” She lay down again at his side and put her arm across him protectively, as he had once protected her, and he was awed and humbled by her courage and strength.

  * * *

  At some point, he felt a soft kiss on his brow and heard a sound that might have been a stifled sob. He was aware then of Isabelle leaving the bed and tiptoeing away to her prayers. The pain returned, but before it could rage, someone gave him more poppy syrup, and as he closed his eyes, the colors swirled and turned against his lids, and he found himself again in Jerusalem.

  38

  Jerusalem, October 1185

  Slowly, William rose from his knees. He had been at prayer for so long that he was as stiff as an effigy and cold and hollow with hunger. On the morrow, he would set out on the long journey home, and he had been praying for God’s forgiveness and help on his way. He had letters for King Henry and also from the Templars to their brethren in Normandy and London, and he was under orders not to ask questions. That was part of the bargain he had made in exchange for his shrouds and his soul. Breathing in the sacred atmosphere, he gazed at the arches of stone, the gilding and magnificence where once had existed no more than a simple tomb hewn from the rock. Now it was the center of the Christian world, and when he walked away from it, he would never be here again. “Amen.” He crossed himself and went outside to the courtyard, where the candle sellers were doing the same brisk business that had occupied them on the day he arrived.

  A young man who had been examining the wares at one of the candle stalls approached him. William recognized Zaccariah’s squire and stiffened.

  “I have a message for you from a certain lady,” the youth said.

  William could not prevent his upper lip from curling. “Do you indeed?”

  The young man’s eyes were knowing and cynical beyond their years. “She says to meet her by the draper’s stall in the covered market and to tell you that it is important.” His attitude said that he knew exactly what kind of important.

  “And why should I trust you?” William asked.

  The youth had the utter self-assurance not to be perturbed. “Because my lady paid me enough.” His dark eyes were as hard as Zaccariah’s, whose place he would one day take.

  His words held the ring of truth, and William nodded curtly. The youth flourished an elaborate salute and swaggered off as if he owned the street, his hand on his dagger hilt.

  William did not immediately turn in the direction of the market but stood deliberating. He had emerged from the sepulchre purged and cleansed, ready to leave all this behind. He was very tempted not to go but knew if he did not, he would always wonder. While nothing she could say would ever make it right, a last meeting might close the book and lock the clasp. Of course, it might also be a trap…

  Fastening his cloak against the evening chill, he walked the short distance from the sepulchre to the covered market running parallel with Malquisnet Street. Most of the booths occupying the arches were closed and only a few lamps glimmered to light the way along the paved corridor. The draper’s booths were all shut, but as he neared them, he saw Zoraya swathed in her cloak, keeping watch, a lantern in her hand. She saw him and turned to signal, and Paschia stepped out from a shadowed archway. She wore a dark mantle with a glint of silver braid down the edge and her wimple was pulled forward, partially concealing her face. Her perfume whispered to him, and he gave an involuntary shiver.

  “What is it that you want of me, my lady?” he asked.

  She stepped closer to him. “I am glad you have come—I did not know if you would. I wanted to wish you Godspeed, and I want you to be safe on your journey.”

  “If that is all, then there is no point in this meeting; you could have said these things in public.” He looked around, still more than half suspecting a trap.

  “I want you to take Heraclius’s two fastest horses,” she said. “Take Rakkas. I will vouchsafe that you have my permission. Only be swift about it—as swift as you can.”

  The urgency in her words disturbed him. “Why is it necessary for me to leave so quickly that you would give me the best horses from the stables?”

  She bit her lip. “It is too dangerous for you to stay.”

  “If it is, then you have made it so. You told me you would have me hunted down. The first time it did not work and Ancel paid the price, but now you have found another way. If I am caught with the patriarch’s horses, then I may be taken as a thief and executed.”

  “No!” Her eyes widened. “I would never do that! I finished our affair for your own good. It was always a dream, but you took it for reality. I warned you at the outset, but you did not listen.” She who had begun it, he thought, although he had played his own part in allowing himself to be led from the path and into darker alleys. “And the child?” William curled his lip. “Did you end that too?”

  She dropped her gaze. “My uncle found out and made sure I miscarried—he is capable of anything. While you remain here, your life and the lives of your men are in danger. I say do not tarry any longer because he will finish you. You must go!”

  He wondered of what she was capable too. He could not trust her, yet she had taken a risk in meeting him, and she had been very solicitous of Ancel, although that was probably guilt. “He has told you this? Just how much of a party are you to his schemes and plans?”

  “Of course he has not told
me,” she said impatiently. “But I hear and see things, and I can bribe squires just as easily as he can.”

  William wondered whether that bribery was only in coin but refrained from asking her if she had taken the dark-eyed young man to the dome too. He did not want to know.

  “Yesterday evening, my uncle received a message from Mahzun of Tire.” William looked at her sharply, and she shook her head. “That is all I know. My informant only overheard part of what the messenger said and had to leave before he was discovered. I cannot tell you Mahzun’s whereabouts because I do not know, but he is not far away. If questioned, my uncle will deny everything or find some excuse that will make everything plausible and smooth. He will not stop. He will bring you down any way he can while you are close enough to be harmed. If he has not done so, and the same for Ancel, it is because I have paid him to leave you alone, but I have no more money without asking Heraclius, and now Mahzun is back.”

  William swallowed and shook his head, feeling sick. There were no words.

  She made a small sound and gave him a little package wrapped in an exquisite green silk cloth. “Take this, but do not look at it until you have left Jerusalem. I would not blame you if you hated me,” she added in a small voice, “but it does not alter what I feel for you. I would have followed you if I could, but even for love, even though you offered me what no man had ever done before, it was impossible.”

  William looked down at what she had given him. Through the layers of cloth, he could feel that it was a ring. A swift glance at her right hand showed him that she no longer wore the plain band that had belonged to her mother, the one that had signaled their assignations, although the one he had given to her was still on her finger.

  “You can be sure I will treasure it,” he said, “as I once treasured you.” He bowed to her, then turned and walked away and did not look back, although each step was pain.