Templar Silks

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  * * *

  The late October morning dawned bright and clear, perfect for a journey. A two-wheeled cart had been prepared for Ancel, the interior heavily padded, and he had been helped into it and settled among heaped cushions and furs with his broken leg well supported. In public, he was open and smiling despite any misgivings he might harbor in private, and he made regal flourishes from the cart like a prince traveling in a silken litter. Pilgrim leaped in and out of the cart wagging his tail, ready for a great adventure.

  Asmaria was among the group gathered to bid them farewell, wearing her best gown and fur-lined cloak. The children were scrubbed and shiny, and she had brought a basket of her famous pies to see the men off on the journey, with a special one for Ancel. The sight brought a moment of welcome relief to William as he remembered Baldwin de Bethune bestowing similar fare on their outward journey. Somehow it completed the circle.

  Asmaria and Ancel had said their serious farewells at the hospital the previous evening, where he had promised to send for her as soon as he was settled at home. He had given her the jeweled silk tunic and turban he had won at Kerak to sell in order to provision herself for the journey, and she had given him a small silver cross strung on a green silk cord.

  Heraclius was present to wish the party Godspeed. He handed each man a small pouch of money and gave his blessing and also parchments of safe conduct. To William, he returned the map he had borrowed, worn in the creases, well traveled but still serviceable. “God hold you in his keeping, my son,” he said. “Remember us often in your prayers, as we shall remember you. And greet your king for me and tell him I still hope to welcome him to Jerusalem one day.”

  “I shall indeed do so, my lord,” William replied, his smile warm, giving nothing away of the price he was paying.

  Paschia stood quietly beside Heraclius, her gaze downcast and modest, her garb that of a somber matron. William made a determined effort not to look at her. Although the last tie between them was a frayed thread, it had tangled itself into a knot around his heart, rather than being a straight line that could be easily severed.

  Several knights of the royal household with whom William had ridden to Kerak were also present to make their farewells and give him messages to pass on to friends and family in Normandy and England. Onri and Augustine were riding with them for the first day of their journey, to honor the pilgrimage they had made with William to reach Jerusalem, but would turn back on the second morning.

  Among the many who came to salute them on their way, Guy de Lusignan was something of a surprise.

  “You could have been a great lord in Outremer,” Guy said with scorn, brushing a speck from his sleeve. “Never forget when you are sleeping under a hedgerow with holes in your hose that I offered you that chance. All you had to do was wipe the slate clean as I did and begin again.”

  William stared into Guy’s clear, glass-blue eyes. He might have the looks of a hero, but that quality did not extend to the rest of him. However, he did not intend insulting him when he never had to see him again. Besides, Guy was right. If he had stayed and become Guy’s man, he could have had an elevated position in Outremer—for as long as he lived, which he reckoned would be a short span indeed. “I promised King Henry and Queen Alienor I would return and make my report to them, sire. What happens beyond that is my own clean slate. My time here is ended.”

  Guy gave a scornful shrug. “You throw it all away.”

  “No, sire,” William replied. “It is for others to decide what happens here. I shall still continue to serve Outremer when I am home, as I have vowed. Indeed, I can do more there than here, being constrained by Jerusalem.” He thought it ironic that Guy was telling him he was throwing his future away when Guy had it in him to squander everything.

  Zaccariah of Nablus stood watching them with folded arms. “My advice is to take the main roads. You will be safer there with your burdens.” He flashed William a broad, false smile. “You are in my prayers too.”

  William forced a smile in return. “As you are in mine,” he replied, knowing what they were both praying for.

  “God speed you, William.” Paschia spoke for the first time and sent her uncle a meaningful look. “May your road be clear and safe—and may you reach home unscathed.”

  William risked a glance at her. “That is impossible, madam.” He inclined his head. “But I shall certainly hope to arrive there a wiser man.”

  She dropped her gaze again, and he turned his horse.

  They left the Holy City by the Gate of David, and with each stride Chazur took away from the city, the knot became a little tighter, turning the pain inside him to a hard ball. It was difficult enough to leave and draw away from where Paschia was to a place where she was not. As he threw a scatter of coins into the crowd, he wondered what his time here had been worth.

  He had bound the silks around his body, making a thick padding like a gambeson, protecting him against the cold bite of the wind and affording him spiritual comfort and sustenance, almost in the same way that Harry’s cloak had done on the way to Jerusalem. He had a reason to keep going and a duty to fulfill, but he was also well aware that he had been given the shrouds in the expectation that he might soon die, and it was all the more reason to keep them close to his body.

  Ancel had departed the Holy City making grand flourishes like royalty and calling out gaily to all, but as they traveled along the road, without an expectant audience, he became quiet and introspective. Pilgrim curled up beside him and went to sleep, nose on tail.

  That night, they stopped in a pilgrim hostel and dined on mutton broth and flatbread. William sat down in a quiet corner and took out the package Paschia had given him and discovered it was indeed the plain gold ring that had belonged to her mother—her most treasured possession. He stared at it on the palm of his hand for a long time and then threaded it onto a leather cord and fastened it around his neck, tucking it down inside his shirt, where the key to the dome had once lain against his heart. It carried a weight of sadness and experience about what could have been, but in its eternal circle, it also taught a lasting lesson. A man could only go forward on one path—for better or worse.

  Feeling pensive, he returned to his men and sat down at Ancel’s side. “How are you finding the journey?”

  Ancel shrugged. “Not as comfortable as I was in Jerusalem, but it is tolerable, and it is good to be out of the hospital and to see more than four walls.” He stroked Pilgrim’s ears. “It was the right thing to do, Gwim, even if I argued against it at the time.”

  William forced a smile. “I had little choice, but yes, it was.” He touched Ancel’s sleeve. “I am sorry for all you have suffered because of me. I may never be able to make it right, but I will do my best for you.”

  Ancel looked at the wall. “Even if I recover from this, I can no longer make my way in the world as I once did. My livelihood has gone.”

  William felt a flush of guilt. “There are other things you can do. Our father always found places in his household for men who had been honorably injured and could no longer fight.”

  “I do not want charity,” Ancel said tightly. “How will I support Asmaria if I do not have the wherewithal?”

  “It will not be charity,” William said.

  “Will it not?”

  “You have much to offer. I know our cousin Rotrou at Perche will be glad to have you. He offered you employment after the tourney at Lagny.”

  “That was when I was whole,” Ancel said grimly.

  “Yes, and I know you cannot serve him as a warrior now, but you have qualities that he will still value. You can read and write, which I cannot—and you can still train others to the warrior skills even if you can no longer perform them. It will be all right, I swear.”

  Ancel shrugged. “We shall see,” he said.

  * * *

  In the morning, they set out from the hostel and Onri and A
ugustine bade them farewell and prepared to return to Jerusalem. Onri clasped William’s shoulder. “I will pray for you and hope you win through.” He exchanged a look with William that said more than words. “Whatever happens, I want to know.”

  “I shall send word,” William promised. “I would ask you, even though you are vowed to have no contact with women, to keep an eye on Ancel’s lady and to make sure she lacks for nothing and has safe passage when my brother sends for her.”

  Onri dipped his head. “It shall be done,” he promised, and if his tone was overhearty, William paid no heed to that particular nuance. If they both pretended everything was all right, then it might be.

  * * *

  The weather continued cold and dry over the next few days as they made their way along the meandering course of the River Yarkon toward the coast road and the port of Caesarea in order to take ship for Cyprus. William was on constant guard and insisted that the men wear their mail and keep a lookout for anything untoward. The armor was heavy, but at least the sky was overcast and the weather cool. In summer heat, it would have been unbearable.

  Ancel was being cheerful as they rode along, banging the drum and singing marching songs. They had passed a field of sugarcane at the roadside and everyone was munching on short lengths of the fibrous stems to extract the sweet, sticky juice. The river reflected the gray, early November sky, and they almost could have been winding alongside a riverbank in England, were it not for the lack of willow, alder, and bramble. Instead, there were cypresses, cedars, and sparse Jericho oaks. But still the thought was of home, and he was filled with nostalgia and longing and a need to be there.

  The group approached yet another twist in the river, where the movement of the water had created a shallow inlet bordered by a low, muddy bank. William decided to call a halt and replenish the water bottles and change over the horse pulling Ancel’s cart before they pushed on to the coast. They had set out early and had made good time, but a rest would refresh everyone.

  William produced a handful of dried dates for himself and Chazur from his saddle pack, pushing the horse away as he tried to grab more than his share.

  Suddenly, from the higher ground to the west, William saw a group of horsemen cresting the slope and bearing down on them at a canter. His heart kicked into a swift rhythm, for these were clearly not fellow travelers hoping to share a water hole.

  “On guard!” he shouted.

  Several of his men had noticed the danger too and were already drawing their weapons and mounting up. William scrambled into the saddle and issued rapid orders.

  Within moments, the group was upon them, weapons flashing, and William was unsurprised to see Mahzun of Tire leading them. The horse drawing Ancel’s cart, already partially unharnessed, reared in panic and tried to escape, bucking and twisting until the cart overturned, tipping Ancel into the mud and water. William heard him cry out but, beset on all sides, striking and parrying, was helpless to go to his aid.

  Sweeping aside Robert of London’s sword, Mahzun of Tire confronted William with teeth bared, his eyes a black glitter. He was totally focused on his effort to bring William down and kill him. William met him with similar intent and they were evenly matched, for Mahzun was bigger and stronger, a force of nature, but William was swifter, more flexible, and thus able to dodge or turn the blows. Mahzun hammered at him with single-minded concentration. When William blocked a high blow, he immediately went low in an effort to control the fight. Parrying, turning, dodging out of reach and then striking at Mahzun and being blocked, William knew he had to end it. Either he would kill Mahzun, or Mahzun would kill him. If this was his time to die, so be it. He would go to God with his shrouds bound around his body, and it would be an honorable end.

  Mahzun raised his sword. William feinted left, then right, and for an instant, opened himself to Mahzun’s greedy blade, just enough for the mercenary to take the bait; and then he cut in under Mahzun’s guard and, with one tremendous effort, struck a blow that severed Mahzun’s head from his body. The mercenary tumbled from his saddle and his horse bolted, dragging the corpse through the dust, spouting blood. The head bounced on the path and rolled down the road a little way, coming to rest on the side of the helmet that was still attached by the chin lacings.

  Seeing their leader brought down in such a dramatic and final manner, his men fled, leaving their dead in the road, but not before Eustace and Robert of London had captured Mahzun’s servant.

  William reined about and rushed to help Ancel, who was clinging perilously to the cart wheel, half-submerged in sticky, clinging mud. He had been striving to pull himself out of the water while the battle raged and had gripped a tent mallet in his fist to defend himself. He was white with pain and gasping as William and Geoffrey FitzRobert managed to drag him clear and lie him on the ground. His wound had opened again and was leaking sluggishly.

  “Give him some poppy syrup,” William snapped at Geoffrey, “and bind his leg. Eustace, Guyon, see if you can make a litter from the cart.” He crouched beside Ancel. “It’s over. Mahzun of Tire is dead.”

  Ancel squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “You should have left him for me,” he attempted to jest through gritted teeth.

  “If I had known you were so eager, I would have done,” William responded, conspiring with his bravado. “We’ll see what we can do to fashion you a litter, but the cart’s ruined.”

  William left him to the ministrations of Geoffrey and Eustace and, rubbing his mired hands on his filthy surcoat, went to deal with the mercenary who had been taken prisoner. He dared not think of Ancel beyond the practicalities of dealing with a wounded man and moving on from this place lest there were other pursuers. They were utterly vulnerable if they were attacked again. If he thought about what the tumble had done to Ancel, he could not have functioned.

  “Shall we slit his throat, sire?” Robert of London asked grimly.

  William shook his head. “Not yet.”

  The soldier, who was an older man but the equivalent of Mahzun’s squire and body servant, was spitting blood from a broken tooth but had suffered no worse damage than bruises.

  “Tell me who sent you to do this and I will spare your life,” William said. “On my honor, which is more than your master’s.”

  The man glowered. “My master told me we had a job to do and I followed orders, that is all.”

  “And who gave him that job?” William demanded. “Who was his paymaster? I advise you to tell me, because your life depends on how much you cooperate, and I am not disposed to be merciful.” He forced the man to face Mahzun’s headless corpse, lying some way down the road where the horse had dragged it before Mahzun’s foot had finally untangled from the stirrup.

  “The one who often paid us to do tasks, although he was never our master,” the mercenary replied almost proudly. “We only took the contracts my master chose.”

  “And who would ‘the one’ be?”

  The soldier shrugged. “The patriarch’s gatekeeper, Zaccariah of Nablus. He would often put work our way.”

  William had expected to hear such a reply, but his gut still churned. “Including raiding the pilgrim roads, or was that your own work?”

  The soldier tightened his lips and gave a small movement of his shoulders.

  “Did the patriarch know of this business?”

  Another shrug. “Eventually, everything reaches the patriarch’s ears. What he does about it is up to him. But it was Zaccariah of Nablus who told us you were bearing important letters he would pay well to see for himself.”

  “Did he indeed?” William turned and went to the head lying in the dust. He had done many things in battle but had never decapitated anyone before. However, it was a standard form of execution in Outremer. Any Templar captured by the enemy could expect to suffer that fate. Picking up the head by the helmet strap, he tied it to the saddlebag of Mahzun’s retrieved bay stallion and brough
t the horse to their prisoner. “As you value your life and your honor,” he said, “return this to Jerusalem and present it to Zaccariah of Nablus. Tell him it stops here. Tell him I cut off Mahzun of Tire’s head and I will do the same to him if he dares to come near me and mine again. Make sure you do tell him, because I will know if you do not—it would be the height of stupidity to trifle with the long arm of the Templars. After you have fulfilled your task, I suggest you make yourself very scarce. Understood?”

  The man nodded to show that he did, his throat working as he swallowed.

  “Go then.”

  William handed him the horse’s reins, and the mercenary leaped into the saddle and spurred off down the road, Mahzun’s head banging at his side.

  “Do you think he will do as you bade him?” asked Robert of London dubiously.

  William shrugged. “Who can say? I hope the threat will be enough, but what will be will be.”

  He returned to Ancel. Geoffrey had cleaned him up and managed to stop the bleeding, and the poppy syrup was doing its job, which was a good thing, because now they had to transport him in a makeshift litter for the twenty miles to Caesarea and a ship bound for Cyprus.

  “It is over,” William said as Ancel raised heavy lids. “We are going home.”

  39

  Temple Church, London, April 1186

  William dismounted from Bezant in the stable yard of the new Templar complex and gave his reins to a groom. The April morning was bright with birdsong and the trees in the orchards sweeping down to the Thames were fluffy with blossom, petals floating like snow in the strong breeze blowing off the river, but in his fur-lined cloak, William was invigorated, not cold.

  Walking up through the Temple grounds to the new church, he thought back on the previous few months and the place his life had come to now. He had returned to England with the court two days ago and had taken leave of King Henry to come here and finish weaving another thread of his business.