He had arrived at his cousin Rotrou’s castle of Perche in late January, after making his return cautiously by sea and land. Rotrou had welcomed the party warmly and settled them by his fire to recuperate and bring him news of Jerusalem, where he had sworn to go himself.
As William had hoped, Rotrou had offered Ancel a permanent place in his household and a secure home in which he could make his long recuperation. He would walk again, but he would always limp. The unthinking, casual ease was gone. And he would never fight from the back of a horse again. But he had clerical skills, was good with youngsters, and would make a fine tutor to the squires at Perche. It still felt like crumbs and dregs from what had once been a feast, but it was more than survival. William had promised to visit when he could, and Ancel had been stoical as they embraced. “I saved your life, Gwim,” he said. “Do not waste it.”
Those final words in his mind, William had gone to King Henry and Queen Alienor at Lyons la Forêt and made his report, giving Henry the salient facts with a soldier’s upright duty. Henry had remarked that he was deeply relieved that William had not returned smothered in perfume and posturing like the patriarch, to which William maintained a diplomatic silence. He would gladly tell Henry everything he wanted to know about the state of the kingdom of Jerusalem, but let the rest remain behind a curtain.
Henry had granted William a minor estate in the north of England, together with several wardships and various privileges that would provide him with a living, albeit far from court. It would do for now, and Queen Alienor had promised her support. It was a time for evaluation and settlement before returning to the fray.
The gentle slope had brought him to the new Temple Church, and William stopped to consider the harmonious round of soft, tawny stone. The curves slightly echoed the old building in Holborn, but the new structure had a vibrancy and solid beauty that had been missing before.
Entering the porch, William gazed at the exquisitely rendered arches over the doors with their tight foliate and geometric patterns. And the doors themselves, stout and strong, decorated with wrought-iron bands in an intricate but graceful pattern that added a layer of artistry and strength. Tears pricked the back of his eyes. Swallowing, he laid his hand to the latch ring, opened the door, and walked inside.
And then stopped, for he was standing inside a replica of the rotunda in Jerusalem.
Dark marbled columns, softly gleaming and trellised with gold, rose to support a lofty galleried dome. The air had the same aromatic smell of the incense that burned in the braziers of the Holy Sepulchre and took him straight back there. A stone plinth ran around the walls for the brethren to sit and conduct their business. A variety of carved and painted faces gazed out from arches of blind arcading behind the plinth. The sun poured down from the dome, illuminating the altar in a dazzle of light. It was perfect and complete, uplifting and filled with holy mystery. William fell to his knees, raised his eyes to the clear light pouring onto the pale flags of the floor, and gave thanks to God for his life and his deliverance, and although his heart was tender and sensitive, his emotions were of joy and relief and reassurance. This was where he would be buried, he knew it inside his living bones.
At a light touch on his shoulder, he looked up to see Aimery standing beside him, dressed in his white woolen robes, a warm smile creasing his cheeks. “I knew by God’s grace you would come back to us,” he said, and as William rose to his feet, he clasped him in a hard embrace.
William returned the hug and felt Aimery’s solid strength, as firm and robust as these walls, but uplifting too. “Indeed, it is by God’s grace, certainly not by my own.”
Aimery’s gaze was keen. “By whatever means, you are here.” With his arm around William’s shoulders, he brought him to sit on the plinth encircling the round.
“The church is a wonder and a great glory to God,” William said, following the shafts of light upward and marveling.
“Indeed it is,” Aimery replied with a smile. “And consecrated by the patriarch himself.”
“Yes.” William did not particularly want to think of Heraclius because it inevitably led down other roads, but it was unavoidable. “I have brought you letters from him.” He indicated his satchel.
“I thought him well meaning and a fine orator,” Aimery said.
William nodded again. “He was disappointed not to have more success with King Henry, but I did not expect him to do so. Henry would never trade England and Normandy for Jerusalem.”
“No, indeed.” Aimery looked at William and folded his arms. “I suppose you have many tales to tell of your time there, although perhaps not quite yet.”
William shook his head. “No,” he said, “not quite yet—although some I will gladly share with you later.” But never what had been between him and Paschia. That was a personal reliquary and his cross to bear.
Aimery looked sidelong at William and said nothing but folded his arms.
“I have come to render service to the Templars,” William said eventually. “I took an oath in Jerusalem that I would honor the order and the Blessed Virgin as a secular knight for the rest of my days.”
“You chose not to take the full oath?”
It was a straightforward question without hint of reproach, and William shook his head. “I did not deem myself worthy at the time nor do so now. It is not my path for the moment, but perhaps in the future.”
Aimery patted his shoulder. “You are among friends and allies. You are one of us and you will always have our support and protection even as you will bestow us yours.”
A sense of serenity and gravitas settled on William. “Not all that I looked upon in Jerusalem was fair or honorable. Indeed, many of the dealings were murky and corrupt. Men of the cross were no exception—and neither, to my shame, was I. I swore when I took my vows that all my future dealings would be right and honorable and for the good of all—a personal vow to myself.”
Aimery nodded with somber understanding.
“The king has given me land in the north country and, should I desire marriage, the wardship of Heloise of Lancaster.”
Aimery rubbed his chin. “And do you desire marriage, Gwim?”
William shook his head and smiled a little at the use of the familiar name. “I am not sure it is the right opportunity. I shall go north, and I shall do my best for my wards, but is this all there is? I have the skills to be of service in a wider arena.”
Aimery looked thoughtful. “I agree, and we shall do everything we can to help you. As you say, there is no point in swearing you to service and then ignoring your talents. But I would advise you to visit your lands and use some time to rest and take stock of your life and let matters unfold. If there are wounds, let them heal. You can pick up your path as soon as you are ready, and by then, all will be in alignment.”
“You always see through me and straight to the crux of the matter,” William said with a smile.
Aimery’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps because we have known each other since our mothers sat side by side to gossip and watch us roll around on the floor like puppies. We have always been brothers, not of womb and seed, but in everything else.”
They sat in silence for a while, and William had to wipe his eyes. “Speaking of brothers, there is one more thing I would ask of you,” he said when he was sure of his voice.
“You have but to name it.” Aimery rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you acted as a decoy for certain letters and took your own life into your hands.”
William did not ask how Aimery knew. The Templar network functioned across all boundaries, in the same way that Zaccariah’s did. The trick was in finding the safe strands that were bridges, rather than the sticky threads of a web.
“Ancel was badly wounded in Outremer—broke his leg taking a blow intended for me—and it has limited what he can now do. He is settled at Perche with our cousin Rotrou and will dwell there the rest of
his days in other employment. He left a woman in Jerusalem…” Here William faltered and looked down at the ring on his little finger. He too had left a woman in Jerusalem. When he raised his head, Aimery was looking at him narrowly. “A good woman,” William said. “Honest and strong and loving. We could not bring her with us, but it would gladden his life and make it bearable if she could come to him. The arm of the Templars is long, as you say, and if you could help bring this about when the pilgrim ships sail…I can give you her name and where she lives. I have money with which to secure her passage. Onri has promised to help in Jerusalem, but I would have it secured from here also, because of the distance and uncertainty.”
“Leave it with me.” Aimery touched his sleeve. “I will arrange it, I promise.”
To William, Aimery’s promise meant that the thing was as good as done, and he experienced a lightening of blessed relief. Riding from the Temple Church, the afternoon sun low in the sky polishing Bezant’s copper hide with gold, William felt that a great weight had finally lifted from his shoulders, and he was smiling. Never had the grass smelled sweeter or the air more fresh. He had his life, and even if a few shadows remained, they only gave more strength to the light.
40
Manor of Caversham, May 1219
“William?”
He turned his head on the pillow and looked at Aimery, who was leaning over him, holding his hand. His frame was a little stooped, like a weather-embattled tree, and his face heavily lined with the weight of years, but his eyes were bright with awareness and wisdom.
“Dear friend,” Aimery said, “it grieves me to see you in such a plight.”
William gave a rueful half smile. “Grand Master,” he said, slightly teasing Aimery’s exalted rank within the Templars. “I trust in God to make all things right.”
“I had masses said for your soul at the Temple Church before I set out,” Aimery said. “I know why you have summoned me.”
William squeezed his hand. “We go back a long time, you and I. Of course you know.”
Aimery drew back to remove his hat and cloak and, having plumped William’s pillows, settled down in a chair at William’s side, as though paying a normal social visit. William recognized with a pang of affection that Aimery was trying to make things seem normal and as if time was unimportant—and in a way, it was.
William played along with the charade. “Remember when we hid in the undercroft at Hamstead and drank wine from the barrel? It was just before I left to train for knighthood at Tancarville.”
“And your father discovered us.” Aimery made a face but laughed.
“Ancel was there too, but we hid him behind a hogshead in the corner and saved him a whipping.” William’s mind filled with a vision of Ancel crouched in the shadows, holding his breath, eyes wide with fear. “I did not save him in later life.” He thought of Ancel limping around with the aid of a stick, in Rotrou’s service, and then later with Rotrou’s son Geoffrey. Ancel had trained the squires and undertaken many a supervisory and administrative task, but his future as a warrior had been curtailed.
Aimery took his hand. “It was God’s will, William. You cannot take all the blame on your own shoulders, although I know it has long been a pattern for you. Ancel made his own choices.”
“But because of my actions.”
“Which were made, in turn, by the actions of others. You have been absolved many times. Now you must forgive yourself because that chain still binds you to the ground—you cannot be free until you sever it.”
A sharp pang made William gasp, and Aimery helped him to drink from the cup of poppy syrup. William lay back, forcing his will through the pain.
At least Asmaria had come to Ancel, escaping a few weeks before Jerusalem had fallen to Saladin, and they had made a good life together at Perche, even if it was one constrained by Ancel’s injury.
In Jerusalem, little King Baldwin had died aged just nine years old and his mother had claimed the throne and crowned her husband, Guy de Lusignan, as her king and consort, and all had come to disaster. Less than a year after his coronation, Guy, with Gerard de Ridefort at his side, had led out the army of Jerusalem against Saladin and, in a terrible error of judgment, brought almost the entire force to slaughter, including the majority of the Templars, among them Onri and Augustine, at the battle of Hattin. In returning when he did, William had avoided their fate, and although he had grieved for both men, he had concluded that God truly did intend him to live and that Paschia had not only been a great threat to his life, but, in a strange way, also his saving grace.
Paschia herself, with her ability to land on her feet even in dire circumstances, had survived the taking of Jerusalem and escaped with the patriarch and their baby daughter. He felt no bitterness toward her now. All that had leached away with time, healed many years ago by his beautiful, golden Isabelle, who had stood by him through thick and thin without vacillation. His solace, his love, his helpmate, and mother to their ten children. He had made his peace with the Virgin, endowing this chapel to her at Caversham, his priories at Cartmel and Tintern de Voto in Ireland and Saint Mary’s in Rospont. Had she forgiven him? He had always wondered if his change of fortune on his return from Jerusalem had been her doing, but like any queen, the Queen of Heaven expected service in return.
A drift of melancholy remained, like the last wisp of incense vanishing in church and the final leaf tugging from the tree as winter arrived. But beyond winter came spring. He had served in every season and would continue to do so.
“My heart is whole and free,” he said as the poppy syrup gradually eased the pain.
Aimery nodded comfortably. “Well then, old friend, tell me what you have been seeing here.”
“The sky through the window,” William said. “I have become an expert on the weather just from watching how the clouds move and smelling the air while I still have breath.” He paused. “And Jerusalem. I have been back to Jerusalem without walking a single pace from my bed, and now I know what I must do. It is time to fulfill what I vowed all those years ago. My next step will not be in this world, and I need to don my armor and be firm in my intent and certainty.” He gave Aimery a wry smile. “It is like resting a siege ladder against a castle wall. It must be solid, and to set one’s foot on the rung and take that first step requires the ultimate courage and strength of purpose.”
Aimery nodded agreement. “You have done that many times in your life.”
“Yes, but this will be the hardest one because it is final—there is no descending from this one. I ask you to be the scaffolding to hold me steady.”
Aimery gripped William’s hand, pleating the loose skin over his knuckles, and William saw the tears shining in his eyes. “You do not need me for that,” he said, “but whatever I can do, I will.”
* * *
It was quiet. The sun was setting in a flush of gilded apricot and soft tawny and soon the first stars would prick out. Bats flitted in the early spring air, and he heard the weet-weet of a female tawny owl in the oak trees beyond his window, the soft tick of logs as they settled in the hearth where his eldest son sat with Jean D’Earley playing chess, keeping watch, but leaving William to his own thoughts and slumber.
Aimery had departed two hours ago, taking the barge down the Thames back to London following a solemn meal held in William’s chamber for all those who had witnessed William taking the full Templar vows and departing the secular life. Now all that remained was the waiting, but he was calm and unafraid.
He gazed at the seal Aimery had placed in his left hand bearing the image of two Templar knights astride the same horse. That was his shield. His empty right hand was for his sword when the time came. It lay sheathed with his Templar mantle at the foot of his bed. The silk shrouds had been washed in incense, blessed, and placed under his bed, close enough for him to touch if he wished. Soon, they would be draped over and around him, even as they had in J
erusalem, protecting him until the resurrection. His body would rest but his spirit would be alert, awake, and awakened.
He heard again Aimery’s words, spoken softly following the vows. “Blessed be your life. Blessed be your passing beyond it. You were a worthy man in life, and a worthy man you leave it.” The sunset faded, and the sky turned to the luminous dark teal of evening. Everything had a beginning as well as an end, and then a beginning again. Dawn to dusk to dawn.
“It will not be long,” he said and, with a feeling of wholeness and fulfillment, closed his hand over the seal, sensing upon his face the delicate gossamer brush of silk.
Author’s Note
When I wrote my novel about the life of William Marshal up to 1194, The Greatest Knight, I knew that William had spent the years 1183 to 1186 on pilgrimage to the Holy Land fulfilling a pledge to his dying young lord that he would take his cloak to the tomb of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. What he did there (beyond obtaining his own burial silks) was a mystery. Sadly, because of time constraints, structure, and word count on that novel, I was unable to cover that particular period of his life and so included a bridging chapter that worked well in the context of the story and was as much as I knew at the time.
I have always wanted to return to the question of what William Marshal might have done during those missing three years. Since writing The Greatest Knight, I have continued to study William and his family for personal interest, and that period of absence from 1183 to 1186 has continued to intrigue me.
A couple of years ago, while discussing future projects with my then editor, she asked if I would consider writing another novel about William Marshal. Since I had been thinking of just such a project myself, we were in complete accord, and I was delighted to be given the go-ahead to write the story of William’s pilgrimage.
So, what do we know about his time in the Holy Land? The answer is very little.
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