‘It’s in the new Romanesque style,’ said the princess, who had appeared silently from behind the tapestry, flanked by her two maidservants. ‘Do you see the X with the perpendicular P cutting through it?’
‘Yes,’ said Hartelius. ‘It is the Greek spelling of the word Christ. It is a good-luck emblem. Also, the way John the Baptist is holding the fingers of his right hand, with the thumb and forefinger raised, and the last two fingers curled inwards. This represents a blessing.’
‘So you are educated? I suspected as much when you redefined my name back at Rupertsberg.’
Hartelius approached the princess and kissed both her outstretched hands. ‘I am sorry for that, Princess. I could not help myself. I apologize for my rudeness.’
Both the maidservants curtseyed to him and disappeared behind the tapestry. There was much rustling and giggling as they sat down, ready to rush to the princess’s aid, no doubt, should he overstep the mark.
‘Don’t apologize, Hartelius. I liked it. A soldier should be educated. If he isn’t, he is simply a thug, and worthy only to be served up as meat.’ She sniffed. ‘And speaking of meat, you are to break bread with me tonight. Kindly use the aquamanile over there on the table. The water has been warmed and perfumed, and may serve to disguise the scent of horse you seem to have carried in with you from the outside.’
Hartelius shrugged and walked across to the ewer. It was designed in the form of a seated lion, with the spigot emerging from the lion’s mouth. There was a tipping handle and a sealed opening in the lion’s head through which the liquid entered. The water was indeed scented. Hartelius thought he detected roses. And some elusive spice. Possibly myrrh. Or cinnamon. ‘You don’t like the smell of horses, Princess?’
‘I smell them all day. I prefer not to smell them at night also.’
Hartelius dried his hands and turned back towards her. As he did so, the princess removed her veil and chin-band and draped it over an ivory oliphant. She smiled happily when she saw the effect her little piece of theatre had on him.
‘This hunting horn was my father’s. It was made in Metz from the finest elephant ivory. It was his favourite object.’ She placed one hand over the pectoral cross that hung down the front of her bliaut. ‘This cross was sculpted from the same piece of ivory. My father had it made for me as a sign of his favour.’
Hartelius noticed for the first time that the princess was wearing no cap, and that her short, auburn-coloured hair hung free. This, too, alongside the standing Virgin, was unprecedented. Her skin was pale and her eyes were violet, and very large in the context of her face, which was heart-shaped, with high Hohenstaufen cheekbones and a delicately rounded chin. Her nose was straight and full of character – what one might call a determined nose – and her ears were small, and set close to her head. Piercing the princess’s ears were two gold and cinnabarine earrings. The background to the earrings had been removed with a fine chisel to reveal two peacocks flanking a vase. The peacock, Hartelius knew, symbolized immortality and resurrection. This made the princess, her accoutrements and the décor of her living quarters all part of a symbolical whole. Hartelius was hard put to conceal his astonishment at the effect produced.
‘Princess. It disturbs me that you chose to take with you no companion of your own degree from the convent.’
‘I have my books. I have you. I have no need of a companion.’
‘Then why have you only just called on me? From what you said at Rupertsberg, I understood you wished me to talk to you of war and the things men do.’
The princess laughed. ‘You didn’t take me seriously, did you? I only said that to outrage the abbess. She made my life a misery for the eight years she had me in her power, despite the marked disparity in our stations, and despite my father’s strict instructions, enshrined in his will, that I was to receive a liberal education, rich in the arts and in music, with regular outings beyond the confines of the convent. I therefore particularly enjoyed watching her face when you announced you came directly from my elder brother, the new king, with fresh instructions from him. She looked as though she had swallowed a lemon.’ She chucked her chin at Hartelius. ‘And I have only now called on you, Baron, because I needed my hair to grow out a little after the pruning those wretched nuns gave it when I turned eighteen. Wimples turn you bald, you know. And I did not wish to receive you looking like one of the minor pharaohs.’
Hartelius tried to smile, but his face wouldn’t let him.
‘The truth is that I am entirely uninterested in war. You can tell me about love instead. That will be far more important to my future. Sit you down, Hartelius. I am listening.’
TWELVE
Try as he might, Hartelius found it impossible to ignore the two girls concealed behind the tapestry leading to the princess’s bedchamber.
‘I know nothing of love, Princess.’
‘But you have been married. Did you not love your wife?’
Hartelius had never in his life been asked such a question by a woman. And certainly not in the presence of two of her servants. He looked pained, as if the princess was asking him for a loan of money he did not possess but which he still felt duty bound to give her. His eyes swivelled across to the tapestry again.
The princess caught his look. ‘Both of you. Get out.’
‘But, Princess. . .’ said a disembodied voice.
‘Get out, I say. You have lovers amongst the camp followers. Go and visit them.’
The two girls crept out from behind the tapestry and sidestepped towards the pavilion entrance. Each one curtseyed before backing out through the opening.
‘That was ill done, Princess. There will be talk.’
‘There is always talk de bas en haut. What are they going to do? Ride three weeks back to Mainz and report to my brother that I am entertaining the commander of my knight escort without a chaperone?’
‘No. But they might send a message by courier from the next town.’
‘And what will my brother do? Send men after me to take me back to the nunnery?’
‘No, Princess. He will send men after me.’
Both fell silent for a while, looking at each other.
‘Tell me something, Hartelius. Tell me something you did in battle.’
‘But I thought you didn’t want to hear about war?’
‘I lied.’
Hartelius had encountered very few women during the course of his life. And certainly none like the princess. When a man told him something, he assumed it to be true. Otherwise why say it? But the princess seemed to say things purely for effect. As though she was trying them out on him for size.
It occurred to him then that she, too, had had very little to do with the opposite sex during the course of her eighteen years of life. She had been sent to the nunnery immediately following the king’s death, eight years before. Now, aged eighteen, she was probably better educated than he was – better educated even than his late wife – but infinitely more sheltered. She would have been taught Latin, Greek and French. She would have studied philosophy and the humanities. She would have read the classics. And now she wanted to hear about war. Well, he would tell her about peace.
‘Very well then, Princess. I will tell you a true story. Eight years ago – three weeks before the king, your father’s, death – I was involved in a skirmish.’
‘What is a skirmish?’
‘A small battle. What you might call a minor attack. They happen all the time on campaign.’
The princess stood up and walked over to her marriage chest, which doubled as a sideboard. She poured them both a little wine from a pewter flagon. She carried the two chargers across to Hartelius. He made as if to stand up but she motioned him back down again. Once he had his wine, she sank to the floor at his feet, crossed her legs, and looked up at him expectantly.
Hartelius took a deep breath. The princess’s perfume wafted up from below him. He was aware of the litheness of her body. Of her youth. Of the burnished copper sheen of her hair.
All these things he forcibly tried to damp from his mind. But his mind wouldn’t listen to him. He looked down at her, as she sat cross-legged below him, and he lost sight of himself. Of what he was. Of what he represented. A sort of madness overtook him.
‘That day, after a long pursuit, I found myself separated from my companions. I had been pursuing one man. A wounded Saracen. He had been struck a glancing blow on the shoulders by one of our pike men. I had seen him fall forwards, clutching his horse’s mane, and then ride off. He was mounted on the most beautiful destrier I had ever seen. I wanted this horse. I wanted to kill him and take this horse for my own. Such a thing is permitted under Templar Law, Princess. I was within my rights.’
‘So you followed him?’
‘Out of greed. Yes. I followed him.’
‘Horses mean so much to you?’
‘Horses mean everything to a knight. They are our eyes and ears. They are our soul.’
‘Is this why you don’t need women?’
Hartelius met the princess’s gaze full on. ‘We need women. I need women. There is no link between what occurs on the battlefield and what happens off it. A man is only a man, Princess. Although certain of our clerics would have you think otherwise.’
‘And a horse is only a horse.’ This time it was the princess who turned her gaze away.
‘Yes. The horse.’ Hartelius’s mind turned inwards. Back to that time, eight years before. ‘I have never spoken of this. There are aspects to this story that would not be forgiven if they were told in certain quarters. Maybe I should not continue?’
‘Continue, Hartelius. You have my word that your tale will go no further.’ Still the princess would not look at him.
‘I rode. Far too far and far too fast. I was greedy. I had forgotten caution in my lust for my prize. I had forgotten good sense. I came to a valley. A fertile place in an area that was otherwise parched and blasted. A river ran through the valley. Trees climbed up either bank. Along the river lay a pasture. It was not far from dawn. Mist was rising still. I could make out the passage of the horse I was pursuing through the grasses as clearly as I can make out your face. The line of your neck.’ Hartelius felt the madness come upon him again. He forced it away. ‘My mare was exhausted. I climbed off her and led her to the riverbank. I tethered her there and left her to forage. I went to where the trail left by the Saracen and his horse began. I followed it for a short while on foot, looking for spoor. I could see the line the horse had made through the grasses snaking far away in front of me. I was safe. Every few yards, blood gouts coated the downtrodden herbage. My lust was leaving me. I had become aware of just how far I had travelled in my pursuit of the Saracen. Of the danger I had put myself in.’
‘Did you turn back?’
‘No, Princess. I was very young. My companions had seen me ride off after the wounded warrior. I did not wish them to laugh at me. I wanted to astonish them. To prove my manhood to them by killing the Saracen and returning to the camp with my prize.’
‘So you continued?’
‘No.’
‘Why so?’
‘My horse, standing on the riverbank, whickered. There was an answering whinny. The Saracen’s horse came galloping back down the valley. Riderless. He had smelt my mare, you see, who was in season. Caught her scent on the wind. He was a stallion. He had thrown his weakened rider and was returning to court her. This was clear to me.’
‘He could smell her? That far?’
‘Just as I can smell you, Princess. It is a natural thing. Between animals. And also between men and women. Otherwise how would the world procreate?’ Hartelius knew that he was edging ever closer to the precipice. But he no longer cared.
The princess trembled. Yet still she looked away.
Hartelius lost himself in looking at her. He could see both her and the valley he spoke of. Each was as real to him as the other. ‘I took out my sword and followed the blood spoor left by the Saracen. It didn’t take me long to find him. He had drawn himself up against a tree. He held his scimitar in his left hand. No Muslim fights with the left hand. I knew that his right must be injured. That the blow on the back had damaged his fighting side, and that the fall from his horse had probably weakened him further.’
‘You killed him?’
‘I circled him, watching. Fighting men are trained to sum up their opponents. Often it is what makes the difference between dying and living. This man was close to exhaustion. As I watched him he slid down the tree and lay pressed against its trunk, his scimitar still held towards me.’
‘“Yield,”’ I said, “and I will not kill you.”
‘“I cannot,” he said.
‘I watched him for some time. He had a beautiful face. Noble. Open. The face of a man I should like to call my friend. I approached a little closer to him. He no longer had the strength to raise his scimitar to fend me off. I had only to wait. It was simply a matter of time.’
‘Then?’
‘I dropped my sword and walked towards him. I cannot tell you why I did this. I still do not know. I brushed his scimitar aside with my hand and helped him stretch forwards, onto the ground. I removed his cape. Inspected his chainmail. Neither of us said a word. It was as if we were living in a place outside time itself. Outside the world’s envelope.’
‘Is such a thing possible?’
‘It is possible.’ Hartelius laid one hand on the princess’s neck. He caressed her hair and her shoulders, lightly, as you would caress a child. ‘The pike had driven through the linkage in his mail and damaged his right shoulder, here. . .’ Hartelius touched the princess’s back ‘. . . to the left of the shoulder blade. I made a pad with moss from a nearby tree and packed it into the wound. The Saracen was no longer fully conscious. I took his scimitar and drove it into the ground near to my sword. Later, when I had finished tending to his wounds, I collected our horses. His stallion had mounted my mare. Such a thing was clear from the condition of her hindquarters. Now they were both still. Grazing together. At peace. That night I chanced a fire. The valley was closed. What you would call a combe. It would have needed a man to walk his horse at the very top of the ridge to see the glow. And still the Saracen slept.’
‘And your companions? Back at the camp?’
‘I knew they must think me dead.’
Hartelius’s hand was still resting on the princess. She was not evading it. Once, even, she raised her own hand and touched his lightly with her fingers.
‘I felt as if I and the Saracen were in an enchanted place. Outside the war. Outside the madness of the faiths we both represented. I too slept, knowing that if he woke, he might kill me. But I knew that he would not. At that moment we were one. One soul. One unity. In the morning, when he awoke, he could move a little. I sat him up against the tree and gave him some of my biscuit and a little water. We broke bread together.
‘“You wish for my horse,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. You must take him. As a gift from me. For you have given me life.”
‘I raised the Saracen and placed him high into the saddle of his destrier. He bent forwards at the waist like an old man.
‘“I have your horse,” I said. “Inside mine. Last night he took my mare. I can wait eleven months.”
‘He laughed. I handed him his scimitar. He sat for a long moment looking down at me.
‘“Why?” he said. “Why did you not kill me?”
‘“I would have been killing myself. Such a thing is a sin, is it not?”
‘He laughed once more and sheathed his sword.
‘“My men are camped all around this valley. It is a miracle you were not discovered. I am their commander. You are young. I would be worth much to you in ransom.”
‘“You are worth more to me than any ransom.”
‘The Saracen nodded. “I shall call them off. Leave by the way you came. You will be safe. I promise you.”
‘He took my hand. We kissed, as brothers would.
‘“Your name?”
�
��“Johannes von Hartelius. Of Sanct Quirin.”
‘“My name is Amir Maan Ibn Fakhr-al-Din. Of Baakleen. In the Chouf. Remember or forget. The choice is yours.”
‘He rode slowly away. My mare called after his stallion, and the stallion called back. I mounted the mare and rode back towards our camp. I knew his men would not pursue me. I knew that I was safe.’
‘And your mare? Did she have her foal?’
‘Oh yes. I am riding him now. He is seven years old and in his prime. He looks just like his father.’
The princess took Hartelius’s hand in hers. ‘You smell of him. However hard you wash, you still smell of horses.’
‘I am sorry, Princess.’
‘Don’t be. I like it.’
Hartelius no longer knew or cared what he was doing. Given his birth, he knew exactly the degree of mild flirtation the hohe Minne tradition allowed him. He was already way beyond it.
He dropped to his knees beside the princess. She was looking up at him – meeting his gaze now, equal to equal. Her eyes were large and all-encompassing – they seemed to drink him into their centres as if he were diving into a deep well. He kissed her and she responded. He lay her on the floor of the pavilion and lost himself in her scent and the tender touch of her arms about him.
‘Why, Princess? Why?’
‘I asked you to tell me of love.’
‘But I told you of war.’
‘No, Hartelius. You told me of love.’
THIRTEEN
Hartelius visited the princess every evening after that. The moment she heard his step she would send her handmaidens back to their lovers so as to be able to entertain her own. They would talk. Kiss. Hold each other. After dining together, he would return to the camp to do his round of the pickets. Then, later, when night came, he would return to the princess’s pavilion through the darkness of the camp to lie with her. His men would look the other way. There was no point trying to disguise what was happening. A moveable camp is a busy place. There are guards, blacksmiths, cooks and camp followers. Coopers, seamstresses and leatherworkers. Fires burn. Braziers glow.
The Templar Inheritance Page 6