‘Why is that?’
‘Bishop Fulbert’s cathedral was burnt down four years ago. It was one of the greatest tragedies in Christendom. Even rustics such as you in Bavaria must have heard of it,’ she added with a smile. ‘Everything bar the crypt, part of the west façade and two towers is gone. A great new cathedral is to be built on the spot after the dismantling is complete. The greatest of all cathedrals. But there is no money. No will. No possibility of this coming to fruition.’
‘Now,’ said the Shaykh, ‘there is.’
‘And with no danger to Islam,’ said Hartelius, with a smile. ‘Let us not forget that.’
‘None,’ said the Shaykh, echoing his smile, and toying with his Carnelian prayer beads.
‘But you would still have given me back the scroll if there had been.’
‘Yes,’ said the Shaykh. ‘It formed part of an unspoken contract between us.’
‘And what was my part of the contract?’
‘This, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Hartelius. ‘This I know.’
FIFTY
Hartelius watched von Szellen and the nine Templar Knights who were to accompany him, including the troublemakers Klarwein and Nedermann, mounting their horses. At the very last moment he brought the sheepskin package from its hiding place and set it firmly in von Szellen’s hands.
‘You understand why this has to go to King Frederick’s court in Sicily? And not to that of his uncle, King Philip, in Mainz?’
‘I know that King Philip stole the Copper Scroll from our Order and that you are returning it to the Grand Master, via our rightful sovereign.’
‘Yes, together with a request to him, as King of Sicily and true head of the House of Hohenstaufen, that I might be allowed to marry the princess, his aunt, by the left hand, in a morganatic marriage, as she is to bear my child.’
Von Szellen drew in his breath. ‘I did not know.’
‘It is best that no one else knows either. For I intend to prejudge the king’s permission and marry the princess anyway. The king, after all, is only four years old, and Pope Innocent III is his guardian. I do not have high expectations there.’
Von Szellen threw back his head and laughed. ‘And who will you get to witness the verba de praesenti? This Sufi? The princess’s handmaiden? I know why you are staying behind, Hartelius. What chance do you think you have? The Amir and his men were due here two days ago. They have not come. Which means that he has fallen foul of von Drachenhertz and has been killed. Every man and woman between here and Constantinople will be out looking for you now in search of the reward. And you have given me all your letters of credit to furnish my men. How long do you think you will last in these mountains with the little gold you have left? Best come with us and take your chances. At least we have numbers on our side.’
‘I cannot. And you will be safer without me and the princess along.’
‘I know that too.’
Von Szellen eased his horse away from Hartelius’s side and raised his arm. Both men had learned on campaign not to waste words once things were decided. Von Szellen’s men fell in behind him. ‘It has been an honour to ride with you, Commander,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘And I, you,’ said Hartelius.
After that von Szellen did not look back.
Hartelius paused, watching the Templars until they disappeared from sight. Then he strode across to the two men who had elected to make their way back to Germany on his behalf. ‘Now. You go too. I am relying on you both to recount, fully and impartially, all that has taken place here to the Grand Master.’ He handed them a purse. ‘And that I am fulfilling my role as Guardian of the Holy Spear by keeping it safe from the tyrant von Drachenhertz.’
‘It shall be done, Commander.’
The one remaining Templar, Aludo von Eisenbrand, had asked if he might stay with Hartelius in order to protect the princess. The truth was that he was in love with the princess’s handmaiden, and when it was made clear that she could not accompany either of the Templar parties as she would only slow them up, he had elected to remain behind also. Hartelius was grateful for his presence, as this would give the princess and the Shaykh at least some protection whilst he was away.
‘But why do you have to go?’ said the princess. ‘The Amir may still come as he promised.’
‘No. He will not. But if he does, you will be here, as arranged, to meet him.’
‘But why you?’
‘Because the Amir is my friend. And the Shaykh and I have a contract.’
‘Unspoken.’
‘But still a contract. Both of us knew it when I let him take the scroll. He has fulfilled his side of the bargain. Now I must fulfil mine.’
‘But you will be killed.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘I know you will be killed.’
‘That is God’s will.’
‘And still you will go?’
‘Yes, my love. Would you have me be an unworthy friend?’
‘For unworthy friends make unworthy lovers? Is that what you are saying?’ The princess was smiling through her tears.
Hartelius knelt in front of her and kissed both her hands. Then he placed his head against her stomach and she held him there, lightly, while he communed with his unborn child.
FIFTY-ONE
Hartelius retraced his steps at perhaps twice the speed in which the original journey had been conducted. He was travelling downhill for the most part, and along already blazed trails. He slept and then rode in two-hour stages to rest Gadwa, his stallion, and his relief horse, an Arabian gelding called Ishan. He continued like this throughout the night, relying on the horses to pick their way along the tracks and byways as much by scent as by sight. The air was clear and each breath he took was a joy.
But as he approached the place of the armies, his spirits lowered and he began to doubt his mission. What could a single man do in such circumstances? How could he have left the princess with only one knight, an unarmed Sufi and her handmaiden for company? What if he never came back? What then?
Time and again he thrust these questions from his mind, but always they came back to torment him. Privately, he had spoken to his last remaining Templar, Aludo von Eisenbrand, and agreed with him that if he were not to return or send word within a period of ten days, he too must make for Sicily with the princess’s party, where Hartelius had every reason to believe she would be safe.
If von Szellen had done his work well and prepared the ground, it would be acknowledged by all that he and the princess were, by convention at least, married. The young king’s express permission would then turn an informal, albeit legal, convention into a formal Muntehe binding – one in which Elfriede’s child would stand to inherit his or her part of Hartelius’s estate, alongside his four other children, together with any title of nobility that might accrue from their mother or their father’s line. If either estate or line were left, that is, after news of Hartelius’s betrayal was carried back to the false king in Germany.
To this end Hartelius had brought everyone together, before leaving, and had conducted a verba de praesenti ceremony in which he had uttered the words ‘I do, here present, receive you as mine, so that you become my wife and I your husband’ – words then mirrored by Elfriede. He had then transferred his family ring from his hand to hers, in a further token of their arrangement, and to mark his formal acquisition of tutelage over his bride, the ring being worn on the fourth finger of her right hand, which traditionally possessed a vein that carried blood directly to the heart.
Elfriede, for her part, presented Hartelius with a wreath made from flowers, which she placed on his head in honour of fertility. The presence of three witnesses was enough to legitimize the ceremony, which, again according to convention, stood in no need of a priest’s attachment to make it legally binding. In this way, at least, Hartelius had managed to lay his own and the princess’s mind at rest.
But, as Hartelius slithered towards the edge of the escarpment overlooking von Drach
enhertz’s camp, marriage, and the creation of dynasties, began to seem the least of his worries.
Nothing had changed. The camp still spread the width of ten cathedrals across the plain. To Hartelius’s mind this could only mean one thing. That the Amir and his men had not succeeded in breaking through von Drachenhertz’s defences, and had been either killed or captured.
That night Hartelius muzzled Gadwa and Ishan and rode down to within a few hundred yards of the enemy’s skirmish lines. He tethered the horses behind a dune. Then he stripped himself of all unnecessary accoutrements beyond his sword, his dagger, and his hauberk, and began his slow crawl towards the nearest campfire.
Three times he was forced to stop and bury his head in the sand as guards passed. And three times he continued with his relentless crawling.
After the last guard party passed, he stood up, brazenly, and strode past the outer boundaries of the first campfire he could see, knowing that in the darkness at the periphery of a fire, all faces look the same.
His one advantage now was that he was amongst his own people. He wore the same chainmail as they did, and carried the same sword. His hair and beard were shorn in the same manner. His bearing was the same, together with his size and shape. He even spoke their language. All things that would stand him in good stead if he were stopped.
He picked his way towards the centre of the camp, striding confidently when he saw men approaching him, and walking with more caution when he was alone.
No one challenged him. No one called out to him. Thus it soon became clear to Hartelius that the host spread out around him was no longer on the alert. It was only when he saw the great mound of abandoned Saracen weapons piled in the rough centre of the encampment that he realized quite what a disaster must have happened to his friend the Amir and his men.
Hartelius was now faced with a dilemma. He needed information. But that information would only be available by asking. And any man asking would instantly fall under suspicion, as who but an enemy spy could not possibly know everything that had occurred without the need for words?
Hartelius passed one campfire with only Knights Hospitaller gathered round it. Another with Teutonic Knights. He avoided these. Any Templar Knights, he knew, would be keeping themselves to themselves at the far edge of the camp, where they would be the first into danger and the first into battle, as was their custom. He would avoid these too, for fear of being recognized by former crusading companions. No. What he must find were mercenaries. Men who gathered together in disparate gangs and who fought purely for gold. Here, only, would he have a chance of gathering information.
As fate would have it, he chanced upon none of these. Instead he saw the figure of a man limping in front of him. A man who walked with a hunched back and one leg thrown out to the side. A man who wore a white surplice with a red Templar cross on the front and back.
Heilsburg. It must be Heilsburg. No one else walked as he did. His nickname during the third crusade had been ‘half man half frog’ – shortened to ‘frogman’ or froschmann amongst his friends. It had been he who had first found Hartelius on the desert road after he had plucked the Holy Lance from Frederick Barbarossa’s saddle. He who had explained away Hartelius’s deplorable condition to Frederick Barbarossa’s mourning son, the Duke of Swabia, triggering Hartelius’s unexpected rise to the nobility.
Hartelius was now faced with a terrible dilemma. If a committed Templar such as Heilsburg was still here, it must mean that formal word had not yet come through from Germany of the annexation of the Copper Scroll from the Templars by the king. If that were to be the case, there was no reason to suppose that, beyond the conventional bounds of a long-standing friendship, Heilsburg would in any way be minded to show favour to him. In fact Heilsburg being Heilsburg, he would no doubt act first, out of instinct, and ask questions later. When it would already be far too late.
Hartelius shadowed Heilsburg as well as he was able, but he soon began to fear, given the complete set of armour Heilsburg was wearing, that his friend must be returning from some duty or other, and would soon lead him directly to the Templars’ encampment, which was the last thing that Hartelius wanted.
So he picked up a stone and threw it at Heilsburg’s back. The stone struck Heilsburg on his neck mail, high up on his left shoulder. Immediately upon throwing it, Hartelius ducked into the lee of a tent and waited.
He could hear the crunch of Heilsburg’s sabatons approaching, and the muttered curses his friend was uttering. Something about children and their lack of respect for authority.
Hartelius crossed himself and waited for Heilsburg to come parallel to him. His one advantage was that he knew on which side Heilsburg was invariably thrown when he limped. As Heilsburg rounded the corner of the tent, Hartelius grabbed him by the collar and jerked him violently in the direction he was already veering.
Heilsburg lost his footing and pitched into the sand. Hartelius fell upon him and raised a warning hand. Heilsburg’s eyes widened, but he did not cry out.
Hartelius sat up and flipped his dagger round. He touched the point to his throat and forced the haft into Heilsburg’s hand. ‘I am in your hands. Kill me if you will. I ask only, as your friend, that you give me five minutes to explain myself before you hand me in to your new master.’
Heilsburg spat the sand out of his mouth. ‘My only master is God. You should know that as well as anybody.’
Hartelius let out a sigh. ‘I was hoping you would say that.’
Heilsburg dropped the point of the dagger and embraced Hartelius. Then the two men sat side by side in the sand for a moment, like small children.
‘You must come with me,’ said Heilsburg.
‘Where?’
‘I owe you five minutes, remember. Here, you are on a major thoroughfare through the camp. Do you want to be caught?’
‘No.’
‘Then come.’
Heilsburg led Hartelius to a tent. He tipped the flap and checked inside. ‘Good. Still gambling.’
‘Who is still gambling?’
‘Fournival.’
‘But gambling is illegal for Templar Knights.’
Heilsburg snorted. ‘Much has changed since last we met. But then, why am I telling you this? You already have intimate acquaintance with our margrave. And with his bride-to-be, as I understand it, also.’ He ushered Hartelius ahead of him inside the empty tent. ‘I can only tell you that everything you have heard about the man is true. And more besides. Everything is slipping. There is no morality any more. He will be the death of us all.’ Heilsburg turned to Hartelius, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘But I rather suspect he will be the death of you first.’
FIFTY-TWO
‘It was a massacre.’ Heilsburg finished his beaker of wine and held it out for Hartelius to refill. ‘The Saracens rode in from the sea, thinking they had outwitted us. But the margrave, for all his sins, is nothing if not a tactician. He had caused deep bonfires to be built in every part of the camp. With sundried kindle wood laid near them, soaked in tar. And then he ordered the bonfires covered. In this way, in a matter of seconds, the fires could be uncovered and any part of the camp could be lit up as in a festival.’
‘What happened?’
‘The Saracens came howling and yodelling in from the sea, all banners unfurled, as is their wont. It was a fine sight. They broached the edges of the camp in darkness and thought to ride on through and out the other side, like a scimitar slicing through silk. But the bonfires caught them out. Then it was only a matter of numbers. They were surrounded and slaughtered by von Drachenhertz’s mercenaries. Even the idlers and malingerers dipped their swords in Saracen blood that night. It was disgusting to see. These men were not our enemy. It was the margrave who challenged them and barred their legal way. Many of us felt the shame of it. But there was little we could do but watch the massacre from a distance.’
‘And the Amir?’
‘Their leader, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘He
is a prisoner. Men such as he are worth a fortune in ransom. And the margrave clearly hopes the Amir’s presence will lure you out of hiding and give you into his hands.’ Heilsburg grinned. ‘And he was right yet again. I am almost beginning to believe in the man myself.’
‘And you. You believe all you hear about me?’
‘Me?’ Heilsburg shrugged. ‘I am a Knight Templar first and foremost. I do what I am told.’
‘What if I told you that King Philip of Swabia stole the Copper Scroll from our Grand Master? That he sent it, as part of his sister’s wedding portion, for the margrave to use as he saw fit? And that I stole the scroll back, had it translated, and it is now on its way, with von Szellen, to the true king’s court in Sicily.’
‘If you were any other man I would call you a liar.’
‘But you know I am not.’
‘I have never known you to lie. No.’ Heilsburg bent forwards from the hip, his trunk and one arm canted sideways, his other hand holding his wine. ‘This is true, what you say? The scroll is translated at last?’
‘By a Sufi, yes. One of the enemy. Who trusted me enough to give it back to me.’
‘Why did he trust you?’
‘Because he knew I would come here and try to save his pupil, the Amir.’
Heilsburg shook his head. He did not even laugh. ‘This is impossible. Even for you, Spear-Saver. I have just come from guarding the man. There are twenty other knights guarding him at any one time. And a thousand knights guarding those knights. And a thousand further knights guarding those. No one man can get through. It would take an army.’
‘Still. I must try it.’
‘Then you will be caught. And I shall be forced to watch your execution, which will be most objectionable to me, and which will probably cause me to miss my breakfast. Or to throw it up, given what methods the margrave will doubtless use on you.’
‘I have walked through this camp already unchallenged.’
‘That would end the closer to the Amir’s prison tent you came.’
‘And there is no other way?’
The Templar Inheritance Page 24