The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud

by Julia Navarro

  Pascal de Molesmes, himself a noble sent by the king of France to serve the king’s disgraced nephew, remained silent.

  Indeed, however, there was no ermine cape. Not long ago the emperor of Byzantium had even ordered the lead stripped from the roof tiles of his palace in order to sell it off to the Venetians, who were making enormous profits off Balduino’s financial straits.

  By the time the emperor was seated in the throne room, his courtiers were whispering nervously as they awaited the news from the French king.

  Robert de Dijon touched his knee to the floor and bowed his head before the emperor. Balduino gestured for him to rise.

  “So, my lord, what news bring you from my uncle?”

  “His Majesty the king is in fierce battle in the Holy Land, attempting to liberate the sepulcher of our Lord. I bring you the good news of the conquest of Damietta. The king advances and shall conquer the lands of the Nile on his way to Jerusalem. Thus at present he cannot aid you as he would wish, for the cost of his expedition far exceeds the Crown’s annual levies. He recommends that you have patience and faith in the Lord. Soon you will be called to his side as the faithful and most beloved nephew that you are, and he will aid you then in overcoming the tribulations that you now suffer.”

  Balduino’s eyes filled with tears at the devastating message. A harsh look from Pascal de Molesmes steadied him.

  “I have also brought you a letter from His Majesty.”

  Dijon took from his belt a document bearing the seal of the king and held it out to the emperor, who took it limply and passed it to de Molesmes. Balduino then extended his hand to the noble messenger, who bowed once more and kissed the emperor’s ring.

  “Shall there be a reply to His Majesty’s letter?”

  “You are returning to the Holy Land?”

  “First I am to journey to the court of Blanca de Castilla; I am taking her a letter from her son, my good King Louis. One of the knights who accompanies me is burning to return to the king’s side to battle the infidels, and he shall bear whatever message Your Majesty might wish to send your uncle.”

  Balduino nodded and stood up. He left the throne room without looking back.

  “What am I to do now, Pascal?” he cried to de Molesmes when they were alone.

  “What you have done on other occasions, my lord.”

  “Go to the courts of my relatives, who seem unable to grasp how vital it is that Constantinople be saved for Christianity? I do not ask these things for myself! We are the last Christian bastion between them and the Muslims—but the Venetians are an avaricious people, who are forging an alliance with the Ottomans behind my back; all the Genovese care about is the profits from their trade; and my cousins in Flanders complain of not having enough resources to help me. Lies! Am I to prostrate myself again before those princelings, beg them to help me preserve the empire? Do you think God will forgive me for pawning the crown of thorns worn by His crucified son?

  “I have no money to pay the soldiers, or the people of the castle, or my nobles. I have nothing, nothing. From the moment I became emperor at twenty-one, I have dreamed of restoring the empire’s splendor, recovering the lands it has lost, and what have I done? Nothing! Since the Crusaders divided the empire and sacked Constantinople, I have barely been able to maintain the kingdom, and good Pope Innocent is deaf to my pleas.”

  “Calm yourself, my lord. Your uncle will not abandon you.”

  “Did you not hear the message?”

  “Yes, and in it he tells you that he will send for you when he defeats the Saracens.”

  The majestic chair in which the emperor was seated had been stripped of its gold leaf some time ago. Balduino stroked his beard reflectively, his left foot beating a nervous staccato on the tiles.

  “My lord, you must read the king’s letter.”

  De Molesmes handed Balduino the sealed scroll Dijon had presented.

  “Ah! Yes, my uncle no doubt recommends that I be a good Christian and not lose faith in our Lord.”

  Breaking the king’s scarlet seal, the emperor scanned the missive, a look of growing astonishment suffusing his face.

  “My God! My uncle does not know what he is asking for!”

  “The king makes a demand of you, my lord?”

  “Louis assures me that despite the difficulties he is experiencing with the cost of the Crusade, he is willing to advance me a certain amount of gold if I deliver the Mandylion to him. He dreams of showing it to his mother, the most Christian lady Doña Blanca. He bids me sell him the relic or allow him to hold it for a number of years. He says that he has met a man who assures him that the Mandylion has miraculous qualities, that it has already healed a king of Edessa of leprosy, and that the man who possesses it shall never suffer. He says that if I agree to his request, I can negotiate the details with the Comte de Dijon.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “What a question, Pascal! You know that the Mandylion is not mine to give. Even if I wanted to deliver it over to my uncle, I could not. It belongs to the Church.”

  “My lord, the Mandylion is all that remains to bargain with. If you could convince the bishop to give it into your keeping—”

  “Impossible! He will never do that.”

  “Have you asked?”

  “He guards it most zealously. The shroud miraculously survived the Crusaders’ sacking of the city. It was entrusted to the bishop by his predecessor, and he swore to protect it with his life.”

  “You are the emperor.”

  “And he is the bishop.”

  “He is your subject. If he fails to obey, there are measures you can take. He would not wish to lose his ears or his nose.”

  “My God, Pascal!”

  “You will lose the empire. The cloth is sacred; the man who possesses it has nothing to fear. Try.”

  The emperor wrung his hands. He feared a confrontation with the bishop. What could he tell him that would convince him to turn over the Mandylion?

  “Very well, speak with the bishop,” he said at last. “Tell him you go in my name.”

  “I will, my lord, but he will not treat with me about this. You must speak with him yourself.”

  Balduino took a sip of pomegranate-colored wine, and then with a wave of his hand he shooed de Molesmes from the room. He needed to think.

  The knight walked along the beach, his mind and spirit lulled by the washing of the waves against the pebbles on the shore. His horse stood by patiently, untethered, like the faithful friend it had been in so many battles.

  The evening light illuminated the Bosphorus, and Bartolome dos Capelos felt in the beauty of the moment the breath of God.

  His horse whinnied and pricked up its ears, and Bartolome turned to see a figure on horseback approaching through the dust of the road. He put his hand on his sword, a gesture more instinctive than defensive, and waited to see whether the man riding toward him was the person he was expecting.

  The rider clambered awkwardly from his horse and strode swiftly along the shoreline to where the Portuguese knight stood waiting.

  “You are late,” said dos Capelos.

  “I was attending the emperor until he dined. It was only then that I could slip out of the palace.”

  “Very well. What is it you have to tell me, and why here?”

  The olive-skinned man was short and stocky. His rat’s eyes weighed the Templar knight. He had to tread carefully with this one.

  “Sire, the emperor is going to ask the bishop to turn the Mandylion over to him.”

  Bartolome dos Capelos didn’t move a muscle, as though the information meant nothing to him.

  “And how did you come to know this?”

  “I overheard the emperor talking with de Molesmes.”

  “What would the emperor do with the Mandylion?”

  “It is the last valuable relic remaining to him; he will pawn it. You know that the empire has no money. He will sell it to his uncle, the king of France.”

  “And wh
at more have you heard?” the knight asked.

  “Nothing, sire.”

  “Very well. Here. Now begone.”

  Dos Capelos put a few coins into the outstretched palm of the man, who rode off congratulating himself on his good fortune. The knight had paid him well for the information.

  For several years he had been spying in the palace for the Templars. He knew that the knights of the red cross had other spies in the palace, but he did not know who they were. The Templars were the only ones in the impoverished empire who had good hard coin and there were many, even noblemen, who lent them their services.

  The Portuguese knight had shown no emotion when he’d told him that the emperor was planning to sell or pawn the Mandylion. It might be, he thought, that the Templars already had the news from another of their spies. But no matter. It was not his problem. He patted the gold in his pouch.

  Bartolome dos Capelos rode to the chapter house the Templars kept in Constantinople, a walled castle near the sea, where more than fifty knights lived with their servants and the grooms for their horses.

  He made his way to the chapter hall, where at that hour his brothers would be praying. André de Saint-Rémy, their superior, made a sign to him to join the prayers. It was not until an hour after his arrival that Saint-Rémy sent for him. By then, the superior was in his study.

  “Have a seat, my brother. Tell me what the emperor’s cupbearer has told you.”

  “He confirms the information from the captain of the royal guard: The emperor wishes to pawn the Mandylion.”

  “The shroud of Christ…”

  “He has already pawned the crown of thorns.”

  “There are so many false relics…. But the Mandylion is not false. On that cloth is the blood of Christ, the true visage of the Savior. I await permission from the Grand Master, Guillaume de Sonnac, to purchase it. Weeks ago I sent a message explaining that the Mandylion is now the only true relic that remains in Constantinople, and the most precious. We must get hold of it, to protect it.”

  “But what if the Grand Master’s reply does not come in time?”

  “Then I shall make the decision and hope that he will accept it.”

  “What about the bishop?”

  “We know that Pascal de Molesmes has been to see him and asked him to turn it over. The bishop refused. The emperor will now go in person to make his request.”

  “When?”

  “Within the week. We will ask to meet with the bishop, and I will go to see the emperor. Tomorrow I will give you your instructions. For now, go and rest.”

  The sun had not yet risen when the knights completed their first prayers of the day. André de Saint-Rémy was absorbed in a letter he was writing to the emperor, requesting an audience.

  The Eastern Orthodox empire was in its death throes. Balduino de Courtenay II was the emperor of Constantinople and the surrounding lands, but little else, and the Templars’ relationship with him, the balance of power in the empire, was sometimes difficult, given his frequent demands for credit. The superior had managed the delicate relationship with skill. He was an austere man who had kept himself untainted by the glitter of decadent Constantinople and prevented any concupiscence or comfort from penetrating the walls of the fortress chapter.

  Saint-Rémy had not finished putting away his writing instruments when one of the brother knights, Guy de Beaujeu, rushed into the room.

  “My lord, there is a Muslim here asking to speak with you. Three others are with him….”

  The Templar superior’s expression did not change. He finished putting away his pen and ink and the documents he had written.

  “Do we know them?”

  “I know not, my lord; his face is covered, and the knights guarding the entrance have preferred not to ask him to reveal himself. He has given them this arrow, made from the branch of a tree, and he says that with these notches you will recognize him.”

  Guy de Beaujeu handed the arrow to Saint-Rémy, whose face changed as he examined the rudely cut missile and the five notches in its shaft.

  “Have him sent to me.”

  A few minutes later a tall, strong-looking man entered the room where Saint-Rémy awaited him. He was dressed simply, but in clothes that denoted nobility.

  Saint-Rémy made a gesture to the two Templar knights accompanying the Muslim, and with slight bows they wordlessly left the chamber.

  When they were alone, the two men embraced and burst out laughing.

  “But Robert, what is this disguise?”

  “Would you have recognized me had you not seen the arrow?”

  “Of course I would have—do you think me incapable of recognizing my own blood brother?”

  “You were to see only a Saracen. My disguise is not as effective as I had hoped.”

  “The brothers have not recognized you.”

  “Perhaps not. At any rate, I have managed to ride for weeks across the lands of our enemies without anyone suspecting and thought to maintain the mask until I knew your mind. I knew you would remember the arrows we made as children, mine with five notches, yours with three.”

  “Have you encountered difficulties, my brother?”

  “None that I have not been able to solve with the help of young brother François de Charney.”

  “How many men have you journeyed with?”

  “Just two Muslim scouts. It is easier for a small party to pass unnoticed.”

  “Tell me, what news bring you from the Grand Master?”

  “Guillaume de Sonnac is dead.”

  “Dead! How?”

  “The Temple was fighting alongside the king of France, and the help we gave was both much needed and well received, as you know from the success of the conquest of Damietta. But the king burned to attack Al-Mansurah, although the Grand Master counseled prudence and careful planning unclouded by the taste of triumph. But the king is headstrong and would not pause in pursuit of his vow to recover the Holy Land. He insisted on entering Jerusalem.”

  “I sense you bring worse news.”

  “I do, I fear. The king’s strategy consisted of surrounding the Saracens in Al-Mansurah and attacking them from the rear. But Robert d’Artois, Louis’s brother, moved precipitously, wiping out a small encampment before the king’s troops were in position and alerting the Ayubis. The battle was bloody.”

  Robert de Saint-Rémy wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, as though to erase the memory of the dead that thronged his mind. He once more saw the crimson-colored earth, wet with the blood of Saracen and Crusader both, and his companions-at-arms fighting furiously, without quarter, their swords like extensions of their arms, piercing the bowels of Saracens on every side. He could still feel the weariness in his bones and the horror in his soul.

  “Many of our brothers died. The Grand Master was gravely wounded, but we saved him, at least for a time.”

  André remained silent, watching a tempest of emotions sweep across the face of his younger brother.

  “The knights Yves de Payens and Beltrán de Aragon and I picked de Sonnac up off the field of battle after a treacherous arrow found him, and we carried him as far as we could. But the effort was in vain; he died in the retreat, of a fever.”

  “What about the king?”

  “We won the battle. The losses were terrible; thousands of men lay dead or wounded on the ground, but Louis said that God was with him and that he would triumph. With that battle cry he rallied the soldiers, and he was right—we won, but never was a victory so fragile. The Christian troops marched off then toward Damietta, but the king was sick with dysentery and the soldiers were starving, exhausted. I know not how it happened, all I know is that the army capitulated and Louis has been taken prisoner.”

  A heavy silence fell over the room, and the two brothers, lost in their own thoughts, hardly moved for long minutes.

  Through the window came the echo of knights doing military exercises on the glacis before the fortifications, amid the creaking of wagons and the ringing of
the blacksmith’s anvil.

  At last André broke the silence.

  “Who has been elected Grand Master?”

  “Our new Grand Master is Renaud de Vichiers, preceptor of France, marichal of the order. You know him.”

  “I do. Renaud de Vichiers is a prudent and pious man.”

  “He has been sent from Acre in the Holy Land to negotiate with the Saracens for Louis’s return. The king’s nobles also sent emissaries, with instructions to ask the Saracens to put a price on the king’s freedom. Louis is suffering terribly, although he is being attended by the Saracen physicians and receiving good treatment. When I left, the negotiations were making no headway, but the Grand Master trusts he will be able to secure the king’s release.”

  “What shall the price be?”

  “The Saracens are asking that the soldiers of the Crusade return Damietta.”

  “And are Louis’s nobles willing to withdraw their troops from Damietta?”

  “They will do as the king bids them—he alone can capitulate. De Vichiers has sent a message to him, advising him to agree.”

  “What orders do you bring me from the Grand Master?”

  “I bring you sealed documents and other messages that I have been asked to speak in your ear.”

  “Then speak.”

  “We must secure the Mandylion for the order. The Grand Master says that the cloth is the only relic whose authenticity is certain. When you have it, I am to take it to him in our fortress of Saint-Jean d’Acre. No one must know that it is in our power. You may buy it or do whatever you believe necessary, but no one must know that the purchase is for the Temple. The Christian kings are capable of killing for the Mandylion. The pope will also demand it for himself. We have lent him many of the relics that you have been buying from Balduino all these years, and others are in the power of Louis of France, sold or given to him by his nephew.

  “We know that Louis wants the Mandylion,” Robert continued. “After the victory at Damietta he sent a delegation with a message for the emperor. The delegation also carried documents with his orders to France.”

  “Yes, I know. A few days ago the Comte de Dijon arrived with a letter for the emperor. Louis asked his nephew for the Mandylion in exchange for aid to Constantinople.”