Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  ‘Otto, Brother Luke, Sergeant Hugh. They gave their lives for us, Kurt.’

  ‘That I recognize. It is for their sake we must endure.’

  ‘I try, Kurt.’

  ‘How may we fail them, disgrace their memory, by our weakness? Do you remember how Otto saw off Gunther, drew his sword against the Cathars? Do you recall how Brother Luke levelled those hooded murderers with his staff?’

  ‘Of course.’ She managed a sad and quiet laugh.

  ‘They blessed us with example. Then there was Sergeant Hugh, a stranger to us, a wandering rogue, yet a master with the longbow.’

  ‘Such sacrifice they made for us.’

  ‘And never did they waver.’ He slowed his pace as the horse negotiated an incline. ‘We are children, lowborns from the Rhineland. Not nobles, not friars, not bowmen. But whatever we face, we will act as though their knowledge and resolve were our own.’

  He blinked the dust from his eyes and cast a look heavenward, hoping for a sign, wishing he had been more prayerful in the past. God would have a plan. Somehow He would glimpse through disorder, take pity on a twelve-year-old boy and his fourteen-year-old sister, deliver them from slavery and exile and the terrors before them. Save us, O Lord. Kurt saw the snow-brushed slopes of the mountains ahead, the valley entrances gape wide like portals. And he understood that he and Isolda were alone, that they would soon be swallowed up and their world close behind.

  Victors behaved as victors did, beheading corpses to ensure their spirits did not attain desired Mohammedan paradise, tying feet to drag away human battle-trophies in debasing and bloody trail. Tortosa was their destination, the great Templar stronghold further up the coast. Their job was done. It had been the smallest of victories, nothing more than rehearsal and training for what was to come. Lances pricked the sky, horses pranced excitably with the fight still in their nostrils, and orders were hollered and passed down. The cavalcade moved out.

  Otto and the English bowman had followed a different path. It was the initiative of the youth, an impulse that had made him snatch at the bridle of a riderless Saracen mount and swing himself up into its saddle. He would not let his friends disappear without a chase, would not admit defeat until he and every prospect were exhausted. It made no sense. Yet loyalty, comradeship and honour required neither logic nor explanation. Brother Luke also had volunteered. But he was too old, too peace-loving, too earth-bound, to be of use. Disappointed, he had accepted the verdict of others. So it was that Hugh of York became second member of the pursuit. He had not stopped complaining since.

  ‘You think we shall achieve a thing with such lunacy?’ The Englishman looked sullen from beneath the brim of his purloined Turcoman hat. ‘A boy your age should be sticking his dick in a wench, drowning himself in bowls of ale and malmsey.’

  ‘I thank God my tutors have been more wise than you.’

  ‘How you squander their instruction.’

  ‘They taught me duty, Sergeant Hugh. They schooled me in the noble objects of gallantry and fidelity.’

  A derisive grunt emanated from the soldier. ‘Here you need blacker arts, boy. Low cunning, the mind of an Arab, the agility of a barbary ape.’

  ‘And plainly a steed able to carry the plunder of a thief.’

  It drew a reflexive and quickly suppressed smile. Astride his burdened horse, the archer appeared as nothing more than a raggedy tinker festooned with amulets and charms and ferrying his worldly possessions at his side. Trade or fight, there were items aplenty from which to choose, and all were close to hand.

  ‘What do you find in these children, Otto of Alzey?’

  ‘Friends I will not abandon.’

  ‘To me, they are nuisance, burden to my purse, beyond the scope of my employment.’

  Otto halted and scanned the horizon. ‘My soul sheds tears for you, Sergeant Hugh.’

  ‘Your vainglory and romantic notion will see you killed, boy.’

  ‘Your complaints shall do likewise for you, bowman.’

  ‘A boy of such wit. It will be lost when the Saracen boils you alive.’ The Englishman drew alongside. ‘What are we against an entire razzia group, Alzey?’

  ‘An undefeated force with sword, longbow and poleaxe.’

  ‘You forget participation of the Templars to our benefit, overlook how near-overrun we were among the ruins.’

  ‘Perhaps fresh miracle may yet save us.’

  ‘I doubt it. Our foe is from Homs or the great hilltop castle at Saône, is not comprised of mere goat-stealers from Holy Valley.’

  ‘We shall challenge them as they are.’

  Otto began to walk his horse on, adjusted to the arcing course now set by the crop-haired Englishman. The soldier had picked up the track and was slowly assuming the lead. It had not taken long for nature and instinct to return. But his truculence stayed.

  Irreverently, the seventeen-year-old called after him. ‘You are in ill humour with me, Sergeant Hugh.’

  ‘Is it so plain?’

  ‘As daylight and the mountain crests.’

  ‘I know these lands, know too we should not be in them.’ The soldier peered about, tasting the air, testing the wind. ‘If you wish to survive, you will do as I command. I am your senior, boy child.’

  ‘While I outrank you.’

  ‘What is title in a wilderness, noble blood when it possesses no sense?’

  ‘I fought beside you, parried deadly blows in thick of battle.’

  ‘Bravo. Yet it was I who rescued your fragile neck.’

  ‘Not so.’

  The longbowman flashed a baiting grin, happy to prick the skin of the Rhineland youth. There were few he could not irritate or outjoust. It merited a drink. He extracted the flask-seal with his teeth and tipped the neck to his lips.

  Refreshed, he tried again. ‘Your aged friar taught you prayerfulness, Alzey. I will educate you in life.’

  ‘Existence at the bottom of a wine vessel is no life, Hugh of York.’

  ‘Be still.’

  In a jangle of wares and pilfered booty, Zephyr was reined back. Sergeant Hugh dismounted, sliding to kneel and inspect horse-droppings half-covered on the route. The raiders had slowed. They were taking some care in disguising their route, were accompanied by individuals on foot. And the dung was fresh.

  ‘We close on them, German boy.’ The soldier studied the ground, tracing the direction of scuffmarks and prints. ‘Curse our fortune, we close.’

  Always start with the Templars. Brother Luke sat low on the piled nets and cordage of a fishing-dhow, scanning the waves, watching the small island grow in his vision-field. He would keep busy while Otto and Sergeant Hugh were elsewhere engaged and Kurt and Isolda were held captive. There was nothing else to do. He was simply a mendicant, a wandering friar who had chanced upon the Templar fortifications on Cyprus, who had espied the comings and goings at their stronghold in Limassol, who for two weeks had reconnoitred their estates and garrisons at Gastria, Khirokitia and Yermasoyia. They masked their intentions and capabilities well.

  The Knights Templar, Order of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ, at the heart of the Christian and crusading worlds, at the centre of everything. Poor they might once have been. But no more. They were far removed from the grouping of priestly knights founded a century before by the humble Hugues de Payns and Godeffroi de St Omer to guard the pilgrim trail. Their wealth was vast, their influence great, and even kings and princes paid rich tribute to this warrior caste. They had pledged themselves to fighting eternal holy war against the Saracen, were committed to retaking Jerusalem and their sacred site on Temple Mount. If conspiracy were afoot, the Templars would be drawn in. How fortuitous to be in their company.

  Brother Luke felt the breeze stiffen, the dhow heave as its lateen sail filled. Behind him, the Templar fortress of Tortosa, its great donjon keep intimidating and heavy-massed above the waterfront. He had strolled unchecked among its bastions and winding alleyways, visited its Cathedral of Our Lady of Tortosa to pray. That t
he church was built with arrow-slits and thick defensive walls spoke much of Christendom in this land. Ahead, less than two miles offshore and to the south-west, the brooding and fortified isle did not present a welcoming countenance. It was why he had come.

  Arwad, the hidden redoubt of the Templars. None landed who were not invited; none were invited who were not brought under escort. Measuring only nine hundred by six hundred yards, and protected by a high wall, the territory contained a tight concentration of storehouses, watchtowers and strongpoints. Atop its highest elevation was a fort; at the side of its harbour entrance was another. It would be hard to take by seaborne assault. The perfect fallback, an unrivalled position in which to regroup should the Saracens push them to the brink, should existence on the mainland opposite become untenable. Or it could act as venue for plot.

  Fishermen rarely asked questions. If the friar wished for a closer look, they would oblige, be eager to help a holy man whatever his belief. He might bring them luck, would surely bless them in their labours. They adjusted the canvas, bringing the dhow near to the north of the island. Like the southern side, it possessed a boatyard, its foreshore scattered with the skeletal ribs of vessels under construction or repair. Nothing to draw attention. But the old man in his dun-hued rags appeared engrossed.

  ‘Ease the sail, I beg you, my brothers.’

  They did as he commanded. With an exhortation that they recover him on a later pass, the Franciscan swung himself sinuously on to the gunwales and slipped overboard. The fishermen shrugged. There was no fool like an ancient wanting baptism in the chill December sea. Yet they marvelled at his willpower, his strength.

  Part swimming, half wading, Brother Luke reached the shoreline and clambered low up the sand shingle. He had not been seen. That was to the good, for he had observed ships in the harbour, detected the reflective glimmer of steel-tipped pikes, the chapel de fer helmets of sentries on patrol. The Templars were protecting their hive. Seamless, unhurried, avoiding clumsy movement that might catch the eye, the friar crawled forward. There were sheds to inspect, large berms and excavations to investigate.

  He wiped salt from his eye and stared again. It could not be, was not suggested by the rush-woven screens that circled the site. Everything was artfully arranged and the camouflage carefully set. Beneath it, behind it, were the wooden hulls of galleys. They were pulled up in rows and sunk in their hollows, each long and graceful in form, each with masts lowered and oars removed. An invisible fleet of ships. One hundred and fifty slaves were required to man the oars of a single galley, and here alone there were six of the type. Elsewhere there would be more, vessels dug into crevices, part dismantled and biding snug until call to arms and the moment of war. On this grim island of Arwad, over a thousand imprisoned souls were likely to be sweating and suffering, kept ready for some future act. It was time for the friar to leave.

  A few hundred yards distant, closeted in a chamber of the main fort, a visitor sat in conversation with the Grand Master of the Knights Templar. Their meeting might have surprised others, would certainly have dismayed those present at the Grand Council in Acre. The two men were not friends. Yet for the while they shared common purpose and a single cause, a desire for conquest, a hunger for power that would be sated only through bloodshed and force. There were no onlookers to their conference, no others privy to its secrets. The Lord of Arsur had stepped ashore on Arwad.

  ‘It was fine theatre we conjured at Council, Grand Master.’

  ‘The longer the regent and his barons believe we are enemies the better.’ The Templar toyed with a richly inlaid rosary. ‘None must recognize what we are about or suspect us of ill deed.’

  ‘They will not.’

  ‘Yet risks increase as the hour approaches.’

  ‘Set aside such concerns. Every precaution has been taken, every provision made for concealment of our capability and intent.’

  The Grand Master gave a thin smile. ‘Perchance they do indeed swallow the truth that we feed them.’

  ‘Truth we bait with poisoned barb. And all the while our troops muster on Cyprus for transport to Arsur, our ships lie out of sight in their berths.’

  ‘You unleash a storm that shall not be easily contained.’

  ‘How else to blow away the old and decayed, the dying embers of Outremer?’ The stagnant eyes barely hinted at the fathomless deceit. ‘Why, I am regarded as saviour and peacemaker, as loyal friend to John of Brienne.’

  ‘He will soon have neither friends nor kingdom.’

  ‘Within days will be shorn of daughter and heir.’

  Thus were overthrow and regicide arranged. The Lord of Arsur regarded his accomplice in crime. He had done much for the man and his Templar knights, had cultivated alliance, assiduously courted goodwill. Moreover, had it not been for his involvement eight years before in the sack of Constantinople and disbursement of its seized lands, the Order would never have acquired new estates in Thrace and the Peloponnese. Even for religious zealots, greed could provide ample motive.

  He gazed towards the light of the Norman window, pondered fondly on the dying hours of that city-jewel of Byzantium. Insanely brutal and magnificently rewarding times. He and his men had raped noblewomen and slit the throats of Varangian guards on the silver throne of the patriarch in the cathedral of Santa Sofia, had tortured priests to discover the location of relics and treasures at their church of Christ the Pantocrator. Satisfying work that filled a need. All to this end.

  The Grand Master let the rosary dangle in his fingers. ‘My Order provokes the resentment of many. The Church envies our privilege and tithes; the people begrudge our power; the Pope castigates our perceived inaction and inability to destroy the hated Saracen.’

  ‘I give you your crusade.’

  ‘For it, I am thankful. It will be good to march once more upon the Holy City, to prove ourselves supreme among the military orders, to win again the regard and affection of all Europe.’

  ‘Once we have Jerusalem, none will question your ascendancy. Every king and prince will bend his knee, every noble offer tribute, every bishop crawl at your feet.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I will begin my reign.’

  It was said with quietness and certainty, with the focus of a leader-in-waiting whose planning neared fruition, whose destiny would be realized.

  Du Plezier caressed the rosary with hands as comfortable with a sword. ‘Much relies on how Saphadin will receive you in his camp.’

  ‘He was born to negotiate, will not pass up chance to parley at such critical hour, such moment of truth.’

  ‘What is truth?’

  ‘However we describe it to our credulous spectators. As John of Brienne deems me his friend, so Saphadin al-Adil will welcome me as bringer of truce, of salve for his woes. He has no choice but to listen, no other course than to agree to meeting with our regent.’

  ‘I trust you have selected well the place for their gathering.’

  ‘It shall be one fecund with surprise and complete with Assassins.’

  Sallow lord garbed in black faced Grand Master dressed in white. Opposite and complementary sides of the same scheme. They understood what needed to be done, the scale of butchery to be unleashed. Saphadin dead; John of Brienne dead; Moslem emirs and Christian nobles dead. Then the march on Jerusalem would commence, a steel-clad force of Templars and hired mercenaries leading an army of Cathars and arrow-fodder inspired by its own heretical desires. Disparate formations melded into one. Ironic, the Lord of Arsur reflected, that he employed Templars whose brother forebears he had betrayed at Hattin. He kept much to himself.

  Words entered his head, whispering soft and resonant from the past. Judas. Betrayer of our cause. He tried to scrape their bitter residue from his mind, but it clung. More words came, floating with the image of the condemned Templar standing before his execution stone. A curse be upon you. The eyes of the knight stared vengeful at him. He turned his head, averted his face from the red Latin cross.

  The
Grand Master had not noticed. ‘Solitary and disquieting matter remains. It appears the youth Otto of Alzey is alive and landed on our shore.’

  ‘Matter that is no concern. Have you never wandered near the sea and crushed its shell-creatures underfoot?’

  ‘We kill him?’

  ‘At our leisure and determination.’ The Lord of Arsur waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not even the son of Wilhelm of Alzey will change events, challenge the outcome we have set.’

  ‘My Templars will delight in slaying the worthless offspring of a Hospitaller.’

  ‘Dwell on more vital things, on rehearsal for the fray.’

  Du Plezier had worked through to the small crucifix at the end of his rosary. ‘By the Lord our God, we shall have the Holy Land.’

  And by mine. ‘I shall leave you to your company and away to rendezvous with the Sultan.’

  ‘All hail to the next king of Jerusalem.’

  Raised from baron to ruler, promoted from obscure fief in Arsur to pre-eminence over all. The title sat well with him. And yet it was merely the start: of a new kingdom on earth, of a dark majesty that would devour the weak and control mankind. His inheritance. Baphomet, sorcerer-god, would be watching. Let chaos proceed.

  ‘You see them, Sergeant Hugh?’

  ‘I do not.’ The soldier lay prone and still on the wintry ground and let his breath-vapour filter through the wool cloth about his face. ‘Yet I can report I favour being beside a large fire with wine goblet in one hand and cut of venison in the other.’

  ‘Brother Luke did not complain so.’

  ‘The friar is a man of god. I am a bowman who delights in fine roistering and devilish maids.’

  ‘Who is the better man?’

  ‘Who is the man lying frozen in hostile land on wild chase dreamed by a German boy of short acquaintance?’