Lienor looked up from her parchment, her eyes eager and trusting. Hildegard smoothed the letter on her desk and read: “Anyone who has received the gift of knowledge and eloquence from God should not remain silent or conceal it willingly.”
Hildegard glanced quickly at Lienor’s face, which had fallen.
“Do you agree that knowledge from God should be shared?” Hildegard asked.
Lienor did not look up, but nodded hesitantly.
“I have asked you before, Lienor, but I will ask again. Do you have some knowledge from God about the child Agnelet who has been with us all these years? I have often read something in your eyes, some knowledge you possess but are not free to reveal. Could you reveal it now?”
Lienor shook her head, then reached for a quill pen on the desk. On the parchment in front of her she scratched a message and pushed the paper toward the abbess. Hildegard glanced at the page and read aloud: “Who is to say whether the knowledge we possess is from God?”
Hildegard nodded slowly, the nun in her overruling the curious imp in her brain that demanded to know more. “Who, indeed?” she answered. She folded her hands under her sleeves. “When you feel at liberty to disclose this knowledge, I trust you will,” she answered gently. “Until then, daughter, I will trust your judgment.”
Twenty-four
Calhoun breathed a sigh of relief. They had reached Antioch, the northernmost outpost of Outremer, and in a few days they would be in the sacred city of Jerusalem. Now, at last, they were safe within a city controlled by Frankish Christians, not by the dark-skinned Saracens whom Calhoun had not learned to trust.
No house or hostelry in Antioch would take so large a company, so Calhoun’s contingent pitched camp in an open field, the knights spreading themselves around the company of men, women, children, and priests who were not content that Jerusalem truly did lie within their grasp. Calhoun directed the knights to posts around the camp, aware that Fulk carefully inspected his management. “Do you not think this is a good arrangement?” he asked Fulk privately when the other knights had gone. “I know nothing of this land or its people, and I shall defer to your judgment if necessary.”
A corner of Fulk’s mouth dipped in a wry smile, and Calhoun felt slightly offended. “I am not so proud as to be foolish,” he added. “Have I not listened to the good advice of Reynard of the knights Templar?”
“You amuse me, my young friend,” Fulk answered, his teeth gleaming in a dark smile. “You find pride in your humility!” Fulk gathered his belongings and moved toward the outskirts of camp. He waved the back of his hand in Calhoun’s direction. “Good night, my lord. Sleep well in Outremer.”
Calhoun did not sleep well, nor had he since they left Constantinople. The night air bit into his lungs, waking him with dry coughing attacks, and even the creatures in the sand on which he slept were sharp and venomous. Twice Calhoun had wakened in the night to find horrible spiders on him, tarrents, Reynard called them, terrible creatures that wounded a man and tortured him with pain. The desert sands sheltered other creatures that stung painfully, small, scaly reptiles that crawled out at night and stunned innocent men as they lay on the ground. No, Calhoun did not sleep well in the desert sands of Outremer.
Since leaving Constantinople, he and his company had also encountered disease. At a small outpost outside Constantinople, several families had eaten eels from a small stream and became terribly sick. Within days the flesh on their legs dried up, their skin seemed to grow black spots. “Leave them behind,” Fulk told Calhoun, his eyes hard. “They will not survive the month.”
It had been difficult to leave the affected families behind, and for miles afterward Calhoun had the impression that their eyes followed him on the road. More than once, the skin on the back of his neck prickled as if a number of eyes watched him from close by. Once he knew he was being watched from behind a great dune, and he spurred his mighty war horse and charged over the sand only to find a solitary dark-skinned Bedouin there, a skinny lamb over his shoulders. Calhoun nodded sheepishly at the man and turned back to his company.
The feeling did not leave him at night. Though the fire raged in the center of camp and thirty valiant knights surrounded the edges of their circle, still Calhoun felt as though the stars themselves watched him. And waited.
***
He had just saddled his horse when Reynard rode up beside him. “We are short one knight today,” Reynard announced, his eyes glancing warily at the sand dunes that surrounded them. “Saracens came into camp last night. Parnell’s body rests on his carpet, but the Saracens have his head this morning.”
Calhoun felt his empty stomach heave, and he hid his face against the strong shoulder of his horse. When his stomach and nerves had quieted, he looked into Reynard’s impassive eyes. “Is there anything to do?” he asked.
“We bury the body, of course, or the cannibal Saracens will return for it,” Reynard said, turning his horse. “I will handle the rites of the church. We will be free to proceed in an hour.” Reynard disappeared in a cloud of dust, and Calhoun squinted around the circle of their camp, trying to remember at which point the eager young Parnell had slept. Was it northward or eastward? From where had the enemy come?
A heavy hand clasped his shoulder, and Calhoun whirled around, withdrawing his dagger instinctively. Fulk leaned back and raised an eyebrow at the sight of it. “Easy,” he cautioned. “We cannot kill each other in our haste to rid ourselves of the enemy.”
“How cowardly is this enemy who kills under cover of night?” Calhoun whispered, watching the sand dunes around them. “He attacks a sleeping knight without warning or the challenge to a fair fight?”
“The days of fair fighting are past,” Fulk replied, stooping to gather the remainder of Calhoun’s belongings. “Now we are dealing with a bitter and conquered people who seek their lands and their honor. You forget, my friend, that we showed little honor or mercy when Jerusalem was captured, and we ask too much if we expect honor or mercy from the Saracens.”
Calhoun frowned as he mounted his horse. “I care nothing about the past,” he muttered. “For my duty is to do right in the present.”
***
Three others of their company died before they reached Jerusalem, but none at the hands of the Saracens. One woman died in childbirth, after moaning piteously for hours and then dying with the babe still unborn. Calhoun observed the spectacle with open and immodest curiosity. Had Afton undergone such pain? Was this the experience of suffering that changed her so resolutely?
The desert itself claimed two lives. The first was a two-year-old boy who somehow stumbled into a nest of tarrents, and though Fulk lifted the boy’s swollen body out of the nest as the boy struggled for breath, death followed soon after. The desert sun claimed the life of an older man, who collapsed in the heat and died beside the road to Jerusalem. Fulk, Calhoun, and Reynard buried the dead on the side of the road as quickly as possible, for the extreme heat made it impractical to transport anything more than life’s necessities.
***
When they entered the walls of Jerusalem at last, the common people in their band fell to their faces in the dust and lifted their hands in rejoicing. Reynard and his knights Templar reverently crossed themselves, and Calhoun repeated the action in gratitude and thanksgiving. Fulk alone sat unmoved upon his horse.
“You and your knights may come with me,” Reynard called to Calhoun, after the initial celebration. “I will show you a place where you can rest and drink. Then we will discuss your future plans.”
Fulk nodded in agreement, and Calhoun nudged his horse to follow Reynard through the streets. How different Jerusalem was, and how unlike either the dry desert or cool forested England! The houses here sparkled bright in the sun like gleaming jewels, and through open doors Calhoun spied bright mosaic patterned tiles covering walls and floors. Spicy foods roasted on open braziers, and women in gauzy veils lowered their eyes demurely and murmured explicit invitations as he passed. Everywhere the evid
ence of wealth abounded; merchants and lords alike gleamed with bracelets of gold and silver and copper, all jangling together in a glorious excess of wealth and prosperity.
Reynard took them to a large house where a dark-skinned man bowed and greeted them. “This is Khalil,” Reynard said, grasping the man’s hand firmly. “He is a friend. Khalil, please attend to my companions. I will return for them shortly.”
Khalil clapped his hands and three black servants appeared to take their horses. Calhoun could not resist staring--he had seen the dark-skinned Saracens throughout the journey, but he had never seen a black person before.
Fulk caught Calhoun’s stare. “Negroes,” he explained quietly. “Slaves, probably purchased from Venetian shipmen.”
The house of Khalil was unlike anything Calhoun had ever seen. Brightness and color gleamed from every surface; even the ceilings were painted with elaborate paintings. Khalil motioned toward pillows and divans luxuriously stuffed with fine down, and Calhoun sank onto the pillows and sighed at the unexpected comfort.
The serving girls who brought trays of pastries and preserved fruit at Khalil’s summons wore no veils, and Calhoun was fascinated by their dark and enormous eyes. Their cheeks seemed to be continually flushed with secret emotion, and their lips were as slender threads of scarlet.
Fulk watched Calhoun with amusement, and when the girls had gone he offered a one-word explanation: “Cosmetics.”
Calhoun took a bite of a tantalizingly sweet pastry spread with almond paste. “Fulk, I thought Jerusalem an uncivilized place,” he muttered as he chewed. “But no wonder they call it the Holy City. Surely this is like heaven!”
“This area is rich in things of the world,” Fulk said, looking around. “Oil and wine flow from Sicily, honey from Corsica, and a wealth of treasures from other ports. But the land also abounds in the dangers of the world.”
“With such rewards, I’ll risk the dangers,” Calhoun exclaimed, reaching for another pastry.
After Calhoun and his men had eaten their fill of the finest food Calhoun could remember, they bathed and donned cool silk robes. Calhoun felt almost naked without his heavy hauberk, and somehow embarrassed at his lack of proper clothing. Without a word, Fulk handed him a hooded cloak of light wool. “This is a burnous,” he said simply, slipping his own cloak over his head. “In the heat of the city you’ll be glad to leave your armor behind.”
When Reynard joined Calhoun and his knights later that afternoon, he offered each knight a white tunic emblazoned with a blue cross, the uniform of the knight on the business of Christ. “The tunic is much cooler to wear in the desert sun,” he explained, “and the people know what the insignia means. Of course, it is our hope that many of you will exchange the blue cross for the red cross of the Templars and join our Order.”
Calhoun looked up from his robe as Reynard finished speaking. The invitation--and Reynard’s glance--seemed to be pointed particularly at him.
“In time, my friend, God may call all of us to your vocation,” Calhoun replied, placing the tunic on a bench with his armor. “But let us test ourselves for several months to see how we handle the Lord’s work in Jerusalem. Then we will know if we be fit for the red cross of the Templars.”
Calhoun turned back in time to see Fulk watching him, a curious expression on his face, like a cat watching a mouse. Calhoun raised an eyebrow meant to ask, “What?”, but Fulk replied only with his sardonic half-smile and turned away.
***
Life in Outremer was both more and less than Calhoun had imagined. He had expected and found a land filled with barbarians, but he had not expected Jerusalem’s advanced level of civilization. Water flowed freely here in the desert; cool water from underground springs splashed in public fountains and in many fabulous private homes. The ancient Roman sewers in Jerusalem still worked with amazing efficiency and baths were an everyday luxury.
Calhoun could hardly believe his ears when Khalil’s maid asked for his tunic at the end of the day. “You want what?” he asked, clutching his tunic to him.
“Give it to her,” Fulk answered, jerking his head toward the door. “She will wash it for you.”
“Wash it?” In England, where clothing consisted of woolen tunics and heavy fur-lined cloaks, the idea of submersing a garment was inconceivable. His mother had often wiped away stains with verjuice or vinegar, but was it not crazy to completely wash a garment after only one wearing?
He handed the silk tunic to the girl, thankful that at least she did not want to wash his burnous. These people in the land of bright sun were altogether obsessed with cleanliness.
They were also obsessed with open spaces. Calhoun felt a curious lack of privacy in the room he shared with Fulk, for a large open window looked down into the street. From the window Calhoun could see over the city and into the foothills of the mountains outside Jerusalem. Olive trees bent in the wind, and the same breeze that bowed them touched his cheek. What a change from the narrow, shuttered windows of the castle at Margate!
Here laurels and vines protected doors and windows from the hot midday sun over brightly-colored awnings. The houses stood close together in rows throughout the city, but each house had its own tiny courtyard covered with red cloth to keep the hot sun away. The heavy scent of sheep and goats permeated even the grandest houses, and to counter the smell of animals, incense burned in every home. The spicy sweet odors of sandalwood, musk, and pungent herbs greeted Calhoun everywhere he went.
At the end of the day, Calhoun and his company of knights sat at dinner with Khalil and Reynard. “Each lord does as he pleases here in the Kingdom of Jerusalem,” Reynard explained as he peeled a sweet onion. “Though many have claimed to be king here, ultimately we owe our allegiance only to the Holy Father in Rome.”
Calhoun nodded, mesmerized by the delightful variety and abundance of the food that passed before him. Reynard smiled and waited for Calhoun to select his dinner; then he leaned across the table. “Why, young Calhoun, do you come to Outremer?”
Calhoun had a ready answer, for often on the journey he had asked himself the same question. “We came to help fight in the cause of our Lord,” he said, peeling the skin from an unusual fruit.
Reynard nodded. “And how long did you intend to stay here in Outremer? Is there some obligation that will draw you back to England in time?”
The image of Afton passed unbidden before Calhoun’s mind, and he closed his eyes to mentally wish her away. She had made it clear she did not need him, nor did she want his protection.
“I have no further obligations,” Calhoun answered steadily, meeting the penetrating eyes of Reynard. “My brother is heir to the family estate; my sister has taken the veil.”
Reynard’s eyes probed him further. “No others?” he asked, prodding gently into Calhoun’s soul. “Is there no one else in England who waits for you?”
“No one,” Calhoun muttered, his temper beginning to rise.
Reynard smiled. “Then perhaps you will consider taking the vow of a Templar,” he said, lifting a bunch of grapes from the passing platter. “We vow ourselves to poverty and austerity in the defense of God’s pilgrims. We are warriors all, as you are, and many of our order are from noble families.”
“Such a vow would reduce your life to nothingness,” Fulk interrupted, setting his cup down on the table. “Did your mother give you life so that you could spend it here among the heathen? Did I train you to serve a vengeful God who demands the spilling of blood?”
Calhoun glanced sharply at Fulk, whose eyes gleamed darkly at Reynard. “Careful, Fulk,” he began, “Our companion Reynard does not spill blood, he defends innocent pilgrims en route to the Holy Land. He is a knight, as are we.”
“My God is not vengeful,” Reynard answered, gazing steadily at Fulk. “And I took my vow of perpetuity only after serious consideration. I shall defend the pilgrims of God, and no man shall pay for my life. If captured, I will take my own life rather than cause my brothers to ransom me. In battle, I
will defend the people of God, but no Saracen need fear violence from me if he is peaceable.”
“But your God has exacted everything from you--and given you nothing!” Fulk answered, his voice roughly grating across the dinner table. “Your life, the children you might have had and the women you might have loved--”
“Nothing is too great a sacrifice for His service,” Reynard answered smoothly. “I do not spend my days counting what might have been.”
Calhoun looked from Fulk to Reynard, the one face dark and distrustful, the other shining in unassuming honesty. Calhoun clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “I, too, resolve not to count the things that might have been,” he said, nodding to Reynard. He looked toward Fulk with an easy smile. “And I shall not give my life to the church until I have tested my ability to assume such a vocation. I must see how God honors my efforts in Outremer. Then I will be better able to hear His voice if He calls to a lifetime vocation.”
“That is well-spoken,” Reynard answered. He bowed to Khalil. “Let these knights rest for a week within your gracious home, Khalil, then I shall return to see if they wish to join us on an expedition. If they have any need, please let me know.”
Khalil rose in respect to Reynard, who took his leave. Calhoun rested his elbow on the table in thoughtful consideration. Becoming a Knight Templar would more than fulfill his family’s aspirations, for long ago they had instructed him that his way lay either as a man of God or a man of the sword. A Knight Templar was both.
His glance wandered across the table, where Fulk ate in silence while the other men jostled and joked around him. Fulk’s outburst to Reynard was unusual, but Fulk was strangely irreligious. Calhoun stood up, his wooden stool scraping back across the floor.
“What might have been.” Those had been Reynard’s words, and Calhoun thought he could also abide by them. He might have had a life at home with Afton, serving his father and growing old as the father of sons. But what might have been no longer mattered. He stood now as a knight of Outremer in the service of God.
Afton of Margate Castle Page 27