In this way, through this symbolical rite of passage, was Johannes von Hartelius, celibate Knights Templar and proud wearer of the white mantel of purity, frater et miles, and oath-sworn servant of the German kings, reborn.
THREE
Morning came, and with it, the sun. Hartelius, noisome and fly-infested, crawled from his hiding place and looked around. In the distance he could see smoke – whether from cooking fires, or as the result of carnage, it was impossible to tell.
Hartelius glanced down at the Turcoman. The stallion had harboured him well. All night its residual warmth had protected Hartelius from the cold, as well as from being spotted by any Turkish scouts or outriders on the lookout for stragglers. Now, having long ago sacrificed his shirt to bandage his wounded face, Hartelius decided that the caked blood and gore that still coated his body might serve to protect his armour-pale skin, at least for a little while, from the rays of the morning sun. He had lived with the offal-stench all night – he was pretty near immune to it by now.
Hartelius hefted the king’s sword and turned to go. But a fleeting memory caused him to pause. Some years before, as a very young knight, he had seen the king ride past him during an investiture at Speyer Cathedral. He remembered asking his companion what was in the finely tooled leather pouch that hung from the opposite side of the king’s saddle to his sword.
‘But that is the famous Lance. The Holy Lance of Longinus. The king carries it everywhere with him.’
‘That is no lance. It is less than a foot in length.’
His companion had laughed. ‘The Holy Lance is more than a thousand years old, Hartelius. The wood on its haft has long since rotted away, leaving only the blade, and a single nail from Christ’s Cross, which has been bound to the bevel with gold thread.’
Both men crossed themselves at the mention of the Redeemer’s name.
‘You have seen it, Heilsburg? You have seen the Holy Lance yourself?’
‘No. No one but the Holy Roman Emperor may look upon it. But whilst it is in his possession, or that of his successors, God is with us. Everything is possible.’
Sick with anticipation, Hartelius cut the leather girth and levered the saddle away from the Turcoman’s carcase. Yes. The pouch was still there, hanging from the pommel straps just as he remembered it.
Hartelius reached down to unlatch the retaining buckles and reveal the Lance, but some power outside himself stayed his fingers six inches from the hasp.
‘No one but the Holy Roman Emperor may look upon it,’ Heilsburg had said.
Hartelius snatched his hand back as if it had been burnt. As a Templar he had taken many vows. Foremost amongst these was his oath to the Grand Master, and, above this even, to his Liege Lord, the Holy Roman Emperor. Such oaths might not be broken, even in the exceptional circumstances of the death of a king, without the oath-breaker risking eternal damnation.
Hartelius used the girth to fashion himself a harness strap, from which he hung the king’s sword and scabbard, together with the leather pouch containing the Holy Lance. When he was satisfied with his arrangements, he secreted the king’s saddle inside the Turcoman’s still reeking stomach, drank his fill from the river, and started in the direction of the camp. Whether it would be his companions he found there, or a triumphant enemy, was entirely in the hands of the Lord. One thing he knew, though – he would smash the Holy Lance to pieces with the pommel of the king’s sword rather than let it fall into any Saracen’s hands.
It took Hartelius three hours to retrace the distance it had taken the river a mere twenty minutes to sweep him. He was in bare feet. Even with the remaining parts of his undershirt wrapped around each foot, every step he took was agony. The ground was rocky and unrelenting. The sun, even this early in June, was fierce. Many times he was forced to stop and retie the Saracen-style turban he had fabricated to protect his facial wound from the flies that hovered eternally around him.
Hartelius only realized that the encampment had been abandoned when he ascended a hill a quarter of a mile short of where the original site had lain. He stared out over the mayhem the crusader knights had left behind them and felt his heart clench inside his chest with shame. He could read the signs as if they were seared across the sand in Gothic script.
Crushed and unmanned by the unexpected death of their king, the knights had gone home. There was no other explanation. The course of their retreat was clear. Hartelius shaded his eyes and tried to discern some further narrative from the chaos left behind by the panicking army.
Yes. A smaller trail did indeed lead on in the direction of Acre. Surely this meant that the Emperor Barbarossa’s son, Frederick VI of Swabia, might nonetheless be pressing onwards to Jerusalem with his remaining knights? Or was this trail the one left behind by the retreating Turkish skirmishers after they had attacked the camp and killed the king?
To retreat at this point seemed to Hartelius an impossibility. If he walked into a trap, so be it. But his duty now lay with the king’s family. He needed to return both the king’s sword and the Holy Lance to its rightful owners. He also needed to explain where and how the king’s body might be retrieved from the river, if such a thing had not already been done.
Hartelius had acted so much on the spur of the moment in following the king into the water that he was still unsure if anyone else had seen him in the confusion caused by the first Turkish onslaught. The attack had occurred near sunset. Most of his companions had been at evening prayers. Hartelius had been excused from attending vespers through being outwearied from guard duty. Such exonerations were customary on campaign, where military realities had long since overcome excessive dogma. Hartelius had been preparing for bed when the Turks struck.
Now, perilously close to despair, Hartelius foraged amongst the detritus left by the retreating knights for some item that he might wear over his sheepskin breeches, which were now in a lamentable condition. He found only a lady’s bliaut, belonging, no doubt, to one of the noble handmaidens being sent from Germany to serve at the court of Sybilla, Queen of Jerusalem, and Countess of Jaffa and Ascalon.
Grimacing at the sun, Hartelius hacked off the ludicrously extended sleeves of the bliaut and abbreviated the ground-scraping hemline of the garment with the point of his sword. Then he rinsed himself clean in the river and slipped the bliaut over his head and into place. The discarded sleeve-cloth could serve as further head protection.
If he must die dressed as a woman, thought Hartelius, so be it. At least he would not die of sunburn.
FOUR
The four horsemen approached him at a gallop, with the sun behind them.
Hartelius freed the king’s sword from its scabbard and took up the port arms position. He decided that he would attempt to bring the lead horseman down and then take cover behind the dead horse. He had been taught this technique as a young squire and had used it numerous times on the battlefield when deprived of his own mount. It felt good to Hartelius to be about to die as a martyr should, protecting the Holy Lance, and with a guaranteed place in heaven as a result. No knight could wish for a better end. At the last possible moment he would slide the Holy Lance under the dead horse, where it would hopefully rot, quickened by his own and the horse’s body fluids, unseen and unrecognized by the enemy.
He was disappointed, therefore, when he recognized the first of the four approaching horsemen by the cant of his silhouette. Its rider was constrained to lean at least thirty degrees off the upright, thanks to a congenitally foreshortened leg. Einhard von Heilsburg was unmistakeable, even in battle.
‘Heilsburg. Put up your weapon. It is I, Hartelius.’
Heilsburg pulled up his horse thirty feet from where Hartelius stood.
‘Hartelius?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are alive?’
‘So it appears.’
‘Why are you wearing a turban? Do you have toothache? Or have you decided to become a Saracen?’
‘I shared a quarrel with a Saracen crossbowman. He instigate
d the direction of the quarrel and I received its after-effect on my cheek. I needed to protect my wound from the sun.’
Heilsburg slapped his thigh with his gauntleted hand. ‘Why are you dressed in women’s clothing, then? Did the Turk offer to marry you after your temporary misunderstanding?’
‘I am still celibate, Heilsburg. You may rest assured of that. My vows are intact.’ Hartelius leant wearily on his sword. There were moments – and this was one of them – when Heilsburg’s perpetual good humour became a little wearing. ‘These women’s clothes were all I could find to cover me back at the camp. When I dived into the river after the king, I was wearing only my shirt and my sheepskin breeches. Later I used the shirt for bandages and the breeches for decency. I still required protection from the sun, however. The bliaut seemed like a good idea at the time. I realize now that you will never allow me to live this down, so I shall unfortunately have to kill you.’ Hartelius straightened up and made as if he were about to take off the bliaut before engaging in combat.
The three knights with Heilsburg burst out laughing, but Heilsburg’s expression turned serious. ‘Are you telling me you followed our king into the river?’
‘Yes. But I could not save him from drowning. I recovered his sword, though, and the Holy Lance. The king’s Turcoman fetched up on a sandbar some way downstream, and I was able to retrieve these objects from his majesty’s saddle.’
‘You have the Holy Lance?’
Hartelius held up the leather pouch.
The four knights crossed themselves.
Heilsburg unhitched himself from his horse and limped towards his friend. ‘Here. You are tired. Take my mount. The king’s son is encamped a mile down that track. We were sent out in posses of four to check for further marauders. It is lucky we ran into you, Hartelius. The Turks are everywhere. They can smell the scent of carrion on the wind. You would have been dead meat. After they had raped you, of course. The bliaut sets off your beauty very well.’
Hartelius made as if to strike his friend. Then he eased himself into Heilsburg’s vacated saddle. It felt good to be on a charger again. ‘Come, Heilsburg. We can ride like Bactrian camels from Turkestan. You can be the front hump and I the rear. Surely you trust me in this rig?’
Heilsburg forced back a smile. ‘No, Hartelius. You are the bearer of the Holy Lance. I will walk below you, as is fitting. Our Seneschal was killed in the raid. We have only a Marshal left. The Holy Lance’s return will be a cause of great rejoicing to him and to all the remaining knights.’
Hartelius turned to his companions. He was grateful to them for their instant acceptance of a story that other non-knights might have found catastrophically far-fetched. ‘I saw a slug trail leaving the site of our camp. How many men did we lose?’
‘Three-quarters of our fighting force have deserted. There are less than a thousand knights remaining. And only a scant few thousand followers left to minister to our needs and those of our mounts. Many knights committed suicide when they heard of the death of the king. Their bodies are scattered in unmarked graves along the Silifke-Mut road. They will be eaten by turtles, or so the priests tell us. And then basted by demons in the eternal pot.’
‘You have not lost your sense of humour, I see, Fournival.’
‘You neither, Hartelius. But I have to tell you. You make a piss poor woman.’
FIVE
By the time Hartelius and his posse arrived at the outskirts of the fresh camp, they were surrounded by at least fifty knights, all clamouring for news of their dead king. Each moment that passed brought more knights, so that it soon proved impossible for Hartelius to break away from the throng, far less dismount.
The charivari flowed inexorably towards the tent of the king’s twenty-seven-year-old son, Frederick VI of Swabia. Whilst his elder Minnesinger brother, Henry VI of Staufen, was running their father’s kingdom from Frankfurt during the crusade, the as yet unmarried Frederick had been taken along by the Holy Roman Emperor as battle companion and fallback leader. Having just lost three-quarters of his effective fighting force in the panic following his father’s death, Frederick was both fearful for the future and in mourning for a dominant and charismatic father lauded throughout Europe as the greatest Christian king since Charlemagne. If this was a test of his mettle, Frederick was little prepared for it.
‘What is this? What is happening?’ Frederick strode out of his tent, accompanied by his ally, Prince Géza of Hungary. A small group of noblewomen, destined for the Queen of Jerusalem’s court, shadowed the two men.
Hartelius now found himself shunted to the forefront of the mass of mounted knights. He eased himself from the saddle and prostrated himself on the earth. A vast muttering swept over the throng like the reverberation from a flight of starlings, and then fell silent.
‘What is this? Why is this man dressed as a woman? And what is he doing here?’
Some of the ladies began to laugh behind their hands.
Heilsburg limped forwards. To kneel, he first needed to corkscrew his body to one side and then compensate by a second counter-screw, accompanied by a deft backward flick of his leg. The entire performance seemed to fascinate both the crowd and the two paladins facing it.
‘It is Hartelius, Sire. One of your Knights Templar. He has come to tell you of the exact manner of the king’s death. He also wishes to return to you your father’s sword. Together with the Holy Lance.’
Bedlam erupted from the crowd encircling the tent. Cheers became mixed with wailing and weeping and guttural shouts. Frederick Barbarossa had been Germany’s beloved king – a legend both to his family and to his people. His death had been perceived as a sign from God that all was not well in Europe. Might this be God’s countersign?
Hartelius moved towards the Duke of Swabia on his knees, bearing Frederick Barbarossa’s sword in front of him like a talisman. He laid the sword carefully on the ground. Then he unhitched the Turcoman’s girth from around his neck and placed the pouch containing the Holy Lance beside the sword.
‘You retrieved these from my father’s body?’
‘No, Sire. I failed to reach the king before the river took him. Instead, I followed his horse to its place of death. The king’s sword and the Holy Lance were still attached to the saddle.’
‘How was my father killed?’
‘Turkish crossbowmen, my Lord. A quarrel struck the king’s horse. The horse plunged into the river to escape the pain. The king was in full armour. He hung on for some moments whilst the crossbowmen dogged him. I tried to catch up with him but I am a weak swimmer, and I was almost immediately struck on the face by a second quarrel.’ Hartelius revealed his wound. ‘But the cold water revived me and served to numb my pain. When I regained my wits the king was gone. Only his horse remained.’
‘So you know where my father’s body can be found?’
‘The certain place, my Lord. We can dredge the river and retrieve the king’s person, I guarantee it. I will show you exactly where he has fallen. I marked a sosi tree – what we call a plane tree – on the riverbank as I was swept past. It is unmistakeable.’ Hartelius prostrated himself on the ground behind the sword and the Holy Lance.
Frederick inched forward. He was uncomfortably aware that the many mounted knights and their followers were watching his every move. Nobody dared dismount. Only the nicker of the horses and the swishing of their tails against the flies disturbed the pregnant silence. It was as if the throng was waiting for a revelation.
Frederick understood that he was facing his moment of destiny. Whatever he chose to do now would dictate the future progress of the crusade, together with the honour, or dishonour, that would subsequently adhere to his name.
He picked up the pouch containing the Holy Lance. Then he grasped the pommel of his father’s sword and cradled the weapon across his chest. ‘You have done well, Hartelius. What is your full name and noble title?’
‘Johannes von Hartelius, Lord. I have no noble title. That belongs to my elder brother.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Bavaria, Lord. Near Saint Quirin.’
‘Which is near Tegernsee Abbey, is it not? Where the Ruodlieb was written? And the Quirinals? And the Game of the Antichrist?’ Frederick found himself smiling. ‘My grandmother, Judith, was Bavarian. I have family there.’
‘Yes, Lord. Your grandmother was the daughter of the Black Duke. My great-uncle was briefly Abbot of Tegernsee before his death. He was accorded the great honour of baptizing her.’
Frederick raised his father’s sword. ‘Rise to one knee, Hartelius.’
Hartelius did as he was bidden.
Frederick brought the flat of the sword down on each of Hartelius’s shoulders in turn. Then he twisted the sword in his hand and lay the virgin side onto the crown of Hartelius’s head and the opposing side against his own forehead. ‘Now stand and take back the pouch that you have brought me.’
Hartelius stood and took the pouch.
‘I dub you Baron Sanct Quirinus. From this moment you and your descendants will be Guardians of the Holy Lance. In perpetuity.’
Hartelius squinted into the sun. ‘In perpetuity? Descendants? But, Lord, my vow of chastity. As a Templar Knight I am constrained not to marry. I can therefore have no children.’
For a moment Frederick looked crestfallen. He briefly closed his eyes. ‘I have done what I have done.’ He turned his full gaze onto a knight standing to his right. ‘Marshal. Can this man be freed from his vows?’
The Marshal stepped forward. He was still in shock following the Seneschal’s unexpected death the day before, followed so swiftly by that of the king. As if that were not enough, he was also smarting from the disgrace brought upon the Templars by the desertion of a significant number of their knights, and the suicide of others. The Marshal was determined not to rock the royal boat before he knew the full extent of his duties, responsibilities and even liabilities. The actions of this young Templar might very well be enough to redeem the honour of the brotherhood.
The Templar Prophecy Page 2