The Black Rood

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I was steeling myself to do just that, when young Bohemond, unable to restrain himself any longer, tapped the table with the hilt of his knife. “Here now, de Bracineaux, we have beaten the bushes long enough. I want to talk about the campaign. How many men can I count on from you?”

  The Templar commander lay aside his cup, and composed himself to answer. “I have considered your request very carefully,” he answered. “To put the matter squarely, I must tell you it places me in a very awkward position.”

  “Indeed?” wondered Bohemond innocently. “I am distressed to hear it.” He did not appear dismayed in the least.

  “You see, waging open warfare is outside the authority of the Templar Rule. We are pledged to guard the roads and those who travel on them—anything beyond that is a breach of our Rules of Order. In short, my lord, attacking the forces of our Christian allies would be reprehensible and unlawful.”

  Bohemond’s face tightened with vexation, but he maintained his cheerful demeanor. “Come now, sir,” he cajoled, “you know other commanders have joined in battling the common enemy. I am not asking you to do something your brothers would refuse.”

  “What others do is a matter for their consciences. For myself, I cannot allow my men to be used as mercenaries.”

  “The Grand Master has given me his assurance that there will be no difficulty,” the prince said, somewhat petulantly.

  “And there will be none—so long as my men are not required to go against their priestly vows. With all respect, my lord prince, we are defenders, not aggressors.”

  “Do you deny that the protection of the borders of my realm is of utmost importance to the safety of pilgrims and citizens within this realm?”

  “On the contrary,” replied Renaud, glad to find some area of agreement, “if the borders of this county should ever fall under enemy threat, you will find the Templars foremost in the fight.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” answered Bohemond quickly. “For a moment I had begun to doubt the wisdom of allowing the Poor Soldiers of Christ to occupy such a large and, I might add, costly presence in this city. After all, a lord who cannot trust the courage of his warriors is already captive to his enemies.”

  “Never doubt the courage of the Templars,” Renaud said, his voice tightening with suppressed anger. “Our lives are forsworn before Almighty God, and we will fight to the death rather than dishonor the vow we have taken.”

  “Then why this unseemly hesitance?” demanded Bohemond. “I tell you that so long as the borders of this county are held by Armenians my people are not safe.”

  The air fairly bristled between them. Seeing that he had pressed the matter to an impasse with the Templar commander, Bohemond turned his attention to Padraig and me. “You must excuse us,” he said testily, “it seems the good commander and myself have opened a subject of disagreement.”

  This was my chance to intervene, and I took it. “Forgive me, lord. I am a stranger to this place, and have no right to speak. But if you would hear me out, I would be much obliged.”

  “If you have something sensible to say, I welcome you, sir,” sniffed the prince. “It would be an agreeable change to listening to the mealymouthed excuses of this craven commander.”

  Renaud made to object, but thought better of it and held his tongue. Bohemond was young and impetuous; he was hotheaded, and it was difficult to restrain his ambitious impulses. Antagonizing him would only make things worse.

  “Although I am newly arrived in Antioch, my family is not without some experience of this part of the world. My grandfather took the cross in the Great Pilgrimage and died in Jerusalem. Moreover, my father once held council with your father—it was in Jaffa, if I remember aright, and my father was about the same age as you are now, my lord. He came away from that meeting with a memory which my family has treasured ever since.”

  Padraig frowned and gave me a warning look as if to tell me I was treading too close to our secret for his comfort.

  My story pleased young Bohemond immensely and, I thought, favorably disposed him to what I was about to say. “Indeed, sir!” he cried. “You see, Renaud! Not everyone in this godforsaken place is as ignorant of their Christian duty as you are. Please, continue.”

  “Therefore,” I said, feeling my stomach knot into a hard ball, “I pray you will not think me reaching too far above my place when I suggest to you that Commander Renaud is right in refusing to support an attack on the Armenians.”

  Alas, my words did not strike the young prince as I had hoped. His face clenched and grew dark with anger. “How dare you!” he muttered. He whirled on the Templar, giving vent to the full force of his anger. “You worm! You put him up to this! You sneaking coward. Get out of my sight! Everyone get out!”

  “Calm yourself, my lord,” I said, attempting to pacify him. “Renaud is not to blame. My views are my own, and had I never set eyes on the good commander, I would still say the same: it is wrong to attack the Armenians. They are baptized Christians, fellow allies of the Holy Roman Empire, and hold to the same faith as you, my lord.”

  “They are filth!” roared Bohemond, his face contorted in hatred. “What is more, they are scheming filth who have stolen my father’s land, and I will have it back.”

  He glared around at all of us, angry and frustrated at finding his desires repudiated on all sides.

  Padraig rose, and in the gentlest, most gracious tone said, “In the name of God, I urge you to remember your better self. Put aside your ignoble ambitions, my lord. Repent of your plan and abandon your sinful scheme before—”

  Alas, Padraig never finished his exhortation. For the reckless prince picked up his knife from the table and flung it at the priest’s head, shouting, “How dare you! Get out!”

  Padraig barely dodged the blade, which struck the wall and fell to the floor. Bohemond jumped up and shoved the table, spilling cups and sending food rolling from the platters. “All of you, get out! Leave me!” he screamed, his pale face growing scarlet with rage.

  As the furious prince reached for another knife, Commander Renaud, already on his feet, moved toward me. “Go!” he urged. “Get back to the garrison and wait for me there.”

  “We will stay and see it through.”

  “Leave us. I will calm him, and follow as soon as I can. Go.” Turning quickly to the prince, he said, “This is beneath you, sir. Put down that knife, and let us discuss this matter like reasonable men.”

  The prince, still shouting and waving the knife, was done with listening. While he raged at the commander, Padraig and I made our way swiftly from the chamber and hurried back through the long, low rooms of the palace, descending by a number of dark and narrow stairways to the former stables below. We passed quickly among the Templars going about their chores, and made for the first door and hurried out into the bright, sunlit street once more.

  We hesitated only long enough to locate the street by which we had come up to the citadel, then hastened away again, walking quickly, but not running—nothing rouses citizens of a city as swiftly as the sight of a stranger in full flight. Every now and then I paused to look back and listen, but neither saw nor heard anything to indicate pursuit of any kind.

  We retraced our steps down the steeply angled street to the lower city, gradually easing our pace as we went; the street grew more crowded with people making their way to and from the markets. Our exertions had made us wet with sweat, and I was just thinking of stopping to rest a moment to collect our wits and cool off a little before continuing when Padraig spied the garrison.

  Once safely behind the stout garrison walls we allowed ourselves to relax; we crossed to the fountain in the yard and both of us refreshed ourselves with a good long drink before going in to a very distraught Roupen awaiting word of our meeting.

  “We failed,” I told him bluntly. “Bohemond would not listen to reason. Renaud stayed with the prince to try to calm him, but I do not hold out any hope that he will change his mind.”

  The young lord nodded
grimly. “Thank you for trying,” he said softly. I could see he was frightened and had allowed himself to place too much hope in our efforts.

  “We are not finished yet,” I told him, trying to offer some small comfort. “When the commander returns we will sit down together and decide what to do.”

  Alas, if only it had been that simple.

  TWENTY-ONE

  WE WAITED UNEASILY for Commander de Bracineaux to appear. Padraig and I found an opportunity to nap through the heat of the day, taking it in turns to sit with Roupen while the other slept, lest he become fretful and overanxious. The garrison, now full of new arrivals, remained busy with much coming and going—yet peaceful for all that; the warrior monks maintained a cloistered calm amidst the general commotion of military life.

  Indeed, the old Roman garrison bore more than a passing resemblance to the monastery: the quiet inner court with a chapel at one end, the long ranks of barracks, which might have been cells; the kitchens, always clattering with activity; the refectory with its long banks of tables and benches, and the Templars themselves—hurrying to and fro on their errands, dressed in the white surcoat of the order—if not for their swords, which they rarely removed, might easily have passed for their peaceable counterpart. A religious order they were, true enough; but these were brothers in arms—a fighting brotherhood first, and a religious fraternity after.

  They left us to ourselves for the most part, pressed as they were with accommodating the sudden swelling of their ranks. Now and then we heard one or another of the Templars exclaim as he discovered a countryman among the newly arrived recruits, but otherwise the peace of the churchyard prevailed.

  Toward evening I began to worry that something had gone wrong at the citadel. I went in search of the commander’s sergeant and found him in the stables inspecting horses which had just arrived from Gaul. I greeted him and told him my concerns. He listened, but I could tell he put no faith in what I was telling him. Gislebert, though he may have been a good soldier, was not a friendly man; we had been shipmates together after all, and yet he treated me with cool, almost callous indifference—as if I had disappointed him in some crucial but inexpressible way, and he was now forced to silently bear the brunt of my grievous inadequacy.

  “I can only think that Renaud has suffered some misfortune,” I concluded, after explaining the circumstances of our meeting with the prince. “Otherwise, he should have returned long since.”

  “I am certain it is nothing,” he replied stiffly, dismissing my concern as if it were the trifling qualm of a spoiled and fussy child. “The business of the garrison sometimes requires more particular attention than one, unused to such matters, may credit.”

  I suppose he meant to put me in my place with that. He turned back to his inspection, running his hand down along the foreleg of the horse before him, a fine roan stallion. I decided there was little to be gained by quarreling with him, and turned to go. “If he said for you to wait for him, I expect he meant just that,” Gislebert added over his shoulder. As he turned away, I heard him mutter under his breath, “Only a fool would doubt him.”

  I stopped in mid-step and turned around. “I am no fool, Sergeant Gislebert,” I said sharply, “contrary to what you seem to think. And I have every confidence in Commander Renaud. Yes, he told us to wait for him here, and all day we have done just that. He also told us that he would soon follow. Clearly, that did not happen. Therefore, in light of the prince’s foul mood, I do not think it foolish to inquire after the commander’s welfare.”

  He straightened slowly, regarding me with rank distaste. “I leave it with you, Gislebert. It would be the work of a moment to prove me wrong.”

  After a moment, he said, “What would you have me do, my lord?” The words were worms in his mouth.

  “Perhaps it would not be too much of an inconvenience to send a message to the Templars at the citadel and ask them to discover what has detained the commander.”

  “It will be done,” the sergeant replied grudgingly.

  “Good.”

  I rejoined Roupen and Padraig, and we waited some more. Twilight was full upon us and the smell from the kitchens was beginning to waft in through the open door. Growing restless, I walked out into the yard and, after strolling around aimlessly for a while, sat down on the edge of the basin beside the fountain. The sky was clear and the night fine; a few bright stars shone overhead, and the moon was already showing above the rooftops. Beyond the garrison walls, I could see smoke drifting up from the houses round about.

  I fell to thinking about what you, Cait, might be doing at Banvar at that moment. I could see you playing on the shore, gathering the glistening shells and holding them out for your grandmother Ragna’s inspection. I was immersed in this daydream when I heard someone enter the yard. I looked up to see Gislebert striding quickly toward me.

  “It is as you feared,” he said bluntly. Visibly agitated, he grimaced as, forced to his admission, he delivered the bad news. “Prince Bohemond has confined the commander to the palace.”

  “So it is as I thought.”

  The sergeant squirmed with embarrassment. “I was able to inquire after him through the monks in the palace. He is safe and well. He sent a message: you are to leave the city at once. The commander tried to make him see reason, but to no avail. Bohemond has commenced a search. Once they reach the lower city, the garrison will no longer be safe. The commander says you and the young lord must not wait any longer. You must flee.”

  “Did he say where we were to go?”

  “No, my lord,” answered the sergeant. “Although, the commander imagines the young lord is anxious to return home as swiftly as possible.”

  “He is extremely anxious,” I replied. “But speak plainly, Gislebert. What does Renaud intend us to do?”

  The sturdy soldier regarded me with dull implacability. “That is all I know, sir.”

  I stared back at him, wondering at the cryptic turn the discussion had taken. It came to me that perhaps this was the difficulty the commander had alluded to before—his vows of fealty prevented him from speaking more directly against the wishes of his liege lord. “Sergeant, did Commander Renaud tell you why we went to see Bohemond?”

  “He confides in me from time to time.”

  “I believe I understand, Sergeant Gislebert.”

  He nodded curtly. “I take it the matter is concluded.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I expect you will be wanting to leave. The city gates are soon closed, and it would not be wise to wait until morning.”

  “If there is nothing else…” I paused to allow him to say more if he would, “then we will be on our way, Sergeant.”

  Padraig and Roupen listened gravely as I told them what the sergeant had discovered. “Unless we care to risk discovery in the city overnight, we must go before they close the gates.”

  I did not like begging provisions from the Templar quartermaster, but had no choice. The markets, if any could be found, would be deserted, and we had a long walk ahead of us. Padraig undertook to procure the bare necessities: a few loaves of bread, a little dried meat, and three skins of water—enough to see us to Saint Symeon where we hoped to get a boat. Gislebert might have helped us on our way, but he disappeared and was not seen again until, as we made our way out of the garrison and onto the street, the sergeant caught up with us to add one farther complication to what had become a most mysterious flight. “The commander said that if he was ever forced to flee the city, he would go to Famagusta,” Gislebert said meaningfully.

  I had no idea where this might be, nor did Padraig or Roupen.

  “It is a port on the island of Cyprus,” the sergeant informed us, “and home to a man named Yordanus Hippolytus.”

  I repeated the name. “Would it be worthwhile trying to find this fellow, do you think?”

  “Perhaps,” Gislebert allowed tentatively. “He is known to be a very great help to travelers in need.”

  With that obscurely significant m
essage, the sergeant hurried back into the garrison; and we proceeded on our way, true pilgrims, carrying nothing but the cloaks on our backs, the water skins at our sides, and the small bundle of provisions we would share out among us. We flitted through the half-deserted streets and reached the entrance to the city as the guards were preparing to close the gates for the night. Curiously, they were just as wary of travelers trying to leave the city after dark as invaders trying to get in. All gatemen are alike in this regard, I think. They view all who pass through their portals with deepest distrust, never more so than when preparing to bar the doors for the night. They halted us and questioned us closely and inspected us with scowls of disapproval. If not for Padraig, who offered priestly reassurances on our behalf, I do not think they would have let us go.

  In the end, we were allowed to pass through the small doors—the larger gates were already shut—and out onto the road by which we had come to Antioch that very morning. The rest we had enjoyed during the latter part of the day stood us in good stead; however, Roupen, worried as he was, had not availed himself of the opportunity provided, and so we were forced to go at a much slower pace and stop more frequently to rest than I would have preferred; but there was nothing to be done about it. The young lord was still not capable of much vigor, and it would not help matters at all to exhaust him, and bring on his illness again.

  We allowed ourselves a drink at daybreak and again at midday when we stopped for a meal and a longer rest during the hottest part of the day. As a precaution, we removed ourselves a fair distance from the road and took shelter from the sun beneath some low, blighted olive trees. We ate our food, quickly finishing the last of our scant provisions. I kept watch on the road lest Bohemond’s pursuit catch us napping. Even so, I saw no sign of frenzied chase; we had the road and sky and empty hills to ourselves.