The Black Rood (19 page)

T
HE TEMPLARS WERE
ready to sail by the time Padraig, Roupen, and I joined the ship the next morning. I wanted to see Sarn safely away before leaving, and although his passengers, the Tookes, were ready, we had to wait for the provisions to be delivered. The merchants appeared just after daybreak, and we quickly loaded the boat, and bade the three returning travelers farewell.

“Take care, Sarn,” I called, pushing the boat from the wharf. “Give all at home a full and fair account. Ask them to pray for our safe return.” We watched until they were under sail, and then the three of us hurried to board the Templar ship. We were greeted courteously on our arrival, and shortly after climbing onto the deck the order was given to cast off.

We stood at the rail and watched the city of Marseilles pass slowly from view as the ship moved out into the bay. Once in deeper water, the helmsman turned the ship and headed southwest along the coast, and we settled ourselves aboard our new vessel.

I will now describe a Templar ship, for they are very unlike the sort of craft seen in northern waters. Broad of beam and high-sided, they possess several decks, one above another, and a single mast of gigantic proportions. These vessels ride tall in the water and tend to bob awkwardly in the least swell; they are unsteady and woefully difficult to ma
neuver—much, I imagine, like steering a hogshead barrel in a flood. Indeed, for this reason sailors even call them “round ships.”

For all they are ungainly and largely unsuitable for any purpose save the one for which they were made: the transportation of men and animals across the mild sea of Middle Earth. God forbid that they should ever be caught in one of the storms which scourge the northern isles throughout the winter. I have no doubt the precarious craft would sink like an anvil at first squall. Be that as it may, the Venetians own many of these ships, and the Genoans, and others, too. Our vessel was owned by a merchant from Otranto whose son—a plump, sweet-natured man named Dominic—served as captain.

We were introduced to him shortly after Marseilles disappeared from view. He invited us to break bread with him in his apartment. You see, Cait, how very large these ships can be; there are rooms beneath the uppermost deck, some of them large as chambers in a lordly hall. And this is what the captain had—a chamber with a box bed and a long table with room enough for six men on benches either side.

Thus, Renaud, Padraig and I, and Roupen, as well as other high-ranking Templars were invited to dine with the captain that first night. Roupen excused himself, saying his stomach was unsettled; for all I know, that may have been the truth, and not an excuse to avoid joining the rest of us. However, I think it more likely that he had no stomach for the Templars, never mind the food. Padraig and I eagerly accepted the invitation, and if that meal was in any way typical, I quickly discovered how our captain maintained his rotund form despite his long sea journeys. Of meat and sweet breads, and other fancies, there was no stint: roast fowl and smoked pork, beef, and fish of several kinds, and flat bread made with the oil of olives—which Sicilians especially esteem—and small barley loaves made with honey. Wine was drunk throughout the meal—for the noblemen of Taranto dearly love their wine, and think nothing of serving it
and
drinking it by the tun.

Hoping to keep our wits about us, Padraig and I attempted to dine with some circumspection, as did Commander Renaud. Everyone else, however, behaved as if our supper was a festal meal following a long privation. I was appalled at the amount of food and drink which my fellow diners consumed, shoving bread and meat down their gullets in uncouth chunks and gobbets. Oblivious to any restraint, they guzzled wine until it ran down their beards in crimson streams and pooled about their elbows, which they planted on the table and never removed. My embarrassment for them went unheeded, however, as they blithely ate and drank their way through enough provisions to sustain a dozen farm laborers for a month.

Dominic of Otranto beamed at his guests and bade his serving-boys to keep the wine flagons charged and the cups overflowing. As a consequence, the talk was lively and free, and I learned many things of life in Outremer which were to prove useful in the days to come. For, when they learned that Padraig and I had never been to Jerusalem, or Antioch, or even Constantinople, they eagerly took it upon themselves to educate us in the manner of life we should encounter—not that they were in any way agreed upon the particulars.

Still, I learned that the weather was hot and dry, and that the land was infested with all manner of biting flies and stinging plants which made life a constant misery. Rivers mostly dried up during the summer, and no rain fell from spring until winter, when the fierce wind came to scour the land from top to bottom, and fill every dwelling place with gritty dust.

The people, they said, were poor for the most part, barely scratching a living out of the rocky, unproductive soil—except in the rare river valleys where the streams were sustained by springs in the mountains;
then
the resulting cultivation was a very paradise, bringing forth fruits and vegetables of every kind in almost unimaginable bounty.

For the most part, however, the language was incomprehensible, the food unpalatable, and the water undrinkable. A more barren land there never was, to be sure. If not for the
fact that the Lord High God himself had chosen the place for his own peculiar reasons, surely no one would give it so much as a moment's heed.

As for the people, the women were dried up hags and crones, whose unlovely hides were wrinkled as grapes left too long in the sun. The men were sulky, sly and vengeful, skilled in imagining slights and capable of maintaining heated feuds into the sixth generation. What is more, young or old, they were cunning in all the ways of malice, iniquity, and greed.

“The Arabs are very devils, sir,” one man declared. “Lies and blasphemies are all they know. Beware.”

“They are born thieves,” agreed another. “They will steal anything that is not chained down, and stab you the moment your back is turned.”

“Turk or Saracen, they are all alike,” added the first. “The Greeks, too, are to be trusted only so far as you can spit.”

“But the Greeks are Christians,” Padraig pointed out innocently, “and therefore allies and fellow soldiers.”

This brought peals of laughter from those gathered around the board. “If you believe that,” roared the foremost black-bearded Templar, “then you will wake one night with your throat slit and your balls in your mouth!”

I considered such talk beneath reproach, and made no reply. But my fellow trenchermen followed one vulgarity with another, until I felt justified in remarking on their lack of common decency. “Life in the Holy Land must be greatly altered indeed,” I observed, “if such low profanity is cause for mirth rather than shame.”

I fully expected to be reviled for my words. I braced myself as blackbeard's lips drew back in an ugly sneer. But even as he drew breath to decry me, Renaud glanced up sharply. “Our friends are right to remind us of our manners, brothers,” he said, glaring down along the board as if defying anyone to disagree with him. “We will each ask forgiveness in our prayers tonight, and examine our hearts in all penitence.”

This quieted the raucous table, and the meal ended in a much more subdued, if not respectful, manner. Afterward,
Renaud sought me out on deck where Padraig and I were taking the soft evening air. The commander presented himself with a respectful bow and said, “Allow me to offer you both apologies for my brother monks' impious behavior.”

“We are not the ones to receive your apologies,” I replied. “It was not our table. You owe us nothing.”

“Nevertheless,” the Templar said, “you were the ones who called us back to our better selves—and were right to do so. My men have been absent from the stringency of the monastery too long and have allowed themselves to grow irreverent.”

“I know what fighting men are like,” I told him. “Do not think you must explain anything to me.”

He smiled stiffly. “Even so, please accept my sincere apology for our regrettable lapse. God willing, it will not happen again.”

We began to walk along the rail then, he and I. Padraig padded along unobtrusively behind us, listening, but keeping his thoughts to himself. We came to the stern where some of the sailors were talking and joking among themselves. When we had passed them and could not be overheard, Renaud said, “I am interested to know how you came to be in the company of Prince Leo's son.”

“We met him in Rouen,” I explained, “where he was searching for passage home.” I told about how the young lord had survived the illness that had carried off all his traveling party and left him stranded in a strange land with no one to help him.

“Do you know anything of his family?”

“I know his father is a prince in his own country, but nothing more than that,” I answered. Something in the Templar's tone made me wish to defend the young man. “Whether his people were nobles of the highest rank, or the lowliest of slaves, made not the slightest difference to me. Roupen needed passage home, and we needed someone to guide us to Marseilles. We struck a bargain which was beneficial to both our interests, and he has proven himself a faithful friend.”

Renaud raised his eyebrows at this. “Are you always so trusting?”

“Until a man shows me otherwise,” I said, bristling slightly at the implication of his question, “I give him my best regard. It is never a mistake to treat someone as you would wish to be treated if you were in his boots.”

“No,” he allowed quickly, “of course not. Again, forgive me; I meant no offense. I merely wished to determine what you knew of the circumstances surrounding your young friend's family.”

“As I have said, I know very little of Roupen's family or their circumstances. Is there something I
should
know?”

The Templar pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Only this,” he said at last. “Your friend's father, Prince Leo, is an unhappy man in a dangerous position. I fear he is not to be trusted.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” I replied, uncertainly. I could not discern what he intended by telling me this.

As if in reply to my hesitance, Renaud continued, “Believe me, it gives me no pleasure to say it. I have every sympathy for your friend, Roupen; his situation is grave indeed.”

Looking out over the water to the darkening shoreline—as if gazing at an open and oozing wound—he added, mostly to himself, “Bohemond's reach does often exceed his grasp.”

Mention of the audacious prince brought to mind my father's dealings, and I said, “What you say interests me greatly. My father knew Prince Bohemond. They met in Jaffa during the Great Pilgrimage, and my father helped Lord Bohemond secure the aid of the emperor.”

“Truly?” replied the Templar commander, his curiosity instantly piqued.

“Oh, yes,” I assured him, “and the prince returned the favor. If not for Bohemond's help, my father might never have returned home.”

“Many did not,” agreed the Templar commander. His interest visibly quickened, there was sharp appraisal in his glance as he said, “But you misunderstand me: I was speaking of young Bohemond, the son of the illustrious prince. Not that it matters overmuch, for the son is that much like his father. Unfortunately, he shares his father's insatiable appetites as well.”

He went on to explain that Bohemond II, son of Prince Bohemond of Taranto, had at last come of age and returned to the Holy Land to claim his inheritance. Not content to receive the County of Antioch in its present condition, he had determined to restore its boundaries to their furthest extent.

“Since coming to the Holy Land four years ago,” Renaud said, “the young count has waged several successful campaigns and recovered a goodly portion of the land lost since his father had ruled there. He is a restless youth, and a formidable fighter.” De Bracineaux regarded me meaningfully. “He will not rest until he has won back everything.”

“And this is where the trouble arises,” I surmised.

“Precisely,” the Templar agreed. “The northern part of the county now belongs to the Armenian principality. At the time young Bohemond's father took it, there was no one to oppose him. The land had been under Seljuq domination for many years, and the Armenian princes had their hands full defending the little that remained to them.”

It was easy to guess what had happened. As the Templar continued the tale, I could almost see the events as movements of the pieces on a game board. Once the Turks had been driven out, Roupen's people immediately reasserted their ownership, expecting, no doubt, that fellow Christians would uphold their rightful claims. In this they had been disappointed, however; their demands for redress were scorned, and their cries for justice unheeded…until disaster befell the overreaching Count of Antioch.

Bohemond ran afoul of Emperor Alexius in the end, and his monstrous ambition was curtailed. After a disastrous battle with the Greeks, the great prince was forced to relinquish the disputed lands which were ceded to the Armenian rulers. Thus, with the emperor's help the Armenian princes had managed to claw back their traditional territory.

“But the peace of these last years will not continue,” Renaud announced bleakly. “Young Bohemond II is as wilful and stubborn as his father. I fear there will be bloodshed between these two houses very soon.”

He seemed to expect some answer, but I could not imagine why he should be confiding in me, and knew not what to
tell him. “Your candor is both welcome and refreshing,” I said, “but I would be leading you astray if I permitted you to think I possessed any power in these matters.”

“Of course,” the knight allowed, “I understand. I merely thought you might derive some benefit from this information—in light of your friendship with Lord Roupen, that is. Naturally, if you were to find yourself in a position to influence the young lord's opinion, you would remember your duty as a Christian.”