The Black Rood (21 page)

B
OHEMOND'S PALACE PUT
me in mind of a noble lady fallen into beggary. Undoubtedly, the royal residence had once been a very treasure, but years of indifference and neglect had marred its best features. Costly wooden panels were gouged and scratched; expensive silk rugs were worn threadbare, their fine colors faded and dulled by dirt and indifferent use; once-dazzling painted walls were dingy with the grime of smoke and oily food; polished floors were rutted and dull from too many rough feet, and too few washings. Several of the outer corridors contained filth from discarded slops and excrement which raised a nasty stink in the nose.

In all, the place breathed an atmosphere of forlorn decline and dilapidation. It made me sorry to see it sliding into decay, and I felt myself resenting the thoughtless lord who could allow this to happen. There are far worse things in this world, as well I know, but I glimpsed in the shabby surroundings a malignant disregard which I could not abide. How much of this rot should be laid at the feet of the current inhabitant, I could not tell. But that the prince inhabited these once-splendid halls and did nothing to relieve the distress so evident around him told me something of the man.

His appearance, however, all but dispelled the regrettable impression created by his surroundings. For Prince Bohemond II was a full-blooded, handsome man: broad-
shouldered, long-limbed and tall, with a firm jaw and open, pleasant features. His hair was long and fair, and his beard short, cut into the distinctive forked shape favored by certain Frankish noblemen; his hands were big and strong, and always moving—as if restless when they did not clutch a sword.

Together with Commander Renaud, Padraig and I were conducted into the prince's private chamber by one of his advisors, an old retainer from Antioch who regarded us with the world-weary air of one who has seen too much. The prince was standing over a long table on which a meal of roast fowl and plums had been spread. He had a knife in one hand, poised to strike, and a gold cup in the other.

Glancing up as the door opened to admit us, he exclaimed, “De Bracineaux! You
are
here! God be praised, man, it is good to see you. They told me you had arrived, and I could not believe my good fortune. I did not expect you for another week.”

Forgetting his rank and place, he leapt forward to meet us, stepping around the table in quick bounds. He seized the Templar by the arms, and embraced him like a brother. Then, seeing two strangers idling in Renaud's wake, he cried, “And who is this with you? Come in, sirs! I give you good greeting. Join me, all of you. Food has been prepared, and I was just about to eat.”

“We would be delighted,” replied the Templar. Turning to us, he said, “May I present: Lord Duncan of Caithness, and Padraig, his chaplain.”

“I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” said the prince, inclining his head nicely. He smiled, and despite myself I felt compelled to like him. “You cannot have been in the city long.”

“We have only just arrived,” I answered.

“Good voyage?”

“Very good indeed, my lord,” I said. “The Mediterranean is smooth as a highway compared to the rough northern seas around Scotland.”

“I have heard of this Scotland, you know,” Prince Bohemond said. He turned away, indicating that we should follow him to the table. “They say the men and women there are
painted blue.” Smiling, he glanced at Padraig and then at me. “But you are not painted blue, are you?”

“No, lord, although the Picti are known to daub themselves with woad when they do battle. It is an old custom, but still occasionally to be seen.”

He smiled again, showing neat white teeth. “I should like to see that.” He speared a roast fowl with his knife. “Come, my friends, eat!” To his manservant, he said, “Hemar! Pour some wine for these thirsty fellows. They have come all the way from Scotland.”

Following the prince's invitation, we helped ourselves to the meat and fruit before us. Bohemond and Renaud fell to talking about the voyage and the settling of the troops, and I was glad to have the chance to observe the prince for a while. He was, I decided, somewhat younger than he first appeared. Although his bearing and speech were that of an older, more confident man, I believe he adopted this manner to disguise the fact of his green immaturity. He was little more than a child playing at a game for men, and I felt strangely sorry for him.

As our hosts talked, I considered how best to broach the subject of the prince's plan to attack the Armenians. It would, I considered, be best for all of us if Bohemond would raise the issue himself, giving me a natural opportunity to speak. But he seemed more than content to talk idly of travel and the weather, and it occurred to me that perhaps the prince did not wish to say anything about his plans in front of Padraig and me. So, it was left to us, and if no one else touched on the matter soon, I decided I would raise the issue myself.

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.