The Templar Inheritance (10 page)

The Templars drew back towards the apex of the wall containing the paintings. They formed a tight circle round the princess and her servant, their swords pointing outwards. Each man knew that the odds against him were impossible. Mounted men would always win against standing knights, especially if the ratio against them was five or six to one.

‘I told you we were entertaining devils,’ said Klarwein. ‘But nobody would listen to me.’

‘You will know more about the devil in a few minutes when you enter hell yourself,’ said von Szellen. ‘We will all think of you down there.’

‘That is very funny. Very funny indeed. And what makes you think St Peter will let you through the Holy Gate? Have you lived such a good life? If you ask my opinion, you will be accompanying me to the underworld.’

‘I did not ask your opinion.’

‘Quiet. All of you.’ Hartelius threw up one gauntleted arm. ‘Something is happening out there. But I can scarcely see for the dust. I think the five we first saw are talking to the others. Klarwein, keep your mouth shut from now on. If you interfere in this without my permission, I will consign you to hell myself.’

‘But I fought in the third Crusade, Commander. Just as you did. I have earned my exoneration.’

‘Enough now.’ Hartelius strode into the dust cloud raised by the Saracens’ horses. He was instantly cut off from his men’s view. ‘Von Szellen,’ he shouted back, his disembodied voice emerging from somewhere deep within the swirl. ‘I am relying on you to keep the men in order while I try to parley us out of this. No rioting. No individual action.’

‘It shall be done, Commander.’

Hartelius wrapped his burnous around his mouth and nose. The dust, stirred up by a myriad horses’ hooves, was getting worse by the minute. ‘I am coming through. My sword is sheathed.’ His shout could scarcely be heard over the clatter of unshod hooves, the clank of unsheathed scimitars and the occasional crash as shields smashed together in the churning maelstrom created by the horses.

One of the riders in front of him let out a high-pitched ululation. A number of the other horsemen took it up. The back hairs on Hartelius’s head stood up. Was this a prelude to attack? He stopped walking. He allowed the hand that he had been using to protect his eyes from the dust to fall idly to his side, close to the pommel of his sword.

A sudden silence fell over the assembly of Saracens in front of him. Now that their horses were no longer moving, the dust began to settle. Hartelius was soon able to make out the massed ranks of horsemen now clogging the entrance to the cave. It was immediately apparent to him that he was not dealing with a simple scouting party, but a major force.
Already, more than fifty men and their mounts had squeezed into the cave in an effort to gain shelter from the storm. More were no doubt waiting outside, wondering what all the commotion was about, and why their precursors were stopping them from entering. Such a large party of Saracens could do as they wished with him and his men. His Templars might take ten or twenty of the enemy down, but the outcome was foreordained.

As Hartelius watched, the Saracen line in front of him broke ranks. Their horses edged backwards to make way for a lone figure, dressed in a sumptuous blue
thawb
, partially covered by a red
besht
with gold filigree on the collar and cuffs. On his head he wore a mailed turban with a spike protruding from the top. This impressive figure rode slowly through the cave entrance. He was met by one of the five Saracens Hartelius had originally spoken to. The man bent double in his saddle and then offered his commander a right-handed salute which ended, in a sign of deep respect, over the eyes.

Hartelius watched as the man spoke closely to his commander, indicating with one arm the Templars’ position, which, now the dust had largely settled, was clear for everyone to see.

The man in the blue
thawb
listened intently to his subordinate. Then he broke away from him and spurred his horse onwards until the animal came to a halt ten feet from where Hartelius was standing.

‘
Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah wa barakatuhu
– may the mercy, peace and blessings of Allah be upon you.’

Hartelius loosed the burnous from around his face. ‘
Wa’alaikum salam wa rahmatullah wa barakatuhu
– and may the peace, mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you too.’

‘Ah,’ said the man, with a half smile on his face. ‘It is Johannes von Hartelius of Sanct Quirin, is it not? I thought to find you here.’

Hartelius took a further hesitant step towards the mounted figure. He craned his head forwards and raised one hand to shade his eyes against the dust-laden sunlight entering through the entrance to the cave.

Then he threw back his head and laughed. He repeated the salute he had seen the Saracen soldier give his commander a few seconds before, ending with the very same flourish over the forehead which he knew was the Muslim equivalent of saying ‘I place you in an exalted position over my eyes’.

‘Amir Maan Ibn Fakhr-al-Din, of Baakleen, in the Chouf. I salute you.’

TWENTY

At the Amir’s suggestion, Hartelius ordered his Templars to set up the princess’s pavilion in a far corner of the cave, so that she and her handmaiden would not be subject to the gaze of his Saracen warriors.

‘They are not accustomed to seeing uncovered women outside the home, Commander. It is wiser to be discreet.’

Hartelius sat across from the Amir on a series of carpets laid upon the floor of the cave. Outside, the Khamsin was still raging, but inside all was peace. The horses – both those of the Templars and those of the Saracens – were tethered down by the underground lake, and the two forces, thirteen on the one hand and somewhere close to a hundred on the other, had split up and were hunched over their individual campfires, the tendrils of smoke joining together twenty feet over the soldiers’ heads, before being swept towards the cave entrance by invisible currents of air.

‘And your wound?’ said Hartelius. ‘It was in your upper back, if I recall?’

‘Your administration of moss was most effective. I had no infection. Haly Abbas would have been proud of you.’

‘Haly Abbas?’

‘Ali ibn al-’Abbas al-Malusi. He wrote the
Kitab al-Maliki
. The
Complete Book of the Medical Art
.’

‘Ah. I am flattered.’

‘You should be.’

The two men looked at each other for a long time, drinking in each other’s faces. Hartelius was the first to break the silence.

‘You said “I thought to find you here” after you first spoke my name. What did you mean by that?’

‘Can you not guess?’

‘I would rather you told me.’

A servant provided water for both men to wash their hands in, and towels with which to dry themselves. Dates were brought, and sweetmeats rolled in honey. Mint tea was served, with the teapot held high above the beakers so that the tea would cool slightly between the spout and the receptacle.

Each man took his tea with the right hand, looking the other in the eye. When the third cup was finished, the Amir clapped his hands together, and one of his Saracens appeared leading Hartelius’s stallion.

‘You don’t mind, I hope? I needed very much to look at him. His father is dead, you see. Killed beneath me three weeks after I left you in that hidden valley where you tended to my wound. I wept long and hard over his body. His was the greatest loss I have ever encountered. Worse even than
the loss of my own father, who was a wayward man. To this day I often awaken at night imagining I am riding Antar into battle.’

‘He was a mighty horse.’

‘He was my soul. He was my heart.’

‘And yet you offered to give him to me?’

‘You gave me my life. He was my life. The gift was appropriate.’ The Amir looked at Hartelius’s stallion, his eyes travelling over every inch of the horse. After a while he stood up. He turned to Hartelius. ‘May I touch him?’

‘Of course.’

The Amir ran his hands across the flanks, then down along the belly and over the hindquarters of the stallion. Then he moved up to the neck and head. He turned his back to the horse, and allowed the stallion to rest his head on the shoulders of his robe. Then he rubbed the horse’s chest with both his hands while the horse idly plucked at his
besht
with its teeth. ‘He is exactly like his father. Exactly. I prayed so many times to Allah that Antar would be prepotent. For I must tell you this, Hartelius. Your stallion is his only son. His only descendant. I held Antar back from knowing mares while we were at war, thinking that this would weaken him. In this way he was forced to find your mare for himself, while I was injured. I have always regretted my presumption.’

‘Have you a mare you would like covered?’ said Hartelius. ‘More than one, perhaps? If so, Gadwa will be happy to oblige.’

‘You call him Gadwa? An Arabic name?’

‘Yes. Because he was a gift. From God. And from you.’

‘Aah.’ The Amir closed his eyes and bowed his head. ‘In truth I have three mares I would like Gadwa to cover. They are my best girls. Beautiful beyond imagining. But they are back in the Chouf. I would be honoured, therefore, if you and the princess, and any of your knights who may wish to do so, would accept to be my guests in the Chouf for as long as you choose to grace the land of my birth with your presence.’

Hartelius glanced towards the princess’s pavilion. ‘But to get to the Chouf we would have to return in the direction of Beirut, would we not? Which is towards Acre?’

‘This is true. But you would have the protection of my men along the way. And once in Baakleen I would be in a position to guarantee your safety for as long as you decide to reside with me and share my hospitality. No one would dare molest you there.’

‘So you know from whom we are fleeing?’

The Amir laughed. ‘The entire Outremer coast from Gaza to Antioch knows from whom you are fleeing. The tyrant, von Drachenhertz, has offered a reward for your head and for the return of his intended bride of ten thousand Fatimid dinars. Gold that he no doubt plundered from our people during the Siege of Acre. This man is a monster. Second only to Raynald of Châtillon in the annals of infamy. But ten thousand gold dinars is enough to turn any man’s head. Three days’ ride from here, in a pass near the Crac de l’Ospital, the Assassins already await you. They know there is no other
way for you to travel. That you must traverse this pass in order to reach the Hospitallers’ redoubt.’

‘So even the direction we are going is known about?’

‘It seems so.’

‘And you? Is our meeting happenstance?’

‘Nothing is happenstance, my friend. All is the will of God. And I wished very much to see your horse.’

Hartelius sighed. He would get no more from the Amir. And further questions would embarrass both of them.

‘I cannot speak for the princess, Amir. But I suspect that I already know her answer, which I will confirm presently. My Templars and I accept your kind offer of hospitality. You have no objection to our bearing arms?’

‘None whatsoever. You are my guests. We are not at war. Perhaps the enforced proximity between our followers during this Khamsin, and later, when we ride for the Chouf, will serve as a lesson for them both?’

Hartelius threw his head back and laughed. The Amir laughed with him. From all sides of the cave their men watched in awestruck silence.

TWENTY-ONE

‘He is the one, isn’t he?’ The princess was watching the Amir through a gap in the entrance flap of her pavilion. ‘The one you told me about? The one whose life you saved?’

‘Yes. It is he.’

The princess cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. ‘And he tells you he only came to see your horse?’

‘Yes. That is what he says.’

‘But you know he really came to save us?’

‘Yes. Without a doubt.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because I know him as I know you. Totally. More completely, even, than I know myself. In here.’ Hartelius struck himself above the heart with his clenched fist.

The princess shook her head in wonder. ‘Men. I will never understand them. Why does everything between you have to be unsaid?’

Hartelius grinned. ‘Because all our words are kept for you
women. Then, when the moment comes when men must talk between themselves, there are no words left to be shared. So we are forced to remain silent.’

The princess stared at him, an unbelieving expression on her face. ‘Hah. I have heard such silences between men. They are filled with words. They ooze with words.’

‘Then I have been misinformed.’

The princess struck Hartelius a glancing blow on the upper arm. ‘That is your punishment for teasing me.’

Hartelius bowed his head. ‘I accept my punishment willingly.’

‘Good. It is only your just dessert. I wish, though, that you would not wear chainmail when I need to punish you. See? I have hurt myself.’

Hartelius took the princess’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles, one by one. ‘Is that better?’

‘Yes. That is better. Much better. Now tell me more about your friend. Not suppositions. Facts.’

Hartelius composed himself. But it was hard. He dearly loved the games he and the princess played, and longed for their continuance. They were his recompense for a youth slipped out of too early and regretted. ‘The Amir is a chieftain or commander. You might even call him a prince. Someone exalted above other men.’

‘Why is such a man here? Patrolling this benighted desert?’

‘For many reasons. His main task will be to scout the lands beyond the thin strip of coast we Christians call our own. To make sure that no one encroaches on Muslim
territory. He will have many spies to this purpose. He will know everything that goes on between Acre and Tortosa. I suspect that when he recognized my name, and subsequently heard that von Drachenhertz had put a bounty on my head, he would inevitably have wondered why. Later, perhaps, he might have heard tell of an unattached band of Templars riding through no-man’s-land. He would immediately have deduced who we are.’

‘So we are his hostages now? Is that what you are telling me? He will trade us for money?’

‘No. We are the Amir’s guests. He hopes to protect us from von Drachenhertz, whom he hates. Not sell us to him.’

‘Why does he hate him?’

Hartelius gave an irritated shake of the head. ‘Because your monster of an intended husband raids the Silk Routes whenever the whim takes him. Because he tortures Muslims and forces them to renege on their faith. Because he acts like Raynald of Châtillon used to act before Saladin killed him. Personally. With his own sword.’

‘You sound as if you approve of what Saladin did.’

‘I do. All sides must strive to behave honourably in a war. Only that way will there be discipline in victory and magnanimity in defeat. Saladin spared Guy de Lusignan for this precise reason. To make a point to his men. That kings do not kill kings.’

‘But bestial things do happen. You have told me so yourself. Isn’t it true that Saladin ordered all Templar and Hospitaller knights he captured to be beheaded immediately?’

‘The exception proves the rule. We are all human. And all humans err when the heat of battle is upon them. Saladin believed us to be cultists who would never cease to make war against him in the Holy Land. He was right.’

The princess closed the flap of her tent, effectively sealing them off from the outside world. She walked towards the area that contained her bedchamber. Without turning her head, she said, ‘Do you intend to sleep with your friend then, tonight, Hartelius? Or will you make an exception to your rule and sleep with me?’

‘Rule? What rule? I sleep with you every night.’

The princess cast him a coquettish look over one shoulder. ‘So. I have your attention again, do I, Hartelius? Listen. You can moon over your new friend during the day, when you are both stinking of horses and ordering people about. But during the night you are mine. Do you understand me?’

Hartelius was already pulling off his chainmail. ‘I understand you very well.’

‘Good. Ghislaine has drawn us both a bath with water from the lake. She has warmed the water over the fire and had her lover bring it in. I have given her permission to lie with him in my antechamber later tonight as recompense. I suspect that we will have little privacy on our ride to the Chouf. Might we not take advantage of the privacy we have now?’

‘Are you suggesting I stink of horses again and need a wash?’

‘That, and other things.’

He ran after her and caught her up in his arms. She was already in the process of slithering out of her
bliaut
. ‘Hartelius, no.’

‘Hartelius, yes.’ He upended the princess and held her so that her head was just above the bathwater, with her hips on his shoulders and her legs scissoring around his head.

‘No. Hartelius. Have some decorum. I am a royal princess. I am with child.’

Hartelius slapped her on the bottom. ‘I know. I made you so. But I feel a sudden urge to inspect for myself this extra merchandise you claim to be carrying.’