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Authors: Mario Reading

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FOURTEEN

Venice was basking in unseasonable sunshine. It seemed to the two lovers as if the weather itself was conspiring to facilitate their affair.

The princess’s hair was steadily growing out. By day, travelling along the canals by barge or through the streets by palanquin, she wore a cap and a veil, as modesty dictated, but by night, when Hartelius secretly came to visit her, she would allow him to undress her and revel in her beauty. Later, after they had made love, she would change into a flowing silk robe, over-threaded with roses, her limbs uncluttered beneath it, her hair falling lightly about her face. Then they would sneak out into the maelstrom of the city and lose themselves amongst the streets and markets, in sailors’ taverns and kerbside eateries.

They would attend street theatres and alfresco concerts, watch jugglers from the Maghreb and acrobats from the Polish marches. Once, they hired a single-masted, square-rigged cog
and had its master sail them out to the island of Murano, where they persuaded a farmer and his wife to rent them a room while they waited for two glass cameos to be made, each bearing the AGLA inscription, from the Hebrew notarikon
atta gibor le’olam adonai
– ‘You are mighty for ever, O Lord’. These were to serve them as amulets against disease and ill health.

That night Hartelius gave the princess a finger-ring of gold, set with Roman sard intaglio and engraved with the figure of Jupiter, which his mother had given him on his fifteenth birthday, immediately following his father’s decision that the young Hartelius must join the Knights Templar. Hartelius also told the princess that he loved her, and that he would rather die than let another man take her away from him – a man who did not love her.

The princess wept openly for the first time. She reminded him of her position, and that her intended marriage was not of her own volition but rather that of her brother, the king. That the entire tenor of her life involved duty and honour, and that she would not and could not betray who she was and the position God had given her. It was the first time they came near to arguing.

Later, Hartelius had taken the princess with a fervour out of all proportion to anything he had ever known. It was as if he couldn’t slake himself of her. That he had to empty himself into her – subsume her, almost, into himself – so that the two of them became one. One body, one soul. When next he asked her about duty, and honour, and obedience, she
told him that she cared not a jot for any of them unless they involved him, and that she would follow her knight to hell itself if he asked her to.

The farmer’s wife made them a breakfast the next morning of eggs and truffles and morel mushrooms with fried crostini and borage tea. They had honey and oat biscuits and a confit made of plums, lemons and peaches. After they had eaten, and while waiting for the schooner to pick them up as arranged, Hartelius and the princess sneaked off behind a nearby straw stack where he raised her shift and took her from behind, in broad daylight, while she arched away from him, furtively watching him, from time to time, across her shoulder, to monitor the expression on his face – for to the princess her greatest passion lay in the reflection of herself through Hartelius’s eyes.

For the bitter truth was that, during the entire extent of her eighteen years of life, the princess had lived subject to rules – a manner of being that her essential nature abhorred. She was by instinct a free spirit, although, by virtue of her position, still beholden to and bound by convention. Hartelius’s gaze freed her. She could fly in his sight like the most elusive of birds. She could soar in his eyes like one of her father’s falcons on the stoop.

On their trip back into Venice she watched him with a serene joy twinned with the most profound apprehension. She recognized this emotion as something that only a woman can feel. A total giving of oneself mirrored by a fear of just what that giving will ultimately entail. Hartelius stood near
the gunwale of the cog staring at the multitude of islands surrounding them, his broad shoulders encased in a flannel cloak, his golden hair dancing in the wind. That he was aware of her gaze she had no doubt. Each seemed to infer the existence of the other with every exhalation of their breath. It was an utter need – with no sense and no possible resolution.

For there was nowhere they could escape to. Nowhere they could hide. Hartelius would be hunted down like a criminal wherever he chose to take her. He would be castrated, allowed to live for a while in the knowledge of what he had done and what had been done to him, and then killed, in as grotesque a way as possible. The princess’s dowry would either be added to exponentially, as a sop to her future husband for agreeing to accept damaged goods, or she would be shipped back to somewhere far worse than Rupertsberg, where she would be incarcerated for the rest of her life in conditions of the most extreme sanctity imaginable.

The future looked bleak – the present infinitely joyful and with an infinity of promise. The princess swore to herself that she would hide her sadness from Hartelius and give him everything that it was in her power to give. But that when the time came, she would drive him away from her for his own good, even though such an act would effectively break her heart.

Until then she would relish every instant they spent together – squeeze out every last drop of their love, and return it to him a thousandfold. This would be her gift to him. Her lover. Her prince.

FIFTEEN

The single-masted, lateen-sailed nef the princess’s party were to travel to Acre in was constructed plank on frame, in the European style, with a steering oar rather than a rudder, and a relatively shallow draft. It was therefore prey to drifting with the wind. The captain explained to Hartelius that a course would have to be followed which never took them very far from land. This was safer, he maintained, as there were pirates everywhere, who enjoyed preying on vulnerable merchant ships.

‘So we shall be a long time at sea?’

‘Oh yes. Very long. Maybe thirty days. If the wind is against us, we may sometimes have to pass the same spot three or four times before we broach it. This is normal. The princess will have ample time to recuperate from the journey during our five stopovers en route to Acre; I can assure you of that, Commander.’

‘And there is no hold for my three horses and those of my thirteen knights?’

‘The horses can stand on deck. In a corral. They will appreciate the fresh air.’

‘And the princess?’

‘She can take my cabin at the rear of the ship.’

‘Where do the rest of us sleep?’

‘Why, on deck too. Under cerecloth. It is most comfortable, I can assure you.’

‘And the oarsmen?’

‘We have none. We are not a galley. We are a nef. We sail by the wind alone. If the wind is with us we are faster than any cog or galley.’

‘And if the wind is against us?’

‘We are doomed.’ The captain laughed. ‘But as you see, I am still here. So the odds are with us. And your knights can defend us, can they not? So we have nothing to fear.’

Thirty days. He had thirty days left with the princess until their arrival at Acre. Hartelius decided that there was no point in even pretending to a virtue he did not possess. Each day was precious. Each night irreplaceable. All knew of his relationship with the princess. It was visible on both of their faces whenever they were together. In the movement of their bodies. In the inclination of their heads when they spoke to one another. There was such a thing as shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.

Hartelius resolved to share the princess’s cabin
in flagrante
. The princess’s remaining handmaiden would attend them, aided by the cook’s wife and a twelve-year-old boy, son of, and assistant to, the blacksmith, who now found himself
temporarily deprived of a job after his father had been told that no fires, beyond those necessary for cooking, might be lit aboard the nef.

The princess was entirely in accord with her lover over the matter of their shared accommodation. The very thought of being aboard the same vessel as Hartelius, but being unable to touch or to be held by him, was anathema to her. What would happen in Acre would happen in Acre. Meanwhile each day was a fresh journey – each night a journey’s end.

To entertain themselves during the crossing, and to act as a necessary lacuna between their seemingly endless bouts of lovemaking, Hartelius and the princess played chess, and also a game resembling backgammon that was played using tablemen carved from walrus ivory. Each tableman represented one of the twelve labours of Hercules, one of the nine orders of angels, or one of the nine muses. The princess, who had perfected her gaming skills at Rupertsberg alongside the other bored young noblewomen immured there, invariably beat Hartelius, much to his irritation, at whatever game they chose to play that day. By the end of their first three passages, to Dubrovnik, Modon, and Candia respectively, he owed her six deniers and twelve gold bezants, and had already passed over to her a plethora of old-fashioned Fatimid dinars that he had brought back with him as souvenirs from the Third Crusade. By the time they left Famagusta he was deeper in debt than ever.

‘You will ruin me yet, woman.’

‘Not so. You married an heiress. I know this for a fact. You are rich.’

Hartelius squinted at her. ‘But not any more. I shall never be able to go home now. My sole remaining wealth lies in the letters of credit that I hold, and which are payable at any Templar preceptory. You do realize that?’

The princess looked at him. ‘But do you not think. . .?’

Hartelius shook his head. ‘No. That would be an impossible hope. The margrave will have his spies on board already. They will have accompanied us all the way from Rupertsberg. That is the way these things are played. These spies will have communicated with him from Venice. Probably using the same vessel that brought you your second marriage chest. The news of our betrayal will precede us, my love. We must prepare ourselves for that.’

‘Then we must return to Famagusta and you must leave the vessel there. There are Templars in Cyprus, are there not?’

‘Not any longer. We sold the island to Guy de Lusignan, and his heirs now rule it. And they are not well-disposed towards us, to say the least. Which is why I kept my men aboard during our overnight sojourn. In any case, I cannot abandon you.’ He took her hand in his and kissed it. ‘I will not leave you.’

‘Then you will be killed.’

‘Sometimes it is better to die than to live in dishonour.’

The princess watched Hartelius for a long time. Then she stood up, forcibly, as if she had made a decision. She pointed to her first marriage chest – the one sent to her by her brother. ‘The Holy Lance is in there.’

‘I know that.’

‘I am to pass it on to my future husband as a token of my brother’s confidence in him.’

‘I know that too.’

‘What you don’t know is that my brother has vouchsafed me a further object he wishes to be handed over.’

‘And what object is that?’

‘The Copper Scroll.’

Hartelius’s chair tipped over as he stood up. His face was pale. His eyes blazed. ‘That is preposterous. The Copper Scroll is the greatest of all the Templar treasures. It holds the key to the secrets of Solomon. It would never be allowed out of Templar hands. Not even if the king himself were to command it.’

The princess, disturbed at having provoked such an unintended reaction in Hartelius, turned sharply away from him. ‘But you haven’t fully deciphered it yet, have you?’

Hartelius reined in his anger. It wasn’t Elfriede’s fault, after all, if her brother was playing her for a dupe. ‘Not to my knowledge, no. But then I would be the last to hear, being no longer a full Templar, but only one of the
fratres conjugati
. My understanding is that the Copper Scroll is written partly in Mishraic Hebrew, and partly in another, unknown script, that appears neither in the Bible nor elsewhere. Templar scholars have been labouring to decipher this unknown script since the scroll was discovered by our founding knights, on the Temple Mount, seventy years ago. It is only a matter of time before the script is decoded and its secrets discovered. It is therefore impossible that the Copper Scroll could be here and in your possession. Impossible.’

The princess turned back towards him. ‘But it is.’

Hartelius righted his fallen chair. He was stone-cold sober now, despite the quantities of Cretan wine he had been drinking to accompany their game. ‘How can you be so sure we are talking of the same artefact? There must be a multitude of scrolls available to the king.’

‘But still. I am sure. Because I broke the seals on my brother’s letters to my future husband.’

‘You did what?’

‘I broke the Royal Seal.’

Hartelius took the princess’s hands in his. ‘But such a thing is punishable by death, Elfriede. Even as a royal princess you would not be immune. It is called
lèse-majesté
.’

She looked up at him. ‘And what have we been doing these past few months, Hartelius? What is that called, do you think?’

Hartelius’s expression softened. ‘What indeed?’ He gazed for a long time at the young woman in front of him, prey to a profound sadness. The thought of parting from her overwhelmed him. The thought of another man holding sway over her – a man who would not, and could not, cherish her as he did – filled him with anguish.

Hartelius enveloped the princess in his arms and pressed her to his chest. He kissed the top of her head many times, as was his habit, and then kissed her around the eyes and cheeks, eventually completing the familiar journey to her mouth. When he finally spoke, he spoke over her shoulder, his eyes taking in every corner of the cabin, as if it were the last time he would get to see it. ‘I think the time has come to
confront the realities of our situation. We can hold it off no longer. Might I see these letters?’

The princess disentangled herself from Hartelius’s arms. She walked over to her repository. She returned carrying the two letters and handed them to her lover with a rueful smile.

Hartelius inspected the seals with a crestfallen expression. ‘Was it not within your capabilities to lever off the seals in such a way that they could be replaced, Elfriede? These are beyond any possible repair. It almost looks as though you brutalized them on purpose.’

The princess shrugged. ‘The seals are designed so. Any tampering is permanent. Any fool knows this. There seemed no point in holding back once I had made my decision.’

Hartelius shook his head in wonder. ‘So you knew exactly what you were doing when you embarked on this madness?’

The princess nodded. But the supercilious mask she had put on for Hartelius’s benefit was beginning to crack, to the extent that she now appeared trapped part-way between tears of regret and tears of outraged virtue. ‘Yes. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to give you no possible choice in the matter. No possible excuse to remain at my side and let von Drachenhertz skin you alive. He is all-powerful in Outremer. Your thirteen Templar knights will not be able to help you. Nobody will. You will be killed if you go ashore at Acre.’

Hartelius took her by the shoulders. ‘So you broke into your brother’s letters to von Drachenhertz, knowing that I would be forced to take the blame on your behalf?’

She nodded. The tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Knowing that you would insist on taking the blame on my behalf. Yes. For that is the only way I knew of to get you to leave this ship before it docks at Acre.’

‘But I will not leave you.’

‘You must leave me.’

‘To that monster?’

‘To my future husband. Yes.’

‘But he will know what has happened between us. Probably knows already. You have acknowledged that much yourself.’

The princess dashed the tears away from her eyes with the hanging sleeve of her
bliaut
. ‘Von Drachenhertz is an ambitious man. You told me this. Marriage to the king’s sister will be crucial to him. Fundamental to his ambitions. An extra string to his bow. If you are not there as a focus for his anger, he will soon come to terms with what has happened. He will not wish to make a public fool of himself. To seem to be a cuckold. No man does. Marriages at this level are political, and not of the heart. Von Drachenhertz is a realist, from what I have heard.’

Hartelius was appalled at the princess’s naivety, despite the surface confidence with which she put forward her point of view. And yet what could one expect from a young woman hauled, if not quite kicking and squealing, then at least unwittingly, from the relative innocence of a nunnery directly into the world of men? ‘Elfriede. Listen to me. Such a man as you describe will invariably suffer from an excess of pride. He is a war leader – not some effete courtier hiding behind his
scented handkerchief. He commands the loyalty of thousands. When he finds that you have given your love to another man in every way it is possible to give, he will punish you. Privately, if not publicly.’

‘There is only so much he can do.’

‘He can do anything he wants to you. A woman, even one of high degree such as yourself, has little or no power at the best of times – not even at your brother’s court back in the Frankenland. In the Holy Land your position will be even more acute. I have been there. I know this for a fact. As a direct result of the Crusades, we invading Christians have gradually taken on some of the mannerisms of our enemies in terms of the way we treat our women. Certain of our leaders have even taken to keeping harems. Privately. With few outside their inner circle knowing of their existence. But such a fact has a carry-over effect. Wives and mothers are not granted the same freedoms they have at home. The same liberty of movement. You will be suborned. Confined. Humiliated. I should never have indulged my desires with you. I am your senior by twelve years. You were placed under my guardianship. What I did was unforgivable.’

‘So you regret it?’

Hartelius threw up his hands. ‘Of course I don’t regret it. You are everything to me. Not declaring myself to you was inconceivable. Not having you was inconceivable. Not having you in the future is inconceivable.’

Elfriede managed a halting smile in response to his words. ‘Then we must both flee. It is the only way.’

‘That is impossible.’

‘Order the captain to turn back to Venice. You have the power.’

‘No, I do not. He will laugh in our faces. He knows that von Drachenhertz would pursue him to the ends of the earth and back again. Our captain may be corrupt, but he is no fool.’

‘Then go alone. Have him set you ashore at Beirut. When I arrive at Acre I will make it my business to seduce my future husband into loving me. If that is the only way to save you, it will be a small price to pay. I am not undistinguished in terms of beauty – you have told me so yourself. If you are susceptible to my charms, might not other men be?’

Hartelius watched the play of emotions across the princess’s face with awed respect. This one was truly a woman among women. The princess’s lower lip was trembling. Her eyes were beseeching him to hearken to what she was saying, while her heart was breaking at the possibility that he might. Hartelius understood only too well, after the months of intimacy they had shared, just what her words were costing her. She was willing to sacrifice everything for him. To barter her honour for his life. The least he could do was to offer her the same consideration. To return her sacrifice and make things right for her again.

He cupped her chin in his hand. ‘There is one way, perhaps. One way that you might be protected from the evil I have done you.’

BOOK: The Templar Inheritance
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