The Black Rood (22 page)

W
E 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 message, 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.

A short distance from this scrag of a grove stood a squalid little farm, the crabbed fields of which yielded more stones than corn. A few parched stalks drooped in the oven-hot air, their withered leaves crackling on each fitful breath of wind. That hard labor should be lavished on such hopeless soil would have been pitiable if it were not everywhere the same in that broken desert land.

For, from all that I could see, the Holy Land was but a great hot barren dust heap which everyone continually quarreled over as if it were a paradise flowing with milk and honey instead of grit and gravel, a wondrous realm of gold and jewels instead of rocks and thorns. That anyone should greatly care who ruled this desert wasteland astounded me; but that anyone should fight and die over the right to do so, gave me to despair. Behold, I thought grimly, the triumph of avarice over sense, of greed over sanity.

While taking our ease, we discussed the plan for reaching our ultimate destination, Anazarbus in Armenia. “It is a very great distance,” Roupen assured us. “The wilderness is very rough and barren; there are few roads, and those that exist are not good at all. We will certainly need help to get there, and good horses.”

I asked which direction Armenia lay, and how best to get there. Roupen explained that it was in the low Taurus mountains to the north, and that there were several routes. “The best way, however, is through Mamistra,” he said. “We can get there by boat from Famagusta.”

“Mamistra is a sea port?” asked Padraig.

“No, it is inland—on a river. But the water is deep enough for boats and small ships. It serves as the nearest sea port to Anazarbus.”

When the strength of the sun began to wane somewhat, we pushed on again, walking until dusk deepened around us. I remained wary of any pursuit, but saw no one until coming upon a group of Venetian merchants camped beside the road
for the night. The merchants, seven in all, had been exploring trading opportunities in Antioch, and were on their way to Ascalon in the south. They greeted us pleasantly and invited us to share their evening meal, and asked how we found life in the Holy Land. Padraig would have talked to them all day long, but I thought it best not to encourage their interest too far, so after wishing them well, I begged to be excused, explaining that we had walked all day and were very tired.

I scraped out a place among the rocks and thorns, lay down, and dozed contentedly until Padraig nudged me awake at daybreak. “Someone is coming,” he whispered. “I was just praying and heard horses on the road.”

“Bohemond's men?”

“Maybe. They are still too far away to tell.”

“Then we still have a chance.”

We woke Roupen and crept quietly away from the camp, hiding in a dry ditch of a ravine a few hundred paces from the camp. Shortly, there appeared three riders. They reined up when they came upon the sleeping Venetians. Although we could not hear what was said, I could guess readily enough. The riders roused the merchants with demands and questions; the Venetians looked around, and shrugged as if to say, “We do not know if they are the men you are looking for. They were here with us last night, but they are gone now. We cannot tell you more.”

The riders did not linger, but rode on quickly—no doubt in the hope of catching us a little farther up the road. After they were gone, we waited in the ravine until the merchants departed as well, and then continued on, keeping a sharp watch on the road ahead for the returning soldiers.