The Hidden Keystone, page 16
What was going on?
He finally recognised the hymn: Te Deum. They were singing the Hymn of Praise.
The glorious company of the Apostles: praise thee.
The goodly fellowship of the Prophets: praise thee.
The noble army of Martyrs: praise thee.
Diederic staggered upright. His first steps were tentative, but they soon grew in confidence. Using his bulk, he pushed through the heaving mass of pedites and peasants who had gathered outside. All were covered in the filth of battle. Many clutched grisly prizes: silk robes smattered in blood, golden bezants and jewellery. Some even gleefully brandished rings by the severed fingers of their former owners.
While he had lost his sword and shield, Diederic’s size and armour forced openings in the crowd where none had previously existed. Gradually, he moved towards the centre of the Anastasis. The singing continued, reverent and exultant.
Thou sittest at the right hand of God: in the glory of the Father.
We believe that thou shalt come: to be our Judge.
We therefore pray thee, help thy servants: whom thou hast redeemed with thy precious blood.
The crowd became denser near the apse where he had fought Godefroi. Diederic elbowed his way forward. The rotunda was filled with milites and fellow chevaliers. He could no longer use rank to force his way inwards. However, he was tall enough to catch glimpses of the ceremony.
The hymn was swelling to its triumphant finale. Senior members of the clergy brandished their holy relics, resplendent in vestments edged in gold thread. A thousand candles dazzled the eye. Every face shone, bright with the knowledge that their vows had finally been fulfilled.
In te, Dómine, sperávi: non confúndar in ætérnum.
O Lord, in thee have I trusted: let me never be confounded.
The silence that followed the hymn was profound, a physical presence that touched every Christian who bore witness to it. Tears sprang to Diederic’s eyes. The gratitude he felt at having survived long enough to be part of this was completely overwhelming.
His gaze lifted above the crowd to the centre of the rotunda. A dais had been erected so that the princes and the clergy were visible to all. Basking in the centre of the crowd’s adulation was Godefroi de Bouillon. Golden-haired and smiling, he acknowledged the thanks of priests and chevaliers alike for having liberated Jerusalem.
Hatred hardened into a bitter knot inside Diederic. It was an unforgivable insult that this man—who treated with foul sorcerers—should be feted at the very site of the Resurrection.
Arnulf de Chocques stepped forward. The broad priest raised one hand in benediction as he recited the Lord’s Prayer. The assembly repeated each line after him, finishing with a final joyous “Amen” that rolled around the courtyard. Tears flowed as warriors embraced each other.
Diederic stood outside the circle of the assembly’s happiness. Instead, he bowed his head and uttered a short oath in the presence of the Holy Spirit that surely moved amongst them.
Godefroi de Bouillon would be cast down along with his pet sorcerer. This he promised in the presence of almighty God. And after that? Count Raymond would have no choice but to reward his most faithful subject.
CHAPTER 22
15 July 1099
Godefroi’s quarters
The hour was so late it could be considered early. After the long day culminating in the ceremony at the Holy Sepulchre, a dull ache throbbed through Godefroi’s limbs. His injured shoulder had seized up and his eyes were gritty with exhaustion. Yet sleep remained elusive.
Godefroi sat up and swung his legs over the low bed. Moonlight from a small window painted deep shadows across the opposite wall. His mattress was far more comfortable than what he was used to. Too much so. The softness was a distraction, a luxury he could not afford yet.
Too restless for sleep, he rose and crossed the room. He made no sound as he padded over the tiles.
Godefroi’s sleeping chamber opened onto a narrow set of stairs. It was darker here, so he ran one hand along the wall while feeling for each step. The stairs descended into the main chamber on the second level. He still could not believe the Salt Lines questioned the divinity of Jesus. If the Inquisition were to ever learn of it…
He shuddered at the thought.
A pair of lanterns hung from metal brackets fixed to the walls. Crescent moons and tiny stars had been etched into the delicate glass. They appeared to flicker and dance as the tapers burned.
Godefroi skirted past the flat, broad table that was so different to the great tables he was used to in Lorraine and moved towards the balcony. It was not hard to picture the swarthy Saracens lounging on their cushions, escaping from the heat in their flowing robes, laughing and feasting. This was not the barbarism that the clergy had spoken of. Quite the reverse. The sophistication of this room left Godefroi feeling like an impoverished traveller who had barged in uninvited.
The acrid smell of smoke and the rank odour of death wafted on the night breeze.
“It would be safer if you remained inside, messire.”
Godefroi froze. He reached for the dagger he normally wore on his hip and cursed inwardly when he realised that he had left it by his bedside. “Who’s there?”
A figure stirred in one corner. Godwera’s pale face emerged from the cowl of her habit that blended so well with the night.
“Now that the city has been taken, Raymond would have no qualms in killing you,” she observed. “You mustn’t give him the opportunity.”
“I know that!” he snapped, angry at being caught unawares.
Godwera flinched.
“I’m sorry. You startled me.” He glanced about to ensure they were alone. “Godwera. You need never fear me. I’m not like—” He swallowed. Baldwin’s name was bitter on his tongue. “You mustn’t think I’m like my brother.”
Faint lines of pain drew tight across her face. “Please. Let us leave those days behind. Let us…forget everything.”
He caught the appeal in her voice but could not accept it. “How can I leave the past behind when you constantly remind me of it?” He gazed angrily out the balcony door. Fires twinkled in the darkness. “I’ve been forced to let you go twice now. Once to Baldwin, once to death. Are you really asking me to accept a third loss?”
“We’ve never belonged to each other, despite what either of us may have desired.” She clutched his injured shield arm. He welcomed the grinding pain. It had defined their relationship for as long as he had known her.
“Am I speaking to Hugues now?” Godefroi did not bother to hide the bitterness in his voice. “Have you no will of your own, no desires? Must every last part of us be given over to the Salt Lines?” He searched her face for some glimmer of the feelings he knew she harboured for him.
“Godefroi.” She touched his cheek with trembling fingers. “This is so much more important than anything we might feel…or want.”
Godefroi caught her soft hand in his calloused grip and kissed her fingers. “Godwera.” His voice was suddenly hoarse. “Ever since I first met you, I have known—”
“Please.” She pulled away.
He let her go reluctantly, bewildered by her reaction. Why did she keep shying away from what they both wanted?
Godwera took a step back and became a phantasm of the night that might vanish at the slightest movement. “You mustn’t say it, Godefroi. You mustn’t bring us into being. We mustn’t…I can’t—” She cast about the room in desperation.
A pounding, furious rage coursed through him. Words rose unbidden to his lips, drawn from the depths of frustration. “But you can with Hugues, can’t you? He takes you into his confidences, he seeks your counsel, yet he is deaf to my requests. And you! You accept his protection. You heed his words, whereas I’ve always accepted you as a woman who knows her mind. No wonder you spurn me when you have given everything to another.”
He must have taken an inadvertent step because suddenly he loomed over her. Each word was driven home by a pointed finger.
“Godefroi, no.” A look of horror transformed her face. The lines of unhappiness he had observed earlier deepened and her bottom lip quivered. He saw fear too, cringing beneath her misery.
“You’d rather lie with a man of secrets, in thought if not in deed, than with a man who isn’t afraid to tell you that he loves you, regardless of the consequences.”
“That’s not true,” Godwera gasped.
“Then speak.” Godefroi gripped her by the shoulders. It took an effort not to shake her. She flinched, her arms soft beneath his strong fingers. “Tell me the truth. Tell me how you feel when you look at me.”
“I don’t love you in the way that you wish,” Godwera said. “You’re a brother to me, no more.”
How could she lie after he had reached out to her?
Godwera slipped from his grasp and fled across the cool tiles. Godefroi’s hands twitched. The feel of her flesh still tingled through his fingertips, but he did not pursue her. He walked out onto the balcony instead and watched as Jerusalem burned. Like the city, his heart filled with ash.
CHAPTER 23
18 October 1307
The forest
Bertrand’s body ached, the chainmail coif chafed his neck, and a hundred different bruises and scrapes throbbed. Compounding his misery was a constant, seeping rain that had settled in during the afternoon. He was splattered with mud and chilled to the bone.
“We can’t continue like this.” Coming from Rémi, who was also drenched, it was a statement of fact, not a complaint.
Bertrand was too tired to muster a reply. He dropped his sack and leaned against the mottled silver trunk of a birch.
“We need shelter,” Rémi said to Salome. “Otherwise, your friends won’t have to kill us. The cold and wet will save them the trouble.”
The hood of Salome’s cloak kept the rain from her face. Despite their trek through the woods, her stride had not shortened or faltered.
“You’re right.” She sniffed the air and glanced about the darkening forest. “They can’t follow us in this weather. Hopefully the rain will wash away our tracks.”
Salome peered at Bertrand. “You are suffering.” She ran the back of her fingers across his wet cheek. The gesture was almost possessive, and he shivered at the contact.
“Take my hand,” Salome said. Bertrand glanced uncertainly at Rémi.
“Woman, we’ve no time for your tricks.” Rémi grabbed Salome by the arm and swung her about to face him.
Bertrand drew his belt knife and had it to Rémi’s throat in an instant. “Let her go,” he said in a snarl.
Shock spread across Rémi’s face. He released Salome, who rubbed her arm and moved out of reach.
“Cub. What are you doing?” Rémi’s voice was puzzled.
Bertrand stared at his blade. How did it come to be there? The edge trembled at Rémi’s throat. He pulled away in confusion. “I’m sorry. Rémi, you know I’d never—” It was too awful to say. Too awful to even contemplate. Rain trickled through the hair plastered to his forehead. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do.” Rémi’s grim, accusing gaze slid to Salome.
“Bertrand and I are bound,” she said. “He’ll respond to any threat to me. In return, I’ll protect him. And those loyal to him.”
“You’ve bewitched him.” Rémi’s fingers tightened until his knuckles cracked. The scar in the webbing of Bertrand’s hand tingled.
“That is an ugly description for a choice freely made.” Salome tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Think of it more as a union. Like the outer pillars of the tree, the genders must be in alignment.”
Bertrand stared between the two of them. A union? What was that supposed to mean? His imagination started down dangerous paths. With an effort, he forced his thoughts back to the present. “Rémi’s right. We need shelter. The rest hardly matters if we freeze or die of a fever.”
“Then let me help.” Salome held out her hand again. Bertrand took it tentatively. Her skin was warm, unlike his fingers which were numb with cold.
Salome closed her eyes. Bertrand was highly aware of her proximity, the tilt of her head, the rise and fall of her chest. She was tall for a woman, overtopping Rémi by at least an inch. In a way, she reminded him of Justine: both women possessed a self-assurance that would be the envy of most men.
It might have been a trick of the rain, but Bertrand noticed that Salome’s outline was hazy. He frowned. Even the hand he was holding was fuzzy. He shifted his gaze to the trees, which appeared normal. Even the billowing gusts of rain were visible if he concentrated. It was Salome who had become unfixed. Bertrand held her hand, so he knew that she was not moving. Yet for some reason he had the impression that she was drawing closer.
He closed his eyes to refocus and felt Salome shift upon her feet. Her smile curved upon his lips. She was not troubled by his aches and pains. While he was far stronger, she possessed a resilience that surprised him.
His eyes opened in astonishment. The impression of moving towards each other, of merging—yes, that was the right word for it—strengthened.
Bertrand trembled with the strain of keeping his sense of self separate from her. A loop had been created. Each sensation flitted between them. Seen from two different perspectives, the forest blurred, two views overlapping to become one.
Just as the disorientation became intolerable, his perspective snapped outwards. Instead of delving into each other, they swung outwards in an ever-widening spiral. A rush of images hurtled through Bertrand: branches whipped past, leaves shivered and twirled in the wind. They wove through beads of rain and skipped past rocky outcrops. They soared over banks of rotting leaves and skimmed past fallen logs.
The images flashed through Bertrand’s mind. Yet the sense of movement, of spinning outwards, persisted. Finally, a collection of upright timbers whipped past, too ordered to be natural. Bertrand only caught fleeting impressions; timber covered with moss, the wind tugging at loose boards, dried leaves rolling through a narrow opening.
Salome released his hand. And Bertrand lurched back into his body.
Bertrand gasped for breath. The dual vision was gone.
Rémi caught him by the elbow. “What did she do?”
Bertrand blinked and his eyes reluctantly focused. Rémi looked worried. Almost afraid.
“I’m…not sure.”
Rémi squeezed his arm. “You went into a trance. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Don’t fret, Rémi,” Salome said. “He’ll be fine.” She pointed deeper into the forest. “There’s a hovel on the far side of the next ridge. It’s unoccupied and mostly dry inside.”
A jolt of astonishment shot through Bertrand. Yes, she was right. He had glimpsed a hut.
“How do you know that?” Rémi demanded.
He hid it well, but Bertrand caught a hint of fear in his gruff voice.
Salome’s eyebrows lifted in amusement. “By the time I finished explaining it, we would already be there.” She set off up the muddy incline without waiting for a reply.
“That woman’s unnatural,” Rémi muttered.
“She saw it,” Bertrand wondered out loud.
“Saw what?” Rémi frowned at him.
Bertrand should have been disturbed by the magic he had just witnessed. Instead, all he felt was amazement. “I was with her. We…flew through the forest.” He tried to recapture the feeling. All that remained was the sense of rushing headlong through the trees.
”I don’t like any of this.” Rémi gestured towards Salome. “This sort of thing is beyond me.”
“Leave it for now, Rémi. She’s found us a dry place to sleep. The rest can wait.” Bertrand hefted his sack and trudged up the hill after Salome.
Rémi muttered a curse and stomped after him.
CHAPTER 24
18 October 1307
The Poacher’s Hut
The hut was exactly where Salome had predicted. Built in the shadow of an enormous elm, the rough timbers were stained with age and moss covered the bottom of each plank. Some of the thatch in the roof had collapsed, although the dirt floor was only damp thanks to the elm’s branches.
“We’ll sleep here tonight,” Salome said. “We can decide what to do in the morning.”
Bertrand shivered. The temperature was dropping as night fell and his padded tunic and breeches were saturated from the rain. They needed a fire.
“If we’re lucky,” Rémi said, “they’ll have left some dry wood inside.” He ducked under the low eaves of the hovel and disappeared inside.
Salome placed a hand on Bertrand’s arm. “Let’s get out of the rain.”
“How did you do that back there?” The feeling of their merging had become a vague, confused memory.
“Bertrand, you need rest.” Salome guided him into the hut and helped him out of his armour. Water dribbled from his boots when he upended them.
Rémi stacked the pieces of kindling that he had collected from the barrow mound over some precious char-cloth. A pile of old, dry branches had been left stacked in one corner of the hut. Producing a dark grey flint from his tinderbox, Rémi struck it against the piece of fire-steel. It took him a few attempts to draw sparks in the damp air. Eventually, one caught in the char-cloth. Rémi blew gently until the spark took hold in the twigs.
While Rémi built up the fire, Salome filled a pewter bowl with rainwater. She searched through the supplies Rémi had gathered from the barrow and doled out portions of hard bread, now damp from the rain. Not much of the cheese remained. Bertrand’s stomach growled as he ate slowly.
“I’ll save the salted lamb for tomorrow,” Salome said, removing her cloak. Underneath she wore a dark grey woollen dress divided on either side for riding. The damp wool clung to her willowy figure, especially around her hips where a leather ceinture, about three fingers thick, wrapped around her waist. Lean muscles shifted across her arms and back as she moved about.
