The Templar Inheritance (9 page)

EIGHTEEN

Their first few days on the road were largely uneventful. Hartelius and the princess rode side by side, with the Templar knights spread out behind them, each man leading two laden horses, flank against flank, so that he might rid himself quickly of them in an emergency. Two free-riding knights acted as guides ahead of the column, and two fulfilled a similar function in the rear. The weather, too, seemed with them, with a late summer lingering well on into October.

‘Why do we need scouts? This is Christian territory, is it not?’ said the princess.

‘Nothing is Christian territory out here, bar our fortresses. The Turks range wherever they want, and harry our forces whenever they can.’

‘But the peace Treaty?’

Hartelius let out a snort. ‘Not worth the paper it is scribbled on. Each side will break it if and when they see fit. That is the way of things.’

The princess looked at him intently. ‘But we will be safe at the Crac de l’Ospital?’

Hartelius was only too well aware that the princess, given her condition, craved certainty, but he could not possibly provide it for her. She had abandoned everything to be with him, while he had abandoned nothing. His four children would be secured for life with their mother’s dowry, and they would be kept safe by their grandfather, Hugo von Kronach, a man who bowed to no one and acknowledged no other master than himself in his own bailiwick – not even the Holy Roman Emperor. The residue of Hartelius’s life meant nothing to him. Only the princess counted any more.

‘We will be safe for a short time, yes. But von Drachenhertz will send after us the moment he hears we have absconded. The Crac de l’Ospital is one of the first places his men will make for. So we will be in the unfortunate position of having von Drachenhertz behind us, the Turks to one side, and the Assassins ahead.’

‘What do you mean? What assassins?’

‘Oh. Nothing. They are nothing to worry about.’

‘I recognize that look, Hartelius. You are hiding something from me.’

Hartelius made a silent vow that the next time he spoke to the princess about their situation, he would keep the visor on his war helmet firmly shut. ‘The Assassins are Ismailis. Sunni haters. They live in the Jebel al-Sariya, where we are heading. In the castle of Masyaf. The word “assassin” comes from Hashshashin, which refers to the fact that the leaders of
the Assassins use the drug hashish to turn their people into mindless
feddayin
.’

‘What are
feddayin
?’

‘Self-sacrificers. Prepared to martyr themselves for their chief, Rashid al-Din Sinan, the Sheikh al-Jebel, otherwise known as the Old Man of the Mountains. He may be dead now for all I know, but his followers are not. They pay us an annual tribute of two thousand bezants to leave them alone, and we are happy to do so, as their enemies are our enemies. But they are unpredictable. It is impossible to tell what would happen if we ran into them. For they have been told that if they die whilst following the orders of their Imam, they will go directly to Jannah, which is the Mohammedan version of Paradise, where doe-eyed houri maidens await them in a land of milk and honey.’

‘Hmm. You are a man, are you not? So tell me. How is it possible to convince men of the existence of such a Paradise as you describe? They can’t be such fools as all that. No woman would dream of believing such nonsense.’

Hartelius knew precisely where the princess was heading with her questioning. She took keen delight in enmeshing him in convoluted discussions relating to the differences between the sexes, for she knew full well that he still – in a carry-over from his time as a Knight Templar – found certain subjects difficult to broach. Thanks to her innate capacity for mischief, though, he was fast learning to be less dogmatic.

He manufactured a manly scowl for her benefit. ‘Far easier, in many ways, than to convince them of Heaven and Hell.
The hashish drug is so powerful that men will do anything once they are under its spell. Even mindlessly kill. Our people have even used the Assassins for their own ends on occasion. Their imams regularly demonstrate their power over their followers by ordering them to jump to their death over precipices or from castle walls. The
feddayin
seem happy to do so, as they know what awaits them.’

‘The houris?’

Hartelius rolled his eyes. ‘Indeed. Please believe me when I tell you that houris do not defecate, menstruate or urinate; nor do they have nasal secretions. They are hairless, apart from on their heads and eyebrows, and they have large breasts which are round, and swelling, and pointed, and which do not hang down or sag. Their short pregnancies last only an hour. Their gaze is modest and they are entirely chaste, apart from with the worthy recipient of their largesse. Their bones are transparent and they are eternally young. They also smell like musk.’

‘Perfection then.’

‘Yes. I am thinking of becoming an Assassin.’

‘I wish you joy of it. Although I, too, would like a pregnancy that lasted only an hour. Maybe I should become a houri?’

‘You would have to be sixty cubits tall, though.’

‘What? How high is that?’

‘Around ninety feet.’

‘Then how could you reach me to make love to me?’

Hartelius slapped the pommel of his saddle in delight. What had he done to deserve such a woman? No one else spoke to
him like this. His beautiful wife, Adelaïde, had been modesty and decorousness incarnate, and he had respected that, whilst occasionally yearning for a fraction more passion in their conjugal relations.

Thanks to the Templar vows imposed on him by his late father when he was barely fifteen years old, Elfriede was only the second woman he had ever made love to. She might have been born a princess, but she spoke like a fishwife when it suited her, and behaved like a tavern wench in the privacy of their chamber. She was utter perfection.

‘That is a question I am unable to answer. Perhaps I shall not become an Assassin after all.’

‘So you will remain satisfied with me?’

‘More than satisfied. Although I regret that you are not transparent.’

‘You are, though, Hartelius. I can see right through you.’

NINETEEN

Seven days into their journey towards Crac de l’Ospital, a cool dry wind, laden with dust and sand, sprang up from the direction of the coast.

Luitpold von Szellen, at more than forty years of age the oldest of the Templar knights under Hartelius’s command, urged his horse forward so that he and his spare mounts might ride parallel with their leader. ‘We need to find shelter, Commander.’

‘Why? This is a simple desert wind. A precursor to winter, surely?’

‘Not so, sir. This is a Khamsin. I have seen such a wind before. When it hits us, it will strike hard. If we have not found cover by then, we will be overwhelmed. In spring, these winds can last for three or four days. I have no idea what diabolical form they may choose to take this late in the year.’

Hartelius glanced at the princess. Then back at von Szellen. ‘How long do we have?’

Von Szellen wrapped his burnous around his nose and mouth. He looked directly into the teeth of the wind. In the far distance the approaching wall of dust appeared to take on a crimson tint, as if it were a giant vortex of liquid, imbrued with blood. ‘An hour. Possibly less. But it will get worse than this before the main storm hits. The horses may riot.’

‘What about the princess’s pavilion? Could we not shelter in that?’

‘Useless. It will simply blow away.’

‘What do you suggest then?’ Hartelius was shouting now, in an effort to be heard over the wind’s wailing.

Von Szellen glanced eastwards, towards the mountains. ‘We head for that overhanging cliff edge. At the gallop. If we are lucky we will find a cave there. If not, we may be able to get into the lee of the hill and use that for a shelter. What we cannot do is stay out here.’

‘Come then.’ Hartelius signalled to his men. He took the bridle of the princess’s horse and led it round in a semi-circle. ‘You go first, von Szellen. Abandon your spare horses. They will follow the herd. I will bring up the rear with the princess. Use anything you need to construct a shelter.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Von Szellen loosed his spare horses and took off at the gallop. The remaining knights fell into column formation and thundered up the hill behind him. Hartelius signalled to his flankers to do the same. One of them – the one he had allocated as the princess’s personal bodyguard – broke off from the main formation and took hold of the princess’s
handmaiden’s bridle, before leading her off in pursuit of his companions.

The wind was howling round them now. Clogging their noses. Stinging their faces. Hartelius reached forward and wrapped Elfriede’s burnous around her head, leaving a narrow gap for her eyes. Then he took hold of her mare’s bridle and led her away at the canter.

‘We can go faster than this,’ she shouted. ‘Give me the reins and I will show you.’

‘No, my love. The horse might throw you. And you are with child. Von Szellen has gone ahead. He knows what to do.’

‘But what if there is no shelter?’

Hartelius slowed briefly to wrap his battle pennant around Elfriede’s mare’s eyes, for she was throwing her head about in panic. ‘Then we kill some of the horses and shelter behind them. They are expendable. You are not.’

The princess looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Would you really do that?’

‘I would do anything it takes.’

The main body of Hartelius’s knights had already disappeared over the crest of the first hill.

‘They are leaving us,’ cried Elfriede.

‘No. They are Templars. They are doing exactly as I said.’

Hartelius and the princess breasted the crest of the first hill and drove their mounts onwards. The wind bellowed and shrieked around them. The sand pelted their skin with a thousand needle pricks through every unprotected gap in their clothing.

‘I cannot see them any more. I can barely see you.’

‘I am following the trail of their horses. Look. Down below you.’

‘But the wind is blowing it away.’

‘No. I can still see it. It is as clear as day to me.’

Hartelius was lying. There was no trail any more to speak of. He was navigating entirely by instinct. He could barely even discern the outline of the sun through the dust storm, far less make out the trail of a herd of horses now five minutes gone. But the sun’s glow was enough. They needed to continue east. For that is where the cliff edge would be.

‘Please. Can we stop?’

‘No. You heard von Szellen. This wind will only get worse. We must ride while we still can.’

‘But I cannot breathe.’

Hartelius grasped the princess round the upper body and transferred her across to his mount, so that she was sitting sideways in front of him, with both legs to the left of his pommel, hanging down. When he was certain that she was secure he uncovered her mare’s eyes and loosed her, trusting that the animal would have the good sense to follow his stallion’s lead.

‘Curl your face into me so that you are protected by my body.’

The princess didn’t answer. Hartelius could hear her struggling for breath against his chest.

He spurred his horse onwards. Slowly, steadily, he was beginning to lose hope. He had made a grave mistake by
underestimating the speed with which the wind would burgeon. He should have called his flanking knights in to him, so that they could have travelled in convoy – it had been wrong of him to send everyone ahead. He had put the princess’s life in danger. It was unforgivable.

He was bent nearly double now, with the wind beating at his back and feeling its way through every crevice in his chainmail. The princess was curled unmoving against his chest.

He felt his horse stumble and catch itself.

Please God, Hartelius said to himself. Take me, but protect her. Don’t let my horse fall.

Von Szellen burst out of the maelstrom in front of him. He was leading the princess’s abandoned horse. ‘Follow me, sir. We have found cover. A cave. Large enough for us all to sit out the storm. There is cool water to drink. And paintings. There are paintings on the walls, sir. Of the Christ child. We saw them when we lit our torches. It is a miracle.’

Had von Szellen taken leave of his senses? But no. The man’s face was earnest. His expression luminous. As if he’d seen a vision.

Hartelius’s mount picked itself up at the sight of the other horses. Hartelius spurred him on behind von Szellen. He had called to God for help and a transfigured von Szellen had appeared from inside the storm, speaking of the Christ child. It was a sign, surely? A sign that what he was doing was right?

‘Just over here, sir. The entrance is in the lee of this overhang. It is large enough so that we can ride in without dismounting. But you must duck your head. Then the entrance
twists immediately to the right. God’s own architect could not have designed it better.’

Hartelius stooped down to protect the princess. He neck-reined his stallion along the inner face of the rock, in the direction von Szellen was indicating. When he was able to look up again, it was as if he had entered the precincts of a cathedral. The roof of the cave soared eighty feet above his head. Its belly extended well beyond his sightline, only to fade away into darkness. The wind continued to howl outside, but inside the cave all was peace.

‘God’s teeth. What is this place, von Szellen?’

‘Look, sir. Look at the paintings.’

Hartelius allowed one of his knights to help him from his horse. He eased the princess down after him. She leaned against him, coughing. Another of his knights brought her a cup of water, which she drank gratefully, one hand resting on Hartelius’s shoulder.

‘This is a Christian place, sir, predating the Mohammedans. The Holy Spear and the Copper Scroll have led us here. Look.’ Von Szellen snatched a torch from one of his subordinates. He raised it high over his head.

Hartelius drew in his breath.

The lower levels of the cave were strewn with wall paintings, as if a madman had been let loose at them with chalk and paint. Some were canted at an angle, as if the painter had been standing on some object while composing them, and had then been forced to use the slant of the wall as part of his perspective. Others were near ground level, with
the important figures grotesquely enlarged, and other, lesser figures, made diminutive by contrast.

‘Look. Mosaics.’ Hartelius dropped to his knees. ‘These are Byzantine tesserae, by God. Hold the torch closer, man.’ He beckoned to the princess. When she came up beside him he took her hand in his and guided her fingers gently along the ridges of the mosaic. ‘See? Feel how smooth these tiles are. I have seen similar things in Constantinople. In the Hagia Sophia. The workmanship is exquisite. Look at the quality of this gold leaf.’ Hartelius rocked back onto his heels. ‘But what are they doing here? In a lost cave in the mountains? How would the individual tesserae have been transported to such a place? By pack mule? This is utter madness.’

The surrounding knights had fallen silent. All were staring at the paintings and mosaics, which spanned an area thirty feet long by ten feet high, as if at a miracle. The light from the knights’ torches reflected back off the golden tesserae with the power of a hundred candles.

‘One of our men reports a lake at the rear of the cave,’ said von Szellen. ‘Fed by an underground spring. Others must have come upon this spot in bygone days and considered it a direct sign of God’s Grace. A place worthy of dedication.’

Hartelius took the flaming torch from von Szellen’s hand. He swept it across the floor in front of them. ‘Look. This floor is beaten down. And these are fresh hoof prints. Are these from our horses, von Szellen?’

‘No, sir. We dismounted by the cave entrance. The horses were immediately led away.’

‘Then this cave is known about by others. It has ease of access. And it is not far from an established trail. We must be very cautious.’

As if in direct answer to his words, there was a commotion at the entrance to the cave. Five men on horseback entered, brushing the sand from their burnouses. It was instantly clear to the Templars, from the silhouette of the strangers’ headgear against the light bleeding through the cave entrance, that the men were Saracens.

Swords were drawn. The Templars instinctively adopted their traditional battle position, in the shape of a narrow V, with von Szellen out in front, and the princess and Hartelius contained within the two outwardly flaring flanks.

The Saracens drew their scimitars also. They formed themselves into a broad line, five wide, their horses still snorting the dust from their noses.

Hartelius forced his way between two of his Templars. He strode towards the Saracens, his sword still sheathed. He raised his right hand. ‘Hold fast. All of you.’ Still walking, he half turned towards his Templars. ‘Put up your swords, you men. We are not at war now.’

He stopped twenty feet short of the Saracens. He laid his right hand across his breast. ‘
Assalamu alaikum
. Peace be upon you.’

The central figure of the five Saracens hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded his head. He sheathed his scimitar and laid his own hand upon his heart. ‘
Wa’alaikum
. And on you.’ He indicated with his chin that his men must also sheathe their swords.

Hartelius recognized only too well, from the brevity of the response to his greeting, that the leading Saracen had still not made up his mind that he and his men were not about to be set upon. ‘Please enter the cave,’ said Hartelius. ‘You are very welcome to shelter here with us. We have food. There is water. We wish you to share it.’

Behind him one of his Templars muttered, ‘But these are only five. We could slaughter them and have done with it. Why feed the swine first?’

Hartelius turned sharply round. ‘Enough, Klarwein. We were here first. These men are now our guests. Do you not remember your Bible? “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”’

‘How about devils unawares?’

‘Enough, I said.’ Hartelius indicated with outspread hands that the Saracens should bypass them and head for the underground lake to water their horses if they so chose. Once the Saracens had reluctantly dismounted, he returned to his own men. ‘Start a fire, some of you. The sooner we break bread with these men, the better it will be for all of us.’

Three of the Templars unhitched some sheaves of dried sticks from one of the extra horses and began setting a fire, while the princess’s handmaiden searched for food in one of the saddlebags.

‘And no pork, remember. I don’t want my throat cut because of some fool’s idea of a bad joke.’

The princess had already laid out a covering for her and Hartelius to sit upon. Hartelius hunched down beside her.
‘You understand what just occurred?’

She nodded. ‘You stopped a bloodbath.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Until we break bread together, nothing is certain. In Saracen culture you may not harm a man once you have eaten with him. That is why I have ordered my men to start a fire and prepare food. But Klarwein and Nedermann are hotheads. They hate Saracens. I cannot trust them not to do something foolish. Fortunately, von Szellen has a cool head. As you saw just now when he came to find us. And the men respect him.’

‘They respect you, too.’

‘But I am no longer a sworn Templar. I am their commander, yes. And they have consented to follow me because I am doing what appears to them to be the right thing concerning the Copper Scroll. But that is as far as it goes. If one of them attacks a Saracen for even the most asinine of reasons, they will all do so, regardless of anything I do or say.’

There was a further commotion at the entrance to the cave. Hartelius stood up, masking the princess with his body. He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

A seemingly endless line of horsemen began to enter the cave, each one wearing Saracen headgear. When the first man in line straightened up and saw not the five companions he had expected, but the Templars, he reined in his horse so violently that it rocked back on its haunches as if it were about to sit down. The man shouted to his companions and they fanned out behind him in a skirmish line.

Hartelius’s thirteen Templars drew their swords as one.
Hartelius strode out in front of them and prepared to fight. There was no help for it now. He and his Templars were massively outnumbered. More Saracens were crowding into the cave every minute, jostling with each other for position, the dust and sand from their clothing rising in great plumes against the light entering from outside.