Knights of the Black and White (19 page)

Hugh remembered spending an almost sleepless night close to a small group of the Hospitallers some six months earlier, at a caravanserai six nights’ journey from Jerusalem. The entire inn was overrun by travelers, and he, along with many others, had been forced to bed down in the open, huddling close to one of a half score of large watch fires that kept the chill of the desert night at bay. For some reason that night, perhaps because they were away from the discipline of their normal monastic surroundings, the Hospital knights had been in no hurry to fall asleep after their evening devotions, and some of Awakenings

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them had lain awake far into the night, talking of the condition of the roads in the kingdom and the circumstances facing the Christian pilgrims.

Everyone had known since the early days of the Christian conquest that the situation on the roads of the Holy Land was a disgrace crying out for attention, but it was one of those topics that no one ever brought up for discussion, simply because no one could really think of anything that might reasonably be done to ease the problem, let alone solve it. It was the classic situation of sheep attracting wolves, in this case naïve, starry-eyed, and weaponless Christian pilgrims attracting ever-increasing hordes of nomadic bandits lured by the prospect of easy pickings and no resistance. The situation had long since passed the point of being embarrassing. It had become a scandal that no self-respecting knight or warrior could countenance in good faith. And yet still, year after year, nothing was done about it.

King Baldwin of Jerusalem declared it impossible for him to divert any of his troops away from their primary duties. The war against the Turks might be over, he maintained, but the Kingdom of Jerusalem was still a new and fragile presence in the Holy Land, surrounded by hungry and angry enemies against whom he must be eternally vigilant. The departure of so many of the triumphant Frankish conquerors for home at the end of the first great conflict had left Baldwin in command of only a very small army with which to garrison and police his kingdom, and his resources were chronically stretched to their utmost limits.

That, unfortunately—and this had been the theme of 172

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the conversation that had held Hugh so enthralled—had given rise to an astonishingly widespread perception among the populace that the newly titled Knights of the Hospital should take it upon themselves to look after not merely the health and welfare of the pilgrims but their physical safety and well-being, too, by taking arms against the bandit marauders who infested the hills along the major roads. But of course, the knights were Bene-dictine monks, bound to pacifism by tradition, the dictates of the Church, and their holy vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Their knighthood was merely an honorary entitlement; they could not fight as true knights because they were both monastics and ecclesiastics.

The Knights of the Hospital were being dragged into the political considerations of the kingdom nevertheless, and that fact, and the reasons surrounding it, was the major bone of contention in the debate that night. One of the monks was far angrier than his fellows, incensed by the latest information he had received that very day. The King, it appeared, was talking seriously about attracting settlers to his new kingdom, promising them land and water rights if only they would come. New settlers: that was something unheard of until now in Outremer. There were pilgrims aplenty, passing through the land at all times and in all weathers, but they were all transient by definition, on their way to somewhere else. Settlers, on the other hand, would give up everything they owned in other parts of the world in order to travel to Jerusalem and take up residence there, farm the land, and set down roots. They were to be cher-ished and encouraged by every means available.

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The monk’s anger had nothing to do with the settlers themselves. He was completely in support of that initiative. What had infuriated him was the news that the King remained unwilling to commit any of his troops to cleaning up the travel routes and making the roads safe for the very settlers he hoped to attract. How, the monk demanded, could any sane person expect farmers––simple, peaceful, hardworking men with wives and children––to assume the risk of bringing those families into a place where their lives would be in constant, daily jeopardy?

There were those among the monk’s own group who sought reasons to justify the King’s position, and back and forth the argument went, with a few of the knights muttering that they might one day be tempted to take up the sword if things grew bad enough. But the consensus was that little was likely to be done about the bandits until the eventual, and some thought inevitable, emergence of a new law-enforcement group, probably mercenary in structure, that would be dedicated solely to making the roads of Jerusalem safe for travelers.

Hugh had fallen off to sleep that night with a half smile on his lips, occasioned by the naïve optimism of the Hospital knights in their hope for a corps of high-principled mercenaries. He had been in the Holy Land long enough by then to find the mere notion of an altruistic motivation, on the part of anyone at all in this harsh land, to be laughable, and nothing he had heard that night had made him think otherwise.

He had admired the brethren of the Hospital unequivocally ever since that night, however, and he believed 174

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wholeheartedly that they deserved any assistance that could be rendered them in their work, so he was glad to see that the guards awaiting him that morning as he approached the hospital were alert and conscientious. He introduced himself and stated his business, and the senior guard directed him inside with instructions on where to go and whom to ask for.

In a surprisingly short time, Hugh and Arlo were standing over a cot containing a man who seemed at first glance far too small to be the Godfrey St. Omer they both remembered. It was he, nevertheless, and both men immediately found themselves struggling to conceal the shock of seeing him in such condition. He was emaciated, shriveled and wasted from lack of proper food, but there was no mistaking his gladness at the sight of them, for he smiled and stirred weakly, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a skeletal grin.

“Goff, old friend.” De Payens leaned over the bed and squeezed St. Omer’s hand gently. “By God, it’s wonderful to see you.” He watched as St. Omer nodded his head, and then he waved to indicate Arlo. “You probably wouldn’t recognize this old fraud, after so long a time, but it’s Arlo … fatter and balder and older, like all the rest of us.” St. Omer smiled again and raised a frail and languid hand to wave, but Hugh interrupted him before he could begin to say anything. “Don’t try to speak.

We’re here now, so your troubles are all over. We came as soon as we received your message, and now we’ll make arrangements to take you back to Jerusalem with us.

You’ll be much better off there, you’ll see. It’s changed a Awakenings

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great deal since last you saw it.” He realized that he was babbling, and so he bade his old friend wait a little while longer and set out, followed by Arlo, to find the man in charge of the Jericho hospital.

As it turned out, their timing could not have been better. The monks had been working for the previous seven days to assemble a caravan, including a large party of returning knights, to travel to Jerusalem, carrying the sickest of their charges to where they could obtain better care in the larger Jerusalem facility, and preparations were being completed that day. The caravan would depart at sunrise the following day, but the brethren had only five horse-drawn wagons capable of making the journey, and every inch of space within them had long since been allocated to people far sicker than Godfrey. Undismayed, de Payens and Arlo spent the better part of the day searching for another wagon and eventually found a two-wheeled cart drawn by a single horse, the only vehicle left available in Jericho. Its bed was roomy enough to hold two people lying side by side on deep-piled straw, and it could be protected from the sun by a cloth awning, stretched between hoops that slotted into the sides of the vehicle. Its owner refused to sell the cart, but since Hugh did not need it for longer than the single journey, he arranged to hire it, with its owner-driver, for the length of time required to drive it to Jerusalem, and the driver, knowing that Sir Hugh himself would be riding as escort to his friend, agreed to the knight’s terms without a deal of argument.

THREE

Hugh and Arlo were back in their own quarters in Jerusalem within a few days, having left St.

Omer safely installed in the ancient hospice in the monastery of Saint John the Baptist, close by the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where the Hospitallers would keep him under close watch and nurse him back to full health. Despite his weakened condition, however, and much to Hugh’s surprise, St. Omer had been strong enough on the journey to tell them the story of his misadventure with the followers of Mohammed and his stay among them, chained to an oar on a corsair’s galley.

They had covered less than half the twenty-mile distance that first day, constrained by the need to travel slowly for the comfort of the sick and injured men in the six wagons, but they were a strong, well-armed party, and no one had any worries about braving the dangers of the 176

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night ahead as they set up camp along the road. Hugh and Arlo had lifted St. Omer’s stretcher down from the wagon bed and placed him near their cooking fire, and after their meal, fortified with a draft of wine from the full skin Arlo had brought with him, St. Omer had begun to talk.

“I want to ask you something,” he said, his voice whispery and fragile. “When you first went home to Payens, after the first campaign, did you find it utterly different?”

“Different?” Hugh thought about that for a few moments, looking over to where Arlo sat watching them.

“Aye, now that I come to think of it, I did. What makes you ask that?”

St. Omer nodded, barely moving his head, and muttered, “Because I did, too, but I thought I might be the only one. None of the others seemed to feel that way.”

Hugh sat musing for a moment longer, then frowned.

“I don’t think it was home that had changed, Goff, not really. It was me …”

“Me, too.” St. Omer drew several deep breaths, then began again, speaking clearly but very quietly. “I had nothing in common with any of … any of my old friends who had not been out there with us. And I couldn’t talk to any of them about what it had been like, at Antioch or any of the other places. They all wanted to know … but I couldn’t tell them. I didn’t want to talk about it because … because I knew they couldn’t imagine … the reality of it. And besides, all they wanted to hear was what they thought they knew already. The priests had told them everything they 178

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needed to know about the glorious Holy War, and anything I tried to say, at the start of things, anything that seemed to … to contradict the priests shocked and frightened them. They did not really want to hear what I …

what I had to say, Hugh.”

Hugh had been nodding his head from time to time as he listened, and now he reached out and gripped St.

Omer by the wrist. “I learned the same things, just as quickly as you did, but by then you had gone home to Picardy and I was stuck in Payens.”

“I had to go, as soon as I got home. I had no choice, as you know. Louise was sick and I had … I had been away from her too long … She died eight years ago, in

’08. Did you know that?”

“No, my friend, but I suspected it, for I have not heard from her since then, and she was a great writer of letters. I knew that only death or grave infirmity could stop her from writing to me. Where is she buried? Did you take her home to Champagne?”

St. Omer’s headshake was barely discernible. “No.

She rests in the garden of our home in Picardy … She loved it there. Did you hear … Have you heard of your father?”

“No. What of him? Is he dead, too?”

“Aye … soon after you set sail to return here. He had … he had no will to live without your mother …”

Hugh’s mother had died while he was studying in the Languedoc, and he had been shocked by his father’s condition at her funeral, some part of his awareness recognizing that the Baron showed no interest in continuing to live.

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“So William is now Baron of Payens?”

“Aye.”

“And how came you to Outremer again? Do you feel well enough to talk about that, or should we leave you to rest?”

“I am … tired. Forgive me, my friend. But we will talk again tomorrow, and every day thereafter.”

St. Omer was asleep by the time Hugh rose and moved to make him comfortable. Arlo brought an extra blanket from the wagon and wrapped it round the sleeping man, after which he and Hugh both lay down to sleep.

It was late the following day by the time they delivered St. Omer to the hospital along with the other invalids from Jericho, and so they had had no time to talk that night, and Hugh was on duty all day long the day after that, so that Arlo visited St. Omer alone the second night, sitting with the knight and talking of inconsequential things from time to time when St. Omer felt like speaking. Hugh returned with Arlo the evening after that, and he was more than pleased to find St. Omer already far stronger and with better facial color than when he had last seen him, a few days earlier.

“The other night, you were about to tell me how you came to Outremer again,” Hugh began, grinning. “But it must be a very dull story, because the mere thought of it sent you to sleep.”

St. Omer smiled back at him, a shadow of his former irreverent and irrepressible grin. “I will not do that to you tonight, I promise … not for some time yet, at least.”

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“What
did
happen over there, Goff ? Why did you come back? I thought you never would.”

St. Omer grimaced. “I could not settle down. I was like a fish out of water in Amiens from the moment I returned. And then after Louise died, I lost all will to live without her … much like your father after your mother’s death. I never knew how much I loved my wife until she grew sick and I lost her, and then I was burdened with guilt over all the years I had spent away from her, playing at being a knight when I could have been with her instead. I tell you, Hugh, I wanted to die. I thought I would never recover from the grief and the guilt … I even thought of killing myself. But I couldn’t. I had inherited everything, against all odds, all my elder brothers having gone before me, one way or another. I had become the paterfamilias, responsible for my entire damned clan and all its holdings. I never wished for it and God knows I never sought it, but it happened anyway and I wanted no part of it. And so I sought advice and assistance from …