Templar Silks Read online

  Also by Elizabeth Chadwick

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  The Autumn Throne

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Heather Morris/Sourcebooks

  Cover images © SilverV/Getty Images, ManuelVelasco/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2018 in the United Kingdom by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Chadwick, Elizabeth.

  Title: Templar silks / Elizabeth Chadwick.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018052421 | (softcover : acid-free paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Pembroke, William Marshal, Earl of, 1144?-1219--Fiction. | Knights and knighthood--Great Britain--Fiction. | Quests (Expeditions)--Fiction. | Reminiscing--Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction. | Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6053.H245 T46 2019 | DDC 823/.914--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018052421

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Author’s Note

  Select Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  Special Acknowledgment

  Back Cover

  1

  Manor of Caversham, near Reading, Berkshire—home to William Marshal, Regent of England—April 1219

  “It will not be long now.”

  William moved his head on the pillow in response to the voice, but he could not tell if the words came from his mind, from the spiritual realm of dreams and visions that kept him constant company now, or whether someone in the room had spoken aloud. He frequently had the sensation of being asleep even while he was awake, and the struggle to return to full awareness took longer with each passing day.

  A fresh breeze carried the green scents of spring to him through the open window. Sunlight warmed the triple arches of stone from stippled gray to pale gold and flowed across the bed, enriching the plain brown blanket and touching his mottled hand in benediction. Gazing at the frieze running around the top of the wall that depicted his scarlet lion device interspersed with Isabelle’s red chevrons on gold, he thought how short a lifetime was in God’s great scheme. There was so much still to do, but his ability to accomplish it was over, and others must now take the reins. His destiny lay elsewhere.

  The door opened and a sturdy man in his middle years entered the chamber. After murmuring a swift word to William’s Templar almoner, Brother Geoffrey, he advanced to the bedside. “Sire, you sent for me?”

  William exerted his will to focus on his visitor. Jean D’Earley had joined his household as a squire more than thirty years ago and, as he grew to knighthood and lordship, had become a close friend and confidant. Even so, there were things he did not know.

  William indicated the flagon on the table beside his bed. “A drink if you will, Jean.”

  Eyes filled with concern, Jean poured clear spring water into William’s cup. “Have you eaten today, sire?”

  Had he? Food meant little to him now—ironic when his nickname had once been “Gaste-viande,” meaning that he would devour everything in sight and still seek more. What an appetite he had possessed, not just for food, but for the full, joyous feast of life. “The countess brought me a dish of sops in milk earlier,” he replied. The sustenance of infants, the elderly, and the dying. He had only eaten it to placate Isabelle.

  He concentrated on keeping his hand steady as he raised the cup to his lips. Two years ago, at seventy, that same hand had possessed the strength to swing a sword and cleave a path through the press of battle. Troubadours sang that he had been as “swift as an eagle” and as “ravenous as a lion.” Perhaps he had, although he suspected they were exaggerating in hopes of a good fee.

  He took a few sips to moisten his throat. “I want you to do something for me. I would not ask this of any other man.”

  “Willingly, sire,” Jean replied earnestly. “Consider it already done.”

  William gave a mordant smile. Half a lifetime ago, his own lord had spoken similar words to him on his deathbed, and he had agreed, never knowing what it would cost him. He returned the cup to Jean. “Your loyalty is wholehearted.”

  “It is to the death, sire.”

  William laughed and then caught his breath in pain. “Yes,” he wheezed. “But not yours—not yet I hope.”

  He gestured for his visitor to plump the pillows and help him sit upright. Jean’s pummelling disturbed the dried lavender sprigs in the stuffing and filled the air with a clean, astringent scent.

  “What would you have me do, sire?”

  William chased the sunlight across the covers with his hand. “I want you to go to Wales, to Striguil, and I want you to ask Stephen for the two pieces of silk I entrusted to his care after I returned from Jerusalem.”

  Jean’s dark eyebrows rose toward his thatch of silver hair.

  “Yes,” William said. “Half a lifetime and grace I did not expect to have. I need you to take letters to our men on the marches too
, but your priority is the silks, and you must bring them to me without delay.” He saw dismay fill Jean’s eyes as he recognized the significance of the request. It was so difficult giving the news of finality to a friend who did not want to believe the inevitable even when confronted with the evidence.

  “Of course. I will leave immediately, sire. But what if…” Jean broke off, rubbing his neck.

  William reached out and gripped Jean’s forearm as firmly as he could. “Do as I say, my boy, and I will be here when you return—I promise. I have never broken a promise to you, have I?”

  “No, sire, you have not.” Jean swallowed. “I would not break a promise to you either. I swear I shall return as swiftly as I can.”

  William looked toward the light streaming through the open window. “The weather is set fair, and the roads will be firm.” He gave a semblance of his old smile. “I would go with you, but since that is impossible, I shall accompany you in spirit. God speed your way.”

  Jean performed a deep bow, pressed his hand to his heart as he straightened, and then briskly left the room, his step filled with pride and purpose.

  Weak and worn out, William subsided against the pillows. He gazed at the arches of blue sky through the window, felt a light breeze stroke his face, and remembered distant April days when he had competed in the tourneys with the elation of youth, taking ransoms beyond count and winning every prize. He had ridden in the entourages of kings and queens, life pounding through him with the speed and strength of a galloping horse. All that physical power and vigor was now a faint imprint within his dying body, yet the memories remained as vivid and rich, as joyous and painful, as the moment of their creation.

  The fresh air from the open window carried to him the sound of grooms shouting to one another as they saddled Jean’s palfrey and prepared his packhorse. If the weather held and there were no delays on the road, his errand would take him less than a fortnight. So little time, yet leading to all the time in the world. An eternity.

  Closing his eyes, William sent his mind down tunnels of memory until he came to the moment on a warm summer’s evening that had led him inexorably to those two lengths of silk cloth.

  It had begun at a shrine in the Limousin, and he had been intent on robbery.

  2

  Martel, the Limousin, June 1183

  The small silver coin flashed as it spun through a bar of dusty sunlight before tumbling into the afternoon shadow and landing with a soft clink on the table between William and his young lord.

  Henry—Harry to his intimates, eldest son of the king of England—gestured at the fallen coin. “There,” he said. “All that stands between us and destitution.” He wore his customary smile, but his blue eyes were quenched of humor. “No money to pay the troops, provide for the horses, or feed our bellies.” He tossed his flat purse onto the table to emphasize the point.

  William said nothing. The only way out of this morass was for Harry to sue for terms with his father, with whom they were at war, something he would never do because most of this fight was about Harry not having the landed power to rule his own life and being dependent on his sire for funds.

  They had foraged the surrounding countryside and villages, taking tribute by various, often-underhand methods of persuasion until that particular larder was bare. Having already sold and pawned their most valuable possessions, a second round of scrimping and tallying was not going to raise anywhere near the hundred marks required. Next week, it would be a further hundred. They were cornered and facing pressure from their own mercenaries who were demanding their wages with threats.

  Despite Harry’s theatrical gesture with the penny, a few baubles still remained from his plundering of the tomb of Saint Martial a few months since—a jeweled cross, gilt candlesticks, and sundry items of altar dressing—but they were held in final reserve, to be stashed in his palfrey’s saddlebags if he had to run.

  Harry picked up the coin and flicked it again, light to shadow. “I suppose we shall have to pay a visit to Rocamadour and request another loan from the Church,” he said casually. “They have plenty of money up there, and they are not doing anything with it, are they?”

  The penny bounced off the table and disappeared into the thick layer of rushes strewing the floor. Resentment and challenge lurked beneath the nonchalance.

  “Sire, I would counsel against it.” William began to feel uneasy. He had not been present at the raid on Saint Martial and had no desire to become involved in pillaging a shrine as holy as Rocamadour.

  “Hah, all the silver and gold that the Church has amassed does nothing but drape their chapels, gawked at by peasants and gloated over by priests. God understands I will repay him. Have I not taken the cross in his name?” Harry gestured to the two strips of silk stitched to the breast of his mantle.

  “Would it not be better to renew peace talks with your father?”

  William’s words elicited a contemptuous snort. “All he will do is pay my debts and tell me to behave myself in future without giving me the courtesy of listening. Hah! Perhaps I really should go to Jerusalem. That would whiten the old goat’s beard!” Harry waved an impatient hand. “I will do what I must—unless, of course, you have another idea, one that does not include my father?” He shot an imperative glance at William, throwing the onus onto him, making it his fault that they were in this situation.

  William grimaced. The truth was that they had the stark choice between stripping the altars of Rocamadour to pay their debts or becoming the victims of their own mercenaries, who would deal with him harshly because he was the paymaster, the interface between them and Harry, who could at least be ransomed back to his father. Nevertheless, he tried one more time, for God’s wrath was not just of the moment but eternal. “Sire, I still say you should not do this.”

  “I will decide what I should and should not do,” Harry snapped. “Does any man dare to question my dear brother Richard? Am I less than him? Do you think Richard and his mercenaries would hesitate to take whatever they needed? Christ, he’s been stripping Aquitaine like a butcher fleshing a corpse for the last ten years!” He jerked to his feet. “See to it with the men, and keep them in order. Tell them they shall have their pay. Ah Christ, my guts!” Abruptly, one hand on his belly, the other flinging a gesture of dismissal, he hastened to the alcove housing the latrine shaft.

  William left the room, filled with deep misgiving, knowing he was trapped. He had sworn his oath to stand by his young lord through thick and thin, and if that included the path to hell, then he was bound on that same journey, defending and protecting Harry every bitter, fiery step of the way.

  Crossing the courtyard, he was aware of the mercenary soldiers watching his progress with feral eyes. Sancho, one of the captains, had been crouching over a dice game in the dust, but he rose now and intercepted William’s path, folding his arms and pushing one foot forward to draw attention to the sword hilt resting on his hip. “I trust you have good news for me, messire Marshal?”

  “You will be paid,” William answered shortly. “You have my word.”

  “And I trust your word.” A hard grin parted the mercenary’s full, black beard. “But the question is when.”

  “By tomorrow night, I promise.”

  “I’ll tell the lads then.” Sancho inclined his head and sauntered back to his game.

  William walked on, keeping his stride loose and his hands open while his thoughts spun in tight, decreasing circles.

  * * *

  “Here, you’ll be needing this. Get dressed and make ready to ride.” William tossed a padded tunic to his brother Ancel, who sat on the edge of his pallet, pushing sleep-tangled hair out of his eyes. The ties on his shirt hung open, and his sturdy legs were bare save for his short underbreeches.

  “It’s still the middle of the night,” he groaned, squinting against the lantern light.

  “It’s an hour before dawn.”
/>
  “Where are we going?” Ancel fumbled for his hose.

  “To arrange some funds. Make haste.”

  “About time. There’re only soup bones in the larder, and we’re wagering with tent pegs at dice. Is it a long ride?”

  “To Rocamadour.”

  Ancel ceased dressing and his eyes widened. “Rocamadour?”

  “Yes,” William snapped, “Rocamadour.” He lifted a satchel from a wall hook and slung it across Ancel’s bed. “You’ll be needing this for the booty.”

  Ancel stared at him in horror. “It is a sin,” he said hoarsely. “God will surely punish us!”

  “It’s a loan and will be returned with interest paid.”

  “Yes, on our souls.” Ancel shook his head. “We’ll pay in hell. I’m not going.”

  “Yes, you are. We have no choice, unless you know where we can find enough money to pay the mercenaries before the next sunset. If not, we might as well cut our own throats now and have done.”

  Ancel pressed his lips together, his expression mutinous.

  William eyed his sleep-tousled younger brother with exasperation. He had taken Ancel into his tourney entourage four years ago, and then into military service with Harry. Ancel was a strange mingling of opposites—innocent and knowing, dextrous and clumsy, often foolish yet possessing a core of truthful wisdom. An asset and a liability.

  “We’ll be damned for this,” Ancel repeated.

  William bit his tongue. The only way to deal with his brother when he got into this repetitive pattern was to ignore him. He might sulk, but he would do as he was bidden, even if it was with dagger looks and dragging heels. He could ride at the back, which would suit everyone. Someone would have to guard the horses and keep lookout anyway.

  “Make haste,” William said tersely. “Do not keep our lord waiting.”

  Outside, the troops were gathering in the hazy predawn light. Amid grunts and spitting and snatches of uneasy laughter, they exchanged furtive looks, their mood one of defiant bravado tinged with apprehension.

  Eustace, William’s squire, was buckling the leathers on William’s powerful bay.

  “Is it true, sire?” he asked, as William grasped the reins and swung into the saddle. “We are going to raid Rocamadour?”