The Templar Prophecy (3 page)

FIVE

By the time Hartelius and his posse arrived at the outskirts of the fresh camp, they were surrounded by at least fifty knights, all clamouring for news of their dead king. Each moment that passed brought more knights, so that it soon proved impossible for Hartelius to break away from the throng, far less dismount.

The charivari flowed inexorably towards the tent of the king's twenty-seven-year-old son, Frederick VI of Swabia. Whilst his elder Minnesinger brother, Henry VI of Staufen, was running their father's kingdom from Frankfurt during the crusade, the as yet unmarried Frederick had been taken along by the Holy Roman Emperor as battle companion and fallback leader. Having just lost three-quarters of his effective fighting force in the panic following his father's death, Frederick was both fearful for the future and in mourning for a dominant and charismatic father lauded throughout Europe as the greatest Christian king since Charlemagne. If this was a test of his mettle, Frederick was little prepared for it.

‘What is this? What is happening?' Frederick strode out of his tent, accompanied by his ally, Prince Géza of Hungary. A small group of noblewomen, destined for the Queen of Jerusalem's court, shadowed the two men.

Hartelius now found himself shunted to the forefront of the mass of mounted knights. He eased himself from the saddle and prostrated himself on the earth. A vast muttering swept over the throng like the reverberation from a flight of starlings, and then fell silent.

‘What is this? Why is this man dressed as a woman? And what is he doing here?'

Some of the ladies began to laugh behind their hands.

Heilsburg limped forwards. To kneel, he first needed to corkscrew his body to one side and then compensate by a second counter-screw, accompanied by a deft backward flick of his leg. The entire performance seemed to fascinate both the crowd and the two paladins facing it.

‘It is Hartelius, Sire. One of your Knights Templar. He has come to tell you of the exact manner of the king's death. He also wishes to return to you your father's sword. Together with the Holy Lance.'

Bedlam erupted from the crowd encircling the tent. Cheers became mixed with wailing and weeping and guttural shouts. Frederick Barbarossa had been Germany's beloved king – a legend both to his family and to his people. His death had been perceived as a sign from God that all was not well in Europe. Might this be God's countersign?

Hartelius moved towards the Duke of Swabia on his knees,
bearing Frederick Barbarossa's sword in front of him like a talisman. He laid the sword carefully on the ground. Then he unhitched the Turcoman's girth from around his neck and placed the pouch containing the Holy Lance beside the sword.

‘You retrieved these from my father's body?'

‘No, Sire. I failed to reach the king before the river took him. Instead, I followed his horse to its place of death. The king's sword and the Holy Lance were still attached to the saddle.'

‘How was my father killed?'

‘Turkish crossbowmen, my Lord. A quarrel struck the king's horse. The horse plunged into the river to escape the pain. The king was in full armour. He hung on for some moments whilst the crossbowmen dogged him. I tried to catch up with him but I am a weak swimmer, and I was almost immediately struck on the face by a second quarrel.' Hartelius revealed his wound. ‘But the cold water revived me and served to numb my pain. When I regained my wits the king was gone. Only his horse remained.'

‘So you know where my father's body can be found?'

‘The certain place, my Lord. We can dredge the river and retrieve the king's person, I guarantee it. I will show you exactly where he has fallen. I marked a
sosi
tree – what we call a plane tree – on the riverbank as I was swept past. It is unmistakeable.' Hartelius prostrated himself on the ground behind the sword and the Holy Lance.

Frederick inched forward. He was uncomfortably aware that the many mounted knights and their followers were watching
his every move. Nobody dared dismount. Only the nicker of the horses and the swishing of their tails against the flies disturbed the pregnant silence. It was as if the throng was waiting for a revelation.

Frederick understood that he was facing his moment of destiny. Whatever he chose to do now would dictate the future progress of the crusade, together with the honour, or dishonour, that would subsequently adhere to his name.

He picked up the pouch containing the Holy Lance. Then he grasped the pommel of his father's sword and cradled the weapon across his chest. ‘You have done well, Hartelius. What is your full name and noble title?'

‘Johannes von Hartelius, Lord. I have no noble title. That belongs to my elder brother.'

‘Where do you come from?'

‘Bavaria, Lord. Near Saint Quirin.'

‘Which is near Tegernsee Abbey, is it not? Where the
Ruodlieb
was written? And the
Quirinals
? And the
Game of the Antichrist
?' Frederick found himself smiling. ‘My grandmother, Judith, was Bavarian. I have family there.'

‘Yes, Lord. Your grandmother was the daughter of the Black Duke. My great-uncle was briefly Abbot of Tegernsee before his death. He was accorded the great honour of baptizing her.'

Frederick raised his father's sword. ‘Rise to one knee, Hartelius.'

Hartelius did as he was bidden.

Frederick brought the flat of the sword down on each of Hartelius's shoulders in turn. Then he twisted the sword in
his hand and lay the virgin side onto the crown of Hartelius's head and the opposing side against his own forehead. ‘Now stand and take back the pouch that you have brought me.'

Hartelius stood and took the pouch.

‘I dub you Baron Sanct Quirinus. From this moment you and your descendants will be Guardians of the Holy Lance. In perpetuity.'

Hartelius squinted into the sun. ‘In perpetuity? Descendants? But, Lord, my vow of chastity. As a Templar Knight I am constrained not to marry. I can therefore have no children.'

For a moment Frederick looked crestfallen. He briefly closed his eyes. ‘I have done what I have done.' He turned his full gaze onto a knight standing to his right. ‘Marshal. Can this man be freed from his vows?'

The Marshal stepped forward. He was still in shock following the Seneschal's unexpected death the day before, followed so swiftly by that of the king. As if that were not enough, he was also smarting from the disgrace brought upon the Templars by the desertion of a significant number of their knights, and the suicide of others. The Marshal was determined not to rock the royal boat before he knew the full extent of his duties, responsibilities and even liabilities. The actions of this young Templar might very well be enough to redeem the honour of the brotherhood.

‘Your action has freed him, my Lord. You stand here as representative of your father. This knight's oaths were taken, first to your father, then to the Templar confraternity. Such an oath may only be negated by the perception of a greater
duty than that owed to the brotherhood. You have pointed to such a duty. The way is clear.'

‘Good. He is exonerated, then. Now we need to find him a wife.' Frederick turned to the noble ladies behind him. As he did so, he winked at Prince Géza. Both men had long ago chosen mistresses from amongst their number, for, needless to say, the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience taken by most of their followers could hardly be deemed to apply to princes of the blood. ‘Can any of you ladies suture a wound?'

One of the young women had been looking fixedly at Hartelius from the moment he dismounted from his horse. It had become clear to her from the outset that it was her own abandoned
bliaut
that the knight was wearing. Thanks to this fact she had been one of the first to laugh in delight at the ridiculous picture he made. This alone was her connection to him. But it was enough. She knew this as if a weight were pressing from outside her chest and hard upon her solar plexus. ‘I can suture a wound, Lord.'

‘What is your name, my Lady?'

‘Adelaïde von Kronach.'

‘So you are also Bavarian?'

‘Yes, Lord. From Upper Franconia.'

‘How old are you?'

‘Fifteen, Lord.'

‘Perfect. If I were to suggest to you that you tend to the Baron's wounds, and if the two of you were to come to an understanding during this process – in terms of dowry, transfers of property, and suchlike – that you were then to marry him
in a binding
Muntehe
ceremony, might you be amenable to this? I would, of course, underwrite such an agreement in your father's absence. I am sure he sent papers of lodgement with you?'

Adelaïde could feel all her companions staring at her. Her face turned ashen white. ‘I am your ward, Lord. As are we all until we reach the court of the Queen of Jerusalem. My father has placed me in your hands. And yes. I have my papers of lodgement. It was always expected that I would marry whilst at the Queen's court, and with the Queen's permission. But I am not as yet under her tutelage. I will do as you wish.'

‘Excellent. Hartelius?'

Hartelius was struck dumb. In less than two minutes he had moved from being an inconsequential younger son, dedicated for the span of his mortal life to chastity, poverty and obedience as a Templar, to being a soon-to-be-married Baron and hereditary Guardian of the Holy Lance. He wondered for a moment whether his wound had become infected and he was imagining all this. Was he still lying inside the belly of the king's Turcoman and fever dreaming? But no. The icy waters of the Saleph had cleansed and anaesthetized his wound. There was no fever. And now this elegant young woman – his future wife – would soon be leaning over him and suturing his wound with hemp. Never – beyond his mother and his nurse – had any woman been allowed to touch his body. His battle wounds, his jousting knocks, even the care of his hair and beard and teeth, had
all been vouchsafed to men. The prospect facing him was therefore quite extraordinary.

‘Hartelius? What do you say? Will you agree to a
verba de praesenti
without the presence of clergy?'

Hartelius opened his eyes as wide as he was able. He feared that he might be about to plunge forward and measure his length on the ground. ‘If my Lady will agree to tend to my wounds. And if she is not put off by this proximity to my person, who am unused to women. And if she respond positively to my request for her hand at the
despontatio
. Then will I agree to the
verba de praesenti
.'

‘Good. That is settled, then. In one week from now you and your wife will return to my brother's court. I will provide you with a suitable escort. You will take my father's sword and the Holy Lance with you, Hartelius, and you will personally place them in my brother's hands, together with a full account of what has befallen our father. One of our Turkish notaries will transcribe a record of all that has occurred to be given to my father's advisors. We remaining crusaders, meanwhile, will fulfil our holy vows. We will first take Acre, and then Jerusalem.'

The assembled knights cheered the Duke of Swabia. The feeling around the camp had changed, in an instant, from desolation to hope. Frederick felt more than satisfied with his morning's work.

Johannes von Hartelius, on the other hand, beset by wounds, blood loss and dehydration, drifted slowly to his knees. He appeared to hover for a moment between the earth
and the air, almost as if he were estimating the potential value of each.

Then he yielded to nature and to the forces of gravity and pitched headlong onto the ground.

SIX

Syrian Air Flight 106 from Damascus

17 JULY 2012

‘What in God's name made you do it?'

‘Do what, Amira?'

‘You know what I'm talking about.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘Yes, you do.'

John Hart and Amira Eisenberger were standing in the rear galley of the early morning Syrian Air flight from Damascus, via Aleppo, to London. It was the first time they had been alone together since their sequestration. They had been escorted onto the plane in handcuffs by the Syrian police. They had not been allowed to pack their own cases. But they had been made to pay for their flights in hard currency and encouraged to add a hefty tip on top of the ticket price to make up for the inconvenience they had caused their captors and to recompense them for the fuel used in ferrying them around town. It was made clear to them at the time that it was either that or spend another few days in one of Assad's jails, this time communally. Amira,
who was on a significantly more advantageous expense account than Hart, had, under protest, divvied up for them both.

Hart filled two plastic cups with ice. He took out two of the whisky miniatures he kept hidden beneath the false floor of his holdall and cracked their caps. He poured the whisky over the ice. When Amira shook her head, he transferred her whisky into his own cup and threw the unused cup into the trash bin. He loved the crackle the whisky made when it kissed the ice and the scent of the Bailie Nicol Jarvie in his nostrils. One needed to be alive to enjoy such things. And free. And – against all the odds – he was both.

‘By “do it”, do you mean clatter in on my white destrier to your aid when I might have turned round and run away?'

‘No. You were right to do that – I am a fellow journalist. I mean throw yourself across me when that man was threatening to shoot. What do you think that would have achieved? Apart from sending me to my grave covered in bruises?'

Hart took a sip of his whisky. He held onto it for a moment, letting the fumes filter through the roof of his mouth, then swallowed. ‘I wasn't thinking. I just did it.'

‘The story of your life, then.'

Hart took a second sip of his drink. This one he held for even longer. Amira was an Aquarius, he told himself. An idealist. She viewed humanity as a mass that needed to be saved. Not as a collection of individuals, each with their own eccentricities and modes of behaviour. Hart, a Robin Hood Aries of the old school, thought he understood this. But it blindsided him every time.

His phone buzzed, saving him from having to respond. He retrieved it from his shirt pocket and squinted at the display. ‘I need to take this. It's my mother.'

‘We're on a plane, John. Using mobile phones is forbidden.'

‘My mother doesn't know that.'

Hart moved away from Amira and went to stand by the porthole. He stared at the passing clouds as if they might hold the answer to some question he had not as yet managed to formulate.

‘Yes, Mum. I'm all right, Mum. The Syrians just decided to throw us out, that's all. Nothing heavier than that. No, Mum. They didn't imprison us. They didn't torture us. They didn't hold us to ransom.'

There were pauses in between each answer whilst Hart attempted to digest the question. His mother was crowding the line in her panic. She was in the early stages of dementia, and still frighteningly aware. He could feel Amira staring at the back of his head, but he refused to turn round.

‘I'm sorry? What did you just say? You're handing me over to Clive? Why would you do that, for Pete's sake?'

Hart sighed. He signalled to Amira for a pen and paper. He stood with the phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder and began to write.

‘Yup. Okay, Clive. Yup. I got that.' There was a long pause whilst he scribbled something down in longhand. ‘Thank you for passing on the message. Yes. Thanks. I'm glad my mother's all right. Seriously. Yes. I know you're doing everything you can in the circumstances. I appreciate that. And yes, I'll send
you the cheque as we agreed. Thank you, Clive. Thank you. Would you please pass me back to Mum for a moment?'

The connection ended and Hart stared at his phone.

‘Who is Clive?' said Amira.

‘My honorary stepfather. Or so he likes to call himself.'

‘Did he just hang up on you?'

‘No. He hasn't got the imagination. The connection broke. Or Clive pressed the off switch before he had time to listen to what I was asking him. I'm used to it. He does it all the time.' He blew air out through his lips. ‘Both of them are off their trolley. Only in subtly different ways. My mother chemically, Clive genetically. But it no longer matters. The damage has been done.'

‘What damage?'

Hart shook his head. He motioned for Amira to precede him back to their seats. She eased her way through to the window and he sat down beside her. He spent a long time rearranging the cup on his tray whilst Amira stared at him.

‘John. What is this damage you're talking about?'

Hart rubbed his forehead, his elbows outspread like butterfly wings. ‘It concerns my father.'

‘Clive?'

‘No. My real father. My American father. James Hart.'

‘Your American father? I didn't know you were American. You never told me you were American. You don't sound American. You don't even look American.'

‘That's because I'm not American. My mother is English. I was born in the Bristol Royal Infirmary. My father left my
mother when I was three years old. Some sort of breakdown, apparently. But then I no longer know what to believe when it comes from my mother. Half of what she tells me stems from memories she can't be sure she ever really had. One thing I do know, though: my father now lives in Guatemala. Under a false name.'

‘Why would he use a false name?'

‘Maybe he's become one of those nutters who thinks the CIA is after him? Or the Internal Revenue Service? Or the Child Support Agency? I haven't seen the man for thirty-six years, Amira, so I really don't know. He's calling himself Roger Pope, according to Clive. Well, at least the bastard has a sense of humour.'

‘John. Stop joking please. You joke about everything.'

Hart closed his eyes. He let out a ragged breath. ‘My father is dying. Clive tells me he phoned my mother and told her he needs to see me. Urgently. To pass some kind of message on to me. Something of crucial importance that has only recently come to light. And my mother, being my mother, promised him that I would go.'

‘And she's sure that it was him?'

‘She's not that far gone, Amira. She was married to the man for seven years.'

‘And you're planning to go?'

Hart shrugged. ‘Yesterday, before that stuff happened in the square, I'd have said no. That nothing on earth would get me out of Syria. That my father could go fuck himself. But suddenly, for the first time in years, I'm a man with no
assignment. And no cameras.' Hart made a phantom pass towards his chest, as if he was responding to some ancient muscle memory known only to photojournalists. ‘Staring down the barrel of that pistol has shaken me up. Last night I dreamt of the kid we might have had together. That he was talking to me. Urging me towards something. But I couldn't make out what he was saying. Maybe my father feels the same way about me? Maybe he has the same nightmare? Maybe he wants to apologize for leaving me when I was three? I suppose I should be grateful that he didn't persuade my mother to have me aborted.'

Amira grasped Hart's arm. Her face was ashen. ‘I had to abort our baby, John. You know that. I've told you over and over why I never wanted to bring children into this filthy, stinking world. Why I never wanted to be a mother.' She struck her chest with her fist. ‘I'm a journalist. And a good one. That is who I am. Nothing else. My career is the whole of me. You knew that right from the start. I thought we were agreed on that? That the rest was just icing?'

‘You might have asked me. About our baby.'

‘I know what you would have said.'

‘And what's that?'

Amira turned her face away from him and refused to answer.