Prologue
Constantinople, 530 AD
Nathan ben Jashub did not desire sparkling jewels, soft couches or the food of the gods. Every day Nathan saw these things in the great palace of Boukeleon where the illustrious Byzantium emperor, Justinian I, and his family dwelt. As a Jewish slave, he served with a smile on his face but with hatred in his heart. It was not fair that these spoiled, selfish people had it all and others suffered; it was not fair that the wealthy and powerful trampled others under their feet with as much conscience as if they trod on insects; it was not fair that his mother and father had died in misery and pain, unattended by the physicians of the court who could have helped them.
Nathan stepped outside the small hut he shared with Gran’Abba and drew a deep breath, gazing at the shining dome of the palace not far away across the carefully tended gardens. He spat in disgust, despising their gold and thrones and plots for power. All he wanted was one breath of free air – but it was very unlikely that he would ever get it. His ancestors had toiled under the hot sun to build the mansions, baths, amphitheaters, council halls, streets, statues, fountains and forums that filled the great city of Constantinople, called the City of the Gods and New Rome, and never once had they known the joy of freedom.
There was no escape from the complex near the Marmara Sea. As a child, he had witnessed the punishment given to a slave who attempted freedom and failed. The slave did not survive. The scene was burned into Nathan’s mind like the hot iron they used on his forehead. The horrific memory of the slave’s torture invaded his dreams and oft his waking hours for the rest of his life.
Yet he had hope. It came to him on the spring breeze that day like a lullaby from a far-away land, like the lilting song of a bird after a long, cold winter. And he thought again of the tunnel under the wall he’d discovered two years ago.
Several days later he fell ill. When he recovered from his initial sickness, he found himself bored and unoccupied. With nothing else to do, he rummaged through an old, scarred chest that resided in the corner of the hut – Gran’Abba’s chest. In it, at the very bottom, he found a small silver box. Gran’ Abba, who was old and blind, held the cask reverently while tears coursed his weathered cheeks. He told a strange tale of Jewish secrets and a pledge of four families, of a sacred, holy treasure hidden for centuries, of the hope that when these treasures were found, the Messiah would come.
As to the rumor of treasure, Nathan paid little heed, but he noticed two large jewels embedded on the ancient box. Grandfather warned him not to tamper with the box, for he said a curse dwelt upon those who treated it without respect. That spring, the old man died and after his funeral, Nathan retrieved the box and tried to pry the jewels from the lid. He could not. The next best thing would be to sell the box. There were ways – tradesmen and city vendors often came to the palace. Tomorrow he would see what he could get for it.
Gold jingled in his pocket the next afternoon and he soon put into motion plans for escape he had been planning for so long. He assembled his tools – a little brown paste to hide the mark of the slave on his forehead, fine clothing he’d stolen from the palace, the aid of one of the palace guards he’d befriended and whom he knew could be bought. Ah, yes. By this time next week he would be free.
And he was. The tunnel, an old escape route long disused and filled with refuse and bones, led under the wall and into a city street. He brushed himself off and donned his new finery. The next day he joined a caravan traveling south.
On the third morning, as the caravan wound its way through a lush valley across Turkish-held Asia Minor, a mob of wild tribesmen from the mountains descended upon them. In the melee of horses, screaming camels and men, swords and dust, Nathan pulled a small dagger from his belt. But it did him no good. His lifeless body lay in the dirt and the raiders thundered away.
Nathan never knew that a vendor of fine silver and ancient artifacts in the city bought Grandfather’s silver box. A few days later, the vendor sold the box to a Greek Orthodox priest. The priest was too busy to investigate it, and merely took it the next day to the newly dedicated Sophia Hagai Greek Orthodox Church.
Descending a series of stairs, the priest deposited a bag of his treasures in a stone vault. Locking the vault, he smiled. Some day he would return and look into the box. It looked old, very old, and Jewish. Perhaps it contained jewels – or a treasure map. Was it not rumored that the Jews secreted away vast amounts of jewels, gold and precious stones?
He patted his rotund girth as he made his way up the stairs, panting from the exertion. But he did not return to the vault, for he died five days later during a riot in the city streets. The silver box and the ancient scroll lay in a vault beneath the greatest cathedral in the world and waited. The time was yet to come for the secret to be revealed.
Chapter One
Love in ignorance squanders what love informed crowds and overfills with tokens of eternity.
Ellis Peters, An Excellent Mystery
Capernaum, Israel, October 29, 1202
Two silhouettes, standing so close they formed one, stood outlined against the coming of night, watching as a fishing boat, shrouded in mist, slid silently into deep waters on the Sea of Galilee. From behind a bank of frothing clouds, a silver moon cast a path of iridescent, lambent light. The only sound was the whisper of waves on the white rocks and sand and a hymn from the monks in the monastery at their office of vespers.
“There is a storm approaching, friends!” Adrian D’Arcy waved to the fishermen and pointed to an ominous bank of black clouds that rolled across the western sky.
The men laughed. “Then it will be good fishing.” They lifted their hands in friendly tribute to the warning, set their sail and disappeared across the waves.
Adrian lifted his face to the wind. He was dressed in a tattered tunic that reached past his knees, a heavy cloak of coarse material and worn leather boots. He glanced down at his old clothing and shook his head, thinking ruefully that he was not clad as a lord, or knight, or even as a servant in a noble house. No one would guess he had been heir apparent of the English throne, that he was moreover a knight of renown, a duke of Brittany and nephew to King John.
Yet that man was Prince Arthur; his other life, his other self. Now he had something worth more than all the gold in John’s coffers, more valuable than all the crowns on all the kings or emperors in all the world; he had peace in his heart – and he had Judith. Yet did she love him as he loved her? The question brought ice to his heart, trembling to his knees. She had every cause to hate his people and his kind.
He looked down at her – a slyph of a girl, her posture straight, almost defiant, gazing out over the sea. Her hand rested trustingly in the crook of his right arm. He allowed his gaze to caress her lovely face, now thin and pale, ravaged by four days and nights of fever and illness. “Shall we go back?”
Startled, she shook her head. “It is so beautiful here by the shore. Does it not tug on your heart?” She did not look at him but the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. A strand of dark hair tossed about in the wind. She stepped across the stones, where water lapped against her feet, shivered and pulled a brown robe closer about her body.
He smiled and moved to her side. “Aye, it does. I can almost picture a white-robed man standing here on the shore and calling out to the fishermen, Have you caught any fish, my children?” He laughed. “My nurse used to read me stories of Jesus from the New Testament. He stood once here on the shore and called to His friends. Oh, I beg your pardon, my lady, I know you do not want to hear of Him.” He knew she hated the One to whom he had pledged his troth and avowed his life. How could he tell her of the joy that had invaded his heart?
“Do not let it concern you, Adrian. I do not mind.”
“No, I should not be telling you stories out here. I think we should go back. You have been very ill and you must not get wet. A storm is approaching out there; see that bank of clouds? It bodes ill for the fishermen. The monks have told me about the storms on this sea and how many have perished in them.”
Judith huddled close to him, comforted by his presence. “It is getting chilly, but I don’t want to go back.” She felt his gaze upon her face, but studiously avoided it, her eyes on the low hills to the south. Her father was in Jerusalem beyond those hills. Prickles of excitement goosebumped her arms.
“Judith? You are cold. Come, I insist that we return to the monastery.”
“Not yet. Please.” She looked up at him and resisted the urge to brush back a lock of fair hair that fell on his forehead. A sense of unreality swept her soul. Could this be true? Was she truly wed to this man who stood so straight and tall and possessed such a handsome appearance, this man of noble blood?
Yet he did not love her; he admitted that his love and fealty was given to a woman of noble blood in France, that he married her from duty and kindness only. She stifled a sob and clenched her hands, shoving away the emotion that throbbed in her breast and stung her eyes.
Adrian stirred. “Come. We shall walk. I shall show you the exact spot where I met the Lord the night we were wed … where I saw His feet.” He gathered her hand into his.
They were silent as they strolled together, Judith trying hard to match his long strides. It had been four nights and three days since they arrived at Capernaum, since they found refuge in the Catholic monastery here from the sultan’s soldiers. She reflected on the past few days, how Adrian rescued her from the Arab-held fortress of Subebe, aided her escape from the soldiers of the sultan and brought her to this place of refuge. Most importantly, he helped her lay aside the hatred that raged inside her, that had almost eaten her whole.
Then, to cap it all, he told her that her father lived, was even now in Jerusalem. Four years ago, her father disappeared from their home in Dijon, was captured and sold as a slave, then taken to Palestine where he toiled in the Arab fortress of Subebe. She had journeyed with her servant for a year through France, Spain and Italy to find him, only to be captured herself. To find Father, her only living relative, was a dream that had long ago died in her heart. Now it would be a reality.
They planned to travel to Jerusalem the day after their wedding, as soon as it was light.
But that night a fever struck her body with the blast of a furnace. She knew little of what transpired after that, aware only that Adrian’s gentle hands bathed her brow, that his low voice murmured prayers and sang lullabies. How could she not give her heart to this man?
The fever had peaked and dissipated sometime last night. This morning she rose, ate a piece of warm bread and chicken broth and dressed with the help of her maid, Elizabeth. She sat in the sunny courtyard throughout the morning and afternoon, and that evening she ate her first meat, a small piece of fish. St. Peter’s fish, the monks called it. It was very good.
She persuaded Adrian and Brother Louis that she was well enough to travel on the morrow, and they agreed. Ah, what joy and peace! Was it possible that she, whose life was scarred by hatred and bitterness, should know these things? She knew they were the fabric of Adrian’s newfound faith in Jesus. Jesus. She turned the name carefully over in her mind, surprised that she could think it and not veer away in repugnance.
Now she stepped carefully over the rocks as they made their way down the wind-whipped shoreline. “I … I know so little of your life, Adrian. How was your home? And your mother – was she a beautiful and grand lady? Did you live in a castle? Have you been a Catholic all your life? Who taught you of … this Jesus?”
He chuckled and helped her over a log, his voice low. “Ah, it is a long story. You would tire of it before I finished. I shall tell you only a little. I am a knight, and knights must be solemn and brave and very devout. Yet I knew nothing, nothing until I met a man I call Grand-Pere. It was he who told me first of Jesus. You see, all my childhood days, I worship in the Catholic Church with my mother. This is all I know – the prayers, feast days, saints and rituals. But do not know of Jesus, or of His love.” He shook his head. “I only know a God of fear, for I see the paintings on the walls of souls in hell, of demons, of torment.”
She shuddered, for she, too, knew what fear meant.
He stopped and lifted his head. “Here. It was very quiet, like a great cathedral.” He knelt and his voice was a mere whisper. “I saw His feet. They were … torn and wounded. And then I knew. He gave up far more than I could imagine. He gave His life for me. How could I do less than give my allegiance to Him?”
She nodded slowly. “I … do not know, yet … ”
“Do not trouble yourself.” He smiled suddenly and with the agile movements of a forest creature, regained his feet. “As for the rest, I shall tell you my story all the days of our lives. Do we not have forever, ma cherie?” He drew her into the warmth of his arms.
My love. Ah, such sweet words that fell so easily from his lips! Her heart gave a bound of joy and she relaxed, looking up into his eyes. Emboldened by his tender smile, she reached a tentative hand to his face. It was a nice face with a blond beard, wide brow, straight nose and bronzed skin. His eyes, blue as sapphires, had captivated her heart from the moment she looked into them that day in FitzRauf’s castle.
Tonight they shone with something more than kindness, was it … could it be love? Or was he merely speaking as a dutiful husband?
He grasped her hand and kissed her fingers, one by one.
Her voice, when it came, was a wobbly whisper. “Do you … regret that you wed me? What of lady Matilde? You pledged your troth to her. I know. I saw you in the moonlight. You kissed her.”
He frowned. “Ah, wife! That you would speak of that on such a night. I would rather have you than all the women in Europe, be they queens of the greatest kingdom on earth. Do you not know?” He kissed her forehead and drew her closer.
She inhaled deeply, afraid to hope, afraid of the joy that knocked on her heart. He smelled so good, of leather and forest and horse. “Nay, I cannot see your heart. You have never told me how you feel.”
“I will tell thee now, cherie riene. I love you. To me you are the Rose of Sharon, the fairest of all the women on the earth. I care not of your nationality – Jewish, Italian, German or Bulgarian.”
She laughed.
“You have a sweet and kind disposition, you are intelligent, and you are mine. Does not our paper tell us so? Were we not wed in accordance with the laws of man and God? There is no law against it.” He gazed into her eyes and spoke each word separately and carefully. “Ma amour te.”
I love you. It was a whisper in her ear, a sigh on the wind. She stifled a cry and buried her face in his tunic.
“And you? Can you find it in your heart to love me, a Christian knight?” He frowned, drew apart from her, a guarded fear shrouding his eyes.
“Yes, yes, my husband. I love you.” She wrapped her arms around him and smiled ruefully. “But is it not a strange thing? That I, who hated all your kind, should find love in my heart? But it is there. I believe …” Her voice sank to a whisper as if it were a secret. “I believe it is from God!”
He chuckled. “Aye. You speak the truth.” He lowered his face to hers.
Closing her eyes, she felt his lips on hers and was drawn into his kiss, gently at first and then with growing passion. Her heart pounded as she clung to him, as she pressed her body against his, longing for him, wanting him.
She led him, then, to the convent, clinging tightly to his hand, praying that one of the sisters would not come upon them. But they completed the journey safely and after Elizabeth was dismissed to another room, they found each other in a sweet embrace on the narrow cot.
The next morning they breakfasted on the beach alone in a daze of wonder and joy, oblivious of the storm that lingered over the sea. The wind tore at their clothes and threatened to upset their breakfast. Long, black tendrils of clouds reached the water, along with the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning.
Adrian found he could not take his eyes from Judith. He loved her arched eyebrows, the delicate molding of cheek and jawbones, the curve of her mouth and her smooth, olive skin. Her eyes changed color from dark brown to hazel and revealed her moods – sparking at times with anger; or again, deep and mysterious when she was moody; then in a flash, twinkling with merriment. Yet there was more to this woman than external beauty.
They spoke in low, fervent tones and barely touched the food. Adrian tipped her chin and kissed her. They stood, entwined, feasting on their love. Yet suddenly rapid footsteps pounded on the rocky path and drew close. Someone stopped, gasping for breath, clearing a throat. “Adrian?”
Adrian drew away from Judith reluctantly, his eyes lingering on her smooth cheek, on the gentle curve of her neck above her gown.
“Adrian!”
It was the monk, Brother Louis, standing a respectful distance away, wringing his hands, his face the color of old cheese. Adrian circled Judith’s waist. She was trembling. “Yes? What is it, mon ami?”
“They have come. The Arabs from … Subebe. They have come for Judith. They say they do not respect our ceremonies, or our papers. They claim her as the bride of the sultan.”
Adrian lifted his head. For certes, something was happening in the abbey – he heard shouts, heavy blows upon the wooden gate, steel clanging against steel.
Brother Louis’ black robe whipped in the wind and his bald head shone with the first raindrops that fell ahead of the storm. He took a step closer and his voice caught in his throat. “We must flee. Come, I have our things packed. Yes, Judith, Elizabeth packed your bags. But we must hurry.”
Adrian glanced at the sky and noted black clouds rolling in over the sea, whipping the waves into whitecaps. It tore Judith’s veil and flung it down the beach. “Where shall we go?”
The monk motioned to a huddle of monks down the shore who busied themselves near the dock. “Two of the brother monks offered to take us across in their boat. To a small Jewish village. Come. Hurry!”
“I cannot leave our friends to fight alone. You go with Judith and I shall help the monks.” He pulled his sword from the scabbard and began to stride up the path. Then he stopped, turned back and grasped Judith’s hand. “I shall come as soon as I can, cherie. I promise. There are many boats. Louis, look after her for me, will you?” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Fare thee well, Judith, my love. I shall see you later tonight or in the morning. If anything happens, wait for me. I shall come for you. Will you do that?”
She smiled and touched his face. “Yes, my husband. I shall wait for you though you tarry till the end of the world.”
“It will not be as long as that, I trust.” He looked deeply into her eyes, kissed her and strode away.
Judith reached for him. “Adrian, wait!” But he was gone and Louis tugged at her sleeve and tears blinded her and the darkness descended like the falling of a curtain on the wings of the storm.
She followed beside the monk dumbly. When she looked back, Adrian was just rounding the bend. She stumbled and cried out, but Louis tugged her on. The wind howled across the face of the black waters, tearing at her hair and her silken gown. They arrived at the dock. She mounted the rough planks and reached for the boat.
“Here. I will hold it for you.” Louis gave her a hand.
She sat beside Elizabeth who whimpered like a lost puppy and wrapped her arms around Judith in a strong embrace. The girl wore a blue tunic and a black robe Judith had gotten from the old clothes barrel in the convent.
A tall, thin figure flew down the path from the monastery, robe flapping in the wind, hair askew. It was Samson John, Brother Louis’ deaf servant. He attempted to get into the boat, but Louis shook his head, drawing the boy’s face around so he could speak directly to him.
“Nay, son. We have not the room. Stay with Adrian. Serve him all you may. Do you understand, boy? Stay with Adrian.” Louis climbed into the boat and nodded to the two monks who sat at the oars.
Samson straightened and did not try to hide the tears that flowed down his cheeks as the boat moved away from the pier.
“Tell the brothers we thank them for their aid,” Louis called to him. “I shall pray for you!”
With drooping shoulders, Samson turned and ran up the path. The commotion in the monastery grew: a glow of flames reflected from the stones; smoke rose over the treetops; shadows of men battling with swords leaped upon the walls.
Judith gripped the side of the boat and wept.
“Fear not for them,” Louis said. “They have stout Templars to aid their cause. But pray to the Almighty for our safety, for it seems we shall be the ones in danger soon.”
The shoreline disappeared and all about was the tormented sea. The two monks at the oars seemed to be making headway against the waves and the wind, but not thirty yards out to sea, a monstrous wave crashed upon the boat. Judith gasped at the cold water. Elizabeth screamed, tightening her hold around Judith’s waist so much so that she could barely breathe.
“It’s … going to be okay,” she said, prying off the strangling arms. “Look. The storm is breaking. Do you see?”
Elizabeth turned her head, but a gigantic swell of the sea crashed into the small craft, threatening to overturn it. “Judith! I shall die! I know not how to swim!”
Louis grabbed a jug and began bailing, but water poured into the boat ten times faster than he could throw it out. The craft was lying low in the sea and the two monks pulled so hard on the oars that their faces were purple, their eyes staring from the sockets, their mouths opened wide, yet Judith heard no scream or cry, for the roar of the storm was upon them.
She lifted her face to the drenching rain. “Oh, Yahweh! Hear our prayers! Stop the storm, I beg Thee!” But the wind snatched her prayer away and the waves flooded the boat. She gasped and wiped her face, looking about for another jug or container which she could use to bail. But there was none. What would happen to her? What would Adrian do?
The boat made little headway, for it was heavy with water. How could this be happening? A few moments ago, she and Adrian were happy and life was sweet and full of promise. And we were going to find Father. Father!
Suddenly, miraculously, the boat righted itself.
Louis grasped her hand. “If we go down, my lady, stay afloat by any means! Grab whatever you may, but hang on with all your might!”
A wall of water crested above their heads and fell. The boat was lifted up … up, to the top of the wave. Louis raised his voice. “Stay aflo … ”
She nodded and gripped the wood so tightly she thought her fingers would penetrate it. The boat slid into the trough and a wave smashed into it. The wood creaked and groaned as if crying out; then it floundered, slowly fell apart, and slid beneath the surface. Elizabeth’s arms pulled her down but a giant wall of water separated them and the girl was swept away.
“Louis!” Judith screamed. The monk’s arms extended toward her, his mouth open, his eyes distended and full of terror. Her head went under the icy water; it took her breath and froze her limbs. With a kick, she surfaced, drew in air, but was pushed under again. This must be like death. Cold. Unfeeling. How easy it would be to let go … and drift silently down … But, no! She must live. For Father. For Adrian.
She fought her way to the surface, broke into the air and with great gasps, fed her starving lungs. She glanced about and saw a piece of wood drifting by. Remembering Louis’ words, she reached for it, clung to it.
“Elizabeth! Louis!” The wind threw her words down her throat. She was alone, save for the darkness, the lashing waves, the shrieking wind.
Again the surging sea broke over her head but she kicked hard and managed to keep her head above the water. Coughing, gasping, she clung to the board. Huge waves topped in great rolling curls above her head. It seemed an eternity of water and wind. For hours, surely hours, she hung onto the board and prayed and moaned and cried aloud.
The storm blew itself out quickly; black clouds shredded and lifted over the mountains. A sliver moon appeared low on the horizon. Judith was drifting. Everything seemed so unreal, like an evil dream. She knew she must not sleep, yet at last her eyes closed and she knew no more.
***
Louis kicked with all his strength and emerged from the depths of the sea. He drew in a deep breath. His sodden robe hampered his legs, so he shrugged out of it. Clad only in a linen undergarment, he swam through the troubled waters, trying to see beyond the darkness and the storm.
“Judith!” Over and over he called but there was no response. The boat, the men in it, and the girls were gone. Again and again his head was forced under the surface but each time he surfaced and called her name.
He must swim to shore, or he would drown, for the cold water sapped his strength. Striking out in the direction of what he judged to be the nearest land, he swam slowly, the water dulling his senses and weighting his arms. It felt like he was swimming through mud. Despair crashed upon his soul, for he knew Judith was gone. How could he face Adrian?
He was tired, so tired. The temptation to stop swimming and sink beneath the water struck full force. But, nay! He must go on. Doggedly, with hope draining as swiftly as his strength, he swam on, vaguely aware that the storm abated. He forced his tired muscles for another stroke and another, telling himself it would soon be over and he would find heaven or hell – which, he did not know.
Something scraped against his belly. He realized with a start that it was rocks. His hand, reaching for another fistful of water, encountered sand. He pulled himself up on the shore, rolled onto his back and groaned. Oh, God, please help Judith. And Adrian.
He began a prayer but never finished it.
The moon sailed high, its gentle beams touching a lonely, rocky shore where a man lay half in and half out of the water, more dead than alive.
***
Adrian rounded the corner of the monastery and assessed the situation. The gate was breached; the sultan’s soldiers in red tunics, black breeches and yellow turbans flowed into the courtyard and behind them he saw more coming, hundreds of them, it seemed. His heart fell, yet he had little time for despair or thought, for he was engaged immediately by a hulking monster of a man.
Metal on metal, slash upon slash, he leaped, dodged, lunged, retreated and attacked with reckless desperation. His opponent’s dark eyes gleamed above him, for the man was tall and long of arms. Adrian was forced back. Suddenly he could go no further, for he felt the rock wall of the monastery at his back. There, pinned by the wall behind and the giant, he found courage – a kind of courage he had never known before, a wild abandon to the fight, a towering rage that consumed him. Perhaps it was in his blood from his Uncle Richard who drove back thousands of the paynim at Jaffa and Acre, perhaps it was desperation that sprang from his love for Judith.
By the Rood, by the Son of God, this heathen, this son of the devil, will not steal my life from me. He reclaimed control of the fight and saw fear blossom in the black eyes. With a well-timed stroke, the man’s sword sailed out of his hand. Another slash and his head rolled to the pavement. Yet Adrian had not escaped without a mark, for the man’s sword had cut deep into his chest and on his thigh.
He had no time to bind his wounds, for the soldiers were all about him now. He stabbed and sliced and yelled and fought like one possessed. Suddenly a high, piercing cry echoed against the ancient stones. “Stop! My brothers, stop! They have taken the abbot!”
Everyone froze. Swords were lowered. Silence fell upon the courtyard as the rain, driven hard by the wind, fell in a solid sheet. Adrian wiped his face and peered through the downpour.
The Arabs brought out the Abbot Father Benjamin, his hands tied behind his back. His pate gleamed in the flashes of lightening and his scant gray hair on the sides lay flat and drenched. There was no fear on his face, only tears that mingled with the rain. They brought him to a young Arab who was dressed in an immaculate white tunic and whose black eyes flashed with hatred and disdain.
Adrian saw that the Abbot Father would not fare well in the hands of such a man. He stepped forward. “Let him go. I think your business is with me. What do you want?”
The young captain swung his eyes to Adrian, piercing him through as with a sword. “Are you Adrian D’Arcy?”
Adrian did not bow, merely nodded. “That is what they call me.”
The man’s mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyes glittered. Only once before had Adrian encountered such hatred – when he was a young boy he’d seen it in the eyes of Sir Frederick and his father, FitzRauf. “We want you, and the woman, and the writ that you carry.”
Adrian shook his head, found himself yelling against the rain and wind. “Woman! What woman? I know not of whom you speak. Nor do I know of any writ.”
The man held himself in haughty disregard of the rain. “You know of whom I speak, you dog. The woman Judith, the bride of the sultan, may he live forever. He has not renounced his claim upon her.”
“The Lady Judith is my wife. We were wed in this very place a few days ago. I can show you the papers.”
“Faugh! I care not for papers, fool! You shall be killed, for you touched the wife of the sultan. After your death, she shall be his wife. Bring her out and we shall let these Christian dogs live.”
“She is not here.”
“Whither have you sent her?”
“I know not. She left awhile ago.”
The man nodded and two of the Arabs grabbed Adrian’s arms and bore him to the ground. Heavy booted feet kicked his ribs. He grunted, curling his body away from the pain, from the blows to his back, kidneys, stomach, ribs. Pain seared his mind. They pulled him up again.
“Speak, fool, for you are a dead man.” The captain lifted his chin.
Through a mist of pain, Adrian glimpsed the man’s cold, empty eyes. “I … I speak the truth. Ask any of these men here, for they know not how to lie. Then kill me if you wish, for that is all I can tell you.”
The captain turned aside to confer with two other men. Adrian blessed the rain, for it brought refreshment to his agonized body. Yet even as they spoke, the clouds lifted and the wind abated. He wondered if Judith and Louis encountered the storm, if they arrived safely to the other shore before it struck. The sour smell of quenched fire and partially burned timbers reached his nose. At least the rain doused the fire.
The abbot spoke in the sudden silence. “Stop torturing this man. You may not do this thing, for he is under our protection and we are granted permission to be here from the sultan himself. Take my life for his, or else take me to see your sultan. I shall plead my case before him.”
The captain nodded to his men. “Release him. I shall hinder you no more in your religious duties. Yet I shall take this man before the sultan, so that he may be tried in our ways and manners.” He turned to go, but Abbot Benjamin’s voice rang out again.
“If you take this man on horseback now, he will be dead before you reach Subebe.”
The captain laughed. “It is the will of Allah. Trouble me not, old man. We ride.”
Father Benjamin stepped closer, putting an arm around Adrian who sagged and was about to fall. “The sultan will not favor you if he dies.”
Adrian struggled to focus his eyes. “Christopher Ignatius will not like it, either, I wager. He will have your head if I die.” It was a wild stab, a long shot, but he saw the dart went true. Doubt clouded the captain’s face.
He turned to his two lieutenants and conferred with them in an undertone. There was some discussion while the rain beat again upon the cobblestoned courtyard and Adrian prayed he would not fall. Father Benjamin’s strong arm was all that kept him upright. Pain now began to shoot in all directions throughout his body. Light-headed spells swooped upon him; the courtyard and his enemies and even the monastery swung in a dizzy circle.
The captain turned to him. “I will allow you one night here at the monastery.” He nodded to two of his soldiers. “Stay with him and if he sneezes, pierce him through.” He swiveled his eyes back to Adrian. “Let no thought of escape enter your mind, my friend. Each one of these Catholic monks will die and their precious monastery will be burnt to the ground if you are not here when we come for you on the morrow. And you better find the missal you carry. It will not go well with you if you appear before the grand vizier, my lord Ignatius, without it.”
He nodded curtly, then wheeled his horse to ride down the lane, his soldiers falling in behind him.
***
“You must flee, my son. They will kill you, else.” Father Benjamin’s words were the first Adrian heard when he awoke. He was lying in a small, stone-walled room that was lit with a bank of candles. He glanced down at his body. It had been bandaged. Strips of white cloth encased his ribs. The gashes on his chest and leg were wrapped, too. A monk was washing his hands in a laver by the wall.
Adrian smiled and reached a hand to pat the black-robed arm. “They will kill you if I leave. I shall not think of it.”
Tears flowed down the Abbot’s face. “Ah, but we can … ”
“Can what, Father? You cannot escape, nor do you have the men to defend yourselves, as was proved today. Nay, I must travel to Subebe with the Arabs and face whatever adventure God has for me. I am at peace, but you must pray for me. Will you do that?”
The abbot nodded. “Aye. That I can do. Sleep well, my son, for the journey will be hard.”
Adrian nodded but grasped the abbot’s hand. “What of the storm? Did it abate? Have you word of those who set out in the boat to cross the sea?”
“The storm abated. The moon is out and all is still. Yet I have heard nothing of those who left the abbey. Perchance we shall hear before you go.”
Darkness was swirling through Adrian’s brain, clouding the abbot’s face, sucking him into its depths. Did the physician give him a drug? “I pray that you do.”
***
A bird sang. Louis lifted his head from the sand where he lay. Dawn was creeping over the mountains and the sea lay calm and dark. Waves lapped at the pebbles just below his feet, a gull cried overhead, the stirrings of a small animal shook the branches above his head. When he stretched his legs and moved his arms, every muscle screamed in protest.
He sat and rubbed his eyes. Bright rays shot like comets in yellows and oranges above a layer of clouds over the eastern mountains. Then the sunlight touched the dark waters, turning them from indigo to gold and amber and saffron in a twinkling pathway.
Louis bent his head. “And the Spirit of God moved upon the waters of the deep. And He said, let there be light, and there was light.” He shuddered in his thin underwear as a breeze came off the sea, as fresh and cool as the breath of God.
Stepping slowly and painfully, for he had lost his sandals, he walked the beach, stopping now and again to look at a battered oar, a fragment of material from a sail. Then far down to the left he spied a sodden black thing that moved with the waves. He approached warily, thinking it was a body. It was only his robe.
He lifted it out of the water. It was of a piece, wearable still. With it tucked under his arm, he glanced at the land above him. It seemed deserted. Where was he? Just below his position, the shoreline curved gently to the right. How far was he from Capernaum? If he could get up to the road, he would be able to tell.
He moved carefully up the bank, trying to avoid thistles and sharp rocks, and fought through elder bushes and bougainvillea. On the road, he spotted the rounded golden dome of a church. What church it was did not matter, although a few minutes later he discovered it was the Church of Peter’s Primacy.
He rang the bell at the gate.
The brothers gave him food and ointment for his wounds. They offered him a bed, but he asked instead for sandals and a staff. Before the day grew much older, he would walk to Capernaum.
