The Templar Inheritance (5 page)

TEN

The Rupertsberg Convent, built on the orders of Hildegard of Bingen at the exact place the Nahe flows into the Rhine, had lost a great deal of its spiritual authority following its founder’s death twenty years before. It had become an alternative home for ladies of rank, with only the mildest emphasis on the Benedictine rite in its daily routine, derived as it was from Saint Scholastica, St Benedict’s twin sister, rather than from the troublesome saint himself.

As the convent was directly subordinate to the Archbishop of Mainz, Hartelius found little problem entering its precincts, on the understanding that the twenty Templar knights accompanying him would house and provender themselves in the nearby town, and thus avoid disturbing the inmates. The abbess herself received him – after the mandatory delay of around an hour – flanked by two oblates.

Hartelius handed over his
laissez-passer
from the king. The abbess read it, then handed it to the younger of the
two oblates, who glanced at it and threw it onto the table. Hartelius deduced from the comfortable familiarity – the haughtiness, even – with which the oblate treated the abbess, that the white-veiled young woman he saw before him was indeed the king’s eighteen-year-old sister, Agnes of Hohenstaufen.

He tried to get a proper look at her – the margrave, after all, would hardly be amused if the king sent him a pig in a poke as a wife – but, beyond the immediate circle of the face, the veil and wimple she wore was specifically designed to discourage the male gaze, and the tunic and scapular that encased the remainder of her body allowed not the faintest suggestion of what delights – or horrors – might lurk beneath.

Hartelius focused his attention back on the abbess. ‘I come from the king, Reverend Mother. My orders stem directly from him. I am to take his youngest sister, Agnes von Hohenstaufen—’

‘Elfriede von Hohenstaufen,’ said the oblate. ‘I dislike the name Agnes. It makes me sound like a lamb to the slaughter. Which is what my brother wants of me, no doubt. Elfriede is my second name. It means “to be free”.’

Hartelius was so taken aback by the oblate’s intercession that he temporarily lost command of himself. ‘Elfriede does not mean “to be free”, Princess. The name stems from the Saxon word
aelf
, meaning an elf or supernatural being, with the second part deriving from
pryo
, meaning strength. So your name means “strength in otherness”.’

Elfriede stared at him.

Hartelius turned back to the abbess. He would be on stronger ground with her, he suspected. She had a position to lose. ‘I am to take his youngest sister, Elfriede von Hohenstaufen, to Acre, in the Holy Land, where she will marry Margrave Adalfuns von Drachenhertz.’

The oblate held up one of her hands, with the index and little fingers extended. ‘An old goat, probably. With horns. And whiskers. And why should I lower myself to become a Markgräfin? I am a Hohenstaufen. There is nothing higher before God. My father was the Holy Roman Emperor.’

Hartelius saw the abbess’s eyebrows rise and then fall again. Was there a suggestion in that brief movement that she might secretly be longing to rid herself of this worrisome young oblate of hers? Hartelius pressed on, this time with more confidence. ‘I have brought the princess’s marriage chest and depository with me. Also the details of her dowry and her papers of mark. Other articles, too, of which we can talk during our journey. The king has allocated the princess a guard of twenty Knights Templar for her security, together with fifty followers, including two personal handmaidens, for her comfort and convenience. She may choose a personal companion from within the bounds of the nunnery, also, if she so desires.’

The young oblate threw aside all remaining pretence. ‘So you’re what they call a Knight Templar, are you, Hartelius? Dedicated, like me, to poverty, chastity and obedience? But what am I saying? Of course you are. Those twenty knights my brother allocated to you wouldn’t follow anyone who
wasn’t one of them. So Philip is entrusting me to a eunuch? Well, that’s apposite. Let’s hope my future husband does not embrace Templar-hood too before I can contrive to reach his bedside.’

Hartelius knew just enough about women after eight years of marriage to know when the pot he was sitting in was being stirred. ‘I am no longer a Knight Templar, Princess. Your late brother, Frederick VI of Swabia, exonerated me from my vows a short time before his death at the Siege of Acre. He had inherited the leadership of the Third Crusade from your father, on the battlefield, and therefore spoke directly in his name.’

‘So you are the one?’

‘The one what, Princess?’

‘The one who filched the Holy Lance from my father’s saddle. The one who failed to pluck my father from the waters of the Saleph at the same time. The one who allowed his anointed king to drown like an unwanted kitten while he paddled off to safety and a blaze of glory.’

Hartelius sighed inwardly. ‘Your father was in full armour, Princess, and I was not. The king sank to the bottom of the river before I could reach him. His horse, though injured, swam onto a sandbank. There it died. I spent the whole of a freezing night inside that horse’s belly. The next morning I realized that the Holy Lance was still attached to your father’s saddle. I took it and returned it to your brother two days later, further up the road to Acre. He made me Hereditary Guardian of the Holy Lance, publicly cancelled my Templar vows – with
the full agreement of our marshal, I should add – and married me, on the spot, to Adelaïde von Kronach.’

‘So you are not a eunuch then?’

‘No, Princess. No Knight Templar is. A vow of chastity is a separate thing entirely, as you well know, being an oblate, and subject to similar vows. And the twenty Templar knights of your escort will obey me because I was one of them once, and am perceived to have brought honour to our order. That is all.’

‘And that scar on your face?’

‘Caused by a crossbow quarrel. Fired from the very same weapon that injured your father’s Turcoman and caused it to plunge into the river with your father still in the saddle.’

‘Do you have children?’

‘Four, Princess.’

‘And your wife? Is she happy that you are abandoning her and your children back in Bavaria to transport the king’s unwilling sister to the Holy Land?’

‘My wife is dead, Princess. She died three months ago in childbirth. My children are well looked after in their grandfather’s castle. I am the servant of the king. It is not for me to decide what I do and where I go.’

The princess hesitated for a moment. Her eyes, only partially shadowed by the peak of her veil, flashed violet, like the skirts of a Portuguese man-of-war. ‘I am sorry, Hartelius. Sorry for your loss. I did not mean to be flippant when I asked you these questions. If I am to travel to the Holy Land under your guardianship I need to know with whom I am dealing.’

‘Of course, Princess.’

Elfriede von Hohenstaufen glared at the abbess. ‘And my vows here?’

The abbess bowed her head. ‘Still formally unconfirmed. You are free to follow the king, your brother’s, orders. Which, as your spiritual guide, is what I also should advise.’

Hartelius thought, for one pregnant moment, that he had lost the princess then. That the abbess’s ill-advised recommendation would re-summon all her teenage perversity, and that she would choose to baulk at her brother’s request.

Instead, she looked at him, her head cocked to one side, the folds of her wimple falling across her face and brow. ‘What is your full title, Hartelius?’

‘Johannes von Hartelius, Baron Sanct Quirinus, Princess.’

‘Well, Johannes von Hartelius, Baron Sanct Quirinus, I, Elfriede von Hohenstaufen, sister to King Philip of the Germans, and intended bride of. . .’ she made a face ‘. . . the Margrave Adalfuns von Drachenhertz, agree to accompany you to the Holy Land according to my brother’s request. The only thing I ask is that you don’t ignore me and put on that silent face I have detected more than once intruding on your countenance. I have been living amongst women for the past eight years. . .’ she glared at the abbess ‘. . . and I am tired of it. Tired of all the pettiness and the machinations. Tired of all the silly laws we contrive on ourselves and the mingy restrictions that are contrived on us. You are a soldier. I want you to tell me of war and of hardship and of the things men do. You are to be the guide to my new life.’

Hartelius stared at the abbess, open-mouthed.

The abbess stared back at him. Then she gave a single shrug of her shoulders, as if to say, She is well and truly off my hands now. She is your problem, Baron. And the very best of luck to you.

ELEVEN

For the first three weeks of their 550-mile journey from Rupertsberg to Venice, and despite all her protestations to the contrary in front of the abbess, the princess refused to see Hartelius. By day she travelled in her closed carriage with the shutters down, and at night she kept to her tent and to the company of her female servants. As a result, Hartelius found himself thinking more and more about her.

He had become used to female company since his formal release from his Templar vows, and he desperately missed his wife, whose death he mourned on a daily basis. He had therefore fancied that he and the princess might be able to spend time together talking and, yes, he had to admit it, mildly flirting according to the laws of
hohe Minne
or courtly love, as described by the
Minnesinger
Friedrich von Hausen, whose poems and songs every educated German nobleman or noblewoman had read. The truth was that Hartelius had been quite won over by the princess’s extraordinary self-assurance
in the presence of the abbess. Most young women of her age and class would have been cowed and submissive. The princess, instead, had dominated the proceedings. Hartelius admired courage in whatever form it showed itself. And the princess had been nothing if not courageous.

Still, he was by and large happy with the arrangement, for it freed him to concentrate all his attention on building a working relationship with his knights. For despite all that he had said in front of the princess about the amenability of Knights Templar to being commanded by a former brother-at-arms, Hartelius knew that he would need to gain each man’s confidence and trust personally before he could expect anything but the most basic degree of loyalty from them.

By the end of the initial three-week stage, when they were still well short of the Alps, he felt that he had, at least partially, achieved his end. The knights – whom he had immediately split into two groups of ten, each with their own colours and standard – alternated convoy duty, with the non-guarding knights detailed to scout the terrain in front of, behind and to either side of the princess’s cortege, to a distance of about a third of a league. Hartelius would accompany these knights on their expeditions and engage in war games with them, one party ambushing the other, with Hartelius sometimes contriving mock attacks on the main convoy to test the alertness of the guarding knights both by day and by night.

He anticipated few real problems whilst they were still on German soil, but there was always the outside chance of an attack by brigands or rogue knights intent on plundering the
princess’s possessions. News of such a large and well-armed party of travellers moving south would inevitably be noised abroad. Hartelius trusted that the presence of Knights Templar both in advance of the column and in its rear would obviate the likelihood of any such outrage, and act as a cementing measure between the men prior to the party’s considerably more challenging early-autumn Alpine crossing.

It was on the evening of the twenty-first day after their departure from Rupertsberg that the princess finally called for him. Hartelius washed his face in cold water and put on his cleanest tunic, but he had hardly come prepared for polite society. He looked like what he was – a warrior knight fresh from the road and stinking of horses.

He was forced to duck to enter the princess’s pavilion, for he was considerably over six feet in height, whereas the princess and her attendants averaged nearly a foot less. Not for the first time in his life, Hartelius felt like a grotesque. The environment inside the pavilion spoke of femininity and delicacy, whereas he felt more comfortable in a stable or on a battlefield.

Neither the princess nor her handmaidens were there to greet him. Hartelius took the opportunity to look around himself, as the place was well lit by wax candles. The pavilion was divided into three sections, each one sealed off from the other. He was standing in what was clearly the living section. Towards the rear of the pavilion was what he assumed were the princess’s sleeping quarters, which were demarcated from the remainder of the living area by a large Flemish tapestry, with the main details picked out in gold thread.

Across from that was an area reserved for storage, and most likely also for the princess’s toilet. A mobile triptych showing the Virgin standing in a field of lilies and holding the Christ child in her arms barred the way. The Virgin was flanked on her left by John the Baptist, and on her right by the prophet Zacharias. Hartelius approached for a closer look. He had never seen a rendition of the Virgin in any other than the seated position, and he found the image astonishing.

‘It’s in the new Romanesque style,’ said the princess, who had appeared silently from behind the tapestry, flanked by her two maidservants. ‘Do you see the X with the perpendicular P cutting through it?’

‘Yes,’ said Hartelius. ‘It is the Greek spelling of the word Christ. It is a good-luck emblem. Also, the way John the Baptist is holding the fingers of his right hand, with the thumb and forefinger raised, and the last two fingers curled inwards. This represents a blessing.’

‘So you
are
educated? I suspected as much when you redefined my name back at Rupertsberg.’

Hartelius approached the princess and kissed both her outstretched hands. ‘I am sorry for that, Princess. I could not help myself. I apologize for my rudeness.’

Both the maidservants curtseyed to him and disappeared behind the tapestry. There was much rustling and giggling as they sat down, ready to rush to the princess’s aid, no doubt, should he overstep the mark.

‘Don’t apologize, Hartelius. I liked it. A soldier should be educated. If he isn’t, he is simply a thug, and worthy only to
be served up as meat.’ She sniffed. ‘And speaking of meat, you are to break bread with me tonight. Kindly use the aquamanile over there on the table. The water has been warmed and perfumed, and may serve to disguise the scent of horse you seem to have carried in with you from the outside.’

Hartelius shrugged and walked across to the ewer. It was designed in the form of a seated lion, with the spigot emerging from the lion’s mouth. There was a tipping handle and a sealed opening in the lion’s head through which the liquid entered. The water was indeed scented. Hartelius thought he detected roses. And some elusive spice. Possibly myrrh. Or cinnamon. ‘You don’t like the smell of horses, Princess?’

‘I smell them all day. I prefer not to smell them at night also.’

Hartelius dried his hands and turned back towards her. As he did so, the princess removed her veil and chin-band and draped it over an ivory oliphant. She smiled happily when she saw the effect her little piece of theatre had on him.

‘This hunting horn was my father’s. It was made in Metz from the finest elephant ivory. It was his favourite object.’ She placed one hand over the pectoral cross that hung down the front of her
bliaut
. ‘This cross was sculpted from the same piece of ivory. My father had it made for me as a sign of his favour.’

Hartelius noticed for the first time that the princess was wearing no cap, and that her short, auburn-coloured hair hung free. This, too, alongside the standing Virgin, was unprecedented. Her skin was pale and her eyes were violet,
and very large in the context of her face, which was heart-shaped, with high Hohenstaufen cheekbones and a delicately rounded chin. Her nose was straight and full of character – what one might call a determined nose – and her ears were small, and set close to her head. Piercing the princess’s ears were two gold and cinnabarine earrings. The background to the earrings had been removed with a fine chisel to reveal two peacocks flanking a vase. The peacock, Hartelius knew, symbolized immortality and resurrection. This made the princess, her accoutrements and the décor of her living quarters all part of a symbolical whole. Hartelius was hard put to conceal his astonishment at the effect produced.

‘Princess. It disturbs me that you chose to take with you no companion of your own degree from the convent.’

‘I have my books. I have you. I have no need of a companion.’

‘Then why have you only just called on me? From what you said at Rupertsberg, I understood you wished me to talk to you of war and the things men do.’

The princess laughed. ‘You didn’t take me seriously, did you? I only said that to outrage the abbess. She made my life a misery for the eight years she had me in her power, despite the marked disparity in our stations, and despite my father’s strict instructions, enshrined in his will, that I was to receive a liberal education, rich in the arts and in music, with regular outings beyond the confines of the convent. I therefore particularly enjoyed watching her face when you announced you came directly from my elder brother, the new king, with fresh instructions from him. She looked as though she had
swallowed a lemon.’ She chucked her chin at Hartelius. ‘And I have only now called on you, Baron, because I needed my hair to grow out a little after the pruning those wretched nuns gave it when I turned eighteen. Wimples turn you bald, you know. And I did not wish to receive you looking like one of the minor pharaohs.’

Hartelius tried to smile, but his face wouldn’t let him.

‘The truth is that I am entirely uninterested in war. You can tell me about love instead. That will be far more important to my future. Sit you down, Hartelius. I am listening.’