Outremer I Read online

  “If you must, old man, sit,” the Knight Hospitaller said, motioning with his wooden spoon for him to pass behind to get to the single seat.

  The old man gently squeezed past the knight taking care not to brush into him. Once past, he unfastened an ornate silver clasp and opened his cloak, pushed back his blue sash, which revealed a large two-handed sword. He unbuckled the hilt-locking pin and belt and gently placed the entire scabbard and sheathed sword upon the table next to their far shorter swords. Both immediately stopped eating and looked up at him quizzically bemused.

  2 – 7

  “Gentlemen,” the old man said quietly but confidently and sat down next to the fire. He turned his back to them and made himself comfortable. He sensed all had fallen quiet in the room as all looked his way. He shrugged his shoulders and started to warm his hands on the ever growing fire as it took hold and engulfed the logs Stephan had placed upon it. Stephan gave him a wink and returned to the row of kegs and tankards as the remainder in the room returned to their conversations, mainly discussing the coming Crusade King Richard 1st of England was about to lead to retake Jerusalem. The room was filled with the smell of both beef and pork being braised in an adjoining room. The ceiling was low and huge wooden beams spanned it, more a small hall lending itself to a feeling of comfort and warmth. The main fireplace was an inviting area to sit, but none had done so due to the two knights’ close proximity to it. The knights looked at the two handed sword, the scabbard being just a plain leather design but with a single gold inlaid motif etched onto the top locket section. The Templar, his curiosity aroused, reached across and quietly pulled the sword free and removed it out slightly to reveal a beautifully and delicately patterned and gleaming, almost silver blade.

  “Expensive,” the Hospitaller mouthed quietly as the Templar re-sheathed it with an exaggerated grimace. They both nodded an unspoken acknowledgement that the bearer of the sword would be afforded the respect it deserved and continued their meals.

  As the evening wore on, the old man just sat quietly alone with his thoughts. By late evening, most of the guests had long since left. All that remained were a couple of serving maids, a well dressed solitary Spanish sailor, a fishmonger who had been making crude remarks all evening about how he smelt, a stonemason, the two knights, the Mareschal farrier, a wealthy tailor clearly drunk and asleep propped against a large barrel, and a group of mixed French and Genoese sailors.

  “If everyone has had their fill, it is time! We are closing shortly,” Stephan said loudly for all to hear and rang a small hand bell. Smoke from the fire hung heavy in the air. Some of the sailors protested but took one look at Stephan and in their half-drunk states, decided best not to argue.

  The old man turned in his chair and reached forwards to pick up his sword from off the table. The Knight Templar placed his hand upon the sword hard, stopping it from moving. The old man looked up slowly and directly at the Templar knight. He said nothing but simply stared at him. Eventually, after what seemed an age, and with Stephan moving closer towards them aware, the Templar released his grip.

  “That is one very fine sword you have there, friend. We are both wondering how you came to be in possession of such a fine thing,” the Templar remarked quizzically.

  The old man pulled the sword close, then stood up fast and unsheathed it completely and with a speed that took the two knights by surprise. Both reached for their swords instinctively as the old man grasped the sword with both hands and stood bolt upright, the sword held vertically in front of him and shielding his face. Delicate inlaid motifs stood out as light cast shadows in the grooves on the sword depicting an emblem of a rose and what looked like an H with a T above it but joined as one symbol as well as a sword surmounted by wings but made from leaves and what appeared to be two females. He stood perfectly still, his eyes shut as the two knights grappled clumsily unsheathing their swords. They jumped up and eventually managed to pull their swords free and pointed them at the old man. As Stephan approached, they both swung around and pointed their swords towards him. Stephan immediately raised his hands open to show he was no threat. They quickly returned their gaze towards the old man. The Hospitaller’s helmet fell from the side of the table with a loud thud.

  “Just answer how you came to be in possession of such a weapon,” the Hospitaller demanded as he knelt to retrieve his helmet whilst still pointing his sword toward the old man.

  The old man opened his eyes, smiled broadly and tilted his head sideways to look past the sword.

  “Gentlemen, I have sat these past few hours and listened to all you have spoken of. I am no threat to you but please pardon my intrusion and rudeness for listening, but as I was so near I could not help but hear of all the deeds you proclaim to have done in the Holy Land. Admirable; a little exaggerated in places I suspect and you both compete to outdo each other’s tales,” he explained softly.

  “Exaggerate, by the Lord all that I am, pray you apologise for saying such an insult!” the Hospitaller shot back, anger firing in his eyes as he stood up fast moving his sword ever nearer the old man.

  “Please, I speak as I see and hear. Pray tell me now, are you two perchance actual brothers, not just in arms as is obvious, but in blood and family?” the old man asked disarmingly despite the Hospitaller’s sword being held just inches from his throat.

  Both looked at each other further bemused still pointing their swords towards him. The Templar lowered his sword and started to sheath it, with a grin appearing upon his face.

  “Are we that boastful and that obvious?” he asked shaking his head, embarrassed.

  The old man simply nodded yes with a returned smile. Hesitantly the Hospitaller withdrew his sword and started to sheath it as the Templar began to tie his around his waist. One of the maids quietly moved and stood next to Stephan. She was Stephan’s wife, Sarah. She removed a small snood head cover, which let her long hair fall down around her reddish face.

  “You can put that away now,” she whispered.

  Stephan looked at her quickly then raised a large fire poker from behind his back. All looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The Templar shook his head again and turned to look at the old man.

  “Did our exploits bore you then, sire, old man?” the Templar asked.

  The old man shook his head no and in silence, slowly and lovingly, re-sheathed the sword and gently placed it back upon the table and looked at it for a short while before looking up again.

  “I can read people well, my friend. Sometimes that is a blessing; other times, a curse! I knew I was in no danger with you two, especially after hearing you speak of your times. You did not actually say you were brothers, but it is clear to see you are. The love between you is obvious.”

  “Boy lovers!” shouted the fishmonger, which immediately generated a few giggles from the room but solicited a glare from Sarah. The Templar turned his gaze to him and raised his eyebrows. The fishmonger coughed and feigned a smile back and pretended to whistle quietly, rapidly looking up at the ceiling.

  “Your journey and your exploits have been many, that is clear for it is written deeply across your weary faces; both of you…in equal measure no less,” the old man stated. Both knights looked at each other. The old man’s tone of voice and persona were almost reverential and something both could relate to and recognise as somehow familiar. “If you truly wish to learn of how I came to be in possession of this great piece of craftsmanship, I would beg your time and your indulgence. If you are willing, and have ears to listen, with an open mind and heart, then I will indeed be honoured to tell you,” the old man said calmly and placed his hands in front of himself on the table, palms facing upwards.

  “It is late, we have already missed vespers. We cannot,” the Templar retorted instantly.

  “Brother, it is indeed late. We are not due at our positions on board until the morrow’s eve tide. Say yes we stay a while longer and hear him,” the Hospitaller said grasping his brother’s arm.

  The
old man looked at Stephan and motioned with a slight rise of his eyebrows if it was okay to do so. Stephan raised his hands, the large fire poker still in his left hand, which drew some looks.

  “Of course, why not! Who needs sleep anyway?” Stephan joked in response.

  “Can I listen too, please?” asked the fishmonger loudly.

  All turned and looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled awkwardly. All returned their gaze back toward the old man.

  “If Stephan is happy for me to do so, and if you all of course have more drink, then I am happy to tell you all,” the old man said looking directly at Stephan.

  “They have more, they can stay as long as they wish,” Stephan responded rubbing his hands together with a feigned expression of glee.

  “Then bolt the doors, furnish these good people with whatever they request, within reason no less, and I will tell them a story. A true story; about a man who became a knight, his wife, his children, his fellow brother knights, of unbelievable courage and sacrifice, how I came to be in possession of this sword, but more importantly, what this sword stands for…and also of a secret. A secret that dates back to before recorded history as we understand it,” the old man explained as he studied the faces and reactions of all in the room.

  Everyone looked at each other in silence for what seemed an age. Sarah approached the main table nearest the fire carrying three large jugs, one full of mead beer, one full of wine and the third full of water. She pushed her way past the Templar knight and placed them down heavily upon the table with a thud, then turned to face them all, her hands placed firmly upon her hips.

  “That’s the last I serve tonight. Any more, and you will have to do it yourself,” she stated looking directly at Stephan. “I am off to bed. Some of us have real work to do in the morning. You lot tell enough stories as it is so I do not need to be hearing more. Any noise, you are all out; that includes you,” she continued as she started to walk away, poking Stephan as she passed him.

  Within moments all had gathered around the main table as Stephan restocked the fire with logs and the fishmonger sat himself between the Templar and Hospitaller knights despite their turned up nose expressions. The Mareschal farrier laughed and two of the sailors availed themselves quickly of the jug of mead. The old man sat down and pulled his chair nearer, the glow from the fire cast a shadow across his face from his hood, still pulled up high. As he looked up, he viewed each person sat at the table in turn. The room fell silent again apart from the crackle from the wood in the fire and the clunk of door locks being bolted shut by Stephan. The well-dressed drunk tailor snorted briefly, folded his arms and carried on sleeping against the large barrel.

  “If you are all ready, then I shall tell you a real story about it,” the old man said softly, sighed, paused for a moment, took a deep breath and sat up straight, then lowered his hood slightly and placed his hands upon the sword. “Then I shall indeed begin.”

  The two knights unfastened their surcoats and draped them across the back of their chairs as they began to make themselves comfortable.

  “It was the spring in the year of our Lord 1178,” the old man began. “As you probably know, old La Rochelle means ‘The Rebel’. Thanks to Guillaume the tenth Duke of Aquitaine who made La Rochelle a free port in 1137, the Knights Templar and Hospitallers, as well as Muslim ships, were able to trade here, mainly in cotton, ginger, spices, wine and salt, and is one of the main reasons it is now France’s biggest Port. Our Muslim traders brought many fine cloths and silks from both the east and Spain. Not least the plentiful Oakham for repairs on the Templar Fleet’s many ships that dock here. We all benefitted from an amicable and workable relationship. That is until the madness that enveloped Outremer in war and bloodshed yet again spread like wildfire. Paul, the man I shall speak of, was still just a young boy really. He had frequent dreams; always had since the day he could talk, spoke about seeing the whole world as a sphere. He was, dare I say it, obsessed with maps; always studying maps. Huh, he even managed to convince the Templar marshal to loan him several of their prized maps so he could not have been that mad. ‘The little navigator’ they would call him,” the old man explained, his voice tinged with sadness. He paused awhile, then sat up straight again, cleared his throat and continued.

  Port of La Rochelle, 13 years earlier in the spring of AD 1178

  Paul Plantavalu, fair haired and tall for a 15 year old, lay on his back upon his bed. He was on top of the sheets and blankets, having fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning still dressed in his favourite loose fitting ‘off white’ studying epitoga top. The room was getting brighter as sunlight streamed through the thin cotton curtains strung across his bedroom window; he had not drawn the heavier black cloth curtains. Scrolls and maps were positioned all over the floor and upon every available surface. He still held a quill in his hand, the ink having stained his left thigh. He was mumbling and turning his head from side to side. His mind was again running through the same dream he kept on having. He would deliberately tire himself in the hope that he could repeat his vivid dreams and try to glean something new from them. Nevertheless, every time, the dreams were exactly the same. The bed planks beneath his thick mattress creaked as he flounced about and sweat began to form rivulets from his brow. Then his body went limp and he relaxed, becoming motionless as he fell into a deeper sleep, overtaken by the repeating vivid lucid dream.

  Paul was looking down from a very high place but he could never fathom from where or why he was so high as he was not standing upon a mountain or a building of any sort. He struggled to comprehend how he was able to view what appeared to be so many lands so clearly all at once but wrapped around a sphere; but also confused as its appearance was slightly different. Lands that looked similar to those he knew from his many maps were not in the same position. He knew it was a dream but at the same time it felt so very real. Clouds were being blown across the surface of the lands at great speed, as lightning storms flashed across the entire surface giving the impression the whole land and oceans were alight with sparkles. He sensed, almost felt, what he perceived was the anxiety of millions of people as the sphere tilted on its axis. However, it was not terror he sensed; just the anticipation of something they knew was approaching and were ready for. Suddenly he noted another sphere appear from behind the one with land upon it, as massive bolts of what looked like lightning arched between the two in blinding flashes. In total silence, he viewed the surreal image and watched in awe as oceans swept in different directions across landmasses within seconds and then rushed back again. As the two spheres seemed to pull at each other, larger flashes of lightning sparked between them throwing countless millions of tons of debris off both. As the larger sphere began to break away from its almost lassoed clutch of the other, it appeared to bulge outwards in an almost defiant grasp as if not wanting to let go. Suddenly the force between them broke, throwing the smaller sphere back into its original shape.

  Paul’s mind fought as he tried to make sense of what he was witnessing and that it was just a lucid dream when suddenly he found himself standing on the smaller sphere’s land surface; but not the land he knew. In a minute he would wake up, he thought, yet the emotion and feelings, as his physical and emotional senses were being battered by powerful vibrations and winds, with an inner sensation that seemed to reach into his very being from all around him, became almost unbearable. He became aware of a strong fuzzy charge of energy as he fought to remain upright against hot strong winds just as huge black ominous clouds folded in upon themselves rapidly rolling towards him. Confused as to his whereabouts he desperately tried to orientate himself and checked his surroundings.

  In his mind, he knew what was coming next as he had dreamt this exact scenario so many times already, but this time it felt utterly real. He could make out that he was on a ledge on top of a large mountainside looking down into a form of ancient amphitheatre cut naturally into the rock. All about him in the distance he could see the tops of lower mountains st
retching to the horizon as fissures broke open spewing red hot lava in huge fountains that appeared to get higher and higher. Beneath him, about a hundred people had gathered around a circular type of stone table in the centre of the amphitheatre. A tall white haired man stood addressing them. Paul recognised the black and yellow wristband immediately as he raised his arm. It looked and felt so alien to him yet at the same time so familiar. Some of the Templars his father knew wore identical bracelets and cords around their necks. He tried to move nearer and found it difficult to even look down or place his feet upon the ground. As he forced himself to move closer, the crowd of both men and women, a mixture of all races, began to move away from the amphitheatre. He noted several people walking through two large stone pillars set like the Trilithon stones he had read about and seen woodcarvings of as at Stonehenge. It was then he noticed the crowd were all dressed in very simple forms of white and cream clothing similar to the robes worn by ancient Roman and Greek high officials; all were striking in their countenance and presence.

  Disorientation was overwhelming his senses when he approached the tall white haired man who had been addressing the crowd. A strikingly beautiful young woman moved over toward the man, clearly much older than her, and held his arm tightly, apprehension written across her face. Again, it was not terror. Somehow Paul recognised her and felt an overwhelming sadness as he knew he was about to lose both of them from his life, for which he suddenly felt hopelessly inadequate, paralysed and unable to do anything to help. Every part of his being was screaming out inside as he searched for a way he could get to them. In that same instant he realised he knew these people totally, utterly and completely in a manner that he had never felt before. The winds began to blow harder as he almost reached them when a blast of storm rain blew hard against him. Sudden powerful gusts of wind kept knocking him over as if explosion after explosion was sending out huge blast waves in an ever-increasing staccato of noise and violence. A rumbling from deep within the ground began to grow louder as the vibration within his body intensified. Even his teeth began to vibrate and hurt as loud trumpet sounds drowned out all other noise. He had to get away somehow, he knew, but there was nowhere to go; more importantly he had to get the old man and young woman to safety. He screamed at himself that this was all just a dream over which he had no control but at the same time knowing without a shadow of doubt that it was also very real. He reached out for the young woman’s hand as thunder and lightning began to crash out in ever-increasing violence.