P. Doherty - The Templar

‘Were they involved in the massacre?’

‘Mistress!’ Simeon, sitting behind Eleanor, leaned forward. ‘Mistress-sister,’ he whispered, ‘leave that.’

‘Oh yes, I will!’ she retorted harshly.

‘Will you go into the city?’ Theodore asked. ‘Hugh and Godefroi are waiting. They’ve given thanks to God, they…’ His voice trailed off at the look on Eleanor’s face. ‘I told them about Beltran.’

‘And?’

Theodore spread his hands. ‘They saw him as a troublesome wretch, nothing more. Eleanor, will you come?’

‘I have travelled thousands of miles,’ she murmured, closing her eyes then opening them. ‘I thought I would dance under the gateway of Jerusalem, but now I am here, I do not want to go into the Holy City. I do not want to see any more severed heads or blood-spotted walls.’ She stared out at the black plumes of smoke rising above the city. ‘Here, Theodore,’ she tapped her breast, ‘here is Jerusalem. Here,’ she leaned forward and caressed his cheek, ‘is the Face of Christ. Here,’ she pressed her hand against his chest, ‘is true religion. There,’ she gestured with her hand, ‘some whitewashed cottage, with the honeysuckle climbing up the walls, is paradise.’ She put away the Ave beads, wrapped her cloak tight about her and got to her feet. ‘And Alberic?’

‘He fought like a warrior, wounded but well.’

Eleanor smiled and extended her hand. ‘Come, let us search out Norbert and Imogene and give them honourable burial.’ She gestured at the finely carved box lying next to her stool, the one Imogene had so treasured. ‘For the love of God, Theodore, and for love of me, take this into the city. Bury it deep in the black soil beneath some cypress tree.’ She smiled. ‘Then come back to me, and we shall find our own Jerusalem.’