1146 A. D.

To Anagni came a hired courier from Rome early in September. He bore a letter for Cencio de Conti or, if the gentleman be deceased or absent, whoever now headed that noble house in those parts. Albeit age was telling somewhat upon him, Cencio was there for a cleric to read the message aloud. He followed the Latin readily enough: It was not so very remote from his native dialect; and, besides religious services, men of his family rather frequently listened to recitals of the warlike or lyrical classics.

A Flemish gentleman and his lady, homebound from pilgrimage to the Holy Land, sent respects. They were kinfolk. True, the relationship was distant. Some fifty years ago a knight visiting Rome had become acquainted, asked for the hand of a daughter of the Conti, wedded her and taken her home to Flanders. (The profit was small but mutual. She was a younger child who might well otherwise have gone into a convent, thus her dowry need not be large. On either side there was some prestige in having a connection across a great distance, and there might prove to be some advantage, now when politics and commerce were beginning to move in earnest across Europe. The story went that it had, moreover, been a love match.) Little if any word had since crossed the Alps in either direction. Chancing to get this opportunity, the travelers felt it behooved them to offer to bring what scanty news they could. They prayed pardon in advance for their unimpressiveness, should they be invited. All their attendants had been lost along the way, to disease, affray, and at last desertion; belike tales of libertine Sicily had lured that rogue from them. Perhaps the Conti could, of their kindness, help them engage reliable servants for the rest of the journey.

Cencio dictated an immediate reply—in vernacular, which the priest Latinized. The strangers would be welcome indeed. They must for their part forgive a certain uproar. His son, Sir Lorenzo, was soon to marry Ilaria di Gaetani, and preparations for the festivities were especially chaotic in these difficult times. Nevertheless he urged them to come at once and remain for the wedding. He dispatched the letter with several lackeys and two men-at-arms, in order that his guests might fare in such style as would shame neither them nor him.

It was quite a natural thing for him to do. About his Flemish cousins, or whatever they were, his curiosity was, at best, idle. However, these persons had just been in the Holy Land. They should have much to tell of the troubles there. Lorenzo, especially, was eager to hear. He would be going on crusade.

And so, a few days later, the strangers appeared at the great house.

Ushered into a brightly frescoed room, Wanda Tamberly forgot surroundings whose foreignness had amazed and bewildered her. Suddenly everything focused on a single face. It did not belong to the elderly man but to the one beside him. I’d pay attention to looks like that anytime in the universe, flashed through her—Apollo lineaments, dark-amber eyes—and this is hung on Lorenzo. Got to be Lorenzo, who’d have changed history nine years ago at Rignano if Manse hadn’t—Hey, quite a bod, too.

Dazedly she heard the majordomo intone: “Signor Cencio, may I present Signor Emilius”—a stumble over the Germanic pronunciations—“van Waterloo?”

Volstrup bowed. The host courteously did likewise. He wasn’t really ancient, Tamberly decided. Maybe sixty. The loss of most teeth aged his appearance more than did white hair and beard. The younger man still had a full set of choppers, and his locks and well-trimmed whiskers were crow’s-wing black. He’d be in his mid-thirties. “Welcome, sir,” Cencio said. “Let me introduce my son Lorenzo, of whom my letter spoke. He has been ardent to meet you.”

“When I saw the party coming, I hastened to join my father,” said the young man. “But pray pardon our forgetfulness. In latine—”

“No need, gracious sir,” Volstrup told him. “My wife and I know your language. We hope you will bear with ours.” The Lombard version he used was not incomprehensibly different from the local Umbrian.

Both Conti registered relief. Doubtless they spoke Latin less well than they understood it. Lorenzo bowed again, to Tamberly. “Doubly welcome is a lady so fair,” he purred. His glance upon her made plain that he meant it. Evidently Italians today had the same weakness for blondes as in the Renaissance and afterward.

“My wife, Walburga,” Volstrup said. Everard had supplied the names. She had already noticed that when the going got tough, his sense of humor got extra quirky.

Lorenzo took her hand. She felt as though an electric shock went through her. Stop that! Yes, this is weird, history once more turning on the same man, but he’s mortal … He’d better be.

She told herself that her emotion was no more than an echo of the explosion in her head when first she read Cencio’s letter. Manse had briefed her and Volstrup as thoroughly as possible, but with no idea that Lorenzo was involved. For all he knew, the warrior never left that battlefield. The information the Patrol had was bare-bones. Ilaria di Gaetani should have married Bartolommeo Conti de Segni, nobleman of this papal state and kinsman of Innocent III. In 1147 she should have given birth to that Ugolino who became Gregory IX. Volstrup and Tamberly were supposed to discover what had gone wrong.

Everard laid a plan for them that called for approaching the Conti first. They’d need some kind of entry into aristocratic society, and he knew a lot about that family from his stay with Lorenzo in 1138—a visit that, now, had never occurred, but nonetheless was engraved on the Patrolman’s memory. The two had grown quite friendly and talk had ranged every which way. Thus Everard heard about the tenuous link to Flanders. It seemed to provide an excellent opening. In addition, his claim to being lately from Jerusalem had worked fine the first time, so why not repeat?

Could there be another Ilaria di Gaetani in town? Emil and I discussed that possibility. No, too improbable. We’ll find out for sure, but I know there isn’t. Nor can I believe Lorenzo is again the man on whom everything turns, by sheer coincidence. Touch hands with destiny, my girl.

He released hers, in a sliding slowness that she could interpret however she liked except that it wasn’t offensive. Not in the least. “A joyful occasion,” he said. “I look forward to much pleasure of your company.”

Do I feel my cheeks growing hot? This is ridiculous! Tamberly mustered what she had learned of contemporary manners. That was limited, but a certain awkwardness on the part of a Fleming should not surprise anyone. “Come, come, sir,” she replied. Smiling at him proved unexpectedly easy. “You have better anticipations, whose nuptial day draws nigh.”

“Of course I long for my bride,” Lorenzo said. He sounded dutiful. “However—” He shrugged shoulders, spread hands, rolled eyes upward.

“Ever does the poor bridegroom-to-be find himself mostly underfoot,” Cencio laughed. “And I, a widower, must do the work of two, striving to make such arrangements for the celebration as will not disgrace us.” He paused. “You know that is a labor for Hercules, under circumstances today. Indeed, I must now reluctantly return to it. We are having trouble about the delivery of sufficient flesh of worthwhile quality. I leave you in my son’s hands, hoping that at eventide I can share a cup and converse with you.” In a flurry of mutual courtesies, he went out.

Lorenzo raised a brow. “Speaking of cups,” he said, “is it too early, or are you too wearied? The servants will bring your baggage to your bedchamber and make all ready for you in a few minutes. You can take a rest if you so desire.”

This is too good a chance to pass up. “Oh, no, thank you, sir,” Tamberly answered. “We overnighted at an inn and slept well. Refreshment and talk would be delightful.”

Was he a little taken aback at her forwardness? Tactfully, he directed attention to Volstrup, who told him, “True, if we don’t presume on your patience.”

“On the contrary,” Lorenzo said. “Come, let me show you around. Not that you will see wonders. This is only our rural house. In Rome—” Mercurially, he scowled. “But you have seen Rome.”

Volstrup fielded the ball. “We have. Terrible. They actually levy a tax on pilgrims.”

Last year, led by the puritanical monk Arnold of Brescia, the city had declared itself a republic, free of all outside authority, Church or Empire. Newly elected Pope Eugenius III had fled, come back briefly to proclaim a new crusade, then been forced out again. Most aristocrats had likewise withdrawn. The republic wouldn’t fall, and Arnold burn at the stake, till 1155. (Unless in the mutant history—). “You landed at Ostia, then?”

“Yes, and proceeded to Rome, where we visited the sacred shrines.” And other sights. It was creepy seeing beggars, shacks, kitchen gardens, cattle paddocks among the relics of greatness. They might as well play tourist; those days established their identity, after the Patrol vehicle let them off in the seaport town.

Tamberly’s bosom sensed the medallion that doubled as a radio. It gave confidence, knowing that an agent waited hidden and alert. Of course, he didn’t listen in; continuous transmission would soon have drained the power. And if they yelled for help he wouldn’t pop up at that instant. On no account could he risk affecting events that maybe, maybe had not yet taken their bad turning. But he could probably figure some dodge for springing them loose.

We should be okay, though. These are nice folks. Fascinating. Yes, we are on a vital mission, but why not relax for a while and enjoy?

Lorenzo pointed out the wall paintings. They were naive but vivid representations of Olympian deities, and he showed his appreciation despite adding an assurance that this was acceptable to Christians. Too bad he wasn’t born in the Renaissance. That’s when he really belongs. Murals were a rather new fashion. “In the North we hang tapestries,” Volstrup remarked, “but then, we need them against our winters.”

“I have heard. Would that I might someday go see for myself—see this whole wonderful world, everything God has created.” Lorenzo sighed. “How did you and your lady come to learn an Italian tongue?”

Well, it was like this. The Time Patrol has a gadget—

“For my part, I have had business with Lombards over the years,” Volstrup said. “Although my house is knightly and I certainly not a tradesman, I am a younger son who must earn his keep as best he can; and you see I am ill suited to a military career, while also too restless for the Church. Thus I oversee certain holdings of the family, which include an estate in the Rhaetian highlands.” The locale was safely obscure. “As for my wife, on this pilgrimage we traveled overland as far as Bari.” Bad and hazardous though roads were, shipboard in this era was worse. “She not desiring to be mute among commoners, with whom we must generally deal, I engaged a Lombard tutor to accompany us; and when abroad, knowing we would return through Italy, we practiced on each other.”

“How rare and admirable to find such wit in a woman. Rare, too, that she make a long and arduous journey, the more so when at home doubtless all the youths faint for lovesickness and all the poets sing her praises.”

“Alas, we have no children to keep me home; and I am a terrible sinner,” Tamberly couldn’t refrain from blurting.

Do I catch a glint of hope in his eye? “I cannot believe you are, my lady,” Lorenzo said. “Humility is a virtue of yours, among many higher ones.” He must realize he was proceeding faster than was discreet, for he turned to Volstrup and let the smile drop from his lips. “A younger son. How well I understand you, sir. I too. Though I did take the sword, and won scant fortune thereby.”

“On the way hither, your father’s men often spoke of how valiantly you have fought,” the Patrolman replied. It was true. “We would fain hear more.”

“Ah, in the end it was bootless. Two years ago Roger of Sicily won everything he wanted, under a seven years’ truce that I expect will continue longer—as long as yon devil befouls this earth—and now he sits in peace and wealth.” Almost physically, Lorenzo thrust bitterness from him. “Well, a greater cause calls, a holy cause. Why should you care to hear stale stories of the wars against Roger? Tell me how matters are this day in Jerusalem!”

They had been strolling as they talked and come to a room where small kegs rested on shelves and several beakers on a table. Lorenzo beamed. “Here we are. Pray be seated, my friends.” He made a production of guiding Tamberly to a bench before he stuck his head out the rear door and shouted for a servant. When the boy appeared, he ordered bread, cheese, olives, fruits. Himself he tapped wine into the cups.

“You are too kind, good sir,” Tamberly said. Too kind by half. I know what he has in mind, and him soon to be married.

“No, it is you who bless me,” he insisted. “Two years have I yawned in idleness. You and your tidings arrive like a breeze off the sea “

“Yes, I can imagine that, after as adventurous a life as you had led,” Volstrup agreed. “Er, we heard tell of your valor at Rignano, when Duke Rainulf sent the Sicilians in flight. Did not a very miracle save your life that day?”

Lorenzo frowned anew. “The victory proved meaningless, for we failed to lay Roger by the heels. Why wake the memory?”

“Oh, but I have so wished to hear the true story, not mere rumors, and from the champion in person,” Tamberly crooned.

Lorenzo brightened. “Indeed? Well, truth to tell, my part was less than glorious. When the enemy first charged, I led a flank attack on his van. Someone must have smitten me from behind in the combat, for the next thing I knew, I was draped across my horse, and our attempt had failed. The most curious matter is that I kept my seat; but a lifetime of riding teaches the body how to take care of itself. Nor can the blow have been severe, for I awakened clear of mind, with no headache, and could immediately re-enter the fray. Now do you gratify me with some account of your travels.”

“I daresay you are most interested in the military situation,” Volstrup said, “but as I told you, I am not a fighting man. Alas, what I did hear and see was unhappy.”

Lorenzo listened intently. His frequent questions showed he was quite well-informed. Meanwhile Tamberly reviewed what she had been taught.

By 1099 the First Crusade had gained its objectives, with a massacre of civilians that would have done Genghis Khan proud, and the conquerors settled in. They founded a string of realms from Palestine up into what she knew as southern Turkey—the Kingdom of Jerusalem, County of Tripoli, Principality of Antioch, County of Edessa. Gradually they came more and more under the cultural influence of their subjects. It wasn’t really like the Normans in Sicily, learning from the more civilized Arabs; it was as though the Crusaders and their children took on the unhealthiest aspects of Muslim society. Weakness followed, until in 1144 the Amir of Mosul captured Edessa and his son Nur-ed-Din advanced upon Jerusalem. That Christian king appealed for help. Bernard of Clairvaux—St. Bernard to be—preached a new crusade and Pope Eugenius proclaimed it. This Easter, 1146, King Louis VII of France had “taken the cross,” vowing to lead an expedition.

“I wished from the first to go,” Lorenzo explained, “but we Italians have been sluggish in these enterprises and remain thus, to our eternal shame. What use was a single sword, among Frenchmen who distrust us, likely to be? Besides, father arranged my betrothal to the lady Ilaria. It is a good match, better than a well-nigh penniless soldier could reasonably hope for. I cannot leave him without this added prop for his house and one more grandchild, legitimate, to gladden his old age.”

But I see the longing in those hawk eyes, Tamberly thought. He’s a kindly man in his way, and honorable about his obligations. And brave, and a gifted tactician, it seems. Uh-huh, I guess his war record persuaded Ilaria’s dad to agree, It’d give hope he might win some real booty for himself, off in Palestine. And if Lorenzo’d like to get in a little tomcatting first, well it is a marriage of convenience and I suspect Ilaria is no raving beauty. Besides, my Patrol education tells me that people may be devoutly religious hereabouts, but their sexual mores are pretty free and easy. For women too, if they don’t parade it. Even gays, no matter the law says they should be hanged or burned. Sound familiar, California gal?

“But now the abbot is preaching among the Germans,” Lorenzo went on. His voice rang. “I hear that King Conrad hearkens to him. That was a valiant warrior, when he came down with the Emperor Lothair ten years ago to help us against Roger. I feel sure he too will take the cross.”

He would, about the end of this year. And, besides its transalpine possessions, the Empire had close ties throughout Italy. (What with the trouble his turbulent nobles gave him, Conrad never would get around to having himself consecrated emperor, but that was a detail.) Lorenzo could find plenty of comrades behind his banner, and probably get put in charge of a unit. Conrad would march south through Hungary in the autumn of 1147. That gave ample time for Lorenzo first to beget a child on Ilaria, a child who would not become Pope Gregory IX….

“Therefore I abide as patiently as I am able to,” Lorenzo finished. “In all circumstances, I will go. I have fought for the right and for Holy Church too long to let my blade rust now. But best if I fare with Conrad.”

No, not best. Dreadful. The Second Crusade would prove a grisly farce. Disease would take as heavy a toll of the Europeans as fighting did, until, beaten, frustrated, the survivors slunk home. In 1187 Saladin would enter Jerusalem.

But these Crusades, First, Second, et cetera through the Seventh, as well as those against heretics and pagans in Europe itself, they were an artifact of later historians anyway. Sometimes a Pope, or somebody, called for a special effort, and sometimes, not always, this evoked a serious response. Mainly, though, it was a question of whether you—idealist, warlord, freebooter, or oftenest blend of all three—could get yourself dubbed a crusader. It conferred special rights and privileges in this world, remission of sins in the next. That was the legalism. Reality was men who marched, rode, sailed, hungered, thirsted, roistered, fought, raped, burned, looted, slaughtered, tortured, fell sick, took wounds, died nasty deaths or got rich or became captive slaves or eked out a living in a foreign land or perhaps returned, to and fro for centuries. Meanwhile the wily Sicilians, Venetians, Genoese, Pisans raked large profits off the traffic; and Asian rats stowed away in ships bound for Europe, they and their fleas carrying the Black Plague….

Volstrup and Tamberly had had sufficient knowledge implanted that they could handle Lorenzo’s questions about the Kingdom of Jerusalem. They had gotten a quick tour of it, too. Yes, belonging to the Patrol has its rewards. Though golly, how fast you need to case-harden yourself.

“But I presume on you!” Lorenzo abruptly exclaimed. “Forgive me. I quite forgot the time. You rode for hours today. My lady must certainly be wearied. Come, let me show you to your lodging, that you may rest, cleanse yourselves, and don good clothes before we sup. There will be a number of fellow guests for you to meet, kinfolk arriving from half of Italy, it seems.”

As he bowed his way out of the chamber, he made eye contact with Tamberly. She let it continue for several heartbeats. Manse was right, a woman who knows her way around can be very helpful. She can learn quite a lot about the situation and what we might do. Only … do I qualify? Me, a vamp?

A deferential manservant revealed where things had been stowed, asked if that was all right, and said that hot water could be brought for a copper mini-tub whenever milord and milady desired. People were rather cleanly in this era, and mixed use of public baths was common. They wouldn’t start habitually stinking for centuries yet, when deforestation made fuel expensive.

And yonder stood a double bed. The Roman inn and the one along the road to here had separate quarters for men and women, where you slept beside strangers, naked.

Volstrup looked away. He wet his lips. After two or three attempts, he said, “Ah, Mademoiselle Tamberly, I failed to anticipate—Of course I shall take the floor, and when either of us bathes—”

Laughter whooped from her. “Sorry, Emil, old dear,” she replied to his bewilderment. “Have no fears for your honor. I’ll turn my back if you want. That mattress tick is plenty wide. We’ll rest peaceful.” A small inward chill: Will I, when Manse is working in an uncharted world a hundred years uptime? And then, warmer: Also, I’d better give Lorenzo a lot of thought.