‘It’s alleged. We’ve yet to prove it.’
‘Oh, everybody knows it. He himself makes a poor secret of it. And how many hundreds did he – is he alleged to have slain? Two? Three? Five?’
‘The Arabs claim three and a half hundred. They usually prove to be reliable.’
‘Three and a – You see! That’s no normal failing. He murdered them because they were easy prey and because by then he must have heard of the defeat of his fleet. There can be no other reason for it. He used bitterness as an excuse for mass slaughter. The man stains us all.’ He picked up a lump of salt, glared at it, then threw it to the ground.
Balian turned away, so his squire would not see him frown. However much he sympathized with Ernoul’s indignation, he hoped the young man would not make so free with his opinions when they reached the Red Wolf’s lair.
‘Another thing,’ Ernoul stated, worrying the problem. ‘You should not have to make this arduous journey. I don’t mean you are physically, uh—’
‘Yes?’
‘I mean, it was Lord Reynald’s duty to present himself at court in Jerusalem as King Baldwin demanded. Any subject must. But it seems that not only does Lord Reynald imagine himself a monarch, but already a greater one than Baldwin. I intend no disrespect, my lord, but on this mission you are no better than an emissary. It reflects sadly on our state when the rightful king is insulted by a truce-breaker, and one of his most respected leaders takes the part of a messenger.’ He noticed Balian’s frown deepen with anger and stopped abruptly.
‘Well, well, Ernoul, that’s enough.’
‘My lord, I—’
‘No, you have a grievance. I need not have made you ride with me.’
‘God forbid, that’s not what I wished to say. I am honoured to be with you. You must not think otherwise.’
‘So. Then you in turn must wait until we hear what Lord Reynald has to say. There are two sides to the coin.’
‘Oh, you’re too fair, you’re too fair!’ Ernoul erupted. ‘You know Bloodhead for what he is. Why do you give him so much benefit?’ He stamped away in a cloud of youthful temperament, snatched another stone from the beach and hurled it furiously across the water.
Fostus saw it and called, ‘That’s better. You’re using your shoulder.’
Balian thought, is that what they call him now, Bloodhead? Is the Red Wolf a dated term among the young men? Without hesitation he acknowledged that Bloodhead was more explicit, but these days so were Reynald’s actions.
The Commander of Knights came up to announce that his men were ready to leave. Balian nodded and the trio reclaimed their dried-out clothes. A few moments later the column rode up the steep incline from the beach and turned south along the narrow coast road.
They camped for the night in one of the gorges below Mount Masada. The twelve hundred foot peak stood opposite a flat white promontory on the eastern shore called Halashon, the Tongue. To the south of the Tongue was Reynald of Chatillon’s private port at the mouth of Wadi Kerak. When darkness had settled over the water and the distant mountains of Moab, Balian gazed across to where he was sure he could see lights from the port. The Lord of Nablus had known the Lord of Kerak for more than twenty years, but Balian was not prepared to hazard even a guess at the meaning of the lights. They could be marking the position of the port for some late-in-the-day visitor, or illuminating the work of hired shipwrights who were busy constructing another fleet of war galleys. Or perhaps there were no lights at all, just splinters of sun that had lodged in his eyes.
He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, then let them fall slack at his sides. When he looked again there were no signs of light on the eastern shore. He grinned wryly, aware that he was as susceptible to Reynald’s magic as any other Crusader. So many rumours flitted like bats around Kerak that it was often impossible to separate truth from falsehood. Nobody had really believed that Reynald would denude vast tracts of forest, build his own ships, then send them in wagons and on camelback across some of the most inhospitable country in Palestine. Yet he had done it, as he had once ravaged the entire island of Cyprus, as he had survived sixteen years in the Saracen prison at Aleppo. He had grown more powerful with the years, until, as Lord of Kerak and master of Oultrejourdain he bore out Ernoul’s description. He regarded himself as an autocratic ruler, greater than the king. And, sealed in his massive fortress, he looked down on enemy and ally alike.
It was time, Balian thought, that Reynald’s fellow overlords took his threats as seriously as they bemoaned his subsequent actions. Past time, since, as a result of the Red Sea expedition, Saladin had vowed swift and dreadful retribution on the Christian kingdom. This was the message Balian carried to Kerak, along with a plea from King Baldwin that Reynald would avert total war by making restitution to the inhabitants of the Red Sea coast and the families of all those aboard the pilgrim ship.
Balian scuffed his feet on the floor of the gorge and turned his back on the water. In the silence of the night he could already hear Bloodhead’s reply, while the echoes of his laughter blew chill across the salt sea…
* * *
The horsemen rode out of the gorge before dawn. In the afternoon they passed the villages of Sedom and Amora, sparse habitations that were thought to have once been the accursed cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. They rode in silence and, remembering the Scriptures, none glanced back.
A few miles farther on the riders made an error of judgement.
Eager to cover as much ground as possible, and thus bring Kerak within a day’s march, they started across the glaring salt pans that marked the southern shore of the Dead Sea and the northern end of the vast Arava valley. The immolating heat crushed their shadows into grotesque black lumps. By the time they had reached the centre of the valley they had lost all semblance of military bearing. The Hospitallers gritted their teeth as the heat seeped under their skulls. They covered their heads with spare surcoats, towels, even the wide Arab kerchiefs called kafiyas, but the cotton might as well have been metal. Young Guibert and one or two others cried openly, but when they moved to wipe the tears from their faces they dragged dry hands across dry eyes. The sun had already purchased the juice of their agony, leaving salt in payment.
The column faltered. Balian was presented with a harsh choice. If he increased the speed of advance the horses would sweat and lose water more quickly, then weaken. Yet if the heavy Norman palfreys retained their present pace they would take too long to reach fertile country. He cursed himself for having allowed the precipitate crossing and waved the Commander of Knights alongside.
‘We must hasten on, Sir Conrad. I take the blame for this, but I want the situation resolved in our favour.’
The Hospitaller twisted round in his saddle, saw the pitiful condition of his men and nodded mutely. Then he turned his horse, trotted back along the line and snarled at the swaying riders.
‘Get on! Move! Martin, prick your mount! Herve, don’t shame me, sir! Move on, move on! Back there, you, Guibert, what ails you? Why do you shiver, is it so cold?’ He pulled level with the sobbing knight, snapped at the riders ahead and waited for them to draw away. Then he took an inlaid dagger from his belt.
‘You see this?’ he hissed. ‘You see this piece of bone set in the pommel? Well, do you see it, sir?’
Guibert blinked and nodded.
The Commander nodded with him. ‘What do you think of it? Say out, man! God gave you breath, didn’t He?’
‘It’s pretty,’ Guibert croaked, letting his mouth hang open as he gasped for air, any air, however hot, however salt.
‘Pretty, yes, but do you know whose bone it is?’
The young knight rolled his head. He didn’t care. The sun was carving lines in his face, tapping holes in his head. He didn’t care if it was man bone or animal bone. Why should he know what—
‘It’s from the precious body of our blessed St John. Yes, our patron. How’s that, Guibert?’
‘St John?’
‘Just so. Now
listen to me. Eh, straighten your horse! Take a grip. That’s better. Now listen. You ride to the head of the column—’
‘What? I cannot. I – I can’t—’
‘Of course you can. You do it and reach the front and this knife is yours. I’ll make you a present of it. You have my word on it.’
‘Would you really part with—’
‘Don’t doubt me, boy,’ Conrad snapped. ‘Take the lead and you’ve earned it. Will you do it?’
Guibert strained every muscle in his face and managed to close his mouth. There was nothing of greater importance to a true Hospitaller than his faith in St John. And to possess a particle of his body – this was a man’s greatest reward.
The Commander of Knights had not made the offer lightly. He, too, set great store by holy relics, but he had heard so many claims, seen so many splinters of bone that in his more cynical moments he wondered if any saint had been allowed to rest in peace, and to rest in one piece. The word joke was popular among those who doubted the authenticity of certain well-known religious tokens, and Conrad was prepared to admit that he had no way of knowing if the bone in his dagger was truly a segment of John the Evangelist. He wanted it to be, and had sufficient faith in the word of the man who had sold it to him to be able to offer it to Guibert in all honesty as a holy relic.
Guibert found fresh strength and echoed, ‘The head of the column?’
‘Yes.’
‘For – for St John?’
‘For St John, yes. Will you do it?’
‘Yes. Ah, yes, I will. With our sweet saint to aid me, I’ll do it! St John and the Hospital!’
He forgot the heat, hunched forward and drove his single prick spurs into the horse’s flanks. His cry was flattened by the heavy air and thrown to the ground. The palfrey started, sank its hooves into salt crust and broke into a canter. Guibert shouted again, then kept his breath for riding. He saw Edouard de Cavanne and Matthew of Dorset, spurred his mount and passed them at the gallop.
Guibert had been told by more than one priest that if he did something true and pure and did it in the name of God and his patron saint he would see the Evangelist in the company of angels. He passed Denys, then three shrouded figures he didn’t recognize, then Thomas the Wanderer. Salt and sand flew from the horse’s hooves. Guibert rode with his eyes wide open, waiting for St John to reveal himself. He drew level with Cesarini the Italian, who called out to him, but Guibert heard only the pounding of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears. He passed the Italian, overtook two more Hospitallers and galloped towards Ernoul and Fostus and Lord Balian. Everything was dry, so dry, white and dry and burning with an arid salt flame. He knew he would soon see John.
Ernoul saw the knight, scowled and pulled his horse aside. He glimpsed the drawn white face, the salt-filmed eyes, blood and foam on the palfrey. Then Guibert had moved ahead, thundered between Balian and the Constable and was riding free, out across the valley.
Far behind, the Commander of Knights roared, ‘Catch him! He’s a boy! Will he guide you all?’
The line bunched, stretched again, then broke apart as the horsemen responded to the challenge and gave chase. Conrad rose in his stirrups, squinting through the haze as his Hospitallers urged their mounts towards the distant foothills. Satisfied, he touched the dagger. Guibert had done well and had earned the reward.
But the young knight had not yet seen St John. Clearly more was required of him. He had never ridden so hard in all his life, yet he knew he must ride harder. He jerked his feet away from the horse and slammed them back, the heels turned inward. The single metal spikes stabbed deep into the animal’s flanks and it screamed and ran with pain. Guibert’s mouth hung slack. His eyes bulged as the salt dust swirled around him. Blinded, his inner eye saw the Evangelist ahead of him. Deafened, in his mind he heard John calling:
‘Come then, true knight. Here, take mv hand. Yes, Guibert, yes, yes, I am here now. Ride forward to me.’
The first riders overtook the Hospitaller while he was still a mile from the hills. His horse had slowed, because the young knight lolled in the saddle and so had not continued with the spurs. His face was as white as when he had emerged from the Dead Sea. His mouth was still open, strictured in a smile. Fostus and Ernoul rode up on one side, Cesarini the Italian and a knight named Ralf on the other.
Cesarini gasped, ‘Well run, Swimmer,’ while Fostus leaned over to take the loose reins. Then they saw that the smile was fixed and that Guibert was dead. His eyes were blocked open, staring at something none of them could see. Fostus and Ralf, who were stronger than the Italian, held Guibert in his saddle and led his horse across the last mile of the Arava valley.
Two and three at a time the escort reached the welcoming treeline and slid from their mounts. Some collapsed immediately, while others sank to their knees and gave rasping thanks to God, St John and the knight who had inspired them, Sir Guibert the Swimmer. They laid his body in a grove of oaks and oleanders and stood watch over it throughout the day and the following night. They prayed for the salvation of his soul, though they knew it to be assured. The Commander of Knights placed the dagger on Guibert’s chest, where, for all eternity, he could glance down at it and reach for it easily, if he should ever need it. But they knew, too, that he would only use it to show to the angels and his new-found friends.
Next morning the Hospitallers laid the body on a makeshift stretcher and took it in turn to carry it up the winding path that ascended three thousand feet to the Moab plateau. They followed the path north to Wadi Kerak, then east toward the fortress. It was cooler on the plateau, so those young knights who wept were not robbed of their tears.
Chapter Three
Kerak
June 1183
Stephanie of Milly reclined on a plain red couch, enjoying the final rays of the sun that streamed through the wide, stepped window. One of the jongleurs had just left the solarium, after performing a chanson de geste based on a story by the popular French poet-composer, Chretien de Troyes. The song described the amorous and military adventures of a knight errant called Yvain. However, the troubadour who had adapted the story, and the jongleur who performed it, were both careful to give Yvain red hair, like Stephanie’s husband Reynald, and a fierce disposition, matching Reynald’s, and a sword inscribed in nomine domini such as Reynald carried.
She had rewarded the jongleur with a bolt of Damascene silk, told him to cut a generous length from it and pass it on to the troubadour, then dismissed him and relaxed under the window. She remembered some of the lyrics, kept them in mind while she hummed the simple melody, closed her eyes and let the sinking sun warm her face.
The chatelaine of Kerak was thirty-five years of age, though it would take another woman to know. Following the fashion set by the ladies of Jerusalem and the coastal towns, Stephanie had begun painting her face with cosmetics. She had noted the disastrous results some women achieved and learned from their mistakes. First, she had sent to the capital for a wide variety of ingredients; then, alone in her chambers, she had experimented cautiously for several days. She had tested this colour against that, compared this bright stain with something less vivid. The final balance was quite pleasing and she knew she looked younger than her years. She had a strong face, with light hair that was occasionally brushed through with cinnamon, dark green eyes and a figure that was neither all bone, nor all flesh.
She had every reason to feel self-satisfied. As the mother of two children, and now married to her third husband, she had worn remarkably well. It was even more remarkable when one knew something of the three men.
The first was, perhaps, the least outstanding. He was Humphrey III of Toron, son of the great warrior constable who had earned the admiration of Christian and Moslem alike. Unfortunately, few of the constable’s juices ran in the veins of his offspring. Humphrey III was an uninspired nobleman and an ordinary mortal. Stephanie was fifteen when she married him and, during the five years they were together, she gave birth to a son, naturally named
after his father, and a daughter. Then, in the bitter winter of 1168, Humphrey III succumbed to pneumonia and died.
Although a mother and a widow, Stephanie of Milly remained one of the most eligible women in the kingdom. She was still young, physically attractive, and so far untainted by gossip. She made commonplace conversation, unleavened by a sense of humour, yet most men were happy to overlook this essential dullness. She did not need wit or wisdom when her greatest attribute was to have clung successfully to the desolate frontier fief of Oultrejourdain, with its capital at Kerak. Along with her heart and body she offered the right man one of the greatest fiefdoms in Palestine, and the power that went with it.
Sadly, she did not choose the right man.
She chose instead an ambitious French knight, originally from Champagne, the Seneschal, Miles of Plancy. As steward of the Christian Kingdom he expressed an extremely high opinion of himself, boasting that even if his enemies crept up on him while he slept – the only way they would dare attack him – they would not find the courage to disturb him. An egoist, de Plancy.
Since Stephanie’s father had, at one time, held the position of Grand Master of the Temple, the Seneschal gained the support of the Templar knights. But he was actively disliked by the rival Order of Hospitallers, and by the native-born barons. How many times, they asked wearily, would such opportunists be allowed to reap the harvests that other, lifelong Crusaders had sown? How more would arrive, men like de Plancy, exert their stored-up charm on some bereaved dowager, then presume to tell third and fourth generation settlers how to run the country? What did they understand, these novi homines, who came east because they were acknowledged failures in their own lands? What right had they to shout from the hilltops of Palestine in the nasal accents of Europe?
The sun sank below the window. The coolness that followed fitted well with Stephanie’s wandering thoughts…
She had felt no warmth for Miles of Plancy; he was too busy drawing heat from the banked fires in Jerusalem to bother with a home, or a family. He was the Lord of Kerak and Oultrejourdain, but he had never intended to live there. If his wife wished to visit him at court, well and good. If not, she could run the affairs of the castle, while he performed his duties as Seneschal and played his part in the ceaseless struggle for power.
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 3
