Stephanie did visit him, two or three times a year for four years. She saw the changes that strain and frustration wrought in him; he had not advanced himself far, nor lessened the enmity of the local barons. It seemed that he would soon crack and retire from the field.
Then, in July 1174, King Amalric I of Jerusalem died of dysentery and attendant complications. He left only his thirteen-year-old leper son Baldwin to succeed him. Nobody disputed the youth’s right to the throne, but he was too immature and infirm to govern, so the kingdom would be placed under the control of a regent. There were several candidates for the vacancy, and near the head of the list came Miles of Plancy, backed by the Templars.
Another serious contender was the realistic and reliable Count of Tripoli and Lord of Galilee, Raymond III. He laid claim to the regency on the grounds that he was Amalric’s cousin and was also a great deal more trustworthy than the interloper de Plancy.
The Seneschal made a desperate bid for power. A council of barons was convened and, accompanied by the Grand Master of the Temple, Arnold of Toroga, Miles of Plancy entered the chamber to present his case. He found himself confronted by Raymond of Tripoli; the Grand Master of the Hospital, Roger of Les Moulins; Baldwin of Ramleh, Balian of Ibelin, and even Stephanie’s one time father-in-law, Constable Humphrey II of Toron. All these and more were rigidly opposed to de Plancy and they made it clear that they wanted Raymond and only Raymond as their Regent. The Seneschal withdrew. For the first time in four years he left Jerusalem and rode south to Kerak to lick his wounds and formulate a fresh course of action.
Stephanie hardly recognized him. He had fought and lost and become an old man. She pleaded with him to remain at Kerak and govern the great fief. There was much to be achieved in Oultrejourdain, she told him. If Jerusalem had no need of him, he had no need of Jerusalem. Stay, she said, and be your own master here.
He responded by railing at her and accusing her of trying to immure him in the castle. Time after time he assured her that he still had friends. He would go to the ports and coastal towns and recruit help there. He was not finished yet, whatever she and others might think.
So, a month later, he went to Acre. He had been there less than a week when he was attacked in the street, cut down and stabbed to death by unknown assassins.
Again Stephanie of Milly was a widow. And again, because she had kept a firm, if solitary, hold on Kerak she remained an enviable prize.
She shivered as the first waves of cold evening air swept across the Moab plateau and entered the chamber. She left the couch, returning with an embroidered cloak, lined with soft, grey miniver. For a while she gazed out of the window and watched the sky bleed over the rounded hills. When the colours had run together and dimmed she sank back on the couch, her body warmed by the skins of thirty Siberian squirrels.
Ah, yes, she remembered, at that time it was true. I was the prize, much sought after. And those who were free to court me were envied by those who were not. Each day brought another landless Crusader, his hands and feet washed clean, his lips moving as he rehearsed his pretty speech. They did not think the journey to Kerak was too long then. They talked of it as though they had crossed the street to meet me. The Arava valley? A dry mud patch in the road, my lady. Were your castle on the lip of the world I would have come to share your sorrow and pay my respects to the Lady of Oultrejourdain, the widow of my friend, sweet Miles. And, though they did not say it, to cast a covetous eye over the tapestries and granaries, to gauge the strength of the garrison and the thickness of the walls.
She had married Humphrey of Toron and he had failed because, all his life, he had moved beneath the shadow of his warrior father. She had married Miles of Plancy and he had failed because too many recognized him as an upstart immigrant whose ambitions outstripped his abilities. This time, she decided, she would marry a man who did not know what it was to fail. So she received her suitors, listened patiently to their overtures, encouraged them to speak of their past life, then sent them away to await her decision. None satisfied her until she was visited by one, older than most, who had just emerged from the Saracen prison at Aleppo. His wife, Princess Constance, had died while he was still a prisoner, and with her had been buried his future as Prince of Antioch. Stephanie was flattered that a prince should seek her hand, and she found him quite magnetic, with his forceful manner and red hair. He told her how, twenty years ago, he had subdued the island of Cyprus. Indeed, she smiled, go on. He described how he had sliced off the ears and noses of Cypriot priests, sacked the Greek churches and driven the entire population of several villages over cliff tops into the sea. I am the friend of friends, he stated, but the enemy of enemies.
She entertained no more visiting knights. She might have waited longer and chosen an honourable champion and made a match that would have been of advantage to the Christian kingdom. But she could not do so now, for she had fallen under the spell of Reynald of Chatillon.
They were married in 1176. Today, seven years later, Stephanie acknowledged that with all the Moslem nations and half the great houses of Palestine turned against him, Reynald was still accounted a success. And, at the third attempt, she, too, had succeeded, for the Red Wolf of the Desert had made its lair at Kerak.
* * *
It was almost dark when the horsemen reached the fortress.
They had been sighted an hour earlier and a detachment of cavalry had been sent out to meet them. As soon as the Lord of Nablus and the Hospitaller escort were identified, two of the garrison cavalry wheeled their horses and galloped back to relay the news. The Captain of the North Garrison loathed the black-and-white men of the Hospital, and he was pleased to hear that they were bringing a dead knight with them. He gave orders for the visitors to be contained in one of the outer courtyards, then remembered something and gave a more explicit command. Balian and his party were to be brought in by the north-west gate and left in the courtyard there.
He waited on the wall until the horsemen entered Wadi al-Frangi, then smiled to himself and went to alert Prince Reynald. The Captain of the North Garrison was named Fulcon. Like everyone else at Kerak, Fulcon addressed Reynald as Prince. Embittered by the loss of his lands in Antioch, Reynald had refused to relinquish his royal title. Those who wished to remain in his favour called him Prince and asked no questions. Some extremists, like Fulcon, believed that this chosen title was too mean; he should be called King.
The horsemen made their way along the floor of the wadi and up the steep, curving path to the castle. In the fading light it was impossible to judge the extent of the defences, though it seemed to Ernoul that wherever he looked he saw a fresh looming mass of fitted limestone blocks. He had already accepted what Balian had told him; there was no doubt that the fortress had the dimensions of a city.
They turned off the path and clattered across a wide drawbridge. The young squire made a mask of his face so that the gatehouse guards would not think he was overawed by the length of the bridge, or the depth of the fosse beneath, or the arm-thick chains that hung from grooved apertures above the entrance. They rode in pairs under the teeth of the portcullis and past the great double gates. A short walled passage led towards another arched gateway, and then they were through the arch and turning in an enclosed yard. They heard the chains rattle as the bridge was raised and they reined in, gagging and coughing.
The stench was unbearable.
Ordure and excrement were heaped along three sides of the yard and smeared over most of the floor. Although cold air now rolled across the plateau, the heat of a full day was trapped with the riders in the deep stone box. Before the Hospitallers could rally, the garrison cavalry bowed forward over their mounts and urged them through a second, smaller gate in the inner wall. With an angry roar Fostus and others spurred after them, pulling up sharply as the gate was swung shut.
It appeared that the Lord of Nablus and his party were to wait on a dungheap.
The foetid air filled their nostrils and clawed at their throats. Ernoul f
elt beads of cold sweat on his face and neck. He rode to the rear of the group, slid from his horse and stumbled into a corner of the yard. Praying that he could not be seen, he vomited, then leaned weakly against the wall. He was used to the everyday smells of men and animals, to the sweet smell of blood and the sour odour of urine and stale sweat. He had grown up with the acrid fumes of wet wood and the sulphurous clouds of burning pitch. But this foul effluvium that rose from the ground, then sank again in his lungs, this was more than he could take. He stayed where he was until he had stopped shaking, then shuffled back to his horse, his head bowed. He mounted with difficulty and sneaked a glance at his companions. They were waxy-faced and sweating and he felt a little better.
The Commander of Knights approached Balian to suggest that they break down the inner gate.
‘If we stay long here, lord, we’ll grow too faint to move. Christ, what a smell. My men would be as well employed at the gate as sitting sick on horseback.’
Balian thought about it, then shook his head.
‘When we were met on the road,’ he queried, ‘did you notice any omission in the order of things?’
‘Their manners were missing, if that’s what you—’
‘They were, Sir Conrad, but I mean something more essential.’
‘Well, they brought no water with them.’
‘Exactly. They had been told to deny us any refreshment. Now, did your men admit they were thirsty?’
It was the Hospitaller’s turn to shake his head. ‘They know better,’ he said vehemently. ‘They wouldn’t tell the hellhounds of Kerak if they were—’
‘If they were dying of thirst,’ Balian concluded. ‘And nor will we tell them when we choke on their perfume. We’ll not knock on their door just yet. But rest assured, good Commander, we have all marked their sins. The hours and days now move against them.’ He looked round at the exhausted knights. All, save Sir Guibert, had endured the heat of the valley, the arduous ascent to the plateau, the long ride eastward to the castle. They had breathed the salt air of the Dead Sea and the thin air of the heights, and now they must breathe the putrid air of the yard. They deserved a respite, but they could not take it yet.
Balian said, ‘Draw your men into two lines, so that they find us in good order. Do we have any water left?’
‘Not enough for a taste apiece. I scarcely thought even the men of Kerak would refuse us water.’
‘Nor I, though it’s a lesson to us. Well, if we can’t make a drink out of it, we can at least cool our lips. Pour what there is on to a towel and we’ll pass it around.’ He had seen Ernoul stagger into the corner of the yard and added, ‘If there’s a drop left give it to the weakest here.’
Conrad nodded. He collected the water skins from his men and shook the last drops on to a cloth. Then he took Sir Guibert’s flask, with an inch of water in it, and passed it to Ernoul.
‘Here, young squire. You got on well with the Swimmer. Drink this and pray for him.’
The escort had formed ranks and stared ahead, closing their ears to the sound of swallowing.
Ernoul hesitated, rubbed a thumb against the damp leather stopper and tasted the vomit that stained his throat. God, how he would like to wash that taste away. Perhaps with just half the water, just enough to—
He pressed down with his thumb, sealing the skin, then rode from the rear of the lines. He asked for the cloth and when it was passed to him he uncorked the flask and poured the water on to it. The knights yelled approval and for a moment the sound seemed to drive the stench from the yard.
It also sparked some activity among the garrison. As though in response to the concerted cheer four guards pulled open the inner gate. Captain Fulcon emerged smiling, but the smile shrank as he saw the waiting lines. Recoiling from the smell, he called:
‘Lord Balian, Prince Reynald has made time for you. You arrived here unannounced, but our gracious prince—’
‘Step forward!’ Balian snapped. ‘Stand before me! Who are you, to call from the dark like a peddler of flesh? What are you, Kerak, a soldier or a catamite?’
Fulcon gasped with anger. He had expected to find the visitors half dead. The yard had been heaped with filth at dawn, when Reynald wished to lower the price of some quarried stone he needed. The salesmen had arrived and asked so much, and he had offered so much less. Then he had shut them in the yard to think about it. An hour later they had staggered out, the colour of parchment, ready to settle at any price.
But these black-and-white men, who had already suffered the rigours of the Arava valley, then completed a full day’s ride, these devils had not even dismounted. As for Balian, the king-lover, he was still fit enough to make speeches.
‘You know me,’ Fulcon retorted. ‘I am the Captain of the North Garrison.’
‘So you say. Advance as such, so we can be sure. Move! Plough through your dirt and reach us.’
As he moved away from the door, Fostus rode past him. When the Constable was between Fulcon and the guards he turned his horse, barring the captain’s escape. The four men-at-arms glanced up at him, then at each other. One of them mouthed the word no. They had heard of Fostus. They believed what they’d heard.
‘Ah, yes,’ Balian said, ‘I recognize you now. You are the Captain of the North Garrison’
‘I told you who I—’
‘So the riders who met us on the road were your men?’
‘Yes, naturally they—’
‘And it was on your orders that they denied us water—’
‘You are in no position to demand—’
‘And at your command that we are cooped up here. Your name is Fulcon, I remember. Well, Fulcon, you rancid man, I hold you responsible.’ He pointed down at him. ‘You.’
It was not just the smell that made the Captain of the North Garrison blanch. He had tried to weaken the Lord of Nablus and his constable and squire and escort and he had failed. They were not weakened, though they were holding him responsible for the attempt. What Balian had said was not you, but I, or my Constable, or my squire, or any of my escort will wait until the opportunity presents itself, then kill you. So Fulcon blanched.
He retreated along the edge of the yard, keeping well clear of Fostus. His boots, leggings and cloak were caked with filth. He had been humiliated in front of his own men and promised death by Prince Reynald’s enemies. His body was clammy with sweat and he was ready to be sick. He suddenly felt great sympathy for the men who had come to sell their quarried stone.
* * *
They followed Fulcon through the inner gate and along a four hundred foot tunnel to an extensive underground stable. The captain knew that Reynald was waiting in the Great Hall, but Balian had demanded that before all else the horses must be fed, watered and stabled, while his men were given water, wine and cold meat. Later, they were to be fed properly, then offered the warmth of the nearby guardroom, or a fire of their own. A priest was to be found and arrangements made for the burial of Sir Guibert. Was all this clear?
Fulcon signified that it was.
While they waited, the Hospitallers stood under the great air shafts that opened in the roof, letting the night wind blow down through the mountain and drive the smell from their clothes. When the food came they gave some to the four garrison guards – in case it was poisoned – then consumed the rest and raised their mugs in salute to Lord Balian. They were strong men and quickly overcame the effects of the yard. When they had finished, the Commander of Knights selected four of them, and, with Balian, Fostus and Ernoul, the five Hospitallers followed Fulcon from the stable.
He took them deep into the mountain on which Kerak stood, through a series of galleries that twisted upward through the rock. They passed bakeries and corn mills, olive and wine presses, dormitories and a smithy and an armoury that was stocked with enough weapons to equip half the Crusaders in Palestine.
Ernoul estimated that they had covered half a mile before they emerged at ground level. It was too dark to see much, but he gained a vivid
impression of walls beyond walls, distant flaring torches, darkened archways and, on every wall-walk and battlement, the silhouette of a guard or a passing patrol. He was glad the Hospitallers were with him. He was no coward, but he was haunted by the thought that each unlit portal marked an entrance to a subterranean maze. It was like a snake pit, except that the writhing bodies were frozen in stone, while the mouths gaped open, showing iron-bound teeth. He stationed himself between Fostus and Sir Conrad and stared ahead, concentrating on staying in step with Balian.
Without warning Fulcon stopped, pointed to a flight of shallow steps and muttered, ‘Up there. The doors at the top lead to the Great Hall. I don t wa – there’s no call for me to go in. The guards there will not impede you. I, uh, I was acting on orders, you know. I hold no personal grudge against you, Lord Balian. No, nor against the Hospital.’ He laughed feebly. ‘We are all soldiers. Orders must be obeyed, isn’t that so? Sir Conrad? It’s so, you must agree.’ He cleared his throat and glanced down at his soiled clothes. The Crusaders waited, pitiless. Then Fostus growled, ‘You stink, vermin,’ and knocked him aside. He retreated into the night and the men gripped their sword hilts and climbed the steps.
* * *
Stephanie approached the Great Hall from another direction. She hoped that the meeting would not end in bloodshed. But at the same time she was thrilled by the possibility that Reynald might lose his temper. Her first husband, Humphrey, had never shown much emotion, while Miles of Plancy had shown none at all. A man, if he was a real man, should not be frightened to unleash his passions and let his feelings run like hunting dogs in pursuit of his quarry. Diplomacy and sugared words were all very well for the Royal Court at Jerusalem, but here, in her castle, she liked men to behave like men. She, herself, of course, would remain quiet; a gentlewoman must never raise her voice. But a man should let the wide world know he was alive, yes, and let his woman know he was a man.
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 4
