‘Never in time of peace.’
‘And they’ll do it again. What do I care for your truce? You use whatever methods you like to oppose them, but leave me mine. I have sixteen years to erase, and I’ll do it on the Red Sea, or in Mecca, or in Cairo, or wherever I see fit. Do you understand me, courtier? I make the laws here. What you or your king says is of no moment. In Jerusalem, yes. Under the drooping palms of Nablus, yes. But in this hall, in Kerak, in Oultrejourdain, no! No, dusty Balian, no, and finally, no!’ He shook, then braced himself, his heavy hands pressed flat on the table.
‘Believe me or not,’ Balian said, ‘I have some sympathy for you.’
‘Keep your sympathy.’
‘You hold a difficult fief.’
‘Made more difficult by you.’
‘Whatever the causes, you have held it secure. The kingdom looks to you to safeguard this border county.’
‘Does it? Well, I look to the kingdom for nothing. I would that all Palestine were under the shadow of my sword.’
‘I can believe that, and you are not alone in this desire for unity. But with your sea raid all you have succeeded in doing is to unite the Moslems. Saladin has vowed personal vengeance on you—’
‘And I on him.’ He grinned at his allies from Shaubak. ‘Now we are equal,’ he told them. It brought a laugh from the knights.
Doggedly, Balian continued. He had a message to deliver. He could not answer for the way it was received.
‘Saladin has vowed vengeance on you, swearing to seek you out and slay you with his own hand. It is a rare thing for him to say, but he has announced it publicly.’
‘And do you in turn seek to terrify me?’ Reynald laughed. ‘Am I to clap my knees together in front of my wife? Must we again take flight?’
One of the knights repeated the joke he had made earlier. ‘Saddle the horses! Quick, saddle the horses!’ His companions applauded, aware that ‘saddle the horses’ would become a standing joke among the garrisons of Shaubak and Kerak.
Silent until now, Fostus snarled, ‘We did not ride this far for such petty entertainment. Now, will your humour keep, or shall I show you other diversions?’
The men-at-arms stiffened and looked towards Captain Azo. The Hospitallers marked the position of the garrison guards, while Azo glanced at Reynald. The visitors were outnumbered, but any group that boasted Balian of Ibelin and Fostus and Sir Conrad and four Knights of St John could not be judged by number. Reynald knew this and traded force for sarcasm.
‘We are terrified enough, Constable Fostus. There is no call for you to frighten us further. Your good lord has already raised the spectre of the worldly Saladin. Is there more, Nablus?’
‘Much more,’ Balian told him. ‘I did not expect you to heed the personal threat, and if it were that alone I would not have troubled to relay it. But the emir has gone beyond that singular promise. You sank a pilgrim ship while you were being chased north—’
‘Is that what you heard, that I was being chased?’
‘It is. We heard it from an oarsman who was aboard your flagship, Ter e Mer.’
‘You personally spoke to him? The Lord of Nablus in conversation with a base galley-hand?’
‘I did. And this base galley-hand also told us that you had killed your captain, a pirate named Camini. That’s of no consequence, and we’re probably well rid of him, but when Saladin heard that you had burned and sunk an innocent ship he revoked the truce.’
‘Your truce,’ Reynald repeated. ‘Why must you involve me?’ For the first time since he had entered the Great Hall, Balian showed that he, too, had a temper. He strode forward, pulling a roll of parchment from his surcoat. The parchment was tied with a blue cord, from which hung the heavy red wax seal of Jerusalem. He tossed the letter on to the table and thundered, ‘You are involved ! Like it or not, you are party to the truce! The question is not why we bring you into our affairs – you are already in them – but why do you drag us into yours? Why must you involve us, Reynald of Chatillon? You have broken the treaty, filled your cellars with the profits of senseless murder, and dishonoured yourself and us with you. You dare say you are not involved?’
Reynald started to speak, but Balian called, ‘Hold silent! I’ve not done!’ He indicated the letter. ‘You will read there that Saladin has formally revoked the truce and declared war on the Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem. He is at this moment gathering his troops near Ajlun. There are signs that he will invade the seigneurie of Beisan within the month.’
‘He must invade somewhere,’ Reynald shrugged. ‘Send me word when it happens and I will take up arms as readily as anyone.’
‘You fool! Do you still not see? Until your so-called scientific expedition, we were at peace with Islam. You have always been ready, more than ready to take up arms, but the kingdom is not. We are not ready for war!’
The Lord of Kerak glared down at him. Spacing his words carefully, he said, ‘Tell me this, Righteous. Were you ever ready? Hmm? For all your councils and decorative speeches, were you ever prepared to fight?’
‘Sweet God,’ Balian breathed. ‘You choose this time to taunt us? You who drove us into this bloody trap?’ His voice hardened. ‘Yes, we were once ready. When we believed in what we were doing. When a Crusade was not merely an excuse to escape the hangman’s noose in Europe, or to seize land here, regardless of right. When we came as part of God’s army, to liberate His Holy City and to free His Kingdom on earth. When we came so that His peoples – pilgrims, Chatillon, much like those you slaughtered – so that all men of prayer might journey in safety to worship Him in His own house. Oh, yes, we were ready then. Before you and those like you tore us apart.’
Stephanie found herself nodding agreement. For the moment – thrilled by the novelty of Balian’s anger and his obvious sincerity – she forgot that Kerak did not side with Nablus. She knew that what Balian said was true; men were no longer fired with religious fervour. Now each knight fought for himself, or at most for his family and friends. Times had changed; there was no disputing it. And Balian was emerging as a much more attractive emissary. Perhaps after Humphrey and Isabella were married, she might encourage his friendship and—
Reynald rounded on her and she stopped nodding.
Balian pointed to the letter. ‘Emir Saladin is more generous than we deserve at this time. He doesn’t want war any more than we do, and he offers you the opportunity to avert the conflict. He has informed King Baldwin, and the king now informs you, that if you will make full restitution—’
‘What!’
‘You cannot bring dead men to life, or raise a sunken ship, but if you send two million dinars to Damascus—’
‘What!’
‘And undertake to remain within the frontiers of the kingdom—’
Reynald dragged his sword from its scabbard, raised it above his head and brought it crashing down on the table. The planks bucked with the force of the blow, while the parchment jumped apart, neatly sliced in two. The knights from Shaubak rose in their chairs, and Stephanie put a hand over her face. Below, in the hall, Fostus watched the sword, ready to bar its path if Reynald threw it. The table dormant bore a long, deep scar, edged with raised splinters.
Gasping noisily, so that the words themselves were hacked into segments, the Red Wolf howled, ‘Send him… I will send him noth… You tell your king… the leper, take this message back… if he wish… void a war, let him send the dinars… him do it… dertake whatsoever he choo… long as he understands that I… my lands as he does on his…’ His mouth open, he stabbed at the bisected letter. One piece rolled within reach. The other, bearing the royal seal, fell from the table, fell again from the edge of the dais and rolled to Ernoul’s feet.
Reynald threw his sword on to the table, snatched his half of the parchment and tore it to shreds. They all watched the display of uncontrolled savagery, all except the young squire and Humphrey of Toron. Ernoul stooped, collected the bound tube and slipped it under his surcoat. Humphrey blinked, ack
nowledging that his stepfather’s behaviour would not only be reported to the court at Jerusalem, but probably recorded by the chronicler so that all the world might learn what kind of man Reynald of Chatillon was. But, of course, when the world did learn of it, it would be far too late. If there was a war, it would have come and gone and been stitched into the fabric of history, a bloodstained thread that marked a thousand or ten thousand graves, the deepest and widest of which might contain the disfigured corpse of the Christian kingdom in the East.
* * *
Reynald allowed the Hospitallers to bury Sir Guibert at night, outside the castle walls, but refused them permission to use the garrison chapel. Then he dictated a letter to King Baldwin, formally rejecting Saladin’s offer.
Immediately after the meeting in the Great Hall, Stephanie of Milly retired to her chambers, her mind spinning with noisy fantasies.
Next morning, with Reynald’s letter in his saddlebag, Balian led his party back the way they had come, through Wadi al-Frangi, then through Wadi Kerak toward the Dead Sea.
While the Hospitallers were navigating the twists and turns of the descent, Reynald had the Captain of the North Garrison brought before him. He accused Fulcon of having given aid and sustenance to a potential enemy. Fulcon made his plea, then was found guilty and taken to the south-east tower, where he was made to look down into Wadi as-Sitt, several hundred feet below. His arms and legs were bound, a wooden box was fitted over his head to prevent him losing consciousness, and he was thrown out from the top of the tower.
Captain Azo recommended his cousin, Aegelric, for the vacant post, and the young soldier was given trial command of the North Garrison.
Saladin did not invade Beisan within the month. In the sincere, though naïve, belief that the Frankish overlords would somehow make Reynald see reason, he returned to Damascus. But no money or word of contrition was forthcoming from Kerak. Other nobles were sent to Reynald. Their efforts were rejected out of hand. The Moslem leader waited three months, then lost patience and reassembled his forces. On 29th September, 1183, he led the army of Islam across the Jordan and entered the seigneurie of Beisan.
But his misplaced trust in the honour of his foes had given the Crusaders time to prepare for the conflict. They assembled at Sepphoria, thirty-five miles north-west of Beisan, then moved south to intercept the invaders at Tubanie. The Christian kingdom, could, at last, rebut Reynald’s accusation; this time they were ready for war.
Chapter Five
Sepphoria, Tubanie
September, October 1183
Among the fourteen hundred knights who rallied to the royal standard at Sepphoria were many who wore borrowed armour. Some had only recently arrived in the Holy Land and had yet to earn a place for themselves. Others had fought for thirty years or more, and had nothing to show for it but the scars. There were those who had lost a limb, or an eye, or merely all sense of personal ambition. They had suffered military reversals, imprisonment, starvation and disease, yet they fought on for a hundred different reasons, or for no reason at all.
And among the fourteen hundred were those who had prospered. Some had grown too fat, or too rich. Others had combined a Crusading career with political advancement. They had risen from obscurity through their own endeavours, or inherited a distinguished past with which to pave the future. They, too, fought for a hundred reasons, for there are a hundred routes to aggrandisement.
Lastly, there were the lucky ones. They had no particular abilities, or talents; they were who they were, and it was enough. Fate smiled upon them and led them by the hand. There were very few purely lucky ones, but of these the most fortunate was a fawn-haired Frenchman named Guy of Lusignan.
To his credit, he was handsome. But he was also petulant, spoiled and irresolute. It was quickly learned that he could be swayed by whoever blew hardest upon him, and that the voice to which he listened most carefully was the last voice he heard.
He was the younger brother of Amalric of Lusignan, a clever, ruthless Poitevin who, in 1179, had foresaken France for the Holy Land. On his arrival, Amalric had married Baldwin of Ramleh’s daughter, Eschiva, then, before long, forsaken her for a woman twice her age. Politically it was a shrewd move, since the woman was Agnes of Courtenay, mother of the leper King, Baldwin IV. Agnes also had a daughter, Sibylla, and although Amalric and Agnes did not marry, they conspired together to find a suitable husband for the king’s sister. Sibylla had been married before, but her husband had died, leaving her to give birth to a sickly son, also named Baldwin. So, whoever married her would become the brother-in-law of the present king, and the stepfather of the future one.
Even though he, himself, could not marry the young widow, Amalric saw a chance to further the fortunes of the House of Lusignan by presenting his younger brother for her approval. He spoke glowingly of Guy’s handsome appearance, of his kindness and gallantry, and of his desire to give love and receive it from a woman as beautiful as she. Then, before the effects of this panegyric could wear off, he summoned Guy from Poitou and hustled him before the ardent Sibylla.
She found him as attractive in the flesh as in her dreams. Amalric and Agnes congratulated the young pair fulsomely, then directed their efforts at King Baldwin. Mother badgered son, and sister worried brother until the leper gave his weary blessing to the union. Guy was not the man he would have chosen for his sister, nor as a brother-in-law, but he realized that Sibylla could not be dissuaded. Moreover, he reasoned, it was better to have a compliant vassal like Guy than a troublemaker like – well, like so many others.
This well-intentioned indulgence may have pleased his immediate family, but it angered the local barons. Once again a princess had been squandered on an interloper. Amalric of Lusignan was the Constable of the Kingdom, and he had the king’s mother as his mistress. But these two achievements had not earned him the right to place his kinsmen in bed with royalty.
Nevertheless, Guy and Sibylla were married in the spring of 1180, and Guy was awarded the coastal counties of Ascalon and Jaffa.
Prospects seemed bright for the Lusignan–Courtenay alliance. Agnes’s brother, Joscelin, had obtained the post of Seneschal and was engaged on a course of wholesale embezzlement, using his authority to divert money earmarked for the treasury at Jerusalem. His close friend, Reynald of Chatillon, had made a successful transition from the prison at Aleppo to the fortress of Kerak. Amalric remained as Constable, and manipulated the strings that worked his brother. Sibylla was completely enamoured of Guy, and lived a mindless, fairy-tale existence in Ascalon. She ignored her feeble child, so that he grew in years, though not in strength.
By the end of 1180 the senior members of the alliance were all in their place, waiting for one more event to occur, an event that would open the way to absolute power. They waited for the leper king to decay.
They held themselves in readiness for nearly three years until, in February, 1183, the twenty-two-year-old monarch fell gravely ill. This courageous ruler, who knew he would die, yet refused to acknowledge his infirmities, was forced to concede that he could not govern the kingdom single-handed from a sick-bed. He would need a Regent, as Raymond of Tripoli had been Regent during his infancy.
As before, Raymond came forward, supported by those who had helped him nine years earlier. But this time they could not out-vote a single upstart like Miles of Plancy. Now they faced the concerted opposition of Seneschal Joscelin, Constable Amalric, the king’s mother, Guy and Sibylla, Reynald of Chatillon and the Knights of the Temple. Agnes and Sibylla allowed none of the Tripoli faction near the ravaged king. Instead, they poisoned his mind against his former Regent and convinced him that there was only one man worthy of his trust, the one man Agnes said they would all be happy to follow.
They persuaded him to place the regency in the uncertain hands of Guy of Lusignan.
Baldwin the leper still found the strength to advise his court and dictate letters, demanding that Reynald make restitution for his Red Sea foray. He travelled about the count
ry on a litter, exhausting himself in his efforts to keep abreast of monarchic affairs. But by September he could no longer lead the army, so the fourteen hundred knights, together with six thousand foot soldiers, moved south from Sepphoria under the inconstant leadership of their new Regent.
* * *
Guy wiped the rain from his face and struggled to hold his horse in check. The morning had been cool and overcast, and the army had made good progress through the fertile valleys that lay between Sepphoria and Nazareth. They had passed groves of olive trees and thick stands of carob, from which the soldiers had gathered the sweet, locust beans. They had eaten bitter oranges, poor cousins of those that grew around Ascalon and Jaffa, and at midday they had balanced their diet with the meat of wild black goats that roamed the area. Then, as the vanguard started up the steep hill of Nazareth, the first fine veils of rain drifted across from the dim hump of Mount Tabor.
The leading section was composed of three separate contingents, each of which answered to its own commander. The Grand Master of the Temple, Arnold of Toroga, rode at the head of one hundred and twenty Templars. Joscelin of Courtenay led two hundred lay knights and eight hundred infantry, while a further two hundred horsemen and five hundred men-at-arms followed the banner of Constable Amalric.
These three leaders had been joined by a fourth – Reynald of Chatillon. He had come alone to Sepphoria, having left his stepson to follow with a detachment from Moab. If all went well, young Humphrey of Toron would make contact with the main body of the army at Tubanie.
The vanguard reached the crest of the hill without incident, and Amalric glanced back as the next section toiled up the slope. He saw his brother at the head of a strong force of Poitevins and waved to him. But the rain had made the ground slippery, while the animals and men who had already climbed the hill had turned it to mud. Guy’s horse slipped and plunged, and he ignored Amalric’s greeting. He was not a particularly good horseman, not good enough, anyway, to control a slithering mount with one hand and wave with the other. Moreover, he was in no mood to be fraternal. He hated the responsibilities Amalric had forced upon him. If he was a poor equestrian, he was a worse strategist. Yet he was expected to lead more than seven thousand Crusaders to victory against an unknown number of Moslems, and to do so over country with which he was unfamiliar, in the rain. God, how he hated the rain.
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