Guy was tempted to vacillate, but he knew he dare not face the consequences of a defeat. Nevertheless, this enforced inactivity soured the army. The volunteers threatened to return to the coast. The Italians vowed to attack unaided, and never again to follow his banner. The greater mass of the army branded him a coward. Reynald and Joscelin raged at Amalric, demanding to know whether or not the Constable was able to influence his brother. Humphrey of Toron arrived with forty men – the remnants of the detachment from Moab – and drove his stepfather to fury by siding with Raymond and his defensive policy.
The Saracens tried every trick to make the Crusaders break ranks and stream out across the plain, and Reynald’s party worked hard to grant their wish. But Raymond and his allies hung on, refusing to be drawn. The army held its line, while its leaders stormed between their own sections and the scarlet tent. Those soldiers who heeded the defensive policy brawled with those who clamoured for action. Knives were drawn and on one occasion arrows flew in the Christian camp. By 7th October, the army was ready to disintegrate.
Then, unaware that he was camped opposite a schismatic force, Saladin chose the night of the 7th and 8th to withdraw his men from the seigneurie of Beisan. There seemed little chance of enticing the Franks from their position, or, he believed, of making an impression the unified body of mounted knights. He accepted the situation philosophically; there would be another time. The Christians had been in Palestine for a hundred years. He could afford to wait a hundred hours, or a hundred days.
The royal army remained encamped throughout the next day. Patrols probed north-east toward the Sea of Galilee, east to the Jordan and south-east through the swamps that surrounded Beisan. One patrol roamed south and came upon the bodies of Humphrey’s column. They saw immediately that the leopards and wolves had been there first. There was no sign of the Saracens west of the Jordan. The army was free to stand down.
Amid sighs of relief and groans of frustration, the barons collected their men and led them back toward Jerusalem, or Tiberias, or the coast. Guy and Amalric rode together at the heads of their sections. As they were passing through the camp someone sang out:
‘Brother and brother,
Brother and brother;
A Lusignan coward
And a Courtenay lover.’
The last referred to Amalric’s mistress, Joscelin’s sister Agnes of Courtenay.
Guy clenched his fists and half turned in his saddle. ‘Why?’ he hissed. ‘Why didn’t you leave me be in Poitou? I am not the kind you want, Amalric. You and I, we are alike in nothing. Why did you have to choose me?’
Staring straight ahead, Amalric replied, ‘Hold your tongue, brother. You’ll do. You’re one of the luckiest of us all.’
‘Oh, I thought so, too, once. But less and less with every day. Don’t you give thought to it? I don’t want to be Regent. Nor commander of this splintered army. I want to be left alone.’
‘Aah, shush. Your pretty features and corn hair have bought you a piece of the world. Be thankful and keep silent. Even fate can be intolerant of fools.’
Chapter Six
Jerusalem
October 1183
Pashia de Riveri waited impatiently for her lover. She paced across the mosaic floor, circled the reception chamber in the great house in Jerusalem, then threw some cushions on to the tasselled Persian rug and crouched down before the stone fireplace. She watched the flames curl round the spitting pine logs and marvelled at her new-found constancy. Or rather, that she had remained constant for so long. She was thirty-three years old and for the past six years she had lived and slept with only one man. She supposed that, before she had met her present lover, she had been bedded by eight or ten others. She remembered three of them clearly, and like most women she could pinpoint the date and place of her initiation into the rites of love; the bloody, painful moment of defloration.
She had just turned fifteen, though she had been physically ready a year earlier. Her father was a fletcher in a village near Toron; three days before Easter a group of soldiers had arrived, one on horseback, three in a heavy baggage-cart. The horseman had introduced himself as Baldric, the steward of Thierry of Alsace, Count of Flanders, and Champion of the Christian Right. He had brought bows to be mended, crossbows to be re-sprung, and an order for as many arrows and quarrels as the fletcher could supply. Baldric said that the fortress at Banyas was being besieged by a Saracen force under the command of Nur ed-Din, Emir of Aleppo, and that Count Thierry was on his way there with a strong counterforce of Crusaders.
Her father had busied himself with the repairs, then had called to his daughter to help him carry the bundles of arrows and mace-head bolts to the cart. Baldric had stopped him, taken him aside and told him that the soldiers would carry whatever was necessary.
Looking back across the years, Pashia was sure her father knew why Thierry’s steward wanted her released from the work benches, but at the time she had thought Baldric the most perfect gentleman she had ever met. Ignoring the sly glances of the soldiers, he had taken her by the hand and walked with her, amusing her with jokes and word pictures of his fellow Crusaders. She was still giggling to herself when they reached the food-store behind the house.
She was a country girl, so she was not entirely ignorant of the sexual act. But the Baldric who led her into the storeroom, then closed and barred the door, was not the Baldric who had charmed her and impressed her father. Then he was a man, now an animal…
She never saw Baldric again, though she heard a rumour that he had been burned to death at Banyas.
A year later she was married to a merchant in Nablus. She thought him a dull and stupid man, more interested in his ailing drapery business than in her. He made her work the daylight hours in the shop and paid her a pittance. If she took a fancy to any of the stock she had to buy it, like any other customer, and he made a profit on the sale. One day she took some dark green silk, omitted to pay for it and made herself a dress. De Riveri discovered the theft and beat her, blaming her for his own mis-management of the poorly lit establishment. This was not the first time he had lacerated her skin, but she vowed it would be the last. She waited until he was asleep that night, then crept from the house and walked through the darkness to Sebastia, a few miles away.
There she met an attractive young harness-maker, named Lambert. She told him the truth, that she had been married for almost five years and had eventually run away from her husband. She explained what de Riveri had done to her and showed him the fresh weals on her back. If he would let her stay with him she promised to cook and clean house.
Before a week was over they were in love. They lived together above the harness-shop for more than six months.
Then, incredibly, four out-of-work Crusaders turned up, told her they knew who she was and that her husband had employed them to trace her and return her to Nablus.
‘Don’t deny it,’ they said. ‘You’re a whore, but you’re also Pashia de Riveri and you’re going back to your husband.’
‘How long?’ she gasped.
‘How long have you been a whore, missy? That’s for you to say.’
‘No, I mean how long have you been searching for me?’
‘A month or so. Where’s your man friend? Lammer? Lammert? Some such name.’
‘He’s out at – Why do you want to know?’
‘We want to tell him’
‘Ask him,’ another of the Crusaders corrected.
‘Yes, we want to ask him not to do it again. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. Only a month? Why – If he wanted me back why didn’t he do something about it before? Why now?’
‘He couldn’t afford it before. He told us how you used to steal the money. It’s funny, but he’s been saving up for you, missy. He can’t be blamed for that. You look as though you’d tuck up nicely. Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find your friend. Now pack your things, you’ve had your last of him.’
She tried to run. One of them caught her round the waist
and sent her sprawling in a wide leather chair. Lambert had made the chair for himself; it was his chair and she felt guilty being in it, even like this. One of the Crusaders stayed to guard her while the other three went in search of the harness-maker. They met him on his way back from the nearby stables. When the Crusaders returned to the house they had blood on their hands and clothes.
Pashia screamed, then sobbed over and over again, ‘You need not have hurt him, you need not have hurt him.’
Indignant that she should think they were not well-disciplined, they said, ‘We were paid to take you back and teach him a lesson. Now, pack what you can carry. What do you think we are? No need to hurt him? Get along, missy, you’re going home.’
She went home to Nablus and the draper. The Crusaders had exaggerated de Riveri’s sense of sacrifice. Nablus was expanding as a city and business had picked up. In the six months that she had been away, her husband had put on weight and developed a taste for civic responsibility. Unfortunately, this outward conformity did not prevent him from thrashing her in the privacy of his own home. While he punished her he called her a whore, then forgave her and insisted that she share his bed. She stayed three nights and three days, then fled with his savings to Jerusalem. Because he had called her a whore and made dull, obese love to her she decided to make him pay for his entertainment. He had told the Crusaders she was a thief, and now she had earned the title. And because he had caused Lambert to be maimed she left a small fire burning against the thin stockroom door. De Riveri escaped with his life and wrung his hands amid the smoking ruins of his future.
Pashia lost herself in Jerusalem. At first she lived off her husband’s savings, then as the mistress to a succession of well-to-do businessmen. Through them she came into contact with members of the king’s court, and it was in this way that she met her present lover.
He was deeply attracted to her, took her to live with him in his sumptuous house, and showered her with jewellery and fine clothes for which she paid not one besant.
His name was Heraclius.
He was not a well-to-do businessman.
There were those who said he had no right to keep a mistress, since he was the Patriarch of Jerusalem, and thus the Head of the Latin Church in the East.
* * *
Ernoul followed Balian and Fostus into the city of Jerusalem. They entered from the north, through the Gate of the Column of St Stephen, and rode across the paved square to where two main streets started into the city.
Balian waited for his squire to draw level with him, then said, ‘One hour, after which time I’ll have need of you. I know an hour is not long enough in the presence of a beautiful woman, but if you insist on seeing her now—’ He shrugged resignedly.
‘It’s time enough my lord. I only want to tell her, well, one or two things.’
Fostus guffawed. He loved Ernoul, as he loved Lord Balian, but there were times when the young man seemed little more than a boy. And this boy had now found himself a girl, a herbalist’s daughter who worked in one of the narrow covered alleys opposite the Hospital of St John. That was fine; perhaps she would feed him herbal concoctions to keep up his strength, while he read aloud to her from his own immortal writings. But this girl had worked her way under his skin so that, instead of waiting until his day’s work was concluded, Ernoul had asked leave to visit her the moment they reached Jerusalem. Lord Balian had warned him he would be required at the Royal Palace, but he had pleaded so eloquently that he had been granted one hour’s release. By the time the lovesick young man had battled his way through the crowded streets to Rue des Herbes, then along that to the herbalist’s stall, he would have to tell his girl that he would be back later, then dash away to rejoin Balian at the palace. Still, Fostus admitted, if Ernoul thought it was worth the pushing and jostling, then it probably was.
‘You’d better be on your way,’ Balian said.
Ernoul nodded and, because he thought it was expected of him, mumbled, ‘If you would rather I came with you now—’
‘No, no, you go on and see your lover.’
‘She’s not my lover!’
‘Oh?’
‘Of course not. I mean, well, I’ve known her less than a month. Now I’m not saying she wouldn’t— ’
‘Have you asked her?’ Fostus growled. ‘Perhaps I should come with you. If the words stick in your throat I could ask her for you. I’ll put my hands on her here and here – no, lower, there – and then – hell’s claws, I’ll keep you company.’
‘No, you won’t!’ Ernoul retorted. He knew he sounded immature and undignified and made an effort to lower his voice. ‘That won’t be necessary. Thank you, but I am quite capable of managing my own affairs.’
As soon as he’d said that he regretted it, but Fostus had already pounced.
‘Affair, eh? What affair? You told us it hadn’t started yet. She might say no. She might be married by now, have you thought of that? A lot can happen in a month. She might already have a lover. If she’s a nice girl she won’t have room for two of you.’
Ernoul’s face reddened with protective anger. ‘You have no right to speak like that! I ought to—’ He stopped as Balian nodded toward the entrance to St Stephen’s Street. Angry though he was, Ernoul was glad that Balian had dismissed him. He did not want to trade blows with Constable Fostus. He admired the hairy Crusader too much to fight him; and anyway, Fostus would lick him with his eyes closed and one hand behind his back.
Still suffused, Ernoul dismounted and led his horse along the congested street.
When he had gone, Balian said, ‘You taunt that fine young man mercilessly. Were you always so sure of yourself with women?’
‘Always,’ Fostus stated. ‘They’re simple creatures, so why should they cause me any confusion?’
‘You have a poor opinion of them, in general?’
‘You know otherwise, sire, but no man’s a god, so where’s the sense in treating a woman like a goddess? They’re good for bed and giving a man sons and running the kitchens, but I don’t worship them for it. And I don’t trust them, either.’
‘Bed, birth and board. Such sensitivity. Ernoul could obviously learn much from your methods.’
Impervious to sarcasm, Fostus agreed immediately. ‘He could. And when he’s willing to learn, I’ll teach him.’
Balian grinned and shook his head. He knew his stalwart bodyguard far too well to be taken in by his callous facade. Fostus had risked his life more than once to save a servant girl from rape, or to prevent a Jewess from being vilified by drunken Franks. He was not one for affairs of the heart or the romantic trappings of love, but he respected women – all women, save perhaps Agnes of Courtenay and Guy’s wife Sibylla – and it was evident that, though no man would ever dominate him, the right woman might.
‘Come on,’ Balian said. ‘Now that you’ve voiced your shaky creed, let’s find out why the king requires us.’
‘It’s probably his mother,’ Fostus commented, making another clumsy stab at humour. ‘Agnes has told him she wants to be proclaimed a goddess.’
‘That’s incautious talk,’ Balian reminded him quietly. ‘If I were you, I would not repeat such notions here. Agnes has too many long-eared reporters in her employ. Come on.’ He jerked his head toward where the second main street entered the square.
They rode along the Street of the Spaniards, crossed Via Dolorosa and continued through the Street of the Furriers toward the Wailing Wall and the entrance to the great Temple Enclosure. This paved and lead-sealed area was more than two thousand feet long and seven hundred wide and contained some of the holiest of all Moslem and Christian shrines. Also known as the Noble Sanctuary, it housed the Mosque of El Aqsa, with the Royal Palace attached to its south-west corner. Four gates – the Gate of Paradise, the Golden Gate, the Gate of Grief and the Beautiful Gate – all led in to the Temple Enclosure, while in the centre of the open area stood the magnificent Dome of the Rock. This white marble edifice, with its gold octagonal dome, boasted more
than fifty windows, each filled with sixty square feet of coloured glass. The building stood one hundred and forty feet high on a wide, raised platform, and the dome itself acted as a shimmering beacon to the faithful.
They came because it was here that Mohammed had conversed with Jesus, Moses and Abraham, and from here that the prophet of Islam had leapt to Paradise, leaving his footprint on the rock. It was here that the Ark of the Covenant had stood; here that Solomon had built his temple; here that Abraham had made ready to sacrifice his child, Isaac. The Angel Gabriel had visited this place, and, on the Last Day, Allah would gather the faithful together in the Cave of Souls below the rock.
Fostus had seen the building many times and did not give it a second glance.
The two men dismounted by the Beautiful Gate and made their way alongside the west wall of the Temple Enclosure. They passed groups of pilgrims and sightseers, the Moslems dressed in striped robes and kafiyas, the Frankish pilgrims in ragged cloaks and wide skin hats. Most of the Christians carried a long staff curved at the top to take their pathetic bundles of food and clothes. What little money they possessed was contained in a leather scrip that swung from their belt. Some groups chanted quietly to themselves, or murmured together in prayer.
Balian slowed the pace, watching them and comparing their way of life with his. However hard-fought a battle, however chilly a bedchamber or a river crossing, the life of a noble, or even an ordinary soldier, was not harder than that of a pilgrim.
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