Before a man embarked on his pilgrimage, he and his possessions would be blessed by a priest. Then, where the soldier was cheered on his way, the pilgrim would leave alone, often unnoticed. Throughout the time he was away he would purchase only those things that were essential to him – cheap food, a new pair of sandals, another staff to replace the one that had snapped or been stolen. Months, and sometimes years later, he would return home, unrecognizable. His hair would be lank and unkempt, his clothes rotting on his back, his face blistered and darkened, his body a mass of cuts and bruises. And yet, belying his abject poverty, this far-travelled pilgrim would be strung with evidence of his journey. He would wear this evidence proudly; it was his religious insignia.
Over the years, having met and conversed with pilgrims of every type, Balian had learned the significance of these treasured objects. They were like souvenirs of battle, some more impressive than others. He knew, for example, that a pilgrim who returned to London wearing a flask, or small, flattened bells gained less respect than one who carried a picture of St Peter or St Paul. The ampulla might contain the blood of St Thomas Becket, showing that the pilgrim had visited Canterbury, whereas the pewter effigy of St Peter proved that its owner had reached Rome.
Now, here in the enclosure, he could tell which of the pilgrims had bathed in the Jordan and which had travelled south, having worshipped at the shrine of St James of Compostella in Galicia. The first carried palm branches, or wore them tucked into their hats, and were known as palmers; the second had sewn scallop shells to their clothes and possessed a chip of bone, purporting to be from the body of St James. A few wore shells and lead medallions and palm leaves. These were the true pilgrims, who did little else with their lives but travel from one Christian shrine to another. They were the object of awe among their fellow pilgrims, and they earned money for themselves by giving advice on conditions abroad, or by supplying crude maps and the addresses of sympathetic inn-keepers.
There was another way in which a pilgrim might make money. He could sell his religious tokens to those who wanted the evidence without the toil.
The Lord of Nablus had once met such a salesman in Jaffa. The shameless pilgrim had shown him a muslin sack stuffed with effigies and crossed keys. He had bought them in Rome, caught a ship south from Naples and was about to re-sell them for profit in Palestine. Palestine, he said, was a good market, and anyway he intended to buy a farm in Antioch with the proceeds. Balian had been tempted to snatch the sack from him and throw it in the harbour, but he dared not destroy tokens of such a holy nature. So he voiced the hope that God would strike the man down, then let him go.
He had heard of others who filled ampullae with sheep’s blood who made their own clay impressions of genuine medallions, but he knew it was impossible to stop men from spitting in the face of God. Religion was like any other calling: some heard a voice, some the chink of coins.
He and Fostus reached the El Aqsa Mosque, walked past the white marble columns and entered the small Royal Palace. They blinked as they moved through the dark, tapestry-hung entrance hall, and for a moment they did not see the figure who stood at the far end of the room. But when he spoke they immediately recognized the rich, sonorous voice and then the big-bellied person of Patriarch Heraclius.
‘I saw you from the window, Balian Ibelin. I thought: “He has incurred some injury, to be dawdling so.” We expected you before this.’
There was no love lost between these two men. Heraclius had had almost no formal education, stated the fact proudly and often commented that ‘a man must teach himself about God and the World’. He had done just that, linking arms with the sacred and secular, and using his florid good looks and resonant tones to gain the peak of clerical achievement in Palestine. He had become the protégé of the Courtenay family, and, with their help, had advanced from local priest to Archdeacon, then to Archbishop, and finally to Patriarch of Jerusalem. Power brought him money, and he used the money to realize greater power. Nobody denied that the churchman was avaricious and sybaritic, with the morals of a dog. His mistress, Pashia de Riveri, was know as Madame la Patriarch-esse. The cynical title amused him; it proved that the common people feared God’s senior servant too much to call his woman a whore.
Balian said, ‘If I had known you were loitering in anticipation—’ then shrugged. There was nothing to be gained from a dispute with Heraclius. The one was everything the other was not. The two could not be joined; not even in spite.
He asked, ‘How is the king?’
‘How else, but dying? But he is waiting for you, as we have all been waiting for you. I was not loitering in antici—’
‘Who is in there with King Baldwin?’
‘pation. What? Regent Guy, the Grand Masters, the Lords Courtenay and Tripoli.’
‘Why are we summoned, Patriarch?’
‘You’ll learn that soon enough.’ He made as if to lead them through into the palace, then said, ‘Do I know your man?’
‘Which m—? Who? Constable Fostus? Of course you know him; you’ve met him more than—’ He frowned, suddenly suspicious. ‘Patriarch, are you deep in some private game?’
‘Not so. But there has been talk of assassination.’
Whose, Balian thought, yours or the king’s?
‘Baldwin is guarded at all times. Though now that I see your, ah, Constable Fenus, I accept that we may have met on occasion.’
‘Fostus,’ Balian corrected. ‘And now that you’ve played the watchdog you may lead us through.’
‘I am not a watchdog, and nor am I a servant, save only of God. I am His humble—’
Something was wrong. Balian knew it, but did not yet see the reason for it. He snapped, ‘I thought we were late. You know who we are. Let’s get on with it.’
‘and obedient servant, and proud to be so. You must leave your weapons here.’
‘Spit on the fire! You know who we are!’
While Heraclius explained that he was merely relaying the wishes of Regent Guy, Fostus whispered something to Balian.
‘You’re right,’ Balian said, ‘and I’m a fool not to have – Heraclius! You have not been true with us. You were not out here waiting to greet us; you’re here to delay us. Now lead us through!’
‘First, your weapons.’
‘Damn you, churchman! God knows what your friends are cooking in there’
They were too late.
The sound of angry voices echoed along the corridor. They heard:
… a poor exchange… plan to reseat you among your enemies… every right to be wary, Lord Regent… clear as water what Baldwin wants… demented by his sickness… itself a gift of the devil, I wouldn’t wonder…’
Then Guy of Lusignan, Arnold of Toroga and four or five others strode into the entrance hall and through it and out into the sunlight.
Balian crashed a fist against his open palm. ‘Hell’s gorge, now what?’
Heraclius started to make an appeasing gesture, caught Balian’s expression and stopped. Fostus glanced at the Patriarch as though he were a diseased animal, then plunged after his lord, treating the priest with the same contempt he had shown for Reynald of Chatillon’s garrison captain. The men of Nablus headed along the narrow corridor and turned into the throne room – in which the throne was a leper’s pallet.
They saw Roger of Les Moulins and Raymond of Tripoli, who started toward them. They saw Baldwin’s bed hung round with gauze curtains, and, inside the opaque canopy the hideous skeletal frame of the young King of Jerusalem. They saw the six man guard, composed of one Templar, one Hospitaller, one of Constable Amalric’s men, one of Raymond of Tripoli’s, one of Guy of Lusignan’s and one from the king’s own household. Balian was disturbed by this political arrangement. The Temple, Amalric and Guy represented one camp, Tripoli, The Hospital and the royal guard another. If a would-be assassin were to approach the bed there was no guarantee that all six men-at-arms would leap to Baldwin’s defence. It was indicative of the situation in the Christian kingd
om that the dying monarch sought refuge from his unseen enemies inside a ring of faithless friends.
The Lords of Nablus and Tiberias greeted each other, then Balian and Fostus crossed the patterned floor, moving through bars of early winter sunlight, and knelt before the filmy tent.
Baldwin lay on a jumble of tasselled cushions and silk pillows. His face was dreadfully eroded. He had lost the use of his hands and legs and within three months would be completely blind. He lay still as cooled wax and mouthed, ‘Who is it? Is that you, Courtenay? Regent Guy, is it you? Are you back to shout at me again?’
‘There will be no shouting, King. It’s Balian of Ibelin.’
‘Ah, yes. But I heard two men.’
‘My constable is with me.’
‘Old Fostus? That grizzly warrior? Fostus, let me hear that quarried voice of yours.’
Fostus could think of nothing to say, so cleared his throat, hoping it would suffice. Balian saw Baldwin smile and asked, ‘Have we reached you behind time, Lord King?’
The smile faded and the young leper replied, ‘I fear so, loyal Balian. Did you see Guy and his band?’
‘They passed us in the hall. We were held in conversation with the Patriarch.’
‘Held by him, you mean. Joscelin put him out there to forestall you. I had hoped you would evade that disgraceful cleric before – before—’ He sighed and they waited for him to muster his strength. A cold draught stirred the gauze. Balian glanced beyond the canopy to where Heraclius stood in conversation with Amalric. The Patriarch seemed pleased with himself and nudged the Constable of the Kingdom as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, I have the situation under control.’ Amalric scarcely reacted, though when he saw Balian looking at him he turned away.
Then Fostus found his tongue and growled, ‘King, may I speak?’
‘At last that voice,’ Baldwin whispered. ‘Yes, hero, speak to me. God that I had as much weight in all my being as you keep in your throat. Say on.’
‘If they left before you dismissed them, Guy and the others; if you want them back, I’ll bring them to you. I will bring them,’ he emphasized. ‘I promise you, King, if you desire Guy’s presence here, I’ll bring him to you, if I have to search—’
‘Will you drag him by the ear?’
‘If you so demand it. Yes.’
‘I believe you,’ Baldwin murmured gently. ‘You and our Lord Balian, I believe you both.’
Balian said, ‘What passed between you and the Regent, Lord King? We heard something about an exchange and a plan to reseat Guy.’
‘Then you heard the crux of it. I am dying, Balian. The world and I are well appraised of that fact. If I knew the day and the hour I would not mind, and there are many who would shout with joy. But the time of my death is not yet fixed, and, like any man, I would rather delay as long as possible my final appointment. There’s much to be done, much that I can do better than anyone else. You know me for an intransigent. I am stubborn, but I was born king and I will be king until God gives me no more air to breathe and takes His hand from my heart. I’m a poor thing to see or be near—‘
‘You are courage itself,’ Fostus blurted. ‘I won’t hear those words. You are the king. God preserve you, you are the king!’ He was close to tears and made a business of coughing. Damn’ young man, he thought, heaping insults upon his own head. If he, the best in Jerusalem, called himself a poor thing, then what were Joscelin, Amalric, Guy, Heraclius and the rest? If King Baldwin was a poor thing, his supporters were insects that had scuttled in from the desert.
Baldwin smiled again, admonished. ‘Very well, here, I am King Courage. However, you must admit that my body is not as fine as it might be. And here, in this clangorous, chilly city my strength diminishes faster than I would wish. It was simply concern for this ragged frame that drove me to suggest an exchange with Regent Guy. As you know, the city of Tyre is under his guardianship. It’s warmer there, and the air from the sea is supposed to improve the health. So I offered him an exchange.’
‘Jerusalem for Tyre?’
‘Yes, Balian. A very generous offer, I think. Guy’s heart would beat with the heart of the kingdom, and he would be well-placed to fulfil my orders.’
Dangerously generous, Balian thought. Not because of Guy, but because his brother would have direct control over him here. Guy was a top, and in Jerusalem Amalric would not have to reach far to spin it.
‘And yet he didn’t accept?’
‘He did more than refuse. He huddled together over there with Courtenay and Toroga, then came back to accuse me of plotting his downfall. Constable Amalric wanted him to take it, but Guy said I was trying to trap him where he was least popular and where I had the most spies. Ah, he made such a noise about it, you would think I was giving him poison, not Jerusalem.’
‘It’s strange,’ Balian said. ‘He usually allows his brother to direct him.’
‘Not so much since the march from Nazareth to Tubanie. He distrusts Amalric now. But compeers like Seneschal Joscelin still have his ear. And Joscelin is no favourite of mine.’
‘You could force the exchange.’
Baldwin rallied. ‘Fear not, I’ll force an exchange, though it won’t be city for city. I’ll teach my selfish brother-in-law a lesson he’ll remember. If he crossed me for the sake of the kingdom I could forgive him. He has a weak mind and a faint heart, but I could overlook all that. What I will not abide is that he ignores my wishes, thinking me too ill to implement them. I accept that I am dying, though the process may take months, or even years. But I am not yet dead. I wish some of my knights and nobles would grasp that simple truth. I am not yet ready to be interred, and therefore unwilling to be crossed.’ He sighed with anger he could not release and blinked at the dim shades of Balian and Fostus. Sweet heaven, he mused, What would I give for this one’s body and that one’s growl.
Balian gave him time to recover his breath, then said, ‘What manner of exchange, King, if not the cities?’
‘Is Raymond in attendance?’
‘He is.’ He glanced from Baldwin to the dedicated former regent, who responded promptly and approached the pallet. This senior overlord was a wiry, thin-shouldered man of forty with prominent bones and a long nose that had been broken and clumsily reset. He looked haggard and tubercular, and those who did not know him thought him incapable of humour. They were wrong, but Raymond would never smile until the frowning was concluded. His scraped features and general demeanour inspired comment among his rivals. Anything he ate, they said, went straight to his nose. It was a meddlesome thing, an excellent windbreak and good for stirring soup. He had sharp eyes, and was long-sighted from continually gazing over his own bony garden wall. They mocked him in his absence because his presence was so often a douche of cold water on their flaring ambitions.
When he reached the bed, Baldwin murmured, ‘Move the guard for me, Tripoli. I want none to hear this, save you and my Lord of Nablus.’ He sensed Fostus move and added, ‘Ah, stay, hero. You have a special place in my affections.’
With casual malice Raymond ordered the king’s guard to stand in a row across the room, their backs to the canopy. Amalric and Heraclius were thus fenced off from Baldwin and kept well out of hearing.
‘Now listen well,’ the young leper said. ‘You, Raymond, and you, Balian, are to convene as many of your fellow barons as you judge loyal to the Crown and are to assemble them here without delay. Before October is out, if you can manage it. I want to see Roger of the Hospital, the Lords of Sidon and Caesarea, Bohemond of Antioch if he can get down here in time, your brother Baldwin of Ramleh and whoever else you trust.’
Raymond asked, ‘May I give them a reason?’
‘I am reason enough,’ Baldwin whispered. ‘I am the king, eh, Fostus? God preserve me, my lords, I am the king. But that said, I will give you reasons. Come closer, I’m growing tired.’ While they drew aside the curtains and hunched down beside the bed, Baldwin smiled encouragement and said, ‘I assure you in advance, you will be well pleased w
ith the exchange I have in mind.’
* * *
Ernoul missed the meeting.
As Fostus had surmised, he spent most of his free hour struggling through the crowded streets in the direction of Rue des Herbes and the stall with its green awning. When he arrived the herbalist informed him that his daughter had been sent to Ramallah to nurse a sick aunt. He was understaffed and in a bad humour and said that he was very sorry but no, he did not know if Idela had left a note for Ernoul. No, he did not know how long she would be in Ramallah. No, the aunt was not his sister, and he knew only that her name was Ermengarde and that she lived in Tower Street. No, he did not know the number.
Ernoul was furious. He pushed his way sullenly along the Street of the Chain toward King Solomon Street and the Temple Enclosure, then stopped as he remembered that Ramallah was not far from the road to Nablus. Cheered, he decided to see Idela on the way home.
* * *
It was late evening before Heraclius returned home to Pashia de Riveri. When Raymond and Balian had left the Royal Palace, the Patriarch had attempted to extract information from the exhausted king. He wanted to know what Baldwin had been whispering about for so long, but he learned nothing because the king’s physicians refused to let anyone near the canopy. They were adamant; the monarch needed rest, and more rest. Surely even the Patriarch could understand that.
‘If you had your way,’ he snapped, ‘the king would spend his life asleep.’
‘And if you had yours,’ the physician-in-chief responded, ‘he would be dead in a week.’
Furious that he could be thwarted by these wizened leeches – oh, they would not last long after Baldwin died, oh, no, they would be the first into exile – he retired and spent the better part of the day in conference with Constable Amalric and Seneschal Joscelin. The conference was unsatisfactory, since they did not know Baldwin’s plans, so could not take remedial action. Joscelin felt sure that, for the sake of the kingdom – one of Baldwin’s favourite phrases – he would not press the exchange.
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 9
