‘He won’t want to make a martyr of Guy, and if he tries to force him to accept Jerusalem it’ll look as though he’s persecuting his own Regent. Even so, I’d like to know what went on between him and our Lords of Tiberias and Nablus.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘God, the way he softens to that Fostus fellow.’
‘I don’t agree about the exchange,’ Amalric said. ‘I think Baldwin will pursue the matter. And as for the making a martyr of my brother, that’s demanding the impossible. We all know that Guy’s death will be a poor one, whatever it is. You’re generous, Joscelin, but if the king hounds my kinsman, the people of Palestine will bay in support. The king’s a nuisance, we can say that with one voice; but for every two of us who would wish him in heaven, there are twenty who would consign Guy to eternal damnation. Yes, I know he’s my brother. That’s the strength and the frailty of it.’
Heraclius drank wine steadily throughout the afternoon, and said little. Oh, those bow-backed savants. Just one instant after the king was interred, they would be on their way, penniless, to the emptiest island in the Mediterranean. And the physician-in-chief might be minus a few other things, beside money.
When they had talked themselves out, Amalric went to find Guy and those who had stormed out of the palace with him, while Heraclius accompanied Joscelin to a romanesque villa situated on the northern slope of the Mount of Olives. The villa was shared by the Seneschal and his sister, Agnes, though the king’s mother ran the house to suit her own requirements and had taken over the entire ground floor, plus several of the upper rooms.
They drank twelve-year-old Cypriot wine and Joscelin recounted the events at the palace. While he spoke, he glanced once or twice at Heraclius, seeking confirmation of some point, some quoted comment. The Patriarch was blearily amused to see Joscelin so unsure of himself. Agnes had that effect on people. Strangers were frightened by the rumours they had heard about her. Her family and friends were frightened because they knew that most of the rumours were true. She was fifty years old, and, with four marriages behind her, there was little she had not seen or done. Even Heraclius, who was her protégé, and who prided himself on being outspoken, thought twice before voicing certain opinions. Because she had helped him in his career, he was grateful to her, though he sometimes wished for a more gullible patron. Now he held his tongue and enjoyed the dry white wine.
When Joscelin had finished, Agnes yawned in his face.
‘Leave it,’ she said. ‘I’ll visit him to-morrow.’
‘I tell you, sister, he’s planning something to our detriment.’
‘You have already told me. But since the meeting has weakened him, he’ll do nothing more before morning.’
‘He won’t, perhaps, but now that he’s enlisted the aid of Tripoli and—’
‘Nothing will be done that cannot be undone as quickly. Risen Christ, I know how to manage my own son.’ She closed her eyes, thought about Baldwin, then opened them, smiling.
‘Heraclius, my sweet one, will you stay and eat with me?’
Joscelin excused himself and left them alone. Over the years he had come to understand exactly what Agnes meant when she invited a friend to sup with her…
The Patriarch made his way home in the dark. He was blind drunk, fell twice in the road and bruised his shoulder on the comer of his own house. His head ached and his lower limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. Pashia met him at the door with rosewater, a hand towel and a glass of sweet date wine.
Foolishly, she said, ‘I was worried. What happened to the—’
‘I didn’t send one.’
‘But you always—’
‘Well, this time I didn’t. What’s all this? Do I look so dirty?’
‘It’s to refresh you. I thought, he must have lost his way.’
Who? Me?’
‘The messen—’
‘I told you. I sent no messenger. I told you that.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘so you did.’
She had lit three dozen candles to brighten the long room. Logs were stacked high on the fire, and the flames leapt up, warming the air.
Heraclius said, ‘Are we celebrating some festival? Do you know how much candles cost these days? And look at that fire; this place is like a bread oven. You’ll bake us both one day, or set the house alight.’ He drank the date wine, then held the glass out to her, as though he had been kept waiting.
Pashia misconstrued the action and put the glass on an inlaid side table. She noticed the mud on his robes. He had been drinking, that was obvious, but so long as he had not been to one of the whorehouses, where he would risk contracting some dreadful— She broke the thought abruptly. Times had indeed changed, when she, herself labelled a whore by her draper husband and his hired Crusaders, now worried lest her lover fall prey to the diseases of their trade. How strange, she mused. I am no longer a whore, nor yet a lady. Nor ever will be, for a true lady would not admit to such knowledge. I suppose I am a courtesan, a mistress of the court. If so, I’ll settle gladly for it.
Her reverie was interrupted by Heraclius.
‘Must I keep the flask beside me?’
‘Oh. I thought you may have found it too sweet. Have you eaten today?’
‘I have, and better food than here. Come along, pour the wine.’
‘At the palace? Did you eat at the palace?’
Questions, questions. Would she never stop asking her silly questions? Are you well, are you tired, are you clean, are you hungry? Where did you eat, and what, and how much, and with whom? Did this one speak of his wife, or that one of his recent travels? Is Elvira still at court, Ranulf still jaundiced, Walter still raising the ransom for his uncle? Questions, questions, and then, on the heels of the answers, more questions.
He put a jewelled hand to his aching head. Pashia filled his glass and brought it to him. He snatched at it. The glass was wet and it slipped from his grasp and shattered on the mosaic floor. He turned on her, his eyes bright with anger. It was too much. He had been insulted by Balian and his squat bodyguard, twice barred from the king’s presence, first by Raymond and the men-at-arms, then by the shuffling physicians, sapped dry at the villa, and now left to the mercy of a clumsy, questioning—
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I did not eat at the palace. I ate with the Lady Agnes. And while I ate, I drank a flask of good wine. Grape wine, not this – this sticky fluid. But that’s not all. You ask me what I did?’
‘No, I—’
‘I’ll tell you. I enjoyed her wine, and then I enjoyed her body. The Lady Agnes. I made love with her’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Yes, silly woman! And not for the first time. Nor the first hundred. Really, do you think I had so many meetings? Did it not occur to you, in all your questioning, to ask the messenger who paid him? He would have told you that he belonged to the household of Lady Agnes of Courtenay. You see? Your questions reveal so little. You are a late-comer to my love, compared with her.’
‘But she’s – ugly!’
‘You say, though let me tell you this. At fifty she is better versed in the art and practice than you. Yes. Oh, yes. Oh, indeed so.’
‘She’s ugly!’
‘Better, you hear? Much better. Now clear the mess and save some of these candles. And fetch some real wine. If there is none here, the shop in Via Dolorosa will open for you. Tell them who you are. Say, ah, say you are Madame la Patriarchesse. Yes, they’ll open for you then.’
She did as she was told. When she returned, Heraclius had fallen asleep in a chair, his legs twisted under him, his face turned, bright red, toward the fire. Pashia dared not wake him. She stood the flask on the inlaid table, capped all but ten of the candles, then sat opposite him, gazing at him for a long time. He slept through her whispered thoughts and her memories and her eventual tears, warm tears that tasted of salt and much sharper bitterness…
Chapter Seven
Kerak
October 1183
He had once seen a set of Chinese boxes; seen it first a
s a single cube of ivory filigree. Then inside the openwork, he had noticed another box, and inside that another, and another, and in the centre one more, so small, so intricately carved. There were no seams or hinges, no latches or sliding lids. Each box was complete, free to rattle within the confines of the next, yet completely caged by it. He had seen it years ago, and now, remembering it, he used each box as a container for his dreams.
The politically incestuous Kingdom of Jerusalem was threatened as never before by a united Islam. That was the outer box. The next held the city of Jerusalem itself and the dying king, together with rumours of an imminent clash between Baldwin and Guy. That box encompassed, but did not control the third – Oultrejourdain. Nor did the vast frontier territory do more than surround the cage that held Kerak. Reynald of Chatillon had said, ‘I am Oultrejourdain!’, but for the moment he had turned his back on the county, as he had ignored the rest of Palestine. He had sealed himself in the fourth box, inside the walls of his impregnable fortress.
There was one more, the smallest and most cramped of them all. This held Reynald’s stepson, the seventeen-year-old Humphrey of Toron. It held him and his dreams, which were fast becoming nightmares, and it held him captive. For several weeks he had remained under guard in his chambers, awaiting Reynald’s displeasure. He had been allowed to exercise on the western wall-walk, again trailed by a man-at-arms, but apart from these brief daily excursions he had stayed alone in his rooms, shunned by his family and scorned by the occupants of Kerak. Reynald had prescribed this treatment as part punishment for the young man’s defeat on the slopes of Mount Gilboa; the second, harsher part was yet to come.
Now Humphrey dragged himself from the shallows of sleep. He lay exhausted by his dreams, aware that today was the day Reynald had chosen on which to put the second part into operation. Today Reynald would begin ‘working him into a warrior.’ That was the phrase he had used, meaning that he would personally refresh his stepson in the ways of battle. Humphrey was to be taught again how to wield a sword and couch a lance; he was to learn anew how to control a frisky destrier and parry a mace stroke with a leather buckler. To use another of Reynald’s terms, the young man was to be ‘muddied and bloodied,’ then encouraged to treat pain as though it were humour, as a reason for laughter. The lessons would be held in public, under the critical gaze of the men and women of Kerak. They would see Humphrey of Toron emerge as a man – worked into a warrior – or they would watch him beaten to the ground, bloody proof of his own ineptitude. Few had any sympathy for him; too many good men had been lost in the Saracen ambush. But for days the castle had seethed with excitement. One way or another it would be a worthwhile show.
Sweating with fear, he turned his head and glanced at the studded door of the bedchamber. If he did not leave soon and make his way to the training yard, Reynald would send men to fetch him. There was no escape and there would be no reprieve. A dozen men-at-arms, probably led by Captain Azo, would burst in, drag him from the bed and bundle him down to the yard, naked for the amusement of the waiting spectators.
He moaned and threw back the hand-worked coverlet and rabbit-skin blanket. The coverlet was a gift from his betrothed, Isabella, the girl he was supposed to marry before the year was out. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the coverlet and murmured, ‘Hurry, dear Isabella. Reynald will not rest until I am dead, or far gone from Kerak.’ His voice died away and there was no sound as he mouthed, ‘Hurry, little girl. I pray you, hurry.’
When he had said that he realized just how frightened he was. He was calling on a girl for help, the first time he had done such a thing. Isabella was a princess, half-sister to King Baldwin and Guy of Lusignan’s wife Sibylla, but for all her regality Humphrey felt ashamed of himself, for Isabella was not yet twelve years old.
He threw faintly scented water on his face and body, then put on a grey, wide-sleeved tunic, chased leather belt and calf-length boots. The cowhide was scuffed and dirty, but he was too preoccupied to care. Injury and death waited for him in the yard; clean boots would not keep him alive. He stared out of the window at the cool grey dawn above the Moab hills, shivered and donned a pelisson, an over-tunic lined with squirrel fur. Finally, by way of apology for having weakened and called on Isabella for help, he pinned a heavy silver brooch to the pelisson. She had sent him the brooch from Nablus, where she lived with her mother, Maria Comnena, and her stepfather, Balian of Ibelin.
In an accompanying note she had written:
‘This token is magicked, sweet. I have worn it to mass and in bed, and I have pricked my finger and let blood fall on it. Please do not think me pagan. It was the way I judged best to make it special for you. Wear it, sweet, handsome soon-husband. It will aid you in all things, I am sure of it.’
At the time he had been both pleased and embarrassed – sweet, handsome soon-husband! – and his emotions were still mixed as he attached it to the pelisson. Was he wearing it only for Isabella, or because, in part at least, he believed her claims? It was easy for a young man to accept that the warmth of a girl’s body and a drop of her pricked-out blood combined to produce an indestructible formula for good. The world was full of such stories; had not Angelica, Princess of Cathay, possessed a ring with which to counter all evil, and had not the lady knight, Bradamante of Clermont, used the ring to overcome the Enchanter of the Pyrenees, defeating both him and his horse-eagle, called a Hippogriff? And even today, what knight worthy of his name did not believe in the magical properties of a favour, be it a lady’s scarf, or sleeve, or weighty silver brooch? Of course the brooch was magicked. A princess of Isabella’s standing had only to say it, to make it so. Anyway, Humphrey admitted to himself, he had need of such a talisman.
He walked round the carved, leopard’
s foot bed, poured himself a glass of thin red wine and swallowed it, along with some day-old lumps of black bread and a handful of dates. Then, pitching his voice down, he hammered on the door and called, ‘Wake and open! I have business with Lord Reynald.’
‘I was awake,’ the unseen guard retorted. ‘I’m goin’ with you to the yard. Prince Reynald’ll be waitin’—’
‘Then he must breathe the morning air for awhile. I’ll see him after I’ve said mass. Open up.’
The guard pulled the door open and wrestled with his first problem of the day. ‘Prince Reynald said nothin’ about mass.’
‘Why should he? He rarely attends. But I’m going, so you may either hook on, or tell him of the delay.’
‘Now, see ’ere, young ’Umphrey. Your stepfather won’t want to be kept waitin’.’
Humphrey remembered the visit of Balian and the Hospitallers, and smiled grimly. ‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘but nor does God.’
‘Well,’ the guard muttered, ‘put like that, I s’pose it’s all right. Though I’ll ’ave to tell ’im.’
‘Do so.’ He was about to add, ‘And tell him I am praying for his soul,’ but thought better of it.
The guard grunted unhappily and moved away along the cold stone corridor. Humphrey followed him, then turned aside and descended a circular stairway that led down to the family chapel. Isabella’s silver brooch hung heavy and reassuring on his chest.
* * *
When he reached the chapel he found his mother waiting near the door. It was closed and after he had bade her a muted good morning he reached forward to lift the latch.
‘It’s locked,’ Stephanie said. ‘The priest just came by.’
‘The chapel locked? Why?’
‘He was fully apologetic.’
‘Mother, what are you talking about? Has he mislaid the key?’
‘He had a chill in the throat. He says he’s unable to conduct the service.’
Humphrey shook his head, bewildered. Stephanie shrugged delicately, as though that explained everything, then said, ‘I am so proud of you, Humphrey. I know you will acquit yourself with honour.’
For the moment he had forgotten Reynald and the yard. He was still trying to make sense
of the locked chapel and the priest with a sore throat. ‘Tell me again,’ he said. ‘What difference if the priest is indisposed? We have more than one cleric. I’ll fetch somebody—’
‘No. You must leave it now.’
‘—with a key. What?’
‘Let it rest. Reynald says—’
‘Aah, Reynald says. I see. It’s clear now how a churchman can suffer with an inflamed throat, yet be able to apologize at length. Reynald ordered the chapel locked. I am to derive no comfort from prayer, nor ask God for His protection, is that it?’
Stephanie mewed to herself and said, ‘I have a present for you. Over there, in that sack. Truly, I am proud of you.’
He glanced at the sack, then looked directly at his pretty, foolish, carefully painted mother. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Well, because I – That’s a silly question.’
‘Is it? Have I grown in your esteem because I’m about to fight for my life with the Red Wolf of the Desert? Do you think me more akin to that swaggering bully because he forces me into mortal combat? Your husband pitted against your son? Does that fill you with pride? Does it, my lady?’
‘Of course not. And don’t be disrespectful. I just think—’
‘Yes.’
‘I think it’s time you showed everybody that you’re as brave—‘
‘As my stepfather?’
‘As I know you are,’ she finished weakly. ‘I am proud of you. You won’t alter that.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ he sighed, ‘I devoutly wish it were so. However, you avow it, so take my arm and walk with me to the yard. Together, we will show the eager crowd—’
‘No, you go ahead. I have to, ah, fetch some medicine for the priest. God bless you, Humphrey. Don’t forget your present.’
He gazed at her until she turned away, then nodded, scared and empty. There was no point in reminding her that the priest was in perfectly good voice, so her excuse was a bald lie. She was proud of him, but did not want to be seen with him. Amen. Neither did anyone else.
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