He is mine, Isabella beamed. I will always love him. I will never let him go. He is mine for ever.
It took Humphrey longer to realize his good fortune, but when he did he summed it up in the thought, from this day forth, I am a free man. Do what they will, they will never bring me back.
Then, with his right arm held forward and slightly raised, and with his little finger crooked round Isabella’s, he escorted her out of the chapel and down the washed steps to where their peers attended.
Chapter Ten
Kerak
November 1183
It was said that when God closed His eyes that night, He found a burning spark lodged under His eyelid. The spark was Kerak, and the lights of the castle blazed too brightly for night to fall…
By late evening, most of the female guests were drunk or asleep. Two tradesmen from the town had been killed in brawls, and in both cases their murderers had been absolved by the crowd.
Ernoul had written the song that Humphrey had requested, and it had been passed to Humphrey’s favourite troubadour, who had performed it for Isabella. The song – to Isabella – was almost identical with the one he had written – to idela. He assumed that Humphrey would never learn the truth, but scowled nevertheless when he heard his newly-married friend taking the credit for it.
‘I didn’t know you could do it,’ Isabella exclaimed. ‘Such style! Such a feeling for—’
‘I could not have done it but for you,’ Humphrey replied. ‘You inspire me. For you I could do anything.’ He avoided Ernoul’s angry glare and dismissed the troubadour as soon as possible.
The Patriarch Heraclius was seen about the castle with several different women, then was not seen at all for some time. Nor were two of the women.
Stephanie and Maria tried to converse, gave up and drifted apart, only to try again later. They searched doggedly for some common topic of interest, and finally settled on maternal anecdotes and whatever side paths might lead from them. Children could be very useful as the straws with which to kindle conversation.
Balian managed to exchange a few words with his son-in-law and, as he had supposed, found Humphrey an easy companion.
When they had discussed the wedding and the guests, Balian said, ‘Will you take it amiss if I proffer advice so soon after your marriage?’
‘I would take it amiss if you did not, sire. We have met infrequently, though I learned early to heed what you say. Apart from Lord Reynald’s rages and the pious droppings of the Patriarch, advice is in short supply at Kerak and always was. And if I don’t like what you say, I’ll find the courage to tell you. You wouldn’t want it otherwise, I know, my lord.’
‘Nicely put,’ Balian acknowledged. ‘You will have no trouble from me.’
‘Nor will I give you any, my word on it. But hand on the advice before Lady Stephanie sends me round again.’
‘Just this. Remove yourself and your wife from Kerak without delay. I have an ominous feeling about this place.’
Humphrey grinned. ‘Your words tread the heels of my own desires. We’ll be gone from here in a week. North to Toron. Gone and for good, be assured of that. I tell you, sire, if I had nothing more to offer Isabella than some forest hovel I would still take her from here without a second thought. It wouldn’t look so well, a Princess of Jerusalem in a woodsman’s hut, but I’d rather she had a few leaves in her hair than be prey to the vapours of Kerak. Does my attitude anger you, Lord Balian?’
‘Far from it. Though, as man to man, let me say this. Respect her because she is a princess, but do not live in awe of it. My wife is a queen. One day Isabella may also be queen. But first they are women, and second our wives. If she will sit with leaves in her hair, it’s no concern of mine.’ He smiled at the thought, knowing Isabella would enjoy every moment of it. The sweet, grubby little creature. Then he added, ‘You will pass through Nablus on your way to Toron. Will you stop a few days? I appreciate that you’ll want to reach your own lands—’
‘I’ve waited seventeen years, sire. But once I’m – I mean, once we are out of here we’ll not be pressed for time. We’ll be pleased to stay with you.’ Not sure of the response, he said, ‘Anyway, you will want to see that Isabella is still happy.’
Balian laughed easily. ‘You see clear through me, Toron. And you re right, both Queen Maria and I will look her over with a critical eye. It’s expected of us, as her parents. So make sure her bruises are healed by the time you reach Nablus.’
‘I promise you,’ Humphrey smiled, ‘you won’t find a mark on her.’
‘You know, of course, that the young woman makes a fool of herself over you. At the risk of swelling your head, I can tell you there were times when I grew tired of the sound of your name. Humphrey this, Humphrey that, Humphrey stood, Humphrey sat. Again, as a parent I’m bound to tell you that you’re well blessed with her, but I can also say it as a man. And, to be fair, she seems well off with you.’ Saving Humphrey from a dutiful reply, he concluded, ‘Now go and join her. She probably pines for you; you’ve been parted too many minutes already.’
Humphrey bowed to his father-in-law and vanished into the gaudy, swirling crowd. Balian stayed where he was until Baldwin of Ramleh tapped him on the shoulder and greeted him with a slurred, ‘Hallo, brother. Why aren’t you drinking? I’m out to drain this wine shop dry.’
‘Indeed? Then success appears to be within your reach.’
‘Hmm? Oh, I see. Within my reach. That’s very good.’ He raised his mug, found it was empty and lurched away again, in search of success.
Isabella was passed from well-wisher to well-wisher. She thanked them for their congratulations, agreed with their advice and laughed politely at their jokes, most of which she had heard before. They drank to her happiness and the children she would bear, to her husband and her new home at Toron, to her wedding dress, and, if they knew her well, to her wedding night. She smiled and nodded and wondered if the night would ever start. How shameful it would be if Humphrey became drunk and, as they said, unable. Or if she fell asleep and had to be awakened so that he might love her. The thought shocked her and she looked round for him. She vowed, the next time he appears I shall untie this girdle and rope him to me. Then the guests might take the hint and leave us in peace.
Amalric of Lusignan and Captain Aegelric of the north garrison moved flat-footed through the castle grounds. They had been drinking heavily and Aegelric had promised to take the Constable of the Kingdom to a place he knew in the lower town where the women were more compliant than those in Kerak. As they made their way toward the north gate Aegelric said, ‘Prince Reynald is sure to be there ahead of us.’
Amalric belched a reply. ‘What better recommendation could we have than the presence of our own host at the festivities? You say these girls are prepared to—’
‘Anything,’ Aegelric snapped. ‘You’ll see. I’ve told you what it’s like there. If you choose not to believe me—’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, Captain. I just wanted to be sure I’d heard correctly.’
‘You did, Lord Constable. You heard me right. This way, it’s quicker.’
What a sour-tempered bastard he is, Amalric grumbled. If I knew where the place was, I’d leave this one in the nearest ditch. With a knife blade to chew on.
Aegelric’s ill-humour rose from a mixture of mead and wine, now churning in an empty stomach. Though he would not admit it, even to himself, he was no drinker. Nor was he the type to ram a thumb down his throat, thus making himself sick and free of the fomentation. So the grain and the grape fumed inside him, while his head throbbed and his eyes refused to focus. Personally, he wished only for a bed – without a woman in it – but after Amalric’s haughty, ‘Does Prince Reynald offer nothing more than music and dance?’ he had felt constrained to show him that whatever happened in Jerusalem happened more permissively in Moab. And at far less expense. A Moabite woman, particularly one who lived under the shadow of Kerak, would perforce be less choosy than her counterpart
in the capital; it paid to please the Frankish knights, and it paid well enough by frontier standard.
They disappeared through the great gate arch, emerging on the lowered drawbridge, then continuing on to the stone bridge that spanned the fosse. Ahead was the town, rising steeply in a tangle of stepped streets and close-built houses. Amalric was glad that he had not ditched his guide. Without him he would never find the brothel.
As Aegelric had promised, Reynald of Chatillon was already there, keeping company with Gerard of Ridefort and several Arab women. When the captain and Constable entered the crudely furnished anteroom – the whore market, where requirements and prices were discussed – Reynald staggered to his feet and began herding the women forward.
‘Here they are, Lord Amalric. Take your pick. This one’s new to the game, but if you’ve the mind to teach her – If not, I suggest one of these two, they’re well versed. Or both, if you’re feeling strong.’ He laughed noisily and turned to Aegelric. ‘You look poorly, Captain. You had better choose next, then you can find solace in one of the back cubicles.’
Amalric inspected the women and beckoned to one. Aegelric shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Prince. I am not in the mood. In another hour, perhaps.’ He lowered himself on to a bench and pressed his head against the cold stone wall. Christ, it throbbed. He heard Gerard ask, ‘Do we stay together, or take them to separate beds?’ Then a wave of pain broke inside his skull and he was hurled across the room. He glimpsed the others, thrown in a heap on the ground, and saw that one wall of the house had subsided in a welter of stone and dust.
Reynald yelled, ‘What happened? What in hell is it?’ The women screamed and dragged themselves toward the back of the house. The men gazed stupidly after them, and thus saw two of them crushed by the massive rock that smashed down through the roof. The rock fell, bounced high and tore out a ten-foot section of street wall. The entire roof threatened to collapse. The women who had survived lay in the rubble, shrieking insanely. The Crusaders crawled like beetles into the street. Another rock flattened a nearby building and spun off toward a crowded night market. Two more fell, then ten more, then it was raining sixty-pound missiles…
The men clambered to their feet and instinctively drew their swords. They were powerless against the terrible crushing stones, but they knew now that Kerak was under attack. They held their swords ready and stood together, sick with fear and drink and unspent sex.
Rocks fell around them. Some entered a house by its roof, then burst out through a wall. Some splintered on impact, throwing off a thousand fragments at random. Men and women lay in the streets and ruined buildings, crushed, or pierced by the flying shards, or staggered about, stabbed by the stone. One of the prostitutes stood in the doorway of the brothel, her clothes torn, her face bleeding from splinter cuts. For reasons of his own, Gerard of Ridefort shouted, ‘Over here, girl!’ but his words were swamped by Reynald’s louder roar. ‘Look! Christ help us! Look!’
They saw ten or twelve Saracens running toward them along the street. When the Moslems had halved the distance, five of them leapt aside and stopped, and an instant later five arrows flew at the astonished Crusaders. Reynald threw himself against the wall, while Gerard and Aegelric crouched in the dust. Amalric stood, still unwilling to believe his eyes. The arrows missed, but the archers were already reloading. He felt Aegelric snatch at his sleeve, and the four men ran for their lives. Casually, as though keeping an appointment, one of the archers trotted toward the dazed prostitute and shot her through the heart. She may have been too stunned to notice him, for she did not turn her head until the arrow hit her. Then she blinked and fell back into the house, while the Saracen chased after his companions.
Reynald led the way down a flight of steps and along a street that ran parallel with the first. He snarled, ‘Back to the castle! We can’t hold this.’ As he spoke, another group of Saracens ran out from an alleyway. They did not yet know that they had found Bloodhead himself, along with the Constable of the Kingdom. They were just Frankish vermin, to be exterminated without delay. The Saracens advanced, six of them, swinging their curved scimitars, or poking forward with reed spears. Reynald raised in nomine domini and shuffled toward them. With Gerard at his side and Amalric and Aegelric blocking the other side of the street the fight was short and bloody. The Lord of Kerak was cut on the left arm. Gerard lost a finger from his right hand. Amalric sustained two shallow wounds, Aegelric a deep gash in the neck. Four of the six Saracens were killed there in the street. The fifth stumbled away to die, while the last ran back unhurt to report that the Red Wolf was caught outside his lair.
Shocked and bleeding, the four men retreated to the edge of the fosse. They were some way from the stone bridge, but it was already too late to cross there. The wooden section would be raised, the portcullis lowered, the gates shut, the arrow-loops manned. There was only one place through which a stranded Crusader might still enter the north face of the fortress. This was a tiny postern gate set in the base of the wall below the bridge. It was narrow and angled so that only one man at a time might use it, but unless some overzealous soldier had shut the inner door, this was where they would enter. But before they reached the postern, they had to descend the incredible north ravine. This varied in depth from eight hundred to twelve hundred feet, a dizzy wall of shale and scrub, and as a reward for a careless footstep, nothing…
They ran to the lip of the fosse, turned to see if their point of descent had been marked, then started down. Aegelric was bleeding copiously and kept a hand clapped to his neck. Although Gerard had lost a finger, he still carried his sword in his right hand, but before long they were all forced to sheath their weapons. The children of the town had explored the upper reaches of the ravine, but all vestige of a path was soon concealed by jutting rocks and thorn bushes. The Crusaders took it in turn to look back at the lip; they expected to be followed and perhaps overtaken by the more nimble-footed Saracens. They were not disappointed.
They had completed a quarter of the descent when the first fire-arrows swooped down toward them. They leaned in against the rock face, not so much for fear of the arrows, but because the flames would reveal their position. As it was, the arrows landed too far down the slope and failed to ignite the dry bushes. They took heart and continued clawing their way down toward the wadi. The lights of Kerak burned dangerously bright above them, but so long as none of the north garrison feared a Saracen attack from the floor of the ravine, the locked-out Crusaders remained in shadow.
But because they could not see well and were encumbered with swords and mantles they climbed slowly. The rattle of loose chips told them the descent had been too slow. Once again they shrank back against the rock, but this time they eased their swords from their scabbards. Aegelric was the last and so the highest in line. He held his sword in his right hand and kept his left pressed against his neck. He felt weak and dizzy, and blinked into the darkness above him.
They must have seen the flash of metal, or heard laboured breathing, for they came down in a rush, ten or more of them, their scimitars striking sparks from the rocks. There was little skill in the fight; the air was too dark, the ground uneven. They cut Aegelric again, but again failed to kill him. While some engaged him in the slash and probe of sword-play, others moved below, then sprang across to attack Amalric. The Constable used his sword and feet and sent two screaming into the wadi. A third came in close and they wrestled and the heavily-built Frank won. When the Saracen was dead Amalric knelt among the rocks and nursed a fresh stab wound in his leg. Gerard roared a Templar oath and went straight at his own attackers. In their flight one lost his footing and fell like a split sack to join his companions on the wadi floor. None of the Saracens had reached Reynald. The shale stopped moving.
‘Follow on,’ Reynald hissed. ‘Next time they’ll bury us with stones.’ He did not ask who was hurt. There was no point to it, since he could do nothing for them. They went on, kicking footholds, snatching at thorns and bush roots, slithering down the esca
rpment like lizards with bloodstained claws.
More fire arrows followed. The Christian archers on the north wall fired at the Moslems, but with little result. The guards guessed what was happening, so dared not illuminate the scene. Prince Reynald and his comrades would have to save themselves. All that Kerak could do was pray.
The Saracens made no attempt at secrecy. They hurled spears and stones, leaning far out to do so. The four fugitives had to be stopped and killed, that was the sum of it now.
Then Gerard of Ridefort showed why so many thought him the natural successor to Grand Master Arnold of Toroga. Calling Reynald back, he pointed to a narrow, God-made path that angled down in the opposite direction to the postern, but away from their pursuers. Reynald said, ‘Yes, take it,’ and followed him, crouched low. They made good time – as good as their wounds would allow – and reached the wadi floor unhindered. Gerard wiped a hand across his rotund face, then gasped as he jarred the stump of his severed finger. He intended to joke about it later – ‘Better the finger than the phallus!’ – but for the moment he sweated with pain. Amalric was limping, ignoring his previous flesh wounds in favour of the stabbed leg. Aegelric came off the path and sank down, then turned away so that they would not see the extent of his injuries. A knight might be proud of his wounds, if he expected to heal, but Aegelric knew he was dying and was ashamed of it.
Reynald snapped, ‘Get to your feet, we are not home yet. If we run for the postern, we may reach it before they do. With luck our men will sortie and hold it open for us. Are you ready? Captain, are you ready?’
Before Aegelric could reply, they heard feet pounding on the path above them. Moslems, too, it seemed, used the God-made routes. Amalric limped off without a word. Gerard said, ‘Get on, Prince! I’ll see to the Captain.’ He turned to rouse Aegelric, but the garrison commander was already moving up the path. It cost him too much blood to speak, so he waved down to his companions, sweeping his sword hand toward the bridge and the postern. Gerard started after him, but Reynald snarled, ‘No! Let him be! Look at him, he’s too far gone.’
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 16
