Guy retaliated by taking from him the city of Beirut. This had been given to Raymond by King Baldwin IV to help offset his expenses as Regent. Guy mistakenly believed that by taking the city from him he would bring Raymond to heel. Instead, the disendowment increased his animosity. Within a few weeks of Reynald of Chatillon’s caravan raid, the Regent announced that he had contacted Saladin and had made a treaty with him, safeguarding the territories of Tripoli and Galilee. This treaty was to hold good, even if conflict spread throughout the rest of the Kingdom. Furthermore, the Lord of Tiberias let it be known that he regarded any portion of the Kingdom that was safe from Saracen attack as being more sensibly directed than those areas that spurned all attempts at appeasement.
To Guy and his supporters it smacked of treason. Was Raymond advocating a totally passive attitude toward an enemy who had sworn time and again to drive the Christians into the sea? Was it his intention to become the first vassal of Saladin? Did he really believe that the armed might of Islam would stay east of the Jordan when the Frankish Kingdom was ready to crumble? If he did believe all this he was a traitor and a fool, and Guy’s party acknowledged that the Regent must be brought down before he gulled others into adopting his creed.
In April, 1187, the Grand Master of the Temple, Gerard of Ridefort, sought permission to lead a force against Tiberias. He put his case to the King and the assembled barons in the Royal Palace in Jerusalem.
‘God knows,’ he pressed, ‘if we don’t reduce or capture that stronghold, he is capable of giving it over to Saladin. What then, King? A separate treaty for each hill and village? Each man swearing for you, or for the Sultan? I say let me raise an army without delay and show all true Christians how we deal with malefactors, be they robber or Regent! King?’
Balian was present, and stepped forward to block Gerard’s path.
‘You approach this like the insensitive man you are. We need Raymond. We need his abilities and his men.’
‘In hell we may need them, Ibelin!’
Speaking now to Gerard and the barons who stood around him, now to the flushed, uncertain monarch, Balian said, ‘We need that man, I tell you, alive and well and on our side. You, Grand Master, who fears that the Regent will sell us to Saladin—’
Purpling like a bruised melon, Gerard exploded, ‘I fear nothing! I know it for a fact.’
‘I doubt you, but suppose it were so. Where would we be then, set against all Islam, plus the strength of Tripoli and Galilee?’
‘And that’s why I say we must take the situation in hand and crush this traitor! Hear yourself! You are as ready as any of us to admit an alliance between Raymond and the Moslems. I say crush him.’
‘I admit the possibility. Raymond is the proud protector of his lands and most of you here are as unwelcome on them as any Moslem.’ That brought a gasp of anger from the barons, but Balian continued, ‘Too many of you think you can diminish a problem by cutting it to pieces with your swords. King, I appeal to you. You have already lost my brother Baldwin, one of the finest knights in the land. As you know, like Raymond, Bohemond of Antioch has made his peace with Saladin. Several of our lesser peers are with Bohemond, or have returned to Europe. So far you have alienated Count Raymond, but if you now strike out against him, the Kingdom is indeed in jeopardy.’
Guy did not much mind if Grand Master Gerard came under attack; the sullen, round-faced Templar frightened him. But now it seemed that he, himself, was being admonished. Pitching his voice too high, he queried, ‘You blame me personally for all this, Lord Balian?’
‘We are all at fault, King, though the responsibility for our condition rests with you. When you accepted the crown—’
‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well, but with regard to Raymond, what else can we do?’
‘Let me visit him. I’ll speak with him on your behalf and attempt a reconciliation.’ Ignoring the sneers of distrust he asked, ‘What may I offer him in return for his submission?’
‘Nothing,’ Gerard intruded. ‘Offer him nothing, King. He deserves nothing from you. I would not even leave him with breath in his body.’
‘No, I will offer him nothing,’ Guy echoed. ‘You may tell him that if he presents himself here and swears fealty to me I will take no further measures against him. But that’s as far as I’ll go.’
The Grand Master nodded vehemently, then said, ‘I want to be on this mission. The Lord of Nablus is a friend of Regent Raymond. It would balance the scales better—’
‘Then come,’ Balian told him. ‘And we will also take your brother Grand Master with us. That, too, would balance the scales better.’
‘I shall want to know how many Hospitallers he intends to bring.’
‘You will be told.’
‘I insist on having an equal force of Templars.’
‘You shall have them,’ Balian sighed. ‘One for one. And you may lead.’
‘So long as it’s understood.’
‘It is, Grand Master, it is. You have a way of making yourself understood.’
Gerard took that as a compliment. ‘I’ve always been forthright, if that’s what you mean. I don’t dance with my words, like some.’
Balian turned to Guy, who nodded quickly, hoping the two men would not come to blows until they were outside. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘go and see Raymond, that’s the thing to do.’
On 29th April, Balian of Ibelin, accompanied by Fostus and Ernoul, the Grand Masters Gerard of Ridefort and Roger of Les Moulins, Archbishop Josias of Tyre, twenty Hospitallers, twenty Templars and thirty foot soldiers donated by King Guy, left Jerusalem for Tiberias.
They spent the first night at Nablus. Even now, four months after Idela’s death, Ernoul found himself looking for her in the bailey, listening for her footfall on the stairs that led to their rooms. No. His rooms. They were his again now. His, alone.
Balian and Maria Comnena had watched, helpless, during the initial period of anguish. For a week the young squire had roamed the castle, inconsolable. Then, when he could no longer hold back his tears, he had shut himself away, cursing God for a foul fiend, and Mohammed for being worse than the worst that was known to man. They had conspired together. One had killed her, while the other had let her be killed. They were of no use to him, these imperfect deities.
But when the first waves of torment had subsided, Balian asked his constable to take Ernoul in hand. Fostus badgered and bullied him, sent him on errands which he invariably insisted were of great importance – ‘No, not tomorrow! Today! I want that message delivered and you back here before dusk’ – then made Ernoul teach him chess and the rudiments of spelling and reading.
Once Ernoul snapped, ‘Why don’t you leave me alone? I’m tired of your ugly—’ but went no further, for Fostus slapped him hard on the side of the face, then growled, ‘Too bad. You’re roped to me for a time, so get used to it.’
Later came the time when Fostus was able to loose the rope and send Ernoul back to his suzerain. He was fully recovered, save that he still thought of the girl and looked and listened and avoided the small castle cemetery where she was buried.
The next day, 30th April, Balian stayed at Nablus to comfort Maria, who had caught a spring chill, and to deal with a dozen outstanding claims for compensation brought by the townsfolk as a result of the Saracen raids. Gerard of Ridefort refused to kick his heels in the castle, so Balian sent the party ahead, proposing to rejoin them on 1st May at the small fortress of La Feve, thirty miles to the north. He told Fostus and Ernoul to take their rest during the afternoon, as they would be riding on through the night.
* * *
That evening, at Tiberias, Regent Raymond received an unexpected emissary. He had made his treaty with Saladin in good faith, so was surprised to have his word so quickly put to the test. His visitor, a wiry, dark-skinned young man who moved with the grace of a high-born woman, was the Sultan’s eldest son, the Prince, called the Malik, al-Afdal. He had brought with him an interpreter named Hakam, a wizened old Syrian with the b
ones of a bird and a glance that darted this way and that, suspicious of everything, missing nothing. The two men were conducted to Raymond’s private chambers in the keep and left in an anteroom there.
Al-Afdal was nervous and Hakam attempted to put him at his ease with a topical riddle he had saved for the occasion.
‘Listen to this,’ he said, ‘and see if you can find its meaning. Who spends one sixth of their time gorging free fruit, one sixth drawing no music from the sweetest instrument in the world, one sixth all but naked, one sixth slapping themselves, one sixth raising their knees as they walk, and one sixth wriggling in their beds?’
Al-Afdal shrugged. ‘Explain it to me. I’m not in the mood to guess.’
Hakam was disappointed, but he grinned, showing rotted teeth and said, ‘Why, the people of Tiberias! Their year is divided into six parts. One is when they go out on to the lower hills and eat the ripe wild fruits. Another is when they chew on the sweet sugar. Then in the summer months they strip off their clothes. Then the flies come and they are forever slapping at them, or crushing them in their hands. Then it’s the advent of the rains, when the roads become rivers of mud, and they have to step high as they walk. And finally, the fleas hop and the people squirm beneath their covers. Have you not heard the saying, “The Flea King rules in Eastern Galilee”?’
‘I may have.’ With sudden urgency he said, ‘What if the Lord Raymond does not believe us?’
‘Be assured, Malik, he will.’
The young prince put his hands to his head and adjusted the black cord – the agal – that secured his dusty head cloth. Then he brushed at his robes and stood, still and silent, watching the arch through which Raymond or his steward would enter. He thought, he must believe what I tell him. I must make him believe it.
Before long they were collected by Anselm, the diminutive Constable of Tiberias, and taken to a long, L-shaped room that was divided to make Raymond’s study and private chapel. Two narrow, unglassed windows and a row of arrow-loops drove wedges of light across the cluttered study. An Armenian rug covered most of the floor, while sombre tapestries hung from roped bars on the windowless north wall. Raymond sat at an unimposing plank table, littered with seals and pots of wax, parchment rolls, pens, inks and a jar of sand. He came from behind the desk as al-Afdal and Hakam were ushered in. Anselm went away, then returned with a tray on which stood glasses filled with crushed lemon, a jug of sour milk, called liban, and a pewter dish containing small raisin cakes. The Constable slid the tray on to the desk, disturbing the row of pens, and bowed himself out.
Al-Afdal was not alone in his nervousness. The Lord of Tiberias realised that Saladin would not have sent his son at this stage unless he wanted something, but could not imagine what it might be. However, they were uneasy allies, so he masked his suspicion.
Offering them refreshment, he welcomed the men to his castle. They were surprised to find that he greeted them in their own tongue. They had forgotten that for eight years the Regent had been held prisoner at Aleppo. It was there that he had first studied the Aiabic language and the mores and traditions of Islam. He did not parade his knowledge, though he derived some satisfaction from moments such as these.
With a gesture of apology he said, ‘Forgive me, Prince, but I have exhausted all conversation with those few here who speak Arabic.’
‘There is nothing to forgive. We should have remembered your mastery of our language. Please do not be insulted by the presence of my interpreter. Usually, when in discussion with a Christian—’
‘Yes,’ Raymond said. ‘We are more lazy than you. Of course, the interpreter may stay.’
Al-Afdal bowed, then said, ‘You speak Arabic as one who enjoys it. Who knows, in future you may have the opportunity to converse more often.’ With an innocent smile he added, ‘In fact, for as long as the treaty is honoured.’
‘It will be, Malik, while I have a say in things. Now, may I ask why a Prince of Islam chooses to visit me?’
‘A small thing. A formality. My father is on his way south from Banyas with some men— ’
‘Some men?’
‘Yes,’ the young Moslem smiled again, ‘some men from Emesa and Damascus.’ He held up a hand, palm forward. ‘They are soldiers, but they need not frighten you. You are protected by our treaty. However, the advance party will be at Gadara, on our side of the Jordan—’
Testily, Raymond said, ‘I know where Gadara is. These “some men” of yours—‘
‘Of my father’s.’
‘Whosesoever they are, they fit with the rumours we have heard of armies raised in Emesa and Damascus.’
‘They will not trouble you, Lord Raymond. My father has other reasons for bringing them south.’ He sipped the unsweetened lemon juice and continued. ‘The advance party will reach Gadara late tomorrow. They must be fed. Your hills are alive with wild goats. As our ally you will not, I am sure, object to a hunting party—’
‘You want to hunt in Galilee?’
‘You grow good lemons here, too.’
‘I said—’
‘Yes, Lord Raymond, with your permission. The party will, of course, stay beyond the Jordan until dawn and return to Gadara before dusk. You won’t miss a few goats, will you?’
Raymond knew he would have to agree. In one way, it was not so much to ask, and if it helped strengthen the treaty—
‘Very well. But I must have your assurance that not one house will be fired, nor one field razed.’
The young prince looked at Hakam and both men nodded.
‘You have it. And my father’s gratitude. You are as we believed, Lord Raymond, the most honourable of allies. You will find that we, too, abide by every letter of every word. Now I must return and tell our cooks the good news.’ He stood his glass on the tray and bowed low, touching a hand to his forehead and his heart. Then, with the unneeded interpreter still glancing left and right, he retired from the study.
Raymond stayed where he was for a moment, pulling abstractedly at his nose. Something… Some omission… A question unasked, so left unanswered… It seemed a reasonable enough request, and yet… No, perhaps not. Perhaps he was growing suspicious of every man, Frank or Moslem. He shook his head. Let them get on with it. Let them have their scrawny goats.
Then he remembered the question he should have put.
* * *
Balian did not rejoin Gerard at La Feve. He left Nablus a few hours after Raymond’s conversation with al-Afdal and headed north, following the route taken by the Grand Masters and their knights. Flanked by Fostus and Ernoul, he had covered less than six of the thirty miles when he remembered that tomorrow, 1st May, was the feast day of St Philip and St James the Less. Each had been one of the Twelve Apostles, and St James was regarded by the Christians in the East as the first Bishop of Jerusalem. St Philip, equally revered, had carried out his evangelical work in Phrygia and Syria and, like St James, had been martyred for his beliefs.
Balian intended to celebrate the fete, but realised that Archbishop Josias was beyond reach at La Feve. He told Ernoul and grinned when his squire came promptly to the rescue.
‘Even though we will not catch the Archbishop, sire, the next town, Sebastia, is a bishopric. We’ll be there before the Saints’ Day begins.’
‘God bless you, you’re right. He will say mass for us. I have not missed this Saints’ Day in many years, and I have more to pray for this time than most. Speed up, Fostus! We’ll make room for you in the church, somewhere.’
They reached Sebastia, the town in which the Patriarch’s mistress Pashia de Riveri had once lived with Lambert the harness-maker, and made their way to the Bishop’s palace. He offered them lodging for the night, though he and Balian stayed awake, discussing the state of the Kingdom. In the morning the trio heard mass, then rode northward again.
* * *
La Feve was a rarity among the fortresses of Frankish Palestine, for it was one of the very few to be under the joint control of both the Military Orders. At this time it co
ntained some fifty Templars – Commanders, Knights and Sergeants – and forty or so Hospitallers. Gerard of Ridefort did not object now that the scales dipped in his favour, but used the slight numerical advantage to assert himself as leader of the expedition.
‘When Lord Balian overtakes us, he may resume his command. Until then I will give the orders.’
‘Tell your own men what to do,’ Roger of Les Moulins retorted, ‘but do not presume to tell mine.’
‘As you say, brother, though I’m moving on from here at first light tomorrow.’
Mistakenly, Roger said, ‘You won’t be held back. Lord Balian will be here sometime after dark as he promised. I must say, I admire your zest for this mission of peace.’
‘Make mockery of it if you will. I want it said and done, that’s all. Either the Regent comes back with us penitent to Jerusalem, or he does not. We can get our answer to that without first waiting for Lord Balian to conclude his business at home, then to come puffing after us here. No, Master Roger, I intend taking my men on at first light.’
The Crusaders ate their evening meal in the castle, the Templars at four long tables, the Hospitallers at three. It was an uneasy affair, made worse by the presence of the dissident Grand Masters. If they had not been there the knights might have started throwing bread, then gone on to exchange jokes and stories. As it was, they sat quiet, the Knights of the Temple on one side of the long hall, the Knights of St John on the other. Gerard of Ridefort and Roger of Les Moulins were seated facing each other in the centre of the room. They felt ridiculous and by tacit agreement hurried the meal.
Gerard was about to rise when Roger looked past him at the man who hurried through the main door and along the hall. Gerard turned as the man came level with him. He wore no badge of rank, though his mud-spattered clothes showed him to be more than an artisan or a farmer.
Thinking he was a local shop-keeper, Gerard said, ‘What brings you unannounced in here? You are among the Military Orders. We don’t deal with civil— ’
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 24
