by Martin Lake
'You think that if you wish,' Balian said. 'I know that many in Antioch share your views. But, I beseech you, be temperate and friendly to Bohemond. And be courteous to Princess Sibyl.'
Eraclius scowled but nodded.
The three men kicked their horses and headed towards the gate. After a few yards, Eraclius turned in his saddle and gestured to Simon and he hurried to join them.
They approached the gates. They waited for a few minutes but the gates remained shut. Simon glanced up at the towers on either side and saw soldiers peering down upon them. He recalled that Raymond, who had refused them entry to Tripoli, was the son of Bohemond. It did not bode well for their reception at Antioch.
'Do you think we have any chance?' he asked Jerome.
The old knight shrugged. 'I have only met Bohemond half a dozen times, so I have little more idea than you. People say it's impossible to second-guess him.'
'He sounds like my father.'
Jerome grinned. 'Then perhaps your experience makes you the best person to deal with him.'
At that moment a small postern door opened. Simon expected a troop of soldiers to hurry out.
Instead, one man did so, a tall, lean man with a face like a market brawler. He glared at Eraclius and put his hands upon his waist as if determined to bar the refugees entry, on his own if need be.
'I have heard from my s.. s.. son,' he said, 'that you were headed this way.'
'Raymond thought there were too many of us to be taken in at Tripoli,' Eraclius said. 'Antioch is a greater place.'
Bohemond's face worked as he struggled to get out his words. 'So you thought that you would try your luck here instead,' he said. 'You thought that the Prince of Antioch would be s.. s.. susceptible to your pleading?'
Eraclius made to answer but then thought better of it and remained silent.
'We hope that you will offer us sanctuary,' Balian said quietly to Bohemond.
Bohemond turned to him. 'You are welcome, Balian. You know that. We are brothers, you and I. But this…' He waved his hand towards the horde of refugees. 'This rabble of filthy, starving folk. They are not welcome. They must go elsewhere and take their priests with them.'
Balian nodded thoughtfully and dismounted.
Simon was astounded by this. Balian will desert us, he thought. This was his plan all along.
Bohemond opened his arms to Balian. 'My friend,' he said. 'I welcome you with glad heart.'
Bohemond and Balian placed their hands upon the other's shoulders and stared into each other's eyes.
Simon glanced at Eraclius to see his reaction. The Patriarch's face gave nothing away.
'My heart is also glad,' Balian said at last. 'Glad that I have reached your fair city and glad that I can talk once more with you.'
He glanced up at the walls which snaked their way further than the eye could see.
'This is a goodly city, Bohemond, I have often dreamed of it as I marched the long days to get here.'
He removed his hands from Bohemond's shoulders and shook his head. 'But I cannot stay.'
Bohemond straightened and struggled to frame a reply.
Balian raised a hand to silence him. 'I cannot stay,' he said, 'because I made a vow to God to lead these poor folk to sanctuary.'
He paused. 'I also promised Saladin that, if he gave the people their freedom, I would not desert them. And a vow to Saladin stands next to one made to God. I dare not anger either of them.'
Bohemond looked thunder-struck. A vow to God weighed little with him. Yet one to Saladin was a different matter all together.
'You honestly s…say,' he stammered, 'that you will not enter the city unless I allow this litter of people to enter also?'
'I do. I am sorry, Bohemond. But I do.'
Bohemond sighed and clapped his hand upon Balian's shoulder. It was clear to everyone that he was thinking fast. His face grew ever more troubled as he looked from Balian to the refugees and back to the walls of his city. It was as if he were engaged in some arcane calculation which was growing in complexity yet seemed to promise no solution.
He sighed, looked sorrowfully at the refugees and slowly shook his head.
'A word from Balian outweighs all deep and weary deliberations,' he said at last. 'I will tell my nobles that I have reconsidered the matter. You shall be given sanctuary in Antioch.'
The nearest of the refugees heard Bohemond's words. A cheer of exultation and relief began, a cheer which surged from the nearest to the furthest in the column. It was so loud it echoed against the walls.
Bohemond shook his head as if perplexed.
He leaned close to Balian and whispered in his ear. 'I feel disconcertingly noble about doing this.'
Bohemond raised his hands high above his head and the cheers redoubled in volume. A slow smile crossed his face and then he beamed with genuine pleasure.
Eraclius dismounted, followed by Jerome and Simon.
The gate to the city opened slowly. Bohemond took Balian's arm in his and, together, the two old warriors led the people into safety.
CHAPTER 32
AN ARROW TO THE HEART
Tyre
The Saracen army flung itself against the walls of Tyre once more. They had done this every day for three weeks now and every day they had been repulsed.
This day's fighting was more than usually savage. The defenders drenched oil upon their attackers and poured Greek Fire upon them. There was a stiff wind blowing from the sea and the blaze whipped up into a firestorm which engulfed hundreds of Saracen warriors.
Saladin called a halt to the attack. He rode back to his camp and summoned his emirs.
‘No smiles,’ Khalid warned the friends as he headed towards the council tent. ‘No jubilation. The soldiers are wrathful and I will not be here to protect you.'
He considered for a moment longer, then ordered his own guard to keep watch on the Christians.
It was mid-afternoon before anything further happened.
There was a flurry of activity and King Guy and a number of the Frankish nobles were force-marched to Saladin’s tent. Some looked terrified. A few, like Guy and the Master of the Templars, looked contemptuous.
A half hour later Khalid hurried from the tent and approached them.
‘You are wanted by the Sultan,’ he said.
‘Us?’ said Bernard. ‘What for?’
Khalid shrugged. 'The Sultan will tell you.'
An hour later Bernard, John and Matthew rode in full Saracen armour towards the battlements of Tyre. Riding with them were Khalid, the Saracen herald and Conrad's father, William, the aged Marquis of Montferrat.
The Marquis turned towards Bernard. ‘I’d rather we were drinking wine in your inn,’ he said.
‘Me too, my lord,’ Bernard answered.
‘If this goes well,' William continued, 'we shall return there and have one of Agnes’ fine dinners.’
Bernard opened his mouth to tell him that he had lost Agnes but decided now was not the time.
They halted a few paces from the battlements. A long line of defenders stared down upon them and in their midst was Conrad of Montferrat.
The herald scanned the battlements and addressed himself to Conrad.
‘The magnificent and ever-merciful Saladin,’ he cried, ‘has seen fit to send another envoy to talk with you.’
He waved his hand. The old Marquis and the three friends stepped forward.
‘See,’ continued the herald, ‘how this new envoy is escorted by two of the heroes knighted by Balian of Ibelin. Also with him is Matthew the Mule, the man of courage who bore the Leper King into battle upon his own back.’
He paused for effect before continuing.
The defenders craned their necks to catch sight of this man of legend but Conrad did not respond in any way.
‘These courageous men,' continued the herald, 'have taken service with the mighty Saladin, swayed by his magnificence, his clemency and his invincibility.’
‘Enough of your platit
udes,’ Conrad cried. ‘Say what you must and then leave.’
William of Montferrat turned to look back at the herald who gestured to him sharply.
The old man looked up towards the battlements.
‘My son,’ he cried. His voice was weak and faltering and he coughed to clear his throat. ‘My son. I have been held captive since the Battle of Hattin, near five months ago. In all this time, Sultan Saladin and his people have treated me, and the other lords, with the greatest respect and kindness.
‘I come here now, to plead with you to surrender the city to Saladin. His army is mighty, his soldiers courageous and resourceful. Even now, more armies are marching towards you, from Syria and from Egypt.
‘Saladin has taken every Christian city he has attacked. Tyre will be no different. You are a man of courage, my son. It is no shame to submit to reality. It is no shame to surrender to such a mighty war-lord as Saladin. No shame to save the people of Tyre from torment, torture and death.’
He fell silent and held his hands up, pleading with his son to heed his words.
For a moment, Conrad did not respond. Then he snatched a cross-bow from one of his soldiers and aimed it at his father.
‘If this is all that you have to say to me,’ he cried, ‘then be gone or I shall kill you. I have no time for traitors who whine and plead to me.’
John turned towards William. All colour drained from the old man's face. His arms slumped to his side. He swayed. Bernard hurried to his side and caught him.
‘It’s all right, my lord,’ he said, ‘it’s all right.’
‘No,’ William said. ‘No. It is far from right. What do these wars mean if they lead to this?’
Khalid nodded and Bernard led the Marquis away from his son towards safety.
As they trudged past Saladin and al-Adil the two brothers gazed upon the old man with pity.
That night the three friends began a meal of bread, fine cheese and some young goat which they had grilled over their fire.
They thought they had no appetite until they smelled the sizzling meat.
‘May I join you?’ said a familiar voice.
‘Of course, lord,’ said Bernard.
Khalid sat beside him and accepted the food which John passed to him.
There was a long silence before Khalid spoke again.
‘What do you think about of how Conrad acted towards his father?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Bernard. ‘William is a good man, a decent man. He does not deserve to have an arrow aimed at his heart. Especially not an arrow aimed by his son.’
Khalid nodded. ‘It makes me wonder what sort of a man this Conrad is.’
‘A fierce opponent,’ Matthew said. ‘That is certain.’
Khalid nodded and chewed upon a chunk of meat.
‘Tell me, my friends,’ he said at last. ‘Is this normal behaviour for the Franks? Do all sons hate their fathers in this manner? Do they not owe them duty and honour?’
‘Most do,’ said Bernard. ‘I’ve never known anything like this.’
‘But kin can quarrel,’ John said quietly.
Khalid turned towards him. ‘You have knowledge of this?’
‘Yes. With my brother.’
‘Brothers are different. Brothers always fight with brothers and sisters with sisters.’
‘But most forgive each other,’ Bernard said. He gave a questioning look towards John.
‘Not my brother and me,’ John said. ‘I will never forgive him.’
‘Why?’ asked Khalid. He put down his meat. ‘What happened between you?’
‘My brother Alan is five years older than me,’ John said. ‘Ten years ago he joined the retinue of Prince Richard and he started to change. He began to think himself superior, he looked down upon us.’
‘That is not so surprising,’ said Matthew.
‘Perhaps not. But what he did five years ago is very surprising. Our mother was dying. Alan came to see her and it was obvious that she would only last a few days longer.
‘Then a message came from the Prince, demanding that Alan join him in France. My brother left within the hour, despite the pleas of all of us to stay. I cursed him as he rode away. I vowed I would never speak with him again.’
The others listened to this in silence.
Khalid placed his hand upon John’s shoulder. ‘I understand your feelings. Yet I also understand the dilemma faced by your brother. He was torn by two terrible demands, to stay with his mother until she died, and to obey the command of his master, who is a prince.’
‘Well, he did choose,' said John. 'And there are consequences to that.’
‘For both of you,’ said Khalid. ‘For your brother and for you.’
He fell silent for a moment. ‘Do you have any other kin?’
John shook his head.
‘What about Simon?’ Bernard asked in surprise. ‘What about your cousin?’
‘He is kin to me no longer,’ John said. He got up and strode off into the darkness.
‘John is a man who holds a great rage within himself,’ said Khalid quietly.
Bernard nodded. ‘You are right and I am saddened by it.’
‘Don’t be. Such a rage can utterly destroy a man or it can transform him into a hero. Only Allah can decide John’s path.’
CHAPTER 33
THE SORCEROR PRINCESS
Antioch
Simon had been surprised by the different peoples who lived in Jerusalem but even this had not prepared him for Antioch. As he followed Eraclius up the winding street to the citadel it sounded as if he were traversing the Tower of Babel. He saw a few Franks but not many; far fewer than had lived in Jerusalem. In their place he saw a myriad of people, from where he could not imagine. There were Greeks in plenty, Armenians, Jews, Circassians, and Scandinavians. Most of the population, by their dress appeared to be Muslims.
Yet as he walked Simon realised that this term, sufficient until today, could not describe the people adequately. There were the Saracens he had seen in plenty; short, quick-moving people. There were Arabs from the desert, swishing along in long robes. There were Turks with dark features, Moors of varying shades of black, Persians who looked almost identical to the southern Franks, people from further east with flatter faces and slanting eyes.
'This is the melting pot of the world,' Jerome said. 'People come here from every land, more so than even Constantinople or Baghdad. It is the meeting place of the Christian, the Muslim and the Jew. And other people who worship animals and the ghosts of their fathers and have never even heard of Europe.'
'Bohemond looks to be a Frank.'
'He's a Norman.'
'Like our kings?'
'Not as exalted as that. His great-grandfather was Bohemond I who captured Antioch in the First Crusade. He was the son of Robert Guiscard, a soldier of fortune who conquered half of Italy.
'But in the Holy Land it is deeds as much as blood which give a man his standing.'
Simon smiled. 'Of that, at least, I am glad.'
Jerome paused. 'Remember that I speak of the deeds of the past,' he said. 'It may not be so today.'
The climb to the citadel was arduous but they arrived there at last.
Bohemond led them into a huge hall. Every wall was decorated in dazzling colours which would have looked garish in other chambers. Here, because of the size of the hall, the decoration pleased the eye. Tapestries displaying scenes of hunting and battle hung at intervals along the hall and two fires blazed at either end.
On the narrow side to the east there was a dais of four steps. Upon this were two thrones, each made of ebony and inlaid with precious jewels.
Curled in one of them, regarding the strangers with languid gaze, sat the most beautiful woman Simon had ever seen.
She was about thirty years old but her slim figure gave the impression that she was younger. Her skin was a cool olive colour and her hair was black, hanging in curls upon her forehead and by her cheeks. Her eyes, however,
were a piercing blue, as blue as the coldest seas of the north.
Her cheek-bones were high and prominent, giving her the appearance of a cat, but a dangerous one. Curled in her lap was a bear-cub with a jewelled collar.
'You know Princess Cybil,' Bohemond said to Balian.
Cybil uncurled from the throne and came towards them. She walked slowly, as if giving the men a great gift by doing so, allowing them time in plenty to feast their eyes upon her. Again the image of a cat came to Simon, not only dangerous, but powerful and beguiling.
'Welcome, Balian,' she said. 'I am glad that young fool Raymond refused you entry to Tripoli for I so desired to see you again.' She held out her hand for Balian to kiss.
She gave Balian a radiant smile before turning to his companion. 'And welcome to your friend,' she said. 'Jeremy, if my memory serves me well?'
'Jerome, Highness. I am surprised you even remember me, for you have only seen me once.'
'You have a memorable face,' Cybil answered. 'Besides, your courage and your loyalty to Balian are legendary. Once you are seen, you can never be forgotten, at least not by me.'
Simon was amused to see the old knight blush like a youth.
Cybil glanced at Eraclius, held his gaze for a moment and then stepped away and approached Simon.
'And who might you be, who stands in the company of Balian and Jerome?'
For a moment Simon was tongue-tied, not expecting her to address him. 'My name is Simon Ferrier,' he managed at last.
Cybil clapped her hands in delight. 'He is like you, my darling Bohemond. He stammers and cannot find his words.'
'I don't normally do so,' Simon said quickly. Then he repented of it, wondering if this would seem an insult to Bohemond.
Cybil leant close to him and stared into his eyes. 'Do not apologise for any human weakness, young man,' she said. 'Even the noblest have their weaknesses.'
He did not know how to answer so nodded like a country bumpkin.
She smiled. 'So how does Simon Ferrier come to be in the company of Balian?'
'I was in Jerusalem, Highness,' he answered. 'During the siege. There were too few knights to lead the defence so I was knighted by Lord Balian along with thirty others.'
