Assassins of Kantara

by James Boschert

  Ridefort gave him a keen stare. “Yes,” he said slowly. “That must have been it. Well, I shall welcome you home.”

  “Please tell me of those who are no longer here, I beg of you, Sir,” Talon pleaded. “In particular, Sir Guy de Veres. What happened to him?”

  “It was a tragic business, Sir Talon. I shall tell you the gist of it and later, perhaps, others can fill you in on the details,” he said.

  “I am listening, Sir. Please go on.”

  “Jacob’s Ford is, as perhaps you know, a main intersection between our Kingdom and that of Syria, which as you probably also know is now ruled by Salah Ed Din. The King, on the advisement of his officers, wanted to build a castle there, which he called Chastellet. Work began, and Salah Ed Din tried to negotiate a halt to the building. He even resorted to a bribe and offered the King about sixty thousand dinars, not once but twice! And the second time I think it was one hundred thousand dinars! We all knew why. It was because at the time Salah Ed Din was fighting in the North and had no spare troops. He spends much of his time fighting his own people, does that man.” Gerard’s comment was dry.

  “Anyway, the King refused the offer, because Sir Guy told him that Salah Ed Din was afraid that should a castle be completed at Jacob’s Ford then the way to Jerusalem would be barred, and Salah Ed Din’s aim is always to drive down to this city—someday, somehow. Curse him.”

  Talon nodded agreement at this information. “So Sir Guy was one of those who told the King it was necessary?” he asked.

  “Indeed he was, and most of us saw the right of it. The King set off to protect the construction of the castle, but Salah Ed Din arrived there first and began a siege. Sir Guy was already there and was caught inside. Six days later, the castle fell and the knights inside perished, as did many others. Sir Guy died, and Odo de Saint Amand was captured in a messy skirmish. He refused a ransom and died in one of Salah Ed Din’s dungeons. Salah Ed Din destroyed the castle, and Baldwin came back a broken man.”

  Ridefort took a swig of water and, almost as an afterthought, said, “We should have taken the money, but... men like Sir Guy always knew better.”

  Talon tried not to show his displeasure at this remark. Sir Guy had been one of the very few Templars who could read the minds of people like Salah Ed Din. He held in his irritation and said, “I was ordered by the King to report to him when I came back, Sir. Is there the possibility of an audience?”

  Ridefort looked over the rim of his cup at Talon for a long moment. “He did, did he? Hmm, I’ll have to see what can be done. Meanwhile, where are you going to be staying?”

  “I have a place here in the city, Sir,” Talon lied. “I will stay there for the time being.”

  Ridefort nodded his head in agreement, still watching Talon from under his bushy brows. “Yes, that might be a good idea, until we know what to do with you.”

  “I have personal business to take care of in Acre, Sir Gerard. Perhaps after that I can come back to Jerusalem and report to you?”

  “First things first. I shall find out if the King will see you, Sir Talon. Report in every day at Terce and I shall let you know.”

  Talon took this for a dismissal and stood up. “Thank you, Grand Master,” he said. “I am at your service.”

  At that moment an idea occurred to Talon. “Is the Duke of Tripoli in the city, Grand Master?” he asked in as offhand a manner as he could muster.

  Ridefort gave him a sharp look. “Yes,” he said with reluctance. “He is here in Jerusalem attending to the King. I doubt if he will have time for you, however, Sir Talon.”

  Talon was not so sure. Unlike Ridefort, who saw Talon as just another Templar knight with some talent, the Duke might well see otherwise.

  He left the building and collected his horse in a thoughtful and somber mood. His sadness at the loss of his mentor weighed upon him very heavily. He looked about. The knights he passed were all very new looking men, few of whom seemed to have been in the Kingdom for any length of time. One could always tell; the older, more experienced knights were sun weathered, their clothing patched, their chain wearing out, and they wore lighter clothing, and often a small turban wrapped over their pointed helmets—if they wore a helmet at all. He saw none of these Templars as he left the building to make his way back to the gate. For the first time he felt old.

  Half an hour later, he presented himself at the gates of the Duke of Tripoli’s mansion. The guards were respectful of a Templar knight and asked him to give them his name and then to wait.

  He heard the Duke before he saw him.

  “Where is that man? I want to see if we have an imposter! If so, I shall deal with him accordingly!” he roared from behind the closed doors, which were hurriedly opened, and there stood the one man to whom Talon could talk. He had dismounted, and he bowed as the Duke strode out to see him. Raymond halted in his tracks and stared.

  “By God, it is you!” he exclaimed in a hushed, incredulous voice. “I can barely believe it. The young knight has come back to us!” Before he knew it, Talon was wrapped in a bear hug that nearly took his breath away. “By all that is wonderful, you have come back to us! Where in God’s name have you been? You don’t look as though you spent it in a prison!”

  Talon laughed then, and it eased his grief. He was very glad to see the Duke. With a rueful smile he said, “I have just come from the Grand Master’s chambers.”

  “Ah!” The Duke barked out a laugh, his dark, sun-lined face creasing into a grin. “Bet the stupid dog didn’t even ask you where you’ve been, did he?”

  Talon shook his head and joined in the laughter.

  Raymond looked him up and down. “You look well. But I am forgetting my manners. Come in, come in, my house is your house. I, for one, want to know all there is about your travels. Are you going to have some wine with me? You’re not too hidebound by that oath are you?”

  “No, my Lord. I would welcome some wine this moment. I have just learned about Sir Guy,” said Talon, as he walked into the courtyard, where a groom rushed out to take his horse.

  “Bad business that,” the duke said, shaking his head. “If they had left on time as the King had wanted they might have saved the castle and those within. But there are ever those who delay for no better reason than that they can, and we witnessed a tragedy.”

  They were soon seated on comfortable cushions in a room that Talon thought could easily pass for that of an Arab potentate. He accepted a silver cup of wine and they toasted one another.

  “Now tell me, where have you been and what have you learned?” The older man asked him.

  Hours later they were still talking. Talon had told him almost everything, and the Duke was looking very thoughtful.

  “I have often asked myself how these beautiful earthenware plates and bowls arrive here,” he mused. “The caravan leaders always say, ‘From Baghdad,’ or somewhere like that, but they never talk of the sea route that you describe; and yet there are many Arab and Persian traders in the China that you have talked about.”

  “The world is far larger than I could ever have imagined before I set out,” Talon said. There was a silence for a while, as the two men became lost in their thoughts.

  Abruptly the Duke asked him. “Do you want to see the King?”

  Talon smiled and nodded. “He told me that I must tell him of my adventures as a condition for allowing me to depart, Lord.”

  “Hah! Did Ridefort say he would help?”

  “He did. He seemed almost disconcerted that I had survived somehow, and wasn’t that enthusiastic.”

  “Well he might. You were being eyed for a possible high position, as I recall.”

  “Sir Guy de Veres hinted at that and tried to persuade me to stay,” Talon remarked.

  “I miss that man,” the Duke said. “And I am sure you do too. He was one of the few among us who understood the people over here. He could read their minds and it saved us from embarrassment on more than one occasion.” He sighed. “Alas, the King is very i
ll, and there will be little to console us when he finally goes to meet with God.”

  “What do you mean, Lord?”

  “The King, may God be kind to his soul, will die soon, Talon. After him there is only his son, a sickly boy, who will inherit. Even now we, the notables, are at odds with one another. There are two factions now. The one led by Sibylla combined with that wretched man Guy of Lusignan, remember him?”

  Talon nodded recalling the haughty behavior of the knight from France who had been having a scandalous relationship with Sibylla, the eldest sister of the King.

  “That’s not all. Châtillon and Joscelin of Edessa, along with Roger de Moulins of the Hospitaliers, are all set against the succession.”

  “So there is no strong King to follow in Baldwin’s steps?” Talon asked.

  “Not really. Ibelin and I and precious few others want to have the throne passed to Isabella, the step-daughter of Balian of Ibelin.”

  “Why them, Lord?”

  The Duke took a deep breath. “Because Sibylla is a woman of little morals and has married an opportunist, a weak one at that. This was the one big mistake by the King. He married her off to this gold hunter in the hope that it would sideline her. Unfortunately, it has done exactly the opposite.”

  “I suspect I shall be designated regent when the boy comes into his kingdom, but I am not looking forward to it at all. That palace is a nest of vipers. I shall be vilified no matter what I do.”

  Talon glanced out of the window. The sun was low on the foothills to the west of the city.

  “My Lord, I must go,” he said. “I am already late.” Just as he spoke, the bells began to ring for Vespers.

  Raymond looked regretful. “So soon, Sir Talon? I’d hoped to be able to provide hospitality while you were here. I have a great deal of space, as you can see.”

  “I have to rejoin my family, my Lord. We arrived by caravan and they will be waiting for me.”

  The Duke reluctantly agreed to let him go, but first made him promise to come and see him the next day.

  “I shall be telling the King that you are back, Sir Talon. I am very sure he will want to see you, have no fear.”

  Talon thanked him and hastened to the Mount Zion gate, where he found his family and companions gathered outside waiting for him.

  “We were becoming concerned, my Brother,” Reza said as he came up to them. “Is everything all right?”

  “I will have to wear this heavy chain mail for a few more days, and then I hope we can set out for Acre. I, for one, cannot wait to leave. I’ll tell you about it tonight,” he told them.

  Later that night they all gathered around a fire and discussed the day.

  “I find cities, with rare exceptions like Isfahan, to often be a pretty sight from a distance, more often than not foul and smelly places within,” Jannat stated with a sniff.

  There began an excited discussion of all they had seen. Talon was familiar with many of the places, streets and market places they described. In his mind’s eye he could imagine them walking along the crowded narrow streets, the women stopping every five or six yards to examine something or other of interest, while their guards kept watch, fingered their weapons and puffed out their cheeks with impatience, or sighed and fidgeted until they moved on again.

  As they talked he remembered the places where houses were almost touching at the top story, with buttresses holding them apart and an archway driven through. It was a crowded city, but unlike Acre it was constructed mostly of stone. There was not much wood to be found on the hills any more; what there was came from the olive trees, and they were not for timber.

  Then they began to ask him questions.

  “Who did you meet today, Talon?” Rav’an asked him.

  “No one less than the Grand Master of the Templars, a man called Sir Gerard de Ridefort, and then the Duke of Tripoli. The Duke’s news was not encouraging. However, he has offered to talk to the King on my behalf and obtain an audience for me.” He smiled at his family and friends. “So you are doomed to stay here until then, by which time I am sure we will all be ready to leave and go to where our real home is to be.”

  “You don’t appear to like it here very much, Talon,” Reza remarked as he sipped some tea.

  “It not the city itself, although I would not want to live here, it is true. It is the seething pot of politics that is currently surrounding the dying King.”

  “You have learned a lot in such a short time, Talon. Are people here so free with their opinions?”

  Talon gave him a wry smile. “They are when they are the right people. The two great factions appear to be at each other’s throats, and I do not want to be forced to take sides in this kind of dog fight, although I have a high regard for the Duke of Tripoli.”

  “Are you talking a civil war? Prince against Prince?” Rav’an had not yet grasped the title of ‘Noble’ as a rank.

  “Remember that man we had our difference with down south?”

  They all nodded. “How could we forget?” Reza chuckled. “But, I enjoyed myself. Didn’t you, young man?” he nudged Rostam, who grinned sheepishly. There were chuckles from Yosef and Dar’an.

  “Yes, but I don’t think he did,” Talon’s tone was dry. “He carries much influence here in the heart of the kingdom, and that is a very bad thing. Even for me, as he knows full well I was involved. As soon as I have seen the King I want to leave this dangerous crowd behind.”

  “What about this... Duke you visited, Talon? Is he not influential? Could he not be a useful ally?” Rav’an asked him. He smiled at her, appreciating her attitude.

  “He is a friend, but as to being an ally who can actually help us, I am not so sure. Make no mistake, I believe the Duke of Tripoli to be a sincere and intelligent man who knows the people of this region better than almost anyone. It is just that he is embroiled so deeply in the politics surrounding the dying King that, in comparison, I am of no significance whatsoever. I, for one, do not wish to be dragged into that pit.”

  “It can cost one’s life if you pick the wrong side,” Jannat stated with remarkable insight.

  The next day, leaving the others to do as they wished, Talon once again presented himself at the entrance to the Templar stronghold. He was kept waiting for an hour and was just about to leave when a messenger came hurrying along to ask that he follow him.

  Talon left with him, relieved to be out of the large chamber. He had felt like some kind of exhibit. People had been staring at him and muttering amongst themselves, clearly talking about him. The word appeared to have gone out that he had come back from some fabulous journey, but mostly what he heard was Montgisard. His name was synonymous with the battle now, he thought ruefully.

  “Ah, there you are, Sir Talon,” said Sir Gerard, when Talon was ushered into his chamber. He motioned Talon into a seat. “I heard late last night that the king wishes to see you at noon today,” Gerard stated. He did not appear to be very pleased. “I had barely told him of your arrival when he ordered me to present you.”

  “Then I am honored, Sir. I shall present my self at the palace doors just before then.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I shall be taking you myself,” Gerard said. “We will go now, and then we will be in the main hall when the King calls for you.”

  “Calls for me?” Talon asked.

  Gerard sighed, as though Talon should have known. “He is bed-ridden and almost totally blind, Sir Talon. He can, however, hear well enough.” Gerard’s tone was testy.

  The made their way around the corner to the entrance of the palace and were admitted by the sentries at the great wooden doors. Talon remarked the almost furtive activities going on inside the palace and the hushed tones of the people talking to one another in corners or by windows. It gave him the impression that a funeral was about to begin.

  After they were announced at the door way of the great hall, Sir Gerard lead the way towards a group of men standing off to one side of the room full of knights, nobles and churc
h people. As they walked, Talon felt all eyes upon him. Not all of them were friendly. When he passed a priest the man hissed, “Witchcraft is a sin and sinners burn.” Talon frowned at the grimacing priest but said nothing. Another person, however, murmured a welcome. “We are glad to see that you are safe and back with us, Sir Talon.” He glanced up but could not see who had said it. The murmurs went on all around them, and then they were standing in front of some familiar faces.

  Raynald de Châtillon glowered at him and made a surreptitious sign of the cross, but Talon smiled. “I am honored to meet you again, My Lord.”

  Raynald muttered something and looked elsewhere. His watery blue eyes were hostile.

  “Well met again, after a very long time, Sir Talon,” Count Joscelin of Edessa said with what could have passed for a smile.

  There was another man with them who seemed somewhat detached. He was introduced as Baldwin Ibelin, a strong man who seemed ill at ease with these other nobles. He regarded Talon with interest.

  “I have heard much about you, Sir Talon, but I dare say there is still much more to know. Raynald has been talking about some magical thing you did in front of his castle to the South?”

  Talon glanced at the red-faced Châtillon, who was shifting from foot to foot, fuming.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, Lord. But I am surprised, because this thing that I did was nowhere near his castle! Were you actually present, my Lord?” Talon turned to the angry man, his eyes boring into Raynald’s. Châtillon wiped his beard with the back of his hand.

  “No, I was not!” he muttered. “I merely heard rumors to that effect. Witchery of any kind is condemned by the church, as you well know, Sir Talon.”

  “When robbers attack a weak caravan they have to defend themselves with anything that comes to hand. Don’t you agree, Lord?” Talon said with a hard edge to his tone.

  The others around them shifted uncomfortably, but Ibelin grinned. “We should talk later, Sir Talon.” His eyes betrayed his amusement, but also an understanding. It was common knowledge that Châtillon preyed upon caravans attempting to reach Damascus from the Red sea.