“Do you think that was his motive?” the Archbishop asked, sounding surprised.
“God help me,” Ibelin answered, “I do not know the mind of Master de Ridefort, but what do you think? By attacking these Saracens, he makes Tripoli look like he has broken his word to Salah ad-Din. Even if he only succeeds in inflicting light casualties on them, he will still have undermined Tripoli’s standing with Salah ad-Din.
”“Is that such a bad thing?” the Archbishop asked with raised eyebrows. He clearly disapproved of Tripoli’s relationship with Salah ad-Din and saw no harm in undermining it.
“It is always a bad thing to give your enemy reason to doubt your honor, your eminence. The Saracens outnumber us ten to one. Even when we defeat them, they remain stronger than we are. We have to be able to treat with them—and we can only do that if they respect us and trust our word. I can’t believe Ridefort did this!” Ibelin burst out, and sprang to his feet, the last shred of apetite gone. “It would have been enough to send his marshal with some men to reinforce Nazareth. There was no need to attack the raiders—certainly not in person!”
It was impossible to just sit here and wait to find out what had happened. Returning to the ward, Ibelin ordered Thor saddled and mounted the young stallion himself. He left Ernoul behind, still nursing his bruised back and shoulders, and set out with Gabriel, armed and armored.
They made for Nazareth with the sun now low behind them. The entire countryside appeared abandoned. No one was tending the fields, and the villages, too, were empty. They stopped a shepherd boy and asked where everyone was. “With the Templars!” the boy answered eagerly and gestured toward the east. “They went to destroy a Saracen raid,” he told them with a grin.
Ibelin clamped his jaw down. Only the King had the right to call up the commons.
A quarter of an hour or so later, they spotted a lone rider approaching them. He hunched forward over the pommel of his saddle, and the horse walked with his head almost dragging on the ground. Ibelin glanced at his squire, then took up a canter to close the distance faster.
Before they had crossed half the distance, it was possible to identify a white surcoat with the red cross of the Temple, but the surcoat was badly torn, soiled, and bloodied. At closer range, it was clear that the knight’s chain mail was torn in several places, and blood had soaked his right side. The horse was covered in cuts, some of them gaping open. He was limping, too.
“Sir!” Ibelin called out, and the man lifted his head enough to see the knight and squire who were almost upon him. The Templar just waited until Balian had closed the final yards and drawn up beside him. “Sir! You rode with Master de Ridefort?”
The Templar nodded. His eyes were dull, Ibelin noted, and even his gray-blond beard was flecked with blood. Blood had gushed from his nose at some point.
“What news?” Ibelin asked urgently.
“Bad.”
Ibelin shivered as if the sun had abruptly set. “How bad?”
“They’re all dead.”
“Who?”
“My brothers. The Hospitallers. I think some of the secular knights were allowed to surrender. We were not. They slaughtered us.”
“How? Where? Start at the beginning.”
“In the Beginning there was Light, and the Light asked—”
“You know that’s not what I meant!” Ibelin cut him off furiously. “What happened this afternoon? Where is Master de Ridefort? Master des Moulins?”
“Dead. I saw Moulins unhorsed and set upon by dozens of Saracen. They trampled over his body again and again. Marshal de Mailly built a wall of corpses with his sword, but they eventually overwhelmed him. Just as he had predicted, he proved his courage.”
“What do you mean, ‘as he predicted’?”
“When we saw how many they were, Marshal de Mailly told the Master it would be madness to attack, and advised pulling back to Nazareth to defend it from behind the walls. Moulins agreed, but the Master scoffed that Mailly was only afraid of losing his ‘pretty blond head.’”
Ibelin stiffened at the insult. He did not know the Templar Marshal well, but though Mailly was a handsome man, he was not a vain one. If anyone was vain, it was Ridefort himself!
“Mailly answered that he was not afraid to die a martyr’s death, as he would shortly prove, but questioned whether Ridefort would join him in heaven. And then we charged.”
“How strong was the enemy?” Ibelin asked with trepidation.
The Templar shrugged. “Too strong. Does it matter by how much?”
“Guess?”
“A thousand, maybe two thousand.”
“How many were you?”
“Eighty Templars, ten Hospitallers—plus the two Masters, of course—and about forty secular knights and squires.”
Eighty Templars was a fifth of the Templar total strength in the Holy Land! They couldn’t afford to lose eighty Templars at a time like this! Ridefort was mad. “My God,” Ibelin muttered, too shocked to even pray coherently. “My God.”
Tiberias, April 30, 1187
“You didn’t know Marshal de Mailly well, did you?” Tripoli asked, his face a ghastly mask of shock on which the horror of the day had frozen.
Ibelin shook his head slowly. He had ridden straight for Tiberias after learning of the catastrophe at the Springs of Cresson, sending Gabriel back to inform and collect the Archbishop of Tyre and Ernoul.
“He was a distant relative, you know,” Tripoli continued. “His mother was from Toulouse. When the Templars sent him to the Holy Land, she wrote me, asking that I keep an eye on her beloved son. Naturally I did, and I rejoiced to see him making a name for himself inside the Order.” Ibelin wondered how much of that success was due to the influence of the Count of Tripoli, but he said nothing. What did it matter now?
“He, not that idiot Ridefort, should have been made Grand Master!” Tripoli protested vehemently. “He lost by only two votes!” Tripoli added, suggesting a knowledge of the Templar Grand Chapter that no outsider was supposed to have. “Two votes that you can be sure were purchased by Ridefort—or rather by Lusignan!”
Again Ibelin chose to remain silent. There had been ample rumors of bribery when the news of Ridefort’s election had been made public. It made little sense to outsiders that a knight of such modest connections and so little experience in the Holy Land should be elevated to the highest office of the Knights Templar. Ibelin himself had not been free of his suspicions, but he had no proof.
“And now dead—so pointlessly dead!” Tripoli intoned. “I saw his head, Balian.” Tripoli looked across the table separating them, past a single candle that cast a halo of gentle yellow light, and fixed his dark eyes on Balian’s. Then he repeated, in a voice that cracked with emotion, “I recognized his head on the tip of a Saracen lance!”
The triumphant Saracen raiding party had ridden past Tiberias on their way back to their own lands. Lookouts had rapidly recognized that they were leading captives and riderless horses, as well as bringing wounded with them, all of which spoke of an engagement. Tripoli had rushed to the town ramparts and managed to get a good look at the Saracens, who mockingly bowed from their waists in their saddles and gestured triumphantly to the “trophies” on their lance tips.
“They must have had a hundred Christian heads speared on their lances, and they waved them over their heads like banners of honor,” Tripoli reported, his eyes focused on the images in his memory. Then he closed them and covered his face with his hands.
Balian said nothing, letting Tripoli grieve.
The Count lifted his head sharply and focused on Ibelin. “Moulins’ gray, tonsured head was there, but not Ridefort’s. The man responsible for this senseless slaughter! How did he survive? How does the leader of such an attack survive? There were at least two hundred riderless horses, Ibelin! And many Saracen wounded. There was a vicious fight, you can be sure of it. It was not a one-sided slaughter; we killed at least two for one. But the leader of this charge survived? How is that possible
? I’ll tell you how. He ran away!” Tripoli said it slowly and all the more intensely. “He led them into the battle, but he just kept riding, never turning back to actually engage. He must have realized his mistake so soon that he had time to just abandon his brothers, and the Beauséant itself. He took himself to safety and left the rest to die.”
This was pure speculation. Tripoli had not been at the battle any more than Ibelin had been. But there was a certain logic to what he said.
“And that coward—because he survived—is still Master of the Temple!” Tripoli reminded Ibelin. “That ignorant, arrogant, grasping bastard is still Master! He still controls the resources of the Knights Templar! He still commands them! He still sits beside Guy de Lusignan, whispering poison in his ear!”
Ibelin could hardly deny this; it was true.
“And there is no one to take him to task for what he’s done. The Templars, in their rigid hierarchy, cannot even question him! They will not criticize him or blame him for throwing their lives away senselessly. No, they’ll just sing the Te Deum and ask to be the next sheep to the slaughter! They don’t care about saving Jerusalem, Balian. They are more interested in their own souls. No one will hold a mirror in front of his ugly face and declare: ‘See Christendom’s greatest foe!’”
“No,” Balian agreed, collecting his courage, “but there are many men who will blame you, rather than Ridefort, for what happened today.”
“Me?” Tripoli asked, stunned and defensive at once.
“You let the raiding party into the Kingdom—”
“I had no choice! And I warned you about it! I sent word that it would be here, and I warned you not to attack.”
“The Commune of Nazareth sent to Le Fève begging for Templar protection,” Ibelin told Tripoli bluntly. “Your territories may have been covered by your truce, but Nazareth was not. How could the Templars and Hospitallers refuse such a request? They have vowed upon the surety of their souls to protect the Holy Land—no matter what their motives.”
“They could have protected it from inside the city. There was no need to attack!” Tripoli pointed out defensively.
While Ibelin shared Tripoli’s tactical assessment of the situation, he felt he must remind Tripoli that not everyone would see it that way. “My lord, the decision to attack was a military one, and no matter what you or I would have done differently, the people of this Kingdom expect protection from us—the knights and barons of Jerusalem. They will view the dead of Cresson as martyrs—and they will blame you for letting the Saracens into the Kingdom.”
Tripoli’s face drew together in an expression of extreme distress that suggested he was blaming himself. He glanced at his stepsons, and Sir William backed Balian. “It’s true, father. I’ve been out walking around, and the garrison is in turmoil. They have supported you up to now, but the sight of those lances with the tonsured heads of Templars and Hospitallers . . .”
Tripoli looked to Ralph, and the younger knight met his eyes, his cheeks flushed with inner emotion. “Will speaks the truth, father. They say the dead are on your conscience.”
Tripoli closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them and looked straight at Ralph. “What does your mother say?”
“She is in the chapel, praying for the souls of the dead.”
“And forgiveness?” Tripoli asked, his eyebrows raised.
Ralph looked down and mumbled, “Yes, she said she would pray for forgiveness to the end of her days.”
Tripoli turned to William. “So, what do you want me to do? Pay homage to Guy de Lusignan?” he asked pointedly.
Sir William nodded and murmured, “For the sake of the Kingdom.”
“Ralph?” Tripoli asked his younger stepson.
“Yes, father. It is the lesser evil.”
Tripoli looked again at Ibelin, sitting opposite him at the table; the single candle between them still offered gentle, wavering light. “You have succeeded, Ibelin,” he declared, facing him with both his fists on the table. “You can tell Guy de Lusignan that I will bend my knee before him and pay homage to the Crown of Jerusalem, stolen though it is.”
Balian was aware of some of his tension easing, although he was still far too distressed to feel any jubilation or triumph. Instead he reached out a hand and laid it on Tripoli’s balled fist. “Raymond, with this you have helped put Jacques de Mailly’s soul at rest, for he will surely think his martyrdom worthwhile if it has effected your reconciliation with the Crown.”
Chapter 18
Sephorie, July 2, 1187
ERNOUL WAS HAVING TROUBLE WITH THOR, as usual. The stallion was trying to bite or kick every other horse that came near him, and Ernoul could barely hold him back. Thor’s jerks on the lead as he tried to break free of Ernoul’s hold caused the muscles of his bruised shoulder to cramp and burn with pain.
“I’ll take him,” Gabriel offered, turning over the aging Centurion to his fellow squire.
“Where the hell does he get the energy to fight?” Ernoul complained, happy to turn over the young stallion to Gabriel. Salah ad-Din had crossed the Jordan with an army allegedly fifty thousand strong. In answer, King Guy had called up his entire feudal host and issued the arrière-ban. The Templars had even released the money King Henry II of England had deposited with them for his planned crusade, and King Guy had used it to hire a thousand mercenaries, including nearly two hundred knights who wore the livery of the English King. After mustering in Acre, the army had marched out for Sephorie—and the squires, like the rest of the cavalry, had been riding all day in the baking heat of high summer. Balian’s two destriers, the young Thor and the aging Centurion, were led by the two squires and carried neither rider nor equipment, but it had still been a long, hot, and dusty day.
Gabriel didn’t answer directly. He took Thor’s lead and threaded it over and around the nosepiece of the halter to give himself more leverage before leading him to the springs. These were broad and shallow, the water seeping up randomly between the rolled stones and pebbles of the riverbed, and running deeper where it had cut gullies between larger rocks. Usually, grass and weeds grew thick on the banks and in tufts on the pebble islands that formed and reformed in the lazy current. By now, however, any blade of grass had been trampled under or torn up and devoured by passing horses. The mud was fetlock deep from hundreds of horses churning it up on the way to and from the springs.
Despite Gabriel’s better control of the destrier, Thor was still more interested in kicking at other stallions, his ears flat on his head, than in drinking. “Why doesn’t he drink?” Ernoul asked irritably, watching Gabriel yank Thor’s attention away from the stallion he was trying to kick, squealing his challenge as the other stallion swung his haunches and kicked back. Meanwhile, Centurion plunged his head down and sucked the cool water up his throat in loud, satisfied slurps.
Gabriel shook his head in incomprehension as he patted the black stallion and tried to calm him before circling around for another approach to the springs.
“I just hope we stay here now,” Ernoul continued.
“Why shouldn’t we? Wasn’t that what they decided in Acre?” Gabriel asked, looking up sharply.
Ernoul explained, “A messenger rode in about an hour ago. The Saracens have overrun the town of Tiberias, driving the population into the citadel. The Countess of Tripoli has requested relief, and her sons are hotly urging the army to go to their mother’s aid, while Châtillon—of all people!—is saying it would be ‘unchivalrous’ not to assist a lady in distress.”
“But Tiberias is fifteen miles away—and there’s not much water between here and there!” Gabriel protested.
“That’s what Tripoli is trying to tell the King,” Ernoul confirmed.
“How do you know?”
“Lord Balian ordered me to fetch a map from his tent and bring it to the King’s tent, where the barons are in council.”
Gabriel gave Ernoul a reproving look, noting, “And, of course, you stood around eavesdropping as soon as you finis
hed your errand. No wonder I couldn’t find you anywhere and had to set up the tent by myself!”
“But listen!” Ernoul answered, not bothering to deny the accusations. “They’re at each other’s throats in there! Châtillon and Ridefort have all but accused Tripoli of being in Salah ad-Din’s pay, and Tripoli has told them he’d rather see his wife in Saracen hands than move a foot farther from the coast. He said in this heat it would be wiser to withdraw to Acre and make Salah ad-Din come to us. He says whichever army takes the offensive will have to find fodder and water, while the army that takes up a strong defensive position can just sit back and watch the enemy melt away in the heat.”
Gabriel frowned. “That’s all very well for Tripoli to say. His lands are north of here! What do you think would be left of Nablus or Ramla if we just hole up in Acre? If we don’t face Salah ad-Din here, he’ll let his horde spread out and plunder everything. We’ve got all the fighting men with the army now. The cities and towns are practically defenseless. What’s the point of calling up the army if we’re not going to fight?”
“That’s what Châtillon said,” Ernoul agreed.
“What did Lord Balian say?” Gabriel asked.
“You know him,” Ernoul remarked with a shrug; “he held his counsel until the Constable specifically asked for his advice.”
“And?”
“Well, he said it would be madness to withdraw to Acre, leaving the rest of the country open to plunder and exposing the farmers and burghers to capture.”
“You see!” Gabriel declared, delighted to have his lord agree with him.
“But he called the relief of Tiberias equal madness. He said the only reason Salah ad-Din had taken the city was to lure us away from the springs here and force us across the high, arid plateau between here and there. He said we should stay where we are now and force Salah ad-Din to take the offensive. From here, he argued, we can block attacks on either Nazareth or Acre, or if necessary put ourselves across the road to Jerusalem. The key, he said, was to force Salah ad-Din to commit himself.”
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