“Thank you,” Father Michael whispered, for now he knew what he, too, could say in the days ahead.
August 19, 1187
The forge was oppressively hot, and the crippled boy pumping the bellows wore nothing but a loincloth. His misshapen, skeletal legs were exposed and dripping sweat, like the rest of his frail body. The fire glowed red and black, and so did the exceptionally long sword that the armorer was working on. He had been working on this same sword for a fortnight now: heating and hammering, reheating, honing, reheating. He had etched words with the greatest care into the fuller of the blade just below the hilt, and with bronze wire he had inlaid the etching, hammering and melting the bronze into place, before scraping away and collecting the excess for reuse. The hilt had been wrapped in bands of twisted wire to give it a secure grip, and the disk of the pommel had been fitted with two large enamel medallions commissioned from a master craftsman in the Street of Goldsmiths. Now the sword was almost ready; he heated it one last time.
“Are you still here?” a female voice called loudly and impatiently from the entrance. “Your dinner is getting cold.”
“I’m almost done!” the armorer answered, his eyes on the sword. “It’s not fair keeping Sven from his supper,” she answered with a nod to the cripple at the bellows, her hands on her ample hips.
“I said I’m almost done!” the armorer answered crossly.
“It’s that same damn sword you’ve been working on all week, while all the other orders stack up!” his wife complained. “Why waste your time on something so fine, when what this city needs is as many weapons as possible—cheap and simple—that’s what we need now. It’s too big for most men, anyway,” she noted professionally with a glance at the fully three-foot blade, “and who can afford a fine sword with bronze inlay in times like these?” she grumbled.
Her husband only grunted in answer, grasped the sword in both leather-gloved hands, and thrust it deep in the vat of water. A loud hiss and a jet of steam erupted from the vat, and then he stepped back with the sword in both hands, admiring his work. His crippled son gaped in wonder at the marvelous weapon his father held, his eyes aglow with admiration.
“Come get your supper,” the armorer’s wife ordered the boy curtly, then turned and disappeared back into the kitchen. The boy picked up his crutches, but rather than lurching for the kitchen, he swung himself beside his father to join him in admiring the sword.
His father smiled at down at him and showed him the blade. “Can you read that?” he asked.
Sven craned his neck and bit his lip, but then he smiled up at his father. “Defender of Jerusalem!”
His father nodded. He then gestured with his head for the boy to go get his meal as his wife shouted again from the kitchen.
The kitchen opened right off the forge, using the same chimney for the bake oven, but in summer the family fled the heat to eat in the cobbled courtyard behind the forge. Here a wooden table was set up, flanked by two wooden benches. Chickens pecked between the cobbles while a cat sauntered over to beg for leftovers. Two little girls waited wide-eyed for their mother to bring out the evening stew.
The armorer’s wife clunked the heavy iron stew pot down on the table and reached out her hand toward her daughters. “Don’t just sit there staring. Give me your bowls, girls!”
Sven dropped his crutches beside the end of the bench opposite his sisters and used his hands to move himself to the far end, where a wooden bowl waited for him. He handed this to his mother as soon as his sisters had their portion. He was very hungry and he spooned the thick barley, onion, and carrot broth eagerly into his mouth, burning his tongue. At once he started sucking in air to cool it.
“Stop making those sucking noises!” his mother snapped with a deep frown.
“Leave the boy alone,” her husband countered, coming up behind her. He had removed his leather apron and was wiping his hands dry on the front of his cotton tunic, and although he had “washed” his hands in a bucket of water after leaving the forge, they were still black with ingrained dirt.
“I don’t want my children eating like pigs!” his wife retorted indignantly.
Her husband sighed. She was probably right, but he found it hard to criticize his crippled son. It was bad enough that he had to work so hard. They had sold all they had to pay for the trip to Jerusalem eight years ago, right after the accident. It had been a hellish trip, and his wife had miscarried a child on the way. It had taken almost eight months to reach Jerusalem, and by then they were nearly destitute, but they had still believed that a miracle would happen. So they had followed the Via Dolorosa on their knees with Sven between them, praying at each station of the cross for Christ to have mercy on their child.
There had been no miracle, and no money to return home. So Godwin had taken work as a journeyman (although he was a master at home), and his wife had worked as a laundress, hoping to save up money for a forge of their own. That wasn’t easy, not after the girls were born, and things had been going from bad to worse until Easter four years ago. That was when Godwin met an armorer, one of the Christian craftsmen from neighboring Syria who had answered the King’s call for settlers. The man had just had a falling-out with his son-in-law, and after seeing Godwin’s work had offered to make Godwin his heir. The only condition was that he work in his forge and look after him in his old age. Just being able to live here over the forge had been an improvement, but it wasn’t exactly independence. As the Syrian aged he needed more and more care, so Godwin’s wife had to give up working in the laundry. To make up for the loss of that income, Sven started working the bellows. Yet Godwin found himself learning new skills and techniques from the Syrian, which he had combined with his knowledge from home in Oslo. The Syrian had finally died four months ago, and they had barely had time to celebrate the start of a new life of independence when the disaster at Hattin struck.
Godwin sat down and handed his bowl to his wife. She filled it and then filled her own bowl before sitting down beside him. “Just why have you been working on that fancy sword?” she asked in a less querulous voice, now that they were all getting their supper. “No one ordered it, did they?”
“No,” Godwin admitted, “but when the Baron of Ibelin got Salah ad-Din’s safe-conduct to come to Jerusalem, it was on the condition that he come unarmed. He had to leave his sword behind.”
“I’m sure the Baron of Ibelin has lots of spare swords,” the armorer’s wife told her husband in exasperation. Godwin was such a dreamer! It had been his idea to come out to Jerusalem to cure their Sven, and look where they had ended—trapped in a city that was about to be besieged by heartless heathens!
“None with the arms of Ibelin on one side of the pommel and the arms of Jerusalem on the other, and inlaid with the words ‘Defender of Jerusalem’ in bronze,” Godwin answered proudly.
His wife gazed at him, appalled. “Why did you do that? No one else will buy it with the Ibelin arms in the pommel!”
“I don’t want anyone else to buy it. I’ve made it for the Baron of Ibelin, and I’m going to take it to him tomorrow.”
“You’d better ask a fair price—or you’ll get stuck with it!”
“I’m not going to charge him,” Godwin answered, jutting out his chin in defiance of the protest that was sure to follow. “I’m going to give it to him.”
September 17, 1187
There was considerable rivalry among the new knights. Not with Dawit and Gabriel, of course; they were older and belonged to the Ibelin household, while Gabriel had the added aura of having fought at Hattin. Among the others, however, there was a natural tendency to want to show off and attract the attention and praise of their lord. The opportunities to do so were limited, however, because in the month since he had knighted them Ibelin had been busy with many matters; he had not spent much time with his knights, who were being housed in the royal palace.
Orders to prepare for an armed foraging party therefore ignited a frenzy of activity. Over the last five weeks, th
ere had been a number of these and they were welcome breaks in the bordom. The young men, most of whom had no squires under the circumstances, rushed to help each other into their armor and then ran down to the stables to tack up their own horses.
Sir Alexander, the Armenian who claimed to be related to one of the Armenian kings, was one of the few among the new knights to have a servant, and Sir Galeran greatly resented the Armenian’s wealth and airs. He felt it was inappropriate for an Armenian to look down on someone like him, descended from one of the men who (no matter how humble) had freed the Holy Land from Saracen oppression eighty-eight years ago. Just because he had servants, Sir Alexander was finished sooner than the others and was mounted and waiting for the Lord of Ibelin, making a false good impression, Galeran thought bitterly.
In his haste to follow Sir Alexander, Galeran didn’t tighten his girth enough, and his saddle slipped the moment he tried to mount. He had to step down, readjust it, and tighten the girth again. By the time he was finished, almost all the other knights were mustered, and Sir Galeran had to take a place toward the back. From here he couldn’t hear what Lord Balian was saying to the leaders (including the damned Armenian), and all he could do was follow in their wake.
Lord Balian led them to the south, out the Beaucayre Gate toward St. Mary of Zion. St. Mary’s had been built in the last century in the form of a basilica surrounded by a graveyard. It was mostly used for funerals, and the graveyard was very popular. It was still and stately now, abandoned ever since news of Hattin had reached the city.
Beyond St. Mary’s they descended the steep slope into the valley, and there they paused at Lord Balian’s command to water their horses at the spring of Germain. When all the horses had drunk their fill, they toiled up the opposite hill, taking the road to Bethlehem. The land was parched from the long, hot summer. The grass was dry and rustled in the wind. The passing of more than eighty horsemen churned up the dust of the road, and Galeran, near the back, was soon breathing it in. It made him cough and coated his surcoat with a thin film of dirt.
“What are we looking for?” Galeran asked the youth next to him.
His companion shrugged; he hadn’t been able to hear what Lord Balian said, either.
Galeran let his eyes sweep across the familiar countryside. He knew it well, for he had been born and raised in Hebron and frequently traveled to Jerusalem, but it looked strange now that it was devoid of traffic. This road was usually choked with convoys carrying goods from Galilee to Hebron and from Oultrejourdain to Acre, not to mention the hordes of pilgrims that usually clogged it on their way from Jerusalem to Bethlehem and back. It was odd, too, not to see any herds of sheep or goats on the surrounding hills. The grazing wasn’t particularly good in late summer, but there should have been the odd shepherd with a small flock on its way to market.
The heat of the sun was starting to make Galeran sweat under his armor. The surcoat prevented his chest and back from overheating, but his arms felt like they were burning up, and his feet were swelling inside his chain-mail chausses. That had been one good thing about being a squire, Galeran admitted to himself; he had never worn more mail than a short-sleeved hauberk, and he preferred low ankle boots for his feet at this time of year.
After they had jogged along at a steady pace for almost an hour, the city of Bethlehem came into view. It was a jumble of white buildings punctuated by towers and domes spilling down from a round hilltop. The imposing Church of the Nativity dominated the skyline, easily recognizable even from this distance.
As they entered the orchards and vineyards that skirted Bethlehem, the lack of movement and human presence was even more eerie. Only an abandoned lame donkey stared at them from the side of the road, shaking his long ears at flies. The shops lining the road as it started the curving climb to the city were boarded up and abandoned. These were the shops that usually catered to pilgrims. Some sold trinkets and souvenirs, others specialized in more valuable keepsakes like carpets, shrouds, and relics, and there were the many roadside shops selling refreshment in the form of fresh pomegranates, oranges, or apples, whatever was in season, or hot meat pies and honey pastries. Galeran recognized the pastry shop that had sold the most delightful fig bars he had ever tasted; it, too, was boarded up and empty. A stray dog with its tail dragging darted into the next alley with a guilty look over its shoulder.
Lord Balian slowed to a walk as they entered the city itself. The stillness sent shivers down Galeran’s spine. There was not a soul in sight, and the only things that moved were chased by the wind: a dead palm leaf, a puff of dust, a rag caught on a nail flapping against the side of a house. And yet Galeran felt as if they were being watched. He looked nervously over his shoulder and then forward toward Lord Balian. He was riding with his right hand on his hilt. This wasn’t your usual foraging patrol, Galeran thought with sudden clarity, and looked around at his fellows. Several had followed Lord Balian’s example and had dropped their hands to their hilts.
They clattered into Manger Square before the Church of the Nativity, and Ibelin drew up. Ordering the others to remain mounted and vigilant, he swung himself down and approached the western portal. The wooden door set in the pointed stone arch of the modern entrance was closed, and he raised his fist and pounded on it. There was no answer and he tried the door, but it was locked. He stepped back and looked right and left toward the entrances to the Armenian and Greek monasteries. Galeran looked nervously over his shoulder again. Ibelin returned to the main door and again pounded his fist on it. This time he called out: “This is Balian d’Ibelin. My knights and I are here to escort you to Jerusalem.”
Somewhere something clicked. Galeran started and looked around, as did his fellows. Then with a creak the door cracked open, and a man looked out through the slit. Ibelin stepped forward to speak with him and, as the door opened wider, slipped inside. “Who’s inside?” Galeran asked generally.
“The monks,” someone answered.
“And other idiots who think Christ will save them,” someone else answered.
“Don’t we all expect Christ to save us?”
“After death, yes; not before.”
They seemed to have been waiting for a long time. Galeran had gradually adjusted to the silence, and he was starting to get bored. He dropped his reins and let his horse rub the side of his face on his foreleg. The flies had found them, and Galeran swatted at them in annoyance.
At last the door to the church opened again, and Ibelin called for Sir Constantine. Sir Constantine jumped down and disappeared inside the Church of the Nativity.
“There must be a well somewhere here,” the haughty Sir Alexander remarked. “I’m thirsty.”
“There’s one just down there,” Sir Galeran answered to show off his familiarity with Bethlehem, pointing to the road opening off the south side of Manger Square. “On the road to Hebron,” he explained.
“Shall we go there?” Sir Alexander asked generally.
“We were ordered to stay here,” Sir Dawit reminded them sternly.
“Yes, but it’s not as if I’m going anywhere,” the Armenian prince retorted. “I’m just getting a drink of water. How far is the well?”
“Just a couple blocks. I can show you,” one of the other knights, Sir Gautier, offered.
“We won’t be gone long,” Sir Alexander assured generally.
“You should stay here,” Sir Dawit insisted.
“I don’t take orders from the likes of you!” Sir Alexander retorted, making Sir Galeran catch his breath. He was a little disappointed when Sir Dawit made no retort, preferring to shrug and look the other way.
Sirs Gautier and Alexander picked up their reins and trotted casually across the square to disappear down the street indicated. The others looked at each other, some longing to follow the disobedient knights and others filled with disapproval.
Voices were raised in anger inside the church, but since the argument was being carried out in Greek, few of the knights in front understood what was said
. They guessed, however, that the monks were still refusing to go.
Suddenly a shout came from the south, the direction in which Sirs Alexander and Gautier had disappeared. The knights looked at one another. It wasn’t just one shout—there were suddenly dozens of alarmed voices. A second later they heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles, and Sir Gautier burst into the square, shouting at them: “Saracens! Saracens!”
Sir Alexander was lagging behind him, and hot on his heels were dozens, scores, hundreds (or so it seemed to the astonished Sir Galeran) of Saracen horsemen. Sir Gabriel spun his horse around and drew his sword in a single motion, and Galeran, his heart in his throat, struggled to follow his example.
Saracens poured into the square in hot pursuit of the Christian knights. Their swords were drawn, and the bright silk ties of their turbans flew out behind them. Before any of the Christians could intercede, the lead Saracen caught up with Sir Alexander. With a loud shout the Saracen stood in his stirrups, raised his sword over his head, and sliced it down on Sir Alexander, spewing blood and sending Sir Alexander’s arm spinning through the air. With a howl the Armenian fell off his horse, gushing blood from his empty arm socket.
But other leading Saracens registered that they were facing not two but more than fourscore knights. They sat back and tried to rein in. Their horses skidded and slid on the cobbles, causing the press of Saracens rushing from behind to collide with them. Horses started whinnying and men shouted in confusion.
Sir Gabriel put spurs to his horse and, raising his sword, shouted: “À Ibelin! À Jerusalem!” Then he spurred forward, his sword leveled as if it were a lance.
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