‘We keep what is ours.’
‘That is no way to enter the gates of paradise. Surely you would wish me to disburse such riches to the poor and the sick?’
‘Stick him with your blade, friend.’ Gunther was circling, encouraging attack.
Negotiation seemed void. Resignedly, almost with regret, the Franciscan replaced the coins and launched his foot direct into the groin of the young thug. The boy doubled over, Gunther shrank back, and Brother Luke, whistling a merry tune, proceeded on his way to distribute their generous contribution.
John of Brienne, regent of Outremer, stared out a long while from the high ramparts of Acre. Across the land, down towards the gentle course of the river Belus, the sun was dipping and casting its fire-glow. Perhaps it set on his own rule, on the tenuous hold the Frankish Christians maintained in this fragment of the Holy Land. He had once enjoyed standing here, breathing the citrus-scented air, listening to the drifting sounds of raucous laughter, the snatches of troubadour song that climbed from the great hall below. Pleasure was now gone. In its place were unease and foreboding, reports of Moslem raids, news of Templars leading counter-strikes from Tortosa and Hospitallers riding out from their mighty castles of Krak des Chevaliers and Marqab. Strong walls surrounded him, yet he had never felt more vulnerable or beset.
He toyed with the gilt chain of office at his throat, let his fingers pick fretfully at its metalwork and gem-stones. If only Saphadin would talk, respond to the messengers that were sent him in haste as courtesy and need. But the Sultan of Damascus stayed silent. Much could be read into this. He was clearly intent on provocation, evidently waging undeclared war in preparation for a wider conflict. Outremer required time and manpower. Neither was available.
A harp played and words of knightly love reached faint to his ears. He laughed sourly to himself. Anything could happen, collapse might be nigh, and somewhere a court singer from Aquitaine would be crooning of romance and gallant deeds. How remote it seemed. His concerns were closer: the well-being of his baby daughter Yolanda; the longevity of his kingdom.
‘I spoil your reflections, sir?’
He turned at the voice of Lady Matilda. ‘Interruption is welcome. It is best I do not dwell too long alone with my pondering.’
‘Would that I could ease your burden, sir.’
‘Nothing will relieve the weight of office save knowledge that I am not destined to be last ruler of Outremer.’
‘There is not a man in this realm who would think it so.’
‘They do not see as I see, cannot hear what I hear. I am surrounded by drunks and roisterers, counselled by warmongers who know little of war.’
‘All will stand by you, sir.’
‘Or they may share in our destruction. A sharp wind snaps at us, my lady, threatens to scatter and blow us to the sea.’
‘God in his wisdom will preserve us.’ She stepped up beside him at the castellation. ‘My father would bring me up here as a child, point out to me every feature and mountain, each tower and gate.’
‘He loved Outremer as the kingdom loved him. I would value his presence now.’
‘My company is poor substitute. But I will honour him and serve as well I may, shall bear whatever burden is placed upon me.’
The ageing ruler gazed intently at her. ‘Swear to me that should troubles multiply you will take ship to safety in France.’
‘How could I flee at such critical hour, sir? How could I abandon those who most need me, lands and possessions my family have owned since the Second Crusade?’
‘To outpace a unit of Saracen cavalry is not to outlive a general conflagration.’
‘I shall face whatever fortune has ordained.’
‘For one of such youth and rare beauty you have the heart of a lion.’
‘Where you and your infant daughter dwell, I shall be found. You are my regent king, she my queen and akin to baby sister, this my home. No Mohammedan or promised battle will force me from my duty.’
‘I cherish your loyalty and affection to us.’
‘As I prize your blessing and your kindness.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘None would dare defy or bring us down, sir.’
He chuckled. ‘Maybe, after all, we are not destined for oblivion.’
They watched together as the light bled to a deeper hue, as the dusk stole closer on the rooftops. Seventeen-year-old noblewoman and sixty-four year-old king, each immersed in thought, thankful for the presence of the other. Matilda wondered if these quiet moments were borrowed, if they were hurtling to extinction.
Below them, the nurse to baby Yolanda scurried from the palace en route for assignation. She was a large and cheerful woman, repository for several appetites and eager sexual voraciousness. This night she would indulge. Naturally, life possessed challenge and was not always sweet. She detested the sour and silent ways of her new associate, the wet-nurse so recently imposed as her shadow and her second. But hers was not to reason or protest. At least it offered chance of respite from the beloved infant queen, opportunity to carouse with menfolk as desire and time allowed. My, how she serviced them. Of late she had chanced upon the stuff of lust-soaked dreams, a god in the guise of a sergeant employed with the royal guard. The man was dark and strong, had stamina and ardour, the rough-and-ready manner of a soldier who liked to love and loved to revel. She was flattered and mounted, and that was all that mattered.
She proceeded into the maze of buildings and tight alleyways as fast and light on her feet as she could manage. Her anticipation climbed. Occasionally a guard hailed her, a familiar face called out in quest of conversation. She murmured her replies, tugged her muslin wrap closer about her hat and face, and bustled on. Soon she was through a gate and across the narrow stone footway north into the quarter of Montmusard. There would be fewer questions here at the periphery of the city, fewer prying eyes to scan her hurrying progress. Within minutes she was at the foot of a flight of steps leading to the upper floor of the two-storey dwelling. It could be any place, belong to anyone. She paused to catch her breath, to straighten her smock, and ascended.
‘You are late.’
‘I am as prompt as my duty to the regent and the baby queen permits.’
‘Ah, duty.’ The sergeant hawked into the corner of the room. ‘How fares the mewling babe?’
‘She is as pretty as any I have seen, as placid as any I have cared for.’
‘While her nurse is far from docile.’
‘I have my wants, and you provision well.’
He indicated a basket filled with jars, dainties and rolls of cloth. ‘See what I bring you. Fruits and perfumes, frankincense and silks.’
‘All, I wager, filched from the court of the regent. You are a bad man.’
‘Appreciate it so.’
The soldier approached and kissed her forcefully, making her squeal with hurt and pleasure. How strong his hands were, how muscled his arms and chest. She gasped for air, felt the hardening of his groin, the obvious give of her response. It was not her fault he made her act this way. His tongue searched her mouth, his teeth nipped at her ear and neck, his fingers undressed and travelled. She wanted to blaspheme, to scream and curse, to bawl every gutter obscenity that Satan could invent. God, this was good. For a time they stood, swaying and sucking, discarding their clothes, fumbling their way towards greater passion. She slid downward. His groan reflected her effort, her head pumping, her lips engaged, her cheeks full. Anything to keep her man.
They staggered to the piled horsehair blankets and fell greedily upon each other.
‘We are fortunate to meet.’
She giggled as his fingers clawed between her thighs. ‘A hound will always find its truffle.’
‘As a soldier will ever leave his mark.’
‘You may stain me however you choose.’
‘A lady would put up sound fight.’
‘I am no lady.’ She pulled him closer, ran her nails hard across his back. ‘Yet I will brawl on this bed until you cry out.’
He kneaded her flesh, forced wide her plump and unresisting knees. ‘Such pity you leave yourself open to attack.’
Orders were strict and were expected to be followed. So he straddled her, made the right moves and noise as she bucked and bellowed like a heffer. What a performance. To think she believed he coupled with her through honest choice. She was too engrossed to understand or care, shaking and shuddering, rocking her porcine carcass to and fro. There was something pathetic in her vulgar enthusiasm and base vulnerability. He would see to it, when the moment came and his master the Lord of Arsur directed, that this fat nurse would be dispatched without bother or delay. She was keeper of the royal nursery, protector of Queen Yolanda, and for that she must die. Her replacement was already deputized and in position, ready to assume the senior role as vacancy occurred.
‘Grind me, you soldier dog. Pound me to the floor . . .’
Dutifully, and without much pleasure, he obliged. Intrigue and strategy demanded it of him. She was not to know their chance meeting had involved no chance, that she had been selected, cultivated, groomed. Handover of the infant was assured.
‘It is you, Kurt. You come to bid me goodbye.’
Achim turned his sightless eyes towards the footfall of his friend. He lay propped on a straw pallet in the hovel room, his skin damp and grey with sickness, his enfeebled body as thin and brittle as kindling. Beside him, Zepp crouched silent in his anguish, too despairing to stay, too loyal to leave. Kurt understood. For the ten years of their twinned lives they had been inseparable, Zepp guiding Achim, Achim supporting Zepp. They had never before thought it possible to be separate, to lose their own shadow. Now death was close, and that prospect drew near.
The blind boy smiled, even in his weakness lighting up the space. ‘Forgive me the trouble I cause.’
‘Always.’ Kurt dropped to his knee and clasped him tight, wanting to hold on, to convey a thousand fractured feelings.
‘We tried, Kurt, at times did well.’
‘Such a journey they will set down in history, Achim. How we found passage through the Alps, challenged the Cathars, lived for weeks through drought or storm.’
‘I would not change it, brother.’
‘What a band we have proved. You lifted our spirits, made us sing, encouraged us on.’
‘In truth, I was never so skilled at forage.’
Mirth vibrated through the emaciated frame, and Kurt found his laughter dissolving into tears. The stoicism of the younger boy seemed to rob him of his own. Otto had been wrong, for Achim had not pulled through. It stripped their group of two more, left despair and incomprehension in their place.
The ten-year-old gently pushed him back. ‘No mourning, Kurt. We celebrate, for you carry me onward in your head and heart.’
‘I would rather bear you each step on my back.’
‘Instead you must travel without us, reach the Holy Land and kiss the True Cross for Zepp and me.’
‘That I will surely do, Achim.’
‘You have Isolda and Egon beside you, our new comrades Otto and Brother Luke.’
‘They are as pained to leave you as I.’
‘Who knows what may happen?’ Achim reached out with both hands and began to map his face. ‘Until we meet again, this is for remembrance.’
‘I could not have asked for finer brothers and companions.’
Fingertips brushed across his mouth. ‘Smile for me, Kurt.’
He tried, fixing a grin so that Achim might recollect more than simply the dampness on his cheeks. The youngster was satisfied, had made his peace, accepted his destiny as readily as he embraced his blindness.
‘Brother Luke?’ The blank gaze swivelled for the doorway in which the Franciscan was silently framed.
‘I have come to fetch Kurt. It is time.’
‘You also bring food.’
‘It would be thoughtless of me to tend your soul while ignoring your belly.’ The friar carried over a wooden bowl of gruel.
Achim waved it away. ‘I ask only for your blessing and your benediction.’
Kurt blinked into the sunlight and gulped back his grief. It was as though he stepped from a mausoleum, had left Brother Luke to perform final unction. Isolda and Egon were waiting for him, their bundles packed and pilgrim staffs ready in their hands. The next stage of the journey was soon to begin. In Rome they would find blessing from the Pope. It would be worth the extra miles.
‘Where is Otto?’
‘He fetches his horses, prepares their shoes and fodder.’
Her eyes crimson-ringed with emotion, Isolda stared at the ground. Each of the children had taken turn to say farewell to Zepp and Achim, had trooped out changed by the event. For Isolda it was especial burden. She had mothered them this far, had told them stories, had kissed them goodnight as they went to sleep in lie-ups and ditches. And as Achim waned, she too appeared to falter, to lose the passion that had carried her across mountains. Kurt bit his lower lip, aware that her dark wretchedness reflected his own.
‘We can do no more for him, Isolda.’
‘I know it, and I know too that he will be at peace, that our destiny calls us to Rome with Otto and Brother Luke. But in parting we betray him; in leaving Genoa I lose my brothers and my heart.’
‘Look at us. We have each other and still stand.’
‘For how long?’ Her eyes lifted, her look tortured and beseeching. ‘Little Lisa, Roswitha, Albert, Hans, Zepp and Achim. Every step we have abandoned a friend, cut loose another brother or sister from our village.’
‘Isolda, they understand.’
‘They are wiser than I.’
Quietly, he went to comfort her, found strength in being of use, in clinging on. As a rule, he hated weeping, despised it in himself. But his sister cried only arid tears, had been wrung dry by her experience. Egon stayed mute and reserved in his sorrowing.
Isolda murmured to her brother. ‘Death stalks us, Kurt. It sits outside these walls, trails us, catches us.’
‘It has not defeated us.’
‘We have given so much, hungered, suffered, cast aside and buried our comrades in the name of Christ. And He covers His face, turns our pilgrimage, our crusade, to dust.’
‘I steal eggs and fall in rivers. I cannot answer such things.’
‘What if the preacher-boy Nikolas was wrong? What if he lied?’
‘In time we will discover.’
She gripped his arm tight. ‘I am not scared for myself. But I could not bear to live if you should die.’
‘You will not shake me from your side.’ He pressed her head against his own. ‘We will be all right, my sister.’
Saying it with conviction helped to console her, persuade himself. They would honour the dead and Zepp and Achim by going on. Meaning would have to come later.
Brother Luke emerged from the interior, his task discharged. ‘I leave them joyous with prayer and resigned in the sight and instance of Our Blessed Lord. Amen to my sweet and precious lambs. Are we ready to part from Genoa and follow our holy way?’
‘We are, Brother Luke.’
‘Then let us walk.’
Egon interrupted. ‘I remain and take ship from this harbour.’
His face flushed with determination, yet his gaze confused, he seemed as surprised by disclosure as his friends. There was hollow stillness in the after-seconds, consternation that might have passed for calm reflection. Kurt and Isolda hunted vainly for reply.
It was the Franciscan who spoke for them. ‘If this is your resolve.’
‘It is.’
‘Unshakeable it would appear. I am sure you have your reason, certain you will not be otherwise persuaded.’
‘My decision is made.’
‘So long as it is not dictated for you, that you search your soul and ask guidance from God.’
‘All these things I have done and more.’ The son of the blacksmith hung his head in solemnity and shame. ‘I did not ever wish to deceive or abandon you.’
‘Please, Egon.’ Kurt stepped forward, his voice low and imploring.
‘I am not worth the concern.’
‘You are to me and to Isolda, to Brother Luke and Otto.’
‘We divide as friends, and will meet again that way in Palestine.’
Isolda was trembling. ‘Why, Egon? Why this?’
‘Because you do not love me.’ He ran.
Kurt started after him, but the friar held him until resistance ebbed and impulse waned. He talked softly.
‘Let it be, Kurt. You cannot bind him hand and foot, cannot drag him where he has no wish to move.’
‘He is my friend.’
‘Value and treat him as such. For us, other necessities arise.’
A slow handclap drew them to the vision of Gunther revealed at a distance upon a low stone wall. He was triumphant, his face split in spiteful sneer, his blackened teeth bared in challenge.
‘Journey safe, beggar priest.’
‘My intention is ever to do so.’
‘You are low in mood and number. Would you care to have me with you?’
‘At present I see no grounds.’
‘In future you may have no choice.’ The boy folded his arms. ‘Like Egon I secure berth aboard ship, depart from Genoa direct for the Holy Land. I will reach it before you ever shall.’
‘We are well rid of you.’
‘I am not finished, friar.’
‘No?’ Brother Luke raised an eyebrow.
‘Your progress falters; your small and timid group reduces. Darkness surrounds you.’
‘It may yet be banished.’
With a sudden flick of his wrist, the Franciscan sent a stone spinning to strike the wall between Gunther’s feet. The son of the woodsman yelped and disappeared.
Brother Luke grasped the hands of the two children. ‘Light returns, my lambs. Gird yourselves and fill your hearts with hope. Say it with me. Firmitas et Fortitudo.’
Strength and Bravery. They chanted it with him, repeated his mantra as they gathered their simple possessions and headed for the city gates.
Brother Luke striding in front, then Otto leading the black charger, and Kurt, Isolda and the grey mare following, the modest caravan set out for the coast road and Rome. Behind them, pigs were being slaughtered for the day. Their frantic screams swelled and chased out other noise, pursued the pilgrims far along the track. Even the horses seemed unnerved. Long afterwards, Kurt imagined he could hear the sounds, smell the panic stench of beasts assembled for throat-slitting. Experience had taught him to ignore the past. He gripped his staff more tightly and continued to walk.
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