Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  The Cathar scout tailed them for a while. They appeared to have discarded three of their number since the last encounter. A positive sign. And they still had no idea of what they faced. With a song in his heart, and holy gratitude on his lips to the god who hated mortal flesh and procreation, he turned back to make report to the Perfect and his Believers.

  Chapter 8

  A late hour, and the regent of Outremer remained in closeted discussion with the Lord of Arsur. He was grateful his baron had braved the journey from his southern domain, appreciative of his presence. In this vaulted and cavernous palace chamber lit by tallow lamps and draped in tapestries of silver thread, they could confide free of interruption and the intrigues of court. Eyes and enemies were everywhere. John of Brienne needed his friends.

  ‘I am fortunate for your support, to have one as you so loyal and trustworthy beside me.’

  ‘You will ever have me to watch over you, sir.’

  ‘There are few I would prefer in such duty. Propelled by events, I fear we head fast for the abyss.’

  ‘Outcome may yet alter, crisis be contained.’

  ‘We would wish it so. But there is little at present to raise our spirits.’

  ‘You have worthy companions to protect you, knights and lords devoted in their service to your realm.’

  ‘Who among them may I rely upon? Who among them may I depend on for wise counsel and calm reflection when their estates burn and coffers dwindle?’ Brienne stood grim-faced before a tapestry panel depicting his royal city. ‘Where once the Saracens inhabited Acre, they could occupy again.’

  ‘We shall repel them, sir.’

  ‘I admire your certainty. And meantime Saphadin gathers forces to his side, dispatches raiding parties, harasses our interests and our lands.’

  Indeed he did, mused the Lord of Arsur. It was perfect in planning and execution. Of no small consequence was that messengers sent from each side had been intercepted, letters offering negotiation and urging settlement had been lost. None were in mood for compromise. It showed in the farms laid waste, the corpses nailed by their tongues to barn doors, the livestock slaughtered or driven away. He had passed through blighted scenes and smouldering landscapes on his passage north from Arsur. Quite some achievement. His Knights of St Lazarus were doing well. He allowed a glimmer of satisfaction to enter his chill heart.

  The regent stared at him. ‘Do you believe my treaty with Saphadin and his infidel emirs is now void?’

  ‘Some have wished it annulled since first you put your seal to it. Not I, sir. We can ill afford full confrontation.’

  ‘Such reasoning little moves the barking dogs of the military Orders. They bay for war, for the red meat of Saracen dead.’

  ‘Templars and Hospitallers cannot be sole arbiters of our response and fate.’

  ‘When crisis beckons, they carry others with them. If I urge caution and restraint, attempt to still their fiery blood, I seem weak, am deemed a coward.’

  ‘You are no faint-heart, sir.’

  ‘Action not wisdom is demanded. I am grown isolated at Council, am buffeted by argument in favour of battle.’

  ‘Better to be live ox than dead lion.’

  ‘Not if I wish to placate the feverish warriors in our midst.’

  ‘That way lies Hattin, the defeat of our army, the conquest of our lands by Saracens who outnumber and outfight us.’ The Lord of Arsur peered earnestly at his regent, managed to volunteer a shudder. ‘I was lucky to escape the field when so many did not, remember each incident and every knight who fell. I smelt the burning flesh of my Christian brothers, saw with my own eyes the royal tent sink, heard the terrible clamour, the clash of steel, the strike of the Mohammedan arrows. Peace is discarded easily by those who do not know war.’

  A pretty enough speech, and he believed not a word. John of Brienne, however, appeared to draw comfort from it. He would be less than content had he known he was in the presence of his nemesis and that downfall was near. The royal guard was infiltrated, the royal infant nursed by an impostor, the royal palace threatened by forces unseen and within. There would be no stopping the realization of prophecy and vision, no counter to the dark might of the lord god Baphomet. Matters were in hand. The Lord of Arsur would smile and offer counsel, a shoulder on which to weep. Whatever it took, wherever it led. A plot matured over twenty-five years was bound to be ambitious in scope. The death agonies of a kingdom were more rewarding in close proximity.

  In gesture of solidarity he reached and gripped the arm of the ageing ruler. ‘I am here with you, my regent lord.’

  ‘I can think of no greater reassurance.’

  ‘Then be heartened, sir. Allies and like minds as ours are all about. I see the standards of the Lord of Jebail and his vassal Sir William de Picton too are presently in this city.’

  ‘They come as you to pledge fealty and assistance.’

  ‘Thus already are we a power to be reckoned.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’ John of Brienne massaged the fatigue from his eyes. ‘Valiant souls, each one of you. Yet what are we against Saphadin? What course is there against an infidel sultan who, once so calm and cautious, turns rogue?’

  ‘There will come a day of reckoning.’

  ‘I hope it will be when we are equipped and manned and may hold our position.’

  The Lord of Arsur stifled a yawn. John of Brienne could bellyache and whine, but he would not be saved. Saphadin too would be vexed, for events were accelerating beyond his control. In the meantime, inconsequential chat would suffice.

  ‘How does the infant queen, your daughter, sir?’

  ‘She prospers, is my joy and light in this desolation, the hope for Outremer.’

  ‘Long may she reign. She is dear to us.’

  ‘Mercifully, she is too young to gauge the turbulence in her kingdom. Thankfully, she is well protected from the ravages of politics and those who might wish her ill.’

  ‘I pray it remains so.’

  What he prayed for, planned for, was significantly darker. It was good to keep faith. As in every coastal city in the Latin realm, from Beirut to Jaffa, the gates of Acre were closed for the night and the portcullises brought down. As if evil could be so easily shut out. The Lord of Arsur listened and spoke, assumed the guise of confidant and friend who had at heart the interests of this noble king and his subjects. They were of value solely as dupes. He studied the face, wondering at the shape it might make when forming a scream.

  ‘Lady Matilda.’ The Lord of Arsur proffered a courteous nod.

  ‘What brings you here, my lord?’

  Things to do, people to kill. ‘I come to provide buttress to my sovereign, to stand with him against gathering storm.’

  ‘He is in need of your solace, my lord.’

  ‘Alas, I cannot bring good news. There is too much distress in our land to speak otherwise. But I may at least provide amity and resolve to the court.’

  ‘You honour us.’

  ‘As you enchant Outremer with your beauty and grace, my lady.’ For once he strayed from type and did not lie. ‘Your father would well approve of how his daughter beguiles, of how she has grown in rank and reputation.’

  ‘I try to serve his memory and to continue his work.’

  ‘You could emulate none more revered.’

  Her father had been a sanctimonious fool with a weakness for meddling involvement and for prying into matters beyond his concern. It had been unwise of him to follow the strands of conspiracy, to pursue phantom tales of treachery and double-dealing, of the location of the True Cross. A diligent man, now a dead knight. He had never quite liked or trusted the Lord of Arsur, and with the hindsight of the grave that judgement was astute. As it was, he had succumbed to surprise illness and bloody flux, had writhed his last in a soiled bed attended by a loving and grieving daughter. Case closed.

  The Lord of Arsur contrived affectionate concern. ‘News travels, even to Arsur, my lady. We have heard of your escape from the clutches of the Saracen
horde.’

  ‘Many innocents were caught.’

  ‘Such is the nature of these raids, the bloodlust of the infidel.’

  ‘Yet it was Saphadin who signed treaty of peace.’

  ‘My memory is longer, my lady. But you will not hear me call for war. Like your father, and like John of Brienne, I will for ever champion the cause of harmony.’

  ‘Some might find fault.’

  ‘Let them. I am accustomed to the jibes of rash young men who know nothing of life but the inside of a wine flagon.’

  She laughed lightly, tilting back her head, allowing him to appraise her exquisite features, her dancing green eyes, her long neck shrouded in its cloth barbette, her forehead ringed by gold-embroidered circlet. Such a very vulnerable throat. The gown was low-cut and scarlet: the colour of martyrdom. He took it as a positive sign.

  ‘Your estates avoid the worst excess of the Saracens, my lady?’

  ‘For the while. Yet I learn terrible things befall those in neighbouring land.’

  ‘The enemy strikes at will. None are safe.’

  ‘All who at present seek refuge in our city tell so in their eyes. My father would be stricken by this turmoil and their plight.’

  ‘We must be glad he is with Our Lord and the saints.’

  ‘Since Queen Maria died, it is as though we are cursed.’

  Empathy exuded. ‘Who may know?’

  He did, of course. But revelation was for another time. With the same crafted politeness, he excused himself from her company and went on his way. Behind, Matilda watched, confused by courtship that involved no warmth, a presence defined by its absence. Without determining cause, the young noblewoman was troubled and discomforted. She stood for a long while.

  Others were less concerned. In the palace stables two men conferred over the relative merits of their horses. One, the knight William de Picton, was large and bluff with the swagger of a true crusader, the worldly bearing of a veteran who had served with Richard Cœur de Lion. Equine flesh was his passion. But he was no fool, had seen enough death to value life and to cherish harmonious relations with the Moslem. Beside him was his liege baron the Lord of Jebail. Here was something more exotic, a perfumed creature robed in silks, a nobleman turned native, an ally of the regent who craved tranquillity, song and dance, who liked the Arabs and was rumoured to be partial to their boys. They were an unlikely but successful pairing of friends, and Outremer had benefited from their sway.

  ‘Regard the neck, Sir William. It arches high, has elegance enough to see it stabled in the finest courts of Araby.’

  ‘Keep your beast, my lord. My Norman would trample it as straw in battle.’

  Jebail sighed in mild reproach. ‘I trust it will not come to that.’

  ‘In present clime, trust and hope may roll either way as dice.’

  ‘Banish your gloom, Sir William. Even as Armageddon approaches and we live in the end of days, we should make merry and drink well.’

  ‘Yet I still believe my steed has more pace and strength than yours.’

  ‘Persist in your delusion. I have bred horses the Viceroy of Egypt himself covets.’

  ‘Perhaps we shall ask him when his army arrives with that of Saphadin before the gates of Acre.’

  ‘Again your melancholy.’ The Lord of Jebail walked over to fraternize with a horse whose head extended in inquisitive greeting above its stall door. ‘Is this not the animal that bore Lady Matilda away from the horrors of the Mohammedan attack?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A clever mount. We too should run for cover when all about is chaos.’

  They shared the joke, pausing at the appearance of the Lord of Arsur in the dim light of the lantern. Mutual respect rather than warm camaraderie was their common bond, but they enjoyed the patronage and regard of the regent and gave him loyalty in return, promoted his commitment to trade and conciliation with the Saracen. Or so the Lord of Arsur made it seem. He smiled at his companions, would keep them guessing to the last.

  ‘What say you, Arsur? Could my horse best that of Sir William?’

  ‘In running or mating, my lord?’

  ‘Excellent answer.’ The nobleman turned to the knight. ‘Shall we see how they fare when put to another?’

  ‘Male or female, my lord?’

  ‘In truth, I find it hard to choose.’ The Lord of Jebail tittered and waggled his head.

  The Lord of Arsur stared past him towards the silent stalls. ‘How far we are here from the commotion of court and the fears of the realm.’

  ‘I agree, my lord.’ De Picton was happy to remain with the subject of horses. ‘Grant me the odour of any stable, the stench of dung and hay, over the smell of crisis.’

  ‘And crisis there is, Sir William. It is why I visit John of Brienne.’

  ‘Why we too gather in Acre.’

  Jebail waved his hand distractedly. ‘I see none of it in my fief, for Jebail is left untouched by discord or raid.’

  ‘You are fortunate, my brother lord.’

  ‘Fruit is picked, goats are herded, fish are caught. Only a village simpleton would wish for war.’

  ‘They may yet take over the village.’

  ‘Not while I and Sir William live.’ The Lord of Jebail peered enquiringly at his fellow noble, his gaze more astute than his plumage suggested. ‘I know the Arab, the Turcoman and the Kurd, am intimate with his wiles and ways.’

  You are closer than most to their rears, the Lord of Arsur silently conceded. ‘We each of us have had our dealings with the Saracen.’

  ‘There is not an emir or sheikh who would embrace the prospect of needless conflagration. Misunderstanding abounds. I shall take it upon myself to pay visit to the Sultan in Damascus, to cool the rising heat and break this wheel of hatred and anger.’

  ‘Praiseworthy hopes, my lord. You are indeed a dove of peace.’

  Flattered, Jebail smoothed his garments with well-kept fingers. ‘I am a strutting peacock who still finds time to serve my king and Outremer.’

  ‘You offer more than you will ever know. Journey of a different kind is called for.’

  De Picton snorted. ‘Riddles are not for me, Arsur.’

  ‘So I shall make it plain.’

  He sauntered across the flagstones and took up position at a distance. The scene was set, the stage cleared, and the pair of actors seemed confused. They looked about them, attempting to glimpse what sixth sense informed. A shiver of movement, a shadow, a falling away of certainty. Something jarred; something presaged danger. Doors swung and fears gained solid form. The Assassins had come to call.

  ‘How is this, Arsur?’ De Picton reached instinctively for his sword and found it was not there.

  ‘Is this a trap?’ The voice of Jebail followed, high-pitched and tremulous. ‘Is it a trick? A jest of some kind?’

  ‘Explain yourself, Arsur. Desist from this folly.’

  Jebail shrank behind the protective bulk of his vassal knight. ‘Defend me, Sir William. It is perfidy, treachery. What shall we do?’

  ‘We will fight.’

  A decision of no consequence, reflected the Lord of Arsur as the trio of killers closed. People died in different ways. The Lord of Jebail chose to shriek, attempted to dodge and plead and claw his way to imagined shelter that did not exist and would be hard to achieve with multiple blade-thrusts to his back. William de Picton performed as he had pledged, grappling and wrestling his opponents aside, until he staggered bellowing to his knees and pitched forward in a pool of his own blood. The Lord of Arsur observed dispassionately, a still figure in a dark cloak and with a face that did not move.

  There was a muscle-twitch in the knight, residual energy that flipped him on his back. He should never have left his castle in Wales, thought the Lord of Arsur as he accepted a sword from an officer emerging through the murk and teased it through the ribs. Spasms ceased. Yet there remained unfinished business, the simple matter of three Assassins standing mute in docile surrender. They had done as demanded. T
he Lord of Arsur gave his direction and they were instantly cut down. As he watched, he pondered idly on their compatriots sent to Europe for the purpose of dispatching Otto of Alzey. Every conceivable aspect was covered, one successful outcome planned.

  He knelt and began to apply blood to his face and clothing. ‘What dread catastrophe has befallen our dear and gallant brothers, what sadness we stumble in, too late to prevent such hideous crime. Inform the regent. Call out the guard. Tell all we at least gave this unholy trinity of vile murderers a taste of our vengeful blades.’

  It would not take long before palace and city erupted in alarm. Until then, he would sit quietly in contemplation while future hopes for the realm leaked away in a thickening and crimson slick around him. The doughty knight and effete baron were so much more useful in death. They were victims, icons, rallying points for an avenging Outremer. Conversely, he would be a live hero, a man on whom the weakened regent king would have no choice but to rely. Dependence bred control, would in turn facilitate conquest. Not bad for a brief encounter in a stable.

  Nearby, spooked by the strangeness and proximity of events, horses were stamping and neighing fretfully in their boxes. The late Sir William de Picton would have appreciated that.

  Stupefied by what he had seen, mesmerized by his own terror, the stablehand inched further back into the lightless reaches of the passageway. He should have resisted sleep, should have found the straw-lined berth less inviting. Now he was for it. He might be a simple lad, a worthless speck in the firmament populated by lords and ladies, but he knew treachery and unlawful slaying when it was laid before him like a butcher-shop. This noble Lord of Arsur was nothing more than a foul fiend, a cold-hearted slaughterman without morals or remorse. Whether to report or ignore it, that was the inconvenient question. Best to slip away, to clear the head, to weigh the rewards and drawbacks of bearing witness.