She swung the infant and sang to her another stanza. What privilege to have such access to the future sovereign, to be entrusted with her care. The poor mite had no mother, no one to comfort and put her to the breast save a hard-working stranger in the employ of the royal house. It was a thought that brought a malevolent smirk to the face of the nurse. She was being paid well to deliver up the booty, the precious bundle, when commanded. Until that moment, she would be diligent and unobtrusive, would keep them guessing. John of Brienne, regent of Outremer, was destined to lose his kingdom, his daughter, his everything.
‘What is this?’
Sharp admonition carried in the tone of Lady Matilda. She stared at the nurse, a questioning frown on her brow, cold displeasure in her green eyes.
Excuses tumbled. ‘My lady, I mean no harm. I thought the air would benefit her young majesty, believed she might enjoy excursion to new parts.’
‘In spite of rules forbidding it.’
‘On occasion I forget myself, my lady.’
‘You are paid to remember, engaged to guard and cosset the person of our queen.’
‘I beg you not to report me, my lady. Such offence will never be repeated.’
‘Should the matter again arise, should I catch you in illicit place, you will be beaten and discarded.’
‘It shall not happen, my lady. You have my promise.’
Matilda let her scurry away. She could not pretend to like the strange and shadowy woman, could not dismiss her hint of defiance even as she cowered. There was knowledge and hidden purpose in the blandness. But she had no time to dwell on such considerations, to reflect on her greater regard for the senior and more cheerful of the nurses. A mistake had occurred and now was dealt with. In future she would attempt to curb her annoyance, control her sharpness with deficient staff.
Easier said than accomplished in these trying days. For a while she paced fretfully on the battlement walkways, her thoughts distracted and her worries bearing down. Children were her concern, thousands of them rumoured to be sailing for the Holy Land with optimism in their hearts and yet without hope of triumphant landing. Arab traders in their dhows, Maghribs and Levantines in their fishing caiques, had already reported on the sorrowful sights in Alexandria of sick and malnourished waifs herded to auction by whip-carrying slave-masters. It was almost too harrowing to contemplate, was too vexing to ignore. She had to act, needed to ensure that those who made it to the shores of Outremer were gathered up and protected, were taken to her care. This she could do. If the regent and his barons were engaged in higher matters and affairs of state, she would dwell in the affairs of the forgotten. They had no one else.
She had known where to find him. In a welter of thrashing limbs, and pursued by affray, he landed violently through the open doorway at her feet. Somewhere in the minor dust squall a tooth was spat out, a drunken oath emanated as a groan. Matilda stood back. As a young lady of noble birth, she rarely mixed with the lowly denizens of the Acre taverns and guardrooms. They were unspeakable types, thieves and murderers marooned in the darker recesses of Christendom, soldier ruffians more likely to desert their posts than ever defend the masters who paid them. Vice was their virtue, whoring, gaming, fighting and drinking their pleasure and pursuit. Worst among sinners was this man.
Rocking feverishly on his back, he began to sing a bawdy shanty of a fisherwoman and her friendship with an eel. At least he was alive, Matilda thought. The song reached for a climax and abruptly stopped. He had noticed her, was struggling to sit upright and focus through bloodshot eyes.
‘Am I in heaven, my lady?’ He belched and delivered a conspiratorial wink.
‘I know of no paradise that would take you, Sergeant Hugh.’
‘Then I am condemned to drift and wander as a spirit.’
‘What happened to the warrior and bodyguard who protected Richard Cœur de Lion, the bowman who saved his beloved king from Saracen ambush near Jaffa and Blanchegarde?’
‘Richard is gone, and I with him.’
‘Twenty years have passed since he departed these shores. Yet you choose to linger, prefer to drink and carouse than pursue the noble art of soldiery.’
The Englishman sighed. ‘The weather is conducive to me.’
‘Do all your countrymen sink to such low and sorry state when left in foreign climes?’
‘It is our disease, my lady.’
‘I intend to provide its cure.’
He hiccuped and fell back, an act which triggered delivery of another rambling song. Matilda was uncertain if he mocked her or had merely forgotten her presence. She let the ballad run its course.
His head lolled. ‘Hugh of York at your service, my lady.’
‘You are in no position or mind to be of use to any.’
‘Such cruelty from one so young and pretty.’
‘I perceive you with my eyes.’
‘What green eyes they are.’ He stared up insolently at her. ‘And what sharp tongue that cuts me to my soul.’
The man was impossible. She flushed at his oblique flattery, the suggestive manner with which he caressed his words. Sergeant Hugh was playing with her. He was a rogue and chancer, a mischief-maker who cut deals and created trouble, who lived off the fat of others and the sweat of his associates. Whatever glory there had been was vanished; however brave he once was he was now its spent and indolent shadow. But he still had the rugged and stocky build of a fighter, still possessed the shoulders and eye of the finest archer in the Latin world. She would find employment for him.
‘You helped my father, Sergeant Hugh.’
‘Like King Richard, it is history. Like all good men, he is dead.’
‘If you revere and cherish his memory, you will listen to me.’
‘I listen.’
‘There are children, countless number of them, that head this way to Palestine, driven by fervour to liberate Jerusalem and uncover our lost relic of the True Cross.’
‘They are fools.’
‘They are innocents doomed to fall prey to Saracens and slavers, liable to suffer the most terrible of fates.’
‘So, I weep.’ His concern seemed less than profound.
‘Are they not worthy of our aid and comfort?’
‘Who is worthy and who is not?’ The Englishman gazed at the sky and began to whistle a little tune. ‘The Lord of Jebail and Sir William de Picton were deemed worthy, yet they were cut down here in Acre itself. It happens.’
‘We may change events, do what is right and merciful in the sight of God.’
‘I am out of practice, my lady.’
‘Are you out of conscience also?’
‘Leave it to the regent. Leave it to the nobles. Leave it to any but myself.’
‘I turn to you, Hugh of York.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Why so? Even my horse Zephyr creates more wind in his belly than beneath his feet. Yes, I was renowned as archer without compare. True, I was with Cœur de Lion when he rode in the hills above Emmaus, when he caught distant glimpse of Jerusalem and raised his shield to prevent further sight of the city he would never reach. All is in the past, and my privilege too is to avert my face.’
With theatrical sigh he clamped his hands across his eyes and lapsed into contrived silence. From this position he could pretend she had departed and he was once more alone. The ruse did not appear to work. His fingers spread, his pupils contemplating her with dull resentment.
‘You intrude, my lady.’
‘I will pay you well for your endeavour.’ She was loosening the purse at her girdle, emptying silver pieces into her palm. ‘Should charity have price, it will reward you more than any other of your schemes.’
‘What role is this to hunt children?’
‘One of the highest calling. Saddle your horse, patrol until the new year the coastal length of Outremer and Antioch, wrest the young from danger and carry them to the safety of my friends at the great Cistercian abbey in the hills above Tripoli.’
The soldier slowl
y raised himself again. ‘From there?’
‘We will bring them to Acre, restore them to their liberty.’
‘While I see my own trampled in the dust.’ He held out his hand to receive the coins.
She smiled and repeated his words. ‘It happens.’
Horses stamped and whinnied, men haggled, and the sounds of argument and trade rose in solid confusion above the market square of Nettuno. Otto was selling his mare and stallion. A merchant with pinched face and mean eyes circled them, lifting their hooves, prodding their flanks, as the beasts stood patient and understanding. They had carried their master well, had escorted him these long miles. To the young noble they were most loyal of companions; to Kurt and Isolda they were totems and friends. There was pain in losing Maximilian and Gerta.
‘Regard their necks, the carriage of their heads. Your animals are sick and broken.’
‘They are tired as are we all.’ Otto ran his hand along the black coat of the stallion. ‘You will not find better mounts.’
‘Perchance before you started your journey. But now they are done, ruined by the travel and the harshness of the road.’
‘I see no ruin, only strength to be restored by fodder and rest.’
The man gave a sour laugh. ‘Rest? They would be of more use if put beneath the blade of a butcher. I will give a silver mark for the pair.’
‘It is quarter of what I ask.’
‘They are less than what you promise.’
Kurt abandoned them to their debate, wandered through the teeming and evolving scenes. There were stalls and side-streets to explore, goods to examine, and spectacle to observe. Everyone was arriving or departing, going somewhere. Above the stench of animal dung and human waste, he could smell the sea, the harbour where his ship waited, the horizon for which he aimed. So many times had he bid farewell to people and places, moved on to the next. But never before had he left a shoreline, leaped so decisively to the distant unknown.
A noise drew him. It was the clamour of excitement, the baying of a mob. He pushed through, worming his way between shifting walls of humanity to reach open space and a better vantage. From here he could see, could catch glimpse of the target of jeers and catcalls, of venomous abuse. The crowd heaved and parted and a woman burst through.
‘Make way for the whore!’
‘See how she ensnares a bird as she catches the pox!’
‘Watch how she makes a feather bed in which to pleasure us all!’
She stumbled and the mirth grew, her bare form white and dirt-flecked as she scrambled to seize a fluttering chicken. The fowl dodged and the young woman slipped and fell. More laughter, more oath-laden shouts. It seemed she had cheated on her husband, was suffering the consequence of her infidelity. Kurt saw her tears, the beseeching panic in her eyes, the quivering shame in her nakedness. He turned away, angry at his powerlessness and her plight.
Edging to the periphery, he ducked through an alleyway and emerged into a courtyard ignored by the general flow of populace. He would sit and catch his breath, expunge the brutal picture from his mind. The poor, haunted woman. At least she was not being branded for her crimes or burnt as a witch.
A shadow fell across him, the light displaced by the presence of a tall man. His face was obscured by a canvas cowl, his shape distorted by a capacious smock. But there was no doubting who he was, no need to guess the identity of the three men beside him. They were Cathars, and they had already made acquaintance. Kurt gazed dumbly at the spectres, consumed by desire to flee, paralysed by sudden nightmare that transported him to the foot of an oak in whose branches a dead priest hung.
‘It is not finished, child.’
The twelve-year-old shrank against the rough-hewn stones, tried to make himself small, to make himself scarce.
He stammered a response. ‘I have no business with you.’
‘Yet our paths cross, and it is fate which brings us to this confluence.’
‘You follow us.’
‘No difficult task.’
‘Keep away from me, stay distant from my friends. Otto has a sword, Brother Luke a staff that will beat you roundly as when first we met.’
‘They are not with you.’
‘I have my fists, my feet, my teeth. Step back or I will show you how I fight.’
‘Such spleen and intemperate spirit for a pilgrim.’ The deep voice, speaking this time in German tongue, was mocking, dangerous. ‘You will not shake us in our sacred quest, will not divert us from cleansing the earth of its impurities and sin.’
‘You are mad.’
‘We are chosen, elected to show the way and to harvest the corrupt flesh of man.’
‘What if I should call out that heretics are loose among us?’
‘Would they believe a boy? A dead boy?’
The Perfect reached and tousled his hair, an act of gentle familiarity designed to menace. Kurt shied. Yet the fingers tightened on his scalp, the grip of the Cathar leader pulling him close.
‘Take care, child. We shall meet again.’
Kurt pivoted free and ran.
It was Brother Luke who confronted him as he scampered into the marketplace. ‘A hare, and a frightened one. What fearful thing propels you so quick, my lamb?’
‘Spirits, shadows, imaginings that mean nothing.’
‘Stay close and I will banish every one.’ The friar took his hand and clenched it between his own. ‘We shall prevail over all.’
And Kurt believed, absorbed the confidence the Franciscan emitted. The old man had seen the world, encountered threat and lived this long. He had earned the right of self-assurance. The twelve-year-old would not trouble him with tales of his encounter.
Otto appeared and hailed them, Isolda at his side. ‘Max and Gerta are gone, delivered up to new possession.’
‘A travelling merchant? A local knight?’
‘Isolda persuaded me to do other. I gave them both to a poor family whose need was greatest and whose regard and care for them will be unequalled.’
Brother Luke nodded. ‘Then we are set fair. Onward, my lambs. A distant shore beckons.’
Their walking was over. Before them in the harbour were two vessels, three-masted merchantmen low in the water and laden with the barrels and bundles of trade. Otto and the friar had negotiated passage, the young noble offering security to the master with Hospitaller documents proving payment would be made. It would reduce the chance of a crew resorting to murder, avert the risk of an avaricious captain selling passengers on to Barbary pirates. Brother Luke kissed the ground and blessed the youngsters.
‘We are some thirty miles beyond Rome, at the very limit of our landward crossing. Come aboard, my lambs. Our voyage is begun.’
He strode up the gangplank, Otto behind, and jumped as effortlessly as any matelot to the deck. But Kurt and Isolda hesitated. They stood trembling on the wharfside, studying the hull, the masts, the folded sails. The waters were so deep, the blue Tyrrhenian Sea so vast and wide. It was a leap of faith to a gaping chasm.
The friar peered at them. ‘Winds wait for none. There is no turning now.’
‘We cannot.’ Isolda wrung her hands, desperation clinging in her throat.
‘You may have lost your army of children to conquer the Holy Land, yet you may still find glory and carry home the True Cross.’
‘How may we find glory when we lack courage?’
‘Firmitas et Fortitudo, my lambs.’ The Franciscan spread his arms. ‘Firmitas et Fortitudo.’
Sister and brother looked at each other and raced to climb aboard, their friends helping them over. The four pilgrims embraced. ‘Strength and Bravery,’ Kurt whispered to himself. ‘Strength and Bravery.’
As their ship cleared the breakwater for the open sea, the Perfect was leading his Believers on to the second of the two vessels.
In the Holy Land, south of the city of Jerusalem, lay a bleak and wind-blown valley named Gehenna. It was in this desolate place that Semitic and Assyrian tribes once made burnt off
erings, sacrificed children to Moloch and Baal, the supreme deities and ancient gods of fertility and youth. Later generations set fire to refuse here, the smoke and flames blackening the sky, wreathing the land in dismal haze that conjured furnace-images of its past. Children would visit again. Gehenna, site of eternal torment. Gehenna, the Hebrew word for hell.
Chapter 11
December 1212, and winter storms had raged along the coastal length of Outremer. Winds beat against the ships and galleys tethered fast to their moorings, rain lashed the walls and fortifications of the Christian enclaves. And the Franks waited for spring, wondered if it would bring the full wrath of the Saracens, speculated whether dark skies and roaring thunder were portent of their own annihilation. Nowhere was the mood bleaker, relations more turbulent and divided, than in the great hall at Acre. Voices were raised, insults hurled, threats exchanged. The very walls and flagstones gave off dankness and despair. It seemed the tempest had reached into the very heart of the Latin kingdom. The Council was in session.
Around the long table were the secular and religious rulers of the land. At the head sat the regent king John of Brienne, arrayed to either side his allies and his critics. An uncomfortable mix. There were the lords of Beirut, Caesarea and Sidon, the lords of Jaffa, Haifa and Tyre. With them were other barons and senior clerics: the Patriarch of Jerusalem, the bishops of Acre and of Tyre. Alongside too were the Grand Masters of the military Orders: Guerin de Montagu of the Hospitallers, Hermann Bardt of the Teutons, Philippe Du Plezier of the Templars. All present and angrily opinionated. Watching, keeping his counsel, resting back in his chair, was the Lord of Arsur.
‘Your brothers are murdered, your lands pillaged, the Lord of Jebail and Sir William de Picton cut down. And you cower as whipped hounds.’ The fist of the Grand Master of the Hospital slammed on the table, and a flagon of wine spilled.
A grey-bearded noble responded. ‘What would you have us do, Grand Master? Ride out with paltry force to our deaths? Invade the Bekaa? Lay siege to Damascus?’
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