Pilgrim

by James Jackson

A blade cut the hawser and the craft floated free. As he raised the sail and manned the tiller, Brother Luke glimpsed the foreshore in a momentary and fading pulse of light. Armed figures had converged, their swords rising and falling in act of murder. A crossbow bolt flew wide and slapped the sea, then another. They would not reach him now. He tasted the bitterness of ash and charred particles on the wind, heard a bell toll. Arwad was behind him, its searing heat replaced by coolness, its luminescence returned to night.

  ‘Kurt! Isolda!’

  There was no single or definitive expression on the face of Egon. Bewilderment and gladness, consternation and amazement competed for supremacy. He gasped their names again, kept staring. Then he was on his feet, tugging at his chains, stretching his arms wide to embrace and hold his friends. Beside him, resting on his haunches, Zepp stayed mute as brother and sister crowded round, as Isolda stroked his hair and kissed him.

  ‘He will never answer.’ The voice of the blacksmith’s boy was cracked with feeling. ‘Not since Achim died has he said a word.’

  Isolda held the face of the youngster between her palms. ‘Be restored, sweet Zepp. No matter our lot, we are with you now, shall always be beside you.’

  ‘How came you here, Egon?’ Kurt rested a hand on the shoulder of his comrade.

  ‘Fate of the worst kind; fortune that delivered us to slavery in Egypt and by way of caravan to this dungeon.’

  The twelve-year-old peered about him. ‘So many children are present.’

  ‘Yet not the traitor Gunther.’

  ‘Give me a sword and I will run him through. He is the one who captured us, Egon.’

  ‘I do not doubt it, for he serves his new master well.’

  ‘The Lord of Arsur?’

  Egon nodded, apprehension and disgust creasing his brow. The sturdy son of the blacksmith was afraid. But the tension softened as he watched Isolda, his affection still there, his longing undimmed. Whatever their travails, however tortuous the journey, he could not disguise his pleasure in her company. It made the pain of revelation bleaker.

  ‘See how we are shackled.’ The blacksmith’s boy rattled his bindings. ‘We are kept for a reason, and that reason is to die.’

  ‘You speak no sense, Egon.’

  ‘Nor can I find it. Yet I know things, have been told by this black lord himself how events will unfold.’

  ‘He gathers us to kill?’

  ‘As sacrifice, Kurt. When time arrives, we are to be taken to Jerusalem and put to death as blessing for creation of a future kingdom.’

  ‘No Christian would do this.’

  ‘He is no Christian, no kind and proper lord. And what he plans fast approaches.’

  ‘We may escape, have done so before.’

  ‘Like this?’ Egon was disbelieving.

  ‘How often have we despaired, brother? How often have we then outpaced our hunters, found way through to freedom?

  ‘It was never from jail or fortress, Kurt.’

  ‘Otto rides to aid us, Brother Luke too will collect support.’

  ‘What are they against an army?’

  ‘You have not met our companion Sergeant Hugh, once guard to the Lionheart Richard, longbowman without an equal.’

  The older boy lowered his face, ashamed to show his tears, unwilling to deal final blow to the hopefulness of his friend. To be held in irons was to see the human spirit reduced and robbed. Kurt would learn when it happened to him.

  ‘Water . . .’

  A child sobbed, and Isolda went to tend her. There were others beside, calling out to their mothers or to God, weeping while awake or in their wretched dreams. Brother and sister tried to comfort them. It was good to keep busy, to share clumsy and childish words with these poor and wasted creatures. How like they were to those who had arrived lame before the gates of Genoa, Kurt thought. They should have stayed there, should not have travelled to the ends of the earth in order to be slain. The innocent and pure were always the last to realize, the first to die. Now he was among them.

  The adult voice was low and sonorous, and it was one he recognized. ‘Did I not say we would meet again, child?’

  Indeed he had done. The Perfect stood in the subterranean chamber, studied Kurt with the enquiring air of a herbalist who has discovered a rare specimen. And the subject of his interest glared back. He remembered well their last meeting, the shadow that had flitted over him in the hidden square of Nettuno, the way the figure in black had reached to tousle his hair and to menace. We are chosen, elected to show the way and to harvest the corrupt flesh of man. Like Gunther, the Cathars had returned to haunt him. Small wonder Egon believed he and his young fellow prisoners were damned.

  He walked slowly towards the Cathar chief. ‘What right have you here?’

  ‘That of a keeper over his slave.’

  ‘You have no power over us.’

  ‘Words that have no meaning; thoughts which will soon vanish.’

  ‘Brother Luke will take revenge.’

  ‘Your friar?’ The Perfect shook his head, could almost have been caring. ‘He is captured, already most likely dead.’

  ‘It is untrue.’

  ‘Yet you are not certain.’

  Confrontation was unequal, a boy set against a tall and solemn man who carried intent to harm. There was a calm hostility in the Cathar, a conviction that allowed him to dispense with obvious ill feeling. Killing children was merely a matter of faith. Kurt had his own duty, an obligation to protect each one of the young fettered in this place.

  He balled his fists. ‘You will not come near.’

  ‘Your fiery temper and arguing spirit do not leave you, child.’

  ‘I am no child.’

  ‘To be sure, in the eyes of our true God you are progeny of evil.’

  ‘Evil is to hold us here, to keep us locked away.’

  ‘Open your eyes, child.’ The Perfect frowned in commiseration. ‘My credentes shall liberate and redeem your souls, act to banish wrong and benefit the world.’

  Behind him, the Believers were gathered in devotional silence, a posse of adherents the youngster had not encountered since Brother Luke punished them near the hanging-tree. Their presence was discouraging.

  Kurt was not for surrender. ‘Whatever you plan, you shall be brought before law.’

  ‘The Lord of Arsur will rule Outremer, shall be our court of justice. And you shall be ash and dust.’

  ‘Go from us! Let us alone!’

  Fear prompted his attack, spurred him in wild fury to leap at the Perfect with arms and legs flailing. The onrush was checked. As he kicked and bit and was held firm, the Cathar leader leaned to address him.

  ‘I vow I shall reserve my bluntest knife for you.’

  Grim hours passed without surprise or incident, and the children sat or lay in simmering despair and silence, Isolda knelt beside Zepp and prayed; Kurt and Egon tried to sleep. The twelve-year-old was sure the gloating eyes of Gunther, son of the woodsman, were periodically upon them.

  It had been a mistake to offer opinion to the regent, to make allegation without supporting proof. In the great hall of Acre, Otto and Sergeant Hugh shifted uncomfortably before the dais and throne. John of Brienne stared back. He viewed them as though they were village simpletons burst in upon a royal feast, dismissed them as though they uttered blasphemy. Above, heraldic banners hung in vivid profusion from the oak cross-beams. At ground level, matters were far less festive.

  John of Brienne rose from his seat. ‘Am I so weak, so infirm of mind, that I should take counsel from a stripling noble and a knavish bowman?’

  ‘We are simple bearers of fact, sir.’ Sergeant Hugh was prone to truculence when challenged.

  ‘You are bringers of falsehood and cancerous rumour, Hugh of York.’ The old crusader stamped his foot. ‘Who gives you such devious tongue? Who permits you to mire the name of our noble Lord of Arsur with wrong accusation and vile calumny?’

  ‘Circumstance, sir.’

  ‘I shall give you cir
cumstance to regret outrageous hearsay and untruth. You shall be lucky to escape whipping at the post.’

  Otto cleared his throat. ‘It is no way to treat your loyal servant, sir.’

  ‘Hugh of York, loyal? He is as fickle and errant as wayside beggar or market harlot.’

  ‘A beggar may have eyes, a harlot ears, sir.’ The young noble respectfully met the thunderous look. ‘At the monastery, the abbot revealed the dark hand of this lord in abduction of the child innocents. At the caves beyond Beirut, I witnessed his captains take my friends.’

  ‘Would you have me alter policy on a whim? Would you have me abandon a true stalwart of our cause and kingdom?’

  ‘I ask only that you judge the chance of foul plot.’

  ‘There is no conspiracy, no treachery, no substance to these wicked and imprudent claims.’ John of Brienne paced angrily on his royal platform. ‘The Lord of Arsur finds us peace, establishes foundation for talk and accord with the Sultan of Damascus.’

  Sergeant Hugh interrupted. ‘Perhaps he creates foundation for himself.’

  ‘Neither king nor noble need justify his course to a common soldier.’

  ‘I merely venture an idea, sir.’

  ‘You are not paid for it. In truth, you were rewarded by Lady Matilda to find and bring back stray waifs, child pilgrims you now lose. Do I see you return those sums of silver?’

  ‘There was certain expense, sir.’

  ‘And precious little sacrifice. Yet the Lord of Arsur of whom you speak ill has endangered his life for our gain, offers himself as hostage to Saphadin. Lady Matilda too, from whom you rob, goes as captive to Beit-Nuba. What advantage do you seek that is not for yourself?’

  A ruler indignant could be hard to placate, harder to persuade. Otto observed him and the hushed courtiers about, sensed reason would not penetrate when his story seemed absurd. He himself could make no sense of it. These people had sound basis for their doubts, reason to question the character and standing of Sergeant Hugh. Yet he knew, without comprehending, that Outremer was imperilled, and that the Lord of Arsur was involved.

  Lady Matilda smiled at him. In a single glance there could be so much. A warmth and understanding, a tender sorrow and teasing joy, a secret offer and shouted promise. He found himself staring, drawn enraptured to the green eyes, to the part-open mouth. Never before had he seen a girl so beautiful. Their sightlines touched and played and tangled, as sensuous as fingers, as enfolding as limbs. For a moment he resisted, wrestling the impulse. But the alchemy surged, elemental desire numbing his brain, clutching his groin, squeezing his gut. She possessed him.

  The voice of the regent intruded. ‘Let us put aside folly and abandon quarrel. You are my guest, young Otto of Alzey, and I welcome you as such.’

  ‘You honour me, sir.’

  ‘While you pay tribute with your presence.’

  ‘I wish only to serve with valour and distinction and to restore my father to my sight.’

  ‘Commendable aim.’ The Frankish veteran nodded in approval. ‘We need more as you, young Alzey.’

  ‘All will rally to you, sir.’

  ‘Our world crumbles, the shadow of war still looms. And Yolanda our queen, my infant daughter, is stolen. Yet we may dine.’

  Otto pitied him his sadness and for all that he had lost. The old and dignified man was weighed heavy with his troubles. He should think of other things. Light-headed and slightly breathless, the young noble returned his attention to Lady Matilda. He wanted to hold her, to save her, to ensure that while he lived she would not fall prey to intrigue or the likes of the Lord of Arsur.

  Leading a trio of roped donkeys burdened with Templar treasure, Brother Luke headed across the plain for the land of the Assassins. He no longer wore the brown habit of a Franciscan, but was garbed the stolen tunic taken from Arwad. Travellers and spies often had need of masquerade.

  Chapter 18

  Matilda was in state of nervous perturbation. In all her life she had seen no boy like this. He was handsome beyond compare, had the charms of an angel and the physical form of a young and earthly god. It made her blush to think of him, to dwell on the uninhibited pursuits she might care to indulge with him. She repeated his name in whisper to herself. Otto of Alzey. Again it conjured the ache in her loins and belly, summoned his face to the forefront of her mind. The dancing blue eyes, the smile, the masculine-delicate features, the soft blond hair. She was shocked by her own response. It was both heady and disturbing to feel such things, strange and yet ordinary to imagine acting beyond her control. Emotion could be hard to untangle.

  Then the pain deepened to more profound anguish and regret. Baby Yolanda was gone, the beloved regent a ragged shadow of his former kingship. For sure there was prospect of peace and promise of talks in Jabala. They might lead to settlement, could yet disintegrate into war. Matilda would play her dutiful part and accompany the hateful Lord of Arsur into temporary exile at Beit-Nuba. A small price for so sought-after an outcome. The chill noble made her flesh crawl as Otto of Alzey made it shiver-burn with craving. She was parting from her Rhinelander before speaking with him so much as a word. Need created a particular kind of grief.

  She wandered to the balcony window of her chamber, looked out upon the rooftops of the city and the eastern line of its defence. How she wished her father were alive to guide her. Distant sounds wound and mingled in the dying February light. The cheer of archers at the target butts, the rattle of lances carried by a mounted troop of Hospitallers, the vibration of rigging from vessels in the harbour. And the smell of pitch coiled to her nostrils, the stench of a process that would end with the ignited substance tipped through channels on to an attacking Saracen force. Just in case.

  A different sound, and closer to her. She peered over the stone parapet, tried to determine source and direction. The effort was wasted. With a grating clatter, the grapnel-hook caught and held, the attached rope tensed, and Otto swung himself over and into view. Landing at her feet, breathing heavily from exertion, he rose and straightened his tunic.

  Suppressing a desire to fling her arms about him, she feigned annoyance. ‘It is not custom to approach in this fashion.’

  ‘How else may I reach you, Lady Matilda?’

  ‘Nobility enter through doorways, pirates through windows.’

  ‘I would not voyage from Alzey had I wished for simple journey.’

  ‘The road scarce improves your manners, Otto of Alzey.’

  ‘Though it sharpens my instinct.’ He detected her smile, had not misinterpreted. ‘I come to save you, Matilda.’

  ‘Too late, for I fear I am lost.’

  ‘Do you trust in me?’

  ‘What answer may I give to a man I hardly know?’

  ‘You have ever been part of me, as I have been part of you.’

  ‘Such presumption and conceit.’

  ‘No more than the truth.’ He stepped toward her as she backed to the interior. ‘Hark to my words, Matilda. You must not travel as hostage to Beit-Nuba.’

  ‘We each of us fulfil our obligation.’

  ‘Is yours to fall prey to the Lord of Arsur, to be victim of his malicious design?’

  ‘You speak without reason.’

  ‘Nor am I fluent in detail. Yet I believe this lord does wrong, recognize he snatched the children you strove so hard with Sergeant Hugh to rescue.’

  ‘You pluck conjecture from the clouds.’

  ‘And draw bad feeling from my bones. If the Lord of Arsur carries off the innocent young, can he not also abduct your infant queen Yolanda?’

  ‘I cannot think he would do this, Otto.’

  ‘Avoid thought, and instead feel.’

  She was silent, recoiling from the message and yet drawn to its certainty. Otto had merely been the prompt. The Lord of Arsur had become chief counsellor and power in the land, hero of the hour and of Outremer, friend to the regent. He had also been present in the royal stables when Sir William de Picton and the Lord of Jebail were killed, had quickly
dispatched their Asssassin murderers. A rock, a bulwark, a trusty. The man preached amity and proffered statesmanship, was all the while a traitor.

  ‘What does he plan, Otto?’ Her voice was whisper-small.

  ‘Something or nothing, I have no insight.’ He advanced to her and held her arms.

  ‘He was ally of my father.’

  ‘And is staunch companion to Outremer, to a regent who ails and who depends upon him, who grows isolated by the hour.’

  ‘We would not convince my guardian of conspiracy, Otto.’

  ‘More is the pity, much greater the danger.’ He searched her eyes, attempted to fathom the depth of her feeling. ‘Surely there is a way to avoid the grasp of this Lord of Arsur.’

  ‘In a week I go with him as hostage.’

  ‘Time is cruel, Matilda.’

  ‘It may be used to comfort.’

  Her kiss was the start. Lips parted and gently then fully connected, bodies engaged, fingers coursed over gently swaying forms. Frenzy took a while to build. It was a single stream of thoughtlessness that emptied the brain and swelled the groin, that emerged in broken gasps and beads of sweat and escalated from tender caress to the violent momentum of desire. They were losing themselves, finding each other, discarding their clothes in haphazard abandon. Naked, they staggered clumsy and laughing to the silk swathes of her divan. Boy tasted girl, touched and stroked, brushed his mouth across her neck and breasts, pulled her to him, lifted her. She responded, giving of herself and taking of him, her eyes widening, her throat opening to release and amplify a long and shuddering groan.

  They rolled and bucked, she rising, he falling, their limbs stretching and entwining in chaotic flow. She clawed at his back, wimpered low, repeated she loved him in guttural whisper. He wanted to cry out in need and surrender, to claim victory and admit defeat, to share with her every part of himself and each future day of his life. This was the Holy Land. She tilted her pelvis and moaned, bit his shoulder in forgetful intensity. Above her, he rocked and worked his hips, let matters slide, felt her heat, clung in suspended state of animation. They were reaching together, coming through. The surge, the peak, the trough. Things went deep.