Pilgrim

by James Jackson

  ‘Are they precious things?’

  ‘They are beyond value.’ The Lord of Arsur swung the lantern. ‘This, the Crown of Thorns that rested upon the head of Jesus. And this, the very tip of the lance that pierced his side.’ His hand alighted on the golden sleeve of a larger piece.

  ‘What is it?’ Kurt barely heard his own voice, scarcely remembered to take in air.

  ‘The object for which you and other pilgrims come, the most potent symbol and greatest relic of them all: the one True Cross.’

  ‘You play diabolic trick.’

  ‘There is no ploy or lie. It was rendered to me by Saladin at Hattin, a reward for my part in destruction of the Christian force. Once more it shall have its place, shall grant lustre and power to the throne of its owner.’

  Reverentially, and because his legs were suddenly too weak to carry him, Kurt sank to his knees. He was unworthy, a sinner in the presence of the crucified Christ. No further explanation was required. He had found that for which so many had set out from Cologne, for which little Lisa and the girl with the flaxen hair had been buried at the roadside, Hans cut down by Assassins, blind Achim brought low by disease. All gone, all dying for the cause of a length of blackened timber.

  The Lord of Arsur whispered as a ghost. ‘Soon every man will prostrate himself and the world will tremble before me.’

  Kurt already trembled. His eyes closed; his mind grasping for prayer and faith, he discovered only terror. An ice breath told him silently there was no hope and no escape, informed him it was the end.

  Handover was under way. On a rock and mud field in Galilee, where the ragged borders of Outremer melded with the edge of the Saracen badlands, two sides met to exchange their hostages. There was pageant in the moment. Cavalry was drawn up, trumpeters called, the display and counter-show of rival groups lent tension and colour to the occasion. Much was at stake. From each camp, Frankish and Moslem, five personages of high birth and infinite value would be traded for the other. They were insurance and statement, indicator that talks to take place in the town of Jabala enjoyed hopeful prospect and were in good faith. John of Brienne, regent of Outremer, and Saphadin, Sultan of Damascus, were men of honour and of their word. Peace depended on it.

  Otto too was there, by invitation and design. His days of furtive and tender rendezvous with Matilda, their hours of erotic affray, were over. He wanted to bid farewell, to take a final look before his love was cast to the Devil and the company of the Lord of Arsur. Nothing else could be done. Where his heart was recently light with passion, it was now heavy with the leaden weight of parting. His crime was one of inertia. He consigned her to the jaws of conspiracy and could not move, could not show his concern or grief, could not intervene. As passive onlooker, he was present to witness and record event.

  That event unfolded before him with ritual and formality and an unhurried beat. It might as well have been an execution. Mounted heralds approached from either side and read proclamations; courtiers bowed and presented gifts. Patiently, the hostages waited. Among the Saracens was al-Mu’azzam, feared raider and son of Saphadin. In the Christian line were the lords of Caesarea, Sidon, Haifa and Arsur. Always the Lord of Arsur, unassumingly dominant, an inert presence who managed to control. Beside him on her Arab mount was Matilda, her head crowned with a circlet, her face covered by a silken veil.

  The young noble craned to see, hoping she would turn her head, praying for a miracle. Instead, a different spectacle arose. The Lord of Arsur had wheeled his horse and came towards him at a walking pace. Then he paused, his eyes strangely knowing, his blankness communicating assured supremacy.

  ‘Things pass, Otto of Alzey.’

  Back in the royal city of Acre, John of Brienne wandered in contemplation through the silent halls of his palace. Occasionally he would linger, attempting to remember or trying to forget. Here his young wife, the late Queen Maria, had filled the chamber with her laughter and the heavy scent of flowers. There in the nursery their baby daughter Yolanda had smiled and kicked and cooed at his presence. Her crib was as empty as his soul, the room as cold as his future. He moved on.

  About this time, the swap would be taking place, the parties of hostages riding voluntarily into mutual captivity. At least Lady Matilda remained with the Lord of Arsur, would return safe once dealings with Saphadin were through. He was thankful for the steady and guiding hand of his preferred baron. Yet the departure of Matilda was another grievous loss heaped on a mound of existing sorrow. He could merely pray and hope for peaceful resolution.

  He reached his private chapel, its interior a welcoming cocoon dimly lit by burning tallow. There was little place else where a powerless king could seek comfort or refuge. The last sanctuary for an aged fool. He sighed and stepped inside.

  ‘I have awaited you, John of Brienne.’

  The regent stared towards the voice, discerned the rough habit of a friar and the creased and weathered countenance of an old man.

  ‘You trespass in these chambers, holy brother.’

  ‘As you intrude in my thoughts.’ The Franciscan gestured to the regent to sit. ‘I travel too far to be turned away.’

  ‘I am short of comradeship and loath to spurn communion. I judge you no Assassin.’

  ‘My vows and inclination would forbid it. I am Brother Luke of Assisi, a wandering friar, a preacher of redemption and of the love of Christ.’

  ‘You have a freedom I do not.’

  ‘We each of us strive for a better world, each make voyage to attain it.’

  ‘Tomorrow I board vessel for Jabala.’ John of Brienne eased himself heavily into an adjacent seat. ‘Should I fail in my mission with Saphadin, there will be general war and eventual destruction of Outremer.’

  ‘Is quest worthwhile if the trial is not hard?’

  ‘On occasion it may be too onerous, the cost too dear.’

  ‘Your infant daughter Yolanda?’

  The regent nodded. It was reassuring to converse with a man of God, to find common cause with a battered ancient who had trod the earth these many years. They were both warriors of a kind. The stranger possessed kindness and insight, yet had the large hands and rugged frame of a fighter. Perhaps he was wasted as a humble penitent.

  ‘Yolanda is gone, holy brother. So tiny a child may leave so great an absence.’

  ‘She will be found.’

  ‘You speak either in conjecture and cruel jest or with singular knowledge.’

  ‘A man who trudges as far as I will see and hear what others do not.’

  ‘Tell me what you learn, holy brother.’

  ‘I discover ambition and plot, fathom the lengths to which the angels of Lucifer fly to gain conquest and dominion.’

  ‘Who is this Lucifer?’

  ‘Outremer is endangered, but not from Saracen source. Your reign suffers and kingdom fails, and insidious threat lies close.’

  Impatient, John of Brienne leaned forward. ‘How close?’

  ‘The enemy has the face of a crusader.’

  Brother Luke had won his interest.

  Before the walls of the Holy City of Jerusalem a small band of Christians paused to give voice in thanks for the end of their journey. They were Lent pilgrims, some fifty of them, a further concession squeezed from Saphadin by the Lord of Arsur as gesture of goodwill and encouragement to new treaty. No harm done. Except that, at given moment, each of them had a specific role. While some would neutralize sentries and seize strategic points, others would seek out the Arab families tasked with guarding entry to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Sacred sites were about to fall to new ownership. As the chanting pilgrims passed through the gate, a woman among them comforted her baby and kissed and stroked its head. The infant queen Yolanda was carried through to her preordained future.

  Chapter 19

  Royal excursion demanded its pomp. From every building in Acre, banners hung; from every quarter, the city populace emerged to cheer and applaud. John of Brienne, the regent king, was departing for confere
nce with Saphadin. Hope would sail with him, for soon it would be the campaigning months when ground hardened and armies marched and the Saracens would descend like a wolf on the fold. There had not been full battle for twenty years. The old ruler of Outremer had reason and need to prevent reoccurrence.

  In ceremonial array, clad in mail hauberks and clutching their swords and shields, the royal guard and knights of the military Orders lined the palace steps. They added colour to the scene, provided a cordon of steel against which the deadly intent of a lurking Assassin might crumble. No chance would be taken. The killers could be anywhere, disguised as Genoese merchant or Pisan mercenary, as Levantine Jew or Arab herder. This fragile moment of optimism required protecting.

  A serpent-horn blared, a kettledrum rolled, and the regent appeared beneath the grand portico of his royal dwelling. On his head was the crown, at his side the sword of office, around him his squires and courtiers and the trappings of state. He seemed strangely diminished by them all. But the crowd shouted as one, calling out in respect and affection in swelling unison. They believed in him. He blinked, visibly moved, as though not believing in himself. It was possible his subjects expected too much, probable they pitied him the death of his young queen and disappearance of his infant daughter. A good deal had changed since he arrived in their land an impoverished knight, a reluctantly chosen suitor from Champagne. Those were the days before travail and woe, before Outremer was threatened with extinction. Before an old Franciscan friar had appeared in his private chapel.

  He raised a hand and the clamour died. ‘My subjects, good citizens of Acre and brothers of our most Christian kingdom of Outremer. I stand before you as we stand before destiny. With clear eye and firm heart, with expectation and resolve. God is at my right hand as He is at yours. We must pray and we must prevail. I sail for Jabala this day to meet with the ruler of the Saracen, the Sultan of Damascus. It is to win peace that I go, yet it is for war we must prepare. Ready yourselves and your defence. For when I return, it shall be either as maker of concord or as commander of hostilities. However it is decided, Christ is with us.’

  With a concluding nod, he stepped from the stage and descended the stairs to tumultuous acclaim. The people loved their grizzled champion. Chanting and waving, they followed his route, pushing to trail his entourage as it wound through the narrow streets for the harbour. There, bedecked in flags, the royal galley lay. Aboard were the senior barons and lords who would accompany him to Jabala; below, on the rowing-deck, the Nubian and Maghrib slaves who would toil at their oars to transport them. Everything was in order and the beat-keepers ready. The journey would take days, a coastal progress that would pass the other ports of Outremer, that would pick up further nobles and additional ships to join the northbound fleet. Magnificence and spectacle were customary for such occasion. Offshore of their destination, the galleys of the Templars would heave into view. They appeared to guard John of Brienne, to add steel to his dealings. Their truer purpose was to prevent his escape.

  Excitement climbed and whistles blew. Doubt could ever be abandoned when ropes were cast off, the rhythm was called, and oars dipped and swung. Saphadin might have the land, but the crusaders owned the sea. From the poop deck, the regent acknowledged the warm farewells, and the crowd roared in response. For a brief instant, he could forget and pretend, immerse himself in the frenzied outpouring. He carried with him the prayers and wishes of them all.

  A final salute, a shouted order from the captain, and the steady bass-pulse began. Escorted by two smaller craft, the royal vessel nosed towards the sea. Eyes would observe and the lips of spies make report. Slowly, the sparse flotilla manoeuvred beyond the harbour mouth and swung on to new bearing. People watched, conversed in the low whispers they reserved for mourning and matters of importance. They had every right to be fearful. The ships grew faint and disappeared.

  Many miles to the north, at the site of impending parley, a great tent was being erected in the main square of Jabala. An emissary of Saphadin stood aloof and kept careful watch. His lord and master had decreed there should be no error or breach of protocol, no possible interruption to the smooth course and outcome of events. More than dignity was at stake. There were peace terms to agree, the return of hostages to arrange, a lasting settlement between Mohammedans and infidel Christians to present for royal mark. After months of sporadic raiding and infliction of grievous harm, this single chance could not be squandered.

  Cursing loudly, the official upbraided a clumsy labourer. The man had fumbled a bail of silk, was scrabbling to retrieve the fallen load. Around him, others toiled. From high walls and flat roofs, soldiers watched alert to any nuance. Security lapse was punishable by death, for weakness could be exploited, and such exploitation lead to swift and violent attack. Killers might be anywhere. In truth, they were. The same onlookers from their vantages would have been surprised to learn that several Assassins were already among the working throng. Revelation would wait until appointed hour. The levies heaving on ropes, the chosen servers of figs and dates, the minder of caged nightingales, the guardians of the entrance: all had been trained, indoctrinated, at the pinnacle-fortress of al-Kahf, and all answered to their leader the Old Man of the Mountains. Each had his instructions and his target. The Frankish inhabitants of Acre would never again see their regent; the Moslems of Damascus would linger until eternity to ever witness their sultan return. Not a single delegate, not one emir or lord, was intended to survive the coming encounter. A clumsily handled bundle of silk could provide useful diversion. Weapons were placed and infiltration complete.

  Tucked into a castellation above the now-denuded harbour, Otto sat in dark and despairing mood. He had not participated in the leave-taking of the regent. There was too much sorrow to merit cheer, too little reason for him to hope. Those he loved were gone. Things pass, Otto of Alzey. So the Lord of Arsur had spoken, and so it would come to be. The confident optimism of the citizens below was ill-placed. Kurt and Isolda were held captive; John of Brienne had doubtless sailed into trap; Matilda was even now in mortal danger and in company with the Devil.

  Ah, Matilda. The young noble slumped back and rested his head against the stone. It was too cruel she had entered his life and held him in thrall, too fateful and unkind he had lost his heart to a girl now lost to him. He whispered her name, summoned her image, looked for concealed answer. In her he had found sense and purpose, an end to searching. With her absence, there was only bleak and raw misery. Love could sap a boy.

  ‘Have faith, young Otto.’

  He started, almost fell, and jumped to greet his visitor. There, standing before him with easy calm and in warm solemnity, was Brother Luke. Eventful months of separation were reduced to a few feet. Otto crossed them in a bound and threw his arms around the old Franciscan. How he had missed the wisdom and titanic strength, the counsel and steadiness of his friend.

  ‘You are returned to us, Brother Luke.’

  ‘Did I not pledge it so?’ The friar held Otto’s shoulders and peered in his eyes. ‘It appears your own journey has been as accidental and full of incident as my own.’

  ‘Little you do is accident, Brother Luke.’

  ‘Yet providence and conspiracy may overtake me, nonetheless. Tell me of what you find.’

  ‘The children are taken.’

  ‘That I have heard.’

  ‘Do you hear also of foul plot, Brother Luke? Of how the regent sails to danger and not treaty? Of how Lady Matilda and her fellow nobles are delivered into Saracen hands?’

  ‘I know even of the Lord of Arsur.’

  ‘None listen or heed the warning I give.’

  The friar offered a gentle smile. ‘Is it not the fate of many prophets, Otto?’

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘We may pray.’

  ‘Surely we must act?’ Alarm at the perceived indifference of Brother Luke flared on the face of the youth.

  ‘Without God we are nothing but eating, spawning, dung and death. With Him we
are invincible.’

  ‘At present hour we are bested by the enemy.’

  ‘I dare say on past occasion you have also thought it.’ If there was rebuke, it was wrapped soft in the comforting tone. ‘Force must be allied to insight, impulse to arms ever joined with faith.’

  ‘I have tried to do what is right, Brother Luke.’

  ‘And in such effort grow sturdy and set well.’

  Otto could talk of encounter with Saphadin or escape by basket from the monastery of Belmont, the freeing of Kurt and Isolda from Saracen traders and their later abduction at caves near Beirut. He could tell of his combat with the brigand knight on the bridge across the river Lycus, regale the friar with stories of drama and daring. Or he could describe his aching love and bitter parting from Matilda. Secret or truth, somehow the ageing Franciscan would already be aware.

  Brother Luke patted him on the chest. ‘My brave and intrepid son, you shall make worthy knight some day.’

  ‘Should the Lord of Arsur succeed in his ascendancy, the day will not arise.’

  ‘He will be thwarted, Otto.’

  ‘I am less sure of it.’

  ‘Who advised you of the hostile approach by Assassin in Rome?’

  ‘You did, Brother Luke.’

  ‘Who used his wooden staff to break the heads of circling Cathars?’

  ‘Again, it was you.’

  ‘If you have learned from me, you will recognize I do not lightly promise.’

  ‘Your word is more of hope than of firm and settled outcome.’

  ‘This old and decaying friar from Assisi will not fail you.’ The lined face carried a peacefulness of conviction that disarmed any doubt. ‘I have been busy in my travel, ceaseless in my purpose. My legs have walked, and my ears and eyes perceived.’

  ‘You remain one man.’

  ‘With a host of angels at my shoulder and an army of light behind me. On matters different, where is Sergeant Hugh?’