Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  After a while the black-haired knight came back. By then Stephen had eaten three pomegranates and some millet cakes. The knight led him on through the marketplace again, and almost at once another native man, in a long striped gown and a turban, came up and spoke urgently to him, and the black-haired knight listened and then took out his pouch of money and paid him some coins.

  “What are you buying?” Stephen asked, when the man in the gown had gone.

  “Gossip,” the knight said. “News. Rumors.” He handed a copper to Stephen. “See this? This is the good money.”

  The round coin was the size of his palm. Battered and dented as the metal was, yet the coin was finely made, the images on both sides sharp and clear, pretty as jewelry. The black-haired knight pointed to the man’s profile looking across the metal circle. “This is a michael; it’s Greek. That’s the money everybody wants. The rest of the money is worth much less, some of it nothing.”

  Stephen held the coin with distaste. “Why are you telling me this? We aren’t allowed to have money.”

  “It’s the Order’s, not mine,” the knight said. He went on, across the marketplace; Stephen followed on his heels.

  “I don’t see that explains much of anything, does it? We are supposed to be poor.”

  The black-haired knight gave him another of his piercing, disdainful looks. “You know, you’re right about one thing. You shouldn’t try to think.” He took the coin from Stephen and tossed it to the boy holding their horses.

  Stephen recoiled from the barb, but the strangeness of the suk kept him cool. The black-haired knight knew his way around here; Stephen could endure a little insult.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot your name,” he said, when they were both in the saddle.

  “A bad memory too? German’s lost his eye. My name is Rannulf Fitzwilliam. Everybody calls me Saint.” The Norman pointed across the marketplace with his chin. “That’s the way home.” Obediently Stephen started off through the crowd.

  Midway through the afternoon the bells rang out Nones, and Stephen went down toward the practice yard, to work at the butts with his sword. When he came down the steps to the yard, there was already a knight at each of the six wooden posts set in the pavement, and he stopped at the foot of the steps and waited for his turn.

  He heard someone come up behind him, and knew without looking that it was German de Montoya. The back of his neck prickled up. German’s interest was getting too particular. Stephen said nothing, and kept his gaze in front of him.

  The man at the nearest of the butts was Rannulf Fitzwilliam, the Norman; he stood square before the post, and hacked dutifully away at it, like a woodcutter. Behind Stephen, German said, “Rannulf is incapable of elegance.”

  Stephen said, “He’s very strong off both wings.”

  “Yes, he gets the work done.”

  “Nonetheless I fail to see why you all call him Saint.” Stephen turned to face the Preceptor. “He handles money, he’s common as a serf, he has the manner and bearing of a bandit, he hardly seems a model of obedience. What makes him saintly?”

  German was smiling at him from an infuriating pinnacle of understanding. “When you need to know, you’ll find out. He took you into the Under City? What did you see there?”

  “He went around the bazaar. People talked to him. He went to a house, and accosted somebody. A native.”

  “A sandpig,” German murmured.

  Disquieted, Stephen looked around, to see if anybody was watching; here on the steps they were sheltered somewhat from open view. Rannulf had left the practice yard. After a moment German laid his hand on Stephen’s upper arm.

  “I’m sorry. You think I’m spying. Well, perhaps I am.” His hand remained on Stephen’s arm, his fingers gently pressing the curve of the muscle. “But Rannulf is our master spy. He learns everything, somehow. He knows everything first.” His fingertips stroked the inside of Stephen’s elbow.

  Stephen turned, violently, and thrust German off. Unruffled, smiling, the older man drew back his hand.

  “I like you very much, Stephen.”

  “I came to the Order,” Stephen said, “as a penance. I was caught in bed with my cousin. My male cousin.” He stared defiantly into German’s eyes, wanting to see him wince, or quail, or at least stop smiling. “I mean to leave my sin behind me.”

  German nodded. “My story is much the same. Only it was my family priest.” One hand moved in a short, throwaway gesture. “It’s only one sin.”

  “The Order requires us to be chaste,” Stephen said.

  “The Order requires us to avoid women.” German’s hand rose again; leisurely, confident, he drew his fingertips down the front of Stephen’s robe. “Something I’ve never had any trouble doing.”

  Stephen’s mouth was dry; he felt the old heat rising in his loins. His body was betraying him again. He jerked his gaze from German’s, turning his look out across the practice yard.

  “What about Rannulf? “

  German’s hand slid down to his side again. “Rannulf is a saint, remember?” His voice was flat.

  Stephen collected himself. “If Rannulf can be chaste, so can I be.”

  German shook his head. “You are young, Stephen. And very handsome.”

  Stephen flushed. Steadfastly he looked away across the practice yard, fighting off a climbing surge of lust. To be touched again. To be kissed, to be loved again. He would say yes. He would do it. Before he could speak German was moving off. Stephen realized, with a sour regret, that he had resisted temptation. With an oath he went on down to the practice yard, to take his turn at the post.

  Before Vespers, German de Montoya went into the Temple of the Lord, to say some prayers; he walked across the ambulatory and through the opposite archway into the circular nave of the church. Kneeling down, he crossed himself, put his hands together, and asked God either to give him Stephen de l’Aigle, or let him stop wanting him.

  The deep gloom of the church purged his eyes clear. Above him the dome rose away toward Heaven, dim and light as a cloud. Beneath it lay the omphalos, the center of the universe, the great Rock of Moriah, its rumpled surface half-drowned in the lamplight shining in through the archways of the ambulatory. German thought of Father Abraham, who had brought his only son to this place to die, and crossed himself again.

  Abruptly he realized that someone else was there; he turned his head, and saw Rannulf Fitzwilliam, sitting on his heels at the edge of the Rock, a third of the way around.

  “Well, Rannulf,” he said. “You’ve stabbed me in the back. What did you say to Stephen de l’Aigle?”

  Rannulf said, “Not much. Why?”

  “Some of your insufferable sanctimony seems to have leaked into him.”

  Rannulf had a wide, thin-lipped mouth, unpleasant even smiling. He smiled now. “Believe me, it was nothing I said. He’s turning you down, is he? I thought you never missed.”

  German grunted at him. “What, are you jealous? I’ll get him.” He knew how to seduce Stephen; the very game of it tempted him, as much as the young French knight’s arrogant beauty. He turned forward again, bowing his head, waiting through a sudden wave of guilt. “See how the shadows pool on the rock, like blood. Was this not a place of sacrifice?”

  “The sandpigs think Mohammed came here to go to Heaven. And that the Rock tried to follow, and the Angel Gabriel had to hold it down.” Rannulf pointed with his chin to a spot somewhere indefinitely before him. “There’s the mark of the Angel’s hand, that dent.”

  “How come you to know things like that?” German shook his head, voluble speaking thus of something unimportant. Not wanting to speak his thoughts he spoke thoughtlessly. “You’re just like them, Saint. You’re nothing but a sandpig yourself.”

  In the cold gloom he heard an echo of his own words, and said, at once, “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

  Rannulf grunted at him, offended. “Whatever you want, German.”

  “Ah, but what I want is this boy.”

  �
�You said he isn’t taking. Unless you’re going to tie him down and rape him, I think your problem’s solved.” He turned his head, looking in the opposite direction. “We are all sworn to love each other.”

  German laughed. “Oh, yes, as you love Gerard de Ridford.”

  “Well,” Rannulf said, “some things are impossible.”

  “You keep to your sins, then; I’ll keep to mine.” German got to his feet; he had work to do before Vespers. “I shall confess to you,” he said. “When the need arises.” Rannulf would keep the confession to himself. If German’s sin—the sin German was contemplating—came out in a chapter meeting, he would be in serious trouble. Behind him, in the ambulatory, a voice called; the sergeants were coming in to tend the lamps, and to make ready for the Vespers Mass. He went out to the sunlight, leaving Rannulf there in the sanctuary alone.

  Chapter VIII

  The winter was the fighting season; during the summer, the heat and drought and lack of forage kept the men at home. So the summer after Ramleh was quiet. Then, at the Feast of the Conception, in September, the Master of the Templars went to the King and told him that Saladin was gathering his armies again, and that the likely point of his attack would be the great new castle Chastelet, which the King was building at Jacob’s Ford on the Jordan River north of Lake Tiberias.

  “Then I shall summon my knights,” the King said, “and hold myself ready. We should strengthen the garrison at Chastelet.”

  Odo de Saint-Amand, the Master, said, “We have already sent fifty of our brothers there, Sire, under the command of the Marshall, Gerard de Ridford.”

  Odo de Saint-Amand had brought some ten knights with him into the King’s hall, to make his presence greater. In the front rank of this honor guard, Rannulf stood, his hands locked on the hilt of his sword, and his thoughts savage.

  He had got word of the Sultan’s intentions through his informants in the suk; he had taken the news into the chapter meeting, and there, in front of everybody, with the help of half of them, Gerard de Ridford had stood up like an emperor and taken Rannulf s campaign away from him. Now the Marshall rode off to Jacob’s Ford, and Rannulf stood nameless among the ordinary men, waiting to be told what to do.

  In the chapter meeting, he had lost his temper, roared at de Ridford and Odo, half-drawn his sword. Stalked off, humiliated, into the shadows at the back of the refectory, until the Master called him forward again to repent in front of everybody. His hands still shook. He gripped his sword hilt until his knuckles hurt. Beside him, German de Montoya shot a sideways glance at him.

  The King was saying, “We shall send to the Count of Tripoli, to make him aware of this, and beg his help.”

  German murmured, “Is that the Princess?”

  Unmindful in his sulky fury, Rannulf lifted his eyes, and made the mistake of looking at her. He lowered his gaze at once. “Yes.”

  Slender in a blue gown, her hair down around her shoulders like a maid’s. German was saying, “I wonder what she is doing here. Hardly a place for a woman.” Rannulf grunted at him. He did not look at her again; he kept his gaze pinned to the flagstone floor. But suddenly his defeat in the chapter meeting mattered somewhat less.

  He had seen her only twice, and only for a moment. He fought the urge to lift his eyes now, and gorge on her.

  The King was saying, “We shall send to Kerak, also, and make him aware of this.”

  “Small good that will do,” German muttered.

  “You talk too much,” Rannulf said.

  “Stop licking your wounds. De Ridford can’t do anything until the rest of us get there anyway.”

  “You’re an officer,” Rannulf said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shut his eyes.

  “What are you doing now?” German laughed. “Are you praying? The audience is over.” Turning, side by side, the knights lined up to follow the Master out of the hall. Rannulf kept his head down, his gaze lowered to the floor.

  “You know I’m coming with you on this campaign,” German said, as they left.

  “Why, so you can show off for your little French mouse?”

  German shrugged. “I need to get out in the field now and then. I miss the march. Come along, now, keep moving.”

  The Countess of Courtenay said, “I think this is utterest folly, Sibylla.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said several times now.” Sibylla helped her mother up into the litter. The courtyard was full of baggage and servants loading baggage. The men were going off to war, and all the women of the court were leaving for the safety of Ascalon, or Acre, or one of the other cities on the coast. Agnes settled herself in the litter, throwing cushions out of the way. Sibylla leaned on the side of it, watching.

  “If somehow you fell into the hands of the Saracens, you know,” Agnes said, “you would be better off dead.”

  “We will not lose Jerusalem,” Sibylla said. “But if by some chance the inconceivable happens and I do get in the way of a horde of screaming Mohammedans, Mother, I promise you I will fall on my sword.”

  Her mother’s face contorted with impatience. “Ah, girl. You can’t walk one pace in step with me, can you?”

  “You’re about to spend two days in a litter,” Sibylla said. “To avoid that I would marry a whole harem of Saracens. There is Baudouinet.” Across the crowded courtyard her son had just come out of the palace, holding the hand of his nurse.

  Her mother lurched forward, craning her neck, and called and waved her hand. The child would travel with her. Sibylla started off, out of the way of this grandmotherly excess, and her mother put out her hand to stop her, and faced her again.

  “If you change your mind, come to me at Ascalon. And if you must reach me privily, there is a merchant in the Under City named Abu Hamid, who can have a message to me. But beware, he works also for the Templars.” She twisted around again, calling out to the little prince, her arms reaching toward him; even through the crowd noise Sibylla heard the little boy’s shriek of welcome to her.

  Sibylla moved off, back toward the palace. From the steps Alys called to her. “Sibylla, come tell me what to pack!” They were moving their little household over to her brother’s citadel. Now that her mother was going, Sibylla felt as free as air; she could go around with her hair down, wear men’s clothes, walk barefoot. Say whatever she wanted, think whatever she wanted. She even skipped, going up the steps to Alys.

  The fall rains began. Then after a week of heavy storms, the dormitory bell roused Stephen from a deep sleep, and he got up, with all the rest, and heard the orders sending them first to Mass, and then to Jacob’s Ford.

  In the armory, in a crowd, in a hurry, he put on his hauberk, and lifted his helmet and shield down from the wall. His palms were sweating. His throat was dry; he kept coughing. Around him were some of the other men who had arrived here with him: other men going to their first battles as Templars. His head hooded in double-linked chain mail, Hilaire de Bretagne grinned tightly at him.

  “I guess Rannulf Fitzwilliam’s spies were right, hah?”

  Stephen said, “What do you know of Rannulf’s spies?” He followed Hilaire to the armory door; it was still dark outside. Two by two, their column was forming on the pavement, with German commanding them.

  They went into the stable for their horses, and lined up in columns again in the street; while they were waiting to be ordered out, servants from the kitchen walked down along the rows of mounted men and gave them each a loaf of bread and a full skin of wine. German rode past them, looking them all over.

  “On the march,” German said, “the rule is silence.”

  Pedro de Varegas gave a huff of a laugh. “Yes, such as at supper.” Suppers in the refectory were uproarious, in spite of the Rule.

  German overheard him, and turned his head, frowning. “No, not like supper—this is a march, fool,” and thereafter Pedro said nothing. By daybreak, one double column among many, they were riding out through David’s Gate.

  They struck out east and north
through the hills turned momentarily green from the rains, the wind blustery and raw at their backs. The rain stopped. The day grew warmer. From the folds of the treeless hillsides there rose drifts of fog like cool smoke. In this monotonous country it seemed they went nowhere, stride after stride.

  Stephen rode with Hilaire beside him, Pedro de Varegas in front of him, but he went separated from them by a cushion of fears and doubts. He had fought before only in melees. Ahead of him was his first battle. He had always imagined himself galloping into this affray with a flaming sword in his hand and a fiery courage in his heart. Now that it was actually about to happen he was halfway wetting his pants and he hadn’t even seen the enemy yet.

  That night they camped on a hilltop, looking down toward the Jordan River. Encased in the heavy clinking mail shirt, his sword beside him under the blanket, Stephen could not sleep; he lay listening to the trampling and shouting of other armies moving in to join them. This went on all through the night, and when the grey dawn leaked in through the clouds, he saw, amazed, that the Christian camp had grown overnight into a minor city, teeming over the slopes as far as he could see.

  In silence, the Templars rose and broke their camp, and in a light rain, they formed their columns again and led the way down toward the river, its braided streams running sloppy and brown along its wide sandy bed. As they dropped down the long slope the rain stopped. Like the other men around him Stephen took off his cloak and rolled it up and lashed it to the cantle of his saddle.

  As he twisted around to do this, he looked back over the rest of the Frankish army straggling along the bare hillside after them, in no order, a noisy tide. Neat and purposeful in their double columns, the Templars were already well out in front of everybody else. Out where they would take the first blow. Sinking down into his saddle, Stephen flung a wild glance out at the slopes around them.

  His stomach hurt. He had to shit, but he could not leave the march. He cursed himself for a wretched coward. The march was endless. His rumpbones hurt. His insides were turning to sand. Then at noon they rode around the foot of a spur of rock, and came suddenly on Jacob’s Ford.