Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  “Yes, Sire,” Stephen said.

  “Let them in, then,” the King said, and turned and went back down the stairs. Stephen called to the porters, who set to work to unbar the inner gate and the outer gate, and raise the portcullis; by the time the gate was open and the serfs with their donkey and basket were shuffling through the archway, the King and his sister and their party had gone on out of sight along the wall.

  Stephen leaned down from the rampart to call to the people coming in through the gate. “You can thank the King you aren’t still outside waiting.”

  The man with the donkey turned a fierce face on him. “God bless our good King Baudouin!” The old woman gave a breathy cackle of agreement.

  The porters were already closing the gate again, and swinging the bar across it. Stephen looked out over the wall, and saw dust on the road, and called out, “Hurry! Get those teeth down!” He jumped up onto the top of the wall, to see the better.

  The dust plume spread like a stain across the sky. Under it, coming out between the hills into clear sight, a band of horsemen was trudging up the road. Stephen shaded his eyes. “Stand down,” he said. His voice was gusty with relief. “These are Christian men, at least.” He climbed down onto the rampart again and sent one of his sergeants on to bring the King back.

  There on the road before the gate, at the head of fifty knights, was a stocky red-headed man in a surcoat barred red and black. He looked much taken aback to see King Baudouin. Stiffly he said, “Sire. Good it is to see you here. The report was something otherwise.”

  King Baudouin smiled down at him. “Good day, my lord of Kerak. I’d like to hear that report.”

  Beside him, suddenly, Stephen Mouse said, “Sire—another army.”

  “Templars,” someone else murmured, and all along the wall, the folk come to witness pressed closer to the edge, leaning out; Baudouin heard his sister’s voice, on the far side of the gate. The King was still looking intently down at Renaud de Chatillon, the Wolf of Kerak, who had briefly been Prince of Antioch and still quartered the great Bohemund’s arms on his badge.

  “What had you heard, my lord? And from whom?”

  Then the oncoming band of men galloped up, drawing all attention to them, and their leader rushed in between Kerak and the gate. His black horse reared, and the magnificent rider tossed his cloak aside, and seized the hilt of his sword.

  “Get away, my lord—you have no power in Jerusalem, this is my city!”

  Kerak sat motionless, his hands demurely folded on the pommel of his saddle. “There’s a superior claim,” he said, and nodded up toward the gate.

  Twisting in his saddle, Gerard de Ridford turned his face toward the top of the wall. When he saw the King his eyes bulged. “Sire,” he said. “Sire. You are alive.”

  “God be thanked for it,” King Baudouin said. “And you also, sir, are alive, for which God be thanked again.” He looked over the little army following the Templar Marshall. “Is this the whole number of you?”

  The Templar made no answer. He and Kerak were back to staring at each other like two dogs at a bear-baiting. The King turned to Stephen and said, low, “Where is Rannulf?”

  Stephen was watching the men below them. “I don’t know, Sire.”

  Kerak lifted his head. “Sire, I am here to help you defend Jerusalem. Give me leave to bring my men inside the walls.”

  De Ridford wheeled around; being so far below the King’s level he had the squat aspect of a toad. “Let them stay out here!” He waved his arm at the gate. “Open for me; I demand it.”

  The King wiped his hand over his face. “Ah, if only Cousin Tripoli were here, to make a complete set. Yes. My lord Marshall, of course you may bring in your men, who are doubtless weary and perhaps hurt. Go at once to the Temple, and then report to me at my citadel.”

  As he spoke, Stephen was moving toward the gate, murmuring orders to the porters, and the crowd swung around and scrambled down from the wall to cheer the Templars’ entry into the city. The King leaned on his elbow, looking down at Renaud de Chatillon’s blocky red head.

  “Have you considered, my lord, where you would quarter so many men?”

  “Sire, my wife’s family has a palace here.” He was married to one of the de Millys.

  “And you swear to keep the peace?”

  The Wolf of Kerak lifted his hand to witness. “As God saves me.”

  “Then, to help defend the city, I will let you enter, but you must keep good order. Attend me soon at my citadel.”

  “I am at the King’s service.” The red head dipped in a courtesy. The gates were opening, the Templars forming a double file to go through. Kerak rode away down the road a few paces, and gathered his men around him, and spoke to them. The King watched them. Lifting his head, he swept his gaze around the horizon; for a moment, perversely, he was hoping to see Saladin’s army.

  “I would rather have twice as many Templars,” the King said, “and half as many of Kerak’s men.”

  They were riding through the great marketplace, which was so empty the sound of their horses’ hoofs echoed off the high surrounding walls. There had been no market here for days. On the wide flat pavement the wind spun the loose sand into ripples. With her heel Sibylla gigged her mare to catch up with her brother’s horse.

  “If these came back, perhaps more will, also—perhaps they are only now making their way back again, Uncle Joscelin and the others.” Baudouin d’Ibelin had not come back. She remembered the solid warmth of his chest under her hands. Somewhere he might lie now dead and cold. She swallowed. “Maybe they will all come home again.”

  The King said, “I can’t expect that. I’ve got to stand up with what I actually have.”

  He saw it differently than she did, she realized, with a start: not as the loss of individual men, uncles and lovers, but as a collective weakness. Her mood lowered. Around her suddenly the world seemed like a great mill grinding up the people in it.

  She said, “When will there be a market again? It would be good to see the streets with living people in them.”

  “The Templars will arrange that,” he said. “We have to keep order, and watch the gates, and they will do that, too. We must bring in all that we can from the countryside, to sustain us in a siege, and to keep it from being there to sustain Saladin. And we must wait. That’s the worst.”

  They had come to the far side of the marketplace. A yell faintly reached her ears. “What’s that?” she said, looking around her, and the King spurred his horse into a gallop.

  “Bati!” He raced into the next street, and she followed. Up ahead some people were fighting. Her brother galloped straight down on them. Sibylla called out to him—he was alone, they were many—and saw he would not stop and raced her horse after him.

  He charged into the midst of the crowd, scattering them; coming on his heels, she saw there had been no fight, really, only a pack of men beating three ragged beggars. She reined in. The men who surrounded them wore Kerak’s red-and-black. One of them leapt forward, grabbing for her brother’s rein.

  “Who the hell are you, to hinder us?”

  The King reached up, and threw back the hood of his cloak. At the sight of his face, a gasp went up from all the men around them, and many stepped back, and someone swore.

  “Sire.” The knight before him let go of the King’s rein. He was tall, well set up, with a shock of yellow-white hair. Sibylla realized she knew him: Guile of Kerak, the Wolf’s bastard, and chief captain. Even as she recognized him she hardened with dislike.

  Kerak’s son said, “Sire, we did not know it was you; you should not go about so unattended.”

  Sibylla rode up beside her brother. “Well, hello, Guile. Hardly into the city, and already making trouble.”

  Her brother laughed. “You see I am perfectly well attended, Guile.”

  Before them, the white-haired knight drew back a pace, frowning up at them. “Making trouble! We only seek to help keep the city—on my lord’s order.” He waved his
hand toward the beggars, who were crouched at the feet of the King’s horse, clutching their rags around them. “My lord of Kerak says to get all these people off the streets.”

  The King said, “Then obey him, and get yourselves off the streets.”

  Guile put his cap back on. “Well, my lord of Kerak ordered me—”

  “Now,” the King said.

  He was leaning forward, his gaze steady on the white-haired knight. Guile stood for a moment, his jaw set. His gaze slid toward Sibylla. Finally he said, “Yes, Sire,” and saluted the King. Baudouin watched him collect his knights and ride away.

  Sibylla was looking down at the beggars, huddled in the street. “Would a monastery not take them in?”

  The King leaned down from his saddle. “Go,” he said to the beggars. “Stay out of sight. In the morning, come to the kitchen gate of the citadel, you shall have food there. Go.”

  The beggars skittered off; one stopped long enough to seize hold of the King’s stirrup and kiss his shoe. Like winddrift they fluttered and flapped down the street. The King turned, and with his sister beside him they rode back toward the citadel.

  Sibylla said nothing. She had always thought the war was like a great tournament, all banners and glory. They came to the gate into the citadel; Alys met them there, wringing her hands, her face screwed up like a child’s. With her was the King’s page, who was the son of Balian d’Ibelin. He was crying. His father was also missing. A hard lump formed in Sibylla’s throat. She went with Baudouin into the courtyard, and got down from her horse, and went with Alys to the kitchen, to see that the beggars would be fed.

  Late in the night, Stephen woke with a start, and sat up, looking around the Crypt. In the next row, Rannulf was sitting down on his cot, taking his boots off.

  “Oh. It’s you,” Stephen said. “De Ridford is here.”

  “I saw,” Rannulf said. He fell backward onto the bed, his feet still on the floor; after a moment, slowly, he dragged his legs up and stretched out.

  “And Kerak, too. His men are swaggering all around the streets looking for trouble.”

  “We may need them,” Rannulf said. “Saladin’s taken the castle at Jacob’s Ford, with no one to hinder him, and hung the heads of the garrison on the walls.”

  “Chastelet,” Stephen said.

  His mind showed him the great castle, the shining oiled wood of the walls, the splendid arras, the new stone, still raw-edged. He remembered dreaming he might one day rule there. Another thing sealed over in his memory. He said, “Then Saladin will come here next?” But Rannulf was already asleep.

  In the morning, the Templars went to Mass, and then they gathered in the refectory. There, under the lamps, they took up their places in the ranks.

  They stood still a moment, in silence, looking around at the great gaps in their lines; there were more spaces than there were men. Of the officers, only de Ridford and Gilbert Erail, the Seneschal, remained. Of the brother knights, one in four.

  There was a long silence. Then, at no spoken word, the brother knights all moved up, until they stood solid again, shoulder to shoulder, facing the officers.

  Rannulf took one step forward, his gaze on de Ridford and Gilbert Erail, and he said, “We should elect a new master.”

  De Ridford’s flushed face jerked in a grimace. “Odo de Saint-Amand always championed you, even when you went far beyond bounds. Now as soon as he is down you want to displace him.”

  At that a growl of comment went through the assembled knights. Rannulf did not look around. In the rows of men behind him were many who hated him. Many also who did not. He kept his gaze fixed on de Ridford, standing before him under the lamp.

  “Odo is dead, or a prisoner,” Rannulf said. “Most of the Temple with him. Saladin will go through us like water unless we have a master who can lead us.”

  De Ridford’s voice was harsh. “We need a Grand Chapter meeting to elect a master. That could take a year.”

  “Exactly,” Rannulf said. “Too long. But we could hold our own election. We do it in the field, all the time, we did it after the battle on the Litani. We have to have a master.”

  “And you think it should be you,” de Ridford said.

  “I can do it better than anybody else.”

  Now the rumbling voices behind him erupted into a roar. “Yes! Yes!”

  “Lead us, Rannulf!”

  “Wait for Odo—he may still appear.”

  “Rannulf Fitznobody! Get back, get out of here, you pig; I won’t follow you!”

  De Ridford was glaring at Rannulf, his lips pulled back from his teeth. Low-voiced, he said, like an echo, “You pig.”

  Gilbert Erail folded his arms over his chest, his eyes shifting from de Ridford to Rannulf. “We need more men. That’s the important thing. We can strip the garrisons in Cyprus and in Europe—by Whitsunday we could fill this hall again.”

  Rannulf said, “We can’t wait until Whitsunday. Saladin may be here tomorrow.”

  The assembled knights were still loudly arguing. De Ridford cast a look at them, and swung back to Rannulf, and said, “No. Get back in your rank.”

  Rannulf clenched his jaw against the surge of his temper; he stood rooted where he was, and the Marshall’s face went hot.

  “Obey me!” he said, and Rannulf stepped back into the front rank of the men.

  But another came forward at once, saying, clear-voiced, “I agree with Rannulf. We should elect new officers.”

  The other men shouted so that the vaulted ceiling rang; someone began to stamp his feet, and others picked that up, and a dozen voices began to chant: “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “No,” others bellowed out, and the chanting dissolved into a beestorm of boos and hisses.

  In front of them all, facing the two officers, Stephen de l’Aigle lifted his voice again.

  “We have to have a master. It isn’t just Saladin; we’ve got other problems. You saw how many men that red lord brought into the city.”

  From the ranks, Felx van Janke called, “And who are making trouble already in the streets and in the Under City.”

  De Ridford said, “Odo de Saint-Amand is Master of this Order! I will tolerate no effort to displace him.” He strode toward Stephen, his face warped into a heavy scowl. “Stand back and keep quiet around your betters, sapling.”

  Stephen did not move. “I claim the right to speak. And I think me no sapling anymore, my lord. That battle thinned the forest and I seem to be one of the standards around here now.”

  De Ridford said, “No election!”

  Rannulf said, “Not until they bring in more bodies, anyway, is that it?” A ripple of laughter went through the ranks behind him. He threw a quick look over his shoulder. He was realizing that he had a good chance here. For once there were a lot of men here who supported him, and there was Stephen Mouse, talking like a prince and keeping the door open.

  Gilbert Erail stepped forward, narrow-eyed, always watching for advantage. “Whatever we do, we can’t fight among ourselves. This slick-tongued Frenchman here is right: Kerak is in the city and his army is as strong as we are, and then there’s Saladin, and God may send us a few other tests, God being all-wise.”

  Again the knights began to stamp and chant, some calling for an election, and some against. Rannulf shouted out, “Vote on the election, then!” He flung his words after de Ridford, who was pacing away across the hall. “Bring it to the pitch, Marshall. Count us!”

  De Ridford wheeled around. “Very well. But Odo shall know of it— how you repaid his championship of you. Let all men know you are treacherous.” He shot a look at the Seneschal.

  Gilbert stood forward a few steps. “Let those who will elect a new master now, go to the right, and those who will not, go to the left.”

  Rannulf went to the right, in past the columns that held up the roof, and turned to look into the center of the room again. He closed both hands on his sword hilt. His heart was a hammer in his chest. Half the massed knights had come with him, and
half to the other side, but when they were counted, there was one more on the left side than the right.

  De Ridford’s voice seemed suddenly free and high. “Then we shall wait. God be thanked.”

  Gilbert said, “Close ranks, we have other work.”

  They all tramped out into the middle of the hall. Rannulf stood staring down at the floor. He had fallen short by a single man. He wondered if he would ever have such an opening again; the sour sinking feeling in his belly told him he would not. God wills it, he thought. He felt suddenly like a worthless speck of dust floating in the air, Rannulf Fitznobody, a skin full of nothing.

  De Ridford said, “Rannulf, since you want command, we will make you commander of Jerusalem. Keep this place in order, if you’re so good at this.”

  Rannulf lifted his head. “Yes, my lord.” He could not meet the Marshall’s eyes, afraid to see his look of triumph. With the others he went shuffling out of the refectory.

  Chapter XIV

  It had been a near-run thing, de Ridford thought, a very near-run thing: he had come within one man’s vote of losing the Mastery of the Temple to a renegade churl with no family and no honor.

  He was still brooding on Rannulf Fitzwilliam’s crimes and failings when he went up to the King’s citadel, to talk over the defense of the city. To his surprise, the Princess was there, looking pale and pensive; she sat beside her brother’s throne on a little stool, her women behind her in the shadows. She was so out of place that de Ridford himself almost said something, but Kerak jumped into it first.

  “Sire, the woman ought to be gone from here. There is no place for her here.” The Wolf tramped across the room from the window, where he had been standing, staring out at the walls.

  De Ridford at once saw his opening; he gave a quick smile to the Princess, and rose to her support. “My lord, she is Princess of Jerusalem, what other place does she have?”

  Kerak wheeled toward him, as if he had not seen the Templar before. “Ah, you speak folly.”