Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  But since his arrival the night before, the Lord of Kerak had taken it over, and his men walked along the ramparts; his men stood at the gates. Guy seemed not to notice this, but Sibylla felt it like a gall.

  Her mother said, “You’ll be the only woman here. I hope it makes you happy.”

  Up from the stable, in the cellar under the opposite tower, a groom led several horses by their bridles. Behind them four more men struggled along with the huge box litter her mother traveled in, bulky as a ship with its curtains and chair.

  “You’re really going,” Sibylla said. “I wish you would stay. What about the baby?”

  “The baby is darling, and you can bring her to me at Nablus so that I can fuss over her all I want.” Agnes pulled on her gloves. On each cheekbone she wore a powdery badge of rouge. “This place is comfortless as a cave, and nothing will happen here, save the men poke and prod each other. But learn your lesson, my girl.”

  Sibylla folded her arms over her breast. Her mother had her points. Montgisor was cold, and smelled, and it was already crowded, with half the men who were to gather here yet to arrive. Someone was at the gate now, trying to get in. On the rampart Kerak’s guards stirred; among them she saw the white head of the Wolf’s bastard son, Guile.

  She could not leave. She had summoned all her party here to talk over how to deal with the new Regency, and she had to stay here, or have no say, and have no power in it.

  She said, “Uncle Joscelin will be here soon.”

  Her mother settled her hat on her head and tied the scarf. “Yes. Pay attention to him. He may be a fat old man but he has a feel for the way things are going.” Out in the courtyard, the grooms were hitching up the litter to the mules that carried it. A cart rolled up from the stable to carry her chests and her maids. Agnes nodded toward the gate. “There’s de Ridford. Watch out for him. And stay away from Kerak.” She was going, laying down a trail of admonitions as she left.

  Sibylla looked over at the gate tower, a massive stone lump above the wall; in its shadow she saw de Ridford, big and booming, his fine head thrown back. He rode out into the sunlight of the courtyard.

  Behind him, in the crowd following him, was another Templar she knew: Rannulf Fitzwilliam. She said, unthinking, “What is he doing here?”

  “Who?” Her mother turned, sharp-eyed, looking where she was looking.

  “No,” Sibylla said. “I was wrong; it is no one.”

  Agnes caught the lie in her voice, and stared at the Templar like a stork watching frogs, but she did not know him. Sibylla drew back, out of her mother’s way. Suddenly she was glad Agnes was going. Her mother always knew her mind too well. It was easier to fool men. She stepped into the cool of the doorway, out of the dust, to wait for her husband.

  “Are you going to stand for this?” Rannulf asked.

  De Ridford led him up the steps toward the castle’s hall, where the Princess and the Count of Jaffa would receive them. “I shall know the meaning of it. Keep still. I will brook no insolence from you before these great ones.” The sight of Kerak’s men everywhere had the Marshall on edge; but he saw possibilities in it. The guard who let them in to the hall wore Jaffa’s livery, at least. They strode into a dank, low-ceilinged room, where by the hearth the Princess of Jerusalem sat, her husband beside her.

  “Welcome, my lord Marshall. My lord commander.”

  De Ridford trotted out a parade of rote greetings. She seemed older, the Princess, some of her fire banked. Jaffa stood beside her, his hand on the back of her chair, as if he would spring on anyone who came near her. De Ridford had not met him before.

  “My lord Jaffa, my good wishes to you.”

  “My lord Marshall.” Jaffa’s voice was too loud. He looked beyond de Ridford. “You brought none of your men with you?”

  “Only this knight, here,” de Ridford said. “I assume I am among friends. Obviously my lord of Kerak is of another opinion.”

  In the chair, the Princess stirred suddenly, her chin rising, and would have spoken; but her husband’s hand dropped to her shoulder. Guy said, “My lord Kerak will keep order, at my command. I see no such difficulty in this as other people see.” He shrugged off even the burden of thinking about it, and smiled, as if that made everything better. “The hunting is said to be excellent here. I invite you to join me riding after antelope, one morning soon.”

  De Ridford said, “As you wish, my lord.”

  Behind him, there was a growl. “What the hell is that?” Rannulf said.

  De Ridford smiled, looking straight ahead. “Hold your tongue.” To Jaffa, he said, “Heed him not: he is a wolf’s head; he has no courtesy.” The Princess was watching all this intently.

  “Courtesy,” Rannulf said. “I will take no orders from Kerak, my lord.”

  De Ridford wheeled around to face him. “You are dismissed. Go out and see to our establishment.”

  Rannulf stared at him a moment, not moving, and de Ridford braced himself, but then the other knight turned on his heel and walked away.

  Jaffa said, with broad amusement, “One of your trusted officers?”

  De Ridford said, “He is not a courtier. I ask your pardon for him.” He had brought Rannulf here for one reason only, to get rid of him; the opportunities for doing that seemed to be multiplying. He bowed again to Jaffa. “Yes, my lord, I would indeed like to run antelope, whenever you wish.”

  In the sunlit courtyard, Rannulf stood looking around him, letting the heat go down from the crossed words with de Ridford. He did not mind being sent out of the hall. He hated seeing her with Jaffa’s hand on her.

  Kerak’s men were all over the place; as he stood looking half a dozen men in red coats came out of the gatehouse, with Guile of Kerak himself leading them. They went off across the courtyard, toward the stables, which lay on lower ground. Rannulf walked back the way they had come, to the gatehouse, and climbed the staircase to the upper story.

  He leaned on the stone sill of the window, looking down on the courtyard, seeing everything. The courtyard bustled with people, servants carrying things, and Kerak’s soldiers, and other men-at-arms. While he watched, some of Kerak’s men harried a servant girl until she dropped her basket and ran for the shelter of the kitchen. Those men not Kerak’s kept carefully out of the way, looking elsewhere.

  The messy uproar bothered him, used as he was to the rigor of the Temple. If he had command here, he would make all these men keep step and say please. The urge to power kindled him; he saw himself a lord greater than Jaffa, worthy of Jaffa’s wife.

  Through this vision, as if through a rippling flame, he saw himself as he was, lowborn and ordinary, and alone. Down below, de Ridford came out of the hall; from here he looked smaller, as if Rannulf could stretch down his arm and pluck him up between thumb and forefinger and dash his brains out on the stone of the walls.

  As he thought this, his mind leapt on, saw de Ridford dead, and Rannulf himself made Master of the Order. He led the defense of the Kingdom, beat back Saladin, and she loved him, not in the open, but in secret; they met in secret, and she loved him back, and the sons she bore to Guy de Lusignan were Rannulf’s sons.

  That burnt. He shut his eyes, and put his hands over his face. He could not see what to do. Every course he imagined led only into darker twistings and turnings. His heart cankered, blood-sick, and he realized suddenly how much he missed his vow.

  Guy de Lusignan wasn’t quite sure what he was doing right, but whatever it was, it had taken a landless, penniless, patronless younger son halfway across the world, made him Count of Jaffa, given him a beautiful Princess for his wife, and brought him to the foot of the throne of Jerusalem. He meant to keep on doing it, whatever it was he was doing, for as long and as far as it went.

  But it all depended on Sibylla, and now Sibylla was angry at him.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said. “Why won’t you go hunting with me tomorrow?”

  “Because there is too much to do here,” she said. She sat on the big bed o
f their chamber, holding their little girl, Jolie, in her arms. “I need you—they must see you are ready to lead them.”

  Guy laughed. “I don’t see anybody here willing to be led. Like that Templar, facing against his lord; could I lead him? And they are all like that, all cross-grained.”

  “Those two Templars have a long-standing feud,” she said. She looked baffled, as if he should know all these things. He did not want to know these things, the thousand little jealousies and hatreds of this kingdom, close as a family. He wanted to go out and run antelope, the fastest, finest sport he had ever done, far better than sitting around talking about policy. He went over to his wife, and sat next to her, looking down at the baby in her arms.

  “Ours,” he said, and kissed his wife.

  “At least Uncle Joscelin will be here soon,” she said, as if he had done nothing. “He always travels with a lot of men. He will balance Kerak.”

  Guy muttered under his breath. “Kerak. He’s an old man, living on his name. He has you all bemused. I’m going down to see about some horses for the hunt. Will you come?”

  “No—I have to nurse the baby,” she said. “Go on, look at the horses; maybe I will go with you, later, if there is a horse for me.”

  “Good,” he said, pleased. She wasn’t angry anymore. He swept his hand up under her hair; suddenly he wanted to make love to her, to prove again that she belonged to him. But she was bent over the baby, and he knew better than to come between her and the baby. “I love you,” he said, and kissed the top of her head, and went out.

  She had made a mistake, Sibylla thought; she had married the wrong man.

  When Guy had gone she sat on the floor of the chamber and played with the baby, who was just learning to sit up well by herself. Sibylla had taught her to play a little game, hiding behind her hands, while her mother pretended to search for her.

  “Where is Jolie? Oh, where is she?”

  Behind her upraised hands, the baby gave a liquid gurgle of delight. Sibylla searched for her under the cushion.

  Guy had given her this little girl; for that alone she would always love him. Sometimes she thought Jolie was worth more than the whole Kingdom of Jerusalem, and she would forego being Queen after all, just to be Jolie’s mother.

  For Jolie’s sake, she would be Queen, and she would bring peace to Jerusalem. If Guy disappointed her, she had other means. God would not let her fail; God would cover her mistakes.

  Alys came in, shaking her head. “I think we shall have to starve, that’s all.”

  Sibylla had just found Jolie, in behind her hands, and the two of them were sharing the immense delight of reunion, the child cooing and laughing, and climbing into her mother’s arms. Sibylla kissed her silky head. Slowly she realized that Alys was still fussing.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t go out to see to dinner. As soon as I step into the open, the men there come at me.” Alys plumped down on her stool, her face red. “One of them, I stuck my scissors in him, Sibylla, I did.”

  “Good for you,” Sibylla said.

  Alys struck her fist on her knee. “No! I don’t want to do such things!” Suddenly tears stood brimming in her eyes. “I won’t go out, Sibylla. Not until it’s safe.”

  “Very well,” Sibylla said, surprised. “We’ll send the pages.” She curled Jolie in her arms, in the cradle of her love.

  Night came; the council began that they had come here to hold. Guy de Lusignan leaned on the back of the double chair he would share later with his wife, and watched the men filling up this little hall. Half the power of Outremer was here, all turning like the planets around him. Whatever he said, they listened to. He sat in the place of honor, and all sat below him, older men, noble lords, soldiers who had fought here for years. Servants jumped at his least nod. He lifted his finger, and everybody bowed.

  This continually surprised him. He loved Sibylla, who was clever, and pretty, who had given him a baby daughter of whom he was surprisingly fond, but now she wasn’t even heiress of Jerusalem anymore. Her brother’s death had thrown more barriers in her way than it removed. And yet these people went on fawning on him as if he would be King tomorrow.

  Beside him, the Templar Marshall, de Ridford, said, “The Princess will soon grace us with her company?”

  Guy said, “She will sup with us.” His wife’s uncle, Joscelin de Courtenay, Count of Edessa, was coming in. He had arrived at Montgisor that afternoon, with a horde of his men, too many to quarter in the castle; they had taken over the village, driving the peasants out to sleep in the fields. Joscelin de Courtenay was another one like Kerak, a big noise in a satin coat, and Guy could not understand why everybody gave him so much deference.

  Hugely fat, grunting and huffing and quaking, Joscelin reached his place at the table, and stood behind his chair looking around; Guy went around the carved arm of the double chair and sat down, and all the other lords sat also. The lower end of the hall was crowded with men who had no place at the tables, the knights and hangers-on of the lords, and here again, now, suddenly, another fight was breaking out. Guy gave a little shake of his head. Kerak could not even keep order in a place like this: why was everybody so shy of him? He sat back in the chair, watching Guile of Kerak and his men kick the fighting apart.

  His wife came into the hall.

  She sent no one on before her to announce her. She merely came into the doorway, and stood there, until suddenly the knowledge she was there swept across the room and all men turned. They fell still at once. Even the lords rose up in their places; among the lesser men many went down on one knee to her.

  She stood there a moment longer. She wore a long gown of blue silk, with a skirt of many filmy layers, and a short velvet jacket, a little darker blue, intricately embroidered in silver thread. Her hair was coiled under a coif of silver lace. The sight of her always moved him to joy, and she quieted the riotous hall; she brought it instantly to a peace and calm Kerak’s men could never have achieved with all the swords in Christendom. She was the sweetest girl in the whole world, and Guy knew himself a king already, just in having her. Proudly he went forward, to bring her to the place of honor at the table.

  De Ridford dropped the gnawed bone back onto the platter, and wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin; small and mean as the castle was, yet it served good food, and the wine was excellent. He glanced at Guy de Lusignan, on his left, to congratulate him on this, but the Count of Jaffa as usual was nose to nose with his wife, making poor company.

  The Templar Marshall turned instead to the Princess’ uncle, Joscelin de Courtenay, who was sitting on his right. “The food is excellent,” he said.

  Joscelin had finished eating. He sat plumped back in his chair, his belly heaped up in front of him like a miser’s treasure. “Damned excellent. Thank Agnes. She staffed the place.”

  “A pity she had to leave.” De Ridford always learned a lot from Agnes de Courtenay, who knew the intimate pulse of Outremer.

  Joscelin shrugged. “Maybe. I wish Sibylla would leave, and let us get on with the man talk.”

  De Ridford laughed. His gaze swung around toward the high seat again, and he lifted his voice, to reach Kerak, sitting beyond it. “My lord Kerak, are you going to keep this latest truce?”

  Kerak leaned his elbows on the table. “I can’t fight two wars at once. The question is, what are we going to do about Tripoli?”

  Joscelin belched. “Not in front of Sibylla. Don’t bore the ladies.” He waved his hand, and one of his pages hurried up to bring him a cup of wine.

  “Not at all,” Sibylla said, and twisted to face Kerak. “Why, my lord, what do you want to do about Tripoli?”

  Kerak’s face suffused with color. He craned himself out across the table to stare past her at de Ridford and Joscelin. “I say we get all our men together and attack him, right now, before he attacks us.”

  Joscelin muttered something under his breath; de Ridford gave a quick look around him to see who was overhearing this. Finall
y Joscelin said, “Well, he’s in a pretty strong position.”

  The Princess’ voice rose, sharp. “You mean, you would actually consider such a thing?”

  Kerak’s thick lips curled into a sneer. “No, you have no belly for it, do you—this is why women cannot rule.”

  Guy said, “Now, Sibylla, listen to me.”

  She ignored him; she sat rigid in her place, her gaze aimed like a sword at Kerak. “I would give more consideration to your opinions on the matter, my lord, did you yourself not blunder from disaster to disaster.”

  De Ridford blinked, startled at this brazen boldness from a tender girl. The truth in it impressed him also. Guy had hold of his wife’s arm. De Ridford canted forward to see the Wolf’s face; the whole hall had quieted to listen to this argument. Kerak sneered. He said, “If you were a man, I would slap you down, for speaking so.”

  De Ridford lifted his voice. “You would have to go through me to do it, my lord, I promise you.” Several other men barked out their support for this.

  Sibylla said, “I will not allow talk of an attack on my kinsman Tripoli, no matter how evilly he has treated me. Such talk only weakens us all.”

  Joscelin said, “Where is Tripoli now?”

  “In the north,” de Ridford said. “And as Edessa says, he is very strong. The question should be more what he may do to us, than what we may do to him.”

  Sibylla said, “What, he might attack us?”

  Joscelin laced his fingers together across the mound of his belly. “Never. It would cost too much.” He erupted softly in another bubbling gaseous belch.

  De Ridford laughed. Guy de Lusignan slumped back in the high seat, looking bored. His wife sat upright, her long hands in her lap, and was about to speak, then a servant came into the hall and hurried down the table to her.