Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  That weighed on her. She felt smaller, lower, plainer than before. It was not the clothes; she rather liked the simple practical dress, the heavy cloth of sleeves and skirt, and the plain coif felt good around her hair.

  She could not help but see herself as these country people saw her: not Queen of Jerusalem at all, but just a runaway wife.

  They put Jolie down on the bed; the child was fast asleep, her hair stuck to her head, her round cheeks red as apples. She stank. They had been feeding her sops all day and her chin was sticky with dried juice. Sibylla opened her clothes, trying to cool her. “Go find us some water. There’s a jug on the chest.”

  Alys’ head came up. “Sibylla, I can’t go out there.”

  Sibylla wheeled on her. “Alys. This is important. Stop sniveling, put your feet under you, and do it, or it will not get done.”

  Her friend’s eyes widened, and she blinked a few times. Her chin quivered. “Sibylla, I cannot believe you have spoken so to me.” She got up, went to the chest for the jug, and left the room.

  Sibylla drew the child’s arms gently from the sleeves of her new dress. She wondered if the little girl were falling sick. With a pang she saw what danger she was bringing Jolie into. And she had just scolded Alys, who had never asked for this, who for all her crying and wailing did everything required of her.

  Alys seemed more noble now than Sibylla. Just a woman on the run from her husband. She would be Queen again, as soon as she reached Ascalon. She laid her hand on the sleeping child’s face, and Jolie stirred, half-turned her head, and her lips worked busily at nothing. Not sick, just tired.

  Alys burst back into the room. “Sibylla. The Templars.”

  “What?”

  “They’re riding into the innyard.” Alys pushed the door closed, and rushed across the room. “Two of them just came in downstairs! What are we going to do now?”

  “Hush! Sssh! Did they see you?”

  “I don’t know.” Alys bit her lip. Her face was dirty, and in the poor peasant clothes, she looked like a country girl. “What are we going to do?”

  “Maybe they aren’t looking for us,” Sibylla said. “Did you recognize any of them?”

  Alys blinked at her in wonderment. “I don’t know any Templars.”

  Sibylla grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Think! What did they look like? Their beards—was one red-bearded?”

  Alys stammered, “Yes—yes—red.”

  “Ah,” Sibylla said. “That’s Mouse. They are looking for us.” Then, on the door, there came a heavy knock.

  The two women looked at each other. Sibylla licked her lips; she saw, suddenly, one last good chance to win this.

  She said, “Answer the door.” Standing, she pulled the coif off her head, and shook her hair out.

  Alys said, “What are you going to do?”

  “Do as I tell you,” Sibylla said.

  Alys went to the door and opened it, and Rannulf Fitzwilliam came in.

  Sibylla stood in the middle of the room. Through the door she saw, behind him, other men. She spoke to him. “Send them all away; I want to talk to you. Alone. Alys, take Jolie and wait outside.”

  Alys was whey-faced. She went to the bed and gathered up the sleeping child, and went to the door. Sibylla stood where she was, staring at the Templar. The door closed. She took a deep breath, studying him, considering how to attack.

  He said, “Why did you run away?”

  She went up closer to him. He was looking her in the face, not staring at the floor, his black eyes hard and bright and intent. He had looked at her so in the chapel at Montgisor. She remembered what had happened in the chapel at Montgisor, and her body thrilled.

  She said, “De Ridford betrayed me. He handles Guy like a horse in harness, and has turned him against me. I could not stay there to be humiliated. How did you know where to find me?”

  “I knew you would go toward Ascalon. That cut down the possibilities.” He said, “What did de Ridford do?”

  “He told Guy I had sent messages to Saladin.”

  A grimace crossed his face. “I told you not to do that.”

  “I am Queen of Jerusalem,” she said hotly. “The Kingdom is in my charge. How can I preserve it, save to make peace?” She took another step toward him. His size drew her, his strength. “Who sent you after me?”

  He laughed. “De Ridford.”

  She seized this opening. “Why do you take orders from him? He will ruin us all. Between him and Kerak and Tripoli, there will be nothing left for Saladin to conquer! Come with me to Ascalon. There help me raise my banner. Many will follow me. Many more will follow you— you know not what a name you have in this kingdom. Together we can save Jerusalem.” She stood before him; she reached out and put her hands on his chest. “You wanted to kiss me, in Montgisor, Rannulf.” Leaning on his chest, she tipped her head back and looked up at him. “Kiss me now.”

  His hands rose; he gripped her wrists. His face was full of a wild longing. His lips parted. He let go of her arms, and his hands slipped into her hair, and held her head. He bent toward her. She shut her eyes, her heart hammering. The first touch of the kiss astonished her, tender as the baby’s kiss. His arms encircled her. She lay back in his embrace. His mouth pressed harder on hers. A shock of lust went through her. His tongue pushed on her lips and she opened her mouth and he put his tongue into her throat, and she was bent back, held fast, penetrated, possessed. She felt herself opening like a blossom.

  She said, “Rannulf. Make love to me.”

  He pulled back. His hands slipped away from her. He said, “You want me to fuck you?”

  The ugly word repelled her; she stepped back, her hands rising between them. She saw he had done it deliberately. He went across to the stool and sat down on it.

  “I want to,” he said. “I really do want to. I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time I ever saw you, on the road to Ramleh. I’ve dreamt about you a thousand times. Every time I’ve ever seen you, it’s been like burning alive. But I’m not here to do that. I’m here to take you back to Jerusalem.”

  She wheeled around, in a flash of anger, and spat at him. “You pig, Rannulf! You say you love me, but you’d take me back to them? Back to the men who shamed me? Why would I want to go back there?”

  He said, “Because you are Queen of Jerusalem. Where else should you be?”

  She lifted her head, shocked. She put one hand up, shaken, and pushed her hair back. “Damn you.” She looked him in the face again. “How can you take me back to my husband?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I may kill him. I hate him. But you have to go back to Jerusalem. Nobody but you can hold it, if we must all go fight.”

  She knew this. She looked away, her hands pressed palm against palm, accepting it. When she turned back to him again, he was still watching her.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  He got up, wordlessly, and went to the door.

  The day was almost gone, but they found a mule-cart for Alys and the child, and a horse for Sibylla, and set off up the road toward Jerusalem; she saw they meant to travel all night. The Templars went along two by two. There were ten of them, one pair in front of Sibylla and the cart, the rest behind. The two in front of her were strangers to her, very young, their beards half-grown; one kept stealing looks at her over his shoulder.

  Rannulf rode behind her. She did not look back. She wondered why she had needed such a one to remind her of her duty, when she was King Amalric’s daughter. An ordinary knight, hardly better than a serf. Whenever she thought of kissing him, her body flamed.

  She would not let go of him, the next time. She would finish the kiss, and bind him to her forever.

  At sundown, two Templar sergeants came galloping up the road toward them. The column halted; Rannulf went up past her, and met the sergeants, and spoke with them. Almost at once he was turning. He said something quickly to Mouse, as he rode by, and reined his horse around beside Sibylla’s.
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br />   His horse was much taller than hers, so that she could see his face even though he was staring at the ground again. He said, “These brothers here are from Jerusalem. I’ve been ordered to Sephoria. Saladin is finally moving, and he’s coming toward us.”

  The words jolted her. She felt time running away from her. She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him there. All these other men were watching them. She kept her voice steady. “I will go to Jerusalem. I know what I must do, and I will do it. I shall keep faith with you.” He was going to fight. She saw him fed into the teeth of the war. In front of them all she could not even touch him. She said, “God go with you, Rannulf.”

  He lifted his eyes to her. “I love you,” he said. “Remember that.” He nodded over his shoulder. “These men will ride with you to Jerusalem.”

  She stayed where she was, her breath pent, her blood locked in her heart. He turned his horse neatly around on its hocks, and raised his arm. At a trot the other Templars followed him away down the road, two by two, into the deepening night.

  The cold air touched her face. The two sergeants were waiting for her; moving seemed hard, useless, uninteresting. She lifted her head, wondering when she would begin to feel this, and started toward Jerusalem.

  Chapter XXX

  The King said, “Did you find my wife?”

  Hands clasped behind his back, Rannulf stood before him, in the middle of the tent; the red silk of the tent colored the air like wine. “I was taking her back to Jerusalem when the messengers came.”

  Guy looked haggard, his clean-shaven cheeks stubbled, and his eyes dark. “She is safe. Did you see her? She is safe? And my daughter?”

  “By now they are back in Jerusalem, as safe as anybody, Sire.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Very well. Very well, then.” The King turned away. The tent was as large as a stone hall. The floor was spread with carpets; off to the right a mail coat hung on a rack. Behind it the King’s shield, newly painted. A curtain dangled down across the back of the tent, the tucked edge revealing the cot behind it. Guy would not sleep on the ground. Two pages trotted in, bearing between them a stretcher with casks on it, and a basket that trailed a tangy smell of apricots and lamb. Nor would Guy eat cold bread and drink bad water.

  Rannulf said, “Sire, I have ten men with me. Half the armies aren’t even here yet. Let me go scout out what the Sultan is doing.”

  “The Master of the Temple has not arrived,” Guy said. “You must wait for your orders until he comes.”

  “Sire, I can do—”

  The King wheeled around, fiery. “No words with me, Fitzserf, I know the Master does not trust you. Stand back; there are better men here.”

  Rannulf drew off to one side. Past him from the doorway swaggered a short yellow-headed man, a gaudy feather in his cap, and rings all over his hands: Balian d’Ibelin. He had in his train his brother, Baudouin, taller and handsomer and stupider. They greeted the King with cautious words and voices set on edge, being supporters of Tripoli.

  Rannulf had already heard reports that Tripoli was coming to Sephoria, and would make his peace with the King, for the sake of the defense of the Kingdom. In among the lordlings crowding after Balian and his brother were other men of Tripoli’s, Reginald of Sidon, and young Humphrey de Toron. Guy greeted them one by one, in a high, brittle voice, disdainful.

  Balian said, “Sire, for Jerusalem’s sake, we shall put aside our differences.”

  “I am the King, and therefore you will follow me,” Guy said. “As for the rest, let it go. You said you brought us some foot soldiers.”

  Baudouin d’Ibelin stepped forward. “The Genoese sent some men-at-arms for the Crusade—they are coming up the road now from Jaffa. They are green, but well-armed.”

  “Good,” the King said. “We shall have a great power to send against this Mahounder Sultan. Then let him quake and cry in his beard, we’ll make him beg for mercy!”

  “Where are the Templars?” Balian said, with a glance in Rannulf’s direction. “I see some of them here.”

  “We shall have the whole power of the Temple.” The King stepped forward, his voice rising. “The Master de Ridford has gone into the north, to bring back the garrisons of all the castles. By God’s eyes, we will have a mighty army here, to make Saladin run like a corncrake.”

  “God wills it,” somebody muttered. Then they got into a discussion of supplies, and who would camp where.

  Rannulf stood off to one side, between a lamp standard and a stool. When the pages came around with cups of wine he shook his head. Guy boomed like an empty keg, all words; nothing he said went anywhere. Rannulf thought of Sibylla, married to this nothing, and lowered his gaze to the patterned carpet on the floor, to hide the sudden uproar of his feeling.

  He had to stop thinking of her. Even now, just to remember holding her quickened him, she rose up in his mind more real than the men around him. She divided him, double-hearted. Before him her husband strutted like a popinjay, sneering at him, who had held her in his arms. Kissed her, tongue-deep, and her willing and wanting. He had to stop thinking of her.

  She stood between him and God. He belonged to God, who had given him everything he had, the revelation that had saved him, the vow that sustained him; in the end, God had even given him Sibylla.

  As a test. Another test.

  Balian was saying, “We should send out some scouts, Sire. Use this Templar; that’s his work.” Rannulf lifted his head, drawn back into this, and saw the lordling nodding at him.

  Guy said, “Until the Master comes, I will give no orders to his men. What we must decide—” In through the back of the tent a swarm of newcomers tramped, loud.

  This was Kerak, bare-headed, his body like a great boulder inside the cut velvets and embroidered satins of his clothes; in the midst of his knights he rolled into the room, and saw Rannulf. “There he is! By God, I’ll halve the son of a bitch!” Wrenching out his sword, he charged.

  Rannulf had no room to move; he jumped sideways and got tangled in furniture, grabbed an iron lamp standard and struck off Kerak’s blow with that. The lamp went flying. The men around them bellowed. Balian plunged in between them. Someone grabbed Rannulf s sword arm, and another man wrapped an arm around his chest. Kerak’s own men dragged the Wolf away.

  “Hold,” Balian roared, between them, his hands out to keep them apart. “Hold! We can’t kill each other, and thereby give Saladin everything he wants!”

  Kerak’s eyes glittered; his men surrounded him. “He owes me blood. He slew my son; he has admitted it.”

  Rannulf said, “Let me go. I won’t hurt him; he’s an old man.” Baudouin d’Ibelin had hold of his sword arm. “Let go of me, damn you,” Rannulf said, again, and the other knight stepped back.

  Balian said, “Stand fast, Saint.”

  “I said I wouldn’t hurt him,” Rannulf said. Across the crowded space between them, he looked at Kerak. “I killed Guile, which was a sin, but the sin was against God, not you. God will judge me for it, not you.”

  Kerak’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “I’ll drink your blood.”

  Rannulf sneered at him. “God will judge me, Wolf. You’ll just talk.”

  Balian turned toward him, and struck him on the arm. Kerak was staring at him, and Rannulf stared back, but after a moment Kerak turned heavily away. Someone else was coming into the council.

  A page pushed through the mob, squeaking. “My lords, my lord King—” Through the doorflap the Count of Tripoli strode, slight in his threadbare coat, his face sheathed in the little cup of his beard.

  Several of his men followed him; they packed the tent. Rannulf backed up to the silken wall to make room and had to stoop to clear the ceiling. Tripoli went straight into the middle of the room, nose to nose with the King. Guy’s face reddened. The onlookers fell hushed, and even Kerak gave way, while the two men confronted each other.

  At last, Tripoli said, “I am here to fight for the Holy
Sepulcher, the True Cross, and my savior Jesus Christ. Will you join me?” He held out his hand.

  Guy’s throat worked. All the men watched him, he had to answer, and he could make no other answer than to match Tripoli. He said, “Then I make you welcome, my lord,” and clasped the outstretched hand.

  A low cheer went up. Balian walked up to them, smiling like the father at a wedding. “Well done, my lord Count, my lord King, well done.”

  “While we are here,” Tripoli said, in a high loud voice, “let all men put aside their feuds and hatreds, and face the common enemy as one, as Christians, and as brothers.” As he spoke he looked around him, seeing Kerak, and then scanning the rest of the room; when he saw Rannulf he looked past him for someone else. “Where is the Master of the Temple?”

  The King said, “He has gone into the north, to gather up the knights from all the castle garrisons, and bring them here.”

  “Well, then,” Tripoli said, “the Temple may need another Master. Because of the treaty I had with Saladin, I allowed some thousands of his men to cross through the Galilee, two days ago, and yesterday, before I left Tiberias, I looked out my window and saw them riding by. On their lances they carried the heads of Christian men by the hundred, and many of those heads had the hair shorn close, and the beards worn long.”

  Silence met this. Rannulf’s hands closed on his sword hilt; he moved up a few steps, standing straight. King Guy’s face paled, and Kerak shouted, “Tell us whose side you are really on, Count!”

  “It would make things easier,” Rannulf said, and in front of him Baudouin d’Ibelin half-turned his head and laughed. The other men were all bursting suddenly into talk. In their midst Tripoli stood motionless, his head high, as if everything he did were King’s work. Balian went to Kerak, clasped his arm, spoke in his ear, all the while leaning on him, so that at last Kerak moved back a step. Rannulf pushed up past Baudouin d’Ibelin in his satin-ribboned coat, and spoke to the King.