Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  “If we have no Master, then you give me orders. Let me go scout the Sultan and his army. We have to find out what he means to do.”

  Tripoli looked at him through the corner of his eye. “I can tell you that. The Sultan has come to Tiberias, I barely escaped from the castle before he drew up his army around it.”

  Beyond him, Balian grunted. “That will hold him. He cannot take Tiberias.”

  The King turned, and walked away from Tripoli and the other men, as far as he could. In an undertone, as if to himself, he said, “We must decide what to do.”

  “If he’s at Tiberias,” some man of Kerak’s shouted, “then we go to Tiberias! Let’s strike him!” Half a dozen other voices rose in a eager lustful cheer.

  Balian d’Ibelin called, “Between here and Tiberias is waterless desert. Better if he has to cross it to reach us, than the other way around.”

  Kerak gave a scornful jeer. “Why not just go home, pretty boy, and send your wife out to fight?” Balian’s head jerked around, and he cast a fiery look at Kerak, but he said nothing.

  The King still had his back to the council. He beat his two fists together in front of him. Rannulf turned to Tripoli. “How strong is Tiberias now?”

  The Count gave a quick shake of his head. “Perfect. My wife is there. She can command the garrison, the place is stocked for years, and the walls would withstand Joshua.”

  Rannulf said, “I am going there with my company, then. I will keep watch on him, and send to you.”

  Kerak bellowed, “How much does the Sultan pay you, Count, to hold us back?”

  Tripoli ignored him. To Rannulf, he said, in a voice that reached through the tent, “Good, you go do that, but be in constant touch with me, and do absolutely nothing without consulting me first.”

  Pleased, Rannulf said, “Yes, my lord.”

  The Count looked around at the other men, bringing them into his audience. “Sephoria is as good a place for the rest of us as anywhere. I saw a great horde of foot soldiers on the road here, who should arrive by sundown. We should be here for a while; make your arrangements accordingly.”

  He had taken over the council. All men were watching him, waiting for his orders, and even the King now turned and faced him, and waited. Tripoli went on in a crisp, dry voice. “We shall gather our forces here. It’s the dead of summer, Saladin will quickly eat up all the food around Tiberias, and then he will have to move, and that’s when we can hit him.”

  Rannulf was backing up, sidling away through the other men as they listened. He saw Kerak mark him in the corner of his eye. Tripoli was talking, hard, dry words, making excellent sense. Rannulf reached the door and went out.

  Stooping, Bear picked up the horse’s foot and cradled the heavy curve of the hoof in his hand. The horse leaned on him, and he rammed his shoulder into it, staggering it back onto its hocks. “I just can’t help wondering, is all.” The horse’s foot was clean; he felt the frog with his thumb and made sure the shoe was on tight.

  Mouse came down past the string of horses. There were a lot of Roman ruins in Sephoria and the Templars had tethered their horses up before a row of marble columns. Felx said, “Ask him. He’d know.”

  Stephen lowered the bucket of water he had brought from the well. “I’d know what?” He spoke to his horse, patting its neck; the horse smelled the corn in his sack, and whickered, and shoved its head against his arm. He scratched its forehead under the forelock.

  Bear said, “You’d know about Saint. And the Queen.”

  Nobody said anything for a while. Mouse opened the sack and held it so that the horse could eat from it. He gave a quick look off down the line of horses—well over two hundred horses already here, and more coming, every hour. More horses grazed down on the wide plain stretching to the west. As far as the road there were camps, most of them just clots of men around a fire, a few with tents and pennants. In the center of it all was the red tent, with the King’s banner in front of it, and the Standard of the True Cross.

  Mouse crossed himself. Bear said, “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  Felx stood up, his eyes glinting. “Back there, at the caravanserai, they were together a long time, in that bedroom. Alone.”

  Mouse said, “They were talking.” He turned back to the work of feeding his horse.

  Bear straightened, his hands on his hips. “He doesn’t talk to women.”

  “She came out with her hair down,” Felx said, “and looking pretty well handled.”

  Mouse said, “This is Rannulf you’re talking about. And she is Queen of Jerusalem. Whatever you’re thinking of, it’s wrong.” The horse pushed at the sack with its nose, almost knocking it out of his hands.

  Bear said, “She’s beautiful. A little lean, for my tastes, but pretty as a prayer.”

  Felx said, “If she’d made him King, instead of Guy, we wouldn’t be here now, like this, wondering what the hell is going on.”

  Bear grunted, agreeing. Stephen said, “If horses had wings, we’d all fly. Where’s Saint now?”

  “Getting us some orders.”

  One of the knights who had come with them out of Jerusalem now trudged around the column where Stephen’s horse was tied; he was young, downy-bearded, solemn as a drunken judge. He had a bucket of water in either hand, which he set at the foot of the column.

  “On the road, the way he looked at her, that wasn’t very saintly.” His horse stood next to Stephen’s, and he watered it.

  Stephen said, “I didn’t see anything. And he sent her back to Jerusalem.”

  “What else was he going to do with her?” the boy said. His name was Eudes; he was Burgundian. “Bring her here?”

  Stephen grinned at him. “He obeyed orders.” He had seen Rannulf coming up along the horse lines from the foot of the hill. “That’s good enough for me.”

  “I still think—” Eudes began, straightening, and Rannulf walked past him, in among them.

  “Shut up, Eudes, you talk too much.”

  Stephen thrust the bucket at him. “Go fetch us some more water, boy.” He nodded to Rannulf. “Where have you been, Saint?”

  “In the red tent. Trying to get somebody to give me some orders.”

  Bear stamped up beside Stephen. “Where’s de Ridford? Why isn’t he here doing what he’s supposed to do?”

  “He may be dead,” Rannulf said. “God willing.”

  At that, the other men pushed closer, and Stephen said, “What do you mean by that?”

  “Tripoli just got here, and he says there’s been a big battle, somewhere, and a lot of Templars died. One of them maybe the Master.”

  “Where?” Bear asked, and Stephen blurted, also, “Where?” A little farther away, someone else called out, and a hoarse voice answered, spreading the news. The rest of the Templars collected around them. Here and there, men crossed themselves. Stephen swallowed, a shiver of panic along his nerves.

  “What happened?” a voice called, from the press of men.

  “Where? Who was it?” Other voices.

  “I don’t know,” Rannulf said. He was looking systematically around the crowd. “Somewhere in the Galilee. De Ridford commanded them.” He was counting men, Stephen realized, getting ready to go do something, and his stomach clenched in a little fist of fear. But he was going to be afraid from now on, and at least they were not staying idle in the camp. Rannulf went on, “Saladin is laying siege to Tiberias. I am taking my company down there, to see if there’s anything to do, and then do it if we can. Everybody pack up. Mouse, get us some extra horses. Felx, find me something to carry water in. Be careful. Kerak is here, and all Templars look the same to him.”

  Mouse said, “When do you want to leave, Saint?”

  “By sundown,” Rannulf said. “Bear, come with me.” He went off again, Bear slouching along after him. Wolf’s bane. Mouse took Eudes along with him and went to find some extra horses.

  As they were walking down the long slope toward the main camp, Eudes said, “He gets m
e on edge. I hate him.”

  Stephen laughed. “You’ll get used to him.”

  All through that day, there were troops of men arriving in the camp; toward midafternoon, a huge swarm of foot soldiers came down the Jaffa road. Their dust hung in the air for hours. Stephen had brought six packhorses up to their camp, and Rannulf was standing in the shade of one of the columns watching some sergeants load them up, when they saw a horsemen riding across the camp toward them, and both recognized him at once.

  “De Ridford,” Stephen said.

  Rannulf folded his arms over his chest. “I was really hoping.” Over among the tethered horses Eudes and some of the other knights lifted their heads.

  The Master of the Temple rode straight up to them; he wore mail, but a sergeant riding behind him carried his shield and his helmet. His surcoat was smeared with blood and dirt. His left hand and forearm were wrapped in bloody bandages. He sidestepped his horse around toward Rannulf and said, “What did you do with the Queen?”

  “I sent her back to Jerusalem,” Rannulf said. He straightened, his hands behind his back and his head tipped down. “What happened to you?”

  “God punished us for our sins,” said de Ridford. “At the Springs of Cresson, I saw a troop of Saracens, and we charged them.”

  “How many Saracens?” Rannulf said.

  “There were a couple of thousand of them.” De Ridford stared at him, challenging. “There were two hundred of us.” The other men were watching, all around them.

  “How many of you made it out?” Stephen asked.

  “Two other men and I,” de Ridford said.

  A groan went up from the men around them. “A pity,” Rannulf said. “Seems as if you could have stayed, and kept our brothers company.”

  De Ridford grunted at him. He was strung taut, his head back, his nostrils flared; his eyes flickered back and forth, never looking steadily at anything. He turned, and scanned the camp. “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting ready to go down to Tiberias and scout Saladin’s army.”

  De Ridford swiveled toward him. “On whose orders?”

  Rannulf lifted his head, his eyes hard; he said nothing, and de Ridford leaned over him and shouted, “On whose orders?”

  “Tripoli’s,” Rannulf said, and de Ridford lashed out with his bandaged hand and struck him across the side of the head. Rannulf recoiled from the blow, and de Ridford winced and clutched the hand against his chest.

  “Damn you! You are my man, still, mine! You will go nowhere. You will wait until I tell you what to do.” De Ridford yanked his horse around, its hoofs sliding on the marble ground, and rode off down the long slope toward the red tent. The sergeant followed him.

  Rannulf put his hand up to the side of his head. His eyes were hot and bright and black.

  “Two hundred men,” Stephen said. “What are we going to do now?”

  Rannulf lowered his hand and looked at his fingers; there was no blood. He leaned up against the column again and folded his arms over his chest. “Keep packing, Mouse.” He watched de Ridford ride away across the camp.

  But they did not move out at sundown; at sundown there was a great council in the King’s tent, and Tripoli and de Ridford shouted at each other, and traded accusations, and again Tripoli, with most of the other men now solidly behind him, convinced the King to hold the army at Sephoria and let Saladin break his teeth on Tiberias. After, with Stephen at his heels, Rannulf went up to de Ridford, outside the great tent.

  Rannulf said, “Let me go down to Tiberias. I can set fire to the fields along the lakeshore. Maybe raid him a little.”

  De Ridford gave him a glare white-eyed with accumulated rage. “You go nowhere until I tell you.” His left arm was bound up to his side. A pack of sergeants and knights awaited him. The other nobles had gone to their own camps and to bed and the King’s camp was quieting down. De Ridford faced him again. “Soon. I promise you.” He turned, and went back inside the King’s tent.

  “That’s good enough,” Rannulf murmured. He crossed himself.

  Stephen followed him over to their horses. “What do you mean?”

  Rannulf picked up his reins. “We’re leaving at sun-up. Whether he orders it or not. Let’s go get some sleep.”

  Then, halfway through the night, the horns began to blow.

  Stephen woke out of a dream of someone calling to him, from far off, just his name in a distant voice. Above him the night sky was white with stars. He sat up, hearing the brasses bellow all over the camp, more and more, as other horns picked up the call.

  A sergeant came panting by him. “My lord, my lord, we’re all ordered up and to saddle; we’re leaving at once for Tiberias.”

  “What?” Stephen said.

  Next to him, Bear rolled out of his blanket. “Tell me this is a dream.” He got stiffly to his feet. Stephen got up, looking around; the whole dark camp churned with men struggling to rise and pull themselves together. He sat down and put his boots on. Felx stooped above the fire, poking over the ashes for some live embers, and Rannulf walked out of the dark and pushed him back.

  “No, we haven’t got time for that; they are already moving out. We’re riding rearguard. We have to get some water. I’ve got everything ready but the water. Hurry.” He went on, rousing the men just beyond them.

  “What the hell is going on?” Felx went around gathering his cloak, his boots, his belt. Mouse went after Rannulf, to help him fill the waterskins and load them on the horses.

  Long before sunrise they were already in the saddle, lined up in a double column on the road, waiting for the rest of the army to pass so that they could take up the rearguard. Mouse was paired with Felx, and Bear with Rannulf; behind them two sergeants led the six packhorses, neck-roped together. The rest of their company were lined up behind the packhorses, and after them came the main body of the Templars, the Jerusalem chapter, and the garrisons of the south, almost three hundred men, under de Ridford’s command.

  Tripoli had ridden out in the vanguard, his knights making their horses leap and cavort as if they had a ride of only a few miles, and feasting at the end of it. Now the King had gone out, with the Bishop of Saint-George carrying the True Cross before him, and horns blasting and flutes playing. The foot soldiers from Genoa followed, in bad order, already complaining and threatening to stop.

  Stephen took his feet out of his stirrups and slouched in his saddle; he had hoarded away part of a loaf of bread from his supper and he got it out and ate it. In front of him Bear was dozing, his head slumped on his chest. The night still held fast but along the edge of the sky some white daylight began to run. De Ridford galloped up, trailing his retainers.

  Turning his horse around before Rannulf s he said, “Don’t lead out until the whole army’s past. Give them some room, and stay back, well behind them; I don’t want you running up on their heels.”

  Rannulf said, “Whose idea was this? Yours, wasn’t it.”

  De Ridford’s teeth showed. “Did you think I would let Tripoli take command? This is my king, I made him, he will do my work.” His horse spun on its hocks, its head tossing, pushing at the bit. “Everybody is being too cautious here. When we march into view of Tiberias, Saladin will flee. Then we can attack him, while he’s running.” He let the horse carry him magnificently away, down toward the marching army. His retinue streamed after him.

  Beside Stephen, motionless in his saddle, Felx said, “I could have stayed asleep and done this.” Rannulf laughed.

  Chapter XXXI

  Halfway through the morning Rannulf swung his dozen men around to ride at the tail of the column. They were coming into hilly country, tawny in the summer heat. The track of the army they were following lay printed deep into the crusted sand, the thin strands of grass; up ahead, a heavy pall of dust obscured everything.

  They passed a few of the Genoese sitting by the side of the road, already finished. At midday, with the sun blazing in the sky like a blob of hot metal, half a hundred Bedouin swooped o
ut of a crease in the hillside and raced down on the tail end of the Templar line.

  Screaming and whooping, they charged toward Rannulf and his men, and the knights pulled their shields up; when the Bedouin spun their horses, and tipped their bows into the air, the knights hoisted their shields onto their shoulders. The volley of the Saracen arrows pattered down harmlessly around them, and the Bedouin raced off, shrieking as if at some great victory.

  Stephen was cooking inside his mail. He had a white silk scarf over his helmet, to keep his head cool, but his hauberk was so hot it burned his hand to touch it. Some of the newer men coming along after him began to complain, breaking the silence of the march. Then the Bedouin swooped down on them again, squealing like pigs.

  Still at a good distance, they wheeled, and fired their arrows in an aimless scatter, and then fled, and behind Stephen, Eudes and two others of the young knights shouted and broke out of their line to chase after them. Stephen roared. He watched Rannulf; he saw Rannulf’s head turn, but he gave no order; the column rode straight on after the rest of the army.

  The Bedouin on their light fast horses quickly escaped the three young knights, who turned, laughing at this sport, and rode back to the column, and then, as they rejoined the column, Rannulf put his hand up and stopped.

  His company drew up, all now in order. The rest of the army trundled off up the road away from them, into the shroud of the dust. Rannulf reined around out of the column, rode back past Stephen, past the six packhorses, to where Eudes and his friends sat grinning on their horses, and going right to Eudes straight-armed him out of his saddle.

  “You think you’re a Templar, boy? Damn you!” Rannulf reined his horse around; Eudes had hit the ground easily, rolled, and was leaping up, ready to fight back. Rannulf put the horse into him again, shoulder first, and Eudes went down again.