The Kings of Vain Intent

by The Kings of Vain Intent (retail) (epub)

  ‘Will you contradict me?’

  ‘No, it’s just—’

  ‘Then do as I say. If you used your eyes you’d save your tongue.’ He nodded toward the city.

  Ernoul looked, trying to see what Balian could see. He noted the blue water, sparkling where the sun struck it, and the narrow strip of sand, and the eastern wall of Tyre, old in parts, but with fresh upperworks. He glimpsed men on the battlements and in the towers, turned away, then looked again, horror-struck.

  Almighty God! Of course! The city was on the defensive. The gates were closed, while every arrow-slit sprouted a shaft. The occupants could see clearly that the arrivals were Frankish civilians, refugees, friends, yet it was equally clear that the people of Tyre were prepared to let fly among the people of Jerusalem.

  He rode back to tell the people to make camp at the landward end of the causeway. Then he wheeled his palfrey and hurried to catch up with Balian and the Constable.

  The three riders dismounted beneath the walls and followed a detachment of Tyrian guards through a small door in the East Gate. The first thing they saw inside the city was a carved notice hung on chains, proclaiming that the gate had been re-named the Gate of Montferrat. The guards led them across a square and into the imposing, Moorish-style palace. The guards told Ernoul and the Constable to remain in an anteroom.

  Balian asked, ‘Who is in there with the Marquis of Montferrat?’

  ‘His advisers,’ the sergeant said. ‘Do you want their names?’

  ‘No. I wanted to know if he was alone. Since he is not, I will bring these two. They are members of my household. They go with me.’

  The sergeant hesitated, then shrugged. He had heard a great deal about Balian of Ibelin, Lord of Nablus, and even now that Nablus was in Saracen hands, the title was still one of the most widely respected in the Kingdom. He had also heard about the Constable; earthier stories, demanding a different kind of respect. He said, ‘I see no harm in it, my lord. We’re all soldiers of Christ, eh?’

  ‘And pressed for time.’

  Without further comment, the sergeant led them through to meet the Defender of Tyre.

  Balian strode into the chamber, blinked at the sunlight that streamed through the high, arched apertures, then squinted in an effort to locate the men who sat in the shadows. The long room – even larger than he had expected from outside – was almost devoid of furniture, though the walls were festooned with banners and pennants. Moslem workmanship was evident in the colourful mosaic floor, an intricate pattern of leaves and vines that threaded their way towards the centre of the room and the great table dormant. This massive, undecorated table measured eighteen feet by five, but the true pride of the chamber lay in the twelve matching chairs that surrounded it.

  They were carved from English oak and African ebony, with the seat and back of hand-thick leather. The crimson skins had been dyed in Tyre, then stamped with innumerable leaf-of-gold leopards. Previous occupants of the chairs had dug their names in the spatulate arms; Erard, Manserius, John, Gaubert, another John, an interrupted Rodo – that may have been Rodolph, plus house names such as De Buon, D’Arzillieres, Brescia and Tawton. Somebody had cut through the back of one chair; perhaps Rodo– had been stabbed from behind before he could complete his own name.

  Now only three of the chairs were occupied, set side by side in the deep shadows.

  Balian assumed correctly that the Defender of Tyre would have taken the middle chair. He bowed and waited for the Italian to rise.

  Marquis Conrad of Montferrat came out of the shadows like an apparition from Hell. He was an exceptionally tall man, with narrow shoulders that even now seemed to be held in an invisible vice. He had long, thin fingers, thin wrists and, by the hang of his sleeves, the arms of an undernourished woman. His face was also thin, his cheeks adzed into shadows, his jaw narrow beneath taut skin. His scraped-down features allowed his eyes to register their full impact, hard and wide, then half covered by low, veined lids. Around his face and across his forehead hung lank black hair. It concealed his ears and lay like spilt pitch on his compressed shoulders. It was an unnerving introduction.

  ‘My lord Marquis of Montferrat?’

  Conrad closed his eyes and opened them. ‘My Lord Balian of Ibelin, courageous Defender of Jerusalem. I’m glad you got away from there unharmed.’

  ‘You make it sound as though I fled.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. And these two noblemen?’

  ‘They are, rather, members of my household. Fostus, Constable of Nablus. My squire, Ernoul.’

  ‘I see. You bring them to your conferences.’

  ‘Invariably.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I don’t. If there is something my servants should hear, I tell them—’

  ‘Excuse me. These two are not spoken of as servants, Marquis. I let them hear things for themselves. They have been around these parts long enough.’

  Conrad did not take to the remark. He knew that Balian had seen a lifetime’s service in Palestine, and he guessed that Constable Fostus had spent most, if not all of his days, in Outremer. But he, himself, had been out here less than four months, and he knew that it weighed against him.

  Without apparent effort, he smothered his anger and invited his visitors to be seated. He did not trouble to introduce his own advisers, nor did he call upon them during the meeting.

  Ernoul sat at Balian’s left hand and thought, these two are as unlike as sand and snow. They’ve yet to say a civil word to each other, and mean it.

  ‘Now,’ Conrad said, ‘what kind of position can we find for you at Tyre, Lord Balian?’

  Balian frowned. ‘You may have misconstrued my presence, Marquis. I am not after a post here, or anywhere else. I’ve brought several thousand refugees—’ He hesitated, aware that Conrad knew the facts, but would not save him the effort of stating them. ‘Several thousand refugees from Jerusalem. Your watch-guards must have told you. I have come ahead so that we might make arrangements for them.’

  ‘You and your companions are welcome here.’

  ‘Good, and I thank you. I would suggest then that the civilians be allowed in at the rate of five hundred a day. In that way we will be able to search out the necessary accommodation—’

  ‘One moment,’ Conrad said. ‘I was mistaken before, assuming that these two were noblemen. Now you, I fear, have fallen into the same pit. When I say you and your companions, I mean the three of you here, not the thousands outside. Of course, every man who can bear arms will be admitted without hindrance. How many would that be?’

  The silence began to din in Ernoul’s ears. He lowered his head and thought, I cannot remember when Lord Balian was last dumbfounded. The Marquis would do well to take care. At the same time he was unable to rid himself of the thought that Conrad of Montferrat was one of the shrewdest men he had ever met. If he worked for the Christian cause, well and good. If he worked for himself, God alone knew what the result would be.

  Eventually, in a low, even tone, Balian said, ‘Let me clarify. Do you refuse to admit these people, these families who have been driven from their homes by our enemy?’

  ‘I will take all able-bodied men.’

  ‘And women?’

  ‘If they are herbalists, or trained in medicine, yes.’

  ‘And children?’

  ‘That is too much.’

  ‘Now listen well,’ Balian measured. ‘You and I have not had to do with each other until now. Some months ago I heard that you had come ashore here and breathed life into the defence of this city. That’s to your credit. But your Italian title means as much to me as I wish it to mean, not a speck more. I know, too, of your royal connections in Europe, but you are not in Europe today. So you will not tell me how to treat the people of Jerusalem, the Holy City for which we are all bound to fight. With regard to them, I will tell you. We will bring them in at the rate of five hundred a day—’

  ‘It will not happen,’ Conrad said. ‘You’ve been gone too long from this place, Lord Balian.
You still command great respect, needless to say not least of all from myself, but, if I am in your country, you are in my city. It would have been lost, but for me. You were all at Hattin. Now the people and soldiery of Tyre do as I say. Put it to the test. I have told them to keep the gates closed against all those who have hungry mouths and useless hands. You may go and tell them otherwise, and see if they listen. They won’t. They are too hungry themselves.’

  ‘Hungry they may be. But they are not inhuman.’

  ‘Nor am I.’

  ‘The children?’

  ‘The children eat, Lord Balian, and they need extra warmth. Don’t you find this chamber sparsely furnished? That’s because most of the chests and benches have gone for firewood. Some of Tyre’s best carvings are now turning to charcoal beneath cooking pots. We are short of everything here, except people.’ So the first meeting ended.

  It made little difference to Conrad of Montferrat that the refugees were unarmed; they were still as dangerous as the Saracen Ramieh. They were not after blood, but food. The Tyrians would not have been slain by them, but would have starved with them. What city, he reasoned, even in time of peace and plenty, could have assimilated so many thousands at such a rate? Then what city could do so in time of war? Tyre was beleaguered, its buildings packed to capacity, beds laid in the gutters and on the roofs and along the arms of the port itself. Saladin’s generosity had concealed a cutting edge, for by allowing so many to go free, he had saved himself the trouble of finding food and shelter for his enemies.

  Balian saw it differently. He would have accepted the influx, then made every effort to absorb them. Confirmed in his belief that all Christian life should be saved, he would have sent ships, launches, even row-boats north to Antioch, or across to Cyprus, one hundred and fifty miles distant. The refugees could have been taken there, then food loaded aboard for the return voyage. It would be risky, and it would take time, but it was one way to save lives.

  Next day, he put the idea to Conrad. The Marquis refused to release any craft, maintaining that they were needed at Tyre, in case Saladin attacked from the sea…

  He went out into the street, letting the year-old memories drift away. But they did not completely leave his mind, for when he mounted the east wall and looked along Alexander s Causeway he saw, between the flopping surf and the dusty hills of Jebel ’Amila, the mass of squalid huts and shelters that marked the refugee camp. It was now August 1188. They had been there through an entire winter and an entire summer, shut out by their fellow Christians, and at the mercy of any marauding Saracen. The camp was extensive, but there was plenty of room, for of the original twelve thousand, less than half were still alive.

  * * *

  King Guy saw the refugee camp for the first time. From a distance he imagined it to be the Moslem army, laying siege to Tyre. He pointed at the straggle of shelters, then reined in, expecting Amalric and Joscelin to follow suit. Instead, his brother turned without stopping and said, ‘There’s no cause for shyness. Even after a year your subjects will love you – if they ever did.’

  Joscelin laughed noisily at Amalric’s wit, and Guy was forced to spur forward before the forty-strong escort rode into him.

  They reached Alexander’s Causeway, and the Constable and Seneschal went into the act they had perfected over the years. They shrugged aside their personal opinion of Guy – a petulant, irresolute Poitevin, who, left to his own devices, would not have lasted a full day as monarch – and galloped ahead to proclaim the arrival of the King of Jerusalem, once more free to lead his people!

  The reaction of the refugees was cautious, suspicious, openly hostile. They remembered only that these three had been among the chief architects of the defeat at Hattin, since when they had been safe in prison, well fed and well treated. During this last year, resistance to the old order had grown steadily. Those who had disagreed with Guy before, rejected him completely. Those who had stayed silent now spoke out. Those who had supported him entertained second thoughts. They accepted, as did Guy, that he was simply a pawn in Amalric’s hands, but they would not forgive him for having stayed so long in the game. A true king would have banished the Constable years ago, and with him the Seneschal. But Guy had never been a true king. So the refugees watched in contemptuous silence as the trio turned on to the causeway.

  Halfway along, Guy halted. It had taken him several minutes to summon up courage for what he wanted to say. ‘I will go on alone from here. I have come to claim the Italian’s allegiance, and I would rather speak with him, one-to-one. I’ll take the escort. If I need you, I’ll send a man back.’

  He was surprised when Amalric offered no argument. Joscelin was equally surprised. It was unlike the Constable to let his brother dictate to him. Still, the elder Lusignan always had his reasons.

  The escort assembled in two lines, with King Guy between. The strip of land had been narrowed to prevent the Saracens bringing their siege machines on to the causeway, and there was now only room for three horses to move abreast. Guy raised his hand and walked his palfrey towards the grey walls. He was pleased to see that the city gates remained closed; it showed that the Italian had a high regard for security. It would not be the first time that Saracen Ramieh had approached a Crusader stronghold disguised in hauberk and helmet.

  However, he was less pleased when he reached the Tyrian end of the narrow spine and saw that the gates remained shut. Surely somebody had recognized him by now; his features had not changed that much in a year. The double line closed up, while the horsemen bellowed at the wall-guards. ‘Open for King Guy of Jerusalem! Stir yourselves, your king is here!’ But the guards did not move, nor reply to the shouts. Moments passed, and then a tall, lank-haired figure appeared on the wall-walk. He looked down at the horsemen, and at the slight, white-faced rider who sat between them. Without a word, he moved along the wall and climbed the outer steps that led to the tower above the East Gate – now the Gate of Montferrat. Then, knowing that his voice would carry well, even from that height, he asked, ‘Which of you is called king?’

  There was some confusion. The arrangement of riders spoke for itself. Who else would be king, if not the one in the centre, the one with yellow hair and embroidered boots? Nevertheless, the escort moved their mounts to the very edge of the causeway, identifying Guy by isolation.

  Not wanting to shout and so get more dust in his throat, Guy tapped his chest. The gesture went unacknowledged, and with a click of irritation he called, ‘I am your king! Are you the Marquis of Montferrat?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, I would enter the city. As you have doubtless heard, I was released a month ago. From the Saracen prison at Lattakieh. I and my brother Amalric and Sensechal Jose—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what? Why were we released? Well, I would say, because – because we made an empty vow with them. A certain ransom was raised for us, so—’

  ‘Not because Saladin thinks that, by letting you loose, you will be more trouble to us than to him?’

  Guy blinked, and turned aside to spit sand. What in God’s name was this sinister Italian about? More trouble to Christendom than to Islam? The man was insane to speak so to his king!

  ‘I take that amiss!’ he shouted. ‘Saladin has not yet seen the trouble I can cause. Now, I repeat, I would enter the city. This security is all very well, but you see who I am—’

  ‘You may not.’

  ‘so you will be safe in – What? May not?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Conrad said equably. ‘You’re locked out.’

  I should have brought them. Amalric would make short work of this damned upstart. Christ, in front of these Tyrians, the refugees, my own escort. This is beyond belief.

  ‘You make a grave error, Marquis Conrad. You have no right—’

  ‘I say I do.’ He turned his wide, half-hooded eyes on the blue water that moved in a low swell against the causeway. Then he looked down again and shed the mask of banter.

  ‘You move away from
here, Guy of Lusignan. You announce yourself as king, but you have not done the king’s work in a year. I and those who are with me are of a certain conviction, that you relinquished your crown and all rights to the throne at Hattin. Your reign has ended, insofar as it touches us. Ride back to where you came from – Tripoli, wasn’t it – for you are in no demand here.’

  He placed his thin hands on the embrasures of the battlements and leaned forward. His hair hung like a curtain around his face.

  ‘When you were on your way to prison, I came to the port here and gave fresh heart to the people. The Saracen standards were already on the walls, did you know that? I had them thrown down, and the defences manned, and for a year we have held off all attacks. He turned suddenly and shouted to someone inside the city. He waited for a moment, then told Guy, ‘I have a man you know with me. Do you care to meet him?’

  Before Guy could answer, he saw Balian of Ibelin climb to the tower.

  Balian, the last of that moderate party who did not want me to enter the plateau of Hattin. Well, you were right, as it transpired. Yet, however much you despise me, I cannot imagine that you, of all people, would side with this – this upstart.

  ‘Tell him,’ Conrad said. ‘You have fought for this Kingdom all your life, eh, Balian? Well, now, after what Guy of Lusignan has wrought, tell him, if you can, that he is still your king.’

  The smile was only half-formed on his spectral face when Balian said, ‘Yes, he is still my king. Until we can elect a better.’ Guy seized on the first half of the statement, Conrad on the second.

  ‘You see, Marquis! Loyalty is still around!’

  ‘I see loyalty misplaced, that’s all, Lusignan!’

  ‘So what now?’ Guy shouted, struggling to keep the whine from his voice. ‘Do you call yourself King of Tyre?’