The Kings of Vain Intent

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

  It had taken Guy two days to complete the journey from Acre. He had come ill-equipped, bringing water but no food, a travelling cloak but no blanket with which to keep out the chill night wind. He had spent the dark hours on a desolate stretch of beach, huddled between the sand dunes, more alone and more lonely than he could remember. He was the King of Jerusalem, not much older than Richard Cœur-de-Lion, younger than Amalric, or Balian, or any of their compeers. He had once occupied the palace in Jerusalem and controlled the great coastal county of Ascalon. He had been married to one of the prettiest, if also one of the most vacuous, women in the land. He had dressed in the finery that befitted his station, and had eaten the food that best satisfied his palate.

  Yet, last night, cold and hungry, he had turned his sand-sore eyes towards the Great Sea and peered out at the dark water, which seemed to sidle up to him, whispering the names of his enemies. There were so many that he had lolled asleep before the sea could conclude its list…

  Now, in the bright, flinty light of midday, he watched the guards issue from the watchtower.

  There were three of them, the one in the centre thick-set and bullish. ‘I’m Captain Landry.’ Then, because although the rider looked haggard and sand-stained, he was on a good horse, ‘Sire?’

  ‘I’m your king, Guy of Lusignan.’

  Landry smiled. ‘It’s too hot for this, sire. You’re a knight, clear enough, but I must have a name. The Regent keeps full records.’ He waited. The smile slipped away as Guy repeated what he had said.

  Landry glanced at his companions. One of them shrugged. The other said, ‘I’ve never seen him. He looks as though he s been sun-struck.’ Landry stared at Guy, as if to verify the opinion.

  In a slow, impatient voice, the guard captain said, ‘I can’t write that down.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Guy told him. ‘Find some wax and I’ll impress my seal.’

  Slower still, Landry said, ‘Show me the seal.’

  Guy took a small box from his belt pouch. He opened the box and extracted a circular carved stone. ‘You may not touch. Stand there. You’ll read it plain enough.’ He held it low, half-turning it to the sun. Landry saw the central star and the inscription MIREJ-ODIUG XER. Pressed into warm wax the reversed letters would read REX GUIDO-JERIM. Landry let the breath hiss softly from his body.

  ‘We will escort you in, my lord King.’ He was a puzzled man. He had heard about Guy of Lusignan, heard all the worst about him, a weak, vacillating monarch who should have been set aside in favour of Regent Conrad. Yet, because he had never met a king – he had not even glimpsed Philip when the King of France had arrived at Tyre – Captain Landry stood in awe of him. He wanted to ask why Guy had risked the journey alone from – yes, where had he come from? He wanted to comment on Guy’s appearance; small wonder they had not believed him. And above all he wanted to know what would happen when the King of Jerusalem met the Defender and official Governor of Tyre. The world knew they were rivals for the throne, and that Conrad owed no allegiance to Guy. Perhaps the other guard had been right, and the king was sun-struck.

  Flanked by the hurrying soldiers, Guy rode along the causeway. His determination was fast ebbing away and by the time he reached the Gate of Montferrat he was ready to trade places with the lonely traveller who had spent the night on the empty, whispering beach.

  * * *

  Conrad sat at the long table dormant, his hands curled around a sheaf of papers. His eyes were on the papers, but he was not reading. He was listening, and he heard the guards enter and announce the King of Jerusalem.

  Beside him, Isabella started to rise. Without speaking or taking his eyes from the papers, Conrad moved his right hand, caught her by the wrist and pulled her down again; Guy was too far away to see it; all he could see were the dozen red and gold chairs, Conrad with his head down over some work, Isabella looking in turn at her husband and their visitor.

  He approached the table, bowed to Isabella, then realized that the princess was not going to return the greeting. Conrad laid aside the top paper, studied another and, in his own time, raised his wide, hooded eyes.

  ‘One moment, Lusignan.’

  He continued with the pretence, while Guy and Isabella exchanged nervous glances. He could not see the shape of her body below the table, so he did not yet know that she carried a child. He had been allowed to retain his weapons, and he fidgeted with the inlaid pommel of his sword, then hooked his fingers in his belt, then worried the buckle. He glanced at her again and she smiled at him, quickly, so Conrad would not see.

  She did not think of Guy as the King of Jerusalem, but as the insecure young man who had been married to her half-sister, the brainless Princess Sibylla. They had never become well acquainted, Guy and Isabella, but she had always felt pity for him, as for an animal that is being tortured by cruel youths. And he had once been a very handsome animal, with his small, even features, and yellow hair. She did not think as most did, that Guy was evil. He was weak, and led by the nose, but he was deserving of pity. And, from Conrad’s actions so far, the Poitevin would need all the pity she could expend.

  Conrad went through more papers, occasionally stopping to brush his long hair from his face. Then he pushed the pile together, edged it aside with the back of his hand and raised his eyes again.

  ‘Every day I am saddled with more responsibilities. You know I have laid siege to Sidon.’

  Guy shook his head. Isabella thought, he looks ready to fall. What is he doing here?

  ‘No? Well, I have. And when that city surrenders, it will bring even more work. I’m sure the crown of Jerusalem could not carry a greater burden than these city governorships. Though your case is somewhat different. You have Amalric and Joscelin.’

  ‘Joscelin is dead. You must have heard.’

  ‘Perhaps I did. Where is the army now?’

  ‘You know full well, Marquis. You have the spies.’

  ‘Regent. I’m the Regent now.’

  ‘And I’m the king, though you haven’t said it yet.’

  Conrad laughed. ‘I simply cannot accept it. Is the army at Jaffa yet?’

  ‘It is. You know it is. So you may as well also know that I have come to fetch you there.’

  Conrad renewed the laugh. ‘Really, you should have composed a letter. You would have saved yourself an arduous journey. Go to Jaffa? Oh, no, not this month.’

  While they spoke, Guy felt the skin of his face tighten with excitement and anticipation. The blood throbbed in his temples. He was tired and hungry, weakened still further by the memory of his disgrace at Acre. Yet he knew that if he did not act now, he would never again fmd the courage. If it was courage. Perhaps not. Perhaps he no longer cared what happened to him; perhaps he had stumbled beyond fear, passing courage unnoticed on the way.

  He heard himself say, ‘You will come with me. As your king, I command it. If you refuse, it will be an act of treason, and I shall kill you in this room. I shall do it, Montferrat. Rely on me.’

  At the beginning, his words had been wreathed with Conrad’s laughter, but now the long, cadaverous face was pale with anger, and the Regent was already coming out of his chair. Isabella stared. Her own blood raced and she instinctively slid her hands below the table, locking her fingers in a protective web across her stomach. She said, ‘No,’ then louder, ‘No! Keep your places!’

  Guy drew his sword. He saw the line of chairs, saw where there,was space to fight, saw Conrad unsheath a longer, heavier weapon and move from behind the table. Losing the struggle with his own voice, Guy called, ‘One last time. Obey your king and rejoin the army!’

  ‘In Hell, you damn’ river-reed!’

  ‘Then look to yourself—’

  ‘I always did—’

  ‘traitor!’

  ‘I always did.’

  He’ll kill him. Without question. It’s what he wants. Ah, God, how he has played into his hands. They must be stopped. The disgrace, no matter, it keeps him alive.

  She caught Guy’s eye.
He looked away and the chamber echoed with the clang of metal. Conrad had struck first, forcing Guy to grip his sword with both hands, or risk having it knocked from his grasp. Isabella ran from the table, moving wide of the men, her hands still clasped in protection. Then she put her head back and screamed for the guards to come and save – her husband.

  For an instant both men hesitated. Then Conrad swore vilely and drove Guy backwards across the mosaic floor. The doors burst open and what seemed like a waiting army plunged into the chamber. Guy’s sword was knocked aside and someone swung a quarterstaff against his legs. He went down heavily, sliding across the tiles. Soldiers formed a fence between him and Conrad, while the Regent kept up a demoniacal flow ‘…diseased imitation! You stinking, wet-legged catamite … come up here and spew your orders at me… Get up before you stain the floor!’

  The guards hustled Guy out. Conrad stood, his mouth wide, his lank hair in disarray. After a long while he brought his lips together, and his narrow shoulders drooped as he sheathed his sword. Then he started across the room to where Isabella stood. She waited, her head up, her hands locked in place.

  Loud and toneless, he asked, ‘Do you know what you have done?’

  ‘I have saved you from murder. I have saved you from killing a king.’

  ‘No, you have kept me from the throne. Did you think he would have bested me?’

  ‘Never, my lord. You are much too good with that spike.’

  ‘Yet you told them to save me. Me!’

  ‘Yes, and we both know why. Would they have run to save King Guy? I do not think they would have even opened the door.’

  ‘I should have dealt with you – long ago.’

  ‘Be patient,’ she said. ‘Wait until you get your throne. Then reward me.’

  * * *

  They had no choice but to let him go. They refused him food and water and snapped his sword before returning the handle to him. His legs ached where the quarterstaff had caught him and he stopped at the far end of the causeway to massage them. The guards in the watchtower had not yet heard about the fight, so he was able to exchange his useless but valuable sword for a loaf of bread and a bladder of water. Captain Landry stared at the bejewelled pommel. He wanted to ask why the king did not simply ride back to Tyre and demand food, and he wanted to ask how the sword had been broken. It seemed that each time he saw King Guy, his mind filled up with questions.

  A week later, Guy reached the orchard camp at Jaffa. He avoided his brother, and made contact first with King Richard. He gave his overlord a full account of his humiliation at Acre – the gist of which Richard had already heard – and of the abortive duel in the palace at Tyre.

  The two kings sat morose and thoughtful for a while. Then Richard said, ‘You know this ends your chances here. No one will follow you now.’

  ‘When we buried James d’Avennes, do you remember, you said I might have Cyprus?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I will accept that now. As you say, I am finished here.’

  ‘Well, I fear it’s no longer that simple. There were some disturbances on the island—’

  ‘It’s a fresh challenge.’

  ‘so I sold it.’

  ‘You sold it? You sold Cyprus?’

  ‘To the Knights of the Temple. Of course, if you could raise enough money, we could always buy it back.’

  ‘If I could raise the money? Why not give them back what they paid you for it?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘I don’t want the place. You do.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Coast

  November, December 1191

  Humphrey shook his head, spraying water from the rim of his helmet. The rain swept eastward along the narrow valley, a scourge to the three horsemen. The valley floor was already flooded, so they rode off balance, following the lower contours of the hills.

  For the last hour they had travelled in single file, Humphrey in the lead, followed by Squire Ernoul and the French champion, William des Barres. Now Ernoul turned in his saddle to see if they were being trailed by a Moslem patrol.

  ‘Over there,’ William nodded. ‘They have been with us most of the way.’

  ‘Why didn’t you announce it?’

  ‘To what end? They number forty or more. Watch where that long mound dips – there, you see?’

  ‘Do you think they know who we are?’

  ‘Yes, and why we’re here. They make better spies than the Greeks.’

  Ernoul nodded, and resettled himself in the wet saddle.

  The lower edge of the hill grew less steep, enabling the horsemen to ride abreast. They went in silence for a while; the rain trickled from their helmets and the skirts of their hauberks, while their surcoats took on the imprints of the metal links. Then Humphrey murmured, ‘I wonder if he will be as I remember him?’ There was a further silence as his companions waited for him to elaborate. When he did not, William grunted, ‘Who?’

  ‘Sultan Saladin. I can see him in my head, as clear as clear.’

  The French champion leaned aside to spit water, then asked, ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘After the battle of Hattin. I was taken prisoner, and I interpreted for him when he questioned our captive leaders.’

  ‘Is that why Richard chose you for this?’

  Ernoul interposed, ‘Lord Humphrey’s the best linguist in the army.’

  ‘One of the few,’ Humphrey added. ‘It’s a pity that we are so wilfully ignorant of their language. We might have talked our way to a settlement.’

  ‘It’s not so one-sided,’ William said. ‘The Moslem leaders have never mastered our tongue.’

  ‘They don’t need to; they’ve mastered the country.’

  Conversation lapsed again. At one point Ernoul observed, ‘They’re closing up with us.’ A few moments later Humphrey said, ‘I recognize this part. Lydda is beyond the next rise.’ They went on, hunched forward in the rain, while the Moslem patrol formed a crescent around them.

  * * *

  Like Richard of England, Sultan Saladin preferred to live under the same conditions as his troops. So, although the small town of Lydda contained a variety of houses suitable for his accommodation, he ignored them in favour of his domed pavilion. It was still raining as the three Crusaders were disarmed and escorted through the sprawling camp. There was no orchard here, just row beyond row of small, skin-covered tents and fenced enclosures that held the light Arab horses. The Sultan’s pavilion was set in the centre of the camp, and ringed by the yellow tents of his Mamluke bodyguard. Ernoul looked about him in terrified fascination. When he wrote his book about life in Palestine, he would leave room for a description of his meeting with Sultan Saladin. If he survived long enough to put pen to paper. If he survived the meeting.

  They reached an open area in front of the pavilion and dismounted. While the leader of the escort ducked under the dripping canopy, Humphrey unstrapped a satchel, held it to his body, then smiled encouragement at his companions. ‘Well,’ he essayed, ‘we’re the first to see their camp.’

  William des Barres shook himself like a dog, removed his cloak and wrung the water from it. Ernoul mimicked him, then smoothed the creased cloak against his chest. A moment later, the Saracen reappeared and gestured to them to enter the pavilion.

  ‘God be with us,’ Humphrey murmured. William crossed himself and Ernoul embellished, ‘Sweet God be with us and protect us, His dutiful servants.’

  Inside the pavilion the air was scented, the floor bright with carpets laid over close-fitting boards. An octagonal mosaic table stood in the centre of the braced dome. The table was encircled by a low wall of cushions and behind the wall tasselled curtains were drawn back to reveal a short passageway, leading through to a second cone. Six yellow-robed Mamlukes were stationed around the walls. The leader of the escort guarded the outer entrance.

  While the Crusaders waited for Saladin to appear, Ernoul reminded himself that he stood in a different world, a world deeply rooted in tradition and custom. He
knew that, among Moslems, one did not touch food or drink with the left hand, nor sit with the soles of one’s boots facing the host. He did not think there would be any Arab women present today, but if they did appear, they were to be ignored, unless the Sultan decreed otherwise. Relaxing slightly, the young squire acknowledged that Humphrey of Toron was as well versed in Moslem etiquette as any Frank. If the meeting foundered, it would not be because of some ignorant slight.

  The rain drummed against the pavilion, or washed across it on gusts of wind. The Saracen who had led them inside glanced up at the dome and muttered, ‘The camp will be afloat if this continues.’

  Humphrey responded, ‘Jaffa lies as low as here. We may all float out to sea.’

  The Saracen jerked round, an expression of admiration on his face. Ernoul glanced at William, as if to say, ‘I told you he was the best in the army.’

  They saw movement at the far end of the passageway. Saladin entered, preceded by two Nubian servants and followed by a bony, hawk-faced man, an inch or so taller than the Sultan. One of the servants carried a tray of stemless glasses, the other a flask of lemon, sweetened with cane sugar. They edged through a gap in the cushion wall, set the tray and flask on the mosaic table, then withdrew in silence. Saladin tipped his head politely towards the second man and introduced his brother, Emir Saphadin. Humphrey removed his helmet. William and Ernoul followed his lead. Saladin blinked acknowledgment while Saphadin concentrated his attention on the French champion.

  Then the Sultan said, ‘Your God has been good to you, Lord Humphrey. You have not aged. It is four years and four months since Hattin, and I hear that you have suffered a sad, personal loss.’ He held up a hand. ‘Forgive me for speaking of it, but you should know that I know.’