"If you had objections to the choice of Guy, then you should have voiced them in the council that elected him," Amnet countered.
"Voice them I did, as did many others, and—"
"And you were overruled, as I remember it. To repeat your arguments now, with the crown upon Guy's brow, would be a foolish waste of breath."
As he spoke, Amnet felt the stony presence of Gerard behind him. He could track his master's bulk there by the shifting of Roger's eyes.
"What say you, Gerard?" the Hospitaller demanded.
"Sir Thomas speaks truly. Guy is king this day."
"Damnation!"
"Do you blaspheme, sir?" Amnet demanded.
"This is no church! The coronation cannot be valid!"
"The crown on Guy's head is smeared with holy oil in the bishop's own finger marks," Amnet said. "It is done."
Roger's thick hands were clasped around the key of his office, worn on a chain about his neck. In a fury, he twisted it and pulled down. The links, heavy gold and brazed solid, did not part. When pulling foiled, he lifted the chain up, around his chin, and over his head.
"Devil take all Templars!" he thundered and threw the key through the nearest arrow loop. The chain, flagging behind it, jingled against the side of the embrasure. The Hospitaller's badge of office made a distant jangling as it fell on the cobbles below.
Out in the courtyard, Amnet could see heads moving among the uniformly conical helmets of the waiting Hospitallers. These other heads were bare, but the shoulders below them were garbed in richer, brighter stuff than the Hospitaller's white wool surcoats with plain red crosses. The barons of Christendom had evidently heard about the coronation, too.
Amnet turned to Gerard. "Best we withdraw, My Lord."
The Master of the Temple nodded and stepped back to one of the doors into the refectory. He seized its iron ring and threw himself back to start it open. The massive door swung out the width of three hands, and the two Templars slipped through, followed quickly by Ebert the steward. Amnet caught the door as it moved too wide, reversed the swing, and brought it closed again.
Amnet grasped the inside ring and held the door closed by leaning his weight backward into the hall.
Thunk!
"Open!"
Thunk! Bang!
"Open in the name of Christ!"
Gerard rallied the other Templars inside, who hung on the handles with Amnet and finally brought down a bar to block the doors.
Outside, the barons of Christendom beat on the panels in protest. The sound of marching feet struck a counterpoint as Roger led his Hospitallers out of the palace.
* * *
"Now, by Saint Balder, we shall greet our new-crowned King this day," Gerard de Ridefort muttered to Thomas Amnet as they strode up the hall. They were still moving behind the backs of their assembled knights, leaving the center of the space properly clear for ceremony.
"Balder was not one of the saints, My Lord," Amnet whispered.
Gerard stopped, surprised. "He wasn't?"
"Not at all. Balder was an old god of the North, the favored son of Odin and Frigg. His brother, Hoder, killed him by Loki's plotting; he plunged a sprig of holly through Balder's heart. And that was the beginning of Loki's damnation, or so the legends say."
"Oh. Well. Balder feels like a saint to me," Gerard said heavily and continued walking.
When they had reached their places at the head of the assembly, they turned face front. Amnet signed with a finger to Ebert, who signaled the trumpeters in the minstrels' gallery.
They sounded a flourish of brass, and the procession of the King came in through the passageway that led to the kitchens.
The purple looked good on Guy de Lusignan. The cloak of lightly quilted silk masked the thickness of his shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch that pushed out above and below his gold-linked sword belt. The weight of the crown pressed upon Guy's brow, however, wrinkling the skin of his forehead and giving him a quizzical look. The jut of his jaw, required to balance his head against the pull of the golden circlet, made him seem pugnacious beyond even his reputation.
Gregory, the Bishop of Jerusalem, tottered behind him. The old man kept one hand wrapped in the ermine of Guy's cloak to maintain his balance. Gregory was rumored to be nearly blind, although now and then he opened his misted eyes wide and stared around, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time after a light nap. Blind he might be, but he still had a way of looking directly at and through a person when he spoke.
Reynald de Chatillon waited below the raised end of the hall, one hand out in front of him, the other to his side, guiding the fall of his cloak as he bowed low before his sovereign. The Templars took their cue from him and bowed also.
For a long moment, every head in the room—except Guy's and Gregory's—was turned to the floor. Amnet had to twist his nose to the side and scan the ranks with his eyes for any signal that it might be acceptable to raise his head again. After a fluttering pause, the room returned to upright.
The one person missing from this display of power was Sibylla, eldest daughter to King Amalric and now Guy's wife. Technically, she was the Queen of Jerusalem and held power in her own right.
The council of barons, however—in which the orders of Temple and Hospital were richly represented—had decreed that the military situation was too precarious at the moment and for the foreseeable future to permit a woman to have more than titular authority. And so it was decided that the man Sibylla chose to take after the death of her husband, William of Monferrat, would be elected to wear the crown of a king instead of that appropriate to a mere consort.
Reynald de Chatillon had sought that honor himself, reaching for the bony hand of Sibylla and bending it to his wickedly curling lips. That Guy de Lusignan had snatched her affections for himself was a matter of jocular competition between the two princes. Only the Lord Jesus and Thomas Amnet knew how much the steel swords and golden coffers of the Templars had influenced the lady's decision—and the council's after her.
In a rambling speech, Bishop Gregory commended King Guy to God, to the Christian citizens of Jerusalem, to the Kings of England and France, to the Holy Roman Emperors, and to the Emperor at Byzantium. When he was done, Prince Reynald of Antioch stepped forward and placed his hands between Guy's, sealing the pact between them.
One by one, the Templars came forward and pledged their fealty and their swords to the service of Christ and King Guy.
As they returned to their places in the line, Gerard turned to Amnet and spoke softly, from the side of his mouth. "What does your Stone foresee now, Thomas?"
"The Stone is dark to me this day, My Lord."
"Do you riddle me, sirrah?"
"It shows me no face that I have ever seen in flesh. It is an evil face, with dark skin and piercing eyes, that stares back from the vapors and challenges me. It lets no other sign come through."
"Do you commune with the Devil, then?"
"The Stone always follows its own purposes. I do not always understand them."
Gerard grunted. "Best you clear the Stone, before we attempt to counsel King Guy."
It was on Thomas Amnet's lips to protest Gerard's giving an order in matters where he was hardly a neophyte. But then he remembered that this was the Grand Master, and the Stone and Amnet were indeed his command.
"Yes, My Lord."
* * *
The jakes of the Palace of Jerusalem were dug beneath the curtain wall within the outer bailey. The site was still within the palace precincts but, as the main gate was left open except in time of siege, the area admitted any who might walk in from the streets of the city.
Belching and reeling from half a dozen beakers of strong beer, Sir Beauvoir found his way from the refectory, where the tables had been unpiled and laid with the coronation feast. The call of nature was upon him, and his squire—a dainty boy of good French breeding—had reminded him that pissing on the footing stones in th
e back hallways was frowned upon, especially if that long-nosed seneschal, Ebert, found him doing it.
Beauvoir moved from the tallow-lit corridors into the dew-moistened shadows of the bailey. The moment his boots touched the loosely raked soil of the compound, he lifted aside his skirt of light mail and began fiddling with the strings that held his breeches closed. Such was his need that one stone under the moonlight was as good as another.
As he was relieving himself with a long sigh, one of the shadows moved away from the wall and came toward him. As Beauvoir's hands were otherwise occupied, he moved only his head to see who it might be that came.
"May I show thee a wonder, O Christian Lord?" The voice was singsong, lilting and mocking.
"What is it, knave?" Beauvoir growled.
"A relic, Lord, cut from the hem of Joseph's coat. It was found in Egypt after the passage of many centuries, and yet its colors are still bright."
The hands held something vague in the moonlight.
"Hold it higher, that I may see."
The hands moved up, around, and over Beauvoir's head before his fuzzy senses could recover. A stone, knotted into the fabric, caught him in the throat and crushed his larynx before he could cry for help. His hands left their task at his groin, but already they were too late. The last thing he saw, before the shadows closed in forever, were the burning eyes of the relic-seller, inverted over him and staring into his own.
* * *
The wines from the valley of the Jordan were sour and resinous, tasting of the desert and the thorn.
Thomas Amnet rolled a sip across his tongue, searching for some hint of the sweetness and the woody, throat-filling flavor which he could remember from France. This wine tasted like medicine. Amnet forced the mouthful down.
The other Templars were not so particular. The coronation feast had reached that stage of jollity at which good Christian knights would lie on their backs and pour beakers of wine and beer across their tongues and down their gullets. At that point, taste hardly mattered.
Amnet looked across the table at the Saracen princes who had reluctantly joined the celebration—if only out of their sense of duty as guests in the palace. They did not drink, except clear water which their servants poured from saddle flasks. Thomas knew that strong drink was forbidden by their religion, and that was more than some of the Templars would bother to learn.
Sigyreth of Niebull was one such who would never trouble to know the customs of men he meant to kill. Now forced to break bread and tear meat with the Children of Shem, he took the princes' abstention as a sign of treachery.
"You don't drink?" Sigyreth growled, levering himself up from the table by his elbow.
The nearest Saracen, speaking no Norse, smiled nervously and hid it behind a square of damask which he had used occasionally to clean his mouth.
"Don't you sneer at me, dog!"
Two other Templars, seeing the object of his wrath, also roused themselves.
"They do not drink because the wine is suspect. See! They even bring their own water."
Amnet, who had seen the palace cisterns after a troop of guards had watered their horses, would himself rather drink the wine. But others along the table were taking notice of the Saracens' drinking habits.
"Perhaps they have poisoned us?"
"Poison! That's it!"
"The Saracens have poisoned the wine!"
"The dogs have poisoned our wells!"
Watching the princes, Amnet saw how the meaning of this clamor penetrated even their polite smiles.
"Nay! Hold!" he shouted, rising from his place. "Their Prophet forbids them touch wine, as sternly does our Lord Christ forbid fornication. They drink a scented water, more pleasing to their palates. That is all."
The fuddled knights bit their lips and looked doubtfully at him. Some, he knew, would like any excuse to butcher the Saracens where they sat. And, some, too, would include Thomas Amnet in the slaughter.
"You know their ways, Thomas," one Sir Bror admitted finally. "Not that it does you credit."
Amnet bowed to him with a cold smile and resumed his seat. The other Templars reached for their goblets and jugs.
One of the Saracens met his eyes in a direct stare. "Merci, seigneur," he said distinctly.
Amnet nodded, returning the man's look.
"I have heard of this prophet," a cold, clear voice called down from the head of the table.
All around Thomas, hands and eyes paused, like young mice caught in the shadow of the hawk.
"From the stories I have heard, this Mohammed was a camel driver and a tramp—nothing more." The voice was Reynald de Chatillon's.
The knights along the table fidgeted. At the head of the hall, Gerard de Ridefort laid a hand on Reynald's arm, but the latter shook it off.
"Of course, he had visions. And he wrote a bad sort of poetry. And why not? He was drunk most of the time."
The Saracen princes narrowed their eyes, and Amnet was sure they understood these slurs. The guest bond, however, held them to silence.
"The man was nothing—until, of course, he married a rich whore and could afford to indulge his taste for license and—what was your word, Thomas?—fornication?"
The Saracens eyed Amnet now, as if suddenly suspecting him of baiting this trap for them.
"My Lord," Reynald's cold voice continued, directed now at King Guy, "if you would be rid of the taint of this camel driver's corpse in this Holy Land, I will myself lead an expedition into Arabia, dig up his bones, and scatter them on the sands for airing out. And give that—" he flipped his fingers under his own chin"—for the might of Saracen arms."
Amnet's gaze never left the princes across from him at the table. Their eyes were now narrowed down to slits, and white teeth gleamed between the fringes of mustache and beard that framed their skinned lips.
"Who among the Order of the Temple will join me in this bold venture?" Reynald shouted.
A roar of mixed voices, Northman and French, rose to greet his challenge.
The Saracens were at the boiling point, as Reynald de Chatillon had intended.
"Faugh! Fie on all Christians!" one of them shouted and, as a man, they rose from the table, overturning goblets of red wine and platters of gravy. Some of the mess fell upon the stained tunics and straggled heads of the knights at either side.
"Is this how the French lords treat a guest in their tents?" a second demanded, directing his question at Amnet.
All Thomas could do was shake his head, eyes level and chin depressed.
The Saracens gathered their robes about their knees and stepped over the benches. As they made their way to the doors at the end of the hall, two Templars sought to block them. Faster than the French could retreat, two slender blades of Damascus steel appeared at their throats. Saracens and Templars pivoted around the points of the blades, a movement that put the former closer to the door. No others tried to prohibit their exit after that.
The princes had all but left the hall when one paused with a hand on the door ring.
"We know this Reynald," the man declaimed. "He calls himself Prince of Antioch. The Prophet shall be avenged on him."
As he left, he pulled the door to, so that its closing rang throughout the hall.
Not a sound entered the silence that followed its echo. And then Reynald de Chatillon's laughter broke out: high, clear, and ringing.
Guy, who had watched the baiting of the Saracen lords and their exit with a troubled frown, relaxed and joined Reynald. His laughter was deeper and somehow surprising in its richness. Taking their cue, the Templars also laughed—honking, barking, choking, gasping.
Only Amnet held his peace. From the veil of smoke beneath the rafters he suddenly caught a wisp of vision: the dark face, the black wings of mustache, the burning eyes, seeking out Thomas Amnet among all men.
* * *
"I grant you much leeway, Thomas, because of your special powers," Gerard de Ridefort ru
mbled from the depths of his chair the next morning. "Do not force me to exert my temporal and spiritual authority over you."
"I meant no disrespect, Master. But you cannot count the damage that Reynald has done to our position in Outremer."
"And can you so count it?"
"Reynald was calculatedly rude to King Guy's guests. The rites of hospitality run deep in these people. To have invited those Saracens lordlings to the palace and then to insult their religion so profoundly—that is the act of a madman."
"Thomas, this morning I am a man with a splitting head and a sour gut. You goad me—and to no purpose. There is nothing I can do for you. Guy will not even speak a harsh word to Reynald."
"Because he is afraid of the man."
"For whatever reason. The Prince of Antioch is a proud and violent man. You and I dare not offend him. King Guy will not... Now, what would you have me to do?"
"Prepare yourself. Prepare the Order."
"Does the Stone tell you this?"
"No—not directly."
"Prepare how?"
"For war."
* * *
File 03
Chrysalis Phase
Remember her.
She is forgetting.
The earth which filled her mouth
Is vanishing from her.
Remember me.
I have forgotten you.
I am going into the darkness of the darkness for ever.
I have forgotten that I was ever born.
—Dylan Thomas
* * *
The Holiday Hulls registration system had advertised the room in Atlantic City as a "suite" and charged Tom and Sandy extra on the prebilling to enjoy the distinction. In terms of layout, however, that meant the sanitizer—instead of a fold-down unit next to the bed—had a closed space of its own, which it shared with a shin-deep bubbatub. The tub was actually big enough for two, if they sat hip to ankle and folded up their knees. The room was an inside with no window, but the holo unit did offer a selection of views, including Taj Mahal, Matterhorn, and Anonymous Atlantic Beaches, circa 1960. At least those had no smell.
The Mask of Loki Page 9
