by Jean Gill
In the mean-time, he actually had rather more than one solidus to his name. The ‘very rich friends’ were no idle boast. Dragonetz was starting to lose track of the gifts reaching him, not ‘bribes’ of course. Perish the thought. In all courtesy, he could not refuse the gifts of his superiors, and still they arrived.
Bar Philipos had played the generous host throughout Dragonetz’ captivity and he knew that if he tried to tell Mélisende that he’d been kidnapped and held against his will, it would be difficult to explain the freedom or the largesse that had provided the Damascene sword at his hip. Another sticky thread in which he’d been tangled, Dragonetz realised bitterly. There was no accusation he could make against the Syrian that would not make him seem foolish or worse. So he accepted the coffers, full of jewels, brocades and best Damascene daggers, which arrived in his Hospital lodging, ‘to remind him of the good people of Damascus.’ So went the bid from Bar Philipos and the other merchants of that city.
Then there was the casket from de Puy, full of coins, ‘for your daily needs while you are our guest’, balanced by the case from the Templar Grand Master, containing the jawbone of St Roch, and accompanied by a promissary note to be drawn on the Templar bank, and naming a sum that made Dragonetz blench, so large was it. St Roch was no accidental choice and Dragonetz smiled, remembering that the Occitan-born saint had been born with a miraculous red cross birthmarked on his chest.
Latest offerings were more coffers, two from Baudouin and - again a pleasing symmetry - two from Baudouin’s mother. ‘To make your stay in our kingdom more agreeable,’ was the first message; ‘May you take Jerusalem to your heart as we do’ was the second. Never had Dragonetz been so cherished a guest to so many hosts, at the same time. Never had he felt the distinction between ‘guest’ and ‘prisoner’ so fine, not even when he was in Bar Philipos’ house.
Sticky threads indeed and he must test his footing every step of the way if he were to stay alive. Let one rich, powerful friend believe he had chosen one of the others, and he would suddenly find himself unpopular to all but the chosen one. Unpopular could well mean his name whispered with a password to a beggar on a street corner, a stranger with a cord or a knife on a dark night.
Bar Philipos, of course, knew he only had to wait. He would be wanting his money’s worth, short term; Dragonetz arguing for Damascan independence, and the book buying it. Bar Philipos was too afraid of the curse to take the book himself but if he ever realised he couldn’t manipulate Dragonetz, who knew what he would risk, for Damascus. The irony was that Dragonetz did support Damascan independence, did love that city and its people. If Bar Philipos had left him free, never bound him with the poppy, Dragonetz would have been an even stronger ally for the city.
A thought struck him. ‘When did you last intercept a poppy drink?’
‘In the house, before we left for the camels, Effendi.’
‘And how often were they being given?’
‘Every week, Effendi, but I can’t tell what the dose was. I only know what I give you and I try to keep it low.’
‘You do well, Muganni. I couldn’t manage without you.’ The boy beamed. ‘Bar Philipos thinks I’ve had no poppy for over a week. He won’t know for sure how soon I will react to lack of the poison. So in a week, maybe two, he will expect to see me ill, or he will know I have found the poppy elsewhere. Maybe we can pretend an illness, keep him guessing.’
‘Maybe, Effendi.’ Muganni looked doubtful but said nothing, his eyes large with pity.
‘Speak,’ Dragonetz ordered.
‘Feigning illness is easy. But if you recover, he will know you have found the poppy.’
‘If I stay out of view for a few days?’
‘No, Effendi. A man does not recover in a few days. Nor does he look well when he recovers.’
Dragonetz was on the verge of asking how long. Of asking how ‘not well’ But however horrifying the answer, he must go through the experience in the future, after the endgame. He could not afford the time, nor the illness, before he had delivered the book.
‘The Queen of Jerusalem expects me,’ he said shortly, and the subject was closed.
Chapter 17
The private chamber in which Mélisende received Dragonetz and Bar Philipos had thick walls, one solid door and no windows. Muganni earned a scowl from the Syrian as he took up his place outside the door, beside the other servants, shut firmly out. Manassés was at the Queen’s side and drew up stools upholstered in tapestry for them to sit on. Dragonetz had to force himself to treat someone’s art in such a crude manner.
He was acutely aware of the hawks and horses, deer and knights, peeking out from the others’ rear ends. The desire to giggle welled up and he reminded himself of the effects of hash and the need for self-control. He sobered up listening to Bar Philipos give the same analysis of Damascus, almost word for word, as he had given to Baudouin that morning. In a word, trade not war, while there was still time. Obviously, the Syrian didn’t mention his close ties with Nur ad-Din, nor that he was keeping his options open with both the potential future overlords of Damascus.
‘Dragonetz?’ The Queen turned her sharp blue gaze on him.
He could only reinforce what Bar Philipos had said, adding the detail of what he’d observed in the city; its defensive strength was unchanged - and he should know! - but Mujir ad-Din was too weak to hold the city together and was likely to fall from power sooner rather than later, to his own military commander, or to Nur ad-Din. To Jerusalem? Dragonetz explained once more why the people of Damascus would rather have Nur ad-Din if that was the choice they were given, and Bar Philipos nodded his satisfaction, like a tutor at his star pupil’s first performance in public.
‘The book, Lord Dragonetz,’ he urged, explaining to the Queen, ‘I have told you of the book that has come into Lord Dragonetz’ possession. The Keter Aram Sola, an ancient Torah, a priceless treasure. A connoisseur such as yourself cannot look on it without awe. I have told my Lord that the proper place for such an art treasure is in your Grace’s collection, and that you could not but appreciate the role of Damascus in bringing you this, and other such treasures in the future.’
Inwardly, Dragonetz cringed, but this was the game. He had to play along, as far as he could, for the time he needed. Reaching into his robe, he pulled out the pouch, extricated the oilskin parcel and unwrapped the book. He placed the Torah carefully on another tapestry stool, open, facing the Queen, and this time he felt no compunction at hiding the cross-stitched huntsmen. He could not help remembering Nur ad-Din’s reverence on seeing the book. Mélisende’s expression was more like a child with a platter of sweetmeats, wanting it, and definitely not wanting to share. She ran a long, tapered finger delicately over the annotations in the margin. ‘By Aaron Ben Asher, you say, some great Jewish religious?’
‘So I was told, your Grace,’ Dragonetz said. ‘And the book is a holy object to the Jewish community. It is their bible and the notes are unique. They tell them the music of how the Torah should be read.’
‘As does my psalter, Lord Dragonetz. I understand.’ He could see she didn’t understand at all and the frustration welled up. This was more than a pretty, valuable book! ‘Your Grace,’ he attempted, ‘this bible belongs to the Jewish community. It must be returned to them.’ He was making no mention of missions and dyeworks, neither in front of Bar Philipos, nor if he saw the Queen alone. Cupidity and power were a dangerous combination.
She gave him one of her disarming smiles. Or at least a smile that was intended to be disarming and might have worked on a younger Dragonetz. ‘You can trust me to look to the interest of my Jewish citizens. Thanks to me, the Jews have the monopoly on dyeworks in Jerusalem, and for a piffling annual rent.
They have their living quarters and the right to follow their own misguided faith. In offering the book to me, Lord Dragonetz, you ensure that all the Jews who visit my city, not just those who live here, will see this treasure - for, you may trust me; I shall make it available to pu
blic view.
I want all my citizens to see this book and what better place than the Cathedral.’ Her eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘The renovations should be finished this year and what better way to draw people into God’s house, people of all faiths, than to show the Torah beside the Psalter, and our holy relics. This book is too precious for private ownership. It should be a state possession.’ Her voice dripped honey, her face was open and guileless.
Dragonetz let his expression show how deeply he was struck by these new ideas. Never trust someone who tells you she can be trusted, and tells you twice. Sticky sticky threads. In his imagination, Dragonetz cut through them. State possessions belonged to the Queen. So much for ‘no private ownership’. Ping! A thread cut.
Public view could be once in twenty years. Ping! Another thread cut. Piffling annual rent did not describe the sum Muganni had quoted to his master as what the Jews paid for their monopoly. Ping! A third thread.
And Jewish rights were far outnumbered by constraints on Jews. There were reasons why Jewish families were moving to Egypt. Ping! Dragonetz was free.
His smile was every bit as disingenuous as the Queen’s. ‘This indeed gives me much to think about and I’m sure will be welcome news to the Jewish community, as it will save them a large sum of money.’ That shook Bar Philipos and made Dragonetz’ smile genuine. ‘And it will gain them the Torah, to all intents and purposes. What is Jerusalem’s is theirs.’
‘Quite so,’ smiled Mélisende, ‘so, not to be too indelicate, shall we discuss what I can offer you in return for what is, of course, priceless.’
‘Not yet,’ smiled back Dragonetz, ‘for I need a little time first to share with the Jewish community this wonderful news, so that they fully appreciate all your Grace is giving them.’
The Queen’s smile faltered. Perhaps Dragonetz should have avoided the word ‘share’. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Dragonetz. ‘Trust me.’
‘Of course,’ said the Queen. ‘We will discuss this again, then, soon.’
‘Of course,’ said Dragonetz, carefully removing the book from under Mélisende’s last caress, and returning it to the safety of his pouch, beneath his robe and out of sight.
Mélisende sighed. Then she said briskly. ‘I have other matters to discuss with Dragonetz, privately.’ Bar Philipos immediately stood to leave and bowed farewell. Manassés looked a question at his queen. ‘Yes, yes, you too,’ she told him impatiently. ‘This is private, family business.’ If she’d slapped him in the face, the expression would have been the same and Manassés quit the room in an evident temper, half-shouldering Bar Philipos out the way.
‘Young men,’ Mélisende apologised with a shrug as the door slammed. Then she smiled. Dragonetz hid a sigh. Just when he’d thought the battle of the smiles was over... ‘It is about a young man that I wish to talk to you. I have to be frank with you or I can’t ask you what I need to. I love my son very much but he’s overstepping the mark, becoming a threat to the throne instead of biding his time till he can sit on it.’
‘Your Grace,’ Dragonetz ventured cautiously, ‘he is one and twenty. It is the custom for a man to take on a man’s role before such an age.’
‘He can be a man,’ flashed Mélisende, ‘but he is not ready to be king! And I have no intention of giving up my kingdom into the hands of a callow youth. Do you really believe him more capable of ruling than I am? Because he is male?!’
Dragonetz decided it was safest to take the question as rhetorical. ‘Your Grace, at what age do you think he will be ready to rule?’
‘When he can best me in strategy. When he can defeat me in battle. When he can force me to give up the kingdom to him. Until then, he is too weak to rule! My father, Baudouin’s grandfather, was willing to let his five-year-old daughter, my youngest sister, be raped by her Infidel guards rather than give his cities over to crazed ransom demands. That is the kind of decision a ruler has to make. Baudouin hasn’t made one difficult choice in his whole life.’
‘What is it you want of me?’ Dragonetz asked quietly, thinking that Baudouin was currently choosing between his mother and his kingdom.
‘The pace is stepping up between my son and me. I want you on my side, Dragonetz. Jerusalem’s army is mine, not Baudouin’s. I want you to lead it, not my son. He can look after his regency in Antioch and play soldiers there if he wants. You will lead my army and the militia of the two orders will defer to you, riding to arms where you say they must, training as you say they must.’
‘Your Grace, neither the Hospitalers nor the Templars will defer to any other than the Grand Master.’
‘But the Grand Master will defer to coffers and castles.’ She smiled triumphantly. ‘You know what I say is true, Dragonetz. The purse-strings will hold the Masters close to me, as will their own best interests. Our armies must unite. Nur ad-Din gets ever stronger and we mustn’t forget those cursed Seljuqs. The two orders will fight alongside us, without question, and if you are my chosen leader, they will accept that, and you.’
‘The Constable?’ he queried.
‘Manassés won’t like it,’ she assented. ‘He leads my private armies and I will have to limit his military role. But he is not the commander that you are, and the people are turning against him.’ Dragonetz had a shrewd idea as to why the people were turning against him.
She clasped his hands and gazed earnestly into his eyes, beseeching. ‘Please, Dragonetz. I offer you a proper place in this kingdom, worthy of you. I offer you a title, lands.’ She hesitated, then, still clasping his hands, she continued, ‘The Kingdom of Tripoli.’
Truly shocked, Dragonetz said, ‘As far as I know, Raymond Toulouse of Tripoli is in good health.’
‘That need not continue. There are many diseases in this land, many ailments of the stomach that sadly cause death. Raymond of Tripoli deserves a dog’s death for what he has done to my sister. Should such a death happen, no-one would mourn him. And I understand you have no love for the Toulouse family, to which he belongs.’
‘That is past history, your Grace, in another country.’
‘But still.’
‘It would be a strange coincidence if a Toulouse of Tripoli died in the same manner as his relative, Alphonse Jourdain?’ Dragonetz remembered only too well the rumours when Jourdain had died, poisoned, a Toulouse with a better claim to Tripoli than the illegitimate Raymond. The fifteen-year-old Comte de Toulouse had believed it to be Aliénor and Dragonetz who’d killed his father.
Dragonetz had even wondered himself whether it was Aliénor’s doing, in her hatred of Toulouse. Others claimed that Raymond of Tripoli had protected his claim to the state by murdering his relative. Yet others claimed that Mélisende had ordered the murder. Dragonetz chose his words very carefully, wondering exactly what he was being told. ‘People might talk about such a coincidence.’
The Queen released Dragonetz’ hands, dismissing people’s talk with an airy wave. She’d certainly been subject to enough of it during her reign and survived. ‘Let them talk. If Raymond were to die of some stomach malady, then people would say someone took revenge for his murder of Jourdain. Or that he had fallen out with his ex-ally Nur ad-Din, and everyone knows heathen methods of resolving dispute. Nur ad-Din’s father died the same way. All would be neat and easily understood.
Yes,’ she mused, ‘I like the idea that Nur ad-Din would be blamed. Should Raymond die, his widow would need a man I trusted as husband, someone who could hold Tripoli, but who could also restore her spirits. You are such a man. Do we understand each other?’
‘We do.’
‘And your answer is?’
‘I will give it serious thought,’ responded Dragonetz automatically.
Mélisende nodded. ‘We will discuss the matter again. And make it your business to attend to the Comtesse de Tripoli. She likes your singing.’
‘The Comtesse is gracious,’ murmured Dragonetz, bowing his leave.
In bed that night, unable to sleep f
or his galloping thoughts, Dragonetz tried to order what he’d learned of the two major players in this game. Baudouin was preparing to do battle with his mother, whose idea of love was to hang onto power till he could wrest it from her. Dragonetz was the current rope in this tug-of-war, required to take a side and lead its armies against the other.
If he chose Baudouin, who had youth on his side and must win in the end, Dragonetz would have armies to lead, and Antioch for a kingdom, with pretty young Constance to wife.
If he chose Mélisende, the wilier of the two, she would murder Raymond of Tripoli and Dragonetz would have armies to lead, the state of Tripoli and the tragic, faded beauty of a widow to be his wife. Mélisende could protect him against Baudouin; could Baudouin protect him against poison? Of a certainty it had been Mélisende who’d had Jourdain murdered; she’d all but admitted it. The consequences of going against Mélisende’s interests couldn’t have been presented to him more clearly. However, it was a relief to Dragonetz that, after all, it had not been Aliénor who stooped to such a method.
The next few weeks were going to be interesting. He felt like a wealthy demoiselle, paying equal attention to all her suitors until she’d made up her mind which of them to accept - if any. He finally fell asleep trying to decide if he’d rather be a Prince on the coast or a mere Comte, inland, ruler of the most secure of the three Crusader states.
So began a feverish dance round court politics, conversations with everyone and intimacy with no-one. What Dragonetz had not expected was to find genuine pleasure in the company of the Comtesse de Tripoli. The changes in her were marked, after only a few days in Jerusalem. Her hair was now glossy in its demure plait, with the same reddish sheen as her sister’s; her skin was scrubbed to a smooth glow; and although her eyes still held a sadness, they observed the world shrewdly. Like the powdered bruises, the void was covered over for the moment. It would take time before her figure filled out but already she had a healthier colour from eating well.
