Lord Roland doesn’t flinch. He studies both faces, carefully, before speaking.
‘Is it from the King?’ he says at last. And there’s something in the way he says it . . . something chilly and tense and ominous.
‘I don’t know, my lord.’ The cleric is wringing his hands. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t heard. But I do know it’s bad news. Terrible, terrible news. My lord, the Patriarch is in bed with the shock of it.’ He pauses, his lips trembling. ‘I think you’re right, my lord. I think it’s from the King.
‘I think there’s been a battle.’
‘Brothers in Christ. As acting Commander of our Temple garrison, I have called this emergency chapter to inform you that the kingdom of Jerusalem has suffered its most terrible defeat.’
God preserve us.
‘As you know, during the last month our noble King was in the northern provinces, gathering a great army. He was gathering this army to defend our kingdom against the forces of the Sultan Saladin. Several days ago, Saladin crossed the River Jordan. And in response to this challenge, our King rode out to meet him.’
A pause. Well go on. What are you waiting for? What are you waiting for? Say it, for God’s sake!
‘I have to tell you that he was defeated.’ A quiet voice: very clear, very thin. No expression at all. ‘I have to tell you that he was captured, and many of his liege men were killed. I have to tell you that the Holy Cross is now, for this reason, in the hands of the Infidel. May God have mercy on our souls.’
There’s a shaft of light falling from the window above his head. You can see the dust motes floating down, whirling around his golden hair, his wide shoulders. Everything’s very still. It’s as if the entire room were empty.
But it’s not. That’s the odd thing. It’s crammed; bulging; stuffed with people. It’s so full it couldn’t be fuller. And Lord Roland up the front, staring down at a sea of blank faces. You can see he’s trying to find the words. Very calm, though. Only his hands . . . his hands look wrong. Uncertain. Helpless.
‘You will realise,’ he continues, ‘that many of our most valiant and pious brethren, the flower of our Order, met a noble death on this battlefield to the greater glory of God. And those who didn’t fall in battle also suffered the fate of martyrs, for we have heard that they were later put to death at the hands of the Infidel. But in suffering for righteousness’ sake, they suffered as our Lord Jesus Christ suffered. They died with confidence, knowing that in dying they would be delivered to the arms of Christ. For the blessed Bernard of Clairvaux has said of the Templar knight, “should he be killed himself, we know that he has not perished, but has come safely into port”. And so we know that our brothers have been called to the higher glory, and are resting in the infinite love of our Lord Jesus Christ.’
A muffled noise. Sergeant Maynard has shot to his feet. Very straight and stiff. Around him, everyone’s seated. Staring. The look on his face . . . wild and frantic. Ravaged. Mute. Terrible.
He draws his sword, holds it aloft. His jaw moves, but he says nothing. Just stands there. Eyes on Lord Roland. Trying to speak.
‘Sit down, Brother.’ Lord Roland responds, very gently. ‘It’s not yet time to fight. It’s time to pray.’
Nothing happens. Maynard doesn’t seem to hear. Suddenly Rockhead gets up, just a few rows behind. Pushes past everyone’s knees. Lays a hand on Maynard’s shoulder.
Can’t hear what he says, but it seems to get through. The sword drops, for one thing. (‘. . . need . . . come . . . help . . . strong . . . Brother . . .’) Rockhead pulls at Maynard’s arm. They pick their way to the door, slowly. Not a word from Lord Roland: just a nod, as Rockhead throws him a questioning glance across the room. And the sound of their footsteps – shuffle, shuffle – as they disappear.
The silence is so heavy, it seems to force all the air from your lungs.
Only Lord Roland has the courage to break it.
‘So far we’ve had no news about our Grand Master of the Temple. We don’t know if he is alive or dead. But since it is the Rule of our Order that no ransom shall be paid for the release of any captive Templar, it is almost certain that Lord Gerard has joined our other brethren in the heavenly Kingdom of the blessed.
‘Therefore, if our Grand Master is indeed dead, and since our Brother Seneschal and our Brother Marshal have also perished, the cloak of the Grand Master’s authority shall fall on Brother Amalric, the Commander of these headquarters, who is now in the south as you know. From this time on we will look to Lord Amalric for directions.’
Somebody’s crying. You can hear the gulps and the snuffles. Not far away – look around – and it’s Pons. His face is hidden, but his shoulders are shaking. Beside him, Gildoin. Glassy-eyed. As grey as offal.
God preserve us. I can’t bear this. I just can’t bear it.
‘Brothers in Christ.’ Lord Roland, commanding attention. ‘Brothers in Christ these are days of tribulation for all of us here. Never before has this kingdom been under such a threat of darkness. But despite our trials, we must not lose hope. Because our Lord God has not forsaken us.
‘You may say that such a terrible defeat is proof that we have been forsaken. Well I say that God has sent this defeat to test us in our faith, just as Job was tested. Because faith in God is trust in God. Many times, I have been told to consider the words of Macabees: “Victory in war is not dependent on a big army, and bravery is the gift of heaven”. I now ask you to consider these words.
‘So far as we know, Saladin has taken only one city in this kingdom. How many cities does that yet leave us? Cities full of men and women willing to defend Jerusalem with their lives, if necessary? I say to you that we may have lost the battle, but we have not yet lost the kingdom.
‘Brothers in Christ, remember who you are. Remember the words of the blessed Bernard. You are the chosen troops of God. You are the valiant men of Israel. Your souls are protected by the armour of faith just as your bodies are protected by the armour of steel. How can you lose courage, knowing that you are armed with the sacred Rule of the Temple? As long as you follow the Rule, as long as you bow to its perfect discipline, rest assured that you walk in the way of salvation.’
Well I hope you’re right, my lord. I certainly hope you’re right. Because if you’re not, we’re finished.
‘Praise be to God.’ A voice in the crowd. ‘Praise be to God for all his mercies.’
‘Amen.’
‘Amen.’
A chorus of pious types. All what mercies? Have I missed something, here? I thought we were talking about a disaster.
Lord Roland bows his head, briefly.
‘Before we begin our prayer,’ he concludes, ‘I want to inform you that I shall be discussing this city’s defence with the Patriarch, who of course holds authority here now in the absence of any liege lords. And I am calling a day of prayer and fasting tomorrow in honour of our fallen brethren, may their souls rest in peace, as well as a vigil tonight in the Chapel of the Cross for any of you who wish to attend.
‘I now call on Father Amiel to lead us in our devotions.’
It’s a peculiar feeling – like a cold wind on your heart. The fact that it’s actually happened. It’s actually happened. You live with it all your life, like a cloud on the horizon, and suddenly the storm is overhead. They’ve come at last, after all this time. The Infidels. Practically on the doorstep. And it’s not a surprise. That’s what’s so awful. Everyone born here – we all knew they would come. Everyone born here is born waiting.
I don’t know. It’s bad enough not having a father and mother. Now I don’t even have a country any more.
Lentils again. Terrific.
Nothing like lentils to get the old blood flowing. Boiled lentils – they really put the spark back into your spirits. The lift back into your life. Bounce back with boiled lentils! It must be the eighth time this week, surely.
There’s something about the way that Fulk swings each soggy spoonful into our bowls. Splat! Like a horse depo
siting a load of dung. You can tell he doesn’t respect the food. Not that there’s much to admire in your average lentil. But a cook who doesn’t respect his food – it makes you wonder what he’s done to the stuff. (Or where it’s come from, for that matter.)
Splat! Right under my nose. The scrapings of the pot, by the look of it. We always get scrapings down this end of the room. Knights’ table first; then sergeants; then Turcopoles; and then, at long last, the mercenary scum. So what if the supply runs out before it reaches our bowls? We don’t deserve any better.
Fulk stomps back to the kitchen to fetch the next course. Cheese, I suspect. Or crushed nuts and succory in fried cabbage rolls. Not mutton, anyway – not with everyone on rations. They promised meat or fish three times a week, and what do I get? Mutton stew on Sunday. Once upon a time they served up salt pork around here: salt pork, spiced lamb, imported beef, duck, chicken, the lot. Now everyone thinks that there’s going to be a siege when Saladin comes, and they’re storing all the meat with lard and salt, down in the cellars. While up here we live on chick-peas and lentils like a bunch of desert hermits.
‘Let us pray.’ Father Amiel at the lectern. ‘Praise ye the Lord for these His blessings; praise Him for our daily bread, and all the good victuals which sustain us. Praise ye the Lord who giveth food to all flesh, for His mercy endureth forever.’
Amen. Across the table, Odo pounces on his lentils like a leopard on a lamb. As long as it’s dead, the Dungheap will eat it. I’m surprised he hasn’t polished off his cutlery before now. Next to him, Arnulf. It’s enough to put you off your food.
‘Our reading today is from the First Book of Samuel, chapter seventeen,’ Amiel announces. ‘Now the Philistines gathered their armies to battle, and were gathered together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched between Shochoh and Azekah, in Ephesdammim . . .’
Enter Fulk with the cheese – not a moment too soon. These lentils aren’t seasoned. Not even a pinch of salt or sage. I suppose the cook knew that Lord Roland wouldn’t be present, and decided not to waste his energy.
But it’s an ill wind, despite everything, because Rockhead isn’t too thrilled. He hasn’t spoken a word (he’s not allowed to) but the look on his face says it all. What, cheese again? And goat’s cheese, at that. Scowling as he pokes at the lentil mush with his spoon. Think yourself lucky, bone-brain. There are people who’d be grateful to eat that quivering dollop. In fact there are people right here in this room who’d go down on their hands and knees just to lick it off the floor. There they are, the five of them, sitting at Lord Roland’s table. Already finished. Hoping there’s something more to come. The five lucky paupers who make it to every Templar meal, because charity is a Christian duty, even when supplies are running low.
You can see them lined up outside headquarters every morning, dozens of them, fighting like dogs for a spot up the front and dressed in their filthiest tatters. Desperate for a free meal. Never the same face twice, I’ve noticed – at least not since I’ve been here. Which just goes to show what poverty there is in this city.
‘. . . Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose name was Jesse, and he had eight sons: and the man went among men for an old man in the days of Saul . . .’
Odo eats like a hog. He wallows in his food, making the kind of noises you hear in swamps and laundries and bovine digestive systems. After eating with Odo, you spend half the day picking bits of his dinner out of your hair. Arnulf belches, loudly and richly, as Odo licks his bowl clean. It’s a wonder I have any appetite at all.
And – yes! Here it comes. A pleading look from the Dungheap (otherwise known as the bottomless pit). Anything left for Odo? Not on your life, garbage guts. Time to bolt the last spoonfuls down, in case he decides to exert some force. When it’s a matter of food, you can’t trust Odo. Turn your back on him when he’s hungry and he’s likely to chew your leg off.
‘. . . Here endeth our reading.’ Amiel shuts his book with a bang: the signal for everyone to rise. You can feel the tension. One word, and the rush for the latrines will be on. Pons gives the order in Lord Roland’s absence. ‘Dismissed!’ he says – and away they go. (Some people have no bladder control.)
The paupers file past more slowly, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Gaspard. It’s his job to make sure they don’t steal the cutlery. They’re all grey and seedy and listless, like a mild hangover. Crawling with vermin too, by the look of it. Limping. Coughing. Leaning heavily on sticks and crutches. But you never can tell: it might all be fakery. I’ve seen too many beggars who make their ulcerous sores out of oatmeal and pig’s blood. Every evening Jerusalem is the scene of a thousand miracles, as blind men recover their sight, cripples recover their legs, mutes recover their voices and lepers recover their health. It’s a thriving little industry, moving the hearts and milking the pockets of gullible visitors . . .
‘Pagan.’
Lord Roland on the doorstep. Damn, damn, damn. Where on earth did he spring from? I thought he was discussing strategy with the Patriarch.
‘Time for a sparring session before nones, I think.’ He’s still wearing his ceremonials: cloak, robe and ancestral sword. There’s something unsettled about his forehead. ‘It will only take me a moment to change.’
The shackles of duty. Trailing after him with dragging feet, my peaceful afternoon demolished. Hoping that someone will grab his attention. But they all bustle past, intent on their business. Buzz, buzz, buzz – like bees in a hive.
‘Are you sure you’re not too busy, my lord?’ (Please, please say you are.) ‘Don’t feel you have to neglect others because of me. It really doesn’t matter . . .’
‘Of course it matters. You’re going to need all the combat training I can give you before long. Despite what the Patriarch might think.’
Do I detect a certain crispness in his voice? It’s hard to tell: someone’s sharpening a blade in the armoury, and the noise is enough to make your hair stand on end. Besides which, I can’t see his face.
‘You mean the Patriarch actually thinks, my lord?’ (Hurrying to catch up.) ‘I couldn’t be more surprised.’
‘No, you’re right. The Patriarch doesn’t think. He prefers to dream. He doesn’t want to believe that the Infidels will come. Someone else will deal with them before they reach Jerusalem. Maybe the refugees in Tyre. Or the garrison at Ascalon. Maybe the King of France will send a great army.’
‘Maybe a plague of giant locusts will descend, and eat all the Saracens.’
‘I’m sure he is praying for it. Meanwhile he refuses to take emergency measures. Doubtless he thinks his prayers will save us.’
Interesting. Very interesting. Lord Roland is actually annoyed. He’s out of his cloak before he enters our room. Tossing it at me over his shoulder. Flinging open the lid of his chest. Unwrapping his swordbelt in one fluid motion.
‘What emergency measures are you talking about, my lord? What won’t the Patriarch do?’
‘Raid the treasury. What do you think? Raid the treasury to buy food. We need food and clothes for the pilgrims trapped here. We need to open up space for refugees in the Tower of David. We need to distribute arms. That is the Master-Sergeant’s decision. He refuses to distribute arms.’
Which doesn’t surprise me. Distribute arms to the populace and our beloved Master-Sergeant’s a dead man. There can’t be many people in Jerusalem who wouldn’t gladly fry up his liver in olive oil and mushrooms.
Lord Roland pulls his campaign tunic over his shirt. With his hair all ruffled he looks almost peevish.
‘If I had the power, I’d deprive them both of their military authority,’ he says. ‘They are jeopardising lives with their foolishness. But what can I do? It’s not my place to concern myself with these things. I am here to advise. So if they want my advice, then they should take it. Instead of wasting my time in useless chatter.’ He smooths his hair, looks up, and sees my expression. The astonishment must show. It makes him twist his mouth and straighten his s
houlders.
‘I find them offensive,’ he explains. It almost sounds like an apology. ‘They are the sort of people I would like to avoid. People like that make you forget God.’
And suddenly, from the threshold, a hesitant summons. ‘Lord Roland? My lord?’ Rockhead peers around the door, suitably deferential. He’s sweating like a piece of cheese.
‘What is it, Brother?’ (Frowning.) ‘I’m very busy.’
‘My lord, we have an absent without leave. Since first light. We ought to notify Ascalon. I believe he has family there.’
‘Who? A mercenary?’
‘No, my lord. He’s taken his vows. Sergeant Bruno.’
A quiet hiss, like steam from a kettle. Lord Roland has never uttered a curse in his life, and apparently doesn’t intend to start now. But you can tell it’s an effort.
‘Sergeant Bruno?’ he says. ‘The spice merchant’s son? But he is such a good Templar.’
‘My lord, he’s taken all his equipment. And the cook reports some missing food.’
A pause. This looks promising. Lord Roland fingers the hilt of his sword.
‘I have a training session now,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll attend to it after nones.’
‘But my lord, we have the strategy chapter after nones. About the city defences.’ Good old Rockhead. The inflexible man. Every appointment engraved in stone. ‘And then you’re inspecting the storerooms to see if they’re fit for housing refugees. Remember? The Abbot of Josophat is sending a representative to advise us.’
Deliverance. Lord Roland throws a troubled glance in my direction. Time to help him out.
‘It’s all right, my lord. I have a lot of cleaning and polishing to do.’
Cleaning my fingernails. Polishing up my collection of dirty jokes. I mean, why kill yourself working? We’ll all be dead soon enough.
‘My lord?’ Sergeant Pons arrives on the doorstep. ‘My lord, we have to organise the next watch bill –’
‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’ It’s practically a snarl. Practically, but not quite.
One of these days, before we all lay down our arms and face the judgement seat, I’m going to see Lord Roland lose his temper.
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