So that’s it, Humphrey groaned. I’m to be cut down by his favourite weapon, the hundredth, or two hundredth victim of in nomine domini. He knows that my wrists are too weak and my sword too light to turn his own monster blade. I don’t know anyone who could deflect it, save perhaps Lord Balian of Ibelin’s constable, what does he call himself, Fostus? He might block its path, but I doubt that I could even lift such a piece.
‘Give your answer,’ Reynald invited. ‘If you would rather wait in your chambers for a week or so and catch your breath’
‘No, I’ve had my taste of prison.’
‘Your head spins, kinsman. You were no prisoner. You were contained for your own protection, nothing more. However, do you say you will play with me?’
‘When you offer that choice you know I’ll play.’
Reynald nodded. ‘Good. Sergeant! Take care of the horses. Azo! Supervise the barricades.’ By way of explanation to the crowd he said, ‘We cannot chase the length and breadth of the yard, but stay where you are. We’ll play here, in the centre.’
Soldiers hurried forward with stakes and trestles which they arranged in a rough, roped square. Reynald was not satisfied with the size of the combat area, so the spectators turned to their meat and wine while the soldiers tore down a small shed and appropriated its planks. Humphrey fingered the silver brooch, glanced anxiously at Stephanie and imagined himself lying broken beneath Reynald’s heel. Under such circumstances, what could he do but reveal her identity?
By the time the square had been enlarged to suit Reynald’s requirements the sun had scaled the eastern walls of Kerak. It hung for a moment, poised on the battlements, then poured into the bailey, rougeing the faces of the assembled complement. Those who had not already thrown their blankets into the yard discarded them now, as the coolness of dawn gave way before the growing heat of day.
Humphrey held one of the tossed scarves to his head, then brought it away dry. The bleeding had stopped, though the long crusted cut still throbbed. He thought of binding the scarf round his head for protection, but was frightened that it would slip down and blind him to an on-coming blow. At that moment Azo dismissed the soldiers and Reynald announced that all was ready, so he let the scarf fall and climbed into the fenced square.
His stepfather asked, ‘Do you want a shield or buckler, Toron?’
‘I don’t make the rules, Lord Reynald. If you will use one—’
‘You know better.’
‘Then I’ll manage without. But before we start, tell me something. Is it your intention to fight à outrance?’
‘What? God’s elbow, you say some senseless things. I’m not out here to kill you. We will fight for the instruction, and a plaisance, for the fun of it. Captain Azo will edge us apart if we get too heated.’
Azo nodded and the combatants moved to opposite sides of the square and drew their swords. As the metal caught the light a murmur rose from the crowd; Humphrey’s weapon was three feet long, long enough to be set against any normal opponent, but a mere needle compared with in nomine domini. The slender blade bore no inlaid inscription, though the sword boasted a crystal pommel and terminals carved into leopards’ heads. The wooden grip was bound with once-scarlet leather, but the colour had long since worn off. Unlike most knights, Humphrey attached no particular value to the sword. He had slain no monsters with it, nor dispatched any heroes of Islam. He used it when he had to, then hung it with the rest of his armour and forgot about it. It was an invaluable instrument in battle, but a weighty impediment in peacetime. He knew that his attitude was the complete antithesis of Reynald’s. It could be nothing else.
Azo called, ‘Begin!’ and the Lords of Chatillon and Toron moved toward each other.
From the start, Reynald held his sword in both hands. The massive weapon measured four-and-three-quarter feet from point to pommel, while the blade at the hilt was more than five inches wide. It was one of the longest, broadest and heaviest swords in the Christian kingdom at that time and it suited Reynald admirably. It was old – he had carried it at the battle of Montgisard in November of 1177, when the Crusaders had defeated and almost captured Saladin – and he revered it as he could revere no religious object, holding it above even the True Cross. in nomine domini was a part of him. With it he was invincible. Without it – well, it had never yet been taken from him. He could account for every notch and scar, remembered the one time it had been knocked from his grasp – in the mud at Jacob’s Ford, two years after Montgisard – but had lost count of the number who had been cut down in the NAME OF GOD.
They stepped closer, Humphrey holding his sword low, Reynald resting his with the flat of the blade on his right shoulder. The spectators followed each deliberate, cumbersome movement with interest. They had seen many sword fights, affairs of honour, drunken brawls, punishments and military conflicts, and they had become expert, if not as participants, then as arbiters. They knew a good swordsman when they saw one, and in Reynald of Chatillon they saw one of the finest. Having set himself against young Humphrey, he guaranteed the outcome. The rest was a matter of time.
Humphrey moved sideways, saw an opening and lunged. The crowd remained mute; it was an obvious trap. As he pushed the narrow sword forward, Reynald swung his left foot back and behind his body, then let in nomine domini scythe down and across. The massive blade caught Humphrey’s sword near the tip, lifted it and sent it spinning toward the fence.
‘Pray to God,’ Reynald said calmly. ‘You are a dead man.’
He grinned at Azo and waited for Humphrey to reclaim his sword. In the next few moments he knocked it twice more from his grasp, twice hit him with the flat of the blade, felling him, and finally stabbed at his thigh with the sword point. This last tore the links of the silvered hauberk and sent blood coursing down Humphrey’s leg. As he gasped and stumbled against the fence Reynald commented for the sixth time, ‘You are a dead man.’
The spectators did nothing to help. Inured to death and the extinction of the weak, they sat on the walls or stood in the doorways, waiting for their overlord to make an end of his stepson. Leaning heavily on the barricade, which threatened to give way, Humphrey watched them and felt the blood run down into his boot. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears and he raged soundlessly at the rows of attentive faces.
‘You devils! You stupid, do-nothing, bastard devils! In the name of God, what do you want? Must the brutal always seize the day? Will you always sit by while they stamp their path? Oh, Christ, it hurts. Isabella, it hurts me so…’
While he cursed, a group of servant girls, bored by the proceedings, giggled at something one of them had said. Humphrey believed that they were giggling at him. Normally he would not have cared what such young women thought or said, but now he could no longer separate them from the callous mass of onlookers. Soon more would join in, until Kerak shook with their murderous cackles…
Humphrey did then what Reynald was prone to do; he threw over all self-control and lurched, howling, to his feet. Reynald was taken by surprise and stood flat-footed as Humphrey stumbled against him. He made a grab at the young man’s swirling tabard, missed and fell backward, in nomine domini slipped from his grasp and, more by accident than intent, Humphrey stamped on the blade.
Later, he could remember none of what followed, but they told him that he stood over the Red Wolf, shouting down at him something about a present from Isabella, a present from the Princess of Jerusalem, and what could Reynald do about that? Then he let his own sword fall, narrowly missing Reynald’s open hand, and staggered to the far corner of the square, where Azo had already torn an exit in the fence. They told him that Reynald came to his feet roaring, ‘Six to one! Six to one!’ but that Azo, supported by the crowd, announced that the contest was over. He thought he remembered bowing low to Stephanie, his mother, though the onlookers said he simply doubled over and collapsed in a cold faint. After that, Azo’s men-at-arms collected him and carried him gently to his own chambers, where he was left in the care of his mother and th
e family physicians. He heard later, from some of his more courageous friends, that Reynald of Chatillon remained in his study for three days and could be heard crying and smashing things, probably with in nomine domini. During that time he neither ate, nor drank, and when he eventually emerged he was still wearing his armour.
Three days and nights without water seemed too long, but Humphrey wanted to believe the story. It had the ring of truth about it, because Reynald was known as one who could not abide defeat. It was as well that he did not know about the brooch, or he would insist on fresh instruction, naked and away from the aura of the magic Isabella…
Chapter Eight
Ramallah, Nablus, Jerusalem
October, November 1183
Balian of Ibelin’s serious minded young squire was day-dreaming. More exactly, he was indulging in an erotic fantasy of limited proportions. He was on his way to Ramallah to wrest Idela from her sick aunt Ermengarde, but in his mind he had already climbed the winding road, entered the walled hill town, located Tower Street and Ermengarde’s house and was now wrapped in Idela’s welcoming embrace. He had left Lord Balian and Fostus to continue along the rift valley road of Sahl Mukhna toward Nablus, having promised to rejoin them the next morning, with or without Idela.
There was no question of her refusing to leave with him. He had told both men as much and they had grunted and remarked, ‘Good news, indeed. Then we’ll expect you before nightfall.’ Ernoul was not convinced that they shared his optimism, but he knew the girl would come with him, and that was all that mattered. The only problem was that, if Ermengarde was really ill, perhaps even on the point of death, he would have to wait around until, she – well, until Idela’s ministrations were no longer needed. It was his impartial and heartfelt desire that the old woman would either sustain a miraculous recovery, or die without further delay.
However, in his fantasy she was not only dead, but buried and forgotten, leaving Idela in need of comfort and a friendly face. The herbalist’s daughter was standing in the window, gazing wistfully over the terrace hillside toward the Jerusalem road when who should appear, in answer to her unspoken prayers, but the handsome, courteous, magnetic, amusing and virile…
She was out in the street before he had time to dismount. Careless of what the passing townsfolk might think she ran to him and embraced him, then took his hand in hers and led him into the cool, shuttered house…
‘Ah, my love, is it really you? Let me hold you. Let me touch you. I must know that I did not invent you, that you’re, aah, yes, my strong, wonderful…’
They climbed rickety wooden steps, passed the room in which Ermengarde had died peacefully – ‘She must have been a fine, brave woman. Oh, she was, she was. But I don’t want to think of her. I want you. This is my room. I want you. I want your love, all you can give me, everything, everything…’
He reached Ramallah and had to be re-directed twice before he found Tower Street. He rode the length of the street, then back, then along it again, looking for the open window and Idela. The sun was hot and the shutters were closed over every window in the street. He asked two black-shawled women if they knew where Ermengarde lived. ‘She is ill. A young woman called Idela is nursing her.’
‘Ermengarde,’ muttered one of the women. ‘Ermengarde, Ermengarde. Ill, you say.’
‘So I understand.’
The other woman said, ‘A young woman called Idela, eh? Nursing her, this Ermengarde.’
‘So I – Yes.’
‘Idela. How do you spell that?’
He spelt it, and they said, ‘Ah, yes, that’s the way.’
‘Do you know where she – where they – do you know the house?’
‘No. In truth, I cannot say I do.’
‘Nor I. Ermengarde, was it?’
‘Idela, hmm?’
They shook their heads and shuffled away, passing the names between them. He watched them go, grumbled under his breath, then dismounted and banged on the nearest door. There were sixty or so doors in the street, and he wondered how many—
Idela answered it.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you, Ernoul.’
‘Er, yes. Yes, it is. I came by – Are you well?’
‘I was never otherwise. It’s my aunt who’s ill. She was asleep, but I expect you’ve woken her with your hammering. How did you know I was here?’
‘It was simple luck. Of all the doors—’
‘I mean in Ramallah.’
‘Oh, your father – Look, may I come in? And find some shelter for my horse?’
‘In the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your horse?’
‘What? No! Me!’
‘Go round the back, round that way. There’s a stable. Only please keep quiet.’
He nodded, bemused, and led his mount along an alley and under a vine covered bamboo arch to the rear of the house. He found water and grain, unsaddled the animal and left it with three others in the shade of a sagging rush canopy. Then he returned to the street to find the front door shut.
He was hot and dusty and the fantasy had turned to vinegar in his veins; was this tart, efficient nurse the same girl he had met in Rue des Herbes? Was the sum of her welcome to be ‘Oh, it’s you?’ And now she had shut him out in the street, like an unwanted trinket seller. A woman, the daughter of a paste and powder herbalist, denying entry to Lord Balian of Ibelin’s squire and chronicler! Jambes de De! It was too much. He rapped angrily on the door, then stood back, his hands on his hips.
This time when she opened the door she was not so restrained. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to gain entry, what else?’
‘You’re crazy! I told you to go round the back!’
‘Don’t shout at me! I thought—’
‘No you didn’t. You didn’t think at all. My aunt’s room is right above—’ She broke off as a querulous voice implored, ‘What is it, Idela? Is there a fight in the street? I can’t sleep.’
Idela glared at Ernoul, hissed, ‘Round the back!’ then closed the door quietly but firmly in his face. He heard her answer Ermengarde; ‘All is well, Aunt. It was just some poor lunatic,’ and he kicked irritably at a half-buried pebble before making a second journey along the alley and under the arch.
He let himself into a cool, grey-tiled kitchen and sat hunched over on a heavy oak bench. Then he stood up again, in case Idela thought he was making himself too quickly at home. As for that, he thought, I’ve no intention of making my home here. In fact, I’m sorry I ever left the Sahl Mukhna road. I should have stayed with Lord Balian and Constable Fostus instead of wasting my time in the pursuit of some officious little stall girl. So I’m a poor lunatic, am I! Well, I can still catch up with them. I’ll stay and tell her what I think of her, then be on my way again. Now where’s she gone?
He gazed critically round the kitchen, trying hard to find fault with the spotless pans and cauldrons, the wood-handled knives and spoons, the scrubbed boards, the jars of beans and onions, olives and rough-milled wheat. He noticed a row of herb jars, peppers and marjoram, cloves, nutmeg and almond powder, and thought, I’ll wager she doesn’t allow Aunt Ermengarde near those. He walked over to a line of casks, lifted the lid of one and sniffed a stew of apricots, known as plums of Damascus. It smelled good – who was the cook, Ermengarde or Idela? – and he was tempted to fetch a spoon and—
‘She’s asleep again, though I don’t thank you for it.’ She stood in the inner doorway. Beyond, Ernoul could see a short corridor and a flight of painted stone steps. He frowned, acknowledging that his fantasy had been inaccurate, even to the type of stairs.
Without sincerity he said, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed her.’
‘If? You did disturb her.’
‘Yes. Well, I’m sorry.’
They stood, each watching the other, the slim young squire, his tanned face whitened with dust, and the dark-eyed, black-haired herbalist’s daughter. He thought, however you behave, you’re beautiful, and he smiled hesi
tantly.
She said, ‘I don’t see what you have to smile—’ then shrugged and returned the greeting. ‘You should have warned me.’ She plucked at her simple linen kirtle. ‘I work all day. I don’t dress for—l’
‘There’s no need. You look—’
‘visitors.’
‘most fetching.’
‘Were you about to help yourself?’
‘Mmm? Oh.’ Replacing the lid, ‘The fruit. No, I was merely, ah, looking.’
‘Sit down. Unless you are in such a hurry.’
‘No, I’m not. But won’t Ermen – your aunt’
‘I told you, she’s asleep. If you keep your voice down she will sleep most of the day. Here, they are quite refreshing.’ She placed a bowl of plums on the sanded table, then drew up another bench and sat opposite him. While he ate, she said. ‘I am sorry, too. I didn’t mean to snap at you, but you startled me.’
Ernoul nodded magnanimously, then asked, ‘Why did you not leave a note with your father?’
‘Why did you not send one to say you were passing this way?’
‘I didn’t know I would be.’
‘Then this is not a special journey.’
‘Oh, yes it is. But I was not sure my Lord Balian would be returning to Nablus. I travel with him. We might have gone south to Kerak again, or across to the coast. Fortunately—’
‘I left no note because I, too, was unsure. We’ve only met each other twice.’
‘You thought I would not come?’
‘I wasn’t sure. You and I—’
‘You and I what? Does your father disapprove?’
‘Of course not. He allows me great freedom.’
‘Then is it—?’ pointing at the ceiling.
‘No. It’s as I said. It’s you and I. We’re, well, unlikely. I have never been in a castle.’
‘And I had never visited Rue des Herbes before I met you. These are good. Did you—?’
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