“No, sire.”
“Then come, I shall take you. It will be instructive, I think.”
William followed Bohemond with alacrity, even though it meant returning to the crowded hall. His position in Outremer was ambiguous and fragile. In terms of status, he could not mix with the high nobility unless supported by a patron such as Bohemond to vouch for him and make the introductions. It had taken fifteen years of hard work to develop his position at the Angevin court. Here, he was a newcomer of unproven mettle, unable to move easily between the pools of influence to tap into the river. He knew Bohemond must want something from him in return and suspected it would be in the way of keeping his ears open and reporting what he heard, for that was a common way to advancement for newcomers. But Bohemond was only one of many playing the same game.
Reclining on his cushioned chair, Baldwin, who was eating nothing, saying little, but managing to preside, gave a languid wave of assent to Bohemond’s request to present William to the other guests seated at the table picking at the subtleties of candied lemon peel and sugared roses.
Bohemond introduced William to the bride and groom. Baldwin’s pale, fair-haired little sister was only eleven years old, and her response was the quiet murmur of a well-trained child. The bridegroom, a youth of seventeen, was also polite but no more forthcoming. Here was no dynamic young warrior. At his stepson’s side, Reynald of Châtillon clearly viewed William as just another chancer-come-pilgrim from Europe. However, the groom’s mother, Stephanie of Milly, was more inclined to be gracious.
“What do you think of Outremer, messire?” she inquired with a polite smile. “You have certainly been thrown into the thick of the challenges we face.”
William bowed. “Madam, that is true, but in my own land, I have fought many campaigns for the king of England and his son. Had it come to a full battle, I would have hoped to acquit myself well. I am humble to be in the land where Jesus performed his miracles and suffered on the cross to redeem us, and I shall strive to be worthy.”
She dipped her head and seemed satisfied by his reply. Her husband said nothing, but his hard look was tempered by speculation.
Bohemond then presented William to Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem. He was dressed in robes of white silk that gleamed like the inside of a pearl shell scattered with mica. The skullcap set upon his iron-gray hair was made of the same glittering cloth, encircled by a band of rock crystals and pearls. Bohemond bowed deeply. “Your Eminence, this is William the Marshal from England who has ridden with us this day. He has spent many years in service to the royal household of England.”
Heraclius extended his right hand so that William could kiss his amethyst ring of office. Then he motioned with his foot, and William realized what was expected of him. Second only to the pope as the leader of Latin Christendom, Heraclius was ensuring that all knew it, especially the newcomers. Kneeling, William obliged and kissed the white-and-gold silk slipper.
“Indeed?” Heraclius gestured for William to rise now that his subservience had been established. “I am pleased that the Prince of Antioch has presented you to me. Perhaps on another occasion we may talk about England.” His tone was smooth and urbane with platitude, but already his attention was flicking to someone behind him who was waiting to have a word.
“My lord,” William said, feeling that matters were not progressing especially well. He had been acknowledged and passed over as just another formality.
Sitting at the patriarch’s side was a stunningly beautiful woman, richly attired in flame-red silk embellished with embroidery. Two plaits as thick as ropes and as black as twisted jet were looped under a veil of transparent white gauze edged with gold droplets. Her hands were smooth, the nails perfectly buffed, her fingers adorned with numerous rings. She sent him an inquiring glance from sable-dark eyes subtly enhanced with cosmetics.
Bohemond hesitated, almost reluctant to make the introduction, but William waited because he was intrigued.
Bohemond cleared his throat. “Madam de Riveri, may I present to you William Marshal, who is here on pilgrimage from England and who has helped bring the relief to Kerak.” He looked swiftly at William. “Madam de Riveri is a valued member of the lord patriarch’s household.”
William absorbed the information with interest. So this was the patriarch’s concubine and as important as the rumors suggested, to judge by the richness of her clothing and her place at the high table.
“We are all in your debt, messire, for your timely arrival.” Her voice was musical with the hint of a Venetian accent.
William knelt to her, and of an impulse and with a tinge of mischief, he kissed her shoes too. “As I have greeted my lord patriarch, so I greet his lady.”
She bestowed him an inscrutable look but allowed her foot to remain in his hand for a moment before withdrawing it. “It is noted. Perhaps in the future, you may be of assistance to his eminence, but for now, I am sure you have concerns elsewhere.”
William rose to his feet and bowed again. Her composure was such that he could not tell if she was entertained or annoyed. Heraclius, who had been talking to others, fixed his gaze on William and the tightening of his lips told William not to presume further but to bow once more and withdraw.
“The patriarch looks very kindly indeed on the lady Paschia,” Bohemond said. “Our beloved vicar is a worldly prelate, although at least he understands from personal experience the temptations to which all men are subject.”
William glanced over his shoulder and caught the woman’s gaze on him in speculation, a slight curl of amusement on her red lips. Heraclius’s beautiful concubine reminded him a little of Queen Alienor, only this version of Alienor was much younger and shone like a dark jewel.
Bohemond stroked his whiskers. “She keeps company with the king’s sister, the Countess of Jaffa. They are friends and allies, and Madam de Riveri and her network of relatives know everything that happens at court. That is part of her value to the patriarch, but not the whole. It is more than business for him, but who can say with her? You should be careful,” he warned. “The patriarch is her patron, and her family is protective of their asset. You would not wish to tangle with any of them.” Bohemond touched his arm and left to join Raymond of Tripoli.
Intrigued, William looked toward Paschia de Riveri again. She was whispering in Heraclius’s ear. The patriarch squeezed her hand affectionately and kissed her cheek. She summoned a young musician to sit at their feet and, with a warm smile and a light touch on his fair curls, commanded him to play for them. A woman of whom to be wary but one whose patronage could prove useful.
Needing a moment to ponder, William went to empty his bladder and find his men. The first task accomplished, he was returning from the latrine when he came upon Guy de Lusignan deep in conversation with two of his own knights. Since he had to pass the men, William had to make his obeisance, no matter that it went against the grain. Guy might be under attack from factions at court and out of favor, but a wounded lion was still a lion and all the more dangerous because of it, especially with a fierce lioness to protect him.
“If you are seeking that brother of yours, he is playing dice with the common soldiers where he belongs. He knows his place as some do not,” Guy said with a sneer.
“Thank you, sire,” William replied blandly.
“It is difficult to know who to trust, isn’t it? Which master’s kennel you should crawl into next?”
William shrugged. “I know where I should not go at least. Some things are clear.”
Guy bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “Nothing is ever clear in Outremer. Like me, you are an outsider and always will be. They will close their ranks against you if it suits their purpose. You might have had a high place in the Young King’s retinue, but here you are just another fighting man. You have no one to watch your back, Marshal, and the nights are dark and the knives long… That is not a threat, but it is a wa
rning. Mind where you choose your affinity.” Guy moved on, and his knights followed him, pushing past William with enough force to knock him off balance.
William straightened and put his shoulders back. Guy was lashing out from his own insecurities, for he had his own good reason to fear the long knives in the dark. William did not believe he was in immediate danger. Men might think him a jumped-up newcomer who had yet to prove his worth, but they had no desire to murder him.
William went in search of Ancel and did indeed find him playing dice in a room beyond the main hall. A pile of spilled coins lay at his elbow, and he looked every inch the aristocratic lord in the jeweled silk tunic from the baggage panniers.
Looking up, he flashed William a playful, if sour, smile. “I expected you to have your feet under the king’s table by now.”
William gave his brother a playful cuff. “And I thought you might have lost the tunic off your back.”
“Luck is with me tonight, even if not with you,” Ancel retorted.
“Who says it is not with me? I have finished my business, that is all. I have several opportunities in hand for when we return to Jerusalem.”
Ancel took his turn with the dice, rolling a five and a four. “Are you staying to play?”
William declined but watched for a while and drank another cup of wine.
“Did you find out when we would be leaving?” Ancel asked between throws.
“No, but it will be soon—the supplies will dwindle too swiftly if we stay. The court will return to Jerusalem as soon as the king is rested and well enough to travel. There is a council tomorrow to deal with immediate matters, so perhaps the day after that.”
His wine finished, William left Ancel to his gaming and climbed to the battlements and once again was almost overwhelmed by Kerak’s immensity. Compared to this, the keeps of England and Normandy were children’s toys.
The night was still and cold, with a thick dusting of stars over the arid terrain. As William paced the wall walk, thinking on the evening’s events and remembering the enigmatic gaze of the patriarch’s concubine, he heard voices and instinctively stopped. A lantern held by a servant cast shadowed light over the figure of the king, who was sitting in his litter chair facing an open crenel gap and gazing out into the desert with his almost-sightless eyes. The patriarch was bending over him in urgent discussion.
“Sire, I beg you to reconsider.”
“No.” Baldwin’s voice was hard. “You can see how it is. The barons refuse to follow Guy, and he undermines my rule at every turn. I am dying by inches, but by all that is holy, I am not dead yet, and I shall not be pushed aside like a pile of detritus. My mind is still sound, and my will is as stalwart as these towers. This shall be dealt with once and for all, and I expect your full cooperation. Do I make myself clear, my lord patriarch?”
“Sire, I do not believe that is the Count of Jaffa’s intent—he only wishes to ease your burden—”
“I did not ask what you believed,” Baldwin snapped. “I said I expected your full cooperation and I asked if I made myself clear.”
“Sire,” the patriarch replied, acknowledging while not giving an affirmative reply.
“Ah, leave me.” Baldwin flicked his hand, and Heraclius departed, but along the wall walk on the side away from William, thus remaining unaware of his presence.
William considered retreating himself but knew he might be seen and caught as an eavesdropper, so instead he moved forward into the light.
Baldwin turned sharply toward the sound of his footfall.
“Sire, it is William Marshal.” William halted as Baldwin’s attendants stepped forward to protect their master, swords drawn.
Baldwin gestured for them to sheathe their weapons. “And what might you be doing here, messire?”
William cleared his throat. “I was examining the defenses, sire, and wondering how such scale could be adapted to the fortresses at home.” He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Also, I was preparing to retire, and I have a habit of making sure all is secure.”
“But it brought you in my direction,” Baldwin said pointedly, “and I suppose that your hearing is sharper than my eyesight.”
“Sire, my discretion is my honor.”
“Perhaps,” Baldwin said cynically. “In my experience, discretion and honor are rarities when men are offered bribes and inducement to listen and report. The Prince of Antioch seems particularly taken with you. My sight may be poor, but my vision is attuned nevertheless.”
“I served the prince’s cousin, Queen Alienor,” William replied evenly. “His interest in me is as a servant of the Angevin court, not this one, and as a trained soldier.”
“You also served my cousin, the king of England.”
“Indeed, sire, and he is a great ruler.” Whatever else might be said of Henry, his greatness was not in doubt, nor his devious political ability.
“So we hear.” A light wind flapped the veil over Baldwin’s ravaged features, making William think of a man breathing beneath his own shroud. Out in the darkness, a jackal screamed. “This country bleeds men, Marshal,” he said bitterly. “They come here, they beget daughters, and they die…or else they become lepers.” He turned his head toward William. “You knew Guy de Lusignan in Poitou, but you have been most circumspect in your commentary on him.”
“Sire, it was a long time ago and in a different part of our lives.”
“But he was not your ally?”
“No, sire. We had different goals and different lords.” In a twisted way, he owed his life to Guy, because after the Lusignans captured him, Guy had been sufficiently interested to keep him alive in order to test and taunt him. Perhaps Guy had even sought to preserve his life out of a perverse sense of guilt since he had been the one responsible for murdering his uncle.
“What was your opinion of him?”
William chose his words carefully, aware that Baldwin’s servants were in earshot. “He was a skilled fighter but impetuous. He seldom considered the consequences. If he was fighting in a melee, he would go for his man and not notice what was coming up behind him. He relied on others to watch the horizons, but he was always a strong and dangerous adversary in a hand-to-hand fight.”
“You say well and with tact,” Baldwin replied. He turned his gaze back to the night. “Do you think King Henry would come and rule Jerusalem in my stead?”
William’s first instinct was to say no, but he bit his tongue.
Henry’s grandsire had left his lands in order to rule the kingdom of Jerusalem, and he was also Baldwin’s grandsire. Knowing Henry’s personality, William doubted he would do so, but Henry could be unpredictable, and he had sworn to take the cross as part of his atonement for the circumstances surrounding the murder of Thomas Becket. He had a treasure chest of thirty thousand marks of silver stored as aid for Outremer, as yet unspent, that could be used to facilitate his kingship. But would he be willing to give up the power he currently possessed in order to travel to a hostile place and begin again, even if that place was the land of Christ’s birth? “I do not know, sire,” William replied. “It would depend on many factors.”
Baldwin fell silent again. After a while he said softly, “The only pity is that Saladin retreated when we came to Kerak. I defeated him once when I was very young and still had the use of my limbs.” His voice strengthened with the remembered glory. “He escaped, but we tore his army to pieces.”
“Yes, sire. We heard the stories of your prowess in Normandy and England.”
Baldwin waved his bandaged hand, dismissing the remark. “I hoped back then that there might still be a miracle, but I know now it is not to be. My days are numbered. I have lived a full lifetime in ten years—there will not be another ten. What of Jerusalem when I am gone? All that Saladin need do is bide his time because mine is so short. Tell me, messire, as someone newly arrived in Outremer and without a facti
on—what would you do in my place?”
William suspected that Baldwin already knew the answer. “I would look at the strengths and weaknesses in my court and ask who best served me and the kingdom and how could I position them to advantage. Men respect your rule because you command their loyalty.”
Baldwin made a rueful sound. “But I cannot command that loyalty from beyond the grave, and what of Jerusalem then?”
“It would not be your remit, sire. You must make the best provision that you can and nurture it.”
The leprosy had destroyed the nuances of facial expression, but William received a sense of bleak resignation, though steely too.
“You give me good counsel,” Baldwin said at length, “but now you may go. Be circumspect in what you say to other men.”
William bowed. “You have my word on it, sire.”
“And I trust to it and to your honor.”
“Sire.” William departed, leaving Baldwin to his thoughts and his solitude. His chest was tight with angry sorrow at the unjustness that a young man of such ability and caliber was doomed to an early grave by this terrible affliction. He had watched Harry die in a matter of days, all that golden, flawed promise extinguished in stench and agony. Now he was set to keep vigil and bear witness as another young king fought a battle he could not win.
* * *
In the first light of dawn, William and Ancel walked together to the horse lines to check their mounts. Eustace was already there, busy at work. Byrnie had adopted the donkey as his bosom companion, and the two stood side by side, legs touching. The donkey was eating as much as the horse and faster.
“You’ll need all your winnings from last night’s dice to feed that thing,” William said, slightly horrified. “Just look at it!”
Ancel grinned. “It’s like you,” he retorted. “Your nickname was Greedy Guts when you were a squire. Don’t begrudge him his food. He’s lucky.”
William rolled his eyes.
Ancel pointed to the belt he was wearing—a confection of braided red and gold silk with a silver finial. “I won this too, from a musician who stopped by to game. I could have taken him for more, but I asked him for a song instead. He belongs to the patriarch’s household, so I thought he would be useful to cultivate.”
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