“Yes, I saw him playing,” William said.
“He’s called Ptolemy. He said he knew some good taverns in Jerusalem where we could go.” Ancel looked sidelong at William. “He wanted to know all about us.”
“What did you tell him?”
“A great deal and very little.” Ancel wrinkled his nose. “You think I am foolish, but I know when to keep my mouth shut. Musicians aren’t to be trusted. They will milk you for information and then pass it on to the highest bidder—although I don’t know why the patriarch’s gittern player should be so interested in us.”
“Because we are newcomers who know the English court. We have knowledge that may be useful, and sometimes that knowledge has a different slant when garnered from friendship and dicing. Talk of the tavern, rather than of the counsel room.” William recalled how the young musician had sat at the lady Paschia’s feet and the way she had smiled at him. Perhaps the information gathering had been on her behalf, and if so, just what did she want to know and why?
“He thought I might be the leader of our party despite your introduction to royalty, since I was the better dressed,” Ancel said with a grin. “I did not disabuse him.”
William gave an amused grunt and glanced up as he noticed movement among the horse lines. At other pickets, grooms and servants were saddling up, and men were emerging from the keep, yawning and stretching, carrying their baggage rolls. A figure hurried from the buildings, tying his cap under his chin as he advanced toward the palfrey his squire was holding.
“Looks as though Guy de Lusignan is leaving,” Ancel said.
“Probably his best course of action.” William patted Flambur’s glossy rump. “The king is going to remove him from the regency today.”
Ancel shot William a keen look. “Did you learn that at the courtly table last night?”
“No. The king said so.” William told Ancel about the meeting on the battlements. “Guy cannot fight the numbers arrayed against him here. He has allies, but none who will stand up for him against the king.”
“So how does he know he is going to be deposed?”
William shrugged. “At a guess, the patriarch told him. As you say, spies are everywhere, including that musician.”
“So, the patriarch does not support the king?”
“I do not know him well enough to say.”
The brothers watched the muster continue. By the time the sun was above the horizon, the Lusignan troops were marching out of the gate, and it was clear that there were two parties—the slower foot soldiers and the faster mounted men who departed at a rapid trot.
“Do you think de Lusignan will rebel?” Ancel demanded, wide eyed. “What if he tries to take Jerusalem?”
William shook his head. “He is not strong enough. The patriarch has saved him a face-to-face moment and postponed the reckoning, that is all.”
“But he is leaving very early and in a great hurry,” Ancel said. “Something is afoot.”
* * *
Everyone was gathered in the great hall for the king’s audience. As Baldwin was carried into the hall by his attendants, William could see how sick he was, shivering and coughing. The night air on the battlements had settled on his chest, but he was forcing his will through his malaise. Raymond of Tripoli stooped to murmur in his ear, and Baldwin gestured brusquely with one bandaged hand. The other senior barons came to stand at his back: the Prince of Antioch; Baldwin’s uncle, Joscelin of Edessa; and the Ibelin brothers, Badouin and Balian.
Onri and Augustine joined William, Ancel, and the other knights to one side of the dais.
“No sign of the Count of Jaffa,” Augustine said.
“Ancel and I saw him leaving at dawn,” William replied. “Riding westward in haste.”
“Small wonder the king and his advisers look so out of sorts,” Onri said. “Their bird has flown, and they would have done better to keep him confined.”
The patriarch arrived in a flurry of silk robes, bowed to Baldwin, and sat in the vacant chair facing him. The ushers called for silence, and the low hum of conversation ceased.
Baldwin pushed himself upright on his cushions and thrust his head toward the patriarch. “I heard that the Count of Jaffa left Kerak at first light,” he said frostily. “What do you know of this business?”
“Nothing, sire,” Heraclius replied smoothly, adjusting his robes to accommodate his chair. A practiced gesture of his right hand displayed his ring of office to full effect. “The Count of Jaffa departed of his own accord. I have only just heard about it myself.”
“That is a specious reply, my lord. If you have only just heard, it is because you instructed your servants not to tell you, but I think you knew very well what he would do. Well, no matter. We shall speak with him soon enough. You know why I have called this meeting.”
“Indeed, sire, and I am deeply concerned and saddened.” Heraclius flicked a glance at the men standing behind Baldwin. “I urge you to reconsider what you intend to do. Surely this matter can be resolved by less drastic means. Is there no way forward whereby you can work with the Count of Jaffa to heal this rift between you?”
“Apparently not, when he rides out rather than face me in council,” Baldwin said to nods of approbation from the nobles behind him.
“Guy de Lusignan seeks to usurp your power, sire,” said Badouin of Ramlah. “He turned the head of your sister. They only married because he seduced her out of her common sense at a time when she was a vulnerable widow.”
Baldwin raised his bandaged right hand in a silencing gesture.
“Have a care what you say about my sister,” he warned. “She is of the royal house and my closest kin. I agree that the marriage was made inadvisably, and I am to blame in part for yielding to pressure and allowing it to happen. I believed I would have a staunch ally and useful deputy in Guy de Lusignan, but he has proven himself arrogant and lacking the judgment I expect in a man designated to govern men and lead armies. Therefore, my lord patriarch, I desire you to dissolve the marriage of my sister and this man. You shall summon them to appear before you in your court as soon as we return to Jerusalem.”
A collective intake of breath rippled around the chamber, for Baldwin’s command escalated the matter from a disagreement to a major division.
Heraclius had recoiled at the suggestion, but now he leaned forward again. “Sire, I beseech you to reconsider what damage this will do. At least wait until we return to Jerusalem.”
Baldwin drew himself up. “For a last time, my lord patriarch, I tell you that my mind is fixed on this matter. The Count of Jaffa and my sister shall not stay wed. On our return to Jerusalem, we shall indeed hold further council, but I expect you to set a date for your court to annul the marriage.”
Heraclius took the news in tight-lipped silence but eventually bowed his head. “As you wish, sire.”
“Good, it is settled.”
Baldwin made a peremptory gesture to his attendants, who bore him from the chamber, followed by his barons. Heraclius left too, stalking off in a different direction, his expression blank, but the underlying anger and frustration clear to all.
“The patriarch certainly favors de Lusignan,” William said.
“It is more that he favors Princess Sybilla,” Onri replied, “and she is devoted to her husband. The patriarch wants everyone to unite behind Sybilla as ruler, with de Lusignan to carry out her bidding, but unfortunately, de Lusignan is unpredictable, and those who could temper and restrain him are disinclined to be his allies.” Onri pursed his lips. “The patriarch is a slippery fish. He will prevaricate with his date and, in the meantime, try to soften the king into conciliating.”
“Can the marriage be dissolved?” William asked.
“Heraclius will find all kinds of legal difficulties to push his argument,” Onri replied. “I am not aware of any consanguineous link between the two that could
be exploited. I supposed the king might claim the marriage was forced and that his sister was betrothed to Hugh of Burgundy at the time.”
“Was she?”
“It was being mooted but had not gone beyond a notion. But forged documents are no rarity in these parts, and who knows if ‘proof’ will suddenly appear?”
William folded his arms. “If the marriage is dissolved, who then will govern?”
Onri shrugged. “Who can say? The king’s days are numbered, but only God knows his remaining span. Envoys will go to England and France and offer the throne of Jerusalem to the princes there, but no expedition will set out until late spring at the earliest. And who knows if such a prince will come? For now, all we can do is bide our time and pray.”
* * *
Baldwin remained at Kerak for two more days, attending to business and gathering strength for the return to Jerusalem. William used the time to train his men and horses, for skills had to be kept sharp, and since everyone of influence was gathered here, it was an opportunity to display their military talents to interested parties. Since a wedding had recently been celebrated and Saladin thwarted, the session soon turned into an impromptu tourney to celebrate the earlier curtailed festivities.
William and his men had tourneyed and fought together for so many years that, even without recent training, they were a tight unit and proudly displayed the lance, sword, and horse work that had made them famous across the tourney fields of France and Flanders, Normandy and Hainault. Knights from other retinues armed up and took to the dusty ground outside the castle walls, and there were some determined exchanges between the teams, even if the mood was amicable. As William seized the bridle of an opponent and rendered him hors de combat, he experienced a sunburst of joy and exultation. For a moment, he was a young knight again, thundering across a grassy field on Blancart, his first destrier, with the world at his feet. The image superimposed itself on the arid practice ground and the dust smoke burning around Flambur’s hooves as he maneuvered in his natural environment, displaying the valor and burnish of his troop to an audience of discerning potential clients. Bringing the opposing knight, a man of Ibelin, to yield, William could clearly sense Harry’s presence at his shoulder, a laughing, golden-haired phantom, urging him on.
Taking respite to drink watered wine and eat some bread while waiting for his second horse to be saddled, William developed a distinct feeling that he was being watched, but a sweeping search of the gathered audience yielded no result.
“We’ve taken four knights for ransom already, sire!” Eustace’s face was alight with enthusiasm.
William grinned at the squire. “And more lining up for the privilege. If we can take another four between us, it will keep us solvent beyond Christmas.”
Ancel joined them, red and sweating. “The one on the roan stallion,” he panted, “in the blue surcoat. That’s a horse worth having. Turns on a penny, and look at the rump on him—there’s speed.”
William followed Ancel’s gaze to a knight who had recently joined the field with his retinue. The sheen of the stallion’s coat was almost metallic and its movements as fluid as water. The knight was accomplished and swift, like his horse. It would be no easy matter to take him, but if he could be overcome, then the reward would be to great advantage.
William donned his helm and mounted Flambur. Gathering the reins, he glanced at the crowd through the helm’s eye slits, and this time, because his own gaze was concealed, he trapped his watcher. The patriarch’s concubine, Paschia de Riveri, was studying him intently. Taking one hand off the reins, he flourished a salute. She immediately lifted her chin and turned to speak to the lady at her side as if he were of no consequence.
William grinned inside the helmet and took up his lance. Ancel joined him on Byrnie, and together they mustered their team and returned to the field.
The knight on the silver roan was immediately eager to challenge William and made his horse caracole and paw the air. William signaled his answer and pricked Flambur with the spur and launched him toward his opponent. The roan sprang from its hocks in a dazzling burst of speed, and William swiftly adjusted his position and shield angle.
His opponent’s lance struck his shield and splintered, and if William had been less skilled or experienced, he would have been hurled from the saddle. His own lance had shattered too, so he cast it aside and caught the fresh one Eustace tossed to him. Again, the knights charged together and broke their lances, dust billowing.
William’s adversary reached for William’s bridle to try to drag him from the field. Two more knights galloped up to help, intent on bringing down this newcomer from England, and William drew his sword and pressed with his knees, commanding Flambur to rear and kick and break the hold. As the stallion pawed the air, the knight lost his grip, and William pivoted, won free, and spun away to cut behind one of the other knights, seize his bridle, and, in turn, take him captive.
The knight on the roan pursued William, who immediately transferred his prisoner to Ancel, turned again, reversing the pursuit, and entered the killing space behind his adversary. Bringing his sword down on the warrior’s helm, he dealt a vigorous blow, making the forceful point that, if this had been a true battle, the knight would have died. Urging Flambur alongside the roan, it was now his turn to grab the bridle and attempt to drag his prize to the side of the field and secure his win. The horses pushed and barged each other, shoulder to shoulder, and the knight struggled to escape William’s grip but was caught fast as Geoffrey FitzRobert arrived on the other side and hemmed him in.
William and his team brought their “prisoners” to the refuges at the side of the field, there to take pledges of ransom. William’s opponent proved to be a knight attached to the patriarch’s household, one Thomas of Auvergne. While not overjoyed at being taken for ransom, he accepted his defeat manfully, preferring to pledge money for his horse rather than hand him over to William. He was also eager to return to the field to win some of that pledge back from others less talented. William was courteous and affable and let him off lightly. It was always useful to grease the wheels of courtesy with fellow warriors.
“You could have taken him for a lot more,” Ancel said as they watched their man spur back into the fray. “His horse alone would have fetched a hundred marks at home.”
“But better an ally than an enemy,” William replied, and glanced toward the audience. The lady Paschia had risen to leave, but at the last moment, she glanced at him over her shoulder and half smiled before turning away.
* * *
The next morning, Baldwin set out for Jerusalem, leaving a detail of laborers and sergeants to repair the walls and bolster the garrison. Saracen scouts tailed the column and lightly harassed the baggage train like bothersome flies but were periodically chased off by parties of knights. The lighter-armed Turkish warriors had no intention of coming within range of the muscular power of knights on warhorses, and the knights, in their turn, did not wish to become victims of the highly skilled Turkish horse archers. It was a game of tease and taunt. William took his turn among them and galloped out a couple of times with his troop, returning with two arrows buried in his red lion shield.
On approaching Jerusalem, Baldwin had himself transferred from his litter onto a docile white palfrey, so he could enter the city as a victorious sovereign and leader. William had been helping to keep the path clear as they neared the city. Riding close to Baldwin, who was flagging, he could tell that the king was in great discomfort. Briefly, he thought of Harry—all that life and energy wasted in battling his father for the right to rule more than just a tourney field, and now this other young king, burdened with overwhelming responsibility and clinging to the edge as it crumbled away.
“Sire, if I may assist you to your litter,” William said as they arrived at the royal enclave close by the city gate. He dismounted, threw his reins to Eustace, and went to help the king. A miasmic odor of sweat and
rot emanated from Baldwin’s body, but William ignored it, concentrating on performing the task with dignity and honor.
“Attend me,” Baldwin commanded, and his bearers lifted his litter and bore him into the palace, where more servants waited to see to his needs. “Take me to the Countess of Jaffa’s chamber,” he instructed. “I have business there.”
Exchanging looks but not speaking, the bearers carried Baldwin along a corridor and up a short flight of steps to an arched doorway that led into a room of tumbled and strewn disarray.
Standing behind Baldwin, William gazed at empty coffers, rumpled bedclothes, and an overturned stool. The braziers that should have warmed the room and imparted a delicate scent of incense were silted with ashes. A mouse sat in the middle of a crumb-strewn platter, nibbling a morsel of stale bread. Startled, it whisked down an abandoned silk scarf trailing over the edge of a coffer and vanished under a cupboard.
Baldwin clambered out of the litter and struggled to his feet. “Where is my sister?” he demanded. “Why is she not here to greet me? Someone find her and bring her to me—and my nephew.”
“She is not here, my son,” Baldwin’s mother announced from the door. “Thank God you have returned and that you are safe.”
William turned to regard Agnes of Courtenay. If she had been slim before, now she was almost skeletal, her skin yellow tinged. William had been at court long enough by now to have heard the many tales of the power she had once wielded. Of her beauty, her driving ambition, and her supposed affairs, including one with the patriarch. But the lady who stood here now was an old woman, struggling with serious illness.
“What do you mean she is not here?” Baldwin snapped. “Where is she? And where is Guy?”
“I mean precisely what I say,” Agnes replied curtly. “Guy arrived in haste and said they must leave immediately. I tried to stop them, but they refused to listen. I was worried that there had been a disaster at Kerak, because Guy was wearing his armor, covered in dust, and would tell me nothing.”
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