Otto laughed at the jest. It was old times rediscovered: the conversations around the fire late into a starlit night, the supportive clap of a hand to his shoulder, the calm instruction in life and combat. Few things could lift his spirits like the company of Brother Luke. As for Sergeant Hugh, the English bowman was gone to ground and perchance gone for good. Reliability was not his strongest suit. The lure of brighter things and richer pickings, the chance to fill the coffers of his hidden treasury, might have taken him on further journey. Collapse and instability for ever favoured the mercenary instinct. Yet Otto had grown inured then fond of his coarse and brazen ways. A presence sadly missed.
‘He is vanished, Brother Luke. Without warning, he slipped the bonds of Acre away into the night.’
‘No harm is done by it. We shall recover my lambs without him.’
‘You have a plan?’
‘One that may yet challenge fate. Fetch your sword and cuirie armour, and find good horse. We embark upon crusade.’
Dutifully, and with eager spring of action in his step, Otto girded himself to obey.
Others were on mission of their own. As the royal galley headed for Jabala, a battered and less prepossessing sailing-ship made south towards Arsur. It might have been a trading-vessel, a carrier of food and men running late to resupply hidden endeavour. Instead, it ferried Sergeant Hugh. The Englishman had not waited for orders, would anyway have ignored them. On a whim, and fuelled by wild urge and prospect of a fight, he had commandeered a three-master, persuaded its crew, encouraged his drinking friends and sparring rivals to join him in pressing quest. They were a rowdy and motley crowd, easily convinced. Belligerent, tough, eager to believe in tales of gold, they followed the bowman on board. He understood them well, knew they would slit a throat or belly through inclination and not command. That could prove useful.
‘There are thirty of us, brothers.’ He clenched the longbow in his fist and lifted it above his head. ‘We may encounter force of thousands.’
A shout came from the assembled. ‘Does it not frighten you, Hugh of York?’
‘It will make me rich.’
‘Have you a scheme?’
‘Depend on it, brother. It is to kill any who oppose us, to take what is not rightfully ours.’
Through the cheers another question. ‘How may we outnumbered win in open contest?’
‘Who considers it should be open? You are unruly dogs and pirates, the lowest of snakes and vermin. Yet I love you as my own, depend on you to light the wildfire of chaos, to fight foul and foulest.’
‘You choose well in us, Hugh of York.’
‘For I see you well.’ He grinned at his companions. ‘There is not one of you with whom I have not drunk or scrapped these twenty years. I thank you for it, respect you for it. Now I ask you to pay for it.’
More ovation and enthusiastic clamour. In Acre, they had grown bored of their inertia, fretful at the decline of Outremer. The chance to bloody the nose of the Lord of Arsur was a fine excuse for expedition, an opportunity to sharpen swords blunted by neglect and to squeeze into mildewed jerkins and rusted mail abandoned to posterity. Sergeant Hugh had touched a nerve, at this moment tapped resource. Midriffs might be fuller, joints ache, but these men could still put the fear of God into the soul of a foe or pitch a javelin hard between his shoulder-blades.
The Englishman hushed them with a shake of his bow. ‘I recall how my king Cœur de Lion appeared as a strange and wondrous ibis through the feathered arrows placed in his side by wheeling and darting heathens.’
‘We face no Saracen.’
‘But you will fight like Lionheart himself.’ He rested his longbow at his side. ‘I promise you treasure, pledge you the earth if you stand with me. The Lord of Arsur seizes children, imprisons Christian pilgrims for his ends. Will we allow it?’
‘Never!’
‘Shall we force him to submit, to beg for our pardon?’
‘We shall!’
‘Do we grant it?’
‘No!’
Sergeant Hugh pointed the horned tip of the yew at his gathered brethren. ‘A man has told me that in Arsur lies destiny. It is our destiny, and ours to take.’
Approaching sundown, the boat swung in mild and unthreatening turn for the low cliffs of Arsur. Run-in to the harbour was slow, came without incident or challenge. The waters appeared deserted, the fortifications overlooking them devoid of life, sentries or the predicted routine of a vigilant garrison. Too quiet to be acceptable. Sergeant Hugh stood in the prow. At any moment he expected the flicker of arrows, the erupting yell of a charge. But nothing emerged. If there was ambush pending, it was held back well; if there had been army present, it was since departed. The bow nudged against the stones of the abandoned wharf.
Fortune favoured the foolish. Signalling by hand to his men, the Englishman leaped ashore. Once committed, there was little point in attempted retreat. He had already noticed the watchman idling towards them, the unsuspecting manner of his bearing. The man did not anticipate trouble. Plainly, he had never encountered Sergeant Hugh.
The bowman greeted the guard with friendly aplomb. ‘I have found graveyards more lively, my brother.’
‘Alas, the campaign begins and our army has marched. You are too late for the fray.’
‘I think not.’
He head-slammed the watchman flat and waved his men forward. They fanned out as he reached in his quiver and drew out the black shaft of a night terror.
At the fort of Beit-Nuba in the rugged hills that paraded towards Jerusalem, the Frankish hostages marked time and counted the days. When talks were done and peace achieved, when Saphadin returned to Damascus and John of Brienne to Acre, the five noble prisoners would be released. It was small sacrifice. Comfort prevailed, for the Saracen code was to show honour and generosity to high-born guests. No expense was spared, no extravagance denied. Yet guards patrolled and doors were barred. Whatever their rank, Lady Matilda and the lords of Haifa, Sidon, Caesarea and Arsur would not be making early escape.
In a large and vaulted chamber hung with tapestries of golden thread and swathed in the silken carpets and precious ornamentation of the East, the male prisoners sat and talked. They were powerful men of influence, ego and considerable fiefs. Not all were friends. But in this venture they had common cause and shared fate, could break bread and spend their sentence in cordiality and strained acceptance. The Lord of Arsur lingered at the periphery, as though waiting.
Tearing off and consuming a piece of honeyed pastry, the Lord of Sidon rested in his chair. ‘What sorry pass is this? We eat, drink, dice and play chess. And still no word.’
‘It will come.’ The Lord of Caesarea studied the chequered board. ‘Besides, my brother lord, what would you do in Sidon other than sit on your arse and eat sweet dainties?’
‘There is always money to count, whores to pleasure.’
‘Your beloved wife to avoid.’
The Lord of Sidon grimaced. ‘That I were young again and had the power of foresight!’
‘They say she was once a rare beauty.’
‘It is certainly rare to transform to such an ogress.’ A further morsel of pastry disappeared.
‘Do as our brother Lord of Arsur.’ The Lord of Caesarea moved an ivory shtranj piece and eliminated a carved Bedouin from the ranks of the Lord of Haifa. ‘Is it two or three wives he has so carelessly lost?’ The taunt went unanswered.
Standing and stretching, the Lord of Sidon gazed morosely through a window slit. He did not enjoy incarceration, had fared badly in previous encounter with the Saracen. Being held on their territory and terms was unhelpful to his mood.
‘Time may wear down a man.’
The Lord of Arsur replied from the far side of the room. ‘Can it not also make a man reflect, a noble ponder his insignificance and vulnerability at great moment?’
‘You philosophize too much, my brother noble.’
‘Perhaps.’ The Lord of Arsur seemed unconcerned. ‘And perhaps you
do not think at all.’
‘What insult is this?’
‘One that is the truth. One that shows you as dolt and dullard unworthy of respect.’
The face of the Lord of Sidon darkened choleric-red. He could not let offence pass, could not allow injury to pride and honour. In an instant, temperature and disposition had changed. The players paused at their chess, the affronted baron squared up. Opposite, his adversary was unmoved.
It was the veteran Lord of Haifa who broke the wavering silence. ‘Withdraw your serpent words, my lord, or deal with their consequence.’
‘Rather, I will tell you of things.’ The Lord of Arsur folded his hands. ‘I will advise you of the deaths of John of Brienne and Sultan Saphadin of Damascus. I will announce to you how their vassals and barons, emirs and senior knights fall to the blade in the tent at Jabala.’
The Lord of Haifa rose from his game. ‘Satanic spell ensnares your mind.’
‘On the contrary, my lord. It is you and your fellow nobles before me who are held ensnared, your brothers who lie slain in the square of Jabala, your lands and possessions that pass forfeit to me.’
There might have been violent riot once shock had abated and rage set in. Interruption prevented it. Shouts and screams and the jarring percussion of swordplay poured through a door that slammed wide in sudden invasion. Dishevelled and bewilder-eyed, Matilda was pushed through. Her confusion was merited. Around her were unfamiliar guards, well armed, ferocious and already blooded. Their handiwork had been displayed in the corpses on her route.
The Lord of Arsur greeted their arrival with modest formality. ‘I expected such occasion.’
‘Explain this.’ Matilda threw off the restraining hands of her captors.
‘Explanation will come with the army that marches for Beit-Nuba, that will proceed unchecked upon Jerusalem.’ He silenced the jabbering protest with a sweep of his hand. ‘All will bow and pay tribute to me. The Saracen, the Christian, the Jew.’
‘I will not.’ Defiant, the grey-haired Lord of Caesarea shouted his response.
‘A sad error of judgement and a life cut short, Aymar of Caesarea.’
The abrupt closeness of death could stall conversation. With a heavy downward stroke, the blade of a sword crashed through the skull of the seated noble. His head clove in a shower of bone and broken teeth, the divided sections of his face falling away until connected only by his beard. A grotesque and yawning gap. Matilda clutched her own face as though holding it together; the Lord of Haifa stared dumbly at the twitching remnants of his gaming-partner. Close by, the countenance of the Lord of Sidon had travelled through several hues to settle on a lighter shade of grey. The focus of their concentration slouched unrecognizable, his arm flung out and shuddering on the emptied chessboard. Checkmate.
An event of no consequence for the Lord of Arsur. ‘Your game appears ended.’
‘What of yours?’ The words of Matilda were soft with horror.
‘Mine is started. From cardinals in Rome to the commander of this fort, from the Assassins in the tent at Jabala to my agents in Jerusalem: all labour to my ends, everything keeps to plan.’
‘You contrived war and then peace?’
‘I set Mohammedan against Frank, attacked trade caravans and peaceful estates, brought fire and murder to the heart of each court. I pushed Saphadin and John of Brienne towards conflict and offered them chance of peace.’
‘A chance they could not refuse.’
‘Do drowning men ignore the overhanging branch? Decision that is their ruin.’
‘With such act, you plant seed for your own.’ Matilda glanced quickly at the scene of butchery and back to the Lord of Arsur.
‘There will ever be casualty when object is greatness. I did not lightly strip power from John of Brienne, did not casually take his infant Yolanda or slay his companions Sir William de Picton and the Lord of Jebail.’
‘You?’
‘Purpose exists in every deed.’
‘Wickedness also.’
The Lord of Haifa stepped forward and was blocked by a sharp display of swords. ‘I will show you purpose. You will not escape with this deception.’
‘Have I not done so?’ The tormentor stooped and rose holding a scattered and bloody chess-piece. ‘What are you but an abandoned fragment of a toppled order, my scarred and battered Lord of Haifa?’
‘I am soldier and noble.’
‘You are nothing.’
‘While you are traitor of the foulest kind.’
The Lord of Arsur observed him blankly. ‘Recognize that I am your new king, that Lady Matilda will become my queen.’
Matilda stared. ‘I would prefer to die.’
‘Such wish may be granted once you provide my son and heir.’
‘You believe this daydream and nightmare notion will go unchallenged?’ The Lord of Haifa quivered in wrath and fear and impotent feeling. ‘Saracens will unite against you; the princes of Europe will hunt you down.’
‘The heathens will have no master, the Christian kings no reason to hate me. For I am conqueror, ruler of Jerusalem, saviour of all Palestine and the holy sites.’
‘Pretender and knave.’
‘Many are with me; the rest shall die.’
‘Then I must die.’
The Lord of Haifa took it as a man, received the blade full and deep in the chest. He staggered back, his eyes rolling, his silk mantle blossoming wet-red to the impact, and fell. Two down. Blood created a particular outline and smell. Its effect on the remaining nobleman was marked. The Lord of Sidon was on his knees, pleading and weeping, pledging allegiance.
It was accepted with unblinking coldness. ‘On your feet, servant. Fate speeds and I ride for Jerusalem.’
How things could change. In the quiet aftermath, when the Lord of Arsur had departed and the corpses were borne away, Matilda stood as the broken Lord of Sidon sobbed and rocked himself in huddled wretchedness. Around her, the spatter and detritus of recent event remained uncleared. It did not matter. She was somewhere else, in a protecting place, in the strong and loving arms of Otto.
‘We will dwell in the House of the Lord for ever.’
Kurt fervently hoped so. He swayed to the jolting movement of the cart, felt the parallel rhythm of Isolda beside him. It was not quite how he had envisaged reaching the city of Jerusalem. Of course he preferred to live, but options were closed and death become his shadow. Above the loud and forceful prayers of Egon, he could hear the lowing of oxen, the rumble of wagons, the singing of hymns, the tramp of feet. They were not comforting sounds. An army was on the march, slow and inexorable in its progress, and the sacrificial offerings stood crowded and transported ever onward. ‘Amen,’ the children said. For all the good it would do them.
Strength and Bravery. He remembered well the exhortation of Brother Luke, could recall the days of companionship and delight, the weeks when struggle seemed worthwhile. That struggle had carried him through shipwreck and danger, had led him to threatening encounter of every kind, had ended here. Such a pity. He craned his neck and studied the grey and trudging forms, tried to count the sloped tips of pikes. Anything to while the time, to escape the confines of his open tumbril and the true nature of the journey. In other transports there were more children, some sick and some dying, all passing to oblivion. For the first day, he had thought an arrow of Sergeant Hugh would soar high and puncture the bad dream. During the second, he had believed Otto might appear and ride at full tilt to snatch them away. By the third day, numb acceptance had replaced all hope.
‘What do they sing, Kurt?’
‘They are Cathars, Isolda. Who knows what they mean?’ He looked at his sister. ‘I swear they are more content than we.’
‘It would be no trial or contest.’ She smiled uncertainly, and comforted the mute Zepp at her side.
‘We keep our heads high and show no fear.’
‘There is little terror left for me. What have we not together faced, Kurt?’
He leane
d and kissed her cheek. ‘Had we stayed in our village, we would never have seen the sights we have seen, never encountered Otto and Brother Luke.’
‘Nor met Sergeant Hugh.’
He laughed. ‘We travelled and witnessed no dragons or monsters, yet fell in with bodyguard to the Lionheart himself.’
‘So many have fought for us, sought to aid our quest.’
‘Now we are left to ourselves.’
A daunting prospect. Kurt again stared beyond the heaving edges of the cart. In this measured stampede, there was scant chance of escape. By day they were surrounded and watched; by night they were bound and still surrounded. The previous morn he had observed a boy drop from the rear of a trundling wagon and make suicidal dash for invented safety. Dodging and weaving, the youngster had leaped through openings and scrambled past feet, his legs pumping, his face strained, his dark mane of hair flying triumphant at the pace. Panic, fear, the elation of sudden freedom carried him fast. Yet the Cathars reached him, caught him, fell on him as a pack. Kurt shook off the memory. The boy must have been about his age.
Egon reached and patted his shoulder. ‘Tell us of the True Cross.’
‘It was a mystic and magic thing, like no other relic in its size and beauty or the precious gems with which it was set.’
A child called out. ‘Were there rubies?’
‘Rubies and emeralds and diamonds as large as any egg.’
‘They say it will cure disease.’
The son of the blacksmith nodded. ‘They further say it gives power to those who possess it.’
‘We know it to be true.’ Kurt gestured to the rolling scene. ‘Where is there greater show of strength than this?’
‘Will the Lord of Arsur let us live?’ A little girl with pinched and tear-stained features asked the question most avoided.
‘The True Cross may make him wise.’ Kurt stroked her head. ‘It may also render him merciful.’
‘Should we forgive him his sins?’
‘We at least must try.’
Egon begged to differ. ‘I forgive him nothing, Kurt. I curse him for each day he held us in his dungeon, for every hour we are herded in this fashion.’
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