‘Our quest was to reach Jerusalem, and now we shall.’
‘And beyond it?’ What of the valley to which we are taken, in which we meet our fate?’
Unexpectedly, the face that had darkened with grim anxiety lightened at discovery of a hidden joke. Egon, so steady and solid, began to laugh.
Kurt peered at him bemused. ‘Share with us your mirth, brother.’
‘I shall.’ Doubled over, the older boy gasped for breath. ‘You recall how we grumbled at unfairness of walking, complained at how the preacher-boy Nikolas enjoyed passage in leisure and cart? It seems now we have everything for which we prayed.’
They shared in his amusement, the moment sharpening and driving their hunger for relief. Circumstance could create its own frivolous and infectious madness. The children were lost to it, wept in their hilarity.
Levity ceased. Astride a black charger, threading through the onward mass of his Believers, the Perfect made his way towards them. He rode alongside and scrutinized his young captives with satisfied air. They met all requirements, would nourish the bare earth with their blood.
His gaze alighted longest on Kurt. ‘Lift your eyes heavenward, child. It is where your liberated spirit is soon to dwell.’
In the van, the Templar arrowhead forged across the desert scrubland for the squat bulk of the Judaean hills. God was on their side. It was for Him they acted, for Him they crusaded, rode, sought the Holy City. With a single blow they would expunge the humiliation of Hattin twenty-five years before, would establish themselves again as rightful occupants and guardians of Temple Mount. There was symmetry and sweetness in what they did. Some would protest, might not understand. The fainthearts of Europe, the indolent rulers, the Pope whose permission had not been sought. But they would be convinced. Victory provided its own justification.
Grand Master Du Plezier slapped the reins of his mount and urged the beast on. There was no going back, no waiting a further quarter-century at the periphery of Palestine and on the margins of history. His warrior monks would again hold sway. True, the Cathars made strange bedfellows, the mercenaries were beneath contempt, the Lord of Arsur was an opaque presence he barely comprehended. Yet the new ruler would be strong. It was what the Christian world lacked, what would restore Outremer as bringer of civilization and scourge of the heathen. A proud and defining moment. Nothing would keep him from kneeling at Calvary where the Saviour was crucified, from prostrating himself across the Stone of Unction where the body of Christ was anointed, from kissing the marble of the Holy Sepulchre where the Lamb of God was once buried. Not even an aged Franciscan and his vexing antics on the island of Arwad could prevent the will and direction of fate.
What privilege to be a Templar, to wear the blood-red cross and march beneath the sacred black and white of their Bauceant banner. About him, the noise of hooves thudded with steel purposefulness through the linked rings of his mailed hood. The din of holy war and uncontested advance. Before them was Latrun, and beyond it the ascent to Jerusalem and greatness.
He raised a hand to shield his eyes, had seen what the scouts now scurried to report. The earth was alive. From nowhere and from everywhere, as though transformed from rock itself, an army shimmered into view. It spilled into a widening arc, its flanks racing and unfurling, its troops manoeuvring in close and ordered array. There were the Mohammedan colours of green and black, the plumes of Turcomans, the pennants of Mamluks. And with them too was the unexpected: the white eight-pointed crosses of Hospitallers and black German symbols of the Teutons. The way was blocked. Leading the formation were two white-bearded generals, one a Saracen in magnificent silken robes of state, the other a doughty Frank armed and garbed for war. The Sultan of Damascus and the regent king of Outremer were arrived to give battle.
Chapter 20
Surface tension, an invisible force that attracted and repelled, seemed to stall immediate action. The armies faced each other. Behind the forward line of pavise shields, crossbowmen crouched and cocked their weapons; to the rear of these, infantry stood with arms sloped and cavalry horses champed and fretted. Inertia would end with a single fire-arrow rising high, with a shouted command and downward sweep of a sword. Then the rush and slaughter could begin. But, for the present, only dread and uneasy near-silence prevailed.
Almost twelve thousand men whispered prayers or said nothing, listened to their own breath and heartbeat. Some stooped to take and put to their mouths a morsel of earth in final sacrament, lip service to be closer to God and to prepare for forthcoming return to dust. Each tip of a blade or spear was a nerve-end. Heavy steel helmets were lifted and donned. For their knightly wearers, the world was narrowed to the vision field of eye-slits, focus reduced to the separating distance and the need to kill. Two hundred yards. The death strip.
Under flag of truce, and accompanied each by an officer, Grand Master Du Plezier and John of Brienne trotted their mounts out to the centre of no man’s land. They eyed each other with mutual antipathy and accusation.
‘There is only damnation where you head, Du Plezier.’
‘At least it will be with sword and lance in our hands and the name of Jesus on our lips.’
‘Christian against Christian?’ The regent gazed from the Templars opposite to his Hospitallers and Teutons waiting and massed. ‘Is this why your Order was founded? Is this why you took sacred vow?’
‘I pledged to fight the heathen.’
‘Instead, you harm Outremer, endanger the very lives and faith you claim to serve.’
‘Unlike you, I do not consort with Saracen army, John of Brienne.’
‘Saracen army poised and ready. Saracen army that will devour our kingdom should we choose war over quest for peace.’
‘Peace is illusory.’
‘It is necessary.’
‘Who else will take Jerusalem if not ourselves, John of Brienne?’
‘Your vainglorious attempt is not in the name of God, but in the traitorous service of the Lord of Arsur.’
‘He is strong as you are weak.’
‘It is you who has weakened me, Philippe Du Plezier. It is you who shall pay.’
Impasse had physical form. The two commanders continued to sit in their saddles, Franks already engaged in battle of a kind. Too much had been committed for easy retreat. Positions had been taken, loyalties placed. Men would rather lose life than face.
The regent leant to scrutinize the features of the Grand Master. ‘Did you imagine it would finish this way, Du Plezier?’
‘Campaign is not done.’
‘You cannot break through, though you may yet retire.’
‘Retire?’ The eyes of the holy warrior flickered resistance. ‘When have you known a force of Templars to withdraw?’
‘When Our Saviour would counsel it and reason dictate it.’
‘I see no merit in frailty and cowardice.’
‘Yet you discern purpose in leading your Order to oblivion, in being last and most thoughtless of Grand Masters.’
‘I will write my own epitaph, John of Brienne.’
‘Victors have that comfort. You will be no victor.’
For a brief instant, doubt clouded and faded on the features of the Templar knight. The regent saw. He had conducted enough negotiation, survived the vagaries and brinkmanship of sovereign rule, to understand when to commit and when to hold. He would break his opponent. If it killed him.
He jabbed an armoured finger at Du Plezier. ‘Ponder beyond this barren field, dwell long upon your fate should you fail to die in battle.’
‘I am in the hands of Christ.’
‘You will be in the embrace of our torturers and executioners, shall face the ire of the Christian world. Neither the Pope nor kings of Europe will show mercy. You will be tied to the stake, have kindling placed about you, will smell and taste and feel your skin blacken and fall burning to the flame.’
A harsh laugh carried short in the throat. ‘Who are you to think I fear?’
‘If not in trepidatio
n of superior force, then perhaps of the judgement of history.’ John of Brienne waved an arm. ‘See your brother Grand Masters who ride with me, the knights and holy crosses of their Orders beside them. Are they wrong?’
‘They lack our zealous intent and purity of motive.’
‘No greatness or immortality resides in failure, Du Plezier.’
‘Nor in ceding ground.’
‘We have learned in detail of your preparations at the fortress of Tortosa and the isle of Arwad, of how you intended your galleys to encircle and destroy me.’
‘The aim was noble.’
‘The result is ignominy and eternal shame. Your bones shall be dust and scattered with those of heretic Cathars, your memory cursed and spat upon.’
The collision of wills was a noiseless affair. The reckless error of his ways only slowly permeated the consciousness of the Grand Master. He had not meant things to happen in this fashion. Triumph was intended to be swift, the verdict kind. Instead, he had led his men and Order into morass.
He frowned. ‘How may we atone, John of Brienne?’
‘With humility and departure to your castles.’
‘I will not abase myself before you.’
‘That I do not seek.’ The regent maintained his stone-faced glare. ‘Be aware that none has shed sweat and blood for our values more than I or stood to arms when needed. Our deaths now are not required.’
‘It is eternal battle in which we engage.’
‘Live again to fight it.’
Deal was struck, yet not quite complete. It would be sealed with honour combat, the meeting of two warriors and the death of one. Agreement and reparation demanded ritual reddening. Better the token loss of a champion than the senseless slaughter of many. So the commanders returned to their lines and the gaping arena once more lay vacant.
A horse appeared and walked with deliberate and blinkered tread for the heart of the field. Its rider was a curious and unsettling sight, a bent figure in the worn mantle of a knight, a ghoul in sackcloth hood who clutched a shield and sword. There were mutterings among the soldiers, talk of Satan and of fallen angels. The apparition continued.
Completing his parade before the ranks, he turned towards regent and Sultan and removed the cover from his face. Collective horror spread in a single gasp. The army spasmed, shuffled as though seeking to put distance between itself and the diseased and ravaged presence revealed before it. The knight was a leper, a brother of St Lazarus. His raw disfigurement had erased all human semblance.
‘Stare well, my friends.’ The voice of the man was harsh with sickness. ‘Is this not power, to make an army tremble at my approach?’
John of Brienne shouted to him. ‘Begone from us, you demon.’
‘Surely it is no way to treat a champion?’
‘You are unclean, a stranger to our midst.’
‘Even scavengers may bite, even outcasts offer challenge with sword. I am your reflection, John of Brienne and Saphadin al-Adil, product of this decayed land and image of the future.’
‘You are an unworthy adversary for so precious a fight.’
‘That is a judgement for any who would dare oppose me.’ The grotesque threw down a gauntlet on the earth. ‘I was once a noble, a pious and godly man. Yet fate consumed me, humankind despised me, Christ abandoned me. This day I return from the grave and raise my blade to all.’
He wheeled his steed, cantered to the midway mark, and dismounted. There he stood, a lone misshapen form hemmed in by weight of numbers and pressing expectation. Honour killing was demanded, and he would provide. The crowd stirred. A young man had stepped from the Hospitaller ranks and bent to recover the gauntlet, was crossing the ground with measured stride and presenting himself for contest.
The leader of the Knights of St Lazarus unhooked the shield from his horse and slapped the mount away. ‘You are brave to face me twice, Otto of Alzey.’
‘As you are unwise to offer second chance.’
‘There is no such chance. On this occasion you will die.’
Otto flexed and turned his wrist, steadied his breathing, controlled his balance. The sword was ready in his hand. He did not plan a repeat of their last encounter, to again end prone and this monstrous fiend stand to decide life or death above him. That would be fatal. For present circumstance he wore an open helmet on his head, bore in his left hand a shield of the Order of St John. The Blessed Virgin would watch over him. Matilda would wait for him.
The leper studied his opponent. ‘You believe yourself a knight because you come armed as one?’
‘I aspire to knightly virtue.’
‘What is virtue when men fight as baited dogs in a pit between two armies.’
‘My cause is true.’
‘And what is truth, Otto of Alzey? Control of Jerusalem? Dominion of one faith over another? Power in the Holy Land?’
‘I did not barter my soul to the Lord of Arsur.’
‘For you had no need.’ Words grated through the lipless mouth. ‘He alone offered the hand of amity, raised us up beyond the status of dung and scurrying beetles.’
‘Violent misdeed has no defence.’
‘And no redemption save butchery.’ The knight stepped back and tapped his longsword on the stony ground. ‘The beast will ever devour youth and beauty.’
Courtesies were done. With grand gesture and sweeping suddenness, the leper brigand swung his blade for early kill. The strike went nowhere, skittering wide. Otto answered with bludgeoning thrust that too was parried. Duel had commenced in earnest. It would end when a corpse lay sprawled or a blood-trail led to a wounded man begging to be spared. There was no room for pause or pity in the conflict zone. Another hit deflected, a further adjustment made. In virtuoso sequence, blows were swapped and space traded, the rivals moving, feinting, darting close and fast. Minutes passed with visceral grunts and physical contortion, with cascading sweat, with metallic shock delivered and absorbed. Still no advantage.
The armies looked on. Before them, the pair of combatants circled and sparred. The young one was doing well, pushing in, holding his gain. But the deformed troll of a knight was no wet-nosed pupil. He beat away the onslaught with flurry of his own, the lightning snap and clash of his double-edged blade showing fightback and ferocity. It could go either way.
Smearing the perspiration from his eyes, Otto leaped back, drew the knight in, and dashed down with his sword. The leper stumbled. It was not enough to permit the terminal cut. The blade glanced from the battered shield, leaving Otto open, forcing him into hasty recoil. They were both tiring. Storm had abated to squall, to more occasional gusts of aggression. A period when attention drifted and mistakes were made. He thought of the bridge and their last meeting, watched the eyes, the direction of flow. The two of them were almost friends.
Breakthrough was unexpected. In a howl of pain, propelled by a jagged assault that tore rotten flesh from his face, the knight tumbled heavily on his side. Illness and injury conspired against him. He tried to drag himself up, but his leg was weak and would not carry him. He reached for his sword, but Otto stamped on his hand and kicked the weapon away. There was yet his dagger. He fumbled for it, found a larger blade in contact with his hand. His gauntlet leached blood and again he screamed.
Otto angled his sword for steep and backhanded stroke. ‘Fortune turns, knight.’
‘Is not that the stuff of life?’ The leper was guttural-indistinct through the red swamp of his face. ‘You are victor and inherit nothing.’
‘I have everything for which I fight.’
‘Honour and praise, the gratitude of all, the glance and bed of every fair maid in Outremer?’
‘The love of one suffices.’
‘And now you may present her with severed head of a Gorgon.’ Uncompromising, the knight of St Lazarus gazed up at him. ‘Take your prize, Otto of Alzey.’
‘We have our reward. It is peace.’
The young noble stalked away. Blood had been drawn and his task achieved. Many wou
ld want to see his challenger dispatched. Chivalry and redress demanded it. Yet he had no wish to oblige, no appetite to exact revenge on one who had earlier shown him lenience. Kindness deserved reciprocity. He was saving retribution for the Lord of Arsur, reserving his energies for the ride to Beit-Nuba.
‘Attend, Otto of Alzey.’
He called over his shoulder. ‘I tarry no longer.’
‘Would you place limit on time spent in company between father and son?’
‘You do not know of what you speak.’
‘I recognize myself once to have been Wilhelm of Alzey and you to be my progeny.’
Otto paused. There was no meaning in these lies, no earthly bond or symmetry between his beloved father and this murderous and foul spectre who twice had fought him. Reason proclaimed the man jested or was possessed. Experience dictated that mockery was part of the game, a weapon in the armoury. And yet . . .
He twisted to look, allowed his body to follow. The knight of St Lazarus was upright, standing unarmed, his expression hidden behind the lacerated and putrefying mask. His younger rival stared, hoping for confirmation, a sign, searching within and without for familiarity and feeling. Deadness triumphed.
‘What is become of you, knight?’
‘Sometimes the Devil may catch a man unawares and make him his slave.’
‘You went willing to it.’
‘Is it so?’ A shrug of sorts. ‘The steel hoop may close about the neck, the manacles around the feet, before one ever wakes.’
‘We all have choice where we sleep.’
‘There is no rest among the jackals, and I grow sick and weary.’
‘As I am tired of excuse.’
‘Pick more wisely than I whom to serve, my son.’
Obliteration pre-empted settlement or reply. Decision was out of their hands, the threat unseen until it was close and thundering down upon the leper. A mounted knight of St Lazarus was galloping in fast for the kill. There were scores to settle, a beaten and tainted commander to be put from his misery and beyond enemy grasp. Otto watched the glint of the raised war-hammer, its descent and shattering impact. The body dropped. His father was down. He did not run to the corpse, did not cry out. The field of battle was no place for regret or searing introspection. Such an ending was inescapable, a blessing, avoided the need for blame or acceptance, reduced the number of questions to ask. Final moments were merely a blur of hooves and the hollow strike of steel on skull. The way most warriors preferred to go. He would reserve his love and sorrow for others.
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