Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  The King said, “Leave off, leave off; you will not spit at each other in front of me, and Saladin almost at the gates. Do you wish, Sibylla, we could arrange for you to be taken off somewhere safer.”

  She perched on the stool, her hands one over the other on her knee. She said, “I am staying here.”

  “Nobly said.” De Ridford exchanged a long harsh look with Kerak. The older man snorted, his meaty lips twisting.

  “Words, words. Put her in mail and give her a sword, and see how noble she looks.”

  The King’s voice snapped with anger. “My lord, I said, leave off! I will not endure this biting one another. We have Jerusalem to defend; let’s talk about that.”

  “Good, let’s do that.” The Wolf stuck his face forward, his jaw leading like a prow. “I came here to help you against the Mahounders. But we’re shut up idle, out of the way, and given no part in the defense of the city. Give me command! I’ll show you how to hold Jerusalem.”

  De Ridford set his fist on his hip. “We already know how to hold Jerusalem, my lord, against whoever comes against us. God gave us the Holy City, and we need no help from you!”

  The King said, “Yes. The officer in charge of the city is the commander, as I recall—”

  “He fell at the Litani,” de Ridford said, clipped. This was crossing another of his vexations. “We have elected someone else to the post, an ordinary knight, for what of better.” He shot an oblique look at Kerak, whose random hatred could perhaps be focused to some valuable end.

  “Who?” the King asked.

  “Rannulf Fitzwilliam,” said de Ridford, and then remembered, suddenly, that the King already knew him.

  The King straightened. His shapeless monster face was framed against the figured silks and shaved velvets of his clothes and cushions; there were sores all along his lips. His voice rang with certainty.

  “There is no better man in my whole kingdom. He will keep this city, by his sword and by his faith, and I shall support him utterly at it.”

  Kerak’s eyes glinted. He turned, and walked away across the room, his back impudently to the King. Baudouin hurled words after him. “My lord Kerak, it is the business of the Templars to keep order, leave them to it. You need but hold your men in readiness. When Saladin marches, we shall plan against him according to his course. In the meantime, let Rannulf Fitzwilliam do his work, he is very able at it.”

  De Ridford stepped back a pace. For a moment he could not endure this, the heaping of praise on another man, on a man he despised, but he forced himself to stay cool, to take the long view. He had already found out that Rannulf was one of the knights who accompanied the King back from the Litani River; obviously the Norman had ingratiated himself with Baudouin, more evidence of his perfidy and ambition.

  But also, perhaps, something that could be used. For some while de Ridford had been seeking a way inside the King’s trust.

  Kerak said, “Is that your word on it, then, Sire? I am to sit idle?”

  “You are to wait,” the King said. “You have my leave, my lord.”

  Kerak wheeled, and bowed, and stamped out of the room, with no more grace about it than a stablehand. The Marshall de Ridford said, “Sire, beware, he is a man without prudence.”

  The King said, “I know him well, my lord. But we can deal with him. As to the office of commander of Jerusalem, Rannulf is an excellent choice; bring him with you, when you come next.”

  De Ridford’s smile hurt his cheeks. He said, “As you wish, Sire.”

  “I hope to have reports from you as necessary.”

  “Yes, Sire,” de Ridford said.

  “You may go.”

  “Yes, Sire.” The Marshall bowed, and left.

  The King waved to his page to bring him a cup of wine; beside him, Sibylla gave a shake of her head.

  “They are all at odds. And yet we are in dire peril!”

  “They are fighting men,” Baudouin said. He drank deep of the heady, sustaining wine. “When there is no enemy in front of them they fight each other.”

  “Yes,” she said, “they are as much a danger to Jerusalem as the Saracens.”

  He laughed, as if she made some kind of joke. She gave him a sharp look. The page brought her a cup of the wine also, and she sent him for the aquamanile and watered the wine. The chamberlain was at the door, waiting to be summoned, and she gave him a hard look to keep him away and turned to her brother. “Are you tired? Perhaps you should rest.”

  “Bili,” he said, irritated, “stop mothering me. You can leave, if you wish.”

  “No,” she said. “I want to be here, and see what you do.”

  “Very well,” he said, and nodded to the chamberlain.

  A delegation from the merchants of the High City came in, to discuss opening their markets. She watched how her brother handled this, how he spoke evenly and courteously to each man, looking full at him, although he gave up nothing; the merchants left resigned to his commands, if not satisfied. He was a good King. The more she saw of him the more she admired his craft. Yet God was steadily destroying him, while men like Kerak flourished like a blowfly on carrion.

  She suppressed a start of anger at God, who dealt so cruelly with her brother. But God was good, and there had to be some purpose in it; and she was beginning to divine that the purpose lay in her, somehow, Sibylla, Queen of Jerusalem.

  A steady trickle of men came through the court, asking favors of the King, bringing him reports and complaints and offers. She watched how he dealt with them all, drinking the while of the strong red wine. This was truly King’s work, to direct all men’s fortunes. Yet she saw nothing in it beyond a woman’s grasp.

  What was it they did, anyway, she thought, that men believed was so past women? They fought, but she could find men to fight in her name.

  And in fact their readiness to fight made more trouble than it solved, and because of it, they solved very little, in the end. She could escape them, and eliminate the need for them, by simply not fighting any wars.

  As for the rest of it, she could be the equal of any of them. Certainly she could be as reckless as Kerak, and as treacherous as Tripoli, as ambitious as de Ridford, as clever as the King himself.

  She turned her face away from the room, to guard her thoughts, and that brought her gaze to the window, and out the window, to the wall of the city, the high upper story of David’s Gate, the limitless sky beyond.

  “Bili,” he said, after a while, “everybody’s gone, and we won’t ride the wall until after Sext; shall we play chess?”

  She swung around toward him, back into the game. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Bring the board, I want to play.”

  “While Saladin threatens us all it seems short-sighted to quarrel amongst ourselves,” de Ridford said. He had caught up with Kerak in the street.

  Kerak’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Since I have come into this country my chiefest struggle has been with craven Christians.”

  “In any case, if you have difficulties in Jerusalem, your quarrel’s not with me, but with Rannulf Fitzwilliam.” He glanced behind Kerak, looking over his knights. “You have more men than this, surely?” Kerak’s white-haired bastard was not among the half-dozen following him now.

  Kerak said smoothly, “I am well attended.”

  De Ridford said nothing for a moment. They were riding along the great street of the city, which led from David’s Gate back to the Temple; the shops along the way were all closed up, the gates all locked. He liked the city this way, still and empty; he hated the usual bustle of it, its stew of sights and sounds, the flocks of little faceless people who thought they were important when they mattered nothing.

  Kerak was different. Kerak was going to serve him, although of course the Wolf would never know that.

  The Marshall of the Temple said, “When Saladin comes we must stand together, and fight together, in God’s name, and our own.”

  “Well it is you are a monk, giving me all these sermons.” Kerak’s voice grated. They
were coming to the crossroads, where he would ride down to his palace near Bethesda Fountain. Kerak drew rein. His head swiveled on the thick creased column of his neck, his eyes narrow.

  “My men are knights, not common foot-draggers to be chivvied around and locked up like women. I can’t promise they will abide by some other man’s commands than mine.”

  De Ridford smiled at him. “As I said, your quarrel is with Rannulf Fitzwilliam.” His horse carried him tiptoe past the Lord of Kerak, up toward the Temple haram looming against the sky. He said, “Do what you must, my lord. Till seeing.” He gigged his horse into a lope along the steep road that led to the Stables of Solomon, under the Temple pavement.

  Stephen said, “What am I supposed to do with this?” He took the stick that Felx van Janke was handing to him.

  “You’ve never fought with staves?” Felx shot a quick look at him. “The drawbacks of being rich.” He held out another stick to Bear, who took it and laid it down beside him. They were sitting on the steps above the practice yard, waiting for the bells to ring for Sext. Felx dropped down next to them, his long legs thrust out.

  “Why are we getting sticks?” Stephen asked.

  Bear said, “We’re going out to do dirty work in the streets. Rannulf doesn’t want anybody sliced up; it goes against the vow, you see. So we get the staves. You’ve never used one? Stay on your horse and use it like a lance.”

  Felx said, “I had four brothers. One sword among us.” He rolled the stave over his wrist, caught it with the other hand, and spun it back again. “A good stick’s more tidy, anyway.” His head rose; he looked past Stephen, back up the steps, and called, “Well? When do we go out? Are we going to get some supper this time?”

  “Probably not,” Rannulf said. He came down among them, stopped on the steps, looking up at the sky. “I want everybody in the saddle by Nones. I wish it would rain; that would make this easier. Mouse, I need your help.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Stephen said.

  “Hold,” Bear said. “Here comes the Marshall.” The three men on the steps all stood, putting down their staves. De Ridford sauntered up to them. His full sandy beard was combed and even, and his hair hung down almost to his shoulders. His clothes were fine as a lord’s. His gaze swept them, putting each of them aside, until he came to Rannulf, and then he smiled.

  “Well, commander. I understand Kerak rules the streets now. Are you going to let that continue?”

  Rannulf said, “No, my lord.” His hands slid behind his back. He had a way of standing like a kicked dog when officers talked to him.

  “Good. I attended on the King, today. We spoke of you.” De Ridford’s voice was sleek. “The King thinks very well of you. I think I may have misjudged you. Give good service henceforth, and you shall find me your friend.”

  Rannulf said, “Thank you, my lord.” Stephen looked sharply at him.

  “Do not disappoint me in the matter of the Lord of Kerak. I shall hear your report at Compline.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The bells began to ring. De Ridford said, “Continue,” and went away up the steps.

  Stephen watched him go, amazed. Felx and Bear went swiftly down to the practice yard; Rannulf grabbed Stephen by the arm and held him. “Stay.”

  De Ridford went up over the top of the steps and disappeared from sight. Staring after him, Stephen said, “God’s blood. What was that about?”

  “Never mind,” Rannulf said, and gave him a shake. “I need you to do something; now, pay attention.”

  When the pages brought in their dinner, Alys looked at the tray and burst into tears.

  “Oh, God, oh, God,” she cried, “why did we not go with the Greeks to Acre? Why didn’t we go with your mother to Ascalon? Now we’re going to die here, and there isn’t even anything to eat.”

  “Shut up,” Sibylla said. She stared down at the tray, where there was only a loaf of bread and a little cheese—although very handsomely presented—on an enamel dish, with a silver knife. She broke the bread, and cut a piece of the cheese, while Alys snuffled and dripped.

  “I said, be quiet.” Sibylla glanced around her; over by the door, two pages waited, hollow-eyed, their lips tight. Alys gave a great sloppy sob, and Sibylla flung the bread at her.

  “You are worthless, Alysette. Go back to bed and cry into the covers.” The Princess jerked her head toward the pages again; the look of weary terror in their faces stoked her temper, and she snapped, “Stop standing around! Bring my cloak.” She turned a furious gaze back on poor Alys, her anger a torch against this fear creeping like a grey fungus over everything around her. “I will attend my brother. There at least among the men I shall not hear puling and lamenting.” She got up, took the cloak, and went alone down the stairs.

  Her hands were cold. The sky was bundled with dank heavy clouds.

  She stood on the steps of the tower looking across the courtyard.

  It was the endless waiting that wore her down. Every day, they waited for some news, sifted through every change of the wind, every wisp of dust for some portent of what was to come, but there was no news, only boredom, unanswered questions, doubts and frets. She beat her fists together, willing something to happen.

  The door to the opposite tower opened, and her brother came out.

  He saw her at once, and waved to her. She went forward a few steps. The grooms were bringing their horses up out of the stable, so that they could ride around the corner to David’s Gate and wait there for the messenger. One little busy boil of expectation in the middle of the dull day. Still it was something to do. She called to her brother, mounted her horse, and went side by side with him out to the street.

  As they rode, the bells rang for Sext. The messenger was supposed to arrive exactly at Sext. Already, as they approached the gate, there was a crowd of people in the street; they raised a cheer for the King, and one too for Sibylla. She lifted her hand, smiling. It did well to look happy for these folk, to seem confident, and their cheers buoyed her. But already her back was tightening, her nerves on edge; she lifted her gaze, and scanned the walls, all lined with Templars.

  The gateway was open, the portcullis raised. She and her brother rode out to the top of the road, and drew rein. The road was empty.

  Baudouin said, “Well, now, where is he?” He stared away down the road. She knew he saw imperfectly; he masked it, but she knew him better than anyone else. She moved closer to him, and saw for him.

  “There’s no sign of anyone. No smoke, no dust.” She knew from days of this what to look for. “The sky is clear, to the east, but there are clouds coming in from the sea; there could be more rain.”

  He said, “Good. Rain keeps people off the streets.”

  “Who is in the streets?”

  His shoulders moved, twitching off some irritation. “Kerak is not restraining his men; they are going around at night, and there’s certainly going to be trouble.”

  She turned, looking up at the wall again; the Templar guards slouched against the rampart. Then one flung out his arm, pointing outward, and she turned, and gave a cry.

  “There’s the messenger.”

  The King grunted. The messenger labored up the road, a small man, unarmored, on a small fleet horse. The people on the wall began to scream and shout at him long before he reached them, and as he reached them, he was already saying his news.

  Which was no news. “Nothing yet,” he said.

  The King nodded. “Very good. Go in and rest.”

  The crowd on the walls cheered, and rapidly left. The messenger rode in through the gate, and the King and Sibylla followed him. She fought against her lowering mood. Every day for a week they had come here, to wait for the messenger, to hear, “Nothing yet.” Every day, they cranked themselves up for something to happen, and every day, the same: “Nothing yet.”

  He would never say anything else. He himself was the message, the words just a frill. What they waited for was the day he did not come, which would mean that Sala
din was on the march, had intercepted the messenger, and killed him.

  She went after her brother, back to the citadel, to another day of useless tedious waiting. “What are you going to do about Kerak?” she asked. Like a man, she seized on the nearest available enemy.

  Her brother let go of his reins; the grooms came up to help him out of his saddle. “Nothing. Let the Templars handle it.” He played one against the other, she saw, like a chess game. Coldly she wondered what part in this game he had for her.

  To be Queen, as he was King. That was what he wanted for her. She girded herself for that. She would be Queen, and then everything would change. She would save the Kingdom. She watched her brother half-fall down out of his saddle into the arms of the groom; for an instant, she caught herself wishing he would die, and let her in. She shut her eyes and swept the thought away.

  “Sibylla!”

  She looked up; Alys stood in the door of the tower, waving her arms. “Sibylla! Come eat. The cheese is actually very good.” She looked much happier. As always, food had given her heart. Sibylla climbed down from her saddle and went off toward another day’s boredom.

  Rannulf was a great knight, Stephen thought, but he was a very bad officer; he took the whole business too seriously. He had laid a heavy hand on the city, allowing all the shops and suks to open only from Sext until Nones, and no one to be on the streets after Vespers; he had packed the gates with men and sent patrols around in fours rather than twos.

  Now all he had to do was make people obey him, which of course was something different.

  In particular he had to make Kerak’s men obey him. Sitting his horse at the edge of the Under City’s suk, Stephen looked out across the crowd and saw dozens of red-and-black jerkins, none showing any signs of heading on up to the High City and their quarters.

  But then the Nones bells had not rung yet. The suk still boiled with a surging noisy crowd, many of them folk in from the countryside seeking shelter from the Saracens, many others down from the High City to buy extra food, and to break the tension with some momentary pleasure. They crowded around the wineshops and the dice games, and the people of the suk worked them in a hundred practiced ways, as they worked all the world as it passed in its endless stream through Jerusalem. Stephen looked around the crowd again, marking Kerak’s men.