Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  Halfway down the irregular wedge-shaped marketplace, a head white as a dandelion caught his eye. He let out his breath in a hiss. He had been hoping Guile of Kerak would go somewhere else to get himself in trouble. Stephen reached for his reins, and backed his horse up; Rannulf appeared by his stirrup, on foot.

  “You see him?”

  “I don’t want to do this,” Stephen said.

  “Who cares what you want?” Rannulf said. “Get going.” He backed off, hiding in the crowd, and Stephen rode out across the suk, toward Guile, sitting slouched on a tall bay horse, with two other knights beside him.

  They saw him coming; their faces set, wary, and Guile said, “Well, if it isn’t one of Jesus’ little soldiers.”

  Stephen rode up beside him. In the crowd just around them he made out a score of Kerak’s men, all armed. He faced Guile, and said, “Look, I have my orders. I’m supposed to clear this place out, come Nones, and that means you, too.”

  Guile watched him cooly. “I don’t take orders from psalm-singing Cross-kissing poor little soldiers for Christ.” The man beside him laughed. Everybody was watching Stephen.

  He shrugged. “Look, I’m just doing what I’m told to do. If it were me, I wouldn’t care, and in fact I don’t care much now. I’m sick of this. I haven’t been out of the saddle since Matins.” He could not meet Guile’s eyes; he stared away over the crowd. “Do you have anything to drink?”

  “Sure,” Guile said. “What’s your name?” He gestured to the man on his left, and a leather wineskin came across to Stephen. He told them his name, and drank a little; they talked about the war, mostly about how they would carve Saladin into pieces, and then drifted off across the suk to a dice game, down near the fountain. The Syrian throwing the dice gave one glancing look at Stephen and stopped cheating. Guile got down off his horse and played several passes, winning some money. He was half-drunk, and winning made him boisterous; he laughed with his two friends, and reached for the wineskin again. Up in the High City, the first bells began to ring.

  Stephen said, “That’s Nones. The suk will shut down now.”

  Guile laughed. “You don’t think anybody will actually pay any attention to that, do you?”

  “I just follow orders. You know you’re supposed to be back inside walls by Vespers.” One of the knights handed him the wineskin and he drank.

  Guile said, “How do you propose to get me there?” His voice grated.

  Stephen lifted one hand, palm out, placating him. “Not me. I was just mentioning it. I told you, I’m sick of all of this.” He tossed the wineskin to the man behind Guile. “At Vespers, I get to go back to the Temple and sleep. Unless of course my officer decides otherwise.”

  Guile said, “He’s an ass. Nobody’s going to listen to him. Maybe there is a war, but life has to go on.”

  “Yes, I tend to agree with you.” Stephen turned his head, looking around the suk. Up on the hill, all the bells of Jerusalem were clanging, and around the suk, the merchants were reeling in their awnings, and shuttering their stalls.

  Even the Syrian who ran the dice game was closing; he knelt, rolling up the gamecloth, and when Guile let out a yip of protest, he only shook his head.

  “If I mean to be here tomorrow, my lord, I must not be here today.” He tucked the roll of cloth under his arm and hurried off.

  Guile muttered under his breath, looking around him. With the shops closed, the crowd was scattering, people with homes going back to them, and people without hunting for some other shelter. Kerak’s men were bunching together around Guile, most of them on horseback, and he drew them back around the fountain, in the shadow of the hillside.

  “Well, I guess we have to make our own fun.”

  Stephen reined his horse back a little, out of the thick of these other men. He looked furtively around him, seeing no sign of any other Templar; the suk was all but empty, only a few of the beggars lingering, their eyes on Guile and his men. Guile sent some of his knights to drive them off, and the beggars crept away into the narrow lanes and alleys of the Under City. Kerak’s men were going nowhere. Most of them sat and lounged around by the fountain; one tried to climb the steep side of the cistern that fed it. Somebody produced a handful of dice and another game started up.

  Guile came over to Stephen. “Why are you hanging around here?”

  Stephen lifted one shoulder. “I’m supposed to patrol the suk. Until Vespers. Then I’m going to bed.”

  “Pray first, though, hunh.” Guile smirked at him.

  “Oh, yes,” Stephen said. “Lots of prayer.”

  “You dogsbodies live a pretty sorry life, I guess. No fun at all.”

  “Oh,” Stephen said, “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Really.” Guile’s tongue ran over his lower lip. “You mean, you do have some excitement, now and then?”

  “A vow,” Stephen said, “is made to break. And a little hocus-pocus, some crisscross, and it’s whole again. Right?”

  Guile’s smile widened. “I understand.” He cast a look around them at the empty suk. “I guess you’d know where to find what you wanted.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “On the other hand, you’re still a monk.”

  Stephen shifted in his saddle, his hand on his hip. “You mean, do I know where to get women.”

  Guile laughed, his eyes glinting under his white brows. “Now you’re warm.”

  Stephen shook his head, turning his gaze away. “I can’t help you.”

  “I guess not. Being a monk. I’ll bet you haven’t dipped it in years, have you.”

  Stephen stared steadily away; he fought down the urge to pound his fist into Guile’s face. He said, “I know a woman who’ll oblige, but just you—not these others.” He took the skin and upended it over his mouth, taking a good long draught; he lowered the skin and plugged it, in no hurry to say more.

  Guile was staring at him. Apparently Guile had not dipped it himself in some while. “Some Syrian whore?”

  “No, she’s Frankish, clean, and sweet. But she only does noblemen.”

  That was the right thing to say. Guile sat back, smiling, expansive. “How much?”

  Stephen looked away again. He had no idea what a whore might cost; the whole idea of whores made him sick. “That’s between you and her.”

  “All right. Good. Take me to her.”

  Stephen said, “Don’t let the rest of these pigs know where we’re going.”

  Guile turned, and called vaguely to the other men to wait where they were. He and Stephen drifted away from the fountain, across the empty suk. Stephen said, “Out there in the desert, do you get a lot of work?”

  “No, we live like kings. When my lord Kerak leads us, we always win, and we take home such booty our horses stagger in the carrying of it, and when we are at home, we game, or hear music, and eat the finest meats, and drink the best wines in Outremer.”

  “Good,” Stephen said. “Maybe I’ll come out there and join you.”

  “It’s not a monkish life.”

  “I’m sick of the monkish life.” Stephen guided him into a narrow lane between two high blank walls. “I’m ready for a little fun now and then.”

  “I’ll wager on it.” Guile turned and laughed at him. “Whatever makes a man to take up such a life voluntarily?” They went up the hill and around a curve, with houses close all around, and out of the corners Rannulf and Felx and Bear pounced on Guile and hauled him off his horse.

  Stephen wiped his hand over his face, watching. Bear got Guile’s arms behind him, and Felx had him by the hair; Kerak’s man flung himself uselessly against their grip, and they muscled him quickly down. When he opened his mouth to scream, Felx’s hand clamped down over his face. Panting, Guile subsided.

  Rannulf went up in front of him. “Now, baby, I don’t want any trouble from you. In a moment we’re going down to the suk and you’re going to tell your men to get back up to the High City where they belong, and then you’re going to stay there.”


  Guile’s eyes blazed. Felx lowered his hand. Guile shot one furious glance past Rannulf s shoulder at Stephen and faced the commander of Jerusalem.

  “Let me go! Fight me hand to hand and see what comes of it!”

  “Oh, no,” Rannulf said. “I don’t fight other Christians. You’re going to do as I say, or I’ll make sure you don’t even walk for a week.” He nodded to Bear. “Snug him up.”

  Bear had his arms twined intricately through Guile’s; he brought his fists up, and Guile snapped stiffly erect and exhaled a whine of pain. Rannulf watched him, remote. Guile bit his teeth together, not saying anything, and Rannulf nodded once more to Bear. “Do it again.”

  “No,” Guile gasped, before Bear could hurt him. “I’ll give the order.”

  “Good,” Rannulf said, and stepped back. “Let him go.”

  Bear uncoiled his arms from Guile’s and released him. Kerak’s man stood glowering around at the four Templars. “I’ll get you for this.”

  “Will you,” Rannulf said. “Mouse, bring his horse.”

  Stephen led over Guile’s horse. The white-haired knight reached for his reins. “You treacherous bastard,” he said, under his breath.

  “No,” Stephen said. “Maybe I’m treacherous, but you’re the bastard.” He reined around to keep Guile in front of him; Felx was leading the other Templars’ horses out of the lane. They rode down to see that Kerak’s men did as they were told.

  Chapter XV

  The King leaned heavily on the pommel of his saddle, his hands lumpy under his gloves. “There is the chapel on the Mount of Olives, that Father began. I would like to finish it, someday.” He was not looking toward the Mount of Olives, but down the road, where the messenger would first appear. If he came.

  “Let’s go up there, later.” Sibylla turned, half-standing in her stirrups, to look up at the hillside to the east of them. The city’s hucksters sold rosaries made of olive wood and olive pits they claimed were taken from the mount but which they actually gathered on the slopes south of the city; there were no olive trees on the hill, only ragged spires of cypress, and clumpy weedy underbrush. She saw no sign of the chapel. “What has to be done?” She avoided looking off down the road.

  The King said, “It needs ornament. Statues, and furniture. It’s a pretty place, and it would be good, I think, to build something, instead of always fighting.”

  His voice was flat. The messenger was late. Above them, on the rampart of the wall, several other people waited, and no one spoke, and no one watched the road, save the King, who looked nowhere else.

  Sibylla was still staring at the Mount of Olives. “There are some excellent craftsmen in Acre, who could do the statues. Let me help you. We could do it together.”

  “Good. I was hoping you would like the idea.” Her brother’s voice strained, trying to stretch this out, to cover the vast uncertainty of waiting, and then, above them, someone shouted.

  “He comes!”

  Sibylla’s whole body went soft with relief; she brought a sigh up out of her lungs, and her brother faced her, and their eyes met. Up on the rampart, the dozen people watching were cheering and clapping.

  “More than one! Look, there, who rides with him?”

  “A knight—three knights!”

  “Who is it?” her brother murmured, and she turned her gaze down the road.

  Far down there, the messenger in his brown leather jack was driving his exhausted horse on toward the city; three men followed him, sitting tall on big horses. Knights. One caught her eye. She recognized his slouched shoulders, the way he held his head, and a cry escaped her.

  “It’s Uncle Joscelin!”

  The King said, “Joscelin. What’s he doing here? Something’s happened.” He tilted forward, his eyes peering down the road.

  All along the wall, cheers rose; more people were pushing up along the rampart, passing the news back to the street below. Sibylla turned back toward the oncoming riders. She raised one hand above her head, and waved, and among the weary men climbing the road toward her, an arm rose in answer.

  Something in that gesture lifted her heart. She knew, suddenly, as if an angel told her, that the war was over, at least for now. She drew a breath, and it seemed her first free breath in days and days. The messenger booted his horse toward them. As soon as he was within earshot, he was shouting.

  “They’ve turned back! Saladin has turned back!”

  Now from the wall such a roar of a cheer went up that Sibylla’s horse shied, and the King reached out and grabbed hold of her rein. She laughed at him. As if she could not master her own horse. “We’re saved, Bati,” she said, giddy. “We’re saved.”

  Then, through all the wild cheering and excitement, she saw his face slack with disappointment. He let go of her reins. “I am doomed to die in bed,” he said, heavily, and swung his horse around, and rode to meet the messenger.

  The day was cold; the pages were piling wood onto the hearth. The King stood just behind them. He felt nothing of the heat of the fire, but the flames satisfied his eyes, a visual music. Behind him, by the throne, his uncle Joscelin was talking to Sibylla; Kerak had just swaggered into the room, and was glaring all around, grunting and coughing. The chamberlain rapped his staff on the floor and announced the Marshall of the Temple of Jerusalem, and Gerard de Ridford strode in the door. Rannulf Fitzwilliam slouched along behind him. The King went across the room to his throne and sat down.

  “Draw around me,” he said, and the men moved up in a semi-circle around the throne, the three lords in front, and their underlings on their heels. The Princess came quietly to stand behind the throne. The King signed to the chamberlain to shut the door, and spoke to this council.

  “I am grateful to you for coming here. I need advice on some matters. First let me hear what you think of this latest turn. Why did Saladin retreat?”

  Kerak spoke first, at once, careless that he had seen nothing of the campaign. “He is a Turk. He has no gift of reason; everything he does is unfathomable.” His head jerked up, throwing a nod at Sibylla, just behind Baudouin’s shoulder. “Sire, she ought not to be here.”

  The King said, “She is my heiress, she will rule, she stays.” He turned at once to Joscelin, shutting Kerak out. “Uncle, why did Saladin give up, when he had Jerusalem all but in his grasp?”

  Joscelin said, “God saved us. When they made me prisoner, by the Litani River, they were saying they would be in Jerusalem by Ramadan. They took hundreds of prisoners—the Ibelins, the Master of the Temple—all of us who could raise good ransoms, they sent off to Damascus, where it looked as if we would sit for weeks; but then a few days ago the Sultan suddenly showed up, and let us all go on our paroles.”

  Kerak said, “It’s a trick of some kind.”

  The King said, “You saw the Sultan Saladin, Uncle?”

  “Not at the Litani River,” Joscelin said. “But in Damascus, only a few days ago, I was face to face with him for more than an hour, talking over the ransoms. He is in command, and in no hurry.” He gave a shake of his head, looking gloomy. “God will not allow Jerusalem to fall into the hands of the faithless. But this time it was damned close.”

  The King said, “I have a plan to forestall the next time, which I will tell you in a moment. But it requires a truce, and I am glad he wants to talk. Whom shall we send to Damascus?”

  “Send nobody,” Kerak said. “It’s a trick, and no good will come of it for us—I say, fight him! He must be weak, to give up as he did. If we attack now, we might break him.”

  The King said, “If words were men, my lord Kerak, you would lead an army numberless as the sands. But now we have about one hundred fifty knights among us, and if he wants a truce, I’m very minded to give it to him.”

  “Bah,” Kerak said. “You are all city soldiers. Greeks. Jews.” He turned and walked off across the room, pushing through his followers.

  The King said, “To negotiate this truce, I believe I should send Tripoli.”

  De Ridford
lunged forward. “Sire. You cannot mean this.”

  “I do mean it.”

  “Sire, at the Litani River, he abandoned us to the enemy. He is Saladin’s friend, he was a hostage for years at their court—”

  “All the more reason for sending him,” the King said. “He understands them, he gets along well with them.”

  “He betrayed us at the Litani River! He will betray us again.”

  “A truce is in his best interest,” the King said. “I always trust men to pursue their own ends as faithfully as they say they’re going to pursue mine.”

  Joscelin said, “Well, I’m not going to go back to Damascus, I have to go home to Nablus and put things in order there, and so does everybody else. Tripoli is the only one to go; the King is right.”

  Baudouin thanked him with a glance; slow and mild and white-hearted, his uncle was worth six Keraks. De Ridford set one fist on his hip, his face hard as a wedge.

  “The Temple insists then that you send some of us, as well. We shall know the value of this truce.” He nodded his head behind him. “Rannulf Fitzwilliam here could go. He speaks the language; he is used to dealing with the Saracens.”

  In among the row of lesser men, Rannulf lifted his head. Kerak turned, by the window, and gave him a dagger of a look. The King said, “I agree. We shall send Rannulf also. And some priest, perhaps Saint-George, since it is after all Damascus.”

  His throat was dry; he put out his hand, and a page gave him a cup of wine. He gathered himself for the next leap. Thus far it had gone well enough. The men before him were muttering in agreement; Kerak was still staring at Rannulf. The King drank of the strong dark wine. It surprised him that de Ridford had put forth Rannulf s name, but it fit too well with Baudouin’s own purposes to quibble.

  He said, “When we have this truce, I mean to send out an appeal to Christendom, to send us another Crusade.”