Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  Her throat and cheeks prickled up. She had not wanted to be rescued, especially not by him. She said, “Thank you, Sir Amalric.” Guile, she saw, through the corner of her eye, was leaving.

  Her mother’s lover said, “Princess, you are too brave.” His keen attention was following Guile. She glanced at the other man, beside her, the man whose arm she had caught; he had much the same look as Amalric, with long blonde hair and a quick smile, which he gave her now, but he was poor in dress, almost shabby.

  She said, “Guile is a filthy swine. Shameful it is that here, surrounded by strangers and infidels, the threat comes from one I know, and another Christian, too.” Turning, she cast around for the Egyptian players, but they had vanished; even the stage was gone. “Shameful what they did to these poor people.”

  Amalric crossed his hands on his saddlebows. A garnet hung in his left earlobe. His coat was of yellow satin, embroidered with green and set with gold studs. She saw why her mother liked him, with his shaggy good looks set off by splendid dress.

  He said, “God helps those who do right. May we ride along with you?” His nod took in the other rider. “This is my younger brother Guy, who followed me out from France.”

  She glanced around at his brother, who had dismounted, and picked her riding whip up off the ground. “Welcome, my lord.”

  He brought her the whip, and stood looking up at her. “Thank you, my lady. I am come, surely, but how well, I cannot say.”

  “Bah,” Amalric said. “What courtesy is this for a princess, you dog? Princess, where are you going? I am showing my brother here the sights, would you help me?”

  Guy went back to his horse and mounted. Sibylla swung her mare around to ride between the two men, and they went off along the beach. Her servants fell in unobtrusively behind them. She looked again at the brother. “Then you came here against your will, sir?”

  “Ah, lady,” he said, “I came with the best will, I came all this way to fight and die for Jesus Christ, and I but step foot on the wharf, and there is a three years’ truce announced. God laughs at me.”

  “Oh,” she said, “if that’s the whole of it, that you shall not die soon, I think you will not be disconsolate very long.”

  He laughed. If he were truly disconsolate then he wore it excellently well; he had an air about him of merriment and expectation of good things, although his coat was out at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs.

  She wanted to like him; she guarded herself against that. Turned to Amalric, on her left hand.

  “I thought you were gone home to France forever. Did you come back for the Cross, or for my mother’s sake?”

  Amalric reared his head back, his eyes widening. He had bristly eyebrows as fair as his hair. “Princess. What a set of traps that is. Better shall I say that I came back to set eyes once again on the prettiest Princess in Christendom.”

  She snorted at him. “You are a flirt, my lord.”

  “I! Not at all, a flirt’s victim merely. My brother is the flirt. Guy?”

  She turned around, ready for another compliment, but the brother was staring around him, open-mouthed, paying no heed to her or to anybody else, but only to Ascalon. Amalric gave a laugh. “Guy! Come back, come back!”

  His brother jerked around toward them. “Oh. Your pardon, my lady. But this is the fairest city I have ever seen. Now, look there, what tower is that?”

  “That is the Tower of the Virgin,” Sibylla said, pointing. They had come to the city wall, which reached down along the beach and out into the sea; beyond it, past a cluster of green palms, rose a water tower. “My father the King of Jerusalem built it.”

  They turned and went along the street that followed the wall inland, through a grove of palm trees. By the well there, some women were drawing water, and singing in a strange language. The street was lined with stone walls buttressed every few yards with old marble statues, windworn, the noses broken off the pocky faces, like ghosts in the plaster. Sibylla told the brothers how the city had resisted the Crusaders for years and years, until the Saracens named her the Virgin of Syria; how at last her father King Amalric took the place by siege. They passed through the domed shadow of the basilica. Guy gaped and exclaimed at everything; he lapped up everything she said. But not for her sake. It was Ascalon that beguiled him. His brother paid her extravagant compliments, which she valued little; had Guy paid her compliments, she would have hardly noticed them, but because he did not, she wanted him to, very dearly, and by the time they returned to Salome she was determined to have his admiration, whatever the means.

  Later, she found Agnes at the big table in the hall with her chamberlain, talking about money matters. Sibylla sat there a moment, her hands in her lap, listening to them discuss the cost of wax candles.

  Her mother sent the chamberlain off and frowned at her. “Well, I hear you made a sensation in the market today. Whatever do you think of, when you do these things?”

  “Oh. Since you already know the gist, I’ll go straight to the end. I want you to send Guile away.”

  “I shall certainly do so.” Her mother rolled up the papers before her, which held the accounts of her household. “I forbid you to go around by yourself in the city. Amalric said there was a single groom with you, and a little boy.”

  This led into Sibylla’s second reason for coming here. She reached out and took a quill from the table and drew it through her fingers. “Please thank Amalric for me—he saved me from grievous sin. I would have plucked Guile’s eyes out, if they hadn’t stopped me.”

  Her mother hooted. She tied the rolls with ribbon and put them into the little chest before her on the table. “Amalric tells it differently.”

  “I’m sure he does. He’s funny; I like him.” Casually, lightly: “Who is this brother he has brought back with him ?”

  Agnes tossed her head up, angry, and sniffed. “Bah. That fellow! I wish he’d never come from France.” She swung down the lid of the chest, and fastened the latch. “I shall require you tomorrow, when Maria d’Ibelin comes.” A page came forward and took the chest.

  “I’ll be with you.” Sibylla brushed the feather over her cheek. She wondered what Guy de Lusignan had done to annoy her mother; her imagination leapt, and she liked him even better.

  “We have to find another lutenist. Or have the rest of them play without Marco. She will surely remark on how bad he is; I cannot bear to hear it.”

  “Isabelle de Plancy has a good lutenist,” Sibylla said idly. “I’ll send Alys over in the morning, to beg him from her.” She wasted only the edge of her mind on her mother’s small busy doings. She had larger dreams.

  And larger problems. Now that her brother had concluded his truce with Saladin, he would advance his scheme for a new Crusade. She would face more expectations that she marry some prince, to save Jerusalem.

  She could forestall that. She could marry as she willed, if she was quick enough.

  She saw no harm in it, and some advantage. She needed a knight, to deal with men like Guile. Jerusalem needed a king. Her brother was the perfect knight, but he was lost to her. And soon, perhaps, he would be lost to all Jerusalem, and then the power would fall on her to make a new king.

  A king who would be, first, her knight. Who would work her will. Who would have no loyalty save to her. Agnes was talking fretfully about the cook, who was French and loved garlic beyond all measure. Sibylla stroked the feather over her cheek again, soft as a caress.

  Her mind went back to Guy de Lusignan, new come from France, sweet-natured and innocent. He seemed the solution to her problem. He had no one here, no connections, save his brother. If she raised him up, he would owe everything to her—he would have to do whatever she required of him. And she liked him. He was kind, and handsome; he reminded her somehow of her brother. Her brother, as he might have been.

  God meant her to be Queen of Jerusalem. God would confer His grace on whomever she chose. Whatever she did, God willed. She reached out and laid the feather down on the polished
surface of the table, lifted her head, and smiled.

  The younger people had formed a circle, on the green grass beyond the lower terrace, and were dancing a round dance; in the center, a girl with a cushion waited for the music to stop. Agnes de Courtenay paused on the stair, her eyes on the swaying circle. De Ridford came up beside her.

  “Oh, the joys of youth,” Agnes said.

  The Marshall of the Temple said, “I cannot believe I was ever so frivolous.”

  “No, no, not you.” She smiled at him. “Whose every step shakes the world. Will there be an election for Master of the Temple?”

  “Yes, soon. Odo de Saint-Amand is not coming back from Damascus.”

  “What would be required for you to win it?” She tried not to sound too eager, too greedy, but the chance to have the Master of the Temple in her debt tested her self-restraint.

  He shook his head at her. “I don’t want to win this one. Nobody wants to win this one. The King will send the Master of the Temple back to Europe, to preach the new Crusade. He’ll do no fighting, lead no army; he’ll just trudge from court to court for years, eating down the table, and smiling until his cheeks crack.”

  “Ah,” she said. She watched the circle of the dancers turn, a slow, intricate rhythm, two steps to the right, three to the left, and then spin; as the girls spun, their skirts belled out a moment, green and gold.

  The music abruptly broke off, and the girl in the center of the circle—it was Alys of Beersheba—dropped her cushion down before one of the men, and knelt on it, and he knelt on it also, and they exchanged a demure little peck of a kiss.

  De Ridford said, “The Princess does not dance.”

  Sibylla and a man with shoulder-length blonde hair were coming in from the garden. Agnes said, “She seems to have a new friend.”

  “So I see. Who is he?”

  “Guy de Lusignan,” Agnes said. “Amalric’s younger brother, fresh arrived from France.”

  “Oh,” said de Ridford. “A shrewd move, my lady.”

  “You praise my daughter’s choice of men, sir?” Agnes arched her brows at him.

  He was very handsome when he laughed, his eyes shining, his teeth fine and even. He said, “No, lady. Your choice. As always.” And laughed again.

  Chapter XXI

  “You are just returned from Damascus, where you served on the embassy to the Sultan,” Gilbert Erail said.

  “Yes, my lord,” the four Templars said, in unison. They stood in front of the whole chapter; the great refectory was quiet around them. Gilbert’s voice rang flat and loud through the stone hall.

  “Let Richard le Mesne answer.”

  Bear stepped forward. “Yes, my lord.”

  “I understand there was a truce arranged, between the King and the Sultan—is this true of your knowledge?”

  “I heard the treaty read, my lord.”

  “Was anything base or unworthy given to the Sultan for it?”

  “No, my lord. It was simple enough, just three years of truce, and no more.”

  De Ridford stood beside the Seneschal. He said, “Why then did the Sultan agree to it?” The ranks of the knights rumbled with low voices.

  The Seneschal ignored them, but went on questioning Bear. “Did any of your brothers act in any way base or unworthy of the Order?”

  “No, my lord,” Bear said.

  Rannulf looked down at his feet, smiling. They had been in a fever of contrition all the way back from Damascus. The Seneschal said, “Felx van Janke, answer.”

  The Dutcher stepped forward. Because of his bald head he was allowed to keep a hat on during chapter meetings. Gilbert laced his crippled hand through his beard, his hooded eyes half-closed.

  “Did any of your brothers act in any way base or unworthy of the Order?”

  “No, my lord,” Felx said.

  “What did you see of the Count of Tripoli?”

  “Very little, my lord. He kept to his part, and we to ours.”

  De Ridford said, “Then he may have made some secret treaty with the Sultan, without your knowledge. In fact you might as well have been in Jerusalem as Damascus, for all you had to do with the treaty, or so it sounds.”

  Felx said, “If we hadn’t been there—”

  Sharply, Gilbert broke in. “No, answer me alone. My lord Marshall, keep still.”

  “You ask the wrong questions,” de Ridford growled.

  “Perhaps I do, but it is my duty to ask them.” Gilbert nodded to Felx. “You saw little of Tripoli, then? How did he act toward you?”

  Felx hawed a moment, and Gilbert went in at this hint. “Answer me at once. How did Tripoli act toward you?”

  “My lord, he dismissed us.”

  The chapter burst into loud talk. Gilbert raised his hands and patted down the noise. “He dismissed you!”

  “He spoke very scornfully to us, and said he was insulted we had come.”

  “And how did you answer this scorn and insult?”

  “My lord, we kept aside, and avoided him.”

  De Ridford grunted. “And this you call maintaining the honor of the Order!”

  “My lord Marshall, as you would uphold the honor of the Order,” Gilbert said, harsh-voiced, “then obey the Rule. Felx, in Damascus, saw you the Sultan?”

  “Several times, my lord.”

  “And how did he act toward you?”

  “My lord,” Felx said, “he knows who his enemies are.”

  That made the whole chapter laugh. Gilbert Erail said, “Then I think it likely you upheld the honor of the Order. Stephen de l’Aigle, answer me.”

  An arm’s length to Rannulf’s left, Mouse stepped forward. “My lord Seneschal.”

  “Did any of your brothers act in any way base or unworthy of the Order?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “What think you of Tripoli?”

  “My lord, he hates us. He would not keep us at his table, or ride with us. He is like one with the Sultan, who treats him very well, and gives him presents, but to us the Sultan gave a promise of a battle to the death.”

  “God wills it,” said Gilbert Erail. “What do you know of the making of the truce?”

  “My lord, I was there when they agreed to it—” Mouse turned his head, and stared hard at de Ridford— “and it was as it reads: three years’ truce, nothing given or taken.”

  “Rannulf Fitzwilliam, answer me.”

  Rannulf stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You saw Odo de Saint-Amand?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Is he well, and well-kept?”

  “My lord, he is sick, and in a dungeon, and he says he will stay there until he dies, rather than let the Sultan turn him into money.”

  A roar of voices resounded through the refectory. Gilbert stared at him. “What of this truce?”

  “It’s a good truce, my lord.”

  “There was no hidden deal struck?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Will the Sultan keep it?”

  “My lord, he has no choice. His country is full of plague, he cannot bring an army together, there are risings and rebels all over.”

  “Then this is why he made the truce.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Why did you get on so ill with Tripoli?”

  “My lord, I had no difficulty with Tripoli. He and the Sultan love each other, but when I needed him to stand fast with me, he did.”

  “Very good,” Gilbert Erail said. “You have done good service; God will reward you. Go back.”

  The four men moved back into their places in the ranks. Rannulf stood at the left-hand end of the front row now. He turned, and looked around him at the other knights. While he was away in Damascus, two shiploads of men had come to join the chapter. Every day, more arrived, new recruits from France and Flanders and Germany, older men from the garrisons on Cyprus and the coast. Under the high ceiling of the refectory, hung with banners and ropes and cobwebs, the hall that ha
d been nearly empty a few months before was now half-full again. His chest swelled. What he had promised Saladin was coming to pass. He felt the Temple all around him, a greater self, immortal. Gilbert was calling them to the holy office; Rannulf bowed his head with the rest of them and set his palms together, and this time, for once, he could pray.

  The Crypt was infested with black rats that crept through chinks in the stonework and ran along the beams of the ceiling. One day soon after they came back from Damascus, when there was nothing else to do, Rannulf took six of the knights into the room, and while they pulled the beds away from the walls and stuffed smoking rags into the cracks between the stones, he sat on a stool in the middle of the room, and shot the fleeing rats with a crossbow.

  Stephen said, “This is the kind of work I would have given to sergeants.” He had taken off his shirt; even in the summer the Crypt was usually cold, but the hard work had warmed him.

  Rannulf said, “What would you rather do, soap saddles?” He had the bolts laid out on his knee, and he slapped another into the bone slot on the box of the crossbow and set the trigger. Stephen went to help Felx van Janke and Ponce le Brun drag a bed away from the wall.

  From the space behind it a dozen lank black bodies dashed, gibbering and squeaking, darting in all directions. Stephen dodged toward the middle of the room, which was prudent anyway because Rannulf shot at every rat he saw, careless of who was in between. The bow fired with a flat snap. The bolt nipped one furry black body up out of the swarm and smacked it against the stone wall. Rannulf reloaded and fired again, three times, four; the squeaking died away. Most of the rats had found cover. The four that had not lay on the floor, twitching and bleeding.

  “Help me,” said Ponce.

  Stephen put his shoulder to an oaken chest and heaved it away from the wall. Outside the window, somebody was walking by, going toward the door. Stephen saw who it was, but he thought Rannulf did not, until Rannulf wheeled around and fired.

  The door opened, just as the six-inch crossbow bolt buried itself to the vanes in the wooden jamb. Gerard de Ridford stood on the threshold. Coolly he looked at the bolt quivering heart-high in the doorframe beside him; he raised his eyes to Rannulf.