Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  God had slain the King, while worthless men like Kerak throve, and that was all the proof Rannulf needed; he judged God guilty.

  In his forearm the wound pulsed like flowing blood.

  He remembered how she had cursed him, at the end. His chest ached. He loved her. For a whole day he had lived in the same room with her, he had spoken to her; she had touched him, he had held her. Although he had tried to keep his gaze from her, her image was graven on his mind: her clear, wide eyes, the blade of her cheekbone, her stubborn, sensuous mouth. And she was selfless as an angel. She had come to her brother in his extremity and loved him, as pure and good as the waters of Eden, and not even that had softened God’s heart, not even that had saved Baudouin.

  He gripped the front of his jerkin in both fists, as if he would pull the Cross off his chest.

  I defy you, he thought, too craven to say it out loud. I am your knight no more. Strike me where I stand, or wither me up like an uprooted weed, but I will pray to you and fight for you no more. He lurched onto his feet like a drunken man and staggered out of the church.

  Chapter XXIII

  Everybody called the new King Baudouinet. He was small for age, and not strong. They brought him from his grandmother’s house in Nablus, and crowned him in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, in robes too big for him, with a crown too heavy for his head.

  He sat straight and solemn on the throne, and the men around him told him what to say, and he said it. He was apt enough. He listened carefully to his great-uncle Joscelin, who explained everything to him, and he quickly learned the little speeches required of him and said them very well.

  Saladin sent an embassy to him, to attend the coronation, and present the Sultan’s compliments. The little King received them in the hall of the citadel, with two of his Templar guards flanking him, Stephen to the left of the throne, Rannulf to the right.

  The Sultan’s chief legate was the black eunuch, gorgeous in a gold- trimmed robe, his head shaven clean as a shelled egg. He spoke the Sultan’s greetings in excellent French, and offered the little King some presents. Behind him, in among his attendants, Stephen saw a face familiar to him.

  His heart jumped. He had not seen Ali in more than two years, but the sight of him woke everything up again. The tall Saracen was watching him, as well; their eyes met, and between them a spark leapt like a bolt of lightning.

  The eunuch had laid a tray of little gifts at the King’s feet. Baudouinet was bending forward to peer at them, excited. “Show me these things.” He pointed.

  The eunuch murmured something, and glanced behind him; smoothly he stepped aside, and Ali came forward and went down on one knee in front of the silver tray. “Your Highness must permit me the honor.” Picking up a little silver cone, he spun it between his fingers and dropped it onto the tray, where it whirled and hummed; the King crowed. He had scooted forward to the very edge of the throne, and perched on it like a little bird, his knees up.

  “What’s that?”

  Ali took another of the toys and twisted a key in its belly. “This is Greek work, your Highness.” The toy clanked and flapped and made grotesque noises. Stephen realized it was supposed to be some kind of animal. Baudouinet laughed and clapped his hands.

  “Is it permitted to address your Highness’ guards?” Ali asked smoothly. He picked up another of the objects on the tray.

  Baudouinet looked sharply into the Saracen’s face. “Why do you want to do that?”

  Stephen almost laughed out loud at Ali’s look; all his subtlety brought to nothing, the Kurdish prince fumbled a while, hunting a good answer, and said, finally, “I knew them both in Damascus, Sire.”

  “Then speak to them,” the little King said. “But show me that first.” He pointed to the toy in Ali’s hand.

  This was an enamel frog, which hopped. Ali lifted his head. He glanced briefly at Stephen, and turned to Rannulf, and spoke Arabic.

  “My uncle bade me tell you that the meeting on the Plain of Esdraelon was a draw.”

  Rannulf shifted on his feet, his hands on the hilt of his sword. “He backed off. He can call it what he wants.”

  Ali stood up, leaving the child on the throne to play by himself. “He also bade me give you his sincere sympathies on the death of your King. He had a profound respect for Baudouin the Leper.”

  “That I will accept,” Rannulf said.

  “While I am in Jerusalem, I would like to visit the holy places of Islam.”

  “You may go wherever you wish,” Rannulf said. “I have nothing to hide from you.”

  “I would like very much to go into the Haram al-Sharif,” Ali said.

  “Do you want a guide?” Rannulf said. “Mouse will take you.” He turned his head and looked at Stephen. “Go with him. Make sure he sees everything he wants to.”

  Stephen met Ali’s gaze again, eager. “Yes, my lord.”

  The air inside was cold. Ali went forward, across the curved ambulatory, into one of the archways, and stood looking at the Rock.

  For a moment he was beyond himself, gazing on the massive outcrop where Mohammed had begun his rise to Heaven; in him something rose up also, trying to follow.

  The Christians had desecrated it; he could not pray here. There wasn’t even a fountain to wash in. But he felt the power here, and it made him tremble.

  After a while he remembered Stephen, behind him, and straightened. He laid his hand on the iron railing in front of him. “What is this?”

  “People were chipping away pieces of the Rock to take home with them,” Stephen said. “We put the railing up to keep them off.”

  Ali said, “Barbarians.”

  “A fair number of these people were Saracens.”

  Ali laughed. “Barbarians,” he said, again. He was looking out over the Rock; the cold silence of the place impressed him. The air seemed blue from the blue interior wall of the dome. On the Rock was a stone altar, with a cup on it, and a book.

  He said, “You hold your services here.”

  “Twice a day,” Stephen said.

  Ali shook his head. “It cannot be as holy to you as it is to me.” It angered him to see the altar on the Rock.

  “This is the center of the world. Directly over us is Heaven, directly under us is hell. This is what we are fighting over, isn’t it?” Stephen came up to stand next to Ali, like a challenge. “I love this place. I come in here whenever I can. This is the closest place on earth to God. Don’t tell me I don’t hold it holy.”

  Ali faced him, his temper rising, and caught himself. “We are defiling it, then, by arguing here.”

  Stephen’s set hard look relaxed. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.” He crossed himself. Ali stood watching him, pulled unwillingly to some understanding. He turned and looked at the Rock, its dark surface tossed like a frozen ocean.

  He said, “What happens when we are in the right place to fight, Stephen? Will you kill me? Will I kill you?”

  “If God wills it,” Stephen said.

  “You say that when you can’t think of anything else to say.”

  Stephen said nothing, looking down. Ali struggled with himself. Someone came into the church, going through another arch to the railing, knelt there a moment, and went out again. The busy scraping of his steps died away. The silence seemed more pure for it. Ali felt the cold of the air on his skin like a burning. Directly above him was God. He felt pulled upward in every strand.

  For the first time he did not surrender. For the first time, he rebelled, he clung to himself.

  Stephen said, “Where I lived, before I came here, the old people said that God keeps a great hall in Heaven, and there he gathers the men who die fighting for him, the truest warriors, and the best, and they keep company in that hall until the battle at the end of the world. Maybe at that table some are Christian men, and some are Saracen.”

  Ali said, harshly, “You believe in fables.”

  “I have to believe in something.”

  “Is this a common failing of the Orde
r? What does al-Wali believe?”

  Stephen said, “Poverty, chastity, and obeying orders.”

  “Soon your Order will elect a new master. Will they choose him?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Nobody will vote for Rannulf. He has more enemies than a beggar has lice. If you want to talk about politics, let’s get out of here.” He bent his knee and crossed himself and led Ali away out of the mosque.

  Ali followed him. On the wide pavement, he stood a moment, looking toward the hulking building at the edge of the haram, which was the mosque al-Aqsa, now defiled under a weight of Christian idolatry. They were a race of idiots, he thought, his heart sore. He looked at the red knight beside him, with his loose easy stride, his high-headed bearing, a beautiful young beast. The enemy. They walked together across the open, sunlit pavement, toward al-Aqsa.

  “Not like Damascus,” Stephen said. “This is our refectory. That long wing is the dormitory, and the armory is around the back.”

  Ali swept a look around him. A steady stream of men went in and out of the long low building Stephen had called the dormitory; by their white jerkins they were the knights. Many others, not knights, hurried and toiled around the pavement. Off to his left, where a string of slender white columns formed an arcade, there were knots of people working; by a forge waited a string of the rangy, coarse-headed horses the knights rode, and he could hear the ringing of hammers and smell the hot iron; as he watched, two men carrying a handtruck, stacked with long loaves of bread and rounds of cheese, wove their way through the shifting tide of people around al-Aqsa and went inside. At another angle, a groom led several horses away across the pavement at a jog.

  Ali lifted his eyes from the bustle and purpose of the Temple Mount and scanned what he could see of the walls of Jerusalem, set with high square towers, running off to the north and west. Crouched like a lioness on this spur of rock, with steep defiles on three sides, the city was impregnable, if she were well garrisoned and supplied.

  He said, “You don’t live here now.”

  “No,” Stephen said. “I live in the citadel, with the King. I wish I were here, guarding the King is boring.” He led Ali around to the side of the great old mosque, to a yard where there were posts set in the ground; before each post stood a man in armor with a sword. “We all work here every day, with our weapons. These are novices, which is why they can’t hit.”

  Ali watched the rows of young men sweating and groaning with their swords. “They seem to be hitting well enough to me.”

  “Oh,” Stephen said, “we’ll teach them to fight like Templars.”

  Ali turned, and looked down the great complex. From here he could see nearly all of it, and much of the city beyond, of which it took up such a huge part. Against his will he was impressed. He knew why they were letting him see this. In the rows of workshops by the arcade, in the practice yards, around the refectory, crowds of men worked and slacked and talked, dozens of men, hundreds. The Temple had recovered.

  Stephen said, “Where are you staying?” They walked off along the edge of the pavement.

  “In a palace in the city. Across the gate from where we met today.” On their left rose the top of the wall, massive dressed stones, the color of honey, set almost seamlessly together. Beyond them the hillside plunged away into a barren valley.

  “La Plaisance,” Stephen said. He was smiling, in the tangled red mat of his beard. “That’s a pretty enough place, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a very agreeable surprise, actually. There’s even a bath, and the gardens are fine.”

  “I’ve been there,” Stephen said. “The King’s grandmother stays there when she is in Jerusalem. I could meet you in the garden.” Their hands brushed together, swinging between them as they walked.

  Ali’s mouth was dry. There were people everywhere here; the burden of secrecy shackled him. He said, “I’m sure this is very dangerous for you.”

  “I’ll take the chance,” Stephen said. “Tonight. In the garden?”

  Ali said, “I’ll be there. After dark.” Their hands touched again, as if by accident. Their little fingers hooked together and instantly slipped apart. Ahead of them were more crowds of men. Ali ran his tongue over his lips. His uncle was not going to be happy with this. Yet his body felt electric, and he could not keep from smiling.

  Rannulf was in the Under City, in the suk, eating dates, and talking to the camel-drivers. Stephen went up beside him, and waited until the other knight chose to see him there.

  “Well?” Rannulf said, finally.

  “They’ve left. I made sure he saw everything you wanted, the towers, the gates. If he didn’t know before how strong this city is, he does now.”

  “Good,” Rannulf said.

  “He said something odd. He said we are going to have another election soon. Is that true?”

  Rannulf s head turned sharply toward him, his black eyes wide. “Did he.”

  “Yes. Do you know anything about this ?”

  “I heard a rumor, from Cyprus, that’s all. Arnold da Toroga died in Paris, preaching the Crusade; we need a new master.” Rannulf spat out a date stone. “The bastard has better spies than I do. He knows more than I do.”

  “He knows the gross, not the fine,” Stephen said. “He asked if you would be elected.”

  Rannulf laughed. He looked at Stephen through the corner of his eye. “What did you tell him?”

  “I said you had no chance,” Stephen said.

  Rannulf turned away. Stephen followed him off across the suk, toward the fountain.

  “Should I have lied?”

  “No,” Rannulf said. “You did well, Mouse. You did everything right.”

  What Stephen had said gnawed on Rannulf. Although he knew he could never win the election, he wanted to be Master. He thought if he could not serve God anymore, he could at least be Master of the Temple.

  With Stephen, he went to the Temple, to the practice butts, and took his sword and began to work at the butt with it. It had been a long while since he had done any sword work. He stood square to the post, and hacked at it with the blade, alternating forehands and backhands, as he always did; his arms began to ache almost at once.

  Behind him, Stephen gave a low whistle, and he lowered the sword and turned around.

  De Ridford was standing on the step nearby, watching him. Rannulf wore only his shirt, which was soaked through with sweat; he wiped his forearm over his face.

  De Ridford said, smiling, “You are supposed to practice in full mail.”

  “Bring it up in a chapter meeting,” Rannulf said. He took the sword up again.

  De Ridford waited, patient. When Rannulf stopped, his arms throbbing, the Marshall said, “I wonder how you manage to get through all these fights, Rannulf, your form is so bad.”

  “Is that what you came over here to tell me ?”

  “Actually, no.” The Marshall came a step closer. “You know the castle Montgisor?”

  “I have been there.”

  “There is to be a council. I will go, and you will accompany me. We shall leave in the morning.”

  “A council,” Rannulf said sharply. “In whose interest?”

  “Some great men of the Kingdom. You have a little power now, you ought to learn to use it.”

  Rannulf laid his forearm on the butt, and leaned on it, studying de Ridford’s face; the Marshall’s eyes closed like a cat’s, sleek, assured. Rannulf said, “My orders are to guard the King.”

  “Your men are capable.” De Ridford glanced past him, toward Stephen, and nodded to Rannulf. “This is an order. Kerak will be there, Courtenay, Jaffa, perhaps the Princess herself. The fate of this Kingdom will turn on what is said there.”

  Rannulf said, “Well, I doubt that.” He stared straight at de Ridford, letting a little silence grow up to cover his sudden eagerness. He said, “I’ll go.”

  “Yes.” The grease of de Ridford’s smile slid across his face again. “You should change your stroke; you look like a butcher.” Leisur
ely, he went away, back up the short stone stair that led to the dormitory.

  Rannulf stood staring after him. Stephen came up beside him.

  “This stinks. You’re going alone, with him at your back?”

  “I have to obey orders,” Rannulf said.

  She might be there. He might see her again.

  “Rannulf, this is a trap.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” He stripped off his shirt and dried his face and chest on the cloth. “I have to obey orders. Are you going to hit?”

  Stephen glared at him a moment longer, turned to the butts, and drew his sword. Rannulf sat on the foot of the staircase and watched his brother hack away at the post. The grey mood that had grown over him ever since the King died had abruptly lifted a little. In Montgisor, if de Ridford gave him the opening, he would prove to the Marshall what a real butcher he was. De Ridford was the clear favorite to win the election; if Rannulf got rid of him, then he might have more of a chance. And he might see Sibylla again. He clubbed his fists together and set his chin on them, willing himself patient.

  Chapter XXIV

  “Well, you can stay here if you want,” Agnes said, “but I am going back to Nablus.” She turned, looking Sibylla over with a single, eviscerating glance. “Where have you been now, dressed like that?”

  “Out hunting with Guy.” Sibylla wore a long plain skirt, and boots, with a white coif over her head. She followed her mother through the door, and into the bright sun of the courtyard.

  “You are a beautiful woman, dear, when you dress properly.” Agnes stopped at the edge of the courtyard and looked around. “When you dress like that, you might as well be a potter’s daughter. Naturally, nobody else is ready yet.”

  Sibylla looked out across the dusty courtyard. The castle Montgisor was set on a hilltop above the plain, a squat bailey and two towers inside a curtain wall, with some wooden outbuildings. They had chosen to meet here because it was Sibylla’s, part of her morgengab from her first marriage.