Jerusalem

by Cecelia Holland

  “My lady Princess, the baby cries, and she will not be soothed.”

  The Princess sat as she had been, bolt upright, staring forward, but now a little frown appeared between her brows. She hesitated only a moment. Turning to Jaffa, she said, “I have to go. I shall see you later. My lords, good evening.” Rising, she brought them all up onto their feet, and until she had reached the door and gone, she held the gaze of every man there.

  Guy sat down again. “The baby’s cutting teeth,” he said, to no one in particular.

  Joscelin said, “Ah, she’s a sharp tongue in her head, Sibylla. Like Agnes.”

  “She has some peculiar notions,” Guy said. “The women here, you know, it’s not like France.”

  Kerak said, “If you want my advice, Jaffa, lock her up in a tower!”

  Guy bridled up, angry; de Ridford reached out, and gripped his arm. “Well, maybe, but at least wait until she makes you King,” he said.

  “I shall never be King,” Guy said. He settled back into his chair. “Tripoli is nearer to being King than I; all he has to do is poison the brat ahead of him.”

  De Ridford shook him. “You know nothing of the ways of Outremer. I promise you, you will be King, and Tripoli, never.”

  Guy blinked at him, his blue eyes clear with sudden hope. “You think so.”

  “Believe me,” De Ridford said.

  Guy sat back, struggling to fit this large and lofty idea into a mind no bigger than a baby’s tooth. Down at the low end of the hall the ordinary men were fighting for the bits left over from their masters’ meal. Joscelin was falling asleep, his hands tucked over his belly. Kerak had gotten into a bawling argument with someone half the room away.

  De Ridford cast a glance down the table. At the very end, Rannulf Fitzwilliam sat, his elbows planted on the table, a cup before him; as de Ridford watched, he drained the cup, and reached across the table for the ewer to fill it up again.

  Good, de Ridford thought. Drink hard, you fool, drink yourself witless, what little wit you have.

  Watching the hall, the ceaseless small fighting among these men, he knew exactly how to deal with Rannulf; the Norman’s own nasty temper would be the end of him. In fact, the whole council was going along very well. He sat back on the bench, away from the table, replete.

  Chapter XXV

  Rannulf woke up in the back of the stable under a hay rick. He had no notion how he had gotten there; he had drunk himself blind the night before, and now his head was pounding and his belly hurt. He went into the stable yard and soaked his head in the trough, drank the cold water until his stomach swelled, vomited, and drank again.

  After that, he still felt bad. Around him the stablehands and grooms were leading the horses out to the trough, and he went away toward the wall, and tried to sort his mind out. He had to find some way back to God. He went around behind the bailey to the chapel.

  The chapel was small, and empty, its bare floor swept, only a little rug in the middle. The candles were unlit. The book lay open in the center of the altar. He knelt down and tried to pray. The words would not pass his lips. Nothing out there answered him, and he knew God had given up on him.

  “Saint.”

  Startled, he was on his feet before he saw her. She had come in through the side door of the chapel, the same one he had come through, and she stood by the pulpit. He said, “Princess, what are you doing here?” He glanced around them; they were alone.

  The heat rose in him, the old lust, and the vow was gone, now.

  She said, “I wanted to talk to you. I need your help.” Innocent, she came forward, her gaze direct. “I want to make a secret connection with Saladin.”

  “God’s eyes,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I do know. I want peace. I want my children to live in Jerusalem at peace with all the world. The only way to do that is to come to terms with the Saracens.”

  “Saladin will not stop fighting us until every one of us is dead, Princess. Or until he is dead. And then there will be another Saladin.”

  “He made two truces; he can make another, to last forever.” She came on, pressing her argument. She was within his reach. Through the thin silk of her sleeves he could see her arms, round and soft. Her skin like silk.

  He said, “He uses the truce to get ready to make war. So do we. The longer the truce, the harder the war after it.”

  “No,” she said, her voice rising, sharper; she was losing her temper with him. “All you care to do is kill people. Your war, your holy war, that’s all you know, and all you want. That’s why you’re a Templar, isn’t it? So you can kill without sin.”

  He said, “I’ll show you why I am a Templar.” He grabbed her, one hand on her arm, the other on her throat, and pulled her hard against him.

  Her eyes widened, white-rimmed. With a whine she twisted vainly in his grip, and he bent over her, his mouth open to kiss her.

  Overhead, a bell spoke, tolling Nones.

  The great voice sent a shudder through him. He let go of her. Turning, he went off a few steps into the dark of the chapel, his head down, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  He thought she would run, or scream, or call for help. She said, her voice rasping, “Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you will do as I ask.”

  He lifted his eyes and looked at her again. “No. I won’t.”

  She had her fingers to her throat; at his answer her face twisted in fury. “Ah, you—” She turned and went out of the chapel.

  He stood still a moment, his mind scattered. He had been about to force her. She had come to him for help, and he had jumped her like a wolf on a doe. The strokes of the bell shivered the air around him. He felt torn into a thousand pieces. He could not pray and he had no right being in this place. He walked out of the chapel.

  Guy said, “Are you all right? You look pretty twitchy.”

  Sibylla sank down on the high seat beside him. “I’m perfectly well.”

  Under the table his hand came creeping up her knee. “How is my little comfit?” He meant the baby, Jolie.

  “Oh, she’s fine.” She looked out across the room, wishing he would be quiet.

  The nobles were moving around the hall, sitting down, having waited until she and her husband took their places. On her right hand Kerak sagged in his chair, already bawling for drink; Guile stood behind him, to serve him. Her uncle Joscelin sat on Guy’s left, and beyond him, de Ridford, wiping his mouth on a napkin.

  Her gaze slid past him, on down to the low end of the table, where Rannulf Fitzwilliam sat on the bench. He was drinking. He would not look at her; as always he kept his gaze down, full of false monkish pride. She hated him, for refusing her, for attacking her. Her throat still hurt; she had wrapped her coif around under her chin, to hide the bruise, but Guy would surely see it later; she would have to lie.

  If she told him, he would see that the Templar suffered for what he had done.

  Her skin roughened. She felt like a fool for thinking she could enlist his help.

  Guy’s hand squeezed her knee. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “I think you ought to stay away from these gatherings, anyway.” He waved his hand at the hall. “It’s like a barracks.”

  She mumbled something. Abruptly she did wish for the quiet and comfort of her room, for Alys to serve her and talk to her, for Jolie’s unlimited love. Around them the men spoke and laughed, so that a general roar that filled the room. The servants brought dishes to them. She and Guy shared a plate, and he put the tenderest meats before her, broke the bread into pieces for her, gave her the cup first, before he drank.

  She leaned on him, grateful for his affection. “You’re good to me, darling. You never say no to me.”

  “You’ve never made it necessary.” He kissed her brow.

  Kerak and Joscelin were shouting back and forth along the table. Leaning forward to aim his words past Guy and Sibylla, the Wolf called, “Those
Saracen blades bend like whips, and they hold an edge better than ours.”

  Joscelin said, “Not the sword wins the battle, but the arm that wields it.” He sprawled on the bench, taking his winecup from a page. He had gotten so fat he could not sit up straight anymore.

  Kerak planted his elbows on the table. “Nonetheless, a good sword helps. I would not like to face any enemy with only a stick or a stone in my hand.”

  “I have seen men fight as well with sticks as with swords,” said de Ridford, suddenly. “I agree with my lord Count, it is the man who wins, not the weapon.”

  “Oh, so,” Kerak said, with a laugh. “Put a man with a stick against a man with a sword, and see who is left standing at the end.”

  De Ridford said, “My men use staves, keeping order in the streets of Jerusalem, and they are masters at it. I would set any of them against any of your swordsmen, my lord, with utmost confidence.”

  Guy looked around. Up and down the table the other talk quieted; they sensed a contest, and they all loved a fight. Kerak and de Ridford were staring at each other, and the Marshall began to smile, smooth as cream. He said, “In fact, I will pit Rannulf, here, against your Guile, there, any time, my lord.”

  A jubilant yell went up from the listeners. Down at the end of the table, Rannulf at last lifted his gaze from the floor.

  He said, “We aren’t supposed to fight for sport.” His voice was less than steady; Sibylla realized he was drunk.

  De Ridford gave him only half a glance. “I’m ordering you.”

  Kerak bawled, “He’s wiggling out, Marshall, see? He knows he can’t do it.” He twisted, looking back over his shoulder at Guile behind him.

  “He’ll do it,” de Ridford said. “Bring him a stave.”

  Guile said, “Let’s put it to the trial.” He strode forward to the table just down from his father, and stepped up onto it, among the platters and cups, and jumped across to the open floor beyond. The servants shrank back out of his way. He drew his sword, and swaggering he went down the length of the hall, swishing the blade back and forth, while the men at the tables yelled and clapped their hands in rhythm. Sibylla glanced down at Rannulf again.

  He sat still, his face sour, watching Guile; then he turned, and gave such a look to de Ridford that Sibylla murmured under her breath. Guy put his arm around her. Up from the door came a man with a stick, six feet long, and as thick as her wrist, and Rannulf stood, and walked around the end of the table and out into the middle of the hall.

  Guile backed away from him a few steps, the sword cocked in his right hand, his left arm spread away from his body. The onlookers hushed so that Sibylla could hear the crackling of the fire in the huge hearth. Rannulf took the stave from the servant; he held it at the middle, one-handed, and banged it once or twice on the straw-covered floor. His gaze never left Guile.

  Joscelin said, “A hundred michaels on the sword. This Templar’s going down the hill.”

  De Ridford said, quietly, “He’s a little long in the tooth, Rannulf, but I have seen him fight with this weapon; he is brilliant at it.” Sibylla looked at him sharply. She knew he hated Rannulf.

  Guy said, “I’ll take the stave, my lord Count.”

  Kerak slapped his hand on the table. “Shall we have the lady begin this?”

  “No,” she said, sharply, without thinking, and the men around her laughed.

  “Squeamish, darling,” Guy said. “Do you want to leave?”

  Her gaze followed the two men in the middle of the hall; they were circling each other, step by step. Her hair stood on end. She said, “No.”

  Kerak banged his hand on the table again. “All right, then. Begin!”

  Guile bounded forward at once, slashing with the sword; the blade sang through the air. Rannulf moved out of his way. Now he held the stave in both hands, slantwise across his body. Guile leapt at him again, and again Rannulf avoided his rush, sidling around to his left, the sword slicing uselessly through the space between them. Guile lost his smile.

  “He will not fight!”

  “Damn you,” Kerak shouted. “Take it to him!”

  Guile lunged, the sword point first. Rannulf stepped in past the blade and thrust the stave between Guile’s knees and tripped him. The watching crowd bellowed. Guile landed on his backside, and bounced up again at once, his face red.

  Sibylla sat back, smiling behind her hand. She loved to see Guile humbled. Down the table from her, Kerak gave a howl of rage. “Get him! Cut him!”

  Two-handed, Guile hacked a flurry of blows at Rannulf’s head; again and again the upraised stave turned the blade aside. The parries were glancing, twisting, so that the sword never bit, and the stave never broke. Then Guile missed a stroke and the stave shot in past his guard, poked him in the stomach, and doubled him over. As he wobbled there, helpless, Rannulf went by him, back into the center of the room, and swung the stave around level and spanked him flat across the backside.

  Sibylla sat back, clapping her hands together. All along the table, men were laughing now. With a startled bray of pain, Guile tottered off balance. Like a baited bull, he swung around toward his tormentor, and got the stave smack in the chest. His arm dropped. Staggering back, he came up hard against the edge of the table.

  Rannulf lowered the stave. He started back toward his place, and amid a general roar of applause from the onlookers Guy turned to Joscelin, his face bright with amusement, and said, “My hundred michaels, please?”

  Joscelin turned toward him, jovial, his mouth open to speak, and then Guile shot forward, raising his sword again, and leapt on Rannulf when his back was turned.

  Sibylla cried out, furious, and rose halfway out of her chair. A yell went up from the watching room. Rannulf flinched, warned, and the sword missed him by an inch, carried down past his elbow, and hit the table so hard the blade stuck fast. Rannulf spun around. The stave whirled in his hands; he whacked the sword flying out of Guile’s grip, and then flailed at him, milling blows to Guile’s head and ribs, the stave a blur in the air, and under this drubbing Guile went down hard on the floor and curled up, his arms clasped over his skull.

  Kerak was standing in his place, screaming to his son to get up, to fight back. Around the table the other men were merely screaming. Sibylla’s hand hurt. She looked down in surprise and saw her fist clenched, as if she fought. Her head throbbed with a sudden, violent ache; her heart raced.

  Guy said, “Now, that’s a piece of work.”

  De Ridford’s voice was fat with gloating. “He is a Templar.”

  Rannulf was going back to his place at the table. As he passed, the men watching shouted, and leaned out to clap his shoulder, touch his arm; he ignored them all. He reached his place, and sat down again, and turned his gaze down to the floor. Guile crept away, and went unobtrusively back to the wall behind his father.

  Guy turned, beckoning to a page. “Take the Templar the best wine we have, with my regards.”

  Kerak wheeled, glaring at Guile. “You’re rotten. You can’t even beat an old man with a stick.”

  Sibylla pried her clenched fist open. She sat staring into the middle of the hall; the sword lay there on the straw, forgotten.

  It was in her, too, the lust to fight. She had felt it, as much as anyone, watching this combat, the gross beauty of it, and the power. She saw, suddenly, how hard it would be to make peace. Her chest tightened; she remembered railing at him in righteous indignation, as if she knew better.

  She wondered what she did know. She turned to Guy.

  “I want to go up to Jolie.”

  Guy’s arm tightened around her. “I’ll take you.” He turned, and waved to a page. He had learned the manner of a king; every move he made was royal now. She thought she had liked him better as he had been when she first met him, in his worn old coat, without the pearl in his ear. She was learning too many things tonight, too much at once. When she rose, all the men stood, and she went out of their midst toward the shelter of her room and her child.

&nb
sp; Rannulf went into the stable, to tend his horse, and Guile and several of his men set on him. They gave him no warning, but they chose a bad place for it, narrow, and dark, where they got in each other’s way, and he stayed in the fight long enough to stick his knife to the haft in Guile’s chest.

  The other men pulled him off, and saw what he had done. Abruptly they stopped beating him. Two of them held him by the arms, and another went for Kerak.

  The Wolf came, red-eyed. He saw his son, and knelt down and felt the wound, and saw that his son was dead. Then he got up, and came up face-to-face with Rannulf.

  Rannulf’s arms were twisted behind his back. He looked into Kerak’s face and said, “It took six of them, Wolf. Remember that.”

  Kerak drew his knife. “Where is de Ridford? Tell him I’m going to kill his man, here!”

  Another knight said, “De Ridford went out somewhere. That’s why we knew he’d be alone.”

  “Go on, Kerak,” Rannulf said. “Kill me. De Ridford wants me dead. He set me up for this; you’re doing what he wants.”

  Kerak drew his arm back. The blade a long steel sliver in the dark. Rannulf’s gut clenched. Kerak turned his head. “Can I do it?”

  “Ah, you coward,” Rannulf said, disgusted.

  “He’s an officer of the Temple,” somebody said. “He has two hundred brothers to avenge him. You have to get de Ridford to agree to it, or we’ll be fighting them for years.”

  Kerak turned, and punched Rannulf in the face with the fist that held the dagger. “Go find de Ridford.” He cocked his arm back and hit Rannulf again.

  Rannulf blinked his eyes open, fighting for consciousness; he was lying on his face on the floor, his bound arms twisted behind him, numb to the shoulder. His head hurt. He wondered how long he had been out, and how much longer before he died.

  Under him was a plank floor. All around him were the boots and legs of his captors, shuffling around; they were doing something behind him that he could not see. Past the legs and boots he saw the close walls of a little room, all hung with weapons: the armory.