The Spymaster's Protection

by S A Monk

  “Lucien de Aubric is no longer my Chief Intelligence Officer!” the Templar Grand Master refuted loudly.

  “No, but he is mine, de Ridefort,” the king rebutted angrily. “Without his very commendable intelligence, we would not know how many we are up against, who their leading commanders are, where their scouts are positioned, and most important of all, where they would launch their assault on the kingdom. We have a fighting chance because of the information he has gathered for us these past months.”

  “He has sided with that traitor next to him and met personally with Saladin and the Blue Wolf, for God’s sake! Plus he has been conducting a public affair with my wife!” Reynald de Châtillon shouted out his accusations, thrusting to his feet and pointing a finger at Lucien. “How do we know we can even trust the information he brings us? By God, he’s one of them! He’s a damn half-blood! He probably makes regular visits to the sultan’s camp to inform him of our every move.”

  “That is not so!” Brother Conrad burst to his feet in a fit of outrage and defended his friend. “I have been shadowing him these past few days. He has not come close to the sultan’s encampment, except on his belly to spy on them.”

  Lucien glared at de Châtillon. Having heard all of this before, he simply raised his middle finger above his knee, telling the bastard exactly what he thought of his attempt to slander him. Gabrielle’s husband responded with an enraged curse that was as verbally crude as the gesture thrown his way. With a snort of contempt and a derisive half-grin , Lucien shook his head.

  “I do not consider Lucien de Aubric a traitor, and I will hear no more accusations of such,” King Guy pronounced. “He has given me a full and satisfactory account of his imprisonment in Damascus and his meeting with Saladin. As for wives and mistresses,” the king added, sending Reynald a sharply reproving look. “They are personal matters, and have no bearing on the decisions we must make here, tonight.”

  “All that aside,” Count Raymond exclaimed. “I recommend we maintain our defensive position here, at Sephorie, where we have sufficient water and feed. We also have a clean path to the coast and the Royal City, if need be. We can maneuver here. A defensive posture will give us time to await Prince Bohemond’s reinforcement of troops.”

  “That bastard’s as traitorous as you are, Raymond!” de Ridefort called out. “We cannot depend on him for assistance. His promise is an idle one, at best.”

  “Master de Ridefort, cease your accusations and interruptions,” the king censored him. “You will have your turn.”

  Raymond of Tripoli, regent to two kings and advisor to all, looked as if his patience was stretched to its limits. The ordeals of the past year, since Baldwin IV’s death, had weighed heavily on him. Lucien wondered if he would live through the next series of events.

  “As I was saying, if we stay put, the sultan will either have to retreat or attack. Our army is in its strongest position here, at Sephorie. When Saladin weakens and discipline declines, as surely it will by attacking in the middle of the hottest season, we will conduct a swift attack, our army having remained fresh from this well-supplied position.”

  Lucien wasn’t entirely in agreement with his friend’s analysis of Saladin’s potential strategies or his army’s eventual decline of discipline. He had seen the fire in the sultan’s eyes and the determination in his voice when they’d met in Damascus. And the force he had assembled was being commanded by men who would tolerate no breach of discipline. They had supported the sultan and fought too long at his side to allow any weakness to destroy their goal now. The infidel had never been this confident, this united.

  There were several barons in the room who echoed Lucien’s unspoken reservations of the count’s proposed strategy. Lord Ibelin, who was held in great respect by his peers and by Saladin, himself, said that he did not believe Saladin or his troops would weaken, ever. They might eventually retreat, but it would only be to reassemble elsewhere for another all-out attack. The Christian army might not be able to hold this position indefinitely, either. There were many men who would not remain if they were asked to stay for months on end. Eventually, they would demand to return to their families and their livelihoods.

  The king listened to all, then gave Master de Ridefort the chance to speak that he had promised him. “What we have heard from Count Raymond is all nonsense,” the powerful Templar began predictably. “Some of you have already seen the implausibility of maintaining our position here indefinitely. We have assembled a mighty Christian army; the largest ever to meet these accursed infidel dogs. We have not defended God’s kingdom from them these many years, only to cower behind a wall, like weak and frightened women, while they ravage our countryside and our homes. Would you leave a valiant noblewoman to fight this battle alone? Have you no backbone?”

  Lucien’s head was bowed as he listened to de Ridefort’s typically exaggerated speech. Rolling his eyes in disgust, he decided the man should have been an actor in a traveling troupe of entertainers. Yet again he and de Châtillon had resorted to insults and bullying to achieve their end goals. Unfortunately for the kingdom, the king was too frequently swayed by such talk.

  “Dare we trust the advice of a man who signed a secret treaty with our enemy this past winter?” de Ridefort demanded loudly.

  Lucien was not a baron. At best, he was an advisor. To some, he was nothing but a lowly knight now. But he could not stand by and let the madmen across from him denounce a good man as a traitor again and again, in front of his peers.

  He rose to his feet and addressed the king. “Sire, the Lord of Tripoli and Tiberius paid you public homage and swore renewed fealty to you. His private treaty with Saladin was his right, as all of the barons know. It covered only his land and the protection of his tenants. How many of you have agreed to similar treaties with raiding Arab leaders to keep you fiefdoms safe? And Master de Ridefort,” he demanded of his former superior, “were you not teetering on treason, yourself, when you allowed hundreds of men to go to their deaths in a foolhardy, ill-advised attack on a body of Saracens over twice your strength? The battle at Cresson played right into Saladin’s hands and cost the kingdom several hundred good fighting men at a time when we could ill afford it.”

  “You insolent whoreson!” de Ridefort exploded.

  “Gentlemen!” the king roared. “Enough of the accusations of treason. I have made my decision after listening to all of you. We will remain here at Sephorie for the time being. We will not march in defense of Tiberius. I believe Lucien de Aubric when he says Saladin will allow Count Raymond’s family free conduct in the event of defeat. Though we may yet fight the infidel in Galilee, we will await a better opportunity.”

  As the assembly broke up, the count caught Lucien’s forearm and detained him by his side. “It is best if you remain here with me a bit longer, my friend. De Ridefort and de Châtillon look ready to spill your blood.”

  “Fuck them!” Lucien swore savagely. “They are madmen, like I said.”

  “They probably are, but I also wish to thank you for your defense of me. It seems few enough are ready to do so these days.” The count, who appeared tired and distraught, despite the victory he had just won, moved his hand again to Lucien’s shoulder. “I would like you to take service with me when this is all over, Sir de Aubric. Galilee and Tripoli are large fiefs. My sons have their duties, but I have need of your special abilities. You choose the position; seneschal at one of my castles, captain of one of my garrisons, intelligence officer, anything you like. I also have many fine residences scattered over my holdings. You and the Lady Gabrielle are going to need a place to live soon. What say you, my friend?”

  Lucien was deeply moved by the count’s generous offers. “I may be more trouble than I am worth, Raymond. You already hold de Ridefort’s deepest enmity. If you retain my services, he will only have another reason to hate you and harass you.”

  “As you say, fuck him! He has yet to best me, and he has been a thorn in my side for a long time.” The count shook
off his anger and chuckled. “Maybe it is unfair of me to ask since the king has employed you. He has undoubtedly offered you long term service and greater wealth.”

  Lucien set aside his friend’s concern with a quick shake of his head. “I serve King Guy only until this crisis is over. I cannot stay in Jerusalem afterwards. It would be too dangerous for Gabrielle and I, with the Temple so close. De Ridefort and his successors could have me arrested at any time, then transported and held for trial before the Pope. Even King Guy may not be able to stop that. They might someday convince him to hand me over to them. I cannot risk that, for Gabrielle’s sake.”

  “Then join my household.”

  “I will give it deep consideration, Raymond. If I choose to remain in the Holy Land, it will likely be in service to you.”

  “You are thinking about leaving Palestine?”

  “I have given it some consideration.”

  “Would you go to Iberia, where you were born?”

  “Actually, I do not know, Raymond. At this point, I have simply come to the conclusion that I have had a bellyful of the politics in the kingdom. I imagine much will depend on the outcome of this battle with the sultan.”

  “I do not feel good about any of this, Lucien,” the count finished.

  “Nor do I, my friend, nor do I.”

  +++

  Lucien went back to the tent he shared with Lord Ibelin, set up in the central courtyard of the castle. The count had retired to the one he shared with his sons. The three young men were understandably upset over the fates of their mother and families, even though Lucien had reassured them many times that Saladin was no slayer of women and children.

  Guessing it to be close to midnight, Lucien chose to sit outside under the dark night sky for a while before he retired for the day. He had not had much sleep since he had left Jerusalem and Gabrielle, and he had much on his mind tonight, not the least of which was the bewitching woman he had left behind.

  How he missed her! In the few months they had known one another, she had come to mean everything to him. He could not imagine his life without her. She was his heart and soul. He sat down on a log near the entrance to the tent and pulled out the necklace she had given him from beneath his steel reinforced leather hauberk. The multifaceted clear stone embedded in the top of the gold crescent moon sparkled as it picked up the bits of starlight overhead.

  As a talisman, it might just serve him as well as it had Gabrielle during her dangerous rescue missions across the deserts of this war-ravaged land. He desperately hoped so, for he wanted to return to her, alive and whole, able to love and care for her for the rest of his life. He had little at the present time to offer her, but he would find a way to provide for her.

  The alternative, leaving her alone to face her bastard of a husband, was unthinkable. If he weren’t a man who believed in Christ’s teachings and God’s eternal judgment, he’d murder the reprobate at an opportune time on the battlefield. He was fully aware that Reynald would take any similar opportunity to do the same to him.

  De Châtillon had been inside the Grand Master’s tent since the conclusion of the council meeting. No doubt they were planning their next strategy to get the king to move his army and engage with the enemy.

  The Templar camp was set up on the other side of the keep. Lucien had a good view of it. Their tents were always arranged around the chapel one in the center, with the Marshal’s and the Grand Master’s beside it. The Order’s black and white standard flew from a lance planted into the ground at the tent’s entrance.

  Lucien felt the tug of memories as he stared at the camp. He still had friends within those tents, men he would grieve over if lost; some good friends, like Conrad. He had been stunned by his brother’s defense of him this evening. He was glad Conrad did not consider him a traitor. Though he had not been able to thank him for his support, he vowed he would protect his friend’s back on the battlefield if he could.

  He was just about ready to join Lord Ibelin in his tent when he saw Master de Ridefort come out of his tent. He was alone. For the most part, the encampment was quiet, with most in their tents resting. Lucien rose and stepped into the shadows as the Grand Master made his way to the keep.

  Staying far enough back to remain unnoticed, Lucien followed him. Inside the keep, de Ridefort climbed the spiral stairway in one of the towers to the top floor. Lucien removed his boots and tracked his steps. At the final landing, de Ridefort knocked on the closed door of the only room on the top floor; the king’s room.

  He was admitted after another knock, but the door did not close behind him. Lucien took advantage of the oversight to move to a position to listen.

  The conversation was muffled, as if coming from the far side of the room, but Lucien heard enough to know that the Grand Master was complaining bitterly to the king about his decision that evening. As they moved closer, he heard the king’s raised voice more clearly.

  “I think I made the correct, decision, Gérard,” Guy insisted. “De Aubric’s intelligence has been solid, and confirmed by your men, as well as Reynald’s. The sultan would have drawn us out and cut us off had we charged after him yesterday.”

  “That was yesterday’s plan. Damn it, Lusignan, we must go after the enemy or lose all!”

  There was a reply, but it was not the chastisement Lucien had suspected. The words garbled, he recognized it only as a grumbling dissent by the king.

  “King Henry is your cousin, and as such, he would expect you to use his money wisely in this war,” de Ridefort continued. “Need I remind you that he could replace you on my advice? You sit on the throne here by his agreement and my design. Princess Isabella waits in the wings as your successor. There has been talk of bringing the brother of Sibylla’s first husband over from Constantinople. Married to Isabella, Conrad de Montferrat would make a capable ruler. Reynald and I both think so.”

  “Isabella is married to Lord Humphrey, for God’s sake! What do you and Reynald plan to do? Assassinate the young pup? And de Montferrat has no blood claim to the throne.”

  “Like you, he would… by marrying a princess. King Amalric’s daughters have been very useful. Did you not gain the throne by seducing one, afterall? Reynald and I put you on that throne, my friend, but if you refuse to defend the kingdom and instead sit like a coward in Sephorie, we will demand a man strong enough to lead us and preserve us. The Pope would no doubt join us in demanding a new ruler were we to lose the Holy Land. So what say you, Guy? Do we ride for Tiberius at first light or hide in Sephorie?”

  Lucien did not need to stay to hear the king’s response. Guy Lusignan was and always had been a puppet to men like de Ridefort and de Châtillon. While he might wish to do the right thing, he would, in the end, concede to the will of those who had placed him on the throne.

  +++

  Except for Lucien, it came as a great surprise to everyone when the order was given to march at dawn the following morning. They would have been better off to march at night. The day dawned hot and dry, with nary a cooling breeze in sight. By noon, temperatures would be scorching. Lucien was sure of it. When he left Lord Balian’s tent, he felt an ominous sense of inevitability settle over him.

  He had spoken to Balian and the count about what he had heard last night, but neither thought there was much hope of altering the king’s decision. They had all been down this road before with Guy Lusignan.

  Like Lucien, they too felt the day’s course would bring nothing good. There was nothing for it, though, but to make the best of it and do what they must, as duty, allegiance, and honor demanded. Lucien had learned that lesson bitterly time and again in Outremer. Men’s lives turned on the whims of kings and their kingmakers.

  A loud commotion at the forefront of the three assembling divisions drew Lucien's attention from his grim reflections. A Muslim woman from some village nearby, was standing upon a rock calling a curse down upon the army as it began to march past her. She screamed in Arabic some nonsense about Allah’s retribution on those w
ho dared attack his holy warriors.

  The infantry in the lead battalion had stopped to surround her. One of the foot soldiers pulled her from the rock and threw her into a fire pit where wood and camel dung were still burning brightly. Her robes caught fire immediately, and her shrieks could now be heard by all in the encampment.

  Within moments, flames had eaten away her garments, yet by some unholy design, her hair and skin remained untouched. Lucien had rushed to the scene and was as shocked as the men around him at the sight.

  The woman whirled and whirled in a circle, shouting her curses without pause to the stunned men before her. Finally a lone soldier charged toward her, lifted the axe he was carrying, and silenced her with a blow to the head, splitting her skull.

  “Good God!” Lucien looked down at her nude body which was untouched by the conflagration that had consumed her clothes. His curse was echoed by Lord Balian’s oath as he came up to stand beside him.

  Count Raymond rode up at that moment to restore order. The woman’s body was ordered drug away, and a semblance of calm returned. Still. Lucien could see that macabre scene had unsettled many of the men.

  The march proceeded as men were ordered back into their positions. King Guy had decided to swing south, then northeast to gain the main road to Tiberius. This direction would take the army by the small spring and watering hole at Tur’an. He had divided the Christians into the typical three divisions. Count Raymond, despite all of de Ridefort’s accusations of treason, had been given command of the vanguard, the front line. King Guy commanded the center, where the kingdom’s most scared relic, the cross of the crucified Christ, was carried and guarded by the clerical envoy, which included the bishops of Acre and Lydda. Lord Ibelin brought up the rearguard, which he commanded. The Templars and Hospitallers were stationed here as well, led by their respective grand masters. Each division consisted of a full battalion of cavalry and infantry. The mercenaries King Henry’s penance money had bought rode with the king under the banner of England.