The Kings of Vain Intent

by The Kings of Vain Intent (retail) (epub)

  Conrad, furious that Balian had stayed on his own path, concentrated on his immediate rival.

  ‘You don’t know me to say that, Lusignan. But I will tell you what I am. I am the guardian of this city, holding it in fee for the Kings of the West. They will be here soon, and I will keep it until they arrive. Do you think I would give it to you, to throw away with the others?’

  For the first time since he had set eyes on Conrad, Guy relaxed. He knew nothing about the Marquis of Montferrat, and supposed him to be as he appeared, an ambitious Italian, who had arrived in Palestine at the right place, on the right day. Now, with his mention of the European kings, he had given Guy an opening.

  ‘At last you reach the point, Marquis Conrad. You are unaware, perhaps, that my family are the Lusignans of Guienne, and that they have sworn fealty to none other than Richard Cœur-de-Lion, Duke of Aquitaine and Lord of Poitou.’ God, no, Balian thought. Don’t go on with it.

  ‘Guienne,’ Guy continued maliciously, ‘is in the southern region of Poitou. And, since Richard is sure to be King of England before long—’

  Balian wiped a hand across his eyes. Aah, Guy, do your advisers tell you nothing?

  Conrad interposed, ‘You claim Richard as a future ally?’

  ‘I do,’ Guy assured him, his confidence restored. ‘So, before you get in too deep, I suggest you come down and give me your allegiance. I am willing to forget what has happened here.’

  Conrad tipped his head to one side, drew a deep breath and murmured, ‘If we speak of allies—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, if we speak of allies—’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I am not entirely bereft of them.’ He caught Balian’s eye. ‘As your loyal Lord of Nablus will tell you. And, as I have already told you, it is evident that you do not know me.’

  Unable to resist the gibe, Guy remarked, ‘Nor care to, I’d say.’

  Suddenly, ripping out the words, Conrad snarled, ‘Then you should have learned to care! In that way, you insipid creature, you would have discovered that I am cousin to Philip Augustus, King of France—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘and cousin to Frederick Barbarossa of Hohenstaufen, the most powerful Emperor since Charlemagne! Now, how does that sit with you?’

  Chapter Three

  Tyre, Acre

  April–December 1189

  From that time on there were two rival factions within the Christian Kingdom; Guy, Amalric and Joscelin on the one hand, Conrad on the other. The king drew the bulk of his support from Tripoli and from the English Crusaders who arrived independently in Palestine, but it was a dwindling majority. Tripoli was too far north to be an effective seat of government, or a good rallying point. If he was to prove that he was still the Frankish leader in the East, he would have to pitch his tent in a more suitable place – and thus a more dangerous one. Tyre would have been ideal, had he been allowed in.

  But Conrad sat tight inside the city, waiting for Philip of France, or Frederick of Germany…

  During the spring of 1189, a third faction came into being. Balian of Ibelin and his wife Maria Comnena – herself once Queen of Jerusalem – were reunited with Maria’s daughter, Princess Isabella, and with her husband, young Humphrey of Toron. He, too, had been captured at Hattin, held for a year and a half, and then released. He was not yet twenty-three years of age, Isabella not yet seventeen. They had been married for five years.

  The arrival of Humphrey and Isabella at Tyre reunited not only the houses of Nablus and Toron, but the family that had done more than any other to hold together the frayed strands of the Kingdom. However, there were no political thoughts. The talk was trivial, compassionate, and, towards midnight, tinged with wine.

  They sat in the main room in the house that Conrad had allocated to Balian and Maria. Humphrey and Isabella shared a couch by the fire, while the Lord and Lady of Nablus remained at the table, content to look at each other and, from time to time, sneak glances at the young couple. They made no apology for sentiment. The last time Balian had seen Humphrey was on the battlefield, ringed by Saracens. The last time Maria had seen her daughter was some weeks prior to the battle. After it was over, after the Saracens had triumphed, Maria heard that Isabella had defended her castle at Toron with just eighteen men. She had held out for several days before the sympathetic Moslem general had convinced her that further resistance was useless. So impressed was he by her courage and by the loyalty she had aroused in the defenders that he had allowed her and the nine other survivors to collect their possessions and seek refuge in Antioch. As they left the castle, the Moslem troops knelt beside the road, some unashamedly weeping for the dark-haired chatelaine. At that time, she was fourteen years of age.

  A little after midnight the women retired, and Balian moved to the fire, to sit opposite his son-in-law.

  ‘I won’t detain you long,’ he said. ‘Isabella gave me a warning look as she went out. Were there no comfortable beds in Antioch?’

  ‘In truth, there weren’t,’ Humphrey grinned. ‘I found her sharing a room with five other young women. Imagine, a Princess of Jerusalem, living like that.’

  ‘Why did she not come here and wait for you?’

  ‘We managed to exchange one letter apiece, during my first month of imprisonment. She said she would be at Antioch. I suppose she did not want to make me search for her.’

  Balian nodded. ‘Prison thinned you.’

  ‘You know, sire, I thought the same about you today. We’re all in prison, it seems, with or without bars in the window.’

  ‘While I’m keeping you from your wife – It can wait, but I feel you should know the situation here.’

  ‘Yes, whatever you have to tell me. In return, I have something to show you. I could have done so earlier, but I thought it best not to raise our ladies’ hopes, until we have proof.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. What is it?’

  ‘A letter. But first, I’d rather hear about King Guy and Marquis Conrad and so forth. In Antioch I was told that Conrad rubs his backside in anticipation of the throne, though how he intends to be rid of Guy—’ He shrugged.

  Balian said, ‘I think he will wait until Philip or Frederick arrive, then make his move. At the moment, Conrad dare not leave Tyre, for fear that Guy will find a way in. So he stays put, no doubt hoping to present the city to the first of his cousin-kings to reach Palestine. It’s not a bad plan, and it will make him a firm favourite with one or other of them.’

  He talked on for a while, then asked about the letter.

  Humphrey slid a hand inside his leather gambeson, frowned for an instant, then grunted and withdrew a much-folded sheet of parchment. Balian watched him, this extraordinarily handsome young man, whom some thought too handsome to be truly masculine. Well, they should have seen him in battle, or they should see the light in Isabella’s eyes when she was with him. Then they should shut their mouths and cleanse their minds.

  ‘It’s a copy, of course. It would take all night to tell you how I came upon it, but I believe it to be genuine.’

  ‘Will you read it to me?’

  ‘No, I’ll fetch some wine. You read it. Here.’ He passed it across and Balian unfolded it with care.

  The letter was titled,

  ‘From Frederick, by the Grace of God Emperor, Ever August, the Magnificent Victor over the enemies of the Empire, and the Fortunate Governor of the Monarchy – to the Illustrious Saladin, Governor of the Saracens.’

  Without looking up, Balian held out his mug, then nodded his thanks. He continued reading.

  ‘Unless, before all else, you return the land you have taken from us – you will face our warriors of many nations. The fury of Germany; the untamed power of the Rhineland; the young men of the Danube, who do not know fear; the massive Bavarian; the shrewd Swabian; the circumspect Franconian; the men of Saxony, whose sport is swordplay; the nimbleness of Brabant; Thuringia, wilder than the wild beast; Austria, Illyria, Westphalia…’

  There
were more, but Balian let his eyes slide down the sheet to where the almost seventy-year-old Emperor proclaimed,

  ‘And you will be taught that my own right hand, which you may imagine to be crippled with age, can still raise a sword in salute on the day of Christ’s Triumph.’

  He sat back and smiled at Humphrey. ‘Well, well. The old dog barks. When was this sent, do you know?’

  ‘A month ago, or more.’

  ‘And did Saladin reply?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘One moment. You make me feel out of things, beloved kinsman. How is it that you, who were shut away in prison, know all this, whilst we—’

  ‘For that reason, sire; because I was in prison. My jailers were Moslems. You know I speak some Arabic.’

  ‘You speak it very well. So you wormed it out of them.’ ‘

  Yes, little by little.’

  ‘What a strange world. Guy and his cohorts spend a year in prison, yet do not learn the first thing about Conrad. You, on the other hand, intercept letters between the Emperor of Germany and Sultan Saladin. I’m of a mind to send you back, so you can glean a little more for us.’

  More serious than not, Humphrey mused, ‘If it would be to our advantage.’

  ‘No, you stay here. You’ve served your term. What of the reply?’

  ‘I don’t have a copy of that, though it was recited to me. I thought Saladin showed supreme confidence, for he said, “You number those who are joined with you in the move against us. You name them and claim assistance from the King of this nation and the King of that. You speak of Duke he and Count he, such a Marquis, such knights. Yet, if we were to number those who are in our service, we would have a list that could not be contained in writing.” Anyway, that’s the gist of it.’

  Balian shook his head. ‘And the desert wolf howls right back. Did either of them make overtures of peace?’

  ‘Well, you can see that Frederick didn’t. But Saladin offered to return the True Cross and allow us to keep one priest in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. He also promised to let our pilgrims visit the city and the River Jordan for all time. After every line he said, “And I will keep the peace with you”.’

  ‘What did he want in return?’

  ‘That’s it; he wanted Tripoli and Tyre.’

  ‘Frederick won’t accept. He won’t even meet on it.’

  Humphrey shook his head. ‘He won’t even think on it.’

  Five weeks later, in May 1189, Frederick Barbarossa – Red-beard – left Mainz at the head of twenty-seven thousand horsemen and seventy thousand foot-soldiers. The German Crusade had begun.

  * * *

  In that same month another force took the road. It numbered less than six hundred knights and some eight thousand infantry, ludicrous by comparison with the might of Germany, yet strong enough to show that there was still a faint tremor in the Christian heart. The force was led by King Guy, who was, himself, led in all things by Amalric and Joscelin. They had decided to seek the more effective seat of government, but they by-passed Tyre and, to the amazement of Conrad and Balian alike, laid siege to Acre.

  When Saladin heard that the King of Jerusalem had broken his vow, raised an army and invested the coastal city, he sent his brother Saphadin to verify the report. The Sultan simply could not believe that even Guy of Lusignan would be so foolish as to pit a force of under ten thousand against the massive walls. Particularly when those walls encompassed a garrison of thirty-six thousand battle-hardened Moslems.

  * * *

  They gazed at the city they called St Jean d’Acre. From their position a mile or so inland the Frankish leaders could see the high walls – those protecting the city from land attack – and the jumble of houses that spilled along the blunted peninsula. Acre marked the northern extremity of the bay to which it had given its name. At the southern end stood Haifa and the wooded slopes of Mount Carmel.

  Guy’s scarlet tent, the centrepiece of the Christian camp, had been set up on a small hill named Mount Turon. Below the southern edge of the hill ran the shallow Belus River, while beyond the river lay a swampy mosquito-ridden plain. The road from Acre to Haifa crossed the Belus between the coast and Mount Turon, then forked, the second branch winding south-east toward Nazareth. There were no trees on Mount Turon, so the Crusaders enjoyed an uninterrupted view westward to Acre, and south over the plain.

  Dressed in full armour, save for his helmet and spurs, Seneschal Joscelin pointed at the city and said, ‘Do you see where they have added outerworks near the port?’

  ‘And deepened the fosse by the Cursed Tower,’ Amalric appended. ‘They’ve been busy, those black pigs.’

  Guy had been staring at another aspect of the port; at the low stone arm that stretched out to the Tower of Flies, dominating the port entrance, and at the huge chain that hung across the entrance. At its lowest point the chain almost touched the water, barring the entry or exit of all but the smallest craft. Nodding in agreement with his brother, he said, ‘They have indeed been busy. It may take us a long time to impress ourselves upon them.’

  ‘Already the defeatist, brother?’ He ignored Guy’s indignant denial, squinted at the late-afternoon sun, then pulled his hands from his link-mail mittens. He flexed his fingers, letting the air dry the dampness from his hands. The mittens hung like empty purses from his wrists.

  There were not enough daylight hours left to mount a probing attack on Acre, and there was no indication that the Saracens would venture out and storm the hill, so Amalric relaxed a little. He looked down the western slope of Mount Turon, which, like the rest, was alive with men and horses, the grassy surface half-hidden by wagons, piles of equipment and crude shelters. Critically, he could find little that was praiseworthy in the present force. The animals were not tethered in lines, but were tied together in restive groups, while less than a third of the men were accommodated in tents – hence the crude sailcloth shelters. As a show of force it was less than impressive, but at least they had temporarily snatched the initiative from Marquis Conrad.

  * * *

  Whereas Balian relieved the boredom of inactivity by patrolling the walls of Tyre, checking the defences, or sparring in swordplay with Constable Fostus, Squire Ernoul turned to poetry. He read all he could, but preferred to compose his own. His latest work was now finished, and he went in search of an audience.

  The obvious choice was Humphrey and Isabella. For one thing he was their closest companion. Before Isabella had married the Lord of Toron, she had lived with Balian, Maria and Ernoul at Nablus. After the marriage, the squire and nobleman had become firm friends, and Ernoul had stayed with the young couple at Toron, an honoured guest. At twenty-four, he was a year older than Humphrey, faster on his feet, but without Humphrey’s stamina. Each claimed prowess at horsemanship, chess and archery. Ernoul granted Humphrey a superior knowledge of Arabic, and balanced this with his own understanding of history. So they were evenly matched. The squire listened to Humphrey’s problems and, in return, expected both him and Isabella to lend an ear to his poems.

  They had been allocated a house of their own now, separated from Balian’s by a tarred wooden shed that Ernoul shared with Fostus. So, if the Lords of Nablus and Toron chose to confer, either with each other, or with their household, it was easily arranged. Ernoul found Humphrey and Isabella at home, staving off boredom with a game of chess.

  He advanced into the room, bowed to the beautiful, dark-haired girl and asked who was winning. Isabella glanced inquiringly at her husband. She was in no doubt as to the situation; she simply wished Humphrey to state it.

  Blanketing his words, he mumbled, ‘It’s a close game. One can’t, uh—’

  Ernoul grinned. ‘How far are you ahead, my lady?’

  ‘Far enough to leave him without an excuse. Shall I play you afterward?’ With a smile she added, ‘It’s a matter of time now. Humphrey will stretch it out, not wishing to face the truth, but it’s as good as—’

  Nothing of the kind!’ he explode
d. ‘Chess is not an accumulation, you know.’

  Isabella tapped the long row of pieces she had taken. ‘Ordinarily, no. But, in this case—’

  Ernoul seized the opportunity to be diplomatic and be heard. ‘If it won’t interrupt you, I’d like to tell you a new poem.’

  Humphrey was not yet ready to be mollified. He asked, ‘Is it one of those things you’re always cooing to your women?’

  ‘No, no, quite different. It was inspired by a story I heard the other day.’ Trusting that they were interested, he went on, ‘It seems that, some twenty years ago, near Cluny in France, the clergy constructed a monastery that contained not only monks, but also nuns. They were separated by a high wall that halved the property. However – I hope you don’t find this offensive, my lady.’

  Isabella raised her eyes to the ceiling. She clicked her tongue once. Ernoul hurried on.

  ‘A high wall, yes, but after, well, nine months or thereabouts, there were certain indications that the monks and nuns had – how shall I say —’

  ‘Half the nuns were with child,’ Isabella clarified. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s obvious, why be coy? And the poem?’

  Ernoul waited for Humphrey to turn his attention from the chessboard. Then he cleared his throat, directed his gaze between them and recited in a well-pitched, actor’s voice:

  ‘Side by side they lie, with a stone wall twixt.

  Monk with monk in sleep is sunk;

  None save nun with nun is mixed.

  Yet in the morning, lofty ladders lean

  Against the obstacle between.

  But, vowed to silence, who’s to tell

  Who safely made the climb, then later fell?

  Children of Christ are we all,

  Though some descended from a wall.’

  Humphrey nodded, slightly reluctant. ‘Very clever.’

  With indecent promptitude, Isabella stated, ‘I’d climb it. If it was to reach my Lord Humphrey. No matter how high it was. Now, why don’t you concede the game? Ernoul, come and sit with us.’