The bishop chuckled. “I imagine your sins are rather on the tame side, at least since you married your queen.” Leaning over, he put his hand upon the younger man’s arm. “Remember,” he said, “that when you ride away from Sebaste this morn, you will be going with its bishop’s prayers—and surely with a saint’s blessings, too.”
* * *
Le Fève was one of the most important Templar castles, for it controlled the major crossroads in the Jezreel Valley. Balian had spent a few nights there over the years, so he was familiar with its layout. As its stone walls came into view, he told Ernoul about their large wheel that drew water from the nearby marsh into a cistern; he knew it would be of interest to the boy since it was pulled by a donkey.
They could see that a number of tents were set up around the castle walls, which surprised Balian, for he thought Le Fève was large enough to have accommodated the delegation. As they approached, they saw the ashes of campfires outside the tents, although the camp seemed empty. The castle gates stood open, but they’d not yet been hailed by sentries. Balian ordered one of his men to call out his identity. There was no response. By now they were close enough to see that the battlements were not manned.
They waited as one of Balian’s serjeants shouted again. There was a foreboding silence enveloping the fortress and no signs of life. Balian’s men were exchanging uneasy glances. It appeared that the castle had been abandoned, yet that made no sense. Even if the delegation had ridden on toward Nazareth, where was Le Fève’s garrison? Where had they gone and why?
As they passed through the gates into the castle bailey, it was like riding into an opium-poppy dream, one in which reality was both familiar and distorted. The Templar citadel of Le Fève looked as it always did. But it was deserted. Their calls went unanswered and there were no footsteps on the wall ramparts, only an unnatural stillness that reminded some of the men of the eternal silence of the grave.
Dismounting, Balian chose several men to search the castle, allowing Ernoul to be one of them, for the boy’s curiosity was on fire. Leading Smoke over to a horse trough, he let the stallion drink, all the while listening for sounds that could resolve the mysterious disappearance of the Templar garrison. His men soon returned, one confessing that he’d half expected to find uneaten food laid out on tables in the great hall, all reporting that the fortress was empty.
Ernoul had better luck, leaning out of an upper-story window to yell down into the bailey. When they joined him, he was glowing with pride as he led them into a small, shadowed chamber where two Templars lay on pallets against the wall. They were obviously ill, mumbling feverishly in response to all the questions directed at them, and that only deepened the mystery. Although Balian promised them that he’d send back help, he was not sure if they even heard him. Why had the garrison gone off and left behind invalids in need of care?
When they took the road north toward Nazareth, they kept glancing back over their shoulders at Le Fève, some thinking that it was rising against the sky like a tombstone. By now all of their imaginations were inflamed and they were as unsettled as they were mystified. They’d covered about three of the seven miles to Nazareth when they saw the horse lying by the side of the road. Arrow shafts protruded from his withers and flank and his muzzle was stained with a bloody froth. Several ravens were fluttering about his head, pecking at his eyes, reluctantly retreating as the men rode up. The captain of Balian’s household knights was the first to dismount. It took only a cursory examination of the dead animal for Fulcher to confirm their suspicions, that this was a knight’s destrier and the arrows had been shot from a Saracen bow.
Swinging from the saddle, Balian joined Fulcher. As he started to speak, he glanced down, saw the footprints and bloodstains in the dirt. Touching the knight’s arm, he pointed to the trail leading away from the stallion’s body. The rider seemed to have been dragging a leg, and twice they found evidence that he’d fallen before staggering on. Ahead the ground seemed to dip and they followed the tracks down into a shallow wadi. There they found their man.
Unable to go any farther, he’d collapsed in a dried-up streambed. He wore the white mantle of a Templar knight, liberally splattered with blood. He was motionless, and at first they thought he was dead. As they approached him, though, he heard the rattle of pebbles kicked loose by their boots and made a panic-stricken lunge for the sword lying beside him in the dirt.
“You are amongst friends,” Balian said quickly and when he saw that this was true, he slumped down again, tears squeezing through his lashes and trickling into his beard. Balian was close enough now to recognize him as one of the knights who’d accompanied Gerard de Ridefort from Jerusalem; he even remembered the man’s name: Brother Andrew. Calling for a waterskin, he knelt beside the Templar and raised him up so he could drink.
Brother Andrew swallowed too much and choked. “Dead,” he whispered, “all dead . . .”
The knights wanted to shout at him, to demand that he share his story at once. But he was obviously in shock, his eyes feverish; nor did they know how much of the blood soaking his mantle was his own. Balian heard their murmurings and raised a hand to quiet them. “Is that why Le Fève was deserted? The garrison went with you. But why? What happened?”
The Templar shuddered and they feared he was dying. After a few moments, though, he roused himself. “We’d reached Le Fève,” he mumbled, “planning to stay the night. But then the messenger arrived from the Count of Tripoli. . . . We thought at first that it was a perverse joke, for it sounded quite mad. Yet the count’s man swore it was true.”
His eyes were roving around the wadi as if seeking an anchor, a way to hold on to reality. “He told us that Saladin’s son had asked Count Raymond’s permission to cross the Jordan into Galilee. He said the count did not want to agree, fearing they had a razzia in mind. But he claimed the count could not refuse them because of the pact he’d made with Saladin. So . . . so he laid down conditions, made them promise that they’d be back across the river by sundown and that they would harm none of the count’s people nor do damage to any property in Galilee. He then sent out messengers to his towns and castles, warning them the Saracens would be passing through Galilee and telling them to stay indoors today from sunrise to sunset.”
Gazing up at the incredulous faces encircling him, he said thickly, “You see . . . utterly mad. He sent a man to Le Fève, too. He knew we were on the way and he did not want us to run into the Saracens by chance. He ought to have known what Master Gerard would do. . . .”
He glanced toward the waterskin and Balian tilted it to his lips again. “Our master at once sent to the Templar castle at Khirbat Qara. It was just four miles away, so they got to Le Fève by nightfall, set up their tents. . . .” He seemed to lose his train of thought, had to be urged on by Balian. “We sent a man to Nazareth, too, telling their knights to be ready to ride with us on the morrow. Master Gerard gave a fiery speech, promising to send every infidel soul to hellfire everlasting. So did Roger de Moulins, speaking for his Hospitallers. We were not going to let them raid into Outremer, by God, we were not. . . .”
“Go on,” Balian said through clenched teeth, not sure who he blamed more for this catastrophe, Raymond or Gerard. “What happened today?”
“We rode out at dawn, took every last man with us except a few too sick to ride. With the ten knights who’d escorted our grand master from Jerusalem and the garrisons of Le Fève and Khirbat Qara, we had ninety Templar knights. The Hospitallers had ten of their own, and when we got to Nazareth, we were joined by forty of their knights. One hundred and forty of the best fighting men in the kingdom, plus three hundred serjeants . . .”
Tears were freely streaking his face by now. “We found them at Cresson Springs, a few miles north of Nazareth. As we reached the crest of the hill and looked down upon them, we were stunned, for the Saracens had an army of thousands. We’d been willing—nay, eager—to do battle with them, all of
my brothers and the Hospitaller knights, too. But this was self-slaughter, for we were hopelessly outnumbered. Roger de Moulins saw that straightaway and told our master that we ought to retreat, that we had no chance of winning. Others tried to persuade him, too. He would heed none of them. He said we had God on our side and reminded us that the Franks had been greatly outnumbered at Montgisard, that the infidels could never hold before a charge by armed, mounted knights. When they still argued, he called them cowards. . . .”
Balian was overcome by such hatred and rage that he felt as if he were choking. Fulcher sounded just as appalled when he asked, “Are you the only survivor, Brother Andrew?”
“No . . . there were four of us who got away. I did not leave the field until our banner had gone down and the banner of the Hospitallers, too. I swear it!” He fought back a sob. “But then I saw our master and two of my brothers break away, so I . . . I followed them. We got separated and I . . . I think I became lost. I was not thinking too clearly. And my poor Pilgrim . . . so gallant. He ran until his heart gave out. . . .”
Balian finally found his voice. “You are saying that Gerard de Ridefort is alive and the men who followed him are all dead?”
He was not the only one to feel a burning outrage at such an outcome, and some of his knights had begun to curse. But Ernoul was not thinking of the Templar grand master’s miraculous escape. He was realizing how close they’d all come to dying on that battlefield at Cresson Springs. “My lord, if you’d not stopped at Sebaste to hear Mass, we’d have been doomed, too!”
“No,” Balian said, and there was so much fury in his voice that his squire instinctively shrank back even though he knew he was not the target of his lord’s rage. “I’d have stopped it. I’d not have let that madman murder so many of our own.”
His knights did not doubt him, not after seeing the expression on his face. But Brother Andrew tried to shake his head. “He’d not have heeded you, Lord Balian. If he’d not listen to Roger de Moulins or our own marshal, there is nothing you could have said—”
“‘Our marshal,’” Balian echoed, sure he’d misunderstood the wounded knight’s words, for he was slurring them like a man deep in his cups. “What does Jakelin de Mailly have to do with this . . . this butchery?”
“He was there, my lord, with us. He did all he could to make the master see reason—”
“What are you talking about? Jakelin was not with us when we left Jerusalem!”
“He was at Khirbat Qara, my lord, brought their garrison in response to the master’s summons. Like us, he wanted to confront the infidels. But when he saw how many there were, he said we’d be sorely crazed to attack them. The master refused to listen. He . . . he jeered that Brother Jakelin was too fond of that blond head of his to risk it, that he was a coward for not wanting to fight. Brother Jakelin . . . he said that he would die on the field like a man of courage and honor, that Gerard would be the one to flee. . . .”
Brother Andrew’s words trailed off, for he was remembering that Brother Jakelin and the Lord of Nablus were friends. “He . . . he fought like a lion, my lord, died as he said he would, showing such courage that he’ll surely have earned blessed martyrdom. . . .”
Ernoul and Balian’s knights would have eased his anguish if only they could, but even the youngster knew there was no balm in Gilead for a wound so deep. They watched in a sorrowful silence as Balian rose and walked away, turning his back as he struggled to keep his pain at arm’s length. There was no time for grieving, not yet. “Jake, you proud fool,” he whispered, and in that moment, he truly felt as if his heart might break.
* * *
At Nazareth, they found a town in mourning. People wandered the streets, some wailing aloud in grief. Priests and canons seemed to be everywhere, but there were no vendors calling out to customers and the market square looked as abandoned as Le Fève. Balian’s knights assumed the townspeople were terrified because of the defeat at Cresson Springs, fearing the kingdom would be crippled by the loss of so many skilled fighting men. A few questions revealed the troubling truth. Gerard de Ridefort had boasted that they would be winning a great victory and urged the residents to arm themselves and follow, promising spoils and booty. Many Nazarenes had heeded him. Arriving at Cresson Springs after the battle was over, these civilians were captured by the triumphant Saracens and dragged off as prisoners, leaving their families behind in Nazareth to grieve.
Brother Andrew had been riding with one of the knights, but he lost consciousness as they neared the Archbishop of Nazareth’s palace and would have toppled into the street if another rider had not held him upright until he could be lowered to the ground. Two of the canons were soon there with a litter and carried the Templar into the cathedral close. Balian told his men to take their horses to the archbishop’s stables and then meet him in the palace’s great hall. As he turned away to find Archbishop Lethard, he heard his name called and saw the Archbishop of Tyre hurrying toward him.
“Balian, thank God!” Joscius came to an abrupt halt. He thought Balian looked like a man suffering from a grievous injury and was greatly relieved to find no blood on his hauberk. There was no need to ask if Balian knew. Stepping forward, he put a supportive hand on the other man’s arm. “The man I saw being taken to the infirmary . . . was he another survivor from the battle?” Saying “Thank God” again when Balian nodded. “We have three others here, de Ridefort and two of his Templars. One is gravely wounded, the other’s injuries seem minor, and Gerard has a head wound. He’s said little about the battle, other than there was an ambush and the men are all dead.”
He felt the contraction of the muscles in Balian’s arm. “Not an ambush?” he guessed, feeling no surprise when Balian shook his head. “Come inside with me,” he prompted, and they walked without talking across the close. Seeing Balian’s footsteps flag as they passed the cathedral, he sent a questioning look toward his silent companion. “Do you want to go in and pray?”
“No. . . . I would like to sit for a while.” This was the first time Balian had spoken, and Joscius did not think he’d have recognized the other man’s voice, for it was utterly toneless, drained of all emotion or energy. Taking Balian’s arm again, he headed toward the cloisters. Stopping at one of the carrels, they seated themselves on a stone bench.
“Roger de Moulins insisted that I remain here, pointing out that I had no hauberk, no helmet, no weapons, and no destrier. Whilst that was true enough, he was really saying that I am no warrior priest.” Joscius felt as if his words had left his mouth of their own accord, yet he did not disavow them, acknowledging their confessional tenor with an abashed smile. “I knew he was right, that I’d be more of a hindrance than a help on the battlefield. But as soon as they left, I began to feel pangs of regret, even guilt—”
“No!” Balian said, so fiercely that Joscius stared at him. “There is no honor in dying for nothing. God does not ask that of us, nor does He want it.”
Their gazes caught and held—until Joscius found he had to look away, thinking that he’d been right. Balian was one of the walking wounded. “What shall we do now?”
“I sent one of my serjeants back to Nablus with a message for my wife. I did not want her to fear for me when she hears of the slaughter at Cresson Springs. I also told her to summon as many of our knights as she could reach and have them join me at Nazareth. They ought to be here by the morrow, enough men to see us safely to Tiberias.” It took an actual effort to get to his feet, almost as if his body was no longer allied with his brain. But when Joscius suggested he rest for a while in the archbishop’s guest hall, Balian shook his head.
“My men are waiting for me. We have to requisition every packhorse and cart in the town, and that will take some time. We’ll need help from the townsmen, too.” He was looking at Joscius as he spoke, but the archbishop was not sure that Balian really saw him. “We must bring the bodies back to Nazareth. We must bury our dead.”
* * *
They left Nazareth the next morning, soon after a dazzling sunrise that none even noticed. Balian and Joscius were accompanied by Archbishop Lethard, who’d volunteered to join them. They suspected he meant to threaten Raymond with excommunication if he still refused to make peace with Guy, but neither man cared. There was one conspicuous absence. Gerard de Ridefort had remained behind, telling them that he was in too much pain to ride. Balian had neither seen nor spoken to him yet, not trusting himself. He knew his decision to avoid the grand master had been the right one when Joscius reported Gerard’s latest comment about their devastating defeat at Cresson Springs—that to die for the Lord Christ was to earn a martyr’s crown of glory.
The two prelates rode at Balian’s side, and he occasionally caught them casting worried glances in his direction, for he’d not slept and knew how he must look—like a man who’d spent hours on a battlefield strewn with bodies and blood, unable to identify them because they’d all been beheaded. He’d sent a messenger to Raymond, informing him that they were still coming, and they’d covered about half of the twenty miles between Nazareth and Tiberias when they were met by fifty knights, dispatched by the count to escort them safely through Galilee. The danger was over, though, for the sultan’s army was gone. They’d kept their promise to the count and crossed the Jordan River at sunset, returning to their encampment at the site of another great Saracen victory, the skeletal, charred ruins of the castle that had once stood at Jacob’s Ford.
When he saw the twin peaks known as the Horns of Haṭṭīn in the distance, Balian knew they were less than five miles from Tiberias. They saw dust rising then, churned up by approaching riders. They were led by Raymond’s stepson Hugues, and they were soon close enough for Balian to recognize Hugues’s younger brothers, William, Odo, and Raoul. They hung back as Hugues spurred his stallion forward, riding out alone to meet the envoys.
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