“He enjoys our company,” Fulk added dryly. “Every week or so he calls us out to insult the entire Christian world to our faces. We return the insults, then we are beaten and spared for another week.”
“You may not realize it, but Zengi does you honor by sparing your lives,” Reynard answered. “He has killed others for no reason at all, and his name now carries great influence with the Saracens. His son, Nur al-din, follows in his footsteps to rouse and unite the people. Many in Jerusalem fear that our foothold there may be weakening.”
“Impossible!” Calhoun protested. “How could it be?”
“The world has changed since you left it,” Reynard answered. “Some say England’s King Henry is near death, and there is already turmoil over whom will claim the throne. There is talk of anarchy and uprising among the earls.”
“Who contends for the crown?” Fulk asked quietly.
“Matilda, the daughter of Henry, feels the throne is her right, and many agree with her,” Reynard said. “But Henry is disposed to look upon his nephew, Stephen of Blois. There are others who feel the throne of England should go to Robert of Gloucester, Henry’s illegitimate son.”
“Never!” Calhoun shook his head.
“I agree,” Reynard nodded. “If the throne is optioned to Henry’s illegitimate offspring, half the world would vie for the crown.”
“The rivers would run with blood,” Fulk added, laughing, and Calhoun suddenly remembered the sickening sight of Henry’s granddaughters, their faces running with blood in the hall of Margate Castle.
“I want no part of Henry’s cruelty,” Calhoun interjected, turning his face to the wall. “Though I have vowed to serve him ably, he is a hard man. I hope his successor renounces his bloody ways.”
“We shall see,” Reynard said, rising stiffly to his knees. “Now if you will excuse me, my brothers, it is time for prayer.”
“You should rest, you have been ill,” Fulk protested.
Reynard smiled and folded his hands together. “If I need strength, I shall find it in prayer.”
***
The days and nights Fulk and Calhoun had spent together in solitude bound them in a knowledge of each other so complete that they found it odd to have a third man in the cell. Their conversations were often interrupted, their journeys of imagination curtailed by Reynard’s insistence that unholy thoughts be banned from their minds.
Though Calhoun respected Reynard the knight, he found he did not always agree with Reynard the monk. Reynard served a strict God, one that demanded sacrifice and pain and led men to forswear every possible pleasure. Calhoun had always envisioned God as a beneficent giver of gifts and favors, a kindly parent one must be careful not to offend.
One night as they waited for sleep in silence, Reynard posed a simple question. “Would you, my brothers, rather have leprosy or commit a mortal sin?”
“That’s easy,” Calhoun answered, stretching his arms, then propping them behind his head. “I’d rather commit a mortal sin. Life with leprosy is not life at all, but slow death.”
“And there is your folly, young Calhoun,” Reynard answered smoothly, “but I’ll give my reasons in a moment. Fulk, what say you?”
Fulk exhaled a long, contemplative breath. “The question is not debatable, for a mortal sin already exists on my account. I cannot be forgiven, and the only mercy I have seen of God is that He allows me to continue in earth’s misery instead of consigning me to hell.”
Calhoun raised up on one elbow to examine Fulk’s face for signs of pretense. Was he telling the truth? Did this confession explain Fulk’s eternal skepticism? What had he done? Murder? Blasphemy?
“Confession is good for the soul, brother,” Reynard whispered in the dark. “Perhaps God will not deprive your soul of sanctifying grace if you confess and repent.”
“I am already doomed to hell and no amount of repentance will change that,” Fulk snapped. “So you have your answer, priest.”
They lay in silence and finally Reynard spoke again. “I would rather have leprosy than commit a mortal sin,” he said slowly. “For when I stood before God at life’s end, my leprous flesh would be cleansed, but what can cleanse a polluted soul? For this reason I cannot take my own life, as my cowardly heart would like to do. Soon, though, I will stand before Zengi and die, and I hope you will pray for me on that day.”
His words proved prophetic. A few days later a guard beat on their door. “Priest Templar,” the guard roared through the small window in the door, “Prince Zengi craves amusement. You die within the hour.”
The guard moved away, and Reynard fell to his knees in prayer. Calhoun stood in the corner of the room, cursing his impotence, and Fulk turned his back upon the monk.
After a few moments of prayer, Reynard stood and placed a hand on Calhoun’s shoulder. “Good-bye, young friend,” he said, smiling. “I am glad to see your courageous spirit has not been dimmed by this captivity. Keep faith, and you will yet again walk free in the light of day.”
“Argue with Zengi and stall for time,” Calhoun said. “Suggest that my father will ransom you. He would, I know it! You don’t have to die today, Reynard!”
“I am ready,” Reynard answered. “It is my calling.” He placed his hand on Fulk’s shoulder. “Farewell, faithful Fulk,” he said simply. “I give you one last chance to confess to me, for your sin may not be as grievous as you suppose.”
“Go, Reynard,” Fulk answered, shaking his head. “God go with you.”
“He does,” Reynard replied. His big hand pounded the door as he called out, “Guard! I am ready!”
Thirty
During March, April, May, and June, the plowing months, Afton reported to the fields every day but Sunday. The months of plowing toughened her. After the first season her hands developed deep calluses that did not wear away, and every time she took up the plow she strengthened her resolve to seek revenge upon Endeline and the house of Margate.
She despised all of them: Perceval, vile and lecherous, Endeline, cunning and cruel, Charles, weak and addled, and even Lienor, who suffered silently in a house for religious fools. To think she had gone to Lienor, hoping that her confession and promise to love Calhoun again would somehow bring him back! Her love for Calhoun made no difference now. As she plowed the fields and wallowed in mud or dust, she reminded herself that Calhoun was surely in the earth, dead beneath some farmer’s feet in an Eastern land. God had not been pleased with her promise or her change of heart, and Afton was beyond bargaining with Him.
As her heart hardened, so did her appearance. The pleasing softness of her body disappeared as a result of malnutrition and hard labor, and her eyes grew wild and wary. She knew many in the village thought her mad; even Josson approached her gingerly when he happened to meet her in the fields.
After three seasons of plowing in Perceval’s fields, Josson told her she had completed her term of duty. She did not smile at the news, but put down her plow, wiped her hands on her dress, and walked stiffly to Corba’s house. She was twenty-five years old, a free woman, and never again would she willingly work for Perceval.
***
“Messengers from the King are approaching!” eleven-year-old Ambrose shouted as he burst in upon Perceval and Endeline at supper. Perceval stood so quickly he overturned his chair, but Endeline caught his hand. “Calmly now,” she said smoothly. “It is not the king, just his messengers.” She smiled at Ambrose. “Show them in, dear.”
Ambrose returned a few moments later with two knights wearing tunics richly embroidered with the king’s herald. One unfurled a parchment and proclaimed: “King Henry is dead. Long live King Stephen!”
“So he has done it,” Endeline murmured under her breath. “Henry named Stephen as his successor.”
“Can it be?” Perceval whispered back, but then he stood and lifted his cup in tribute. “Long live Stephen! I will send the appropriate tribute at his coronation.”
The messengers nodded and withdrew to speed their message to
the next manor, and Perceval sank back into his chair. “Shouldn’t you have offered them lodging?” Endeline said, looking out the door after the messengers.
“I don’t think so,” Perceval answered, his chin in his hand. “I am in a precarious place, my love, torn between two thrones. The forces of Matilda are even now aligning themselves with Robert of Gloucester. Matilda will oppose Stephen, and who can tell who the victor will be?”
“No one can tell,” Endeline replied, straightening her shoulders. “And we have no blood ties to either side. Gather your tribute for Stephen, my lord, and make the same tribute for Matilda. Send them in separate convoys on the same day, and instruct your knights to say nothing ill of one side or the other.”
Perceval smiled at her, and his eyes sparkled in appreciation. “The castle will have to produce more to maintain double tributes,” he remarked off handedly.
“The villeins will produce the extra work with pleasure, my lord,” Endeline answered, “and your family will stand behind you in all that you do.”
“We will,” Ambrose echoed, from a dark corner of the room.
“Come out from there,” Endeline said, beckoning the boy with her hand. “You are a little mouse, my Ambrose, always hiding in shadows.”
“A cunning mouse,” Perceval added. “Will you drink to our new king?”
Ambrose nodded, and reached for a goblet on the table. He lifted his glass. Endeline smiled and touched the rim of her golden goblet to his. “To Sir Ambrose,” Perceval said, nodding gravely. “Who is certain to do justice to the name of Margate.”
“I will do my best, sir,” Ambrose answered, his eyes shining darkly in the torchlight.
***
Calhoun shivered in the cool wind that blew from the barred window, grateful for the partial warmth of the cast-off cloaks Zengi had allowed them to have. In the corner of their cell, Fulk turned another sag-bellied rat on a spit fashioned from a green branch. The roasting rodent was the only meat they would eat today, but the rats had kept them alive through years of captivity.
“Fulk,” Calhoun asked, crinkling his nose in appreciation of the roasting meat. “Has it been ten or eleven winters since we came here?”
“Twelve winters,” Fulk answered, wiping his silver-sprinkled beard with his right hand. “And in that time we’ve single-handedly trimmed the rodent population of Aleppo.”
“Why has Zengi not killed us?” Calhoun wondered aloud, watching the glowing coals. “There have been occasions when I know he thought about it. Just the sight of us makes him angry.”
“He keeps us as pets,” Fulk remarked dryly, lifting the impaled rodent from the coals. “We are his amusement. He could have ransomed us time and again, but we serve as a visible reminder that he is victorious over the Christian invaders. Besides, he loves to hear you talk of honor.”
“It is only honor that has kept me sane,” Calhoun said, looking at the hint of deepening evening sky through the high window. “I know that my king and my father would have ransomed me if they knew my situation. I know the cause for which I fought is right. And I am certain I have not raised my sword except in the cause of justice.”
“Your talk of ideals grows more wearisome through the years,” Fulk remarked lightly, nibbling at the rat. He meticulously ate half of the creature as a man eats a chicken leg, then handed the spit to Calhoun. “What has honor brought you? Nothing. It has stolen your youth and granted me more than a few gray hairs.”
Calhoun looked at Fulk. He spoke the truth; Fulk was very nearly gray. The years of prison had matured Calhoun, but Fulk had grown to be an old man, stooped and wrinkled.
“How old are you?” Calhoun asked gently.
Fulk scowled at the compassion in Calhoun’s voice. “Old enough to know life holds little more for me.” He held his hands to the warming coals, then added, “And old enough to wonder if my life ever had purpose.”
“You talk like a man who goes to his grave tomorrow,” Calhoun chided him, nibbling at his dinner. “Come now, surely tomorrow will find us here together, and the day after that. You will tell me again the stories of battle, and I will describe for you again the charms of my beloved Afton.”
“Your beloved Afton is no longer a maiden,” Fulk groused. “She is surely married to some minor noble and is counting the gray strands in her own hair.”
“Her golden hair will not go gray,” Calhoun laughed. “My Afton will remain as fair as the morning. If I never see her again, why, that is better, for her memory will never fade from me. In my dreams she will always be beautiful, chaste, and brave. Do you not have a handsome woman in your memory, Fulk?”
“One,” Fulk muttered. A guard barked “Quiet!” at the door of their cell, and they said silent until his footsteps had passed out of range.
“Miranda,” Fulk answered Calhoun’s unspoken question. “On the day I feel death’s grip I will tell you her story, but not before.” He grinned at his young companion. “I will thus give you something to look forward to.”
***
The next morning Calhoun awoke to unusual sounds. From the narrow peephole in his cell door he could see Zengi’s warriors rushing by in full armor. The noise and commotion of battle continued throughout the day and night.
“Are we still under attack?” Calhoun asked Fulk as the rosy pink of dawn began to appear in their small window. “What army keeps Zengi enclosed in his castle?”
“A clever one,” Fulk answered. “I believe we are seeing the beginning of a siege, and I pray I am wrong. The populations of entire cities die in a siege, young friend, and prisoners will be the first to go. If a fat rat crawls across your face tonight, do not spare him. The entire city may be feasting on rats before the siege is done.”
***
Three days later Calhoun realized Fulk was right. They were summoned from their dark prison and brought before Zengi, who glared at them from his high seat. “The Christians are besieging the city,” he stated flatly, his tone nasal and more clipped than usual. “I would like to ask advice of my two resident Christian prisoners. What tactics would you advise, gentlemen?”
“I will give no aid to you,” Calhoun declared. “I will not raise my voice or my hand against my brothers.”
Zengi scowled and turned toward Fulk. “Your friend’s misguided notions do not amuse me today,” Zengi snarled. “I need advice, old man, and you will give it.”
“You might try Grecian fire,” Fulk said quietly. “The mixture of oil and rock is a gruesome rain upon those at the base of the city walls.”
Zengi waved his hand. “We know of Grecian fire,” he said impatiently. “You have been in prison too long, Fulk.”
“Be still!” Calhoun hissed at Fulk. “Have you no honor left in you?”
“All I have within me is a smattering of life,” Fulk said. “I desire to live it in relative peace, not under siege.”
“Wisely said, old man,” Zengi answered. “What else is in your head?”
“Only this,” Fulk answered. He closed his eyes. “If the wells run dry, have your men bury themselves in the dirt to conserve the moisture in their bodies. If food and water are scarce, equip each man with a dagger, that he might eat his own flesh until sustenance arrives.”
Zengi’s eyes gleamed. “By Allah, you are beginning to think like me,” he crowed. “It shall be done.”
***
The siege wore on for three more days, and during that time the prisoners of Zengi received neither food nor water. “He didn’t give us a dagger,” Fulk grumbled in their cell. “I thought perhaps he might.”
“You are a madman,” Calhoun whispered from his corner. “Zengi does not give daggers to prisoners.”
He lay back on the cool stone and tried to collect his thoughts, but his body cried out for water. Strange visions churned in his brain, and he remembered two skeletons he once found in the sand, both bleached by the sand and sun. One skeleton wore the tunic and armor of a Christian, the other wore the clothing of a Saracen. They ha
d killed each other bravely, but their sacrifice had gone unnoticed in the madness of warfare. What difference did their sacrifices make?
“If I get home,” Calhoun muttered, “I will find my Afton and marry her. I will lay down my sword and never pick it up again.”
“You do not know yourself,” Fulk answered from the darkness of his corner. “You are a knight, and you will die by the sword as you have lived by it.”
“No,” Calhoun murmured drunkenly. “Fighting and death accomplish nothing. Only family matters. Husband. Wife. Mother. Father. Children.”
He smiled and rolled over to look at Fulk. “If we survive this siege, I will escape or die within the week. Zengi has taken twelve years of my life, and he shall have no more.”
“Zengi did not deserve to know you for even a day,” Fulk whispered, then the old man slipped over onto the floor, unconscious.
Thirty-one
Calhoun
1140
A mob raged outside the strong walls of Margate Castle, but Calhoun felt himself endued with superhuman strength and agility. Lightly he leapt from tower to tower, raining arrows upon the dark-eyed assassins who screamed at him in fury, then he jumped into the thick of the fray and began to slash and hack his way through the mob. He was invincible, and even though battle cries and the clang of swords rang in his ear, he knew the day would have a victorious outcome. The sounds of battle grew louder, smoke burned his nostrils, and he thrived on the sheer gore and violence before him.
A Saracen warrior stood with his back to him, and Calhoun raised his sword to remove the man’s head, but the warrior whirled around. Zengi! “By the strength of my God, I’ll have your head now!” Calhoun roared, and his blade sliced cleanly through Zengi’s neck even as blood spurted into his face. Calhoun was repulsed at first, then his parched lips opened in search of more life-giving liquid.
“Up, you sons of dogs,” a voice behind him spoke. “If you would live, get up and drink.”
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